Elegy for Eddie (3 page)

“Any success I have is probably down to the the fact that my mother and father taught me the value of a good day’s work.” Maisie paused, her heart breaking for the women before her, who seemed gray and dark with grief. But she had a job to do. “Mrs. Pettit, I think I should come straight to the point.”

“Sit down first, love. It’ll be easier on all of us, especially if it’s about my Eddie.”

Maisie took a seat at the heavy kitchen table, bowed with age and pale with years of scrubbing. Jennie set a cup of tea in front of her. The women sipped from their own chipped cups, then looked up at her, waiting.

“I’ll not beat about the bush. You probably don’t know this about me, but I am what they call an investigator, a private inquiry agent to some, and—”

“Weren’t you a nurse, in the war?”

“Yes, I was. And afterwards. Then I, well—it’s a long story, but I had this opportunity, and—”

“And someone—I bet it’s that Jesse Riley—thought you’d be able to find out what happened to Eddie.”

Maisie sighed. “That’s about the measure of it, Mrs. Pettit.”

The woman took out her handkerchief, covered her eyes, and crumpled forward, resting her forehead against her hands.

“Perhaps I’d better go. I can come back another time.”

“Sit there, Maisie. Just let me have my moment.”

The woman soon sat back, whereupon her friend placed an arm around her shoulder.

“She’s had it rough, Maisie,” said Jennie. “Eddie was her life.”

“I know. Truly I know. He was a lovely man, so gentle,” said Maisie.

“And he had a gift. I was blessed with that boy.” Maud cleared her throat. “Now then, here’s what I’ve got to say. There’s talk that my Eddie was . . . was murdered. There’s them what reckon someone had it in for him, and so the next thing you know, there’s an accident, only it’s not really an accident. I don’t know what to think, but here’s what I do know—and I used to work down at Bookhams, on the rag vats, until not that long ago before the rheumatism got to me—I never heard of an accident caused by them big belts going or tipping. There was accidents, of course there was; there’s always someone who don’t pay attention, getting their fingers in the way of the guillotine, that sort of thing. But no one was ever crushed under a roll of paper.” She paused again, looking directly into Maisie’s eyes. “So if you want to look for the reason why it happened, more power to you. Every single day that’s passed without Eddie, I’ve felt like topping myself so I could be with him up there in heaven, but I’d stay right here to see someone brought to justice.”

Maisie nodded. “Then can you answer some questions for me, Mrs. Pettit?”

“
Maudie
. You’re a grown woman now, Maisie Dobbs, so you can call me Maudie.”

Maisie took a clutch of index cards from her bag, and a pencil. “Right, let’s start with Bookhams.”

“Then you’ll have to start with me, Maisie, because I worked there on the afternoon shift before I had Eddie. About nine months before I had Eddie. Three different jobs I had, in those days.”

B
y the time she left Maud Pettit’s house in Lambeth, Maisie had learned several things she hadn’t known before.

She knew that Maudie had been assaulted while walking from the factory to the brewery; it was dark, so she had never known her attacker—the father of her child.

She discovered that Eddie had only ever been bullied by one person, a boy who made fun of him at school. In fact, Jimmy Merton had made Eddie’s life a misery, mimicking his voice, his walk, his simple way of being. She had a recollection of Merton from childhood. Her mother had warned her to keep away from the Merton children because they were all trouble, every single one of them. Jimmy was older, Eddie’s age, but she still passed to the other side of the street if she saw him in the distance. Apparently, Jimmy Merton had lately come to work at Bookhams.

But of the notes she had penned while sitting with Maudie Pettit, the one that she would come back to, would underline again and again, even after adding it to the case map that she knew Billy would start as soon as his interviews ended, was the note that repeated Maud’s words: “I can’t put my finger on it, but my Eddie seemed to have changed lately—in the past month, perhaps more.” Eddie’s mother had gone on to speculate that Jimmy Merton might have started bullying him again, and she wondered if Eddie was hiding some physical ailment, perhaps a pain or discomfort he didn’t want to talk about. Or if he had lost a horse. “Took it hard when a horse went, did my Eddie,” Maud Pettit had told Maisie. And Maisie had nodded. Yes, gentle Eddie would have taken it hard.

Chapter Two

T
he afternoon sun was casting shafts of light through the trees on Fitzroy Square by the time Maisie and Billy took their seats at the big table alongside the window. Billy had already pinned out a length of plain white wallpaper upon which they would transcribe their notes using pencils and thick wax crayons of different colors.

“Sandra came back from Fleet Street—she left this for you.” Billy handed Maisie a sealed envelope.

“Oh, good. She seems to be getting on very well, don’t you think?”

Maisie had been concerned that Billy might not take to having another employee at the office, but the two seemed to have settled into working together.

“I think so, Miss. She’s still looking gray around the edges, though. I reckon a young woman like her shouldn’t be expected to wear her widow’s weeds for a year—all that black can’t be doing much to cheer her up.”

“I think you’re right, Billy. I’ll see if I can talk to her about it. In fact, the best person to have a word with her would be Mrs. Partridge—she always speaks so highly of Sandra, and says that since she’s been working part-time for her husband, she has really organized his papers beyond belief,” said Maisie. “I’m so glad I found out that Mr. Partridge was looking for clerical help and was able to recommend Sandra for the position—we don’t have enough work to keep her occupied full-time here, so it was a stroke of luck all around. Mrs. Partridge is so thrilled because Douglas is extremely happy with Sandra’s work—which gives him more time with the family—so it wouldn’t be a surprise if she endowed Sandra her entire collection from last year.”

“Bit of a woman for the latest fashions, isn’t she?”

“Oh, no doubt about it. Paris would go out of business without Priscilla.” Maisie looked at the notes, each circled with a thick colored crayon of contrasting color. “Let’s see what we’ve got in the way of rough edges to start nibbling at here. Thinking back to your interviews, did anything stand out? Was something said at any point that made you look up and want to dig deeper?”

Without glancing at his notepad, Billy nodded. “I’ve still got a couple to do in the morning, and Mr. Riley said there were a few other blokes at the market who might have a word or two to add, so I’ll go down there tomorrow before the gentlemen come back here in the afternoon.” He paused, tapping a crayon on the wallpaper, leaving a series of dots at the edge of the sheet. “These men didn’t see Eddie regularly, not daily, as a rule, though they said they usually crossed paths with him a couple of times a week—what with all them horses down the market, it wasn’t unusual for the word to go out to get Eddie over there. Mind you, this is what gave me a bit of a chill—each and every one of them said that Eddie hadn’t been himself for a while. Not all of the time—he wasn’t going round with a face as long as a week every day—but they said that you’d watch him walk down the road, and it’d be as if he had something on his mind. And what Mr. Riley said made sense, though at first it don’t sound very kind of him, but he said, ‘It was a bit queer seeing him looking like that, as if he had worries, because Eddie wasn’t normally like that—he didn’t have enough up there to hold thoughts for long enough.’ ”

“Oh dear, that does sound a bit harsh, but Jesse wouldn’t have meant it badly. He thought the world of Eddie.”

“He said that, Miss, and you can tell they all looked out for Eddie. Mr. Riley told me that Eddie’s thoughts weren’t in his head, like with most people.” Billy put his hand on his chest. “He said that this is where Eddie held his thoughts, and when he saw him looking, you know, sad, he was worried that his thoughts had started weighing upon his heart, and his heart was the best of him.”

“Mrs. Pettit said the same thing, that Eddie had not been himself. She wondered if he’d been feeling poorly and didn’t want to tell her—he might’ve been worried about the money it would cost to see the doctor.”

“He could’ve gone to Dr. Blanche’s clinic.”

“Of course he could, but even though there’s a sign outside the clinic informing people that services are without charge, they’re still often worried in case they’ll be asked for money they don’t have. Fear of illness putting them in the workhouse stops many a sick person from seeking help, especially someone like Eddie, who knew very well that his mother was born in the workhouse and was lucky to get out. Billy, did anyone give any idea what might have been bothering Eddie?”

“No. They knew he’d been doing a lot of work for some quite well-to-do people recently—that little stint at the Palace Mews helped word get around about him, and apparently he’d been traveling a bit farther afield to sort out difficult horses.”

“Again, his mother indicated as much, and she said that at first she was worried about him traveling on the bus or the underground, but she said he’d memorized the stations across the whole railway and probably knew every single bus on the route as well as the conductors. And of course, there’s that new map of the underground railway; it’s made it easier to know where you’re going, even though the lines on the map look nothing like what’s really down there. Eddie had a good memory for the little details—I remember that about him, despite what anyone said about there not being much in his head. He just had a different way of thinking and seeing the world, I think.” She made a note on the case map. “The interesting thing is that his mother doesn’t know the names of some of these people he worked for.”

“I suppose he wasn’t the sort to keep a record of who he was seeing and when.”

“That’s something else, apparently he had started a little book with his customers’ names, but it wasn’t there when they gave Mrs. Pettit the sack of personal effects at the mortuary.”

“Could it have dropped out?”

“Or it might have been taken.” Maisie looked at Billy. “Look, here are the notes I made after I visited Eddie’s mother. I’ve circled the items that need to go on the map, so if you can do that, I just want a minute to look over what Sandra’s left for me.”

Maisie sat at her own desk and began to read through observations written in Sandra’s neat, precise handwriting. For speed she had used pencil, but Maisie noticed that in her work at the office she generally used a marbled fountain pen, a gift from her late husband’s parents when they learned she planned to attend night classes. Sandra had indented each new note with a tiny star, and she had underlined any point she believed to be of particular interest. One of those points in turn piqued Maisie’s interest: No union membership had been allowed at Bookhams since the company was bought by John Otterburn. Otterburn was the owner of daily and weekly newspapers throughout Britain, in particular the
London Daily Messenger
, a newspaper that had garnered a wide readership in the past three decades. The newspaper owner’s opposition to union membership was well known, along with his belief that Bolshevism would “buckle commerce and lead to the downfall of the British Empire.” Despite powerful unions in the print and allied trades, Otterburn had kept organization of workers out of Bookhams—and men who needed work didn’t argue.

From Sandra’s meticulous notations, she learned that Otterburn had visited Bookhams himself following the accident, promising a full inquiry and an investigation into safety procedures at all Otterburn factories and offices.

In one newspaper report, it was said that Eddie’s presence was “tolerated” by staff, who felt sympathy for his condition; a manager was quoted as saying, “Luckily for him, on account of his impaired mind, he wouldn’t have felt anything when that roll hit him.”

“What a callous thing to say!” Maisie thumped the desk as she put down the notes, pushed back her chair and proceeded across the room to the case map. “It says in a column in the
Express
that a manager at Bookhams reckoned Eddie wouldn’t have felt a thing because of his ‘impaired mind.’ ”

“That’s nasty, Miss.”

“I wish I knew his name, and that’s a fact.”

“Anything else?”

“Bookhams is owned by John Otterburn.”

“The bloke who owns all the papers? Millionaire, ain’t he?”

“Yes, he’s a very rich man. I believe his family were from Canada, and seeing as there’s a considerable timber industry there, it should come as no surprise that the Otterburns made a lot of money in the paper business. In any case, I know where I can get more information about him.”

“Viscount Compton?”

Maisie nodded. “I’ll ask him tonight.”

Billy gathered the pencils he was using and looked down, his cheeks showing a blush of pink. While he was aware his employer was “walking out” with James Compton—who was not only heir to Lord Julian Compton but had also assumed complete responsibility for the family’s interests in timber and construction in both the British Isles and Canada—even the smallest hint regarding the depth of their relationship caused Billy embarrassment. He preferred not to know about his employer’s personal life.

“Of course, Miss. He would have some important information for us, I daresay,” added Billy.

Maisie tapped a pencil against the table. “And I want to know what happened to Eddie’s notebook. I’ll talk to Mrs. Pettit again tomorrow, and let’s ask the men if they know who was first to reach Eddie’s body after the accident. At some point that notebook—if he had it with him—left his person. I want to know who has it now.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

“According to the early reports, the conveyor was working properly, so why did the roll of paper fall? What caused the ‘inexplicable’ accident?”

“What shall I do next, Miss?”

“Let’s finish this job first, see where we are and if anything leaps out at us. Then here’s what I want you to do—but wait until after my visit to Bookhams. I want you to have a word with some of the employees, ask around as if you’re looking for work, that sort of thing. Find out about the union situation. I daresay there’s a local pub where a number of the men go after work.”

“Oh, I get your train of thought—an accident would give union organizers a bit of weight, even if Eddie wasn’t strictly a worker.”

“It crossed my mind. It is unusual for a paper factory not to have a union presence. I’m not sure about the level of bearing it has on the case, but it certainly paints a picture of the owner as being a man who wants nothing to do with collective bargaining of any sort—he wants to retain control at all times. In any case, I also want you to find out a bit more about a fellow named Jimmy Merton—apparently he was about the same age as Eddie and made his life rather difficult when they were children. According to Maud Pettit, he came to work at Bookhams recently, and might have taken up where he left off with Eddie.”

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a bully.”

“Me neither. In any case, as I said, I’m going back to see Mrs. Pettit tomorrow morning. I didn’t want to push things too far today, but I want to see if I can inspire her to remember who Eddie was working for on a regular basis. And I want to find the teacher who was helping him. All Maudie knew was that she lived across the water—that could be anywhere north of the river.”

“Right then, Miss. I’d better get cracking.”

Maisie smiled at Billy. He had seemed on edge at the beginning of the year, but seemed calmer the past month or so.

“Baby sleeping through the night yet?”

“At last, Miss. And I think we’re all grateful to her for that. Bobby asked me the other day, ‘When’s our little Meg going to stop screaming in the night, Dad?’ I had to laugh.” He looked at Maisie. “And I know I don’t say it much, Miss, but it makes all the difference being in that house. The boys don’t have them chesty coughs all the time now, and I swear Doreen is looking more like her old self. We go back to Shoreditch every few weeks, regular, to see our Lizzie’s grave. We smarten it up a bit, leave some flowers. We tell her we haven’t forgotten her, that we still love her. And we tell her all about Meg, and how much she looks like her big sister.”

“As long as Doreen doesn’t overdo it, she’ll be fine. I take it she’s still seeing Dr. Masters.”

Billy nodded. “Once every three months now, as from the beginning of the year. My mum helps a lot, so we make sure there’s not too much on her shoulders. But she’s doing very well with her dressmaking, you know—got it all set up in that big front room. We don’t go in there as a rule—not used to having that much space, to tell you the truth, so we mainly stay in the dining room or the kitchen, and the front room is kept for best and for Doreen. Funny that, saying the words ‘dining room’ and knowing we’ve got one.”

Maisie smiled. “I’m glad it’s all falling into place.”

“I tell you, all this news makes us think twice about going to Canada when we’ve got the money put by. I mean, they’ve had a big railway strike over there, and all the same goings on we’ve got here. But you never know.”

Maisie nodded. “Just see what happens in time, Billy.”

“That’s all you can do, ain’t it, Miss?”

J
ames Compton was now living at the Compton family’s London home, a grand Ebury Place mansion house that had recently undergone considerable refurbishment. The house had been mothballed for some time, and it was Lady Rowan who decided that James had been living at his club for long enough; a man in his position should have a London residence. It was also the house to which Maisie had come to work in service when she was just thirteen years old.

That Maisie and James had love for each other was without question. Whether that love would lead to marriage was the subject of much conjecture in both the Compton household and among Maisie’s friends, Priscilla and Douglas Partridge. Maisie’s father was happy to stand well back and remain noncommittal on the subject. Frankie Dobbs had always wanted to see her “settled,” but kept his counsel. For the moment, Maisie was happy to continue with the relationship as it was, though it was becoming more apparent to those who knew the couple that James was less than content with the status quo.

Now Maisie sat in her motor car, an MG two-seater tourer, which she had parked in the mews behind the mansion. She did not get out of the vehicle because it still took every ounce of her courage to enter the house. In the months of their courtship leading up to completion of the mansion’s refurbishment, James had been a frequent visitor to Maisie’s flat in Pimlico. She had taken out a mortgage to purchase the property a couple of years earlier, but was able to settle the loan following the death of her longtime mentor, Dr. Maurice Blanche. Apart from a few smaller bequests, Maurice had left Maisie his entire estate, honoring his esteem and, indeed, his love for her; he had come to regard her as a daughter. Paying off the mortgage had been one of the very few expenditures she made on her own behalf.