Elegy for Eddie (21 page)

“I’ll make sure it’s done. Thank you, Inspector.”

“By the way, here’s a bit of police gossip. You know that lad I put you in touch with—PC Dawkins?—well, he’s vanished off the face of the earth.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Left a message that he was sick of the smell of the river and being on the water, so he just upped and left. Couple of the lads went round to his house and his mum said he’d gone out as usual that morning. She was dead surprised.”

“Aren’t you worried? Is there an inquiry in progress?”

“He’d been talking about going off, apparently. Told a couple of the other lads that he was always aching in his bones, what with the damp and all, and he said he didn’t really like the work. And off he went.”

“His mother must be sick with worry.”

“She is, but we reckon he’ll get in touch soon—or he’ll be back when he realizes that there’s hardly any work to be had, wherever he goes.” He paused. “I just wondered, seeing as you spoke to him recently—any idea where he might’ve gone?”

“Inspector Caldwell, I’m concerned for his safety. Of course I don’t know where he’s gone. And are you sure he’s just left to go off to find work elsewhere?”

“The note says as much, and he hasn’t been missing twenty-four hours yet. Mark my words, he’ll be back soon enough, though the police won’t take him on again. No, we need men with a bit more about them; not shirkers afraid of a bit of wet.”

“So you wouldn’t mind a shift or two on a cold night out on the water.”

“Not blimmin’ likely!”

M
aisie left the office earlier than usual, arriving at Ebury Place to prepare for the evening’s outing to the dinner party hosted by John Otterburn and his wife. James arrived home within an hour of Maisie, and swept her into his arms when he came into her room.

“I almost came over to the flat last night, I missed you so very much, Maisie.”

She smiled. “Oh, I had my usual bowl of soup. You were better off here, having a good meal.”

“No, not really. I rather miss our evenings at the flat.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it was a mistake, opening up the house.”

“Your mother was right, James. A man of your position needs a home in London, not to be living at a club,” said Maisie. “And you’ve breathed life into the old house.”

“It’s alive when you’re here with me.”

James held Maisie close, and she was filled with confusion again. How might it be, she wondered, if they were married? And with that question she felt the air leave her lungs and her breath become shorter. She pulled away.

“We’d better get ready, don’t you think? This one’s an early supper, so we don’t want to be late.”

“Right you are, General!” James turned. “Let’s have a glass of champagne before we go.”

“Lovely idea.”

M
aisie, you look smashing, as always.”

Maisie looked down at her dress of heavy silk in the same violet-blue as her eyes. “It’s another one of Priscilla’s, gratefully accepted.”

“She probably had to give it to you—I can’t see that suiting her half so well, not with her chestnut hair. It gives you an air of intrigue—all dark colors reflected.”

“Oh dear, I do believe you’re in a poetic frame of mind this evening.” Maisie was glad they were in a light mood, almost as if it were the early days of their courtship. She hoped there would be no discord this evening.

Following a quick glass of champagne, they were soon on their way to the Otterburns’ Park Lane mansion. As they reached Hyde Park, James reached across and took Maisie’s hand.

“Be careful, James, you’re supposed to be watching the road.” She had noticed that James often waited for a nighttime journey to broach a troublesome subject, when the rhythm of the motor car conspired with the shadowy darkness to ease what he anticipated might be a difficult conversation.

“I want to ask you something, Maisie.”

Maisie felt herself tense. “Yes, James. What is it?”

“Look, I’ve been thinking a lot about your work lately, and I have to admit I’ve been getting more and more worried. This business with Billy rather floored me, and I think—if you don’t mind my saying—I think it’s the thick end of the wedge. I want to ask—no, in fact, in respect of our . . . our relationship . . . I believe I must insist, if that’s not too strong a word—that you give it up. Or perhaps not do so much or don’t accept these risky assignments. You asked what I really wanted, and I realized I want you to step back a bit, not only for your own safety, but for us. I mean, look, what is to be achieved by taking on these jobs? And this one has been for a simple man who died in an accident.”

“What? Did you just call Eddie a simple man?”

James ran a hand through his hair. “Look, that came out all wrong—but at the same time, please, Maisie, let’s be honest; from everything I’ve gleaned—not that you tell me anything about your work, not the details, I have to find that out myself—but from all I know, he was not quite all there, was he?”

Maisie thought her head might burst as questions formed in her mind—and a rising anger caught in her chest when she thought of what James had said.

“The only thing that matters is that he was a human being. In fact, he was the most innocent of human beings, James, and those men who came to me for help deserve everything I could do to bring peace to the memory of Eddie Pettit. I don’t have to explain any of this, James, but let me ask—what do you mean, you have to find out yourself? Am I the subject of an investigation?”

“No, not at all. I mean, well—”

“James, I will not spoil our evening, and I will not give you cause for embarrassment at the home of John Otterburn. But you can drop me at my flat after we leave, and then be on your way back to Ebury Place. I won’t be the subject of an investigation because you don’t like what I do. Have you someone snooping on me? Is that it? Well, that would certainly be one for the books.”

“Maisie, don’t take it like that. There’s no investigation; I’ve just been paying attention, that’s all. Really, I only wanted to let you know that I worry about you, that I’m concerned.”

“Then it’s best if you don’t know what I’m doing, or when. Then you won’t worry, will you?”

“You’re being unfair. Most unfair. You’re not a bachelor girl anymore, you’re a woman who is loved, and I think I have some say in your well-being.”

“Think of that next time you want to screech off somewhere in your Aston Martin, or go with your friends to watch motor racing. It cuts both ways, you know.”

“But, Maisie—”

“I do believe we’re here.”

James cruised the motor car to a halt alongside the main entrance to the grand house, and a footman came to open the passenger door. Maisie took his hand and stepped from the vehicle, then waited on the top step for James, who buttoned his jacket as he approached her.

“I love you, Maisie.”

She sighed. “I know you do, James. And I understand how you might feel. But my work is part of me. Now then, let’s compose ourselves and go in. This can wait for another time.”

A
t first glance, Maisie judged there to be about thirty people invited for supper, all of them clustered in the drawing room while footmen zipped to and fro with champagne and canapés. Maisie recognized several politicians, as well as two or three actors and a writer whose name she couldn’t quite remember. She recognized Winston Churchill, who was in conversation with an American whom she suspected was a man of commerce, and a very successful one at that, given the cut and quality of his suit, the way he stood, and the gold and diamond ring catching the light as he lifted his champagne glass to his lips. It was well known that Churchill had a fondness for Americans. His mother had come from that country to marry his father, and in so doing—with her not inconsiderable dowry—had shored up the fortune of the third son of the then Duke of Marlborough.

James mingled easily, his hand on Maisie’s elbow, steering her to meet people he knew, introducing her to Lady this and Lord that, to the heir of this title, the politician from that party. Words seemed to carry on the air, and Maisie thought that a guest at such a party was rather like a bee, buzzing from one bloom to the next in search of nectar, whether it be the sweet devilishness of gossip, the gravity of politics, or the weight of opinion. And everyone had an opinion.

“And she was wearing red. I mean, who’s wearing red this season?”

“I tell you, old chap, if I were you I’d keep an eye on those stocks; it’s not over yet.”

“Mark my words, that man Hitler has his eye on the whole of Europe, and we’re not ready for it. Not ready at all.”

“Put your money in land, that’s what I say. Land.”

“I do think it’s about time the prince settled down, don’t you?”

“And what about those Mitford girls? Can you imagine!”

On and on it went, like water tumbling across rocks in the riverbed.

And like a river, the groups and couples were soon on the move, funneled through double doors into a dining room that could quite easily have accommodated one hundred guests, thought Maisie.

She was surprised to find that she was seated to John Otterburn’s right, at one end of the table. His wife, Lorraine, was at the opposite end, with Winston Churchill to her left, and James to her right.

James smiled at Maisie and gave a subtle wave. She smiled in return. In truth she was not sure how she felt at that very moment, and each time doubt threatened to undermine the depth of consideration she’d given the matter while at her flat the previous evening, she pressed it back again. Her thoughts were lingering on the subject of their relationship when she felt a hand on her arm.

“I said I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Dobbs—James has told me a lot about you.” John Otterburn cut an impressive figure; Maisie thought he looked not so much like a man of business as a film star, though she suspected his hair might have been dyed to hide the onset of gray. His suit was of an elegant cut, and his demeanor gave him an air of confidence and power, as if he were a king in his castle and those gathered around him at table were his court.

“Oh, Mr. Otterburn. I’m so sorry. I was distracted.”

“Probably by your amour at the other end of the table. I’m not sure he trusts me.”

“I am sure he does, Mr. Otterburn—why wouldn’t he?” Maisie picked up her water goblet to quench her thirst, then, without awaiting a reply, continued. “You’ve gathered an interesting assemblage of guests this evening.”

“You make me sound like a collector of butterflies. Actually, I rather like watching people, flitting here and there, wondering what they’re thinking—don’t you?”

Maisie nodded thanks to a footman who filled her wineglass, and turned back to Otterburn. “I rather believe everyone does that at times.”

“Certainly private inquiry agents have a tendency to more inquisitiveness than the average person.”

Maisie gave away nothing in her demeanor, nor did she take up the point with Otterburn. “Well, I would imagine so. How else would someone in that line of work get along, without healthy curiosity and something of an imagination?”

“Imagination?”

“I would say that in such a profession, one has to have an imagination, if only to grasp the full extent of what human beings are capable of, and to what purpose.”

Maisie was grateful when the woman to Otterburn’s left interrupted and firmly asked what he thought of the Prince of Wales and his current paramour. “It’s common knowledge,” she exclaimed, and asked if the newspaperman didn’t think the subject was worthy of a column or two, as people had a right to know.

“I say, I don’t know what Compton must find to talk to Churchill about over there,” said the man seated on Maisie’s other side, as he listed towards her in a waft of whiskey. “Everyone knows he’s got nothing better to do than pen his thoughts and then try to get them published.”

“I’ve heard he’s a very good writer,” said Maisie, leaning back a little to avoid the downdraft of alcohol fumes.

“Oh, I suppose he is, but there are others, and much better, too. Surprised there aren’t a few more here, but then Johnny’s keeping his stable of opinion-makers under wraps.”

Maisie was about to ask what the man meant when Otterburn interrupted them.

“Miss Dobbs, I see you’ve been set upon by my ne’er-do-well brother-in-law. Is he bending your ear with one of his stories?”

“No, not at all,” replied Maisie.

“Just making sure. He tells a tall tale and must be regulated at times—isn’t that right, Jonty?”

The man looked half asleep as he leaned forward, almost into his soup, and Otterburn rolled his eyes.

“Always the way. Don’t listen to anything he says—not all there, you know.”

Maisie nodded and picked up her spoon.

Conversation continued with Otterburn and the woman who had been so taken with the activities of the Prince of Wales, touching mainly upon the news of the day and the social calendar. Maisie looked down the table at James, who remained in deep conversation with Churchill, leaning behind Lorraine Otterburn, who was, in turn, cupping her ear to listen to the woman on the other side of Churchill. Her thoughts were interrupted when the port was brought in and their hostess stood up and indicated that it was time for the ladies to adjourn and leave the men to their cigars and politics. Maisie sighed, allowed Otterburn to pull out her chair so that she could exit the room with the other women, and felt a dread in her stomach at the next half hour or so in the company of women whom she did not know and who likely had little more to discuss than a new hat purchased at Derry and Tom’s, or a gown from Paris.

Her fears came to fruition as the women were led to the drawing room, where Lorraine Otterburn directed the positioning of her female guests without appearing to tell anyone where to sit. She was as striking as her husband, with fair hair tied back in a chignon so tight it appeared to pull the skin across her high cheekbones. Her gown was of a black and gray silk blend that seemed to shimmer in the low light, and Maisie thought she looked like a Greek goddess in the midst of her handmaidens; it seemed she wielded a power no less potent than that of her husband. The women, arranged in clusters, proceeded to gossip about who was doing what with whom, and the trouble one had in hiring trustworthy household staff, especially as everyone wanted more these days. Maisie whispered to the woman seated next to her on a leather chesterfield—though she couldn’t remember her name—that she had need to “powder her nose.” She left the room and made her way along an endless hallway hung with paintings of gentry she suspected were no relation to John Otterburn. She thought she might delay returning until she heard the men leave the dining room to join the ladies for coffee.