Maisie was interrupted by the telephone.
“Fitzroy five —Miss Waite. Where are you. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” The line crackled.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite you may be in danger. Tell me where you are.”
Silence.
“Miss Waite? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“Well, can you speak up a bit, please? This is a terrible line.”
“I’m in a telephone kiosk.” Charlotte’s voice was slightly louder.
“Why have you called me, Miss Waite?”
“I . . . I . . . need to speak to you.”
“About what?” Maisie held her breath as she pushed Charlotte just a little.
“There’s more to tell you. I didn’t tell you . . . everything.”
“Can you tell me now?”
Silence.
“Miss Waite?”
“I have to speak to you privately, in person.”
“Where are you? I’ll come right away.”
Maisie thought she heard Charlotte crying; then there was silence but for the crackling telephone line.
“Miss Waite? Are we still connected?”
“Oh, it’s no use. It’s no use—”
There was a click and the line was dead. Maisie replaced the receiver.
“Damn!”
Billy’s eyes widened. “What was all that about, eh, Miss?”
“Charlotte Waite. She said she wanted to talk to me, then hung up the receiver saying it was ‘no use.’”
“Lost ’er bottle, did she?”
“She certainly did. It was a bad line. She could have been anywhere. Mind you, there was noise in the background.” Maisie closed her eyes as if to hear the entire call again. “What was that sound?”
“D’you still want me to do all this?” Billy held up the list.
“Yes. She could have been in Paris for all I know. Or outside an hotel on the Edgeware Road. But at least we know she’s still alive. It’s getting late, but you can make a start, and then get on with it again tomorrow morning.”
“Right you are, Miss.”
“I’ll need to speak to Lady Rowan at Chelstone before I see my father, then I’ll come back to London to continue the search for Charlotte Waite.”
“How can ’er Ladyship help?”
Maisie turned to Billy. “She was involved in the suffrage movement before the war, and knows a lot about what different women’s associations did. I could use more color on the page.”
“I know, Miss.”
Maisie looked up at Billy, walked over to her desk, and sighed. “Billy, give it another half an hour or so and then get on your way. It’s been a long day—in fact, it’s been a long week, and you’ll have to put in quite a few hours tomorrow.”
“Aw, thanks, Miss. I want to see the nippers before they go to bed.”
“Oh, and Billy—here’s something for you.” Maisie held out the brown paper carrier bag.
“What’s all this, Miss?”
“A pound of Waite’s sausages. Best in London, they say.”
Shortly after Billy began his evening journey back to Whitechapel, Maisie climbed into the MG, started the engine, and pulled out of Fitzroy Square. A telephone call had confirmed that Waite’s warehouse in Rotherhithe remained open until late in the evening, while lorries bound for the shops were packed with the next day’s deliveries. Mr. Jempson, the warehouse manager, was available and had kindly agreed to see Maisie as soon as she arrived.
Fog horns bellowed along the Thames as carriage drivers, motorists and barge captains alike made their way through the murky smog that once again began to shroud London. Maisie negotiated the MG along narrow roads that were almost lanes, byways that led from the docks to riverside warehouses. Following directions carefully, she eventually turned into a cobbled side street and drew up in front of a pair of open gates with a sign above in blue- and-gold lettering: WAITE’S INTERNA-TIONAL STORES. SOUTH-EASTERN WAREHOUSE. A guard in a blue-and- gold uniform waved from the gatehouse and came out to greet Maisie, a clipboard under his arm.
“Evening, Miss.” He touched the peak of his blue cap. “Expected, are you?”
