Elegy for Eddie (12 page)

Maisie traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. “Did Bart see Eddie at other times, do you know? Or did they meet only at your house?”

“Oh, I can’t say. I would imagine not—but there again, they might have, though Bart never mentioned it. As I said, Bart treated Eddie like an equal, so he might have seen him again and never thought to tell me.”

Maisie drew breath, knowing she must navigate troubled waters. “Your son died in a tragic accident, I understand. Do you know what happened?”

“Pol—”

“I’m all right, Milly. I told you.” Soames turned again to Maisie. “My son fell from Lambeth Bridge in the dark of night. I was told he’d been seen drinking in The Prince’s Tavern on the other side of the water, and that he was the worse for wear when he set off to go home. There was a thick smog that night, and they believe he lost his footing and managed to pitch himself over the side.”

“And what do you think?” Maisie did not look away as she asked the question.

Pauline Soames returned Maisie’s gaze, though her thoughts seemed distant.

“I have my doubts, Miss Dobbs. I have my doubts. My son had stepped on a few toes in his time—he was a thorough and inquisitive journalist, and he had a way of sniffing around in places where people were up to no good. He didn’t like working for the newspapers, because he said they were always kowtowing to someone, somewhere, and that the big nobs were in the pockets of even bigger nobs. So I have tormented myself with imaginings, I must confess. But at the same time, he was courting another writer by the name of Evelyn Butterworth, and though it had nothing to do with me, I do believe they were living under the same roof, and that it was probably not a very calm union—or whatever it might be called, so you never know . . .”

“Living in sin,” said Mildred Taylor. “You can call it living in sin.”

“No, Milly, that’s not what I would call it, though I would rather they were courting and planning a wedding. But listen to me—talking as if it might happen any day now, when it won’t ever happen now.” Soames pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket.

“Do you have an address for Miss Butterworth? I would like to speak to her.”

Pauline Soames wiped her eyes before answering. “I’ll jot it down for you when you leave.”

“Indeed.” Maisie noticed that both sisters had looked at the kitchen clock, and she imagined them as children, Polly and Milly, identical twins in identical clothing. “But perhaps a couple more questions—if that’s all right?”

“My sister’s getting a bit tired, you know—she’s been under a lot of strain.”

“I can see that, Mrs. Taylor. I’ll be very quick.” Maisie leaned towards Pauline Soames. “What can you tell me about Jimmy Merton?”

The question was met with a heavy sigh. “I always liked to think I could find something good to say about every child I taught, no matter what their upbringing, no matter how the cross they bore might have affected their character and made them less than likable—but I never, ever met a meaner person than Jimmy Merton. He was trouble from the time he came into the classroom—if he came into the classroom—until the time he left. I breathed a sigh of relief on those days when I took the register and he wasn’t there to answer to his name. I should have reported him to the school board inspector more often than I did, but most of the time I simply kept quiet because I dreaded seeing him walk into my room.”

“I understand he was cruel to Eddie.”

“He was—but what always surprised me was the fact that many of the children stuck up for Eddie. They’d tell him to clear off if they saw Jimmy coming, and though it was more than they dare do to square up to the bully, they helped Eddie when they could—as did the teachers. But you have to remember that with Jimmy, it was all he knew. He was beaten at home. All the Merton children were beaten by that father—so was his mother. The brute left her with a black eye when she was eight months gone with the youngest. That’s who Jimmy learned from. The streets could be a difficult place to grow up, but the likes of the Merton family made it all the more dark for everyone.” The woman rubbed her hand across her forehead. “I’m sorry, Miss Dobbs, what with not sleeping properly since my son died, and the wind last night, I am very tired.”

“And I shall leave you in peace. You’ve been most kind, Mrs. Soames.” Maisie paused, leaning forward to take the woman’s hand in her own. “I thank you for your time—and for the way you helped Eddie. He was much loved, and you gave him respect, for which his friends are most grateful—they know how you took him under your wing.”

Mildred Taylor touched Maisie’s shoulder. It was time for her to leave. Without saying another word, Pauline Soames scribbled an address for Evelyn Butterworth and pressed it into Maisie’s hand. Maisie thanked her and allowed her twin to escort her to the door. Mildred Taylor bid their guest good-bye, but before Maisie could turn and walk away, she added, “You did all right for yourself, all things considered, didn’t you, Miss Dobbs? You look more like a gentlewoman than a girl from the streets. I thought it was only Charlie Chaplin who came out of Lambeth and did well for himself.”

Maisie looked down at her hands as she pulled on her gloves. “I was lucky, Mrs. Taylor. I was very, very lucky. Thank you for your time—you’ve both been very kind.” She placed her hand on her hat and set off along the path to the street. She turned to look back and wave once more, aware that the woman had not retreated into the house but was watching her. Mildred Taylor had been joined on the threshold by her sister, and Maisie had the impression that they were rather like characters from a storybook, or subtle caricatures on the back of a set of playing cards—indistinguishable sisters, one mirroring the other with her pleated skirt, her blouse and cardigan buttoned to the neck, the delicate pearl earrings, and both raising their hands at the same time. One a bereaved woman. The other her protector, the one who—without realizing it—in her manner had told Maisie that there was more to learn, that Pauline Soames—doubtless the younger of the two—had more to tell. And she was afraid, though Maisie suspected the woman was not sure who it was she should fear.

O
ff to the station now, are we, Miss Dobbs?” Sid Mayfield held the door open for Maisie to board the motor car.

“Yes, please, Mr. Mayfield. I should be in good time for the next train up to Victoria.”

“Plenty of time—you’ll be up in London by noon at this rate.”

“That’s good. I’ll be in trouble if I’m late.”

“Uh-oh—that sounds dodgy to me.”

Maisie laughed, then settled back in her seat while Sid drove towards the station. Tuning out the buzz of chatter as the taxi-cab driver went on about this and that—about the Saturday train service, and whether there might be a delay, because you never knew with trains—Maisie considered the meeting with Mrs. Soames in her sister’s kitchen. The former teacher seemed to have a compassionate understanding of Eddie, and though there had been similar descriptions of him, each time someone else talked about Eddie, a light shone on another facet of his story; they were variations worth considering. Bart Soames was doubtless a kind man, generous with his time as far as Eddie was concerned—but—
but . . . but . . . but.
There was always a
but
somewhere in an investigation, and usually more than a few, and though she hated to doubt his kindness, Maisie wondered if the teacher’s son might have wanted more from Eddie than the simple man had been able to give. It was just a thought, a “but” in the conversation with herself—and it was enough to claim her attention for the entire journey up to London. Indeed, it was only as she stepped into another taxi-cab at Victoria that she remembered her destination was Ebury Place, to meet James, and not her own home in Pimlico.

Chapter Seven

D
arling, you must be exhausted.” James pushed back his desk chair as Maisie entered the library. “I hope you’ve saved some energy for our outing.”

Maisie gave in to his embrace and held him in return. She had expected him to be angry, put out that she had not been at Ebury Place the night before. She suspected he had buried his dismay with the intention of carrying on as if nothing were bothering him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get my second wind. But I do have to place a couple of telephone calls before we leave for Richmond—and I must change my clothes.”

“I’ll leave you in peace then—would you like a bite to eat now, or shall we pull in at a pub on the way?”

“Yes, let’s stop somewhere.” Maisie lifted the telephone receiver, then called to James before he left the room. “Oh, James, what time shall we leave for the Hartmans’ this evening?”

“About seven.”

“Seven. All right . . .”

“Look, we don’t have to go out this afternoon, not if you’re tired.”

“Of course we’ll go. Let me make my telephone calls, then I’ll take only a few minutes to change.”

Maisie placed her first call to Scotland Yard, where Caldwell informed her that Billy had shown signs of improvement, and that Dr. Dene had visited again and given fresh instructions for the injured man’s care.

“He knows what he’s doing, that Dene,” said Caldwell.

“Yes, I know.” Maisie tried not to sound impatient with her questioning. “Do you have any more information on who the attackers might have been—and why they set upon Billy?”

“We’re working on it; should have more on Monday.”

“Right you are, Detective Inspector.” She paused for a second before pressing another query. “I wonder, do you have a good liaison set up with the river police?”

“Certainly do, seeing as London’s waterways are a convenient place to dispose of the recently bumped-off.”

Maisie cringed. Recently bumped-off? Caldwell certainly knew how to construct a phrase when he liked. “I just wondered—”

“Yes, you sounded like you were wondering.”

“I just wondered if you might have heard about a recent drowning, a man named Bartholomew Soames.”

“Soames. I’ll see what I can find out. To do with the death of Eddie Pettit?”

“The son of his former teacher. He died recently, suspected suicide. And he’d been quite friendly with Eddie, apparently.”

“Let’s not read too much into it,” said Caldwell. “These things can send us off along the wrong path.”

“Yes, I know that’s only too true,” said Maisie. “But I appreciate your time all the same, Inspector. I expect I’ll be in touch again on Monday.”

Maisie ended the call, waited for the signal to dial, and placed a call to Billy’s house in Eltham. After eight rings, a breathless Sandra answered. “Hello!”

“Sandra, you sound overwhelmed.”

“Not overwhelmed, Miss, but busy. I’ve got the boys sorted out, and I’m just about to feed the baby. Mrs. Partridge is sending Elinor over this evening, and I am sure she’ll be better with little Meg here.”

“What are the boys doing at the moment?”

“Making mud pies in the garden.”

“Hmmm, enough said. I’ll be there in about three quarters of an hour—we’ll take them for a ride in the motor and wear them out.”

“Only if you’ve time, Miss. I’m sure it would take their mind off things—they miss their mum and dad, and they’re not the sort of children to sit quietly with a book.”

“I see—they’ve been playing up a bit. I’ll see you soon—and thank you, Sandra.”

Maisie replaced the receiver as James came back into the library.

“Um, James. Slight change of plan today.”

“I’m not sure whether to smile or frown. Where are we going?”

“First, to Eltham, to pick up Billy’s boys. We’ll take them for an outing in the motor—perhaps somewhere to walk or kick a ball around—then we’ll find somewhere for tea and cakes afterwards. It’ll do them a power of good.”

“And you’ll feel as if you’re doing something for Billy.”

Maisie nodded.

“Well, let’s go then,” James swept his hand towards the door.

“Thank you, James.”

“As long as we’re back in good time—we don’t want to be late for the Hartman party.”

M
aisie thought the afternoon with young Billy and his brother, Bobby, had not only been good for the boys, but for James and herself. Playing with the children at the park had brought a lightness to the day for all concerned, and took her mind off her worries about her feelings for James or his expectations of her. He had graciously accommodated her desire to help the Beale family, and it had all been for the better. Now, as she opened the door of her wardrobe at Ebury Place, Maisie considered that perhaps their relationship was best enjoyed without scrutiny. And it occurred to her that she was so used to turning over everything in her mind, as if each thought were an intricate shell found at the beach, that she had never truly known the value in simply accepting things as they were. She couldn’t help wondering if James could do the same. They might both benefit from a less intense analysis of their relationship.

Maisie flicked through a series of garments, taking stock. She was not one who would automatically consider several new evening gowns a necessary purchase for the season’s social engagements, which meant she was usually pleased to receive any crumbs of unwanted couture falling from Priscilla’s table; Priscilla was more than generous with clothes she had tired of, and Maisie never too proud to turn them down. Priscilla was an inch or two taller than Maisie, and a little broader across the shoulders—indeed, she had heard a woman at a supper in December referring to Priscilla as “that rather outspoken Amazon.” Maisie usually took the clothing to Doreen Beale for alteration, glad that she could send some work in her direction. A pale gray silk dress seemed perfect for the evening party; it was not quite ankle length, with three-quarter-length sleeves, loose-fitting, and embellished with an embroidered band just above the hip in a lighter shade of gray. The layers of silk skimmed across her skin, clinging in places that rendered the dress both modest and sensuous at the same time. Yet as she was dressing, Maisie could already feel the dread rising within her. She was now equal to most of the guests in wealth and had no cause to feel inferior to any one of them. Feelings of inadequacy from earlier years had been replaced with something else—a sense that a sumptuous party during a time of great want was not quite the right thing to do. In truth, though, a social occasion such as the one she and James would attend this evening might be seen as frugal when compared to the parties of just eight or nine years earlier, parties she would neither have been invited to nor wanted to attend.

“Ready then?” James stepped from his dressing room, handsome in a black dinner jacket, starched white shirt, and bow tie. He was fiddling with cuff links bearing the Compton family crest when he looked up, saw Maisie, and stopped.

“You look quite stunning,” he said.

“Here, let me help you, James.” Maisie smiled. “You’re all fingers and thumbs.”

“It’s playing with those boys—my heart’s still racing from the exertion.”

“Perhaps we can leave the party early,” suggested Maisie. “Surely there will be so many guests, no one will notice if we sneak out before the small hours roll around.”

“The Hartmans usually put on a good spread, but let’s see how it goes. You’re the one who’s used to stealing away in the dead of night.”

They smiled at each other and James took Maisie in his arms. “Everything will be all right, Maisie.”

She nodded, knowing he was not referring to the party, but to the often sharp words that had crept into their exchanges of late.

The tall redbrick Knightsbridge home of Duncan and Rose Hartman was bubbling with guests by the time they arrived. An expansive foyer led to a drawing room with tall ceilings and large bay windows looking out to the street on two sides, and it seemed the men in their evening attire and women in many shades and hues of silk and satin moved in whirlpools, circling into conversations here before moving on to another group over there. A band played on a dais in the entrance hall, serenading partygoers with the latest jazz numbers, while those who were a bit peckish could choose from a bounty of food laid on in the dining room. Though the event was formal, there was to be no sit-down meal; clearly the hosts wanted their guests to mingle, chatter, laugh, and dance the night away, rather than find themselves locked in conversation with the person on either side of them.

As Maisie and James squeezed and wove their way through the foyer, a voice could be heard above the music, calling Maisie’s name.

“Maisie! Maisie—over here!”

“Priscilla!” Maisie excused her way through the guests, feeling James in her wake, his hand at the small of her back as she reached Priscilla and her husband, Douglas.

“Would you believe it? I would say the whole of London has turned out for this party—I cannot imagine what might have overcome Rose to take on such a thing. I would be exhausted just thinking about it.”

“Remember our New Year party at the end of ’31, my dear? You didn’t do so badly then, did you?” Douglas reached out to a passing waiter who was struggling not to lose his tray, and took two glasses of champagne with his one hand. “Not so fast, sonny,” he called to the waiter, who was about to walk away.

James took another two glasses. “Thank you—but do pass this way in about fifteen minutes, won’t you?” he said to the waiter.

“Ten will do nicely,” added Priscilla.

The group laughed, toasted one another, then seemed to need a breath before conversation continued.

“Thank you, Priscilla, for sending Elinor to take care of Billy’s children,” said Maisie.

“Believe me, she will get them sorted out. I call her the Welsh terror. She and Sandra have worked it out between them: Sandra will stay until Monday morning, to give Elinor a hand, then Elinor will be there until Billy’s wife returns to the house.” Priscilla looked at Maisie and took another sip of her champagne. “Just tell me how you’d like to play your hand—I can have Elinor leave just before Doreen arrives home, or be there to help her out for as long as she’s needed.”

“I’ll let you know, but I think having her leave before Doreen arrives home is best.”

James and Douglas were deep in conversation, leaning towards each other to better hear themselves.

“Perhaps if we went into the dining room, it would be a bit easier to talk for a while, before the dancing really begins,” said Priscilla.

“Good idea,” said Maisie.

Priscilla tapped her husband on the shoulder and pointed towards the dining room. He nodded and the four nudged and shimmied their way through the throng. Maisie felt herself begin to relax when they reached the relative quiet of the room, with its high ceilings, paneled walls, and expanse of thick green carpet. At the far end, lush olive-green velvet curtains had been drawn to provide a backdrop to the broad table bearing the evening’s feast. At one end a footman carved steaming slices of roast beef, while another served a selection of vegetables, and yet another poured gravy. As soon as a couple or a group of guests reached a table, a footman was waiting with wine. There were salads and breads, condiments, salvers of shellfish kept cool on mountains of shaved ice, and cold cuts fanned out on platters. Some guests preferred to stand, clustered against the wall while balancing a plate heaped with delicacies, a glass of wine, and conversation.

“Let’s sit over there,” said James, nodding towards a table set for four.

“My feet are rather killing me already,” said Priscilla.

“In the choice between comfort and style, my wife will choose style every time,” said Douglas.

“I never thought I would hear myself say this, but I think I might like to leave this party earlier than usual, my love—I cannot hear myself think out there,” said Priscilla.

“Maisie probably feels the same, don’t you, darling?” James rested his arm along the back of Maisie’s chair.

“I’ve had a busy week, and of course, we went over to see the Beale boys today, so we’re both quite worn out,” said Maisie.

“Now you know what it’s like! When the toads are asleep and quiet, I breathe a sigh of relief and slump into the chair—even with the amazing Elinor,” said Priscilla.

“So make the most of the peace and quiet now, you two!” Douglas raised his glass to James and Maisie, and leaned to kiss his wife on the cheek.

Maisie was quick to change the subject. “How’s work, Douglas? Priscilla tells me you’re contributing regularly to the
New Statesman
now.”

Douglas nodded. “Thank goodness! And my latest book has done well—though I think rather eclipsed by Winston Churchill’s, which seems to be in all the bookshops.”

“Oh dear, I feel rather a Philistine,” said James. “I think I’ve missed that one.”

“Came out not that long ago,” said Douglas.

“Even I’ve dipped into it,” said Priscilla. “It’s a collection of essays, some of them written in years past. Oh dear, what’s it called? Now my memory’s going.” She frowned as she looked at her husband.

“
Thoughts and Adventures
,” said Douglas. “It’s well worth reading—I’ll send a copy to you, James. I bought the book and then received another as a gift.”

“Thank you—look forward to reading it,” said James.

“Is there another book on the horizon, Douglas?” Maisie took a sip of champagne; her interest in Douglas’ work was genuine.

“Oh, I’ve been taking a little time to myself, and with Priscilla and the boys, so I’ve given Sandra a bit of time off. It’s been all work and no play for a while—not what I planned at all!”

The group laughed, and it seemed that all too soon they were discovered by their hostess, who herded them out of the dining room to enjoy the dancing. Priscilla and Douglas were swept along by the tide of people, and Maisie soon lost sight of them among the guests. As others moved on into one of the many reception rooms at the Hartman residence, to talk, to dine or to dance, the crowd seemed to have thinned.

“Shall we have a dance or two, then call it a night?” said James.