“Could you tell me where the warehouse is?”
“Across the water. In Rotherhithe, the ‘Larder of London,’ where all the warehouses are. Let me get a piece of paper and write down the directions for you. It’s easy to find, close to St. Saviour’s Docks, Madam. Relative, are you?”
“A friend.”
“I see. Mr. Waite’s own son was down at the warehouse, before he went over there. Started him at the bottom, did Mr. Waite. Said he had to work his way up like anyone else.” The assistant left the counter and returned with a folded piece of paper, which she handed to Maisie. “There you are, Madam. Now then, what about some sausages for your supper?”
Maisie was about to decline, then thought otherwise. Smiling at the assistant, she gave her order. “Lovely. A pound, please.”
“Right you are.” And with a flourish copied directly from Joseph Waite, the assistant swept up a string of bulbous pork sausages, and laid them on the scale. The Beale family would eat well tonight.
“Stratton any easier to talk to this afternoon, Miss?”
“I wish I could say yes, Billy. It started out well enough, then became rather difficult.”
“Funny, that. ’e always seemed such a reasonable bloke.”
Maisie took off her mackintosh, hat, and gloves, and laid her document case and a brown carrier bag on her desk. “It’ll settle down and we’ll all be talking again after this case is closed, Billy. Men in Stratton’s position can’t close too many doors, especially those leading to people they’ve consulted with in the past. No, there are two struggles going on there: One in the department and one inside Stratton. As long as we are seen to be doing our part, I’m not going to worry.” Maisie looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time, Billy! It’s almost half past four. Let’s just go over some details on the Waite case and make plans for Monday. I’m driving down to Chelstone tomorrow morning first thing, and I must also visit my fath—”
Maisie was interrupted by the telephone.
“Fitzroy five —Miss Waite. Where are you. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” The line crackled.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite you may be in danger. Tell me where you are.”
Silence.
“Miss Waite? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“Well, can you speak up a bit, please? This is a terrible line.”
“I’m in a telephone kiosk.” Charlotte’s voice was slightly louder.
“Why have you called me, Miss Waite?”
“I . . . I . . . need to speak to you.”
“About what?” Maisie held her breath as she pushed Charlotte just a little.
“There’s more to tell you. I didn’t tell you . . . everything.”
“Can you tell me now?”
Silence.
“Miss Waite?”
“I have to speak to you privately, in person.”
“Where are you? I’ll come right away.”
Maisie thought she heard Charlotte crying; then there was silence but for the crackling telephone line.
“Miss Waite? Are we still connected?”
“Oh, it’s no use. It’s no use—”
There was a click and the line was dead. Maisie replaced the receiver.
“Damn!”
Billy’s eyes widened. “What was all that about, eh, Miss?”
“Charlotte Waite. She said she wanted to talk to me, then hung up the receiver saying it was ‘no use.’”
“Lost ’er bottle, did she?”
“She certainly did. It was a bad line. She could have been anywhere. Mind you, there was noise in the background.” Maisie closed her eyes as if to hear the entire call again. “What was that sound?”
“D’you still want me to do all this?” Billy held up the list.
“Yes. She could have been in Paris for all I know. Or outside an hotel on the Edgeware Road. But at least we know she’s still alive. It’s getting late, but you can make a start, and then get on with it again tomorrow morning.”
“Right you are, Miss.”
“I’ll need to speak to Lady Rowan at Chelstone before I see my father, then I’ll come back to London to continue the search for Charlotte Waite.”
“How can ’er Ladyship help?”
Maisie turned to Billy. “She was involved in the suffrage movement before the war, and knows a lot about what different women’s associations did. I could use more color on the page.”
“I know, Miss.”
Maisie looked up at Billy, walked over to her desk, and sighed. “Billy, give it another half an hour or so and then get on your way. It’s been a long day—in fact, it’s been a long week, and you’ll have to put in quite a few hours tomorrow.”
“Aw, thanks, Miss. I want to see the nippers before they go to bed.”
“Oh, and Billy—here’s something for you.” Maisie held out the brown paper carrier bag.
“What’s all this, Miss?”
“A pound of Waite’s sausages. Best in London, they say.”
Shortly after Billy began his evening journey back to Whitechapel, Maisie climbed into the MG, started the engine, and pulled out of Fitzroy Square. A telephone call had confirmed that Waite’s warehouse in Rotherhithe remained open until late in the evening, while lorries bound for the shops were packed with the next day’s deliveries. Mr. Jempson, the warehouse manager, was available and had kindly agreed to see Maisie as soon as she arrived.
Fog horns bellowed along the Thames as carriage drivers, motorists and barge captains alike made their way through the murky smog that once again began to shroud London. Maisie negotiated the MG along narrow roads that were almost lanes, byways that led from the docks to riverside warehouses. Following directions carefully, she eventually turned into a cobbled side street and drew up in front of a pair of open gates with a sign above in blue-and-gold lettering: WAITE’S INTERNA-TIONAL STORES. SOUTH-EASTERN WAREHOUSE. A guard in a blue-and-gold uniform waved from the gatehouse and came out to greet Maisie, a clipboard under his arm.
“Evening, Miss.” He touched the peak of his blue cap. “Expected, are you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Jempson, in the offices.”
“Ah, of course, he telephoned through to put you on the list not long ago.”The guard leaned down toward Maisie and pointed ahead, to an extensive courtyard illuminated by a lamp in each corner. “Don’t park by the lorries, otherwise you’ll have them drivers givin’ me a row. Go over to where it says ‘Visitors’ and put the motor there. And, Miss, park nose out, if you don’t mind.”
Nose out at the warehouse, too? Maisie’s countenance revealed her thoughts.
“It’s the way Mr. Waite likes it, Miss.” He smiled at Maisie. “You see that door there, the big wooden one? You go through there, up the stairs, and one of the clerks will be there at the top to meet you. I’ll telephone to let them know you’re on your way.”
Maisie thanked the guard, noting that no expense seemed to have been spared even in equipping the warehouse. Having parked the MG following the guard’s instructions to the letter, Maisie entered the granite building through the wooden door and was greeted at the top of the stairs by a young man in dark gray trousers, polished brogues, a crisp white shirt, and black tie, with armbands to keep his sleeves drawn away from his wrists. A freshly sharpened pencil protruded from behind his right ear.
“Evening, Miss Dobbs. My name’s Smithers. Come this way to Mr. Jempson’s office.”
“Thank you.”
Maisie was led to an office surrounded by windows that looked down onto the warehouse floor, the rich cherrywood frames and paneling gleaming under the glow of several lamps that illuminated the room.
“Thank you, Mr. Smithers.”
Jempson held out his hand for Maisie to take a seat in the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk. It was obviously reserved for guests. A rather less comfortable chair was situated alongside.
“I am most grateful for your time, M
r. Jempson.”
“How may I be of service to you?”
Maisie had to tread carefully. She already knew that Mr. Jempson’s employer was held in great esteem by his staff
“I wonder if you could help me with a most delicate matter.”
“I’ll try.” Jempson, a tall, thin man wearing an ensemble almost identical to his assistant’s, looked over half-moon glasses at Maisie, on his guard.
Maisie relaxed into her chair, an adjustment that was mirrored by Jempson. Good. Sensing that the conversation might now proceed, Maisie envisioned the tiled memorial of names in Waite’s International Stores, and began to ask the questions that had plagued her since the visit to Dulwich this morning.
Maisie took her leave from the warehouse an hour later. Mr. Jempson had indeed been most helpful. In fact, as he confessed while escorting her to the MG, “It’s done me good to talk about it all. I saw them all go, and most of them never came back. Broke the boss’s heart, it did. Couldn’t do enough for the families either. Must be terrible for him. To be reminded of it every day, every day when you look into the eyes of your own daughter. It’s a wonder he wants her back, if you ask me. Mind you, like I said upstairs, he had to keep her at home, after all that business with the windows being broken when he got her that flat on her own, after the war. Everyone loved Mr. Waite, but there’s no love lost on his daughter or them harpies she was with. I wouldn’t blame anyone who, you know, had lost someone. . . .”
Maisie placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you again, Mr. Jempson. Take good care, and don’t worry, this conversation is in absolute confidence.”
The man touched his forehead as Maisie left him to drive away into the thick darkness pierced by foghorns. Maisie did not go far. Parking close to the water, she remained in the motor car for some moments to review her plans. She would telephone Lady Rowan that evening, to ask if she might join her for a walk before breakfast. She knew that the older woman would have valuable insights to add to the evidence Maisie now had to hand. Her absolute priority was to find Charlotte. Was she ready to make a confession? Or was she in immediate danger? Maisie shook her head, pulled her collar up, and stepped from the car. She walked along Bermondsey Wall and stopped to watch the thick smog which seemed to curdle above the water. A wall had originally been built to keep out floodwaters in the Middle Ages; as people walked on the wall to avoid the muddy ground, the wall became a road, but the name was never lost. Maisie stood in silence feeling as if she were caught in the mud, unable to move. Charlotte was lost, and it was her fault. The chain of foghorns up and down the Thames began their round of blasts again, and as they did so, Maisie closed her eyes. Of course! What was it that Billy had said to her? Just after she’d received the call from Reverend Sneath? Something about being hidden in plain view? While listening to Charlotte speaking from the telephone kiosk, she’d heard the foghorns from south of the river. Charlotte was somewhere right under her father’s nose. She was close to the warehouse. But where?
The area was always teeming with people. It would be like finding a pebble lost on the beach. Sarson’s Vinegar, Courage’s Brewery, Crosse &Blackwell’s tinned foods, the leatherworks, Peek Freans biscuit factory, the docks, warehouses receiving foods from all over the world—she could be anywhere in Bermondsey. Maisie knew that the journey to Kent could not be delayed, but she would return to London quickly. Charlotte might have chosen to call from an identifiable area deliberately to send them in the wrong direction. She needed a source of information in Bermondsey. Maisie smiled. A Bermondsey boy. That’s what I need.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Leaving London at the crack of dawn, Maisie arrived at Chelstone early. The interior of the small cottage was cold and not at all welcoming as it would have been if Frankie Dobbs were at home. Maisie began opening curtains and windows to let in shafts of early morning sunshine, and a breath of fresh air. The rooms were neat and tidy, revealing regular attention from staff up at the manor house. Frankie Dobbs was much loved at Chelstone. His house had been well kept in anticipation of his return, but it lacked the life that Frankie brought to his simple dwelling.
Maisie moved around the cottage, running her fingers across her father’s belongings, as if touching the leather traces kept in the scullery awaiting repair, or his tools and brushes, brought him closer. She made a list of things that required attention. A bed must be moved into the small sitting room so that Frankie would not have to negotiate the stairs. A room must be prepared for Billy upstairs. She must speak again with Maurice about plans for Billy’s rehabilitation, in body, mind, and soul. She knew her father’s contribution to this part of Billy’s recovery was just as important, for Frankie was above all else a father, and Billy would gain as much from him as he would from Maurice, Gideon Brown, or Dr. Andrew Dene.
Her task complete, she left the cottage to join Lady Rowan, who was in the distance striding as purposefully as she could across the lawns at the front of the manor.
Lady Rowan waved to Maisie with her walking stick and called out. “Good morning, Maisie,” followed by, “Nutmeg, drop it! Drop it now and come here!”
Maisie laughed to see the dog come to his owner, tail between his legs, head down, and filled with remorse.
“This dog will eat anything, absolutely anything. How lovely to see you, my dear.” Lady Rowan reached out and squeezed Maisie’s upper arm. Though she held Maisie in great affection, Lady Rowan, restrained by considerations of position and place, had only once demonstrated her feelings. When Maisie returned from France, Lady Rowan had taken her in her arms and said, “I am so relieved, so very relieved that you are home.” On that occasion Maisie was silent in her embrace, not knowing quite what to say.
“And it’s lovely to see you, too, Lady Rowan,” replied Maisie, placing her hand on top of Lady Rowan’s for just a second.
“Now then, before we get down to business”—she glanced at Maisie as they began to walk together across the lawn—“because I know you’re here on business, Maisie, what’s the news about your dear father and the young man you’re sending to help.”
“Well, I’ll see my father later, before I return to London. I’ve spoken to Dr. Simms, who thinks it’ll be another week before he’s transferred to the convalescent hospital. I think he’ll be there for about three or four weeks, according to Dr. Dene, who says it might have been longer, but he’s spoken to the doctors at Pembury, and my father is making excellent progress, even at this early stage. During that time Mr. Beale will look after the horses. Then, when Dad comes home to Chelstone, Mr. Beale will stay on at the cottage and work under his supervision.”
“Which as we both know means that your father will be hobbling over to the stables each day even though he shouldn’t.”
“Probably, though I’ve told Mr. Beale to keep an eye on him.”
Lady Rowan nodded. “I’ll be so relieved when he’s back in charge. Then I’ll feel I can leave for Town.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, L—”
Lady Rowan held up her hand to silence Maisie, as they leaned toward each other to avoid the low branch of a majestic beech tree.
“What can I do for you, Maisie Dobbs?” Lady Rowan smiled at Maisie, a gleam in her eye.
“I want you to tell me what you know about the different women’s affiliations in the war. I’m particularly interested in those women who handed out white feathers.”
Lady Rowan blinked rapidly, the sparkle vanishing instantly. “Oh, those harpies!”
“Harpies.” It was the second time in two days that Maisie had heard the term in connection with the women. And in her mind’s eye she saw the illustrated flyleaf of a book that Maurice had given her to read, years ago. A short note had accompanied her assignment: “In learning about the myths and legends of old, we learn something of ourselves. Stories, Maisie, are never just stories. They contain fundamental truths about the human condition.” The black-and-white charcoal drawing depicted birds with women’s faces, birds carrying humans in
their beaks as they flew away into the darkness. Maisie was jolted back to the present by Lady Rowan.
“Of course, you were either engrossed in your studies at Girton or away overseas doing something worthwhile, so you would have missed the Order of the White Feather.” Lady Rowan slowed her pace, as if to allow memories to catch up with the present. “This was before conscription, and it was all started by that man, Admiral Charles Fitzgerald. After the the initial rush to enlist had fallen off, they needed more men at the front, so he obviously thought the way to get them there was through the women. I remember seeing the handbills starting to pop up all over the place.” Lady Rowan mimicked a stern masculine voice: “Is your best boy in uniform yet?”
“Oh yes, I think I saw one at a railway station before I went into nursing.”
“The plan was to get young women to go around giving the white feather—a sign of cowardice—to young men not in uniform. And—” she raised a pointed finger in emphasis. “And those two women—the Scarlet Pimpernel woman—what was her name? Oh yes, Orczy, the Hungarian baroness, well, she was a great supporter of Fitzgerald, and so was Mary Ward—Mrs. Humphrey Ward.”
“You didn’t care for her, did you?”
Lady Rowan pursed her lips. Maisie realized that she was so intent upon Lady Rowan’s words that she had been ignoring the vista of the Weald of Kent around her. They had reached a gate and stile. If she had been alone, Maisie would have clambered over the stile with the same energy as the three dogs before her. Instead, she pulled back the rusty iron gate lock, and allowed Lady Rowan to walk through first.
“Frankly, no, I didn’t.” Lady Rowan continued. “She did a lot of very commendable work in bringing education to those who might not otherwise have had the opportunity, organizing children’s play groups for working women, that sort of thing. But she was an anti-suffragist, so we were like oil and water. Of course she’s long gone now, but she supported recruiting men for the trenches by this most horrible means, through the accusations of women. And as for the women themselves—”