“I want to speak to Magnus Fisher,” said Maisie. “The police are sniffing around, looking into his past, who he’s been seen with, and when. I believe he’s a suspect in the murder of his wife, Lydia, so if I am to see him, then it must be soon.”
“Won’t D. I. Stratton wonder what you’re up to? I mean, ’e’s bound to find out that you’ve spoken to Fisher.”
“That’s true, but he also knows that I have been working on a missing-person case, and that Lydia Fisher may have had relevant information.” Maisie was thoughtful. “Yes, I’ll telephone Fisher now. Billy, what’s the number at the Cheyne Mews house?”
Billy passed his notebook to Maisie, who placed the call.
The maid answered the telephone. “The Fisher residence.”
Maisie smiled upon identifying the young maid’s voice. “Oh good morning. It’s Miss Dobbs here. How are you now?”
The maid warmed. “Oh, M’um. Thank you very much for asking, I’m sure. I’m getting over it all, though there’ve been a lot of people coming and going.”
“I’m sure there have. Now then, may I speak with Mr. Magnus Fisher, please?”
“I’m afraid he is not in residence, M’um. I could take a message.”
“Do you know where he is? I haven’t had a chance to convey my condolences yet.”
“Oh, yes, of course, M’um. Mr. Fisher is at the Savoy.”
“The Savoy? Thank you.”
“My, My, that was a little too easy,” Maisie remarked to Billy as she replaced the receiver. “He’s at the The Savoy Hotel, if you please.”
“Well, ’e’s not wastin’ any time, is ’e?”
“It’s a strange choice if he wants a measure of privacy, but on the other hand, the staff at the Savoy can keep the press at bay, which they’ll need to do if the maid keeps giving out his whereabouts.”
Maisie picked up the receiver again and placed a call to the hotel. She was surprised when she was connected.
“Magnus Fisher.”
“Oh, Mr. Fisher, I am surprised you were located so promptly.”
“I was at the desk. Who is this?”
“My name is Maisie Dobbs. First of all, please accept my condolences for your loss.”
“What’s this about?”
“Mr. Fisher, I am an investigator. I can say little until we meet in person. However, I am currently working on a case that may involve your late wife. I wonder if you might be able to meet with me this morning?”
“Are you working with the police?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ve piqued my curiosity. However, the police are keeping me very much in their sights. I’m currently unable to travel outside London. Where and when do you want to meet?”
“Let’s say”—Maisie consulted her watch—“in about an hour. Meet me on the Embankment, by Cleopatra’s Needle. I’ll be wearing a navy blue coat and a blue hat. Oh, and I wear spectacles, Mr. Fisher.”
“See you in an hour, Miss Dobbs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fisher.”
“Putting on the fake specs again, Miss?”
Maisie reached into the top drawer of her desk and brought out a pewter case, which she opened, and then placed a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles on her nose.
“Yes, Billy. I’ve always found this one small change in appearance to be a useful tool. If a policeman follows Fisher and then makes a note of my description, he will most definitely remember the spectacles. And Stratton knows I do not require help with vision.”
“You sure Fisher is safe? I mean, look ’ow the weather’s turned again, and if it’s miserable, there won’t be many people walking along by the water. That man could push you in, and no one would be any the wiser. After all, ’e could be—”
“The killer? Don’t worry, Billy. You just continue working on the case map. Here are my index cards from this past two days.” Maisie reached for her coat. “I’ll take the underground—should be back by twelve.”
“Right you are, Miss.”
Maisie walked toward Warren Street station, thinking that the time alone in the office, and the task of adding more depth of information to the case map, would allow Billy to compose himself, now that his secret was out in the open. Though he might feel apprehensive, he was also free from the burden of guilt that had dragged at his spirit.
Maisie waved briefly to Jack Barker, the newspaper vendor, before going down to the trains. She traveled on the Northern Line to Charing Cross Embankment. The air was damp and cold as she exited the station and walked down toward the Thames. A drizzle that was not quite rain, yet more than a mist, dulled the day, forcing some passers-by to use umbrellas. Maisie pulled up her collar, quickly rubbed a handkerchief across the spectacles and turned left to walk along the Embankment toward Cleopatra’s Needle. The flagstones beneath her feet were wet and slippery and the Thames was a dirty gray. The river air smelled of smoke and rotting tidal debris.
She reached the meeting place and consulted her watch. It was ten o’clock, exactly forty-five minutes since she had ended her telephone conversation with Fisher.
“Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie swung around. The man before her was about five feet eleven inches tall, broad shouldered and heavyset, though he did not appear to carry excess weight. He wore black trousers, a tan mackintosh and a brown hat with a beige band. She could see that under the mackintosh he wore a shirt and woolen pullover, but no tie. His face was partially obscured by an umbrella.
“Yes. Mr. Fisher?”
Magnus Fisher moved the umbrella slightly to one side. He nodded.
“So where do you suggest we talk? Hardly a day for sitting on a bench on the Embankment and watching a dirty old river go by, is it?”
“Let’s walk toward the Temple underground station, Mr. Fisher. We can speak as we go. Were you followed?”
Magnus Fisher looked around. They were quite alone.
“No. I slipped out of the staff entrance and then came down Villiers Street. The police know where I am and that I always come back. It’s been like a game of cat and mouse, only we tip hats to each other.” He turned to Maisie. “What’s this all about?”
Maisie set a pace that was businesslike and deliberate. “I am investigating the case of a missing woman on behalf of her family. I believe she was a friend of your wife.”
“And how can I help you? I spend most of my time out of the country, so I am not well acquainted with my wife’s associates.”
“May I assume we can speak in confidence, Mr. Fisher?”
The man shrugged. “Of course. At least this chat of ours will take my mind off whatever the police are cooking up for me.”
“Were you acquainted with Charlotte Waite?”
Fisher began to laugh. “Oh, the Waite woman. Yes, I knew Charlotte years ago, and yes, she and Lydia kept in touch.”
“Where and when did you meet?”
“Just before the war broke out I was in Switzerland, mountaineering with some chums. Lydia and Charlotte, being the daughters of poor boys made good, were at a second-tier finishing school there. We met at one of those yodel-odel-odel matinee social events.”
“So you knew Lydia, Charlotte, and their other friends as well?”
“Yes. There were four of them in their little group. Lydia, Charlotte, Philippa, and wispy little Rosamund. I expect you know that Philippa is also dead. That’s why they think it’s me. Because I met with Philippa on a couple of occasions when I was back in the country.”
“I see.” Maisie would return to Philippa Sedgewick later. First she wanted to learn how well Fisher had known each woman. “Did you see the girls in this group often in those days, Mr. Fisher?”
Fisher held the umbrella between them, but put out his hand to feel the air.