Birds of a Feather by Jacqueline Winspear

comin’ from, otherwise the little beggars’ll be getting’ up to no good at all. Anyway, if it’d been the next ’ouse along, it wouldn’t ’ave sounded the same, in either direction. No, it was Number Nine.” Billy looked at Maisie, his eyes revealing the shock of a sudden unwanted thought. “’ere, Miss, you don’t think it was the one what did ’er in, do you?”
    “It’s a possibility.”
    Maisie considered another possibility, that Lydia Fisher might have been lying to Billy throughout. The suitcase he noticed could have belonged to Charlotte Waite. It might have been Charlotte who— alone or aided by another—had slain her friend. Waite had referred to his daughter as a “wilting lily” but Maisie was begining to consider her a dark horse.
    “This is getting’ interestin’, innit, Miss?”
    “Intriguing is what it is. Intriguing. I’ve written to Dame Constance at Camden Abbey in Kent, and expect to hear from her by return. Whether Charlotte has run there for shelter or not, Dame Constance will be able to throw light on the mind of an aspiring nun. I’ll visit her as soon as I can. And I want to consult with Dr. Blanche, so I’ll stop at the Dower House at Chelstone to see him first.”
    “Will you see your old dad while you’re there?”
    “Of course I will. Why do you ask?”
    “Wonderful man, your dad. You just don’t seem to see much of ’im, that’s all, seein’ as ’e’s your only real family.”
    Maisie drew back, surprised. The simplicity of Billy’s observation stung her, as if she had been attacked by an unseen insect. She knew that it was only the truth that could injure in such a manner, and her face reddened.
    “I see my father as much as I can.” Maisie leaned toward a pile of papers, which she shuffled before consulting her watch. “Goodness me, Billy! You should be on your way. You won’t be home in time to play with your children though, will you?”
    “Oh yes I will, Miss. Never miss a play before they go up to bed. Nice to ’ave a bit of a romp around, although the missus moans about it, says it gets ’em all excited so they won’t sleep.”
    “We might as well finish work for the day. I’m meeting Detective Inspector Stratton tomorrow morning to go to Lydia Fisher’s house. Be prepared to hold the fort for a couple of days while I am down in Kent.”
    “You can count on me, Miss.” Billy extended his wounded leg and rose from his chair.
    “That leg giving you trouble again? You seemed to be in less pain this morning.”
    “It comes and goes, Miss. Comes and goes. I’ll be off then.”
    “Very well, Billy.”
    Billy pulled on his overcoat and gave a final wave before clambering down the stairs in an ungainly fashion that could be heard with each receding footfall. The front door opened and closed with a thud. It was six o’clock.
    Maisie was in no rush to leave. It had been a long day, and so much had happened. But far from being anxious to return to her rooms, Maisie felt a dragging at her heart as she contemplated the evening ahead. Perhaps she would go down to the kitchen and have a cup of cocoa with Sandra, one of several housemaids who remained at the Comptons’ Belgravia mansion while the rest of the household were at Chelstone. Though Sandra, Valerie, and Teresa were all nice girls, they weren’t quite sure about Maisie Dobbs, whom they knew had been one of them once upon a time but wasn’t anymore. So they were often uneasy about initiating conversation with her, though they were friendly enough.
    Gathering up her notes, Maisie placed some outstanding correspondence in her document case, checked that her desk was secure, turned off the gaslights and left the office. Tomorrow was another working day, which, it was to be hoped, would reveal more about the death of Lydia Fisher and, perhaps, about the character, motives, and whereabouts of her client’s daughter. She made a mental note to prepare some additional questions for Joseph Waite