Birds of a Feather

“Of course. I’ll expect to hear from you, then.”

Maisie heard the telephone in her office ringing even before she opened the front door, and hurried up the stairs before the caller lost patience.

“Fitzroy five—”

“Is that Miss Maisie Dobbs?”

“Speaking.”

“Andrew Dene here.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Dene.”

“So glad to have reached you. I’ll be up in London early next week. That meeting at St. Thomas’s? It was postponed, but now it’s on again. Look, I wonder, would you care to have supper with me, say, Wednesday or Thursday?”

Maisie quickly ruffled some papers on her desk. “Let me see . . . I’m really quite busy at the moment. Could you give me a ring on, oh, Tuesday afternoon?”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs. I’ll telephone you on Tuesday. Until then.”

“Yes, until then.”

She replaced the receiver.

Maisie stood by the window on Wednesday morning waiting for Billy Beale to return to work. She rubbed the back of her neck and paced to the mirror, checked her appearance for the one hundredth time since her visit to Bond Street the previous afternoon. Time for a change. She thought of Simon. Yes, though she would continue to visit, probably forever, it was time to move on, to set her cap for . . . whatever fate might bring her way.

Turning to the window again, she saw Billy round the corner, walking briskly. Yes. With a spring in his step and barely any sign of a limp, Billy Beale made his way across Fitzroy Square, tipping his cap at a woman walking with her children, and—she was sure of this— whistling as he walked. Yes. He was the old Billy again. Good. Just before he reached the front door, Billy stopped in front of a flight of pigeons that had gathered to pick at the flagstones. He shook his head, then carefully made his way around the birds before running up the steps and polishing the brass nameplate with the underside of his sleeve before entering.

Maisie listened. The door closed with a loud thump and Billy whistled his way up the stairs. She rubbed at her neck again as the door swung open.

“Mornin’ Miss, and ain’t it a lovely—blimey!”

“Good morning, Billy. It’s good to have you back, even though you’ve brought some rich language with you.”

“You’ve . . . you’ve changed.”

“Thank you for being so observant, Billy. That’s what you’re paid for.” Maisie touched her hair.

“I mean, Miss, well, it’s a bit of a shock, innit? But it suits you, really it does.”

Maisie looked at him anxiously. “Are you sure? You’re not just saying that, are you, Billy?”

“No, Miss. Even though my Dad always said that a woman’s ’air is ’er crownin’ glory. It suits you, makes you seem more . . . sort of modern.”

Maisie walked to the mirror again, still surprised to see her reflection, with her hair cut into a sharp bob.

“I just couldn’t stand all that hair any more, especially the bits that always flew out at the sides. I wanted a change.”

Billy hung his coat on the hook at the back of the door and turned back to Maisie. “Now all you need is somewhere nice to go.”

“Well, I am going out for supper tonight.”

“Supper?” said Billy with a mischievous grin. “Now, Miss, I thought you said you didn’t dine out in the evenings because supper meant something more than lunch.”

Maisie laughed. “I changed my mind.”

“I ’spect it’s with Dr. Dene. ’e’s up here this week for ’is meetins, ain’t ’e?”

“Yes, I believe he is.”

“Or is it the Detective Inspector?”

“Now then, Billy.”

“Go on, Miss, you can tell me.”

“No, Billy, I can’t. Let’s just say that it’s something for me to know and you to deduce. And talking of powers of deduction, I’ve just taken on an interesting new case.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My friend and writing buddy, Holly Rose, was the first to read Birds of a Feather and I am ever-grateful for her support, honesty, insight and enthusiasm. My agent, Amy Rennert is a powerful blend of friend, mentor and coach—and is the best. Thanks must also go to my editor Laura Hruska and to everyone at Soho Press—a terrific publishing team.

I am indebted to my Cheef Resurcher (who knows who he is) for the hours spent among dusty old copies of The Times and for his invaluable counsel on the history of the inner workings of “The Yard.” Any wide turns with fact and procedure may be attributed to the author who will gladly repay his hard work with a few bottles of the peaty stuff.

My parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear, have once again been wonderful resources regarding “old London” and