Birds of a Feather

rest.

Had Charlotte found any rest at Camden Abbey? Were Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa now at rest? And the killer? Would there ever be rest for all of them?

Charlotte pulled up two ladderback chairs in front of a meager gas fire, and they sat down, neither taking off her coat as the room was far too cold. They were silent for some minutes before Charlotte began to speak.

“I don’t know where to begin, really. . . .”

Maisie reached across with her now-warm hands and, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own, spoke gently. “Start anywhere; we can go back and forth as we need.”

Charlotte swallowed and pursed her lips before speaking.

“I . . . I think the beginning is when I first realized how much my father loved my brother, Joe. It wasn’t that he didn’t love me. No, it was just that he loved Joe so much more. I think I was quite young. Of course, my mother wasn’t there very often. They weren’t at all suited, I expect you know that already.” Charlotte sat in silence for a few moments, her eyes closed, her hands trembling. Maisie noticed how her eyelids moved, as if conjuring up the past caused her pain.

“It wasn’t obvious, it was little things, really. He’d come home from work and, as soon as he saw Joe, his eyes would light up. He’d ruffle his hair, that sort of thing. Then he’d see me. The smile he gave me wasn’t so . . . so alive.”

“Did you get along with your brother?” asked Maisie.

“Oh, yes, yes. Joe was my hero! He knew, I know he knew how I felt. He’d always think up a special game for us to play, or if my father wanted to play cricket with him or whatever, Joe would always say, ‘Charlie has to come, too.’ That’s what he called me: Charlie.”

Maisie was silent, then touched Charlotte’s hand again for her to continue.

“I don’t know when it started to annoy me. I think it was when I reached twelve or thirteen. I felt as if I were running a race I could never win and I was out of breath with trying. Of course my mother was firmly ensconced in Yorkshire by then, kept out of the way by my father, who was doing very well in business. New shops were opening, and Joe was always there with him. Joe was seven years older than I and being groomed to take over the business eventually. I remember at breakfast one day, I announced that I wanted to do what Joe was doing, start working for the business, at the bottom, like all the other apprentices. But my father simply laughed. Said that I wasn’t cut out for hard work—graft he called it. Not got the ’ands for a bit o’ ’ard graft.’” Charlotte mimicked her father’s broad native accent perfectly.

“Then he sent me off to Switzerland, to school. It was horrible. I missed Joe, my best friend. And I missed home. But . . . but something happened to me. I’ve thought about it a lot.” She looked directly at Maisie for the first time. “I’ve really considered what might have happened. I became . . . very detached. I had been pushed away for so long, you see.” Charlotte began to stutter. “It seemed the best thing to do, to be. If I was going to be the one pushed to the outside, I might as well stay there. Do you understand?”

Maisie nodded. Yes, she understood.

“I made some friends, other girls from the school. Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa. It was the sort of school where girls were ‘finished’ rather than educated. I felt humiliated, as if he thought me only good for arranging flowers, buying clothes and knowing how to correctly address servants. Then, when war was declared, we all came home to England. Of course, my father, the great man of commerce”—Maisie noticed the sarcasm in Charlotte’s voice—“had already secured government contracts to supply army rations.” Charlotte looked up thoughtfully. “It’s amazing, when you think of it, the people who do well out of war. My clothing allowance came courtesy of soldiers being fed by Joseph Waite.” She looked away and for a while they sat in silence until Charlotte was ready to take up her story again.

“After we’d returned home, the four of us were pretty much at a loose end. We tried knitting scarves, socks, that sort of thing. Rolling bandages. Joseph was working at the warehouse. He’d started off at the lowest rung and at that time was a clerk in receivables. Mind you, he had apprenticed with the butchers, taken the deliveries out, and he was the blue-eyed boy of the whole business. Everybody loved ‘Young Joe.’” She mimicked a south London accent, which made Maisie look up suddenly.

“How did you get along with Joe after your return?”

“Very well, actually. When I asked to work for the business and my father refused, Joe stuck up for me, said it would be a good idea, a good example.” Once again, she looked into the distance. “He was a wonderful young man, Joe.”

Maisie said nothing while Charlotte paused to gather her thoughts.

“So, there we were, young girls with few skills, time on our hands and—for my part—nowhere I seemed to . . . to . . . belong.” Charlotte exhaled deeply. “Then I found out about the Order of the White Feather. I saw a bill posted. So I persuaded the others. It didn’t take much. We went along to a meeting.” Charlotte held out her upturned hands helplessly. “And that was the beginning.”

Maisie watched Charlotte. A natural and decisive leader.

“Then the game went on, and we were more than willing players. Each day we would venture forth with our little bags of white feathers, and we’d hand them out to young men not in uniform. We each took out an equal number of feathers and when we saw one another later, we’d see if all the feathers were gone. Of course, we thought we were doing the right thing. Sometimes . . . sometimes, I’d walk past an enlistment office and I’d see a young man standing there, or two together, still holding the feathers I’d given them. And I thought, Oh, good.”

“No one at home knew what I was up to. My father was busy, always so busy, and Joe was working hard at the warehouse. No one wondered what I might be doing. Joe always asked for me as soon as he came home. I think he knew that I was unraveling. But inside me . . .” —she touched the plain belt buckle of her dress with the flat of her hand— “inside me, I was resentful toward Joe. It was as if I didn’t know where to put all the horribleness that was festering inside me. It was like a disease, a lump.” A single tear slid down her cheek. “Then, one day, I thought of a way to get back at him—my father—and to get Joe out of the way for a while. The trouble was, I didn’t think. I didn’t think that it would be forever.”

Silence descended. Maisie rubbed her upper arms with hands that had become cold once again. May I not sit in judgment.