“Oh, just what I wanted to hear!”
“Nah, Miss, nothing to worry about. Old wives’ tale, it is. Me, well, I can’t stand birds. Hate the bloomin’ things, ever since the war.”
The telephone began to ring, and Billy walked over to Maisie’s desk. “Billy—why since the—” Maisie stopped speaking as Billy picked up the receiver.
“Fitzroy f—” Billy was interrupted while trying to give the telephone number. “Yes, sir. Oh, that is good news, sir. Yes, I’ll put her on.” Billy cupped his hand over the receiver.
“Who is it, Billy?”
“It’s that Detective Inspector Stratton. All pleased with ’imself. They’ve just arrested the fella who murdered them women.”
Maisie took the receiver, greeted Stratton, and listened carefully, punctuating his news with “Really?” and “I see” along with “Very good!” and “But—” before endeavoring to deliver her final comment.
“Well, Inspector, I must offer congratulations, however, I do feel—”
There was an interruption, during which Maisie ran her fingers through tendrils of black hair that had once again escaped the pins securing her tresses in an otherwise neat chignon. Billy leaned over the case map while listening to Maisie’s half of the conversation.
“That would be lovely, Inspector. Tomorrow? Yes. All right. Schmidt’s at noon. Of course. Yes. I look forward to it.”
Maisie replaced the receiver and returned to the table near the window. She took up a pencil, which she tapped on the paper.
“So, good news, eh, Miss?”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
Maisie turned to Billy. “Nothing wrong, really.”
“Phew. I bet a few women will answer their doors a little easier for that news, don’t you?”
“Perhaps, Billy.”
“Well, who is it? Anyone we know?”
“They have just arrested Magnus Fisher at his hotel. I only left him just over an hour ago. Stratton could not disclose details of the evidence. And by the way, Billy, keep quiet about this, as news hasn’t reached the press yet. Stratton said that there was a witness to Fisher entering the Cheyne Mews house on the evening of his wife’s death, and that he’d been having an affair with Philippa Sedgewick.” Maisie clasped her hands and rested her lips against her knuckles.
“Whew, would you believe it?” Billy noticed Maisie’s furrowed brow. “It sounded like you ’ad a few crossed words with ol’ Stratton.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘crossed,’ Billy, but I did try to caution him.”
“Caution ’im? Why?”
Maisie looked at Billy, her midnight blue eyes piercing through his puzzlement.
“Because, Billy, in my opinion Detective Inspector Stratton has arrested a man who is innocent of the crime of murder.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Maisie made her way along Charlotte Street toward Schmidt’s.
The day was once again changeable and brisk, so she wore her mackintosh over the new black dress. She had changed three times before leaving the house this morning, considering not only lunch with Detective Inspector Stratton but the meeting that afternoon with Joseph Waite. As she dressed she was aware of feeling in her stomach and legs that she attributed to anxiety. Though she looked forward to seeing Stratton, she was disappointed at the peremptory way in which he had brought the case of the murdered women to a close. She felt that a grave error had been made. Was this the source of the physical sensations that seemed to render her temporarily dizzy on two occasions before she left the house?
Now, as she walked along the gray flagstones, heat seemed to rise up through her body. She felt faint. She quickly turned into a side street and leaned against a brick wall for support. As she breathed deeply, her eyes closed, Maisie hoped that no one attempted to inquire after her health, or to assist her. I feel as if my foundations have been rocked, thought Maisie. She opened her eyes and gasped, for it seemed that her surroundings had changed, although they remained the same. As she tried to focus her gaze, it was as if she were looking at a picture that had been hung incorrectly, a picture that she could not quite set straight. Up a bit . . . no, down a bit . . . to the left . . . too much, just a hair right . . . And as she continued to look, the picture changed, and now she saw the Groom’s Cottage at Chelstone. Then it vanished.
Regaining her composure, Maisie stood away from the wall, keeping one hand outstretched, touching the bricks. As confidence in her stability returned, she walked slowly into Charlotte Street. Maisie brushed off the interlude, telling herself that it served her right for skipping breakfast. Frankie Dobbs would have had something to say about that! “Breakfast, my girl, is the most important meal of the day. You know what they say, Maisie: ‘Breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord, and dinner like a pauper.’ Key to bein’ as fit as a fiddle, is that.” But as she saw Stratton in the distance, waiting for her outside Schmidt’s, Maisie decided to telephone Chelstone after luncheon. Perhaps the foal had been born by now. Perhaps. . . .
Maisie poked a fork into the rich German sausage, which was served with cabbage and potatoes.
“Miss Dobbs, I’m glad to be away from the Yard this afternoon, if only for an hour,” said Stratton. “Since news of the arrest was published in the newspapers, we’ve been deluged. Of course, I give Caldwell credit for inserting the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle.”
Maisie continued to clutch her knife and fork, but she could not eat. “Inspector Stratton, I think you—and Sergeant Caldwell—are mistaken.”
Stratton leaned back in his chair. “Miss Dobbs, I know that you have certain skills in this field.”
“Thank you, Inspector. It’s just that”—Maisie set down her cutlery onto her plate—“I think there has been a rush to judgment.”
Stratton straightened his tie. “Look, if you’ve evidence that I am not aware of . . . ?”
Maisie considered the white linen handkerchief and asked herself whether the delicate items held within could be termed “evidence.” But evidence of what? She had made an assessment of Fisher’s character based on a single interview, of Philippa Sedgewick’s on the word of her husband. The police case against Fisher was based on concrete fact.
“No, Inspector. I have nothing tangible.”
Stratton sighed. “I respect your work, Miss. Dobbs. But we are all wrong at times, and this time the evidence points to Fisher. Even if he were not having an affair with the Sedgewick woman, and his communication with her was regarding his wife as he claims, he had been seen with her on several occasions. We believe that the Sedgewick woman knew he was after his wife’s money so she represented a risk to him. And we know, Miss Dobbs, that the mind of the killer may not be rooted in reality. They think they can get away with it. In Fisher’s case he knew what he wanted—ultimately the money— and he thought he could take it once his wife was dead, and then leave the country.”
“But the method—”
Stratton raised his right hand before taking up his knife again.
“Fisher has no shortage of tools, in view of his work, which seems to be something between archaeologist, raconteur and inveterate gambler. He was always in debt to someone somewhere, and Mrs. Fisher was an heiress. He stood to inherit the lot at her death.”
“Has Spilsbury positively identified the weapon?”
Stratton cut into the thick sausage on his plate and speared a piece on his fork, along with some red cabbage.
“Yes. The bayonet from a short-barrel Lee Enfield rifle. Standard issue in the war. And—surprise, surprise—something that Fisher kept among the tools I just mentioned. Bit of a cheek, considering he was nowhere near the battlefield. Of course his story is that he has several items that are not usually employed by archaeologists, but he uses them for the ooh-ahh effect from the audience of fearless travelers that accompany him. According to Fisher, poking around a pile of old bones in the sand with the tip of a bayonet keeps the intrepid followers happy and gives them something to talk about at the dinner table when they get back to Britain. The evidence against him is strong. I’m sure we will have a confession soon.”