Birds of a Feather (6 page)

“Good morning, Father,” said Maisie, entering the room.

“Good morning, Charlotte.” Billy reached for his pocket watch, noted the time, and placed the newspaper on the table between them. “What are you doing with yourself today?” He continued, checking his watch again, and taking a sip of tea.

“I thought I might go shopping and meet a friend for lunch.”

“Nothing better to do today, Charlotte?”

There was an edge to Billy’s voice that almost caused Maisie to break out of character and look up, but she continued, defiantly. “What do you
want
me to do, Father?”

Billy consulted his watch again without responding, while Maisie— as Charlotte—reached for the newspaper. She turned to the front page, read barely two lines, then suddenly gasped and burst into tears. She threw down the paper, scraped back her chair, and ran from the room with her hand covering her mouth. Billy sighed, wiped his brow, and stretched out his legs, happy to be rid of his assumed character.

Maisie returned. “That was an interesting exercise, wasn’t it?”

“It was really strange, Miss. I remembered watching ’im when ’e talked about Charlotte, so I mimicked his posture.”

Maisie nodded for Billy to continue.

“And, well, it was right peculiar, it was, ’ow I started to feel different, like another person.”

“Explain, Billy. I know this seems difficult, but it is most important and helpful.”

“I was right touchy, like a piece of tinder ready to catch fire. I started to think about the father that died down the coal pit, ’is mother and ’ow she must’ve ’ad to work ’er fingers to the bone, and then all that ’e’d gone through, ’ard graft, and all. Then I thought about the wife up in Yorkshire, sittin’ on ’er behind, and by the time you walked in the door, I felt all of what ’e’d felt—well, what I felt ’e’d felt—and, to be quite ’onest with you, I didn’t even really ’ave patience with you. I mean Charlotte.”

“ Do you believe he was in the room when Charlotte ran out?”

“I reckon so, but it was as if I was
making
meself sit there, because I’m determined not to let ’er annoy me. I couldn’t do any more reading of the newspaper, I was so . . . so angry! That’s why I ’anded it to ’er, I mean you. What about you, Miss?”

“You know, after seeing Charlotte’s room yesterday, in taking on her character I wasn’t exactly ‘full of the joys of spring.’ I didn’t get that feeling at all when I was in her room. Instead, I had the sense of a troubled soul. But there must have been provocation of some sort to make her leave home. I have to say, I felt other emotions, though I confess I am now drawing upon the feelings I intuited when we went into her room and when I was alone for a while.” Maisie picked up a pencil from the table and began to doodle along the bottom of the paper. She drew an eye with a single tear seeping from the corner.

“What did you ‘sense,’ then?” asked Billy.

“She was confused. As I acted her part at breakfast, I felt a conflict. I could not hate my father, though I dislike what he is and I am trying desperately not to be intimidated by him. I would like to leave his house, to live elsewhere, anywhere. But I’m stuck.” Maisie looked out of the window, allowing her eyelids to close halfway and rest as she considered Charlotte Waite. “I felt defiant when I first picked up the newspaper which, according to Waite, was the last thing Charlotte did before bursting into tears and leaving the room.”

Billy nodded as Maisie got up from her chair and walked to the window with her arms crossed.

“What this exercise suggests is that Waite’s recounting of his daughter’s departure has only a tenuous relationship to the truth. It serves to remind us that the story we heard yesterday was told through
his
eyes. To him, it may be exactly as it happened, but I think if you asked Charlotte, or a fly on the wall, you’d get a different account. One thing, though: We should go through Saturday’s
Times
to see if anything in it caused Charlotte Waite’s distress.”

Maisie flicked a piece of lint from her new burgundy suit, which she was beginning to think had been purchased in error as it seemed to attract any white fiber that happened to be passing.

“I’ll get a copy.” Billy made a note in the cloth-bound palm-size book he carried with him.

“Let’s put the table back and go over the rest of the visit carefully. Then I’ve some paperwork to do before we go our separate ways at noon. We should meet back here at about five, to exchange notes.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

“By the way, I didn’t know you could mimic a northern accent.”

Billy looked surprised as he leafed through his notebook, pencil at the ready to work on the case map. “What d’yer mean, Miss? I ain’t got no northern accent. I’m an East End of London boy. Shoreditch born and bred, that’s me.”

B
illy left the office first, taking with him the address book found in Charlotte Waite’s rooms. There were few names listed, all with London addresses except for a cousin and Charlotte’s mother, both in Yorkshire. Billy had already confirmed that Charlotte had not sought refuge with either of them. As Joseph Waite supported both his wife and niece, it was unlikely that they would risk their future financial security by deceit. Billy’s next task was to confirm each name listed and also find out more about Charlotte’s former fiancé, Gerald Bartrup.

Maisie cast a final glance around the office, then departed after locking up. Once outside, she made her way along Fitzroy Street, then Charlotte Street, taking a route parallel to Tottenham Court Road. As she walked toward her destination—the Waite’s International Store on Oxford Street—she turned the contents of Charlotte’s address book over in her mind, then mentally walked through Charlotte’s rooms once more. Maisie always maintained that first impressions of a room or a person were akin to soup when it was fresh. One can appreciate the flavor, the heat and the ingredients that went into the pot that will merge together to provide sustenance. But it’s on the second day that a soup really reveals itself and releases the blending of spices and aromas onto the tastebuds. In the same way, as Maisie walked through the rooms in her mind’s eye, she was aware of the rigid control that pervaded the Waite household and must have enveloped Charlotte like a shroud.

In suggesting they recreate the scene at breakfast, when Charlotte Waite hurriedly left the room in a flood of tears, Maisie was using one of Maurice’s training techniques that had become a standard part of their investigative procedure. She knew that, as her assistant, Billy had to be constantly aware of every single piece of information and evidence that emerged as their work on a case developed. His senses must be fine-tuned, and he had to think beyond what was seen, heard and read. Useful information might just as likely be derived from intuition. He must learn to question, she thought, not to take any evidence at face value. Maurice often quoted one of his former colleagues, the famous professor of forensic medicine, Alexandre Lacassagne, who had died some years earlier:
As my friend Lacassagne would say, Maisie, ‘One must know how to doubt.’

As Maisie walked purposefully toward the shop, a key question nagged at her: Where would a person who carried such a heavy burden run to? Where could she go to find solace, compassion—and herself? As she considered the possibilities, Maisie cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions.

She walked along Charlotte Street, then crossed into Rathbone Place until she reached Oxford Street. Joseph Waite’s conspicuous grocery shop was situated across the road, between Charing Cross Road and Soho Street. For a few moments, Maisie stood looking at the shop. Blue-striped awnings matching the tiled exterior extended over the double doors through which customers entered. To the left of the door, a showcase window held a presentation of fancy tinned foods and fruits and vegetables; to the right, a corresponding window held a display of meats. Whole carcasses were hooked to a brass bar that ran along the top and chickens hung from another brass bar halfway down. A selection of meats was displayed on an angled counter topped with a slab of marble to better exhibit the legs of lamb, pork chops, minced meats, stewing steaks, and other cuts strategically placed and garnished with bunches of parsley, sage, and thyme to tempt the customer.

Above the awnings was a tile mosaic that spelled out the words WAITE’S INTERNATIONAL STORES. In smaller letters underneath, the sign read: A FAMILY BUSINESS. EST. 1885.

As customers went in and out of the shop, a small group of children gathered by the window and held out their cupped hands, hoping for a coin or two from the shoppers. Such booty would not be spent on sweets or trinkets, for these children knew the stab of hunger from an empty belly and the smarting pain of a clip around the ear if they came home without a few precious pennies for the family’s keep. Maisie knew that for each child waiting there was a mother who watered down a stew to make it go farther, and a father who had walked all day from one employment line to another. Whatever else Joseph Waite might be, he was not completely without feeling. It had been reported in the newspapers that at the end of each day, any food that might spoil before the shops opened the next morning was delivered to soup kitchens in the poorest areas.

Maisie crossed the road and walked through the elegant doors. Counters ran along the walls on either side, with a third connecting them at the far end of the shop. Each was divided into sections, with one or two shop assistants working each section, dependent upon the number of customers waiting. There was an ornate brass till in each section, to receive cash for the items weighed and purchased. Of course the wealthy had accounts that were settled monthly or weekly, with the maid personally presenting an order that would be filled and delivered to the house by a blue-and-gold Waite’s delivery van.

The oak floor was polished to a shine. As she watched, Maisie noticed that a boy swept the floor every quarter of an hour. As soon as he had finished making his way, broom in hand, from one end to the other, it was time for him to start again, rhythmically directing sawdust and any debris into a large dustpan as he worked back and forth, back and forth. White-tiled walls reflected the bright glass lights that hung from cast-iron ceiling fixtures, and along the top of the walls a border of colored tiles formed another mosaic, depicting the very best foods that money could buy. A marble-topped table stood in the center of the floor, groaning with a tableau of vegetables and tinned goods. Maisie wondered if a visitor entering the store would believe that there were people in Britain wanting for a good meal.

She walked around the shop, looking first at the cheese counter, then the fruits and vegetables. Dry goods were displayed in barrels and wooden boxes, and as a customer asked for a half pound of currants or a pound of rice, the assistant, dressed in a blue cotton dress and matching cap decorated with yellow piping, would measure the amount onto the scale, then tip the currants or rice into a blue paper bag, which was then folded at the top and handed, with a smile, to the customer. Money was handed over, and as the assistant pressed the brass keys of the heavy till, the tally popped up in the glass panel. Yes, thought Maisie, listening to the tills ringing and willing assistants advising on the best way to cook this or that, Waite’s was weathering the country’s economic woes very well. She walked to the other side of the shop and stood alongside the fancy-goods counter. A woman had just pointed to the glass-topped tin of biscuits and asked for “a good half-pound of Sweet Maries, please” when Maisie became aware that the physical energy in the shop had suddenly changed. A deep blue Rolls Royce had drawn up outside the entrance, and a chauffeur was walking around to the front passenger door. As Maisie watched, the man silhouetted inside removed his Homburg and in its place set a flat cap on his head. Ah, she thought: Joseph Waite, the “everyman” of the grocery trade. The man who was so in touch with his origins that he would sit alongside his chauffeur in his grand motor car—at least when he was visiting one of his shops.

Waite dispatched the chauffeur to send the street urchins away from the store with a penny each for their trouble. Then he strode into his store, light of foot despite his extra weight. He stopped to speak to each customer on his way to the first counter, and Maisie felt the force of personality that had made him rich, famous, and loved by working-class folk and the privileged alike. Waite was the common man, in business
for
the people who made him what he had become, or so it seemed as he took over the cheese counter, asking the next customer what he could do for her on this bright day. As the woman gave her order, Waite made much of washing his hands at the sink situated on the wall behind the counter, then turned and took up a half wheel of English cheddar. Positioning the cheese on a marble slab, Waite drew the wire cutter across, placed the wedge of cheddar on a wafer of waxed paper, weighed it, then held the cheese out for her inspection in the palm of his hand. Maisie noticed that while washing his hands he had whispered to the assistant. Now as he said, “A nice half-pound for you
exactly
, Mrs. Johnson,” she realized that he had asked the customer’s name,

Mrs. Johnson blushed and nodded agreement, uttering a shy “thank-you” to the famous Joseph Waite. As he placed the cheese in a paper bag and twisted the corners to secure the item, she turned to other customers and smiled, eager to be seen basking in these few moments of attention from the man himself.

Waite moved on, working at each counter before reaching the section where he was clearly in his element: the meat counter. It was the most decorated part of the shop, with the stuffed head of an Aberdeen Angus mounted on the wall behind the counter, complete with a ring through its nose and glassy eyes that betrayed the fury the beast must have felt upon being taken to the slaughterhouse. Whole carcasses hung from a horizontal brass rod near the ceiling, which could be lowered by a pulley secured on the left-hand wall. The tills had been ringing at a steady pace until Waite walked into his domain. Now they rang even more briskly.