Jacqueline Winspear - Birds of a Feather

Birds of a Feather

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

Maisie Dobbs

Birds of a Feather

A Novel

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR

Copyright 2004 by Jacqueline Winspear

All rights reserved.

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Winspear, Jacqueline, 1955

Birds of a feather / by Jacqueline Winspear.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-56947-368-4 (alk. paper)

1. Women private investigatorsEnglandLondonFiction. 2. Young womenCrimes againstFiction. 3. Inheritance and successionFiction. 4. Children of the richFiction. 5. World War, 19141918Fiction. 6. London (England)Fiction. 7. Missing personsFiction.

I. Title.

PR6123.I575 B57 2004

823'.92dc22 2003025732

Designed by Kathleen Lake, Neuwirth & Associates, Inc.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Kenneth Leech

19192002

CONTENTS

M aisie Dobbs shuffled the papers on her desk into a neat pile and placed them in a plain manila folder. She took up green marble-patterned W.H. Smith fountain pen and inscribed the cover with the name of her new clients: Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Johnson, who were concerned that their sons fiance might have misled them regarding her past. It was the sort of case that was easily attended to, that would provide a useful reference, and that could be closed with presentation of a timely report and accompanying account for her services. But for Maisie the case notes would not be filed away until those whose lives were touched by her investigation had reached a certain peace with her findings, with themselves, and with one anotheras far as that might be possible. As she wrote, a tendril of jet black hair tumbled down into her eyes. Sighing, she quickly pushed it back into the chignon at the nape of her neck. Suddenly, Maisie set her pen on the blotting pad, pulled the troublesome wisp of hair free so that it hung down again, and walked to the large mirror hanging on the wall above the fireplace. She unpinned her long hair and tucked it inside the collar of her white silk blouse, pulling out just an inch or so around her chin-line. Would shorter hair suit her?

Perhaps Lady Rowan is right, said Maisie to her reflection in the mirror. Perhaps it would look better in a bob.

She turned from side to side several times, and lifted her hair just slightly. Shorter hair might save a few minutes of precious time each morning, and it would no longer come free of the chignon and fall into her eyes. But one thing held her back. She lifted her hair and turned her head. Was the scar visible? Would shorter hair fall in such a way as to reveal the purple weal that etched a line from her neck into the sensitive flesh of her scalp? If her hair were cut, would she lean forward over her notes one day and unwittingly allow a client to see the damage inflicted by the German shell that had ripped into the casualty clearing station where she was working, in France, in 1917?

Looking at the room reflected in the mirror, Maisie considered how far she had comenot only from the dark dingy office in Warren Street that was all she had been able to afford just over a year ago, but from that first meeting with Maurice Blanche, her mentor and teacher, when she had been a maid in the household of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan. It was Maurice and Lady Rowan who had noted Maisies intellect and ensured that she had every opportunity to pursue her hunger for education. They had made it possible for the former tweeny maid to gain admission to Girton College, Cambridge.

Maisie quickly pulled her hair into a neat chignon again, and as she pinned the twist into place, she glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Fitzroy Square. Her assistant, Billy Beale, had just turned in to the square and was crossing the rain-damp gray flagstones toward the office. Her scar began to throb. As she watched Billy, Maisie began to assume his posture. She moved toward the window with shoulders dropped, hands thrust into imaginary pockets, and her gait mimicking the awkwardness caused by Billys still-troublesome war wounds. Her disposition began to change, and she realized that the occasional malaise she had sensed several weeks ago was now a constant in Billys life.

As she looked down at him from what had once been the drawing room window of the Georgian building, he stretched the cuff of his overcoat over the palm of his hand and polished the brass nameplate informing visitors that the office of M. Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, was situated within. Satisfied, Billy straightened, drew back his shoulders, stretched his spine, ran his fingers through his tousled shock of wheaten hair, and took out his key to the main door. Maisie watched as he corrected his posture. You cant fool me, Billy Beale, she said to herself. The front door closed with a heavy thud, and the stairs creaked as Billy ascended to the office.

Morning, Miss. I picked up the records you wanted. Billy placed a plain brown envelope on Maisies desk. Oh, and another thing, Miss, I bought a Daily Express for you to ave a butchers ook at. He took a newspaper from the inside pocket of his overcoat.That woman what was found murdered in er own ome a week or two ago down in Surreyyou remember, in Coulsdenwell, theres more details ere, of who she was, and the state she was in when she was found.

Thank you, Billy, said Maisie, taking the newspaper.

She was only your age, Miss. Terrible, innit?

It certainly is.

I wonder if our friend... well, your friend, reallyDetective Inspector Strattonis involved?

Most likely. Since the murder took place outside London, its a Murder Squad case.

Billy looked thoughtful. Fancy avin to say you work for the Murder Squad, eh, Miss? Dont exactly warm folk to you, does it?

Maisie scanned the article quickly. Oh, thats a newspaper invention to sell more papers. I think they started to use it when the Crippen case became big news. It used to be called the Reserve Squad, but that didnt sound ominous enough. And Criminal Investigation Department is a bit of a mouthful. Maisie looked up at Billy, And by the way, Billy, what do you mean by my friend, eh?

Aw, nuffin really, Miss. Its just that

Billy was interrupted by the ringing of the black telephone on Maisies desk. He raised his eyebrows and reached for the receiver.

Fitzroy five six double 0. Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Stratton. Yes, shes ere. Ill put her on. He smiled broadly, covering the receiver with his palm as Maisie, blushing slightly, held out her hand to take it. Now, Miss, what was it that Doctor Blanche used to say about coincidence being awhat was it? Oh yes, a messenger of truth?

Thats enough, Billy. Maisie took the receiver and waved him away. Inspector Stratton, how very nice to hear from you. I expect youre busy with the murder case in Coulsden.