Elegy for Eddie (15 page)

“Just stop! All of you, come to your senses and stop this nonsense.” She rubbed her arm. “And you can get up. I didn’t hurt you half as much as you hurt me, so don’t pretend, it doesn’t become you.”

The women seemed stunned, as if, having come into the flat with all guns blazing, they were now not sure what they should do.

“Which one of you is Evelyn?” Maisie wiped her forehead and pushed back her hair.

The woman with the black hair and red lipstick spoke up, and as Maisie’s attention was drawn to her, she realized her clothes had been chosen to match her hair and makeup; she was wearing a scarlet jacket and black skirt. “I am,” said the woman. “Look, what do you want here? Can’t you see someone has turned over my flat?”

“Of course I can see what happened. Do you think anyone doing this would be so stupid as to return, when they’ve made a pretty good job of looking for whatever it is they’re after? They may have made a mess of your home, but this is a professional job. They’ve gone through everything thoroughly. I’m surprised the carpets aren’t pulled back and the floorboards torn up. In fact, I would bet that they were fairly systematic in their search.” Maisie cast an eye around the five women, who were now all standing in front of her, staring. She thought they were likely all in their thirties, and suspected that, with the exception of Evelyn, they were probably all spinsters, living in a women’s boarding house, ekeing out a living working in offices or as teachers; perhaps there was a librarian among them, a waitress or shop assistant. Though ostensibly alone, without a spouse, they had each other for company, for entertainment, and to turn to when troubled.

Evelyn Butterworth sighed. “I came home from the college where I work—I teach English, but not full-time—and found my flat like this.” She held out her hand. “I was so shocked, scared, I ran out. I went to the tea shop and found my friends—we were supposed to be meeting anyway, about the women’s pensions march.” She turned to her friends. “Alice, Marjorie, Penny, and Kate. I brought them back here. Safety in numbers. And then we saw you.”

“And did you see anyone walking away as you approached the house? Anyone in the area lately who you haven’t seen before?”

“Who are you?” asked Alice.

“Maisie Dobbs.” She reached into her briefcase and took out five calling cards, giving one to each of the women.

“Investigator and psychologist? What do you do?” The woman introduced as Penny looked up, frowning.

“She’s looking into the death of a man named Eddie Pettit, aren’t you?” said Butterworth.

“Ah, you’ve had a chance to speak to Mrs. Soames,” said Maisie.

Butterworth nodded. “Yes, she said you’d visited, that she gave you my address.”

Maisie looked around the flat, then at the women. “Look, I’d like to speak to Miss Butterworth in private, if you don’t mind.”

The women looked at Butterworth. She nodded her assent. “That’s all right, girls. I’m pretty sure I’m safe here now.”

There were kisses among the women, a squeeze on the arm, and offers of a sofa to sleep on for as long as she needed. Maisie felt at once alone in the room. Beyond Priscilla, there was no one she could call upon to talk about, well, anything really. There were no long-standing friendships and no new ones either. She had enjoyed evenings at the flat when Sandra was with her—a bit of laughter as they listened to the wireless, or a deeper conversation if Sandra wanted to discuss an aspect of her academic work. At once Maisie felt bereft of the sort of sisterly confidence so freely enjoyed by Evelyn Butterworth’s friends.

“See you later, Evie,” Alice called out as she pulled the door closed behind the group.

“See you, Al—and thanks again.”

“Oh, just a minute! Alice!” Maisie opened the door. Alice waited at the top of the landing.

“There’s a locksmith just up the street. I passed the shop on the way here; it’s on Euston Road. I wonder, would you drop in on your way, and ask if someone could come round to fit a new lock here?”

Alice smiled, clearly confident now that she was leaving her friend in good hands. “Yes, of course. I’ll tell them it’s urgent.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Maisie closed the door behind her.

“Evelyn—may I call you Evelyn?”

“Just call me Eve. That’s what most people call me.”

Maisie smiled. “Right then, Eve, let’s go into the kitchen. I think they left a couple of chairs in there without completely destroying them, though I don’t think you’ve any china.”

The woman’s eyes watered. “That china belonged to my grandmother. It wasn’t posh or anything, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t really like it, but it was hers. I lived with her for most of my life, after my parents went.”

“I’m sorry,” said Maisie.

“Oh no, they didn’t die. They just left me and went off. Makes me wonder whether they had any more children and just left them when they got fed up with them, like they did with me. They were on the stage, you see; trod the boards with a music hall troupe. My gran always said that my mother—her daughter—was a bit of a gypsy, and I suppose she was.”

Maisie pressed her lips together as she regarded the crestfallen woman. “Look, if we’ve time when we’re finished here, let’s go out and see if we can get you some more crockery.” She stopped for a few seconds, recalling Elsbeth Masters’ words earlier, realizing she was beginning to direct another person’s life again. “That is, if you want to stay in this flat.”

“I’ll stay—it’s cheap enough, and a new lock and a chain will do the trick. As you said, I don’t think whoever did this will be back in a hurry. I don’t have what they want, anyway.”

“And what do you think they want, Eve?”

“They want Bart’s notebooks. They want his papers, his books, anything he wrote in or kept with words.”

“Who are ‘they’—have you any idea?”

The woman shrugged and picked up a piece of broken china, running her fingers along the patterned edge. It had once been a cup, and Maisie could see a brown stain on the inside, where much tea had been poured over the years.

“I don’t know.”

Maisie walked further into the kitchen, picked up two chairs, and arranged them so that she and Evelyn could look out at the houses opposite and the street below, and not at the many broken things behind them. Once they were seated, she did not speak, allowing the woman her moment of silence. Maisie understood that the shock of seeing one’s home violated was a deeply emotional blow. But this woman had also lost the man she loved, so must feel as if she were falling without chance of her descent being broken.

Evelyn Butterworth was a striking woman, her jet-black hair in tight curls about her head, rouged cheeks, and scarlet lipstick that seemed to render the red jacket even more exotic. Maisie noticed that even her footwear was red, with a single strap of grosgrain ribbon across the foot and a bow at the side to hide the buckle. The tips of the shoes were mottled with tar and dust from walking; here was a woman who would not allow the weather—good or bad—to thwart her very personal style.

“Eve, I think the first thing we must do is go through the flat, square foot by square foot. We’ll make a pile of anything that cannot be restored or mended, and I am sure we can find a rag-and-bone man to come in and clear the lot. But as we go through, I want you to tell me if you’re aware of anything missing—for example, the sideboard has been turned over, so if there were photographs on top and they’re not there now, we can assume the intruders took them.”

Evelyn Butterworth nodded. There would be plenty of time for Maisie to talk to her in the hours ahead, or even tomorrow or the next day, if conversation had to wait that long. She knew the process of sorting through the mess would serve as catharsis of sorts, an opportunity for Evelyn to go through the ritual of leave-taking, a farewell not only to everything that was destroyed, but to the life she’d had with Bartholomew Soames, for surely so many cherished items—from a cup to a chair—must remind her of him. Maisie well understood the woman’s need to remain in the flat despite the destruction around her, for she hadn’t yet said good-bye to the man who had lived there with her. She had noticed the cheap gold band on Evelyn Butterworth’s left hand, a token that must have persuaded the landlord they were a married couple.

For several hours, Maisie and Eve Butterworth knelt down, picking up books with torn spines, collecting pages from a half-finished manuscript belonging to Eve, and making a pile of splintered wood and torn fabrics in the middle of the room. They carefully removed photographs from shattered frames, placed unbroken items in the corner, and brushed down clothing pulled from the wardrobe, which they righted and put back in place. As they were placing jackets, dresses, trousers, and shirts back on hangers, Maisie felt tears prick her eyes when she realized that Bartholomew Soames’ lover had not let go of his clothes, which already seemed to have the musty smell of one who was here not so long ago, but was now gone.

They swept the floors and dusted the windowsills, and they shook the bed linens and remade the bed. Eve went out to see if the local shopkeepers had some old boxes to spare, and when she returned with half a dozen boxes of various sizes, they filled them with broken crockery and glass, torn fabric, splintered wood and crumpled papers. As Maisie lifted a box to put it outside the door, Eve stopped her—she wanted to keep a single fragment of her grandmother’s tea service. The floor was soon swept and those items in the kitchen that remained in one piece were stowed where they belonged.

In the midst of their endeavors, the locksmith arrived and Maisie asked questions about the types of lock available and was shown a selection. She chose the strongest to be fitted, along with a chain on the inside of the front door. She also asked if it might be possible to fit one of those fish-eye holes so that the lady in residence might see her callers before opening the door. The locksmith returned to his shop and came back to the flat with the necessary hardware to fit the tiny glass.

Finally the task of clearing up was complete, and when Maisie went downstairs and out onto the street with a final box of rubbish, she flagged down a trader passing with his horse-drawn cart. It was dark, but the carriage lights illuminated the man’s face.

“Want to earn yourself a bit extra this evening, sir?” asked Maisie.

“You calling me sir? Blimey, I ain’t been called sir for a long time.” He pushed back his cap and scratched his head. “And we don’t mind if we do make a bit extra, do we, my boy?” He nudged the young man next to him.

Maisie described the job, and soon man and boy were going back and forth from the curb to the cart, loading up the boxes. When they had completed their task, Maisie pressed several coins into the man’s hand. He turned to the light and looked at his payment.

“Very generous too, madam.” He touched his cap once more. “You want anything more doing, you just let me know—I come by this way every night, about this time.”

Maisie thanked him for a job well done, and returned to the flat. She soaked a handkerchief under the cold tap and wiped her face and neck. Evelyn did the same and they stood back and looked at the results of their work.

“I think this is the cleanest this flat has ever been, to tell you the truth,” said Evelyn. “Bart hated me cleaning—he said he could never find anything if I tidied up.”

“Yes, it’s nice to have some order to a home, isn’t it?” She flushed as her words again reminded her of Elsbeth Masters’ admonition earlier in the day. “Now then, I think you should lock up and we’ll be on our way. I can have a taxi-cab drop you at your friends’ home. I think it might be best if you stay elsewhere for a couple of nights at least.”

Evelyn Butterworth gathered her jacket. “Yes, I think you’re right.” She took a long look around the room before turning to leave. “Funny how everything can change,” she said. “Just like that.”

En route to her friends’ flat—Evelyn had informed her that several women shared the accommodation—Maisie asked about Bart Soames’ belongings.

“From what you said as we were clearing, it seems they didn’t take much at all. What about Bart’s work?”

“Oh, well, he didn’t work from home. Well, that’s not true; he would bring notebooks back in the evening, and he would go through something he’d written, but as a rule he worked at an office—I’m sorry, I thought I’d mentioned it.”

“But I was under the impression he was no longer with a newspaper,” said Maisie.

“He wasn’t. But after he started working for himself, he said it was difficult to work in the same place where you live, especially as our flat was so small—just a glorified bedsit really, with a separate kitchen and lavatory.”

“Where did he work, then?”

“There’s a studio for writers, so he applied for a desk there, and that’s where he worked, and he didn’t have to pay much as it was laid on for nothing.”

“No rent? Who paid for it, then?”

Eve Butterworth wiped a hand across the taxi-cab window to rub away condensation, and looked out into the darkness. The task of clearing the flat had clearly drained the bereaved woman. The old had been destroyed and the new was yet to come, and as Maisie knew only too well, the limbo in between was akin to a desert, a place where one stood with nothing while waiting for the road ahead to become clear. And it might be some time before a fresh opportunity, a new job, another love, or a different way of life would make itself known.

“Eve—do you know who sponsored the writers?”

“Um, yes. Sorry, I was miles away. It’s a large studio, not far from Lancaster Gate—the first floor of one of those mansions that looks out over Hyde Park. It’s owned by a writer. Bart told me that as he’s quite successful and obviously got a bit of money—the property belonged to his family—the man wanted to contribute to the lives of other writers, especially as many have a difficult time making ends meet. And Bart certainly had a bit of trouble in that regard; my wages from teaching at two schools kept us. The trouble was, it didn’t give me much time to do
my
writing, though I’ve had some articles published in women’s annuals.” She paused, holding on to the strap above her as the taxi swung around a corner. “Anyway, the studio is divided into small working rooms, and there’s a waiting list to have one. As luck would have it, Bart didn’t have to wait long before he was assigned a desk there, so that’s where he’s been writing for some time now. There’s a telephone installed on the landing—you have to pay, but it means that if you’re a journalist, you don’t have to run out to the street if you need to get in touch with someone.”