Free Birds of a Feather by Jacqueline Winspear

of her and what the Benedictines stand for.”
    “I bet old Waite would just march in, find out if Charlotte was there and—if she was—drag her out.”
    “He could try.” Maisie smiled at her assistant. “But I wouldn’t bet on his chances against Dame Constance. No, let’s do this with an eye to protocol; it’ll serve us well.”
    Billy nodded, and Maisie reached for her own notes.
    She described Joseph Waite, the way in which his forceful personality filled the shop, drawing customers to him with his easy camaraderie while at the same time intimidating his staff. Maisie explained to Billy how such intimidation seemed at odds with the regard the assistants appeared to have for Waite, especially for the way he looked after the families of those fallen in the Great War.
    Billy chimed in, “Y’know what my ol’ father used to say, don’t you? ’e used to say that if you ’ad workers, it wasn’t so important to be liked as it was to be respected, and it was possible to respect someone without actually likin’ them. P’r’aps Waite doesn’t need to be liked.”
    “I think that’s a fairly accurate assessment of the situation.” Maisie nodded, and continued, “The other thing, and the most important: Joseph Waite lost a son in the war, a son who worked for him at the shop. He was probably being groomed to inherit the business.”
    Billy was surprised.“P’r’aps that’s why ’es so, y’know, miserable. After all, ’e would be, especially if that girl of ’is is a bit of a drooping flower.”
    “I think ‘wilting lily’ was the phrase he used. And yes, it could account for a lot, but might have nothing at all to do with Charlotte’s disappearance, which must obviously be our focus.”
    “What ’appened to ’im, the son?”
    “It appears that young Waite was killed along with many men employed by Waite’s. They joined up together. Joseph was a product of Waite’s first marriage. Waite married, quite literally, the girl next door, when he was twenty-four and she was twenty. Sadly, she died in childbirth a year later. By then Waite was doing quite well, but it must have been yet another heavy loss to add to his list.”
    “It’s a wonder ’e didn’t mention it the other day. Y’know, when ’e was going on about despair.”
    “Yes and no. Extreme emotions are strange forces, Billy. The loss of his son might be kept separate from his other griefs, his alone, shared with no one.” Maisie stopped for a moment, then continued speaking: “One of Waite’s sisters, who was unmarried at the time, came to live at his house to care for the child. As you can imagine, Waite kept his family employed, so they were well looked after, except the brother he spoke of yesterday, who had gone to work at the pit. The son would have been about six when Waite remarried in haste and, as you know, Charlotte was born seven months later. So Joseph, the son, was seven when his sister was born. By the way, you’ll notice young Joseph’s middle name was Charles, and the daughter was christened Charlotte. Joseph Waite’s father was Charles. Thus he effectively named both children after their late grandfather.”
    Maisie reached for the colored pencils and drew them toward Billy and herself. “Now then, let’s map this out and see what we might have missed.” They began working together, and after a few minutes Maisie continued. “I’ll visit Lydia Fisher this week, Billy. Tomorrow morning, I think, so don’t expect me in until lunchtime-ish. It’s going to be a very busy week, I may not be able to keep my Friday luncheon appointment with Inspector Stratton.”
    “Oh, Miss—” Billy suddenly laid a red pencil down on the desk and hit his forehead smartly, as if to reprimand himself for his forgetfulness. “That reminds me, you mentionin’ D. I. Stratton. I spoke to ol’ Jack Barker—y’know, who sells the Express outside Warren Street station— and ’e spoke to ’is mate what sells the Times ,