“Ugh.” Billy shuddered.
“They can’t hurt you. The women who gave them out in the war are the ones who did the harm.”
Billy watched as Maisie placed the feathers on the case map, using a smudge of paste to secure each one to the paper.
“Do you know who the killer is, Miss?”
“No, Billy, I don’t”
Billy looked sideways at Maisie and refleced for a moment. “But you’ve got an idea. I can see it there.”
“Yes, yes, I have, Billy. I do have an idea. But it’s just an idea. Right now we’ve got our work cut out for us. We must find Charlotte Waite. Here’s what I want you to do—”
Billy flipped open his notebook ready to list his instructions as Maisie closed her eyes and ran though a catalog of possibilities: “An animal will make for its lair if in fear or wounded. Mind you, Charlotte may have no reason to fear, she may just want to get away, to escape from being Joseph Waite’s daughter. We have to consider that she may have fled to Europe, after all, she’s familiar with Lucerne and Paris. See if you can check the passenger list for the boat-train. Charlotte might have traveled from Appledore station on the branch line to Ashford, or she may have come to London first. There are one hundred ways she could have traveled. Check with Croydon Aerodrome and Imperial Airways—oh, and there’s an aerodrome in Kent, at Lympne. Check as many hotels in London as you can—but don’t start with the big ones. Contact the hotels that are neither too posh nor too shabby. Telephone Gerald Bartrup. No, visit Bartrup. I want you to look at him when you ask him if he’s seen Charlotte in the past twenty-four hours. Pay attention, Billy, with your body as well as your eyes. You’ll know if he’s lying.”
The list was long and Billy would be hard at work until late. Maisie wondered if Charlotte had funds that were known only to her, squirreled away into a private account. Where had she gone? Where was she now?
Though their conversation was sometimes strained, Maisie looked forward to her meeting with Detective Inspector Stratton. She knew that he admired her and was taking tentative steps to further their acquaintance. But how prudent would it be to agree to such an outing? Would her work and her reputation be put at risk by a closer friendship?
Stratton stood outside the cafeteria where Maisie joined him after walking down Tottenham Court Road from Fitzroy Square. He lifted his hat and opened the door for Maisie.
“There’s a seat over there. This place is definitely more caff than café, but it’s quick. Tea, toast, and jam?”
“Lovely, Inspector Stratton.” It was at that point, that Maisie realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Maisie sat on a bench by a wall decorated with floral wallpaper that was now quite faded and stained in places. She unbuttoned her jacket and looked out of the window while she waited for Stratton, who was at the counter placing cups of tea and a plate of toast and jam on a tray. She craned her neck to watch customers going in and out of Joseph Waite’s double-fronted grocery shop across the road. And they say there’s no money about!
“Here we are.” Stratton set the tray down on the table, pulled out the chair opposite Maisie, and sat down. “You could stand a spoon up in that tea. They make it strong here.”
“Stewed tea, fresh from the urn—nothing like it, Inspector. It’s what kept us going over in France.”
“Yes, and there’s been many a time when a flask of that stuff has sustained me when I’ve had to work all night, I can tell you. Let’s get down to business. I didn’t come here to discuss the tea. What have you come across, Miss Dobbs? I know you did some snooping around when you found Lydia Fisher’s body.”
“Lydia was a friend of Charlotte Waite. I had been asked by Joseph Waite to locate his daughter, who had left her father’s home temporarily. He is my client.” Maisie reached for a triangular wedge of toast. She was ravenous and quickly took a bite, then dabbed at the sides of her mouth with a handkerchief. This was not the kind of establishment where table napkins were supplied.
Stratton raised an eyebrow. “Not much to get your teeth into, a missing debutante, if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss. Dobbs.” Stratton reached for a slice of toast.
“But enough to pay for my own office, an assistant, and a nippy little motor car, Inspector,” replied Maisie, her eyes flashing.
Stratton smiled. “I deserved that one, didn’t I?”
Maisie inclined her head.
“So, let’s get down to brass tacks. What have you got to tell me?”
“Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick were friends.”
“I know that!”
“As was Rosamund Thorpe, of Hastings.”
“Who is?”
“Dead. She is thought to have committed suicide some weeks before Mrs. Sedgewick was murdered.”
“And this has . . . what to do with your investigation or our murder inquiry?”
“They were all friends once, the three dead women and Charlotte Waite. A coterie, if you like.”
“So?”
Maisie appraised Stratton before speaking again. He’s being deliberately obtuse.
“Detective Inspector Stratton, people who knew Rosamund Thorpe cannot believe she took her own life. Also, the four former friends seemed to have made a point of avoiding one another. I think they were kept apart by shame. During the war, I believe they distributed white feathers to men who were not in uniform.”
“Oh, those terrible women!”
“And . . .” Maisie halted. Shall I tell him about the feathers I found? Will I be mocked? “And . . . I believe that Magnus Fisher did not kill his wife or Philippa Sedgewick. The person you seek is someone—”
“We have our man!”
“Inspector, why are you so . . . so . . . quick to send Fisher down?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“The public wants a murderer behind bars, and you—you and Caldwell—have decided to give them one.”
Stratton sighed. “And we are right. It’s an open-and-shut case.”
Maisie clenched her fists in frustration. “And you can’t stand a man who abandoned his wife, and whom you believe deprived a loving husband of his.”
“Look here, Miss Dobbs, leave this sort of work to the professionals. I know you’ve had some luck in the past. You’ve helped us before when you worked for a man of some stature, but . . . do not interfere!” Stratton stood up. “I hope we can meet again under less strained circumstances.”
As much as she wanted to have a last word, Maisie knew that she must not allow them to part with rancor. “Yes, indeed, Inspector. I am sorry if I have offended you. However, do expect to hear from me again soon.”
Stratton left the cafeteria, as Maisie took her seat once again. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have lost control. I could see by the way he moved, the way he sat and the manner in which he spoke, that he was obdurate. I’ve told the police as much as they would hear. Should I have mentioned the feathers? No, he would have laughed.
Maisie gathered her belongings and followed Stratton out.
She was ready to turn the corner into Tottenham Court Road, when she stopped to look back at the blue and gold-fronted Waite’s International Stores. She changed direction and walked instead toward the entrance of Joseph Waite’s most prominently situated grocery store.
Once again, when Maisie entered the hubbub of the shop, she watched as assistants reached forward to point to a cheese and nod, or hold up a cut of meat for inspection. Dried fruits were weighed, biscuits counted, and all the time money passed back and forth and shop assistants constantly washed their hands. Maisie stood in the center of the floor, near the round table with a display of the latest foods imported from overseas. Yes, there was money about, despite long lines at soup kitchens in other parts of London.