by Lydia Fisher, she did not ring the bell. The upper windows were open, and she could hear a gramophone playing at a volume that showed no consideration for neighbors. A woman laughed aloud, and even from the street below Maisie could hear the clink of glasses. She thought of the vaporous loneliness that had seeped into every piece of furniture, every fabric in Lydia Fisher’s home, and whispered, “May she rest in peace.”
The red brick of Camden Abbey seemed almost aflame against a seldom-seen blue sky that graced the Romney Marshes, but a chill breeze whipped across the flat land to remind all who came that this was pasture reclaimed from the sea. Once again Maisie was led to the visitor’s sitting room where, instead of tea, a small glass flagon had been placed on a tray with some milky white cheddar and warm bread. Dame Constance was waiting for her, smiling through the grille as she entered.
“Good afternoon, Maisie. It’s lunchtime, so I thought a little of our blackberry wine with homemade bread and cheese might go down well.”
Maisie sat down opposite. “I don’t know about wine, not when I have to get behind the wheel again soon. I think I should beware of your Camden Abbey brews.”
“In my day, Maisie—”
Maisie raised a hand. “Dame Constance, I confess I wonder how they ever let you in, what with the things you did in your day.”
The nun laughed. “Now you know the secret of the cloister, Maisie, we only take people who know the world. Now then, tell me how you are. We are not so isolated that we know nothing of the news here, you know. I understand that your investigations met with success.”
Maisie reached toward the flagon and poured a small measure of translucent deep red wine. “I find the word ‘success’ difficult to apply to this case, Dame Constance. Yes, the murderer has been brought to justice, but many questions linger.”
Dame Constance nodded. “People assume that we have a head start on wisdom in a place such as this, where women gather in a life of contemplation, a life of prayer. But it isn’t quite like that. Wisdom comes when we acknowledge what we can never know.”
Maisie sipped her wine.
“I have come to wonder, Maisie, if our work really
“When you put it like that, Dame Constance—”
“We both have to avoid making personal judgments and we are both faced with the challenge of doing and saying what is right when the burden of truth has been placed on our shoulders.”
“My job is to look hard for the clues that evade me.”
“And you have learned the lesson, no doubt, that while looking hard for clues in your work, you may be blind to the unanswered questions in your own life. Or you may be providing yourself with a convenient distraction from them.”
Maisie smiled in acknowledgment as she sipped again from the glass.
Stratton was restrained as usual during their long-postponed lunch at Bertorelli’s. He did not repeat his regret at failing to listen to her theory, though they could not help but discuss the case.
“Has Mrs. Willis told you yet where she obtained the morphine?” asked Maisie.
Stratton rested his right forearm on the table and ran a finger around the rim of his water glass. “Various sources. There was an attempt to procure some from the hospital in Richmond, but she was disturbed by a nurse just as she was entering the nurses’ office. Of course they couldn’t prove anything, but they became rather more vigilant regarding the security of medicines. Some of her supply came from—you will never believe this—the belongings of a maiden aunt who had passed away earlier this year. Mrs. Willis found several of those tins of morphine in phials that were once so fashionable among the ladies, and easily purchased. Though old, the substance had lost none of its strength. She bought some from a chemist, and also used the deceased Mr. Thorpe’s supply. Morphine can take a long time to do its work, but she was lucky—if you can call it that—in rendering her victims helpless enough to hear what she had to say before administering a fatal dose.”
“And the bayonet.”
“Street market.”
Maisie shook her head.
They were quiet, and for a time Maisie wondered whether Stratton might talk about his son, but when he spoke again it was of a business matter, an offer that rather surprised her.
“Miss Dobbs. You must have read the news, in the papers about two weeks ago, that there’s a new Staff Officer in charge of the Women’s Section at the Yard.”
“Yes, of course. Dorothy Peto.”
“Yes. Well, she’s suggesting all sorts of changes, including women being posted to the Criminal Investigation Department. I was wondering if you might be interested. You know, I could put in a word—”
Maisie held up a hand. “Oh no, Inspector. Thank you all the same, but I prefer to work alone, with only Mr. Beale to assist me.”
Stratton smiled. “Just as I thought.”
Conversation idled as lunch came to a close, though Stratton’s demeanor had changed, becoming warmer.
“I wonder,” he said, “If you would care to join me for supper, perhaps. I was thinking of next Wednesday evening, or Thursday.”
Very clever, thought Maisie. Wednesday didn’t have the significance of Friday, not when it came to a man asking a woman out to dine. “Thank you for the invitation, but I . . . I’ll let you know. My assistant returns to work next week. He’s been taking time for a special course of therapy to ease a troublesome war wound. I have much to do before he comes back.”
Stratton rallied quickly. “Then may I telephone you on Tuesday afternoon?”
