Elegy for Eddie

  Priscilla stirred her drink again and took a sip before setting the glass on a side table. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Do you want me to ask him?”

  “No. No, please don’t. It’s best left alone, and I’ll ask him if need be.”

  “What’s going on, Maisie?”

  Maisie shook her head. “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  “Knowing your work, I do hope there’s nothing frightening going on to do with Douglas.”

  “No, not in the way you think. I just happen to be working on a case that involves a writer—Soames—so I thought I’d ask. And as for what Douglas is working on, well, Sandra just happened to mention that she was busy with some important work for him at the moment.”

  “Your questions are very specific, though, Maisie. I think you’re fobbing me off.”

  “I just wondered how well he knows John Otterburn—that’s at the heart of it. And the young man in question had a desk at the studio, so the two names came up a few times. That’s all.” Maisie felt she had asked too much and hoped Priscilla would accept her explanation. “And I’d be awfully grateful if we could keep this conversation between us. I know that’s a lot to ask—after all, he is your husband. But I wouldn’t want my questions to be of a concern to him when he’s so busy.”

  “I see. Well, as long as you don’t think he murdered anyone!” Priscilla stood up, holding up her glass. “Another one?”

  “I’m only a few sips into this one.”

  “I’ll just have another half-glass, and lots of ice.” Priscilla stood up and went to mix another drink.

  Maisie watched as Priscilla stood beside a sideboard of dark wood and mirrored glass, the top reflecting bottles and an ice bucket, as if the designer had intended the effect to resemble a kaleidoscope.

  “So, tell me,” said Priscilla, pouring gin into her glass and holding it up to check the measure before adding another splash. “What’s going on with you and James? To tell you the truth, I’ve been expecting a joyous announcement of forthcoming nuptials.”

  “That’s far from on the cards.”

  Priscilla took her seat once again. “But everything started so well, and he’s a very nice chap—the boys adore him.”

  “Yes, he’s lovely—kind and solicitous. But we seem to be arguing over all sorts of silly things. And some not-so-silly things.” Maisie sighed, set her drink on the side table, and ran her fingers through her hair. “And we’re just different. I thought it might not matter so much that our roots are poles apart, but it does matter, and it seems to be becoming quite significant. I’ve been suffocating at Ebury Place, and I’ve come to see my flat as a retreat.”

  “Do you spend much time at your house?”

  “My house?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake! The house that Maurice left you . . . ? The Dower House . . . ?”

  “At first I did, because there was a lot to go through. But now—no, not really.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you see, Pris?” asked Maisie. “What do you see that I can’t see?”

  “I’m going to have to be blunt with you.”

  “When haven’t you been blunt, Priscilla?”

  “Not as often as I would like. I’ve been watching you since Maurice died, and I believe you’ve found it harder than you think, having the responsibility of wealth and property.”

  “I have Maurice’s lawyer to advise me,” said Maisie.

  Priscilla shook her head. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “Look, this is just what I’ve seen, what I’ve noticed during the past months, since your inheritance. You seem to be spending an awful lot of money on trying to make other people happy. You’ve essentially bought a house for the Beales in all but name; and, admittedly, you’ve trod very carefully so as not to offend, but you’ve set them up and have barely asked for rent since they moved in. And then Sandra—bless her, she’s a lovely, intelligent girl and she’s been through a lot, but I know you’re paying for her education and her books and everything that goes with it. That’s without your contribution to Maurice’s clinics, over and above the trust he’d set up so that the work may continue. And there’s been other things—I won’t go so far as to say you’ve been spending money like a drunken sailor, because you don’t direct it at yourself, but it’s as if you feel you’re having to apologize for having the money in the first place, and you’re trying to get rid of it so that you can be comfortably strapped for cash again.”

  “Priscilla, that’s unfair!” Maisie stood up and began to pace. “I mean, well, if you’re thinking like that, look who—look who acted as a guarantor for me to obtain a loan for the flat? Eh? You thought I wouldn’t find out?”

  “How on earth—?”

  “I discovered that you’d had a hand in it when I went to pay off the mortgage—which is something I was able to do with the money left to me. And I’m only doing what you did for me.”

  “Oh no, Maisie. It’s not the same—and for goodness sake, sit down, will you?” Priscilla raised her voice. “You’re making my head spin.”

  Maisie sat down. Priscilla continued.

  “Look, you are my most precious friend; you’re like a sister to me. You are dear to my heart, and I knew that even if you found out, you wouldn’t hold it against me.”

  “But what do you mean, ‘It’s not the same’?”

  “I mean that this . . . this controlling of other people’s futures won’t get you any thanks, you know. In fact, if you go on like it, coming to the rescue all the time, you could make more enemies than friends.” Priscilla paused, then stood up. “Oh, bloody hell. I’m going to have the other half of that G and T, and I might just make it a very large one.” She continued talking while pouring another drink, throwing ice cubes into the glass in a manner that almost caused them to bounce out again. “The fact is, people like a little help when they need it, usually because there’s a means to pay it back—perhaps not in the same way, with money, but with a task completed, something like that. If you give people more than they can ever repay, you run the risk of resentment, because then they feel beholden.” She sat down again, but closer to Maisie. “I know this is hard, and it’s only my opinion, but I’ve seen it happen. I would bet anything that in time there will be repercussions from the recipients of your largesse. Those people you’ve helped might distance themselves, or they might decide it’s easier to stop seeing you at some point. You leave them with such a debt, and no one likes to feel in debt. There are ways of helping without doing everything—otherwise you take away the opportunity for them to be proud of something they’ve achieved.”

  “But I couldn’t leave Billy and his family where they were, not with the boys always ill, and them cramped with Billy’s mother in that small house.”

  “Small by whose standards?”

  “They were so happy to be moving.”

  “Of course they were,” countered Priscilla. “But give people time to settle, and the obligation begins to weigh on them.”

  Maisie bent forward and pressed her hands to her eyes. “I just keep doing everything wrong. I feel as if everything I touch is falling apart in my hands.”

  Priscilla placed her drink back on the side table and put her arm around her friend. “It’s all to be understood, Maisie. I may not have your insight, but I know when I see something out of kilter, and I think that’s what’s happened to you, but in a subtle way. Everything good has a dark side, even generosity. It can become overbearing, intimidating, even humiliating—and no one likes to think someone else is pulling the strings, do they?”

  “Oh, I’ve made such an idiot of myself. I wish Maurice had left the money to someone else, someone more capable.”

  “He did the right thing, Maisie, but it is a change in circumstances you weren’t prepared for—and I think you’ve done a remarkable job, really.”

  “I should keep my nose out of other people’s business.”

  “Well . . .”


  Maisie sat upright. “But I do know one thing, and that is, James and I, we’re on different paths. We have different expectations of what might be and of each other. I think we’re at the end. I just feel it.”

  “Now then, now then. The sky isn’t falling in, Maisie. You’ve just got to buck up, take care of your business, take care of your estate, and, above all, take care of yourself. I bet this upset with James is just a storm in a teacup, truly I do. The course of true love ne’er did run smooth.”

  Maisie finished her drink. “The fact is, Pris, I don’t think we are each other’s true love. I think we’ve simply been very good company for each other, and we’ve probably helped each other realize that we still know how to love.”

  Priscilla looked at Maisie for a moment. “I do wish you would just give it some more time.”

  “Anyway,” said Maisie, coming to her feet, “we’ve that Otterburn supper tomorrow, and perhaps a Friday to Monday with them, over Easter. We’ve some other social engagements on the horizon, so we’ll get through them and see where we are.”

  “Yes, dear friend. See where you are. Don’t be hasty in your decisions.”

  The two bid farewell on the threshold, Priscilla holding Maisie just a few seconds longer than usual. She was aware Priscilla had remained at the door as she walked down the steps to her motor car; and as she turned at the end of the street, she looked back and Priscilla was still there, watching as she drove away. She thought she might feel light-headed following the strong cocktail, but as she negotiated traffic back to Pimlico, she felt alert, her thoughts clearer than they’d been in a long time. She was surprised at how easily she had articulated her situation with James; she could see in Priscilla’s eyes a hint of realization that the intermittent discord was not a storm in a teacup. And yet she was even more surprised—mortified, in fact—by the way in which her friend’s words had echoed the conversation with Elsbeth Masters. But Priscilla’s summing up—one phrase in particular—resonated in a different way: “Everything good has a dark side, even generosity . . . and no one likes to think someone else is pulling the strings, do they?”

  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

  Having 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.

  The 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.