“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—”
“Oh, no, no, my wages are better ’ere than they were round the corner with old Sharpie. I just—”
“What, Billy?”
“You’re sure you need me?”
“Absolutely sure. Time and again you have proved that you are worth your weight in gold, which I would pay you if I could. If I have any criticism of your work, I will tell you.”
Billy gave her a wary grin.
“Is that all that’s bothering you, Billy?”
“That’s all, Miss.”
“Right then. Let’s see where we are with the Waite case.”
The sound of mail being pushed through the letterbox was a signal to Billy to get up from his desk. “Back in a minute, better see if there’s anything for us.”