Birds of a Feather

Day—I remember them because I’ve worked for Mr. Waite since I was twelve, M’um.”

“And do you like working here, Miss Perkins?”

“I like working for Mr. Waite. He’s very good to us here, M’um”

Maisie nodded, and looked out of the window. She was aware that the maid had leaned forward to see the gardens.

“I’ll bet you are too busy to look out of the windows, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, ’specially with the way Miss Waite keeps me running. . . . Oh, begging your pardon, M’um.”

Maisie smiled, encouraging Perkins into her confidence. “Tell me—what is it like working for Miss Waite? And I should add that everything you tell me will remain between the two of us.” She leaned forward, and though the maid did not consciously discern any alteration in Maisie’s speech, she had allowed her accent to change slightly so that she sounded just a little like the young woman in front of her. “I need to ask questions to get a sense of what has been happening in Miss Waite’s life in the past two or three months, and especially in more recent weeks.”

The young woman gazed into the distance again, chewed her inner lip, then moved closer to Maisie. She began to speak, at first tentatively, then with greater strength. “To tell you the truth, she’s not the easiest person to work for. She’d have me running up and downstairs all day. Wash this, press that, cup of tea, not too hot, not too cold, lemon—oh no, changed my mind, cream instead. First she’s going out, then she’s staying in; then suddenly, just as I’m setting my head on the pillow, the bell rings, and I have to go down and dress her for a late dinner. No thank- you’s or anything, no little something extra left on the sideboard for me, and I’m the one that has to clean up when she has a temper!”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s like being outside, you know: no climate but all weather. Hot and cold she is, never seems to know her own mind. One minute she’s all happy, the next, you’d’ve thought the moon had crashed into the stars and set light to the sky outside her window.” Perkins shrugged. “Well, that’s what Miss Harding, the cook, says.”

“And what about the past few weeks or so? More of the same behavior?”

Perkins watched the clouds for a moment before answering. “I’d say she was quieter. More . . . more distant, I think you’d say. I mean, she always went through times like that. Miss Harding said she ought to be taken to see somebody about her moods. But this was different. It sort of went on and on, and she didn’t go out much. Didn’t seem to dress up as much either. In fact, she got rid of some lovely clothes, you know, from Paris and Bond Street. Very strange for a lady, to want to walk around in them drab clothes all day, and only have one evening dress, ’specially as she used to go to the collections, you know, and have mannequins walk up and down the room for her to pick and choose what she wanted. You should have seen it in here when the boxes arrived!”

“Have you any idea what might have caused her to withdraw?”

“Not really. None of my business. I was just glad there were no bells ringing at midnight.”

“Do you think Mr. Waite noticed?”

“Mr. Waite works hard. We all know that. Far as I know, they don’t see much of each other.”

“Are you aware of discord between Miss Waite and her father?”

Perkins looked at her shoes and stepped away from the window just a little. Maisie noticed immediately. She’s closing her mind. Deliberately.

“Not my business to pry, M’um. I just do my job. What they think of each other upstairs isn’t any of my concern.”

“Hmmm. Yes. Your work is demanding enough, Miss Perkins. No reason for you to keep tabs on people. One more question, though: Do you know whom Miss Waite saw, or where she went, in the weeks preceding her departure from this house? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

The maid sighed in a way that indicated that she had said all she wanted to say, but that she would try to answer the question. “She did go up to Town a few times. I’m not sure where she went, but she mainly sees a woman called Lydia Fisher, I think. She lives in Chelsea, somewhere around there. And I reckon she was going somewhere else as well, because she took a pair of walking shoes with her on a couple of occasions. But a lot of her time was spent just sitting up here.”

“Doing what?”

“Not sure I know, Miss. Sort of in a daydream, looking out of the window.”

“I see.” The younger woman began to fidget with her hair, her lace headband, her apron, indicating to Maisie that no more valuable information would be forthcoming. As they moved toward the door, Maisie reached into her bag and took out a calling card.

“Miss Perkins, I am familiar with the workings of a house of this size, and also appreciate that the staff are usually the first to know when something is amiss. Please feel free to telephone me if you think of anything that might be useful. It’s clear that you have had some difficulties with Miss Waite, but despite everything, her father— your employer— wants her home.”

“Yes, M’um.” Perkins took the card, placed it in her pinafore pocket, bobbed another half curtsey, and left the room.

Maisie watched the maid walk along the landing, stopping briefly to curtsey as Billy approached in the company of Mrs. Willis, who was looking at her watch. It was time for them to leave.

“Have you got everything, Billy?”

“Yes, Miss. In fact, Mrs. Willis knew where to find a recent photograph of Miss Waite. ’ere.” Billy opened his notebook and took out the photograph, which he handed to Maisie.

Charlotte was sitting on a white filigree cast-iron chair set in front of a rose garden, which Maisie suspected was at the rear of the house. She seemed to be what the gentlemen of the press might have termed a “flapper.” Her hair, which framed her face, was waved and drawn back into a low chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a knee-length dress that appeared rather flimsy; a breeze had caught the hem the moment before the shutter