Birds of a Feather Read online

  Maisie smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Willis. We may need to ask you some more questions in a while. At the moment we just need to look around.”

  Mrs. Willis pursed her lips, hesitating. “Of course. I’ll come back in about twenty minutes, but if you need me in the meantime, just press this button.” She indicated one of three brass buttons on a panel beside the door.

  Sensing that Waite had given instructions that they were to be escorted at all times, Maisie smiled and nodded. She suspected that Mrs. Willis had enough on her plate to worry about in the house without chaperoning private investigators.

  As the door closed, Billy turned to Maisie. “It looks as if nobody ever set foot in these rooms, dunnit?”

  Maisie made no reply, but set her document case down on a chair with coverings that matched the curtains and, in the bedroom, even the counterpane on Charlotte’s bed. Maisie’s work with Maurice Blanche had taught her that a person speaks not only with the voice but with those objects she chooses to surround herself. That photographs tell a story is well accepted, but the way furniture is positioned in a room tells something about its occupant; the contents of a larder reveal desire and restraint, as most surely does the level of liquid in a decanter.

  “What are we lookin’ for, Miss?”

  “I don’t know, Billy, but I will when we find it.”

  They worked together, carefully and systematically searching through drawers, in the wardrobe, and in every nook and cranny of the room. Maisie asked Billy to search carefully under the bed and behind furniture, to pull out cushions from the chair, and to list all items in the medicine cabinet in the white-tiled bathroom. She, in turn, would investigate the contents of the dressing table, wardrobe and writing desk.

  Though she was troubled by the design of the furniture, Maisie was even more intrigued by Charlotte’s clothing. Instead of suits, dresses and gowns from the houses of Worth, Schiaparelli or Molyneux, as would befit a woman of Charlotte’s station, there were just a few plain gray and brown skirts and jackets bought from Debenham & Freebody. A long black gown protected by a sheet of fine muslin was Charlotte’s one concession to evening wear, and there was also a black afternoon dress in a style fashionable several years earlier, with a low waistband and below-the-knee hemline. Charlotte’s blouses were equally plain and it seemed as if she had bought several of similar design at the same time. Had she taken more colorful and frivolous clothing with her, leaving behind a life that lacked color in search of something more vibrant?

  It was in the writing desk, to the right of the window, that Maisie found an address book. At first, she thought that she would find no other personal papers, no letters, nothing that gave away anything of Charlotte Waite’s character or hinted at the cause of her distress, but as she opened the second drawer, underneath a collection of pens and stationery, Maisie found a prayer book along with a copy of The Monastic Rule of Saint Benedict, and several pamphlets on the life of a contemplative. Taking up the books, Maisie walked again to the wardrobe and touched the dark, drab fabrics of the clothes Charlotte had left behind.

  “Miss, look what I’ve found.” Billy came toward Maisie with a piece of paper in his hand.

  “What is it, Billy?”

  “Found it shoved down the side of that chair cushion. Could’ve been put there deliberately or fallen out of a pocket.” Billy handed Maisie the small slip of paper.

  “Looks like someone’s jotted down train departures. See here—” Maisie pointed to the letters and read: “‘Ch. X to App. Chg Ash’. Then there’s a list of times. Hmmm. I’ll keep it with these other things for now and we’ll look at them later.” She folded the paper and placed it inside the prayer book, then turned to Billy.

  “Billy, I’d like to spend some time in here alone.”

  He was now used to Maisie’s way of working and showed no surprise at her request. “Right you are, Miss. Shall I interview Mrs. Willis?”

  “Yes, do that. Here’s what we need to know: First, Charlotte—her behavior over the past two or three months. Was there any change in her demeanor? Ask about even the slightest change in habits of dress, diet, recreation.” Maisie looked around the room. “She doesn’t have her own telephone, so find out who has called; the staff always know when a new name comes along. Speak to Miss Arthur about her allowance; how much, when it’s paid and how it’s paid. Does she have her own accounts—heaven knows, I hope the poor woman has some privacy— and are statements kept by Miss Arthur?”

  Maisie paced back and forth, as Billy licked his pencil, ready to continue taking notes.

  “Most important: Find out about Charlotte’s former fiancé, his name, profession—if he has one—and where he works. I’ll need to see him. Speak to the chauffeur, Billy, and find out where she goes, whom she sees. You know the ropes. Oh, and a recent photograph, one that really looks like Charlotte; ask different staff if it’s a good resemblance. See what you can get hold of. I want about fifteen minutes here, then I’d like to speak to Charlotte Waite’s personal maid. Find out who she is and have her come up to this room.”

  “Awright, Miss, consider it all done.”

  “Oh, and Billy, tread very carefully on this one. We don’t know where loyalties lie yet, though I must say, I can feel a certain chill when there’s any mention of Charlotte.”

  “You know, I reckon I felt that meself.”

  “Well, keep it in mind. Leave no stone unturned.”

  Billy quietly shut the door behind him. Maisie sat in Charlotte’s chair and closed her eyes. She took four deep breaths through her nose, as she had been taught so many years ago by Khan, the blind Ceylonese mystic to whom Maurice had introduced her, to learn that seeing is not necessarily a function of the eyes alone. From her days of sitting with Khan, and her instruction in deep meditation, Maisie was attuned to the risks inherent in using such a tool in her work, and knew that even her strong spirit was vulnerable to the auras of the troubled soul. Maisie concentrated on her breathing, stilling both her body and her mind, and she began to feel the strength of emotion that resided in the room. This was Charlotte’s refuge while in the house and had become a receptacle for her every thought, feeling, inspiration, reflection and wish. And as she sat in meditation, Maisie felt that Charlotte had been deeply troubled and that her departure had had little to do with a broken engagement. Charlotte Waite had run away, but what was she running from? Or to? What had caused such an intense ache in her heart that even now in her room, Maisie felt Charlotte’s lingering sorrow?

  Maisie opened her eyes and continued to sit in silence for some moments. Then she began to inspect the books and pamphlets that Charlotte had collected. The Monastic Rule of Saint Benedict opened immediately to the place marked with a haphazardly torn envelope fragment. She inspected the scrap of vellum closely, for it seemed heavy, then turned it over. On the reverse side was a thick smudge of red sealing wax, about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, pressed into a rose-shaped seal with a cross in the center. Maisie squinted to see the words etched into the seal above and below the cross. She shook her head, reached down into her document case and took out what initially looked like a powder compact but that, when opened, revealed a magnifying glass. Maisie leaned closer to the seal and, using the glass, read the words “Camden Abbey.” Camden Abbey. The name sounded familiar.

  There was a knock at the door. Maisie quickly placed the books, pamphlets and other items in her case, ensured they were secure, then rose, breathed deeply again, and opened the door. A young woman of about nineteen bobbed a half-curtsey in front of her. Her black dress was shorter than the one Maisie had worn when she was a servant at the home of Lord and Lady Compton; a small bibbed apron to protect her dress and a delicate white lace band on top of her tightly curled hair completed the maid’s uniform.

  “Miss Dobbs? I was told you wanted to see me, M’um. I’m Perkins, Miss Waite’s personal maid.”

  “Oh, come in, Miss Perkins.” Maisie stood to one side to allow the woman t
o enter the room.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  The maid shook her head. “No, M’um.”

  “Well then, let’s stand by the window. It’s a blustery day now, but I do like to look out upon garden.” Maisie knew that an enclosed area encouraged an enclosed mind. Maurice had taught her: Always take the person to be questioned to a place where there’s space, or where they can see few boundaries. Space broadens the mind and gives the voice room to be heard.

  Maisie sat on the low, wide windowsill, the toe of one shoe touching the floor for balance. Perkins stood at the opposite end of the windowsill, facing Maisie.

  “Tell me, Miss Perkins, how long have you worked for Miss Waite?”

  “Mr. Waite. I work for Mr. Waite. Mr. Waite pays my wages, so it’s him I work for. Looking after Miss Waite is what I do in his house, and I’ve been her maid for a year.”

  “I see.” Maisie noticed the speed with which she had been corrected, and thought that with just one question, she had discovered where Perkins’ loyalties lay.

  “And who was Miss Waite’s maid before you?”

  “Well, there were lots of them, M’um. Isabel Wright left last year, then six months before her there was Ethel Day—I remember them because I’ve worked for Mr. Waite since I was twelve, M’um.”

  “And do you like working here, Miss Perkins?”

  “I like working for Mr. Waite. He’s very good to us here, M’um”

  Maisie nodded, and looked out of the window. She was aware that the maid had leaned forward to see the gardens.

  “I’ll bet you are too busy to look out of the windows, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yes, ’specially with the way Miss Waite keeps me running. . . . Oh, begging your pardon, M’um.”

  Maisie smiled, encouraging Perkins into her confidence. “Tell me—what is it like working for Miss Waite? And I should add that everything you tell me will remain between the two of us.” She leaned forward, and though the maid did not consciously discern any alteration in Maisie’s speech, she had allowed her accent to change slightly so that she sounded just a little like the young woman in front of her. “I need to ask questions to get a sense of what has been happening in Miss Waite’s life in the past two or three months, and especially in more recent weeks.”

  The young woman gazed into the distance again, chewed her inner lip, then moved closer to Maisie. She began to speak, at first tentatively, then with greater strength. “To tell you the truth, she’s not the easiest person to work for. She’d have me running up and downstairs all day. Wash this, press that, cup of tea, not too hot, not too cold, lemon—oh no, changed my mind, cream instead. First she’s going out, then she’s staying in; then suddenly, just as I’m setting my head on the pillow, the bell rings, and I have to go down and dress her for a late dinner. No thank-you’s or anything, no little something extra left on the sideboard for me, and I’m the one that has to clean up when she has a temper!”

  “Oh dear.”

  “It’s like being outside, you know: no climate but all weather. Hot and cold she is, never seems to know her own mind. One minute she’s all happy, the next, you’d’ve thought the moon had crashed into the stars and set light to the sky outside her window.” Perkins shrugged. “Well, that’s what Miss Harding, the cook, says.”

  “And what about the past few weeks or so? More of the same behavior?”

  Perkins watched the clouds for a moment before answering. “I’d say she was quieter. More . . . more distant, I think you’d say. I mean, she always went through times like that. Miss Harding said she ought to be taken to see somebody about her moods. But this was different. It sort of went on and on, and she didn’t go out much. Didn’t seem to dress up as much either. In fact, she got rid of some lovely clothes, you know, from Paris and Bond Street. Very strange for a lady, to want to walk around in them drab clothes all day, and only have one evening dress, ’specially as she used to go to the collections, you know, and have mannequins walk up and down the room for her to pick and choose what she wanted. You should have seen it in here when the boxes arrived!”

  “Have you any idea what might have caused her to withdraw?”

  “Not really. None of my business. I was just glad there were no bells ringing at midnight.”

  “Do you think Mr. Waite noticed?”

  “Mr. Waite works hard. We all know that. Far as I know, they don’t see much of each other.”

  “Are you aware of discord between Miss Waite and her father?”

  Perkins looked at her shoes and stepped away from the window just a little. Maisie noticed immediately. She’s closing her mind. Deliberately.

  “Not my business to pry, M’um. I just do my job. What they think of each other upstairs isn’t any of my concern.”

  “Hmmm. Yes. Your work is demanding enough, Miss Perkins. No reason for you to keep tabs on people. One more question, though: Do you know whom Miss Waite saw, or where she went, in the weeks preceding her departure from this house? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  The maid sighed in a way that indicated that she had said all she wanted to say, but that she would try to answer the question. “She did go up to Town a few times. I’m not sure where she went, but she mainly sees a woman called Lydia Fisher, I think. She lives in Chelsea, somewhere around there. And I reckon she was going somewhere else as well, because she took a pair of walking shoes with her on a couple of occasions. But a lot of her time was spent just sitting up here.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Not sure I know, Miss. Sort of in a daydream, looking out of the window.”

  “I see.” The younger woman began to fidget with her hair, her lace headband, her apron, indicating to Maisie that no more valuable information would be forthcoming. As they moved toward the door, Maisie reached into her bag and took out a calling card.

  “Miss Perkins, I am familiar with the workings of a house of this size, and also appreciate that the staff are usually the first to know when something is amiss. Please feel free to telephone me if you think of anything that might be useful. It’s clear that you have had some difficulties with Miss Waite, but despite everything, her father—your employer— wants her home.”

  “Yes, M’um.” Perkins took the card, placed it in her pinafore pocket, bobbed another half curtsey, and left the room.

  Maisie watched the maid walk along the landing, stopping briefly to curtsey as Billy approached in the company of Mrs. Willis, who was looking at her watch. It was time for them to leave.

  “Have you got everything, Billy?”

  “Yes, Miss. In fact, Mrs. Willis knew where to find a recent photograph of Miss Waite. ’ere.” Billy opened his notebook and took out the photograph, which he handed to Maisie.

  Charlotte was sitting on a white filigree cast-iron chair set in front of a rose garden, which Maisie suspected was at the rear of the house. She seemed to be what the gentlemen of the press might have termed a “flapper.” Her hair, which framed her face, was waved and drawn back into a low chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a knee-length dress that appeared rather flimsy; a breeze had caught the hem the moment before the shutter snapped. Charlotte had made no move to press the garment down, and laughed into the camera. Maisie held the photo closer to scrutinize the face. If eyes were windows to the soul, then Charlotte was indeed troubled, for the eyes that looked at the camera seemed to be filled not with joy or amusement as the pose suggested, but with sorrow.

  Maisie looked up. “Thank you, Mrs. Willis.” She turned to Billy. “If you’ve completed everything, we can talk back at the office. I’m sure Mrs. Willis has a lot to do.”

  Mrs. Willis escorted them to the front door, where a maid waited with Maisie’s mackintosh and Billy’s overcoat. They were about to step outside when Maisie paused. “A quick question for you, Mrs. Willis. I have a sense that Miss Waite commands little respect in the household. Why is that?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, M’um,”
said Mrs. Willis, who now seemed anxious to see Maisie and Billy inside their motor car, driving away.

  “Mrs. Willis, in confidence. Tell me what you think.” Maisie inclined her head conspiratorially toward Mrs. Willis.

  “Mr. Waite is respected by everyone who works for him. He gives back as much as he asks of those in his employ, and sometimes more. His loyalty to his staff earns loyalty in return. And that’s all I can say.”

  Maisie and Billy thanked Mrs. Willis, left the house, and climbed into the motor car.

  “Didn’t say much, did she?” said Billy, waving at the gatekeeper as they left.

  “On the contrary, she told me a lot. It was an impertinent question, and, within the confines of what she could say, Mrs. Willis was quite forthcoming.”

  Billy opened his notebook and began to speak, but Maisie silenced him with a hand gently placed on his arm and a finger to her lips. “No, not now. Allow the information we’ve gathered to sit and stew for a while. Just tell me one thing—the name and profession of the former fiancé.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Billy was already at the office in Fitzroy Square when Maisie arrived at eight o’clock the next morning. The spring rain had at last subsided, and now the early morning sunshine was mirrored in puddles remaining from yesterday’s downpour, casting dappled shadows across the square and playing upon fresh green leaves.

  “Good morning, Billy.” Maisie looked at her assistant as she came into the office. “You look a bit drawn—is everything all right?”

  “Yes, Miss. Well, not really. Every day I look out as the bus passes the labor exchange and the line ain’t gettin’ any shorter. I can count my lucky stars getting this job wiv you. You know, I’ve got the missus and three nippers to think about—the eldest is in school now—and what wiv this ol’ leg of mine—”

  “You mustn’t worry, Billy. Not only are we fortunate in getting new business, but Maurice’s clients now know that they can trust his former assistant. If money’s a problem, Billy—”