Maisie leaned toward Sedgewick, just close enough for him to feel warmer and, subconsciously, more at ease.
“Can you tell me if your wife was troubled about anything else? Had there been any discord between her and any other person?”
“Pippin was not one to gush all over other people, or rush over to natter with the neighbors. But she was kind and thoughtful, knew if someone needed help and always passed the time of day if she saw someone she knew on the street. But . . . did you say ‘ever,’ Miss Dobbs?”
“I know that might be a tall assignment, John.”
“You know, I think she only ever walked out with one man before we met. She was shy with men. It was during the war, and she was quite young really, only seventeen or so, if that. If I remember correctly, she’d met him when she was in Switzerland. He was one of several young men paying attention to Pippin and her group, in fact, he courted all of them at some point. He ended up marrying one of her friends, who, I think, had nothing but trouble with him. Bit of a ladies’ man, he was.” Suddenly Sedgewick frowned, “You know, funny that should come to mind, because he was back in touch with her, I don’t know, must have been toward the end of last year. I’d all but forgotten about it.”
“Who was the man, and why had he made contact again? Do you know?”
“I have a terrible memory for names, but his was quite unusual. Not like your average ‘John,’ you know!” Sedgewick smiled faintly. “Apparently his wife, who, as I said, was an old friend of Pippin’s, was drinking heavily. He tracked down Pippin and telephoned to see if she could help at all, speak to the wife, try to get her on the straight and narrow. But they hadn’t been in touch for years and I don’t think Pippin wanted anything to do with it. She said no, and that was that. At least as far as I know. She told me that her friend probably drank to forget. Didn’t think much about it at the time. She said, ‘Everyone’s got something to help them forget things, haven’t they? She’s got the bottle, I’ve got my garden.’ Sounds a bit harsh, but I wouldn’t have wanted her to get involved with a woman like that.”
Maisie did not want to influence Sedgewick with her suspicions. “And you are sure you can’t recall his name? What letter did it begin with?”
“Oh dear, Miss Dobbs . . . it was, um . . .” Sedgewick rubbed his brow. “Um . . . I think it was M—yes, that’s it. Muh, mih, mah . . . mah . . . yes, mah . . . mag . . . Magnus! Yes, Magnus Fisher. Now I remember.”
“And his wife’s name was Lydia?”
“Yes, yes! Miss Dobbs, I do believe you knew all the time!”
“John, have you read the newspapers recently?”
“No, I can’t stand it! They always point the finger, and while Pippin is still somewhere on the front page, the finger is pointed at me.”
Maisie delved further. “The police haven’t returned since last week?”
“No. Of course they come to the house to check that I’m still here, and I’m not supposed to leave the area, pending the closure of inquiries, or whatever the official line is.”
Maisie was surprised that Stratton had not revisited Sedgewick since Lydia Fisher’s body was discovered. “John, Lydia Fisher was found dead—murdered—last week. A subsequent post-mortem examination suggested that there were similarities between your wife’s murder and Mrs. Fisher’s. I suspect the police have not spoken to you yet, pending further investigation. The press was rather too forthcoming with details of your wife’s murder and as there are those who will copy infamy, the police might not want to draw attention to similarities at this very early stage. I have no doubt, though, that the police—and the press—will be on your doorstep again soon.”
Sedgewick clutched his shoulders, rocking himself back and forth, then stood up, and began to pace. “They’ll think it was me, they’ll think it was me. . . .”
“Calm down, John, calm down. They will not think it’s you. I suspect that their conclusions will be quite the opposite.”
“Oh, that poor woman, that poor woman . . . and my poor Pippin.” John Sedgewick began to weep as he sat heavily in the armchair, and Maisie knelt so that he could lean upon her shoulder. All formalities of polite interaction between a woman and a man she did not know fell away as Maisie allowed her strength of spirit to seep into Sedgewick. Once again he fought for composure.
“I don’t understand; what does this mean?”
“I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. Can you face more questions, John?”
John Sedgewick took an already soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. “Yes.Yes, I’ll try, Miss Dobbs. And I am so sorry. . . .”
Maisie took her seat and raised her hand. “Don’t apologize. Grief should be aired, not buried. Do you know if your wife was also acquainted with a woman called Charlotte Waite?”
Sedgewick looked up at Maisie. “The Waite girl? Why, yes she was. Again, it was a long time ago, long before we met. I say, what is all this about, Miss Dobbs?”
“I’m not sure, John, I am simply picking up loose threads.”
“Charlotte and Lydia were part of the same—coterie, I think you’d call them. You know, a group of young girls who spend time together on Saturdays, have tea together, and then spend their allowances on trifles, that sort of thing.”
Maisie nodded, though as a young girl there had been no coterie for her, no trifles, only more errands to run and her chores below stairs to perform as efficiently and quickly as possible, leaving her more time to study.
“But they grew apart, you know, as people do. Charlotte was very wealthy, as was Lydia. Pippin was part of a certain social circle that, frankly, she did not choose to belong to as they matured. I think they all had a falling out, but as I said, this was long before Pippin and I began courting.”
“Was a woman called Rosamund part of the group?”
Sedgewick sighed, and pressed his hands to his eyes. “The name rings a bell. I might have heard the name ‘Rosie’—I don’t think I heard ‘Rosamund’; . . . no . . . not ‘Rosamund.’”
Maisie prepared to ask her next question, when he spoke first. “You know, I have just remembered something odd. Mind you, I don’t know if it’s of any use to you.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it’s about the Waite girl; her father, really. It must have been before we were married.” Sedgewick scratched his head, “I’m as bad with time as I am with names. Yes, it was before we were married, because I remember being in Pippin’s mother’s parlor. Now it’s coming back to me. I arrived at the house on my bicycle just as a rather large motor car was leaving. Too fast if you ask me, I remember the gravel spitting up and hitting me in the face. Anyway, the housekeeper let me in, said that Pippin was in the parlor. As I walked in she was there, drying her eyes: She’d been crying. I pleaded with her to tell me what was the matter, but she would only say that she had had some sort of crossed words with Mr. Waite, Charlotte’s father. I threatened to go after him, but she wouldn’t allow it and said that if I did, then she would never see me again. That it would never happen again, or something like that.”
“And she never revealed the cause of the discord?”
“Never. I suspected it might have to do with Charlotte. I thought perhaps that Pippin had told a lie on her behalf—you know, saying that Charlotte was with her, when she was really somewhere else. Apparently Charlotte was quite rebellious as a young girl. See, my memory’s warming up now!”
“Did your wife ever see Joseph Waite again? Or hear from him?”
“No, I don’t think she did. She never mentioned it. After we were married, we settled into a very ordinary life, especially here on Bluebell Avenue.”
Sedgewick looked drawn, almost overcome with fatigue.
“I will leave you in peace soon, John. But first, I understand that your housekeeper found Mrs. Sedgewick?”