“Go on, Charlotte.”
Charlotte Waite looked at her. Some might have thought the woman’s posture arrogant, Maisie knew that she was searching for strength.
“I suggested to the girls, to Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa, that we should try to place feathers in the hands of as many young men as we could. And I also suggested a means of accomplishing the task. The warehouse, which employed so many young men—the runners, the drivers, the packers, the butchers, clerks . . . an army, in fact—was run in shifts, with a bell sounding for the change between each shift. It was my plan for the four of us to wait outside the gates when the shifts changed, to hand out feathers.” Charlotte put her hand to her lips together, then plunged on. “We handed a feather to each and every man who walked from the warehouse, regardless of age or job. And when we had done that, we went to the main shops, as many as we could get to in a day, and did the same thing. By the time my father found us, I’d handed out all but one of my feathers.” Charlotte’s chin dipped. “He drew alongside us in the motor car, with another motor following. The door opened, and he was furious. He instructed the chauffeur in the other car to take Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa to their homes, and he grabbed me by the arm and almost threw me into the motor.” Opening her eyes, Charlotte looked again at Maisie. “You are no doubt familiar, Miss Dobbs, with the wartime practice of men enlisting as ‘pals’—men who lived on the same street, worked with one another, that sort of thing?”
Maisie nodded.
“Well, Waite’s lost a good three-quarters of its workforce when the men joined up as pals within a week of our handing out the feathers. Waite’s Boys, they called themselves. Joe was one of them.”
Maisie’s attention was drawn to Charlotte’s hands. The nails of one had dug into the soft flesh of the other. Her hand was bleeding. Charlotte covered the wound and began speaking again.
“My father is a quick thinker. He saw to it that the families knew that the men’s jobs would be there for them upon their return. He offered wives and daughters jobs, with the promise that they would be paid a man’s wages and he saw to it that each man who enlisted was sent a regular parcel from Waite’s. He’s good at taking care of the families, my father. The trouble is, none of that compassion extended to me. The workers thought he was marvelous, a real patriarch. There were always parties for the children, bonuses at Christmas. And all through the war, Waite’s kept going, doing very well.”
Without thinking, Charlotte inspected her bloody hand and wiped it along the side of her coat. “And they were all lost. Oh, a few came home, wounded, but most of them were killed in action. Joe died. He’s buried over there.” She looked into Maisie’s eyes again. “So, you see, we—I—killed them. Oh, I know, you might say that they would have been conscripted sooner or later, but really, I know that we sent them off to their deaths. Counting the parents, the sweethearts, the widows, and the children, there must be a legion of people who would like to see the four of us dead.”
In the silence that followed, Maisie took a fresh handkerchief from the pocket of her tweed jacket. She held it between Charlotte’s hand and her own, pressed their palms together, and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
Maisie insisted that Charlotte accompany her back to Ebury Place. It was too dangerous for her to be left alone in Bermondsey. They said little on the drive across London, which included a detour to Whitechapel where Charlotte remained in the MG while Maisie called upon Billy briefly to ask him to meet her at the office the next morning. Sunday was to be another working day, and an important one.
Confident that Charlotte would not abscond now, Maisie settled her into a guest suite on the same floor as her own rooms, before finally finally taking rest. It had been a very long day and would be a long night as her plan, which must be executed soon, took shape. It was past ten o’clock when she went to the library to telephone Maurice Blanche. She heard only one ring before her call was answered.
“Maisie!” Maurice greeted her without waiting to hear her voice. “I have expected your call.”
Maisie smiled. “I thought you might.”
They both knew that Maisie needed to speak with her mentor when a case was nearing closure. As if drawn by invisible threads, they each leaned closer to their respective telephone receivers.
“I was speaking with Andrew Dene this morning.” Maurice continued.
“Oh—did he telephone to talk about my father?”
“No, actually, he came here this morning.”
“Oh?” Maisie was startled.
Maurice grinned. “You are not the only pupil who comes to my house, Maisie.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Maisie was glad that Maurice could not see the blood rising to her cheeks.
“Anyway, Andrew came to see me about several things, including Mr. Beale.”
“And?”
“Nothing of great concern, simply a discussion of how we may best help the man.”
“I see.”
“I expect he’ll be here shortly, in the next day or so?”
“Yes. When this case is closed.”
“So, Maisie, I sense that as far as your assignment is concerned, the case is already closed. You have found Charlotte Waite?”
“Yes. Though Mr. Waite insisted that her return to his home in Dulwich would be the point at which he would consider our work complete.”
“And when will that be?”
“I will be meeting Billy at the office tomorrow morning. The three of us will take a taxi-cab to Dulwich.
