Birds of a Feather Page 2

  “Bit like you, Miss?”

  Maisie did not reply but simply smiled. It had been her remarkable intuitive powers, along with a sharp intellect, that had led Maurice Blanche to accept her as his pupil and later as his assistant in the work he described as the forensic science of the whole person.

  Billy continued. “Well, apparently old Dr. Blanche tapped Waite for five ’undred quid.”

  “Look again, and you’ll probably find that the five hundred was the first of several contributions.” Maisie used the back of her hand to wipe away condensation accumulating inside the windshield.

  “Oh ’ere’s another thing,” said Billy, suddenly leaning back with his eyes closed.

  “What is it?” Maisie looked at her passenger, whose complexion was now rather green.

  “I don’t know if I should read in the motor, Miss. Makes me go all queasy.”

  Maisie pulled over to the side of the road and instructed Billy to open the passenger door, put his feet on the ground and his head between his knees. She took the cards and then summed up the notes on Joseph Waite. “Wealthy, self-made man. Started off as a butcher’s apprentice in Yorkshire—Harrogate—at age twelve. Quickly demonstrated a business mind. By the time he was twenty he’d bought his first shop. Cultivated the business, then outgrew it inside two years. Started selling fruit and veg as well, dried goods and fancy foods, all high quality and good prices. Opened another shop, then another. Now has several Waite’s International Stores in every city, and smaller Waite’s Fancy Foods in regional towns. What they all have in common is first-class service, deliveries, good prices, and quality foods. Plus he pays a surprise visit to at least one store each day. He can turn up at any time.”

  “I bet they love that, them as works for ’im.”

  “Hmmm, you have a point. Miss Arthur sounded like a rabbit on the run when we spoke on the telephone this morning.” Maisie flicked over the card she was holding. “Now this is interesting. . . .” she continued. “He called upon Maurice—yes, I remember this—to consult with him about ten years ago. Oh heavens. . . .”

  “What is it? What does it say?” asked Billy, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

  “This is not like Maurice. It says only, ‘I could not comply with his request. Discontinued communication.’”

  “Charmin’. So where does that put us today?”

  “Well, he must still have a high opinion of Maurice to be asking for my help.” Maisie looked at Billy to check his pallor. “Oh dear. Your nose is bleeding! Quickly, lean back and press down on the bridge of your nose with this handkerchief.” Maisie pulled a clean embroidered handkerchief from her pocket, and placed it on Billy’s nose.

  “Oh my Gawd, I’m sorry. First I ’ave to lean forward, then back. I dunno . . . I’m getting right in the way today, aren’t I?”

  “Nonsense, you’re a great help to me. How’s that nose?”

  Billy looked down into the handkerchief, and dabbed at his nose. “I think it’s better.”

  “Now then, we’d better get going.”

  Maisie parked outside the main gates leading to a red-brick neo-Georgian mansion that stood majestically in the landscaped grounds beyond an ornate wrought iron gate.

  “D’you reckon someone’ll come to open the gate?” asked Billy.

  “Someone’s coming now.” Maisie pointed to a young man wearing plus fours, a tweed hacking jacket, woolen shirt and spruce green tie. He hurriedly opened an umbrella as he ran toward the entrance, and nodded to Maisie as he unlatched the gates and opened them. Maisie drove the car forward, stopping alongside the man.

  “You must be Miss Dobbs, to see Mr. Waite at three o’clock.”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “And your companion is . . . ?” The man bent forward to look at Billy in the passenger seat.

  “My assistant, Mr. William Beale.”

  Billy was still dabbing his nose with Maisie’s handkerchief.

  “Right you are, M’um. Park in front of the main door please, and make sure you reverse into place, M’um, with the nose of your motor pointing toward the gate.”

  Maisie raised an eyebrow at the young man, who shrugged.

  “It’s how Mr. Waite likes it done, M’um.”

  “Bit picky, if you ask me,” said Billy as Maisie drove toward the house. “‘Reverse in with nose pointing out’. Perhaps that’s ’ow I should walk in there, backwards, wiv me nose turned away! I wonder who ’e thinks ’e is?”

  “One of the richest men in Britain, if not Europe.” Maisie maneuvered the car as instructed. “And as we know, he needs something from us, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Come on.”

  They strode quickly from the car toward the main door where a woman waited to greet them. She was about fifty-five, in Maisie’s estimation, and wore a plain slate gray mid-calf length dress with white cuffs and a white Peter Pan collar. A cameo was pinned to the center of her collar and her only other adornment was a silver wristwatch on a black leather strap. Her gray hair was drawn back so tightly that it pulled at her temples. Despite her austere appearance, when Maisie and Billy reached the top step she smiled warmly with a welcoming sparkle in her pale blue eyes.

  “Come in quickly before you catch your death! What a morning! Mr. Harris, the butler, has been taken poorly with a nasty cold. I’m Mrs. Willis, the housekeeper. Let me take your coats.” Mrs. Willis took Maisie’s mackintosh and Billy’s overcoat, and passed them to a maid. “Hang them on the drier over the fireplace in the laundry room. Mr. Waite’s guests will be leaving in—” she looked at her watch “—approximately thirty-five minutes, so get the coats as dry as possible by then.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Willis,” said Maisie.

  “Mr. Waite will join you in the library shortly.”

  Maisie sensed a mood of tension that pervaded the house. Mrs. Willis’s pace was hurried, urging them forward. At the library door she checked her watch as she reached for the brass door handle. A door opened behind them and another woman hurried to join the trio.

  “Mrs. Willis! Mrs. Willis, I will take over from here and show Mr. Waite’s guests in to the library,” she panted.

  Mrs. Willis relinquished them, frowning with annoyance. “Certainly, Miss Arthur. Please continue.” She turned to Maisie and Billy. “Good morning,” she said as she stepped away without looking at Miss Arthur again. Unfortunately she was prevented from making a dignified exit as the door opened once more and a rotund man strode toward them, consulting his watch as he approached.

  “Right then, it’s three o’clock. We’d better get on with it.” Barely looking at Maisie and Billy, he strode into the library.

  Billy leaned toward Maisie and whispered, “It’s like a three-ring-circus in ’ere!”

  She responded with a brief nod.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Joseph Waite pointed to two chairs on the long side of a rectangular polished mahogany table and immediately seated himself in a larger chair at its head. His girth made him seem short, though he was almost six feet tall and moved deceptively quickly. According to Maurice’s notes, Waite had been born in 1865, which meant he was now sixty-five. His navy blue pinstripe suit was doubtless constructed at great expense by a Savile Row tailor. It was complemented by a white shirt, light gray silk tie, highly polished black shoes, and light gray silk socks that Maisie could just see as she glanced down at the floor. Expensive, very expensive, but then Joseph Waite reeked of new money and of the large Havana cigar that he moved from his right hand to his left in order to reach out first to Maisie, then to Billy.

  “Joseph Waite.”

  Maisie took a breath and opened her mouth to reply but was prevented from doing so.

  “I’ll get directly to the point, Miss Dobbs. My daughter, Charlotte, is missing from home. I’m a busy man, so I will tell you straight, I do not want to involve the police because I don’t for one minute think that this is a police matter. And I don’t want them turning this place upside down while they waste tim
e speculating about this and that, and drawing every bored press man to my gates while they’re about it.”

  Maisie once again drew breath and opened her mouth to speak, but Waite held his hand up from the table, his palm facing her. She noticed a large gold ring on his little finger, and as he placed his hand on the table, she saw that it was encrusted with diamonds. She stole a sideways look at Billy, who raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s not a police matter because this is not the first time she’s left my house. You are to find her, Miss Dobbs, and bring her back before word gets out. A man in my position can’t have a daughter running around and turning up in the newspapers. I don’t have to tell you that these are difficult times for a man of commerce, but Waite’s is trimming its sails accordingly and doing very nicely, thank you. It’s got to stay that way. Now then.” Waite consulted his watch yet again. “You’ve got twenty minutes of my time, so ask any questions you want. I won’t ’old back.”

  Maisie perceived that although Waite had worked hard to eliminate a strong Yorkshire accent, the occasional revealing long vowel and the odd dropped h, unlike that of the London dialect, broke through.

  “I’d like some details about your daughter.” Maisie reached for the blank index cards that Billy handed her. “First of all, how old is Charlotte?”

  “Thirty-two. About your age.”

  “Quite.”

  “And with about half the gumption!”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Waite?”

  “I’ll make no bones about it; Charlotte is her mother’s daughter. A wilting lily, I call her. A good day’s work wouldn’t do her any harm at all, but of course the daughter of a man in my position has no need. More’s the pity.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps you could tell us something about what happened on the day Charlotte disappeared. When was she last seen?”

  “Two days ago. Saturday. Morning. At breakfast. I was down in the dining room, and Charlotte came in, full of the joys of spring, and sat down at the other end of the table. One minute she seemed as right as rain, eating a bit of toast, drinking a cup of tea, then all of a sudden she starts with the tears, sobs a bit, and runs from the room.”

  “Did you go after her?”

  The man sighed and reached for an ashtray, into which he tapped the smoldering end of his cigar, leaving a circle of pungent ash. He drew deeply on the cigar again and exhaled.

  “No, I didn’t. I finished my breakfast. Charlotte is a bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, Miss Dobbs. An actress—should’ve been on the stage, like her mother. Nothing is ever good enough for her. I thought she’d’ve made a suitable marriage by now, but no, in fact—you should write it down there—” He waved his cigar toward Maisie’s index card. “She was jilted by her fiancé a couple of months ago. Even with my money she can’t get a husband!”

  “Mr. Waite, the behavior you describe suggests that your daughter may have been in a state of despair.”

  “‘Despair’? ‘Despair’? She’s always had fine food in her belly, clothes—and very good clothes, I might add—on her back. I’ve given her a good education, in Switzerland, if you please. And she had a proper coming out ball. You could’ve fed a family for a year with what I spent on the frock alone. That girl’s had the very best, so don’t tell me about despair, Miss Dobbs. That girl’s got no right to despair.”

  Maisie met his gaze firmly. Here it comes, she thought, now he’s going to tell me about his hard life.

  “Despair, Miss Dobbs, is when your father dies in a pit accident when you’re ten years old and you’re the eldest of six. That’s what despair is. Despair is what gives you a right good kick in the rump and sets you off to provide for your family when you’re no’ but a child.”

  Waite, who had slipped into broad Yorkshire, went on. “Despair, Miss Dobbs, is when you lose your mother and her youngest to consumption when you’re fourteen. That, Miss Dobbs, is despair. Despair is just when you think you’ve got everyone taken care of, because you’re working night and day to make something of yourself, and you lose another brother down the same pit that killed your father, because he took any job he could get to help out. That, Miss Dobbs, is despair. But you know about that yourself, don’t you?” Waite leaned forward and ground his cigar into the ashtray.

  Maisie realized that somewhere in his office Joseph Waite had a dossier on her that held as much information as she had acquired about him, if not more.

  “Mr. Waite, I am well aware of life’s challenges, but if I am to take on this case—and the choice is mine—I have a responsibility for the welfare of all parties. If this type of departure is something of a habit for your daughter and discord in the house is at the heart of her unsettled disposition, then clearly something must be done to alleviate the, let us say, pressure on all parties. I must have your commitment to further conversation with respect to the problem when we have found Charlotte.”

  Joseph Waite’s lips became taut. He was not a man used to being challenged. Yet, as Maisie now knew, it was the similarity in their backgrounds that had led him to choose her for this task, and he would not draw back. He was a very intelligent as well as belligerent man and would appreciate that not a moment more could be lost.

  “Mr. Waite, even if Charlotte has disappeared of her own volition, news of her disappearance will soon attract the attention of the press, just as you fear. Given your financial situation and these difficult times, there is a risk that you may be subjected to attempts at extortion. And though you seem sure that Charlotte is safe and merely hiding from you, of that we cannot be certain until she is found. You speak of prior disappearances. May I have the details?”

  Waite leaned back in his chair shaking his head. “She runs away, to my mind, anytime she can’t get what she wants. The first time was after I refused to allow her a motor car.” He looked across the lawns and waved the cigar in the direction of what Maisie expected were the garages. “She can be taken by chauffeur anywhere she wants. I don’t hold with women driving.”

  Maisie exchanged glances with Billy.

  “So she ran to her mother’s house, no doubt to complain about her terrible father. I tell you, where I come from, there’s women who’d give their eye teeth to have someone to drive them instead of walking five miles to the shops pushing a pram with a baby inside, a couple of nippers on top, and the shopping bags hanging off the handle!”

  “And the second time?”

  “Oh, she was engaged to be married and wanted to get out of it. The one before this last one. Just upped and moved into The Ritz, if you please. Nice home here, and she wants to live at The Ritz. I went and got her back myself.”

  “I see.” Maisie imagined the embarrassment of a woman being frog-marched out of The Ritz by her angry father. “So in your opinion Charlotte has a tendency to run away when she is faced with a confrontation.”

  “Aye, that’s about the measure of it,” replied Waite. “So what do you think of your little ‘further conversation’ when Charlotte returns now, eh, Miss Dobbs, considering the girl can’t even look her own father in the eye?”

  Maisie was quick to respond. “My terms remain, sir. Part of my work in bringing Charlotte home will be to listen to her and to hear what she has to say.”

  Waite scraped back his chair, pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, and walked to the window. He looked up at the sky for just a moment and took out a pocket-watch. “I agree to your terms. Send your contract to me by nine tomorrow morning. Miss Arthur will take care of any deposit required, and will settle your account and expenses upon receipt. If you need me to answer more questions, Miss Arthur will schedule an appointment. Otherwise I expect your progress report by Friday. In person and at the same time—that is, should you fail to have found her by then. I’m a busy man, as I’ve said, Miss Dobbs.” He turned to leave.

  “Mr. Waite?”

  “Yes?”

  “May we see Charlotte’s rooms, please?”

  “Miss Arthur will call Mrs. Willis to show you the rooms. Goo
d afternoon.”

  Mrs. Willis was instructed to show Maisie and Billy to Charlotte’s suite. They were escorted up the wide staircase to the second floor, where they turned right along a spacious landing. Mrs. Willis lifted her hand to knock at the door and then, remembering that there was no need, took a bunch of keys from her pocket, selected one, and unlocked the door to reveal a large sitting room with additional doors on either side that Maisie thought would lead to a bathroom and bedroom respectively. The sash windows were open to a broad view of the perfect lawns at the front of the house, with stripes of light and dark green where gardeners had worked with mowers and rollers to give an immaculate finish.

  Mrs. Willis beckoned them into the rooms, which were aired by a light breeze that seemed to dance with the cabbage-rose-printed curtains, flicking them back and forth. Though appointed with the most expensive furniture and linens, Maisie felt the rooms to be cold and spartan. There was none of the ornamentation she had expected: no photographs in frames, no mementos, no books on the bedside table, no exotic perfume bottles set on top of the dressing table. Maisie walked through into the bedroom, and back into the sitting room. Like the Queen Anne chairs beside the fireplace, the rose-printed curtains were traditional, but the dressing table and wardrobe were modern, constructed of solid dark wood with geometric lines. The dressing table mirrors were triangular, a jagged icy triptych that unsettled Maisie. Her skin prickled as if pierced by tiny needles. The design of the dressing table itself was matched by that of the wardrobe, with its center mirror set into the wood. It seemed to Maisie that no rest was to be had in this room unless one stared out of the window or at the curtains.

  “It’s a lovely suite, isn’t it? We only changed the draperies last week—she has pale green velvets in winter. Lined with a special combed cotton, they are, to keep the rooms warmer. The dressing table suite was made ’specially to Mr. Waite’s specifications.”