Elegy for Eddie (17 page)

“Your Mr. Beale is making good progress. In normal circumstances, you would be able to see him later, but his wife has lodged a complaint with the police—she may be in hospital herself, but she can still do this—and you are to keep a good distance from the Beale family.” He looked down at his hat as he ran the brim through his fingers.

Maisie felt her hands begin to shake. She tried to remain composed. “I understand. Yes, I—I understand. I am held responsible, and that is only fair. Billy is my employee and he was working for me when this happened.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Dobbs.”

“That’s all right, Inspector. I would ask one thing, though—would you keep us apprised of Mr. Beale’s progress, and when he’s well enough, please tell him I am anxious to have word of his recovery? Please also tell him that he is not to worry about his children, that they are safe and well, especially the baby. I am sure this will all be resolved soon, and the family will be reunited.”

“There
is
some good news, but I thought if I gave it to you second, after the bad news, you’d feel better.”

“Good news? I hope so, I could do with some already, and it’s only Tuesday morning.”

“The man we believe to have been Mr. Beale’s attacker has taken his own life. The guilt probably got to him. Not only that, we believe he was responsible for the accident which killed Edwin Pettit.”

“Jimmy Merton?”

“That’s him. You came across his name while you were doing your homework, didn’t you? Frankly, he had the lot—the motive, the opportunity, and in the case of Mr. Pettit, he had a grudge.”

“Yes, he’d always been one to bully Eddie.” Maisie was thoughtful, her mind not completely on the conversation.

“Bit of a hard nut, and with previous. The reason he’d been off the streets for a while was because he’d been spending time lolling around at His Majesty’s pleasure in the highly palatial Maidstone Prison, but as soon as he was back in Lambeth, he found Eddie again. And though we’re not sure how he did it, we think he must have had a hand in Eddie’s death—at the very least, he didn’t save him when he had the chance; he just watched it happen. According to a witness who’s come forward, the conveyor belt—the one that carries the bales of paper—buckled up when a bale began to wobble. The witness said that as far as he could make out, Merton—who was up on the gantry—didn’t do a thing to stop it, didn’t even try to prevent the accident. Our investigation has led us to believe the machinery might have been overburdened, causing a vibration that in turn made the conveyor buckle—Merton could have seen his opportunity to actually cause the accident, knowing that Mr. Pettit would be badly injured, if not killed. When your Billy came along, the fact that he was a stranger was likely enough to set off Jimmy Merton, who had a bit of a short fuse. We believe he didn’t mean to do as much damage to Mr. Beale as he did, but Merton is—was—the sort of man who never knew when to stop. It’s a surprise he topped himself, that much is true—he’s more the sort who’d do a runner. But his conscience seems to have caught up with his actions, so he hung himself from Lambeth Bridge.”

“Lambeth Bridge? That’s becoming a rather popular place for suicide, don’t you think?”

“Easier than some—you wouldn’t want to try to put a noose around the girders on Tower Bridge, would you? You might fall and kill yourself.” Caldwell grinned.

Maisie shook her head. “Oh dear . . .”

“You’ve got to laugh about it sometimes, Miss Dobbs. It’s the only way to get through the day in this job.”

“Thank you for coming, Inspector. I was planning to go to the hospital again today, which might have caused a problem. And now I have some news for Mrs. Pettit.”

“About this business of restraining your access to Mr. Beale—I’m sure it will sort itself out.” Caldwell put his hand on her shoulder. It was an uncharacteristic move, and one that might once have caused Maisie to step back, but instead she appreciated the good intention in his gesture.

“Thank you, Detective Inspector Caldwell. I’m grateful for your support.”

Maisie closed the door as Caldwell and his assistant departed, and turned to see Sandra looking at her.

“What is it, Sandra?”

“You don’t think it was Jimmy Merton, do you, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie walked to her desk, pulled the chair back into its place, and sat down, resting her hands on her blotting pad. “I think it’s a bit more complicated. I like to see a quick solution as much as the next person, but it seems that this has been swept into the dustpan and tidily dispatched with too much ease and congratulation on the part of the police. And I can’t deny, I would have liked to talk to the man myself, but that won’t be possible now.” She picked up a pencil and ran it through her fingers. “No, there’s something missing. Probably almost everything Caldwell says is right—I don’t doubt Eddie died as a result of Jimmy Merton either causing an accident or not stopping an accident when it was about to happen—but what about Bart Soames? Or the fact that his girl—wife, whatever she wants to be known as—had her flat broken into? Which reminds me, Sandra—did you know Mr. Partridge owns a property at Lancaster Gate which he allows cash-strapped writers to use?”

“I knew he had some property over that way,” said Sandra. “I’ve seen some correspondence come in about it, you know, very ordinary mail regarding the water or the gas bill. I take the bills—all his bills for the property, actually—and I list them for him so that at the end of each month he has all the due invoices in front of him.”

“That’s interesting. Do you know if he ever goes there?”

“No, I don’t think so. As I said, I don’t know much about it except where it is. But I believe the writer who’s been there the longest lets Mr. Partridge know of any changes, or if something needs mending, like a window, if it’s broken.”

They were interrupted by the telephone ringing. The caller was Evelyn Butterworth, who said she had been summoned to the school where she taught—they’d sent another teacher around to the flat where she was staying—as they were short-staffed that week. She would telephone Maisie when she was available to go to Bart’s studio—possibly in a day or two.

Maisie replaced the telephone receiver and asked Sandra to let her know directly Evelyn Butterworth called again.

“I should go down to the market to see the gentlemen.” She pushed back her chair and was reaching for her coat, which was on a hook behind the door, when the telephone rang again. Sandra answered, jotting down a name before asking the caller to hold the line just one moment.

“It’s a Mr. Dawkins for you. Said you’ll remember him from Waterloo Pier.”

Maisie reached for the receiver just as the caller pressed more coins into the slot to extend the call.

“Are you still there, Mr. Dawkins?”

“Yes, thank you. Is that you, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“This is PC Dawkins, Thames Division.”

“I gathered it was you. What can I do for you, PC Dawkins? At least it sounds as if you’re still in employment. When my secretary said, ‘Mr. Dawkins,’ I thought something untoward had happened.”

“I’m still in a job, but something untoward
has
happened—well, I think it has.”

“Can you speak now? Or would you like to meet?”

“Better get it over with now. I don’t want anyone to see me talking to you, just in case they know who you are.”

“You’re taking a risk, so be careful.”

“I know. But I just don’t like what’s going on.”

“What is it, PC Dawkins?”

“A man took his own life, along the water. I reckon you might have heard about it—his name was Jimmy Merton.”

Maisie caught the telephone cord and began twisting it through her fingers. “Why do you think I might be interested in him?”

“Just occurred to me—after all, he was found hanging from Lambeth Bridge, where that other man went in. And in my opinion, most people who want to do away with themselves along the water choose one of the other bridges—the Albert is very popular, although we do get quite a few over by Blackfriars Bridge, what with it being close to the courts.”

“Tell me about the man, if you don’t mind. You said he was found hanging.”

“It was me and my mate what found him. We couldn’t call for assistance at the time, so my mate had to hold the boat steady while I cut him down and lowered him in.”

“That must have been difficult for you,” said Maisie. She wondered at the effect of seeing so many suicides on one so young, and at once she was glad that at least he had never been called upon to go to war.

“The thing is, Miss Dobbs, I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t reckon he took his own life. I daren’t say anything, because they like it cut-and-dried here, no doubts. And the CID, when they came and had a look, they said they could see he was dead and that it was by his own hand, and that it would be an in-and-out job for the pathologist.”

“What evidence do you have that it wasn’t by his own hand?”

“There was marks on his face—mind you, granted, it could have been where the body was hanging and got bashed about a bit. But the other thing is, I really don’t know how he would have got down there, to rig up the noose. He was sort of partway under the bridge, not hanging from the top, where you’d stand to look down the river. I mean, he could have climbed down, but I don’t think so. I reckon it was done by boat—I think he must have been dead already. Then someone came along, put up a rope, and then hung him there, so it looks for all the world like he did it himself. And of course, the marks on his neck, on account of him swinging back and forth, couldn’t be told apart from any other marks.”

“So, are you saying he had wounds consistent with someone who had hung himself, but he would have had difficulty in setting up the suicide in the first place? From your description, it sounds as if he’s more likely to have fallen and drowned in the attempt. Is that the measure of it?”

“That’s it, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie was about to pose another question when the constable spoke again. “And if you wondered, I don’t want any money, and I’m not working for anyone. I just don’t feel right about it, that’s all. There’s some things being ignored, and I didn’t join the police force to ignore a criminal act.”

“Good for you, young man. What will you do now?”

“I’m leaving this lark. I know there’s no jobs about, but I’ll do anything, anywhere—and don’t worry, I won’t be coming to you for work. No, I’ve had enough of the crime business, even if I am on the right side. And this river is bleeding cold of a winter’s night, and it stinks to high heaven in summer. The corpses smell a lot worse as well. I think I might like to get out of London altogether, get down to the country.”

“Do you know anything about gardening, PC Dawkins?”

“Funny you should ask that. My mum has a little patch; I go out there to work every day, keep it neat and see what I can grow. I should’ve been a country boy.”

“Look, let me give you this address in Kent. It’s a place called Chelstone Manor, and the head gardener is a Mr. Avery Buckle. Tell him I recommended you—it doesn’t guarantee anything, but he might be able to give you an apprenticeship at some point. You catch the train to Tonbridge, then a bus or the branch line to Chelstone. The station master will direct you to the manor from there.”

“Thank you, Miss Dobbs.”

“And thank you, PC Dawkins.”

“I’ll be off then.”

“Oh, and young man—watch your back. Until you leave the force, just watch your back, and take care.”

Maisie leaned over Sandra’s correspondence tray to replace the telephone receiver.

“That sounds dodgy, Miss Dobbs.”

“It does a bit. But the man gave me some interesting information, without doubt—and he’s an honest policeman, so I trust him.” She put on her coat, hat, and gloves. “Slight change of plan. I’m going down to Lambeth Bridge, then on to see Mrs. Maud Pettit. I don’t think it’ll do me any good to go back to Bookhams at this stage, but I intend to drop in at the market to see if Seth and the men are there—they should be back from their rounds by then. How about you? Is everything clear on Billy’s cases?”

“Yes, I should have a final report on one of them tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? Well done. Remember to put in a chit for your overtime—and I’m sure you’re working overtime, Sandra.” Maisie paused as she reached for the door handle. “Oh, and tomorrow I’d like you to help me with the case map—perhaps you can spot some connections where I can’t. It’s always better with two pairs of eyes on the task.”

A
dirty wet mist hung over the water, and though the sun might have broken through clouds outside London, there was nothing but a slight round paleness in the sky where the sun’s glow should have been. She pulled her coat around her as she walked to the center of Lambeth Bridge and rested against the wall to look down the river towards the Houses of Parliament. The new Lambeth Bridge had been opened only the previous summer by the King, and though already tarnished in places by the elements, it was still resplendent in red paint chosen to match the color of the leather benches in the House of Lords. In one direction she could walk to Lambeth Palace, the London home of the Archbishop of Canterbury since the thirteenth century, and in the other she could cross to Millbank, then along towards Westminster Bridge, painted green in honor of the House of Commons. She smiled. Maisie loved this London, as much as it grieved her to see the poverty, the desperate need of people in Lambeth; at the same time, there was a fierce grandeur about the factories, about chimney stacks fired by the hard work of an ordinary, working-class population. She loathed the inequity of it all, that the final profit went to those who hardly gave a thought to the workers who toiled, their skin thick with dust, oil and sweat—yet she also knew that without those who had never known want, there would be no work at all.

Perhaps her own prejudices were part of the reason she and James were floundering in a relationship that seemed to start well, so easily had they moved from being friends to lovers. If they were to part now, surely the ripples of broken expectation would affect much in her life—from her father’s position as Chelstone Manor’s head groom, to her closeness with Lady Rowan Compton, James’ mother, who had taken to treating her as if she were the daughter she had lost. How might they all react to such news?