Birds of a Feather

battlefield by taking up their work until they returned home. The other half of our number went all out for peace, joining with women throughout Europe. Frankly, on an individual level, I think women needed to take part. We’re all Boadiceas really.” Lady Rowan’s smile was sad. “But some women, some young women who perhaps didn’t have a cause, found some level of belonging, of worthiness—possibly even of some sort of connection—in joining together to force young men to join the army. I wonder if they saw it as a game, one in which they scored points for each man intimidated into joining up.”

The two women turned simultaneously and began to make their way back toward Chelstone Manor. They walked together in silence for some moments, until Lady Rowan spoke again.

“Aren’t you going to tell me why you’ve come to me with these questions? Why the curiosity about the Order of the White Feather?”

Maisie took a deep breath. “I have reason to believe that the recent deaths of three young women are connected to the white feather movement.” Maisie checked her watch.

Lady Rowan nodded, seeming somewhat weary now that the early walk was coming to an end. “That’s one more thing that I detest about war. It’s not over when it ends. Of course, it seems as if everyone’s pally again, what with agreements, the international accords, and contracts and so on. But it still lives inside the living, doesn’t it?” She turned to Maisie. “Heavens, I sound like Maurice now!”

They followed the path back to the manicured lawns of Chelstone Manor.

“Will you join me for breakfast, Maisie?”

“No, I’d better be on my way. Before I go, may I use your telephone?”

“You’ve no need to ask. Go on.” Lady Rowan waved Maisie on her way. “And take good care, won’t you? We expect to see your Mr. Beale here by the end of the month!”

Only if I close this case quickly, thought Maisie, as she ran toward the manor.

“Miss Dobbs. Delightful to hear from you. I’ve had another word with Dr.—”

“This isn’t about my father, Dr. Dene. Look, I must hurry. I wonder if you can help me. Do you still know Bermondsey well?”

“Of course. In fact, once a fortnight I work at Maurice’s clinic for a day or two on a Saturday or Sunday.”

“Oh, I see.” Maisie was surprised that she didn’t already know about Dene’s continued connection with Maurice’s work. “I need to find a person who may be hiding in Bermondsey. She may be in danger, and I have to locate her soon. Very soon. Do you know anyone who might be able to help me.”

Dene laughed. “All very cloak-and-dagger isn’t it, Miss Dobbs?”

“I am absolutely serious.” Maisie felt herself become impatient with him. “If you can’t help, then say so.”

Dene’s voice changed. “I’m sorry. Yes, I do know someone. He’s called Smiley Rackham and he can usually be found outside The Bow & Arrow; it’s just off Southwark Park Road, where they have the market. Just make your way along the market until you see a pie ’n’ mash shop on the corner, turn on that side street and you’ll see The Bow. Can’t miss it. Smiley sells matches and you’ll recognise him by the scar that runs from his mouth to his ear. It makes him look as if he’s pulling a huge grin.”

“Oh. Was he wounded in the war?”

“If he was ever in a war, it was probably the Crimean. No, Smiley worked on the barges as a boy. Got an unloading hook caught in the side of his mouth.” He laughed, “Knowing Smiley, it was open too wide at the time. Anyway, even though there are lots of new people in Bermondsey now, he doesn’t miss a trick. He’s a good place to start. He’ll cost you a bob or two though.”

“Thank you, Dr Dene.”

“Miss Dobbs—”

Maisie had already replaced the receiver. She had just enough time to drive to Pembury for morning visiting hours.

Maisie was filled with guilt from the time she left Pembury Hospital until she parked the car in Bermondsey. The conversation with her father had been stilted and halting, each searching for a subject that would engage the other, each trying to move beyond a series of questions. Maisie was too preoccupied to speak of her mother. Finally, sensing her discomfort, Frankie had said,“Your mind’s on your work isn’t it, love?” He insisted that she need not remain and, gratefully, she left the ward, promising that she’d stay longer next time. Next time . . . He’s not getting any younger. With Maurice’s words pounding in her head, Maisie sped toward London. Now she had to locate Smiley Rackham.

The market was a writhing mass of humanity by the time she arrived, and would be alive with people until late at night. Even the women stallholders were dressed like men, with flat caps, worn jackets, and pinafores made from old sacks. They called to one another, shouted out prices, and kept the throng noisy and moving. Maisie finally found The Bow & Arrow. Smiley Rackham was outside, just as Dene had predicted.

“Mr. Rackham?”

Maisie leaned down to speak to the old man. Smiley’s clothes, though dapper, as if they had once belonged to a gentleman, had seen much better days. His eyes sparkled below a flat cap, and his stubbled chin dimpled as he smiled. It was a broad smile that accentuated the livid scar so well described by Dene.

“And who wants ’im?”

“My name’s Maisie Dobbs,” Maisie continued, deliberately slipping into the south London dialect of her childhood. “Andrew Dene said you’d ’elp me.”

“Old Andeeee said to see me, eh?”

“Yes. Andy said you knew everyone hereabouts.”

“Gettin’ tricky, what wiv all these Oxford and Cambridge do-gooders comin’ in.”

Had the situation not been so urgent, Maisie might have grinned. Now she wanted to get down to business. She took out the photograph of Charlotte Waite and handed it to Rackham.

“Course, me old eyes ain’t what they were. Probably need to get some glasses.” He squinted at Maisie. “Mind you, cost of glasses today—”