Birds of a Feather

“Do you know who the killer is, Miss?”

“No, Billy, I don’t”

Billy looked sideways at Maisie and refleced for a moment. “But you’ve got an idea. I can see it there.”

“Yes, yes, I have, Billy. I do have an idea. But it’s just an idea. Right now we’ve got our work cut out for us. We must find Charlotte Waite. Here’s what I want you to do—”

Billy flipped open his notebook ready to list his instructions as Maisie closed her eyes and ran though a catalog of possibilities: “An animal will make for its lair if in fear or wounded. Mind you, Charlotte may have no reason to fear, she may just want to get away, to escape from being Joseph Waite’s daughter. We have to consider that she may have fled to Europe, after all, she’s familiar with Lucerne and Paris. See if you can check the passenger list for the boat-train. Charlotte might have traveled from Appledore station on the branch line to Ashford, or she may have come to London first. There are one hundred ways she could have traveled. Check with Croydon Aerodrome and Imperial Airways—oh, and there’s an aerodrome in Kent, at Lympne. Check as many hotels in London as you can— but don’t start with the big ones. Contact the hotels that are neither too posh nor too shabby. Telephone Gerald Bartrup. No, visit Bartrup. I want you to look at him when you ask him if he’s seen Charlotte in the past twenty-four hours. Pay attention, Billy, with your body as well as your eyes. You’ll know if he’s lying.”

The list was long and Billy would be hard at work until late. Maisie wondered if Charlotte had funds that were known only to her, squirreled away into a private account. Where had she gone? Where was she now?

Though their conversation was sometimes strained, Maisie looked forward to her meeting with Detective Inspector Stratton. She knew that he admired her and was taking tentative steps to further their acquaintance. But how prudent would it be to agree to such an outing? Would her work and her reputation be put at risk by a closer friendship?

Stratton stood outside the cafeteria where Maisie joined him after walking down Tottenham Court Road from Fitzroy Square. He lifted his hat and opened the door for Maisie.

“There’s a seat over there. This place is definitely more caff than cafe, but it’s quick. Tea, toast, and jam?”

“Lovely, Inspector Stratton.” It was at that point, that Maisie realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Maisie sat on a bench by a wall decorated with floral wallpaper that was now quite faded and stained in places. She unbuttoned her jacket and looked out of the window while she waited for Stratton, who was at the counter placing cups of tea and a plate of toast and jam on a tray. She craned her neck to watch customers going in and out of Joseph Waite’s double-fronted grocery shop across the road. And they say there’s no money about!

“Here we are.” Stratton set the tray down on the table, pulled out the chair opposite Maisie, and sat down. “You could stand a spoon up in that tea. They make it strong here.”

“Stewed tea, fresh from the urn—nothing like it, Inspector. It’s what kept us going over in France.”

“Yes, and there’s been many a time when a flask of that stuff has sustained me when I’ve had to work all night, I can tell you. Let’s get down to business. I didn’t come here to discuss the tea. What have you come across, Miss Dobbs? I know you did some snooping around when you found Lydia Fisher’s body.”

“Lydia was a friend of Charlotte Waite. I had been asked by Joseph Waite to locate his daughter, who had left her father’s home temporarily. He is my client.” Maisie reached for a triangular wedge of toast. She was ravenous and quickly took a bite, then dabbed at the sides of her mouth with a handkerchief. This was not the kind of establishment where table napkins were supplied.

Stratton raised an eyebrow. “Not much to get your teeth into, a missing debutante, if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss. Dobbs.” Stratton reached for a slice of toast.

“But enough to pay for my own office, an assistant, and a nippy little motor car, Inspector,” replied Maisie, her eyes flashing.

Stratton smiled. “I deserved that one, didn’t I?”

Maisie inclined her head.

“So, let’s get down to brass tacks. What have you got to tell me?”

“Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick were friends.”

“I know that!”

“As was Rosamund Thorpe, of Hastings.”

“Who is?”

“Dead. She is thought to have committed suicide some weeks before Mrs. Sedgewick was murdered.”

“And this has . . . what to do with your investigation or our murder inquiry?”

“They were all friends once, the three dead women and Charlotte Waite. A coterie, if you like.”

“So?”

Maisie appraised Stratton before speaking again. He’s being deliberately obtuse.

“Detective Inspector Stratton, people who knew Rosamund Thorpe cannot believe she took her own life. Also, the four former friends seemed to have made a point of avoiding one another. I think they were kept apart by shame. During the war, I believe they distributed white feathers to men who were not in uniform.”

“Oh, those terrible women!”

“And . . .” Maisie halted. Shall I tell him about the feathers I found? Will I be mocked? “And . . . I believe that Magnus Fisher did not kill his wife or Philippa Sedgewick. The person you seek is someone—”

“We have our man!”

“Inspector, why are you so . . . so . . . quick to send Fisher down?”