Maisie watched the busyness of business in Joseph Waite’s domain. Why have I come back? There is something here for me. What is it? What did I not see last time? She looked up at the walls, at the intricate mosaics that must have cost a fortune. Then down at the polished wood floor and across at the boy whose job it was to walk back and forth with a broom, ensuring that Waite’s customers never noticed so much as a crumb underfoot.
No one paid attention to the young, well-dressed woman who stood without a shopping bag, making no move toward a counter, and displaying no intention to purchase. Both shop assistants and customers were too preoccupied with their tasks and errands to see her close her eyes and place her hand where she could feel the beating of her heart. Just for a second, just for fleeting moment, Maisie gave herself over to her inner guidance in this most public place. Then, as if responding to a command that only she could hear, she opened her eyes and looked up at the place above the door, at the tiled memorial to the employees of Waite’s International Stores. She allowed her eyes to rest on the tile dedicated to Waite’s son, Joseph, beloved heir of a self-made man. A man known to be as hard as rock but at times also a man of compassion. A man of extremes. Don’t stop, said a voice in her head. And Maisie obeyed. She read each name, starting from the beginning: Avery . . . Denman . . . Farnwell . . . Marchant . . . Nicholls . . . Peters . . . so many, oh, so many . . . Richards, Roberts . . . Simms, Simpson . . . Timmins . . . Unsworth . . . every letter in the alphabet was represented as she silently mouthed the names, like a teacher reviewing the class register. Then Maisie stopped reading. Ah. She closed her eyes. Ah. Yes. Of course.
Opening her eyes again, Maisie looked at each food counter until she saw one of the older members of staff. “Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me?”
“Yes, Madam, Of course. The sausages are fresh made this morning, by our very own butchers. Personally trained by Mr. Waite, they are. These are the best sausages in London.”
“Oh, lovely, I’m sure. But could you tell me where I can find someone who worked for Waite’s during the war? Someone who might have known the boys up there?” Maisie pointed to the memorial.
“But, Miss, there’s names up there from all over. Mind you, old Mr. Jempson in the warehouse knew just about all of the London boys. Joined up together you know, as pals. Most of the boys who enlisted came from the warehouse; it’s where the apprentices start, and where the butchering is done before the carcasses go out to the shops. Waite’s delivers to its own shops with special ice-packed lorries, you know.”
“Could you tell me where the warehouse is?”
“Across the water. In Rotherhithe, the ‘Larder of London,’ where all the warehouses are. Let me get a piece of paper and write down the directions for you. It’s easy to find, close to St. Saviour’s Docks, Madam. Relative, are you?”
“A friend.”
“I see. Mr. Waite’s own son was down at the warehouse, before he went over there. Started him at the bottom, did Mr. Waite. Said he had to work his way up like anyone else.” The assistant left the counter and returned with a folded piece of paper, which she handed to Maisie. “There you are, Madam. Now then, what about some sausages for your supper?”
Maisie was about to decline, then thought otherwise. Smiling at the assistant, she gave her order. “Lovely. A pound, please.”
“Right you are.” And with a flourish copied directly from Joseph Waite, the assistant swept up a string of bulbous pork sausages, and laid them on the scale. The Beale family would eat well tonight.
“Stratton any easier to talk to this afternoon, Miss?”
“I wish I could say yes, Billy. It started out well enough, then became rather difficult.”
“Funny, that. ’e always seemed such a reasonable bloke.”
Maisie took off her mackintosh, hat, and gloves, and laid her document case and a brown carrier bag on her desk. “It’ll settle down and we’ll all be talking again after this case is closed, Billy. Men in Stratton’s position can’t close too many doors, especially those leading to people they’ve consulted with in the past. No, there are two struggles going on there: One in the department and one inside Stratton. As long as we are seen to be doing our part, I’m not going to worry.” Maisie looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time, Billy! It’s almost half past four. Let’s just go over some details on the Waite case and make plans for Monday. I’m driving down to Chelstone tomorrow morning first thing, and I must also visit my fath—”
Maisie was interrupted by the telephone.
“Fitzroy five —Miss Waite. Where are you. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” The line crackled.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite you may be in danger. Tell me where you are.”
Silence.
“Miss Waite? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“Well, can you speak up a bit, please? This is a terrible line.”
“I’m in a telephone kiosk.” Charlotte’s voice was slightly louder.
“Why have you called me, Miss Waite?”
“I . . . I . . . need to speak to you.”
“About what?” Maisie held her breath as she pushed Charlotte just a little.
“There’s more to tell you. I didn’t tell you . . . everything.”
“Can you tell me now?”
Silence.
“Miss Waite?”
“I have to speak to you privately, in person.”
“Where are you? I’ll come right away.”
Maisie thought she heard Charlotte crying; then there was silence but for the crackling telephone line.
“Miss Waite? Are we still connected?”
“Oh, it’s no use. It’s no use—”
There was a click and the line was dead. Maisie replaced the receiver.
“Damn!”
Billy’s eyes widened. “What was all that about, eh, Miss?”
“Charlotte Waite. She said she wanted to talk to me, then hung up the receiver saying it was ‘no use.’”
“Lost ’er bottle, did she?”
“She certainly did. It was a bad line. She could have been anywhere. Mind you, there was noise in the background.” Maisie closed her eyes as if to hear the entire call again. “What was that sound?”
“D’you still want me to do all this?” Billy held up the list.
“Yes. She could have been in Paris for all I know. Or outside an hotel on the Edgeware Road. But at least we know she’s still alive. It’s getting late, but you can make a start, and then get on with it again tomorrow morning.”
“Right you are, Miss.”
“I’ll need to speak to Lady Rowan at Chelstone before I see my father, then I’ll come back to London to continue the search for Charlotte Waite.”
“How can ’er Ladyship help?”
Maisie turned to Billy. “She was involved in the suffrage movement before the war, and knows a lot about what different women’s associations did. I could use more color on the page.”
“I know, Miss.”
Maisie looked up at Billy, walked over to her desk, and sighed. “Billy, give it another half an hour or so and then get on your way. It’s been a long day—in fact, it’s been a long week, and you’ll have to put in quite a few hours tomorrow.”
“Aw, thanks, Miss. I want to see the nippers before they go to bed.”
“Oh, and Billy—here’s something for you.” Maisie held out the brown paper carrier bag.
“What’s all this, Miss?”
“A pound of Waite’s sausages. Best in London, they say.”
Shortly after Billy began his evening journey back to Whitechapel, Maisie climbed into the MG, started the engine, and pulled out of Fitzroy Square. A telephone call had confirmed that Waite’s warehouse in Rotherhithe remained open until late in the evening, while lorries bound for the shops were packed with the next day’s deliveries. Mr. Jempson, the warehouse manager, was available and had kindly agreed to see Maisie as soon as she arrived.