“Do you have any idea—?”
“Why she did it?” Bartup stood up and walked to the window. He turned to Maisie. “No, Miss Dobbs. No idea at all. But . . .” He looked down at his feet, then back at Maisie. “I can’t say I was surprised or completely sorry. Charlotte is an attractive girl and by any standards it was a good match, but our communications had been difficult for some time. It was as if she were receding into herself. She is an unhappy woman, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie looked at Bartrup intently. “Can you tell me anything about Miss Waite’s previous disappearances?”
“Not really. All I can tell you is that they occurred before we met, and apparently—I heard this from friends—they never lasted long. Frankly, she knew on which side her bread was buttered. We had been engaged for six months, with no date set for the wedding. Of course we’d come up with possibilities, but a reason was always found to eliminate that date and go back to the drawing board. Sometimes Charlotte discovered the conflicting engagement, sometimes her father. She did not do the disappearing act while we were courting, or after we became engaged, though I had been warned by others about her previous forays into freedom away from the pressures of living in Waite-shire!”
Bartrup smiled, though Maisie suspected that he still felt the sting of being cast aside by Charlotte Waite.
“Mind you,” he added, “our engagement ended some two months ago, so that couldn’t have made her bolt.” Bartrup looked thoughtful, then consulted his watch. “Good Lord! Miss Dobbs, I can manage one last question, then I must proceed to my next appointment.”
Maisie sensed that there was no other appointment, but one last question would be sufficient. “Thank you, Mr. Bartrup. It’s a simple question: Where do you think Charlotte might be? Where would she run to?”
Bartrup sighed, and leaned his chin on the fist he made with both hands, his elbows on the table in front of him. “I wish I could help you, Miss Dobbs, but I really don’t know. She certainly didn’t come to me, nor am I someone she would confide in.”
“You must have been saddened by your engagement ending, Mr. Bartrup.”
“Frankly, at first I was taken aback, but then, well, one has to just get on with it, doesn’t one?”
“I have taken a good deal of your time, Mr. Bartrup, and I must thank you.” Maisie stood and held out her hand for Bartrup, who returned her handshake.
“If I can be of any help, Miss Dobbs, please do not hesitate to call again, though afternoon is always best, given the vagaries of work in the City.”
“Of course. Thank you.” Maisie bade him farewell and was escorted out of the offices of Carstairs & Clifton. She emerged into bright mid-afternoon sunshine, and hurried to Bank underground station for the quick journey back to Fitzroy Square. Maisie knew that Billy would not return to the office before five o’clock, so she would have some time to review Maurice’s notes again and gather her thoughts. Bartrup had been of almost no help, and recollection of the conversation led her to believe that Charlotte had probably done well to break off the engagement. Marriage to such a man would have provided no comfort except financial, and Charlotte had no urgent need for economic security. Perhaps Charlotte’s curiosity about the contemplative life, that the book and pamphlets in her room suggested, stemmed from a desire for a deeper, more intimate connection than that promised by marriage to the men in her circle.
Walking across Fitzroy Square, Maisie felt an ominous chill in the air and looked up to see heavy gray cumulus clouds, which seemed to her like water-filled balloons ready to burst. She picked up her pace, keys at the ready to open the front door. She entered the room just in time to see long needles of rain slanting across the windows where sunlight had filtered in that morning.
Maisie removed her mackintosh, hung it on the hook behind the door, and went to a filing cabinet that contained more extensive information than that in the card file. She was concerned; thus far she had made no progress, had perhaps wasted time. The various elements of information gathered indicated to Maisie that finding Charlotte Waite might be even more urgent than her overbearing, yet in some ways dismissive, father believed. As Maisie unlocked the cabinet, she reflected upon the memorial tiles in Joseph Waite’s store and admonished herself: How had she missed the fact that Waite had a son?
Leafing through the manila folders, Maisie found the file she was looking for and took it to her desk. She began to remove notes and letters from it, fanning them out on the desk in front of her. Knowing that at that point Maurice might have cautioned her against anger directed at the self, Maisie quickly sat back in the chair with her eyes closed. She placed her left hand on her solar plexus to become centered, and her right hand across her heart to denote kindness, as she had been taught by Khan. She took several deep breaths, opened her eyes, and looked at the documents in front of her, with the intention of studying carefully every detail of Joseph Waite’s background. She read for some time, jotted notes and words on a sheet of paper that she would later add to the case map. The thud of the outer door being closed brought her contemplative silence to an end, followed by the unmistakable “dot-and-carry-one” footfall of Billy Beale climbing the stairs. The door opened and immediately Maisie felt the energy in the room change as Billy entered. Clearly he had news to impart.
“Afternoon, Miss. Nice to see the days starting to get longer, innit? Not that you’d notice this afternoon.” Billy shook out his overcoat and hung it on the back of the door, while Maisie looked in dismay at the droplets of rainwater that now speckled the floor. “Didn’t it come down, all of a sudden? I thought it’d ’old off, what wiv it clearin’ up this mornin’.”
“Indeed, Billy. Um, could you get a cloth and wipe up the water on the floor?”
“Aw, sorry, Miss.” Billy took a rag from one of the drawers in his desk and slowly bent down to mop up the rainwater, favoring the aching knee.
Having completed the task, Billy took his notebook, Charlotte Waite’s address book, and a newspaper from the inside pocket of his overcoat, and sat down beside Maisie at the table by the window.
“Well, I don’t know about you, Miss, but I’ve ’ad a very interestin’ day.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
Billy placed the address book in front of Maisie, inclined his head toward it, and grinned.“Notice anything strange about this ’ere book?”
Maisie picked up the black leather-bound book, ran her fingers around the closed gilt-edged pages, and flicked open a page or two.
“Go on.”
“Well, I ain’t never ’ad an address book meself. I might scratch down somethin’ on the back of me Daily Sketch, but I’ve never gone in for addresses all written down in alphabetical order, like.”
Maisie nodded.
“But what I reckon is that people like you, what ’ave address books because they know enough people to ’ave to write down all the names and addresses and telephone numbers and all, don’t ’ave address books that look like this.” Billy reached for the book, flapped it back and forth, and then set it down on the table again for effect. “I bet if we looked through your address book, it’d be full of directions and notes and some telephone numbers, and some people would’ve moved so many times, you’ve ’ad to scribble out the address to put the new one in. Then no sooner’ve you done that, they’ve either moved again or gone and got themselves married and changed names, so you ’ave to move the ’ole thing.”
“You’ve got a point there, Billy.”
“Well, I looked at this book, and I thought to meself that she either don’t know many people or this ain’t ’er main address book.”
“Do you think she deliberately left a bogus address book to fool people who searched for her?” Maisie tested Billy.