Birds of a Feather

pens and stationery, Maisie found a prayer book along with a copy of The Monastic Rule of Saint Benedict, and several pamphlets on the life of a contemplative. Taking up the books, Maisie walked again to the wardrobe and touched the dark, drab fabrics of the clothes Charlotte had left behind.

“Miss, look what I’ve found.” Billy came toward Maisie with a piece of paper in his hand.

“What is it, Billy?”

“Found it shoved down the side of that chair cushion. Could’ve been put there deliberately or fallen out of a pocket.” Billy handed Maisie the small slip of paper.

“Looks like someone’s jotted down train departures. See here—” Maisie pointed to the letters and read: “‘Ch. X to App. Chg Ash’. Then there’s a list of times. Hmmm. I’ll keep it with these other things for now and we’ll look at them later.” She folded the paper and placed it inside the prayer book, then turned to Billy.

“Billy, I’d like to spend some time in here alone.”

He was now used to Maisie’s way of working and showed no surprise at her request. “Right you are, Miss. Shall I interview Mrs. Willis?”

“Yes, do that. Here’s what we need to know: First, Charlotte—her behavior over the past two or three months. Was there any change in her demeanor? Ask about even the slightest change in habits of dress, diet, recreation.” Maisie looked around the room. “She doesn’t have her own telephone, so find out who has called; the staff always know when a new name comes along. Speak to Miss Arthur about her allowance; how much, when it’s paid and how it’s paid. Does she have her own accounts—heaven knows, I hope the poor woman has some privacy— and are statements kept by Miss Arthur?”

Maisie paced back and forth, as Billy licked his pencil, ready to continue taking notes.

“Most important: Find out about Charlotte’s former fiance, his name, profession—if he has one—and where he works. I’ll need to see him. Speak to the chauffeur, Billy, and find out where she goes, whom she sees. You know the ropes. Oh, and a recent photograph, one that really looks like Charlotte; ask different staff if it’s a good resemblance. See what you can get hold of. I want about fifteen minutes here, then I’d like to speak to Charlotte Waite’s personal maid. Find out who she is and have her come up to this room.”

“Awright, Miss, consider it all done.”

“Oh, and Billy, tread very carefully on this one. We don’t know where loyalties lie yet, though I must say, I can feel a certain chill when there’s any mention of Charlotte.”

“You know, I reckon I felt that meself.”

“Well, keep it in mind. Leave no stone unturned.”

Billy quietly shut the door behind him. Maisie sat in Charlotte’s chair and closed her eyes. She took four deep breaths through her nose, as she had been taught so many years ago by Khan, the blind Ceylonese mystic to whom Maurice had introduced her, to learn that seeing is not necessarily a function of the eyes alone. From her days of sitting with Khan, and her instruction in deep meditation, Maisie was attuned to the risks inherent in using such a tool in her work, and knew that even her strong spirit was vulnerable to the auras of the troubled soul. Maisie concentrated on her breathing, stilling both her body and her mind, and she began to feel the strength of emotion that resided in the room. This was Charlotte’s refuge while in the house and had become a receptacle for her every thought, feeling, inspiration, reflection and wish. And as she sat in meditation, Maisie felt that Charlotte had been deeply troubled and that her departure had had little to do with a broken engagement. Charlotte Waite had run away, but what was she running from? Or to? What had caused such an intense ache in her heart that even now in her room, Maisie felt Charlotte’s lingering sorrow?

Maisie opened her eyes and continued to sit in silence for some moments. Then she began to inspect the books and pamphlets that Charlotte had collected. The Monastic Rule of Saint Benedict opened immediately to the place marked with a haphazardly torn envelope fragment. She inspected the scrap of vellum closely, for it seemed heavy, then turned it over. On the reverse side was a thick smudge of red sealing wax, about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, pressed into a rose-shaped seal with a cross in the center. Maisie squinted to see the words etched into the seal above and below the cross. She shook her head, reached down into her document case and took out what initially looked like a powder compact but that, when opened, revealed a magnifying glass. Maisie leaned closer to the seal and, using the glass, read the words “Camden Abbey.” Camden Abbey. The name sounded familiar.

There was a knock at the door. Maisie quickly placed the books, pamphlets and other items in her case, ensured they were secure, then rose, breathed deeply again, and opened the door. A young woman of about nineteen bobbed a half-curtsey in front of her. Her black dress was shorter than the one Maisie had worn when she was a servant at the home of Lord and Lady Compton; a small bibbed apron to protect her dress and a delicate white lace band on top of her tightly curled hair completed the maid’s uniform.

“Miss Dobbs? I was told you wanted to see me, M’um. I’m Perkins, Miss Waite’s personal maid.”

“Oh, come in, Miss Perkins.” Maisie stood to one side to allow the woman to enter the room.

“Would you like to sit down?”

The maid shook her head. “No, M’um.”

“Well then, let’s stand by the window. It’s a blustery day now, but I do like to look out upon garden.” Maisie knew that an enclosed area encouraged an enclosed mind. Maurice had taught her: Always take the person to be questioned to a place where there’s space, or where they can see few boundaries. Space broadens the mind and gives the voice room to be heard.

Maisie sat on the low, wide windowsill, the toe of one shoe touching the floor for balance. Perkins stood at the opposite end of the windowsill, facing Maisie.

“Tell me, Miss Perkins, how long have you worked for Miss Waite?”

“Mr. Waite. I work for Mr. Waite. Mr. Waite pays my wages, so it’s him I work for. Looking after Miss Waite is what I do in his house, and I’ve been her maid for a year.”

“I see.” Maisie noticed the speed with which she had been corrected, and thought that with just one question, she had discovered where Perkins’ loyalties lay.

“And who was Miss Waite’s maid before you?”

“Well, there were lots of them, M’um. Isabel Wright left last year, then six months before her there was Ethel