Birds of a Feather

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“The public wants a murderer behind bars, and you—you and Caldwell—have decided to give them one.”

Stratton sighed. “And we are right. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

Maisie clenched her fists in frustration. “And you can’t stand a man who abandoned his wife, and whom you believe deprived a loving husband of his.”

“Look here, Miss Dobbs, leave this sort of work to the professionals. I know you’ve had some luck in the past. You’ve helped us before when you worked for a man of some stature, but . . . do not interfere!” Stratton stood up. “I hope we can meet again under less strained circumstances.”

As much as she wanted to have a last word, Maisie knew that she must not allow them to part with rancor. “Yes, indeed, Inspector. I am sorry if I have offended you. However, do expect to hear from me again soon.”

Stratton left the cafeteria, as Maisie took her seat once again. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have lost control. I could see by the way he moved, the way he sat and the manner in which he spoke, that he was obdurate. I’ve told the police as much as they would hear. Should I have mentioned the feathers? No, he would have laughed.

Maisie gathered her belongings and followed Stratton out.

She was ready to turn the corner into Tottenham Court Road, when she stopped to look back at the blue and gold-fronted Waite’s International Stores. She changed direction and walked instead toward the entrance of Joseph Waite’s most prominently situated grocery store.

Once again, when Maisie entered the hubbub of the shop, she watched as assistants reached forward to point to a cheese and nod, or hold up a cut of meat for inspection. Dried fruits were weighed, biscuits counted, and all the time money passed back and forth and shop assistants constantly washed their hands. Maisie stood in the center of the floor, near the round table with a display of the latest foods imported from overseas. Yes, there was money about, despite long lines at soup kitchens in other parts of London.

Maisie watched the busyness of business in Joseph Waite’s domain. Why have I come back? There is something here for me. What is it? What did I not see last time? She looked up at the walls, at the intricate mosaics that must have cost a fortune. Then down at the polished wood floor and across at the boy whose job it was to walk back and forth with a broom, ensuring that Waite’s customers never noticed so much as a crumb underfoot.

No one paid attention to the young, well-dressed woman who stood without a shopping bag, making no move toward a counter, and displaying no intention to purchase. Both shop assistants and customers were too preoccupied with their tasks and errands to see her close her eyes and place her hand where she could feel the beating of her heart. Just for a second, just for fleeting moment, Maisie gave herself over to her inner guidance in this most public place. Then, as if responding to a command that only she could hear, she opened her eyes and looked up at the place above the door, at the tiled memorial to the employees of Waite’s International Stores. She allowed her eyes to rest on the tile dedicated to Waite’s son, Joseph, beloved heir of a self-made man. A man known to be as hard as rock but at times also a man of compassion. A man of extremes. Don’t stop, said a voice in her head. And Maisie obeyed. She read each name, starting from the beginning: Avery . . . Denman . . . Farnwell . . . Marchant . . . Nicholls . . . Peters . . . so many, oh, so many . . . Richards, Roberts . . . Simms, Simpson . . . Timmins . . . Unsworth . . . every letter in the alphabet was represented as she silently mouthed the names, like a teacher reviewing the class register. Then Maisie stopped reading. Ah. She closed her eyes. Ah. Yes. Of course.

Opening her eyes again, Maisie looked at each food counter until she saw one of the older members of staff. “Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me?”

“Yes, Madam, Of course. The sausages are fresh made this morning, by our very own butchers. Personally trained by Mr. Waite, they are. These are the best sausages in London.”

“Oh, lovely, I’m sure. But could you tell me where I can find someone who worked for Waite’s during the war? Someone who might have known the boys up there?” Maisie pointed to the memorial.

“But, Miss, there’s names up there from all over. Mind you, old Mr. Jempson in the warehouse knew just about all of the London boys. Joined up together you know, as pals. Most of the boys who enlisted came from the warehouse; it’s where the apprentices start, and where the butchering is done before the carcasses go out to the shops. Waite’s delivers to its own shops with special ice-packed lorries, you know.”

“Could you tell me where the warehouse is?”

“Across the water. In Rotherhithe, the ‘Larder of London,’ where all the warehouses are. Let me get a piece of paper and write down the directions for you. It’s easy to find, close to St. Saviour’s Docks, Madam. Relative, are you?”

“A friend.”

“I see. Mr. Waite’s own son was down at the warehouse, before he went over there. Started him at the bottom, did Mr. Waite. Said he had to work his way up like anyone else.” The assistant left the counter and returned with a folded piece of paper, which she handed to Maisie. “There you are, Madam. Now then, what about some sausages for your supper?”

Maisie was about to decline, then thought otherwise. Smiling at the assistant, she gave her order. “Lovely. A pound, please.”

“Right you are.” And with a flourish copied directly from Joseph Waite, the assistant swept up a string of bulbous pork sausages, and laid them on the scale. The Beale family would eat well tonight.

“Stratton any easier to talk to this afternoon, Miss?”

“I wish I could say yes, Billy. It started out well enough, then became rather difficult.”

“Funny, that. ’e always seemed such a reasonable bloke.”

Maisie took off her mackintosh, hat, and gloves, and laid her document case and a brown carrier bag on her desk. “It’ll settle down and we’ll all be talking again after this case is closed, Billy. Men in Stratton’s position can’t close too many doors, especially those leading to people they’ve consulted with in the past. No, there are two struggles going on there: One in the department and one inside Stratton. As long as we are seen to be doing our part, I’m not going to worry.” Maisie looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time, Billy! It’s almost half past four. Let’s just go over some details on the Waite case and make plans for Monday. I’m driving down to Chelstone tomorrow morning first thing, and I must also visit my fath—”