Elegy for Eddie (20 page)

For some reason Eddie Pettit had come to mind when Priscilla spoke, and it caused Maisie to wonder if someone had been pulling his strings, which might explain why he had been so unlike his usual self in the weeks before his death. And she thought the puppeteer in question might have been Bart Soames, and she was determined to find out why.

Chapter Eleven

H
aving spent the night in her own home, Maisie felt quite refreshed. She had sighed with relief upon entering the flat—the fat radiators were just warm enough, and she felt as if the walls, the furniture, the painting above the fireplace, and her collection of photographs were all pleased to see her. She prepared a supper of soup, bread, and cheese, and felt at ease with no servants flapping, no need to ring a bell to summon help for this or that; she could run her own bath, put in her own lavender salts. But later, as she slipped down further into the bathtub filled with hot water, soaping her body and feeling the pressure of the day wash from her bones, she wondered—not for the first time in her adult life—
who am I?

She thought she had come to some agreement with herself, that she had come to know the essence of her character and how she might go forward in life, acknowledging her memories, her grief and disappointments along with the achievements, the times of joy, of love. But now it was as if she had built a house of cards, and then with one puff the shelter constructed with care had come down and she had to start all over again. The bequest from Maurice was the gust that had swept through her card house, and though it was a most beneficial inheritance, and she at least had a solid foundation upon which to construct her place of belonging once again, at the same time she was left wondering who she might be now and in the future. James was right to turn the question back to her: “What do
you
want, Maisie?”

Once upon a time that might have been an easier question. But now? What did she want for her life to be considered well-lived? How could she honor both her past and at the same time take on a future that offered so many more opportunities than she might ever have imagined? She thought of Maurice. What had contributed to his wisdom? How had he gained the knowledge he’d brought to every case, every conversation, every challenge? The water was growing cold, but Maisie wanted to follow this train of thought to its destination. Who did she want to be, in this new life? She had resources now such as she had never dreamt of having, and she knew—more than most—that with money came freedom and restriction, both.
To those whom much is given, much shall be expected.
She understood this: that she wanted to be worthy of Maurice’s legacy. She wanted to serve, and it seemed she was adept in only one endeavor at the moment, and that was as an investigator. She had, she admitted, made quite a mess of trying to sort out the lives of those closest to her—the words of both Elsbeth Masters and Priscilla had cut her to the core, but she had to admit to herself that they were right. She’d made some dreadful mistakes. And it was true, she had put a lot of effort into her world being just so: into controlling and organizing; mending this, making up for that; and she’d done more of it since being given the keys to Maurice’s money. It had bolstered her, it had made her feel safe, in a way, when she was able to change the circumstances of those around her who seemed to be careening towards disaster. At times it was as if the gods of perfection were holding her to account. Perhaps that was due to the war, or to the battle inside her.

The water was too cool now to bear, so she stepped out of the bath, toweled dry, and pulled on her dressing gown. Sitting in front of the gas fire, she rested her elbows on her knees and held out her hands to the heat. Though she had calmed her thoughts—those recollections that would so easily skirmish within her—she couldn’t deny that part of her was still at war with her past. Again she asked herself what Maurice had been exposed to throughout his life that might have contributed to his strength of character and to the deep well of knowledge he seemed to have at his disposal. She smiled as an image of her mentor came to mind, sitting in the chair alongside the fire at Chelstone, pipe in hand, his eyes upon her as he asked her a question, then counseled her to take her time, to chew it over while he poured another malt whiskey and savored the warmth. Could his knowledge have come from all the questions he’d put to himself?

As she lay in her bed, before her eyes became heavy with sleep, Maisie made a list in her mind of the elements she believed had contributed to the qualities she most admired in Maurice. That he was well educated was without doubt, and he had done much to ensure that her own education was as deep as it was broad. He was well read—and his library was at her disposal. That he had loved was understood; he had never given her details, but she knew he’d had the love of women and had loved in return. He had gained professional acclaim. He had served those less fortunate. And he had known the world, in his day spending time on every continent, immersion into the lives of others in far-flung places contributing to his understanding of humanity. Ah yes, there was something: Maurice had traveled. Maisie, for her part, had been to France. And she had been to war. But war was more than a place; it was a monster, a thing at once alive and dead and predatory, and it could be the root of a newfound hell anywhere. Like a new island born of volcanic eruption, it could even create havoc before fully formed. Yes, war was a country, and she had been there.

T
he offices of Sanders and Herrold on Chancery Lane were situated close to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in a Georgian stucco building with high arches and heavy oak doors. Maisie’s footsteps echoed on flagstones as she entered, and a porter asked if he might help her. She informed the porter that she was there to see Mr. York Herrold, and had been told by his clerk that he was not in court that afternoon and would see her at her convenience. If the man detected a lie, it was not revealed in his expression. Holding out his hand as if he were a policeman directing traffic, he explained to Maisie that at the top of the staircase she should turn right through the black door and the clerk would assist her. She thanked him and went on her way.

The clerk, a man wearing gray pin-striped trousers, a black jacket, a crisp white shirt with a wing collar and a black tie, asked if he could help.

“I am here to see Mr. York Herrold regarding the matter of Mr. Edwin Pettit’s untimely death at Bookhams Paper in Lambeth. I am a representative of the deceased’s mother and I have been referred to Mr. Herrold by the general manager at Bookhams.”

The clerk, who had not given his name, cleared his throat. “Quite. I’ll see if he can spare you a few moments. You should have telephoned first, you know. He’s a very busy man.”

“Which is why I so appreciate your help,” said Maisie. “And not to worry, I can wait until he’s available. I’ve brought something to read.” Without being invited to do so, she seated herself on a bench and looked at the clerk. “I’ll just sit here while you talk to him then.”

The man cleared his throat again, opened another door leading to a buttermilk-painted corridor with a burgundy-colored floor runner, and left Maisie for some moments before returning. The door opened once more, and the clerk held it back for her to proceed. “He’ll see you now, Miss Dobbs. First door on the left, but let me show you in.” This time the man whispered, as if he were in church.

“Thank you,” said Maisie, her voice at a normal pitch.

The clerk closed the door behind him, then knocked at another door, painted in the same rich shade of cream, before entering the book-lined room.

“Miss Dobbs to see you, sir.”

“Very good, Williams.” A tall man, younger than Maisie had expected, came from behind the carved oak desk to greet her. “I’m glad I was here when you called. A stroke of luck.” He shook her hand. “Do sit down.”

Maisie had anticipated a crusty old lawyer, not someone who seemed more of a high flyer, with his confident smile and ready greeting. York Herrold was probably around her own age, with dark hair and features set off by the requisite dark clothing. A barrister’s wig hung over the back of his chair, and a gown had been placed on a hook on another door.

“I see you looking at my wig—yes, I know I should put it away carefully, and Williams will tut-tut-tut about it, but there you are. It makes my head itch and brings me out in a rash on my forehead, so I can’t wait to be rid of the thing when I leave court. But of course you’re not here to talk about my wig problems, are you?”

Maisie at once felt herself on guard. Here was an ambitious man, a man who was used to disarming those he questioned. Was that why John Otterburn had chosen the firm to represent his business interests?

“No, I’m here to ask a few questions that you may or may not be able to answer, about the death of Mr. Edwin Pettit at Bookhams Paper.”

“Very tragic. And I believe the man thought to have caused the accident has taken his own life. Yes, it’s sad all around. But how can I help? As the owner’s counsel, we ensured that Mrs. Pettit received a sum to help with funeral arrangements, though as you know, Mr. Pettit was not an employee and, frankly, should not have been on the premises. We have assisted the company in the process of instigating new rules regarding access to the factory by nonemployees, and as you know—because you’ve been to the factory, according to the manager, Mr. Mills—there are now additional safeguards in place so that such an accident will never happen again.” He smiled at Maisie. “Factories are dangerous places, and it’s a painful truth that it often takes an accident such as this to have the engineers and so on look again at the various processes and procedures to see what might be done to stop it happening in the future—tragedy as the mother of invention, if you will.”

“Quite. But that’s not exactly why I’m here, though I’d like to come back to the plight of Mrs. Pettit.”

“Go on,” said Herrold, his face giving away nothing of his inner thoughts.

“I’m curious to know why Bookhams took on a known criminal in James Merton. The man had previous convictions and seemed to wield a certain amount of power, especially when it came to preventing union activity in the factory. I wonder if that was sanctioned by the company? I’m here because, as the company’s legal representatives, you would have had a hand in development of policy regarding organized labor, I would have thought.”

Herrold took a moment to answer, clearly formulating his response with care, then he smiled again. It was a sudden smile, put on as if it were a mask.

“Miss Dobbs, I fail to see what any of this has to do with you, or with the death of Mr. Pettit, or, indeed, his mother’s needs at the present time.”

This time it was Maisie’s turn to smile. “Fair enough, but speaking of his mother’s needs, with the discovery of Mr. Merton’s guilt, a guilt that led to his death, one can conclude that a flawed yet obviously trusted employee—especially if he was tasked with the obstruction of union activity—not only may have had a hand in the death of Mr. Pettit, but at the very least might have prevented his death, or could have offered assistance when he was dying, which he didn’t. Now, Mrs. Pettit has been left in a precarious financial position, given that her son was the breadwinner in the family—indeed, he had worked for Mr. Otterburn in another capacity, I believe, assisting with his horses—so my visit here is to negotiate a . . . a settlement, I think is the word. Yes, a financial settlement to ensure she is not compromised by want.”

“Well, I—frankly, Miss Dobbs, I—” Herrold stuttered.

“Yes, you do know what I’m talking about, Mr. Herrold. And I suggest you discuss the matter with your client. I am sure he will be more than willing to accommodate Mrs. Pettit, given the fact that her son died a terrible death at one of his most important factories.” Maisie stood up. “I’ll give my name and telephone number to Mr. Williams, so you can contact me when you have a figure in mind. We’ll haggle then, shall we?”

She held out her hand, and saw that Herrold was beaming his confident smile once more.

“I will be in touch, Miss Dobbs.” He rang a bell and the door opened almost at once, giving the impression that Williams had been on the other side, like a faithful dog waiting for his master’s summons.

As Maisie reached the door, Herrold spoke again. “Well done, Miss Dobbs. I have to admit, very well done.”

Maisie smiled in return, nodding to Williams as she passed him in the corridor. She remained long enough to give the clerk her address and telephone number, and departed the offices of Sanders and Herrold, ensuring she thanked the porter as she left the building. John Otterburn would no doubt hear about her visit within a few moments, and she wondered if he would comment upon it when they met at dinner. It did not matter. Maisie had decided that instead of simply writing a check herself, she should try to squeeze some money out of Otterburn via his lawyers. It would mean a great deal to Maudie, and at the same time, Maisie might discover something of use. The fact that the ploy had worked so easily, that Otterburn’s representative was so quick to consider her request at just the mention of possible criminal activity, gave her pause.

A
plain correspondence postcard from Eve Butterworth was waiting at the office. The message informed Maisie that she was available to visit the Lancaster Gate writers’ studio on Thursday morning. Using a similar postcard to reply, Maisie said she would pick her up outside her friends’ flat the following morning at ten o’clock.

Two new customer inquiries and a sit-down with Sandra to compare notes on work in hand saw another couple of hours go by. Caldwell telephoned at noon.

“Afternoon, Miss Dobbs. Got some news for you.”

“Is Billy all right?”

“Doing much better, sitting up and talking—in fact, as far as I can tell, he’s talking rather a lot.”

“That is good news.” Maisie put her hand on her chest. “I am so glad, I cannot tell you how much.”

“We were able to have a word with him this morning, just dotting i’s and crossing t’s in this Merton business, because that’s one thing I want to get right off my desk. Anyway, he’d like to see you—afternoon visiting tomorrow, if you’d like to go in. He is considered fully capable and his wishes make the previous instruction from Mrs. Beale null and void.”

“I’m so glad. How is she? Do you know?”

“Being discharged tomorrow, late morning, so I would suggest your little helper over there at the house should leave first thing.”