Birds of a Feather

“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Jempson, in the offices.”

“Ah, of course, he telephoned through to put you on the list not long ago.”The guard leaned down toward Maisie and pointed ahead, to an extensive courtyard illuminated by a lamp in each corner. “Don’t park by the lorries, otherwise you’ll have them drivers givin’ me a row. Go over to where it says ‘Visitors’ and put the motor there. And, Miss, park nose out, if you don’t mind.”

Nose out at the warehouse, too? Maisie’s countenance revealed her thoughts.

“It’s the way Mr. Waite likes it, Miss.” He smiled at Maisie. “You see that door there, the big wooden one? You go through there, up the stairs, and one of the clerks will be there at the top to meet you. I’ll telephone to let them know you’re on your way.”

Maisie thanked the guard, noting that no expense seemed to have been spared even in equipping the warehouse. Having parked the MG following the guard’s instructions to the letter, Maisie entered the granite building through the wooden door and was greeted at the top of the stairs by a young man in dark gray trousers, polished brogues, a crisp white shirt, and black tie, with armbands to keep his sleeves drawn away from his wrists. A freshly sharpened pencil protruded from behind his right ear.

“Evening, Miss Dobbs. My name’s Smithers. Come this way to Mr. Jempson’s office.”

“Thank you.”

Maisie was led to an office surrounded by windows that looked down onto the warehouse floor, the rich cherrywood frames and paneling gleaming under the glow of several lamps that illuminated the room.

“Thank you, Mr. Smithers.”

Jempson held out his hand for Maisie to take a seat in the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk. It was obviously reserved for guests. A rather less comfortable chair was situated alongside.

“I am most grateful for your time, Mr. Jempson.”

“How may I be of service to you?”

Maisie had to tread carefully. She already knew that Mr. Jempson’s employer was held in great esteem by his staff

“I wonder if you could help me with a most delicate matter.”

“I’ll try.” Jempson, a tall, thin man wearing an ensemble almost identical to his assistant’s, looked over half- moon glasses at Maisie, on his guard.

Maisie relaxed into her chair, an adjustment that was mirrored by Jempson. Good. Sensing that the conversation might now proceed, Maisie envisioned the tiled memorial of names in Waite’s International Stores, and began to ask the questions that had plagued her since the visit to Dulwich this morning.

Maisie took her leave from the warehouse an hour later. Mr. Jempson had indeed been most helpful. In fact, as he confessed while escorting her to the MG, “It’s done me good to talk about it all. I saw them all go, and most of them never came back. Broke the boss’s heart, it did. Couldn’t do enough for the families either. Must be terrible for him. To be reminded of it every day, every day when you look into the eyes of your own daughter. It’s a wonder he wants her back, if you ask me. Mind you, like I said upstairs, he had to keep her at home, after all that business with the windows being broken when he got her that flat on her own, after the war. Everyone loved Mr. Waite, but there’s no love lost on his daughter or them harpies she was with. I wouldn’t blame anyone who, you know, had lost someone. . . .”

Maisie placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you again, Mr. Jempson. Take good care, and don’t worry, this conversation is in absolute confidence.”

The man touched his forehead as Maisie left him to drive away into the thick darkness pierced by foghorns. Maisie did not go far. Parking close to the water, she remained in the motor car for some moments to review her plans. She would telephone Lady Rowan that evening, to ask if she might join her for a walk before breakfast. She knew that the older woman would have valuable insights to add to the evidence Maisie now had to hand. Her absolute priority was to find Charlotte. Was she ready to make a confession? Or was she in immediate danger? Maisie shook her head, pulled her collar up, and stepped from the car. She walked along Bermondsey Wall and stopped to watch the thick smog which seemed to curdle above the water. A wall had originally been built to keep out floodwaters in the Middle Ages; as people walked on the wall to avoid the muddy ground, the wall became a road, but the name was never lost. Maisie stood in silence feeling as if she were caught in the mud, unable to move. Charlotte was lost, and it was her fault. The chain of foghorns up and down the Thames began their round of blasts again, and as they did so, Maisie closed her eyes. Of course! What was it that Billy had said to her? Just after she’d received the call from Reverend Sneath? Something about being hidden in plain view? While listening to Charlotte speaking from the telephone kiosk, she’d heard the foghorns from south of the river. Charlotte was somewhere right under her father’s nose. She was close to the warehouse. But where?

The area was always teeming with people. It would be like finding a pebble lost on the beach. Sarson’s Vinegar, Courage’s Brewery, Crosse &Blackwell’s tinned foods, the leatherworks, Peek Freans biscuit factory, the docks, warehouses receiving foods from all over the world—she could be anywhere in Bermondsey. Maisie knew that the journey to Kent could not be delayed, but she would return to London quickly. Charlotte might have chosen to call from an identifiable area deliberately to send them in the wrong direction. She needed a source of information in Bermondsey. Maisie smiled. A Bermondsey boy. That’s what I need.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Leaving London at the crack of dawn, Maisie arrived at Chelstone early. The interior of the small cottage was cold and not at all welcoming as it would have been if Frankie Dobbs were at home. Maisie began opening curtains and windows to let in shafts of early morning sunshine, and a breath of fresh air. The rooms were neat and tidy, revealing regular attention from staff up at the manor house. Frankie Dobbs was much loved at Chelstone. His house had been well kept in anticipation of his return, but it lacked the life that Frankie brought to his simple dwelling.

Maisie moved around the cottage, running her fingers across her father’s belongings, as if touching the leather traces kept in the scullery awaiting repair, or his tools and brushes, brought him closer. She made a list of things that required attention. A bed must be moved into the small sitting room so that Frankie would not have to negotiate the stairs. A room must be prepared for Billy upstairs. She must speak again with Maurice about plans for Billy’s rehabilitation, in body, mind, and soul. She knew her father’s contribution to this part of Billy’s recovery was just as important, for Frankie was above all else a father, and Billy would gain as much from him as he would from Maurice, Gideon Brown, or Dr. Andrew Dene.