Maisie sighed. “Oh dear. I do wish one of the household had let you out.”
“So do I, come to think of it. But the maid wasn’t there. Mind you, I think someone else went in after me.”
“Well, I would hope so, Billy.”
“Nah, Miss, you know what I mean. Directly after me.”
“Explain.”
“I was on the street, and you know ’ow narrow them mewses are, don’t you? Well, it was that funny it was, because I came out of the ’ouse, ’ad to squeeze past that big car of ’ers, the way she’d parked it all over the pavement, then I turned right to go down toward Victoria. I ’adn’t gone but a couple of yards when I ’eard steps behind me; then the door slammed. I thought it must’ve been Mr. Fisher, comin’ in from work or somethin’ and I just ’adn’t seen ’im.”
“You’re sure it was Number Nine’s door that opened and closed?”
“As sure as I can be. It was the sound, Miss. I’m good wiv noises. It’s ’avin the nippers what does it—always gotta know where the noise is comin’ from, otherwise the little beggars’ll be getting’ up to no good at all. Anyway, if it’d been the next ’ouse along, it wouldn’t ’ave sounded the same, in either direction. No, it was Number Nine.” Billy looked at Maisie, his eyes revealing the shock of a sudden unwanted thought. “’ere, Miss, you don’t think it was the one what did ’er in, do you?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Maisie considered another possibility, that Lydia Fisher might have been lying to Billy throughout. The suitcase he noticed could have belonged to Charlotte Waite. It might have been Charlotte who— alone or aided by another—had slain her friend. Waite had referred to his daughter as a “wilting lily” but Maisie was begining to consider her a dark horse.
“This is getting’ interestin’, innit, Miss?”
“Intriguing is what it is. Intriguing. I’ve written to Dame Constance at Camden Abbey in Kent, and expect to hear from her by return. Whether Charlotte has run there for shelter or not, Dame Constance will be able to throw light on the mind of an aspiring nun. I’ll visit her as soon as I can. And I want to consult with Dr. Blanche, so I’ll stop at the Dower House at Chelstone to see him first.”
“Will you see your old dad while you’re there?”
“Of course I will. Why do you ask?”
“Wonderful man, your dad. You just don’t seem to see much of ’im, that’s all, seein’ as ’e’s your only real family.”
Maisie drew back, surprised. The simplicity of Billy’s observation stung her, as if she had been attacked by an unseen insect. She knew that it was only the truth that could injure in such a manner, and her face reddened.
“I see my father as much as I can.” Maisie leaned toward a pile of papers, which she shuffled before consulting her watch. “Goodness me, Billy! You should be on your way. You won’t be home in time to play with your children though, will you?”
“Oh yes I will, Miss. Never miss a play before they go up to bed. Nice to ’ave a bit of a romp around, although the missus moans about it, says it gets ’em all excited so they won’t sleep.”
“We might as well finish work for the day. I’m meeting Detective Inspector Stratton tomorrow morning to go to Lydia Fisher’s house. Be prepared to hold the fort for a couple of days while I am down in Kent.”
“You can count on me, Miss.” Billy extended his wounded leg and rose from his chair.
“That leg giving you trouble again? You seemed to be in less pain this morning.”
“It comes and goes, Miss. Comes and goes. I’ll be off then.”
“Very well, Billy.”
Billy pulled on his overcoat and gave a final wave before clambering down the stairs in an ungainly fashion that could be heard with each receding footfall. The front door opened and closed with a thud. It was six o’clock.
Maisie was in no rush to leave. It had been a long day, and so much had happened. But far from being anxious to return to her rooms, Maisie felt a dragging at her heart as she contemplated the evening ahead. Perhaps she would go down to the kitchen and have a cup of cocoa with Sandra, one of several housemaids who remained at the Comptons’ Belgravia mansion while the rest of the household were at Chelstone. Though Sandra, Valerie, and Teresa were all nice girls, they weren’t quite sure about Maisie Dobbs, whom they knew had been one of them once upon a time but wasn’t anymore. So they were often uneasy about initiating conversation with her, though they were friendly enough.
Gathering up her notes, Maisie placed some outstanding correspondence in her document case, checked that her desk was secure, turned off the gaslights and left the office. Tomorrow was another working day, which, it was to be hoped, would reveal more about the death of Lydia Fisher and, perhaps, about the character, motives, and whereabouts of her client’s daughter. She made a mental note to prepare some additional questions for Joseph Waite about his daughter’s friends. She had not yet decided whether to ask him about his son.
The square was busy when she closed the outer door behind her. There were people wandering across to visit friends, art students from the Slade returning to their digs, and a few people going in and out of the corner grocery shop where Mrs. Clark and her daughter, Phoebe, would be running back and forth to find even the most obscure items that the eclectic mix of customers in Fitzroy Square requested, despite the fact that the country was in the midst of a depression.
Maisie had turned right into Warren Street, pulling on her gloves as she walked, when she stopped suddenly to look at two men who were standing across the road. They had just exited the Prince of Wales pub and stood for a moment under a streetlamp, then moved into the shadows away from the illumination. Maisie also stepped into the shadows to avoid being seen. They spoke for a few moments, each nervously casting glances up and down the street. One man, the stranger, pulled an envelope from a pocket inside his coat, while the other looked both ways, took the envelope, and placed something in the first man’s waiting hand. Maisie suspected that it was several pound notes rolled together, payment for the first item. She continued to watch as the men departed. The one she did not know walked back into the pub, while the fair hair of the other man caught the faint light of the streetlamps burning through an evening smog, as he limped unsteadily on his way toward the Euston Road.
Maisie was deeply troubled as she sat in her rooms at 15 Ebury Place that evening. When Sandra came to inquire whether she would like “a nice cup of cocoa,” Maisie declined the offer and continued to stare out of the window into the darkness. What was happening to Billy? One minute he seemed to be in the depths of a debilitating malaise, the next revitalized and energetic. He seemed to ricochet between forgetting the most basic rules of their work together—work that he had taken to so readily—and being so productive in his duties as to cause Maisie to consider an increase in wages at a time when most employers were rendering staff redundant. Billy’s war wounds were still troubling him, no matter how strong his protestations. And perhaps she had completely underestimated his ability to cope with memories as they were brought in on the tide of pain that seemed to ebb and flow in such a disturbing manner.
Silence encroached, seeping even into the very fabric of the rich linen furnishings. Maisie gathered her thoughts and sought to banish the sound of nothing at all by reviewing her notes on the Waite case once again. Lydia Fisher had been killed before she could ask her about Charlotte Waite. Had she been murdered to prevent Maisie from seeing her? But what about the Coulsden case? Had it really been the newspaper account of that murder that had caused Charlotte to bolt? Could the two murders be random and simply a coincidence that should have no bearing on Maisie’s assignment? Maisie pondered more questions, then finally put her work aside for the night. She felt a lack of composure in her body, a sure sign of the turmoil in her mind, which must be stilled if she was to enjoy a good night’s sleep and a fruitful morning.