“Oh, probably because I had known her so long ago, and I . . . I get upset.”
“Is there anything else, Charlotte? Any other reason?”
“No.”
Too quick. Too quick to answer.
“How did you first become acquainted with these two friends, Philippa and . . . ?”
“Rosamund.” Charlotte picked at a hangnail. “We knew each other ages ago, first at school, then during the war,” she replied, dismissively.
Her manner was not lost on Maisie, who pushed for a more concrete answer.
“What did you do during the war, together?”
“I can’t remember now. It was so long ago.”
Maisie watched as Charlotte Waite rubbed her hands together, in an effort to disguise their shaking.
“So, your father disliked two of your friends. And what did he think of Lydia Fisher.”
Charlotte jumped up from her chair. “How do you know Lydia? Oh, my God, you knew all the time, didn’t you?”
“Sit down, Miss Waite. Take a deep breath and be calm. I am not here to antagonize you or to harm you. I am simply searching for the truth.” Maisie turned briefly to the grille and saw Dame Constance raise an eyebrow. I’m on shaky ground, but she’ll let me press on. For now.
Charlotte took a seat once again.
“What’s Lydia got to do with this?”
“You won’t have seen the papers, Charlotte, but Lydia Fisher is dead.”
“Oh, no! No!” It seemed to be an outcry of genuine surprise.
“And her husband, Magnus, has been arrested for the murders of both Philippa and Lydia.”
“Magnus?”
“You seem surprised.”
Charlotte Waite’s throat muscles were taut. “But he hadn’t seen Rosamund since school!”
“Rosamund? I thought she took her own life?”
Charlotte hid her face in her hands. Dame Constance cleared her throat, but Maisie tried for one last answer.
“Charlotte!” The tone of Maisie’s voice made her look up. Tears were running down her face. “Charlotte, tell me—why was a white feather left close to each of the victims?”
Charlotte Waite broke down completely.
“Stop! This must stop now!” said Dame Constance, her voice raised. The door to the sitting room opened, and two novices helped Charlotte from the room.
Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply to steady her heartbeat.
“So, that is how you work, Maisie Dobbs?”
“When I have to. Yes, it is, Dame Constance.”
Dame Constance tapped the desk in front of her and thought for a moment. Then she surprised Maisie.
“She’ll get over this interlude,” she sighed. “And it is evident even to me that she is withholding information. That, however, is her prerogative.”
“But—”
“No buts, Maisie. Your questioning was not what I had expected.”
“Perhaps I could have been kinder.”
“Yes, perhaps you could.” Dame Constance was thoughtful. “However, you might have rendered me a service, not that it excuses your manner with Charlotte.” She sighed again and explained. “To rebuild a relationship means first confession, which is best spoken aloud to one who hears. There is a confession to be spoken here and you managed to lead her to the edge of the fire, though Charlotte is clearly afraid of the heat.”
“That’s one way of putting it, Dame Constance.” Maisie thought for a minute. “Look, I know I pushed rather hard, but three women have been murdered, and an innocent man has been arrested. And Charlotte. . . .”
“Holds the key.”
“Yes.”
“I will advise her to speak with you again, but not before she has recovered. Maisie, I must have your word that you will not conduct your next interview in such a hostile manner. I remain deeply disappointed in you.”
“Dame Constance, I would be most grateful if you would urge Miss Waite to speak to me again. I give my word that I will be more considerate of Miss Waite’s sensibility when we meet. But . . . time is of the essence.”
Dame Constance nodded, and when the sliding door behind the grille closed, Maisie stood to leave.
A postulant entered the room with Maisie’s dry mackintosh, hat, and gloves, which she donned before returning to the MG. As the engine stuttered into life, Maisie hit the steering wheel with her hand. “Damn!” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maisie was already at her desk when Billy arrived on Friday morning. Much work had to be completed on several cases, and two potential new clients who had come to the office during her absence had to be discussed.
“You’ve been working long hours, Billy.”
“Takes my mind off it.”
“Leg been bad this week?”
“Just nags away at me all the time now. And I’ve bin good, Miss. On the straight and narrow.”
Billy’s eyes seemed to be framed with circles as dark as her own. If only he would go to Chelstone soon.
“Have you given thought to my proposal?”
“Well, Doreen and me ’ave talked about it and all. Of course we’re worried about the money.”
“I’ve given you my assurance, Billy.”
“I know, I know, Miss. But, I feel sort of, oh, I dunno. . . .”
“Vulnerable?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Billy, that’s to be expected. I cannot tell you how much your help with my father means to me. Having someone I trust to be with him, and to assist with the horses—he’ll make himself ill worrying about them otherwise. And I know your leg bothers you, so one of the farmworkers will take on the really heavy work. Dad’s doing very well. He’ll be out of the wheelchair by the time he comes back to Chelstone, and we’ll set up a bed downstairs at the cottage. You won’t have to do any lifting.”
“Be like two old peg legs together, won’t we?”
“Oh, come on now, you’ll see—you’ll come back with all fires blazing. I’ve heard that Maurice’s friend, Gideon Brown, is an amazing man and has worked wonders with wounded and injured people. Plus you’ll be outdoors, in the fresh air. . . .”
“And well away from temptation, eh, Miss?”
Maisie sighed. “Yes, Billy. That’s another thing.”
Billy nodded. “Awright, then. Awright, I’ll go, but not until this business with Miss Waite and them women is closed. I can’t leave work ’alf done.”
“Right you are, Billy.” Maisie acquiesced. “And is there anything else?”
Billy looked at Maisie in earnest. “Can Doreen and the nippers come down?”
“Of course they can. It isn’t prison, you know. In fact, if she wants, I think Doreen could get work from Lady Rowan.”
“Oh, she’d like that.”
“Yes, apparently Lady Rowan has been so preoccupied with the mare and foal, that she is ‘behind’—as she puts it—with preparing for her return to London. She wants to have several gowns altered rather than buy new ones, so I told her about Doreen.”
“You should get a job down the labor exchange, Miss. You’d ’ave everyone in work and off them lines in next to no time.”
Maisie laughed. “Come on, let’s get cracking. I want to see where we are with everything that’s happened while I’ve been away. We should leave here by ten. And we’ll continue this afternoon as soon as we’re back. Also, I’ll need to speak to Detective Inspector Stratton later today.”
“T’ see whether Fisher has spilled the beans?”
“Yes, in a way. Though I think the only beans Fisher has to spill concern his wife’s drinking and his gambling debts. But the newspapers are having a field day with him.”
“All over him like a rash, Miss. Feel a bit sorry for him, I do.”
“You should. I would bet my business on his innocence.”
Quite deliberately, Maisie had not discussed her latest news on the Waite case in detail with Billy. Though she wanted to work on the case map as an artist would an unfinished canvas, she also knew the value of letting facts, thoughts, observations and feelings simmer. In the hours of driving that followed her meeting with Charlotte Waite, Maisie had concluded that the only person who was at risk now was Charlotte. A plan had begun to form in Maisie’s mind. Execution of that plan would depend upon Charlotte.