Elegy for Eddie

  Maud Pettit nodded, slowly, her gaze on the windowpanes, where dust had collected against the glass outside.

  “Kettle’s boiling. I’ll brew us some tea,” said Jennie.

  Maisie thanked Jennie, her voice barely more than a whisper. These were people for whom a cup of tea was balm for the shock of bad news; perhaps a death, an accident, the loss of a job or a roof over one’s head. The more desperate the word that came—from a neighbor, in a letter, from the bailiff or the police—the stronger the brew and the sweeter it was to the taste.

  “What do you think, Maisie?” asked Maud. “What do you think of these policemen and what they’ve said about Jimmy Merton?”

  Maisie looked down at her hands, then back at Maud to answer her question. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. But here’s what I do think—that they’re probably right that Jimmy Merton had a hand in Eddie’s death, and for that he’s paid a price. And I think we must be thankful because now we know.”

  “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, ain’t that right, Maudie?” Jennie began pouring the tea, her hand shaking.

  “It’s a terrible thing, all the same,” said Maud. “Two boys growing up here on these streets, you’d think we’d all stick together; after all, we’re all in the same boat. We should be looking out for each other, not one trying to kill another. It’s a terrible thing, terrible.”

  “Yes, it is.” Maisie began to choose her words with care. “But now you can rest, can’t you? You know how Eddie died, and you know that, however wrong it all was, the piper’s been paid his due. Now you can mourn, and you can remember Eddie with all the love in your hearts, because he touched so many people—and he brought comfort to the horses; he loved his horses, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. He loved them and they loved him back.”

  Jennie brought a cup to Maud, holding on to the saucer until the woman had it in a secure grip.

  “I won’t stay, Jennie,” said Maisie. “I must be getting along. I’m going up to see Jesse, Seth, and the men up at the market—I want to catch them before they go home. They’ll want to know the news too, and I daresay you’ll be seeing Jesse soon, Maud.”

  “Oh, he’ll come round to see us. You’d better keep that kettle on the boil, Jen.”

  Maisie said good-bye to Maud, who made her promise not to be a stranger.

  “It does us good to see a young face about. Two old women like us, we could do with a bit of life around here, especially now Eddie’s gone.”

  She saw grief in the woman’s features, and gave her word that she would keep in touch.

  At the door Jennie squeezed Maisie’s shoulder. “I know you’re busy, Maisie, so don’t feel you have to visit. Maud’s just feeling a bit lonely. She’s afraid, you see, of being on her own. Not that I’m planning to go anywhere.” She put her hand to her forehead. “I keep meaning to ask you—was that notebook of Eddie’s any help?”

  “It’s a help, Jennie, but I’d still like to find the one with all Eddie’s customers and their addresses listed. It hasn’t turned up.”

  “I’ve racked my brains and nothing fell out,” said Jennie. “But I’ll keep looking. Take care, young Maisie. And thank you. Thank you for coming over with the news.”

  Maisie said good-bye and walked along the road to where she’d parked the MG. She started the engine and for a while sat in the idling motor car, looking about her. She was one of the lucky ones, and there were few. The outcome could have been so different. She felt as if she were in debt, that there was something to be repaid, and she thought she could start with Maud and Jennie. Perhaps she could ensure their security in the house, or have some alterations done to make it more comfortable for the two women as they aged. Despite what Elsbeth Masters had said, she thought it was the right thing to do.

  Having set the motor car in motion, she made her way on towards the West End, but a wave of fatigue seemed to envelop her as she negotiated the lorries, horse-drawn carts, motor cars, and weather. And at the same time she felt a pang of guilt. She had told the truth, that Jimmy Merton was dead, and that the police believed him to be responsible for Eddie’s death. The weight she carried within her came from a growing sense that Eddie’s death was just the tip of a very different iceberg.

  Maisie stood on the edge of the market, watching porters running to and fro, and costers clearing up after a busy day. The ground was spattered with dropped fruit and vegetables, and street urchins waited to be thrown a few “specks”—damaged fruit unsuitable for sale—or to be given a coin or two for running an errand. Maisie was pained to see so many of the children running in bare feet and threadbare clothing. She thought she would talk to Andrew Dene; in Maurice Blanche’s last will and testament they had been given a responsibility to ensure the continuation of the medical clinics he’d set up in the poorest areas of London. Perhaps they could add a distribution office to provide discarded clothing to the poor, or she could allocate a certain amount to add new children’s clothing each year; perhaps C&A’s would give her a discount, if she asked someone at the store. She hated to see children so wanting.

  She spotted Jesse lifting a box of cucumbers and stepped out in his direction, waving when he looked up.

  “Mr. Riley! Jesse! Over here!”

  Riley touched his flat cap, and began walking towards her. On the way he called out to a man walking across the market.

  “Fred, could you have a scout round for Seth, Archie, Pete, and Dick? Tell ’em we’ve got a visitor and they’re wanted over here.” He smiled as he approached Maisie. “I didn’t think we’d see you here today, Maisie.”

  “I’ve some news for you, Jesse.”

  “Better wait for the lads. Here, come over this way; they’ve more chance of seeing us if we wait on the corner.”

  Soon the other men joined them, making their way past barrow boys and porters, everyone pushing, shoving, and running to bring more produce to the stalls or to load up for deliveries.

  “Why don’t we go over to Sammy’s, eh? He won’t mind us taking up a table while we talk.”

  Pete led the way through the throng to a small café on the opposite side of the market. The owner waved to the men as they came in.

  “Just want to sit down for a minute or two, Sam,” said Jesse. “All right with you?”

  “Trying to impress the lady?” said Sam, sweeping back gunmetal gray hair that had flopped into his eyes as he worked.

  “You know who this is?” called Jesse. “Frankie Dobbs’ girl. Remember Frankie? Went down to the country when the war started. He still comes up this way now’n again. This is his Maisie.”

  Maisie waved to the café owner. She recognized him when he looked up, and remembered being told he was from Malta, though she recalled that when she was a child Sam had jet-black hair, always oiled and in place.

  “Maisie? Maisie the little girl who loved my ice cream?”

  At once she could almost taste Sam’s special hazelnut ice cream, a crunchy confection that slid across the tongue, so rich it made her eyes water with each spoonful.

  “Oh, now I remember you, Sam—you made the best ice cream in London.”

  “You want some, Miss Maisie? Still make it, ’specially for you!”

  “No, thank you.” She shook her head. “I’m here to talk to the gentlemen. But I’ll come back for a cornet when I have time to sit and savor the taste—so remember me, won’t you?”

  The man laughed, waved, and continued to clean his small café.

  “Got some news for us, Maisie?” asked Pete.

  “I have. Yes.” She stopped speaking for a moment, watching the men. Pete leaned forward, but Seth and Jesse sat back, their arms folded. Archie and Dick both folded their arms as well. She went on. “I heard from the police that Jimmy Merton was found dead, apparently by his own hand. He’d hung himself from Lambeth Bridge.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Pete, looking back at the others.

  Seth shook his head while Jesse looked out of the wi
ndow, then back at Maisie.

  “Merton was under suspicion anyway,” said Maisie. “The police said they couldn’t pin Eddie’s death on him, but they believe he either caused the accident, or at the very least he didn’t make any attempt to help Eddie. And that wasn’t the end of it. My assistant, whom you met—Mr. Beale—was attacked when he left The Lighterman after conducting inquiries. He was left for dead and is now in St. Thomas’ Hospital. He’s out of the woods, but still very ill. Jimmy Merton was fingered as the attacker. The police believe Merton knew he could face the gallows for Eddie’s death, if guilt could be proved—and he doesn’t exactly have a sterling record. At the very least, he could have been sent down for a long time for the attack on Billy, for which there were apparently witnesses. The result was that he took his life to avoid the gallows or prison.”

  “Well then, he got what was coming to him.” Jesse looked at the other men. “I’ve no sympathy for him. It’s a shock—I never expect the likes of Jimmy Merton to do away with himself, but you never know what goes on in a man’s head, especially his sort. But I’m not sorry to see the back of him. I don’t think any of us are.”

  “Can’t say as I disagree, Maisie. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but I never liked the bloke. He was bad all the way through, that one. Good riddance, that’s what I say,” said Archie.

  The men nodded in agreement.

  “Will your Billy be all right? Will he be able to go back to work, do you reckon?” asked Seth.

  “I don’t know, Seth. I—I’m not allowed to see him at the moment. I’ll probably know soon, though.”

  “Strong lad, that one,” said Dick Samuels.

  “But you could see he’d been wounded in the war,” said Pete Turner. “And did you hear his chest, when he spoke to us down here in the market? He’d been gassed, you can always tell ’em.” Pete looked from Jesse to Maisie. “What about his family? They going to be all right?”

  “Yes. I’ll make sure they want for nothing.”

  “And you—what about you?”

  Maisie smiled. The men had no knowledge of the way in which her circumstances had changed, that she was not only a working woman but one who had considerable wealth.

  “I’ll be all right, don’t you worry about me. I can take care of them.”

  “That’s all right then.” Jesse frowned for a second or two, then looked at his friends. “Well, lads, we’d better get a move on. Reckon we should go round to see Maudie, don’t you?”

  There was agreement all round, and Maisie made her farewells, called out good-bye to Sam, and went on her way. She would have liked to feel as if her investigation was coming to a close, that she had given her clients exactly what they wanted. But there were too many loose ends. The police may have filed the case away, but for Maisie there were still pages flapping in the wind.

  The office was silent at the end of the day. There were a few messages from Sandra, but nothing urgent. She picked up the black telephone on her desk and dialed the number for the Compton Corporation. James was not available, so she left a message asking him to telephone her at the flat, later. She did not care what James’ secretary might think. For the moment, she just wanted to be alone. She was gathering her belongings when the telephone started ringing.

  “Fitzroy five-six-double-zero.”

  “Maisie, where on earth have you been? Come over for a cocktail, now. I insist.”

  “Pris—oh dear, I know I promised, but I’ve been busy.”

  “All the more reason. I’ll drink tea if it makes you feel better.”

  “All right, give me a few moments to tie up some odds and ends here, and I’ll come over before going back to the flat.”

  “The flat?”

  “Yes, it’s my home, and I want to go back there this evening.”

  “Oh dear, hit a nerve there, didn’t I? I’ll expect you by half past six then. All right?”

  “I’ll be there, Priscilla.”

  “I don’t even like the way you said ‘Priscilla.’ Something must be terribly wrong. Half past six, not a moment later. And never mind the tea, I prescribe gin and tonic. Bye!”

  Maisie rubbed her forehead. At least she had done two good deeds for the day. She’d given a young man the possibility of work to which he might be suited, and she’d taken news to Maud Pettit that her son’s murderer had paid a price for his actions. Billy’s family were taken care of; and if all went well, she knew Billy would contact her as soon as he was in better health. In the meantime, she would keep her distance from the Beales, though she thought she might ask Sandra to visit Billy on her behalf.

  The door of the mansion in Holland Park was flung open by Priscilla’s eldest son almost as soon as she pulled the bell.

  “Good heavens, how you’ve grown! You’ll soon tower over your mother,” exclaimed Maisie.

  Thomas Partridge, who had recently celebrated his twelfth birthday, blushed. “About an inch or so to go.” He leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “Hello, Tante Maisie. We’ve missed you.”

  Soon they were joined by Timothy and Tarquin, who, Maisie thought, were also shooting up like vines.

  “Is Uncle James coming?” asked Tarquin. All the boys were mad about flight and aeroplanes, and the fact that James had been an aviator in the war had given him extra points as far as the boys were concerned.

  “Sorry, just me this evening.”

  There was a collective sigh of disappointment.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” said Priscilla as she approached, her arms outstretched to shepherd her sons in the direction of the staircase. “You three toads can just go to the playroom and do whatever you boys do in there, but if I hear one scream, one ‘I’ll kill you’ or the sound of a ball being whacked against the wall, you can rest assured there will be another sort of whacking in the works.”

  The boys ran off, and Maisie rolled her eyes. “Just as well I know that you wouldn’t lay a finger on them, isn’t it?”

  “I do a very good line in threats, though. Come on, to the drawing room. I’ve been so terribly good for so long that I’ve been looking forward to my cocktail this evening. Join me?”

  “I think I might.”

  “Oh dear. Now I know there’s trouble.”

  Priscilla led the way to the drawing room. Maisie took a seat on a leather chesterfield and looked out at the garden while listening to the sound of Priscilla dropping ice into glasses, pouring gin, and then a brief swish as she added tonic water.

  “There you are, mother’s ruin.” Priscilla handed a glass to Maisie and, kicking off her shoes, seated herself at the opposite end of the chesterfield, her legs to one side. She rubbed her feet.

  Maisie sipped her drink and sighed deeply as she leaned back.

  “All right, out with it. I have the distinct feeling that all is not well with your love life.”

  “Not exactly,” said Maisie. “But if you don’t mind, I wanted to ask you something. About Douglas.”

  “That’s one way of getting out of telling me what’s going on—mention my husband so I just have to know immediately what on earth you might want to know.”

  Maisie rubbed her forehead, her fingers still cold from holding the chilled glass. “I’m curious about how well Douglas knows John Otterburn. I mean, I know he must know him—but to what extent? Does he work for him?”

  “Douglas has written for all the big newspapers at one time or another, so he knows Otterburn, and our paths have crossed socially—we were invited to tomorrow’s bash, actually, but had to decline in favor of a supper with one of Douglas’ old army chums and his wife. They went off to live in Greece after the war. Bit like us; they had to get away from it all.”

  “But do you know if he’s working for him at the moment?”

  “I couldn’t say, though I think he might be beavering away on more than an article. To tell you the truth, I don’t ask questions about his work. If he chooses to show me something or ask me for an opinion or just moan that he can??
?t quite get something right, I do what I can—read, say what I think, or listen. I couldn’t write my way out of a paper bag, so I fear I can’t really be very constructive in my assistance.”

  “Why do you think he might be working on more than an article?” asked Maisie.

  Ice rattled in the glass as Priscilla stirred her drink. “Years of practice in the art of being married to a writer. I know it’s something important, and that he’s not saying much. The last time he started a book, he did the same thing—it’s as if he was going into a cave to thrash things out with someone. Fighting with the words, I called it once. He sometimes works at home—his lair at the top of the house—but as you probably know, he also keeps a small office not far from here.”

  “Does he ever use the studio at Lancaster Gate?”

  “So you know about that?” Priscilla picked up her drink. “Not that it’s a secret, but Douglas doesn’t have much to do with it on a day-to-day basis. It’s part of an estate left to him by an uncle—very handy too, if you’re a writer. He wanted to help other writers who aren’t quite so fortunate as to have the space to work in peace—perhaps they live in a flat and have children at home, something of that order. But go there himself? Never. He said he wants to help support those writers, not do their work for them or be there in an advisory capacity. I don’t think he ever sets foot in the place. There’s an overseer for the building—as well as the studios, there are residential apartments on the upper floors—and one of the writers takes care of administration of places and the waiting list.”

  “I see. So you think he’s writing a book?”

  “He’ll tell me soon, when he’s wrestled the first chapter or two. And he’ll also be working on his articles and essays. He likes to write different sorts of things, and sometimes at the same time—he says it keeps him on his toes.”

  Maisie nodded. “And has he ever mentioned a man called Bartholomew Soames?”