Elegy for Eddie

  “Miss!”

  “Sandra, whatever is it? You’re white as a sheet—what’s wrong? What on earth is wrong?”

  “Oh, Miss Dobbs—it’s Billy.”

  Maisie felt a cold sweat envelop her body, and at once it was as if Sandra had spoken to her from within a long tunnel. “What’s wrong with him? Where is he?” Her own words seemed to bounce back to her.

  “He’s in St. Thomas’ Hospital. We’ve had the police here this morning already. He was found not far from that pub, The Lighterman, by some workers coming onto the early shift at the factory; he was in a bad way. The police say he’d been set upon, beaten up, sometime last night.”

  “What?” Maisie slipped past Sandra and ran up the stairs. “How is he? What about Doreen? Why didn’t she telephone me when he didn’t come home? What—”

  Sandra followed Maisie into the office. “Miss Dobbs, if you’ll pardon me for interrupting, but I’ve got answers to almost everything. That Detective Inspector Caldwell was here and told me to tell you this, and—”

  “Caldwell? He’s with the Murder Squad.” Maisie picked up the telephone receiver, but realizing she didn’t quite know who to call, she returned it to its cradle.

  “That’s what he said. ‘I’m with the Murder Squad, not the Not-Quite-Dead-But-Might-Be-Soon Squad.’ ”

  “He can be a sarcastic piece of work, Caldwell.”

  “I think he was shocked, to tell you the truth,” said Sandra. “He told me he’d always liked Billy, so when the call came in and he got word of it, he went straight over to St. Thomas’ and sent a driver and a woman police constable to Eltham to collect Mrs. Beale. Then he came here, to see you. Everything’s under control, Miss Dobbs.”

  “But what about Billy? What happened to him?”

  “He’s still unconscious, but the police are waiting to interview him when he comes round—they had to operate on him as soon as they got him to the hospital. He’s got a nasty concussion, a thick black eye, several broken ribs and they kicked him in the legs—his poor wounded legs.” Sandra put her hand to her mouth.

  Maisie gathered up her bag and moved away from her desk. “Right, I’m going to the hospital. And then I’m going to find out who did this to Billy. In the meantime, Sandra, I’d like you to find out everything you can about a man called Jimmy Merton.”

  “Miss—I wouldn’t go down to the hospital if I were you.”

  “Why ever not? I must go to him—I have to make sure he receives the very best medical care.” Maisie put her hand to her forehead. “And could you telephone Mr. Andrew Dene—he’s a consultant now, so he’s known as ‘Mister’ not ‘Doctor.’ He lectures at St. Thomas’ Medical School several times each week, and he surpasses anyone else in his field when it comes to wounds of this sort—he’s an orthopedic surgeon. He knows Billy, and he’ll bring in a good neurosurgeon and a vascular expert. Tell him what’s happened, tell him I’d like him to see Billy—and tell him that Billy must be well taken care of, and all accounts may be sent to the office, to my attention. Now then, I must go.”

  Sandra reached out and put her hand on Maisie’s arm. “No, Miss Dobbs. Please don’t.” Tears had filled her eyes. “You see, Caldwell warned me—he said that Mrs. Beale wasn’t of sound mind when she heard about Billy, that she’s sort of gone off again. She’s very emotional, and she’s blaming you, shouting that it’s all your fault, that if Billy wasn’t doing this job, then he wouldn’t be in this state, and that they were better off in Shoreditch, until you interfered and made them move, and—”

  “But she wanted to move, Sandra.” Maisie grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. “I wanted to help them—I . . .” Tears filled her eyes.

  Sandra held on to Maisie’s arm, her grip tentative. “I know that, Miss Dobbs. But like I said, Mrs. Beale is very emotional at the moment, and she’s, well, she’s gone back a few steps.”

  “I still think I need to go down there. Doreen has always trusted me—I can talk to her.”

  “I don’t know that anyone can talk to her, Miss. When Caldwell told me about it, I took the liberty of giving him the name of her doctor—Dr. Elsbeth Masters, the one you arranged for her to see, who helped her so much. I think he’s telephoned her, and she’s spoken to the ward sister on duty at St. Thomas’, and they’ve given Mrs. Beale something—but I don’t know if now is the time to go.”

  Maisie closed her eyes and, not for the first time, felt herself yearn for Maurice’s counsel. She had mourned his loss, and she had grieved for him, but the ache of missing him lingered—who was there to turn to now that he was gone? Where was that wisdom to draw upon? She heard Sandra leave the room, the light rattle of crockery signaling that she had gone to the kitchenette to prepare a mug of tea.

  “What shall I do, Maurice? What can I do for Billy? For Doreen?” Maisie asked her question into the nothingness that now seemed to envelop her. And she waited, leaning forward as if to hear a voice in the distance.

  Minutes later, she felt as if she had been woken from a light and troubled sleep when Sandra touched her shoulder and held out the tea.

  “There, Miss. That’ll make you feel better. It’s been a shock all round, the news.”

  Maisie nodded. “Thank you, Sandra.” She blew ripples across the steaming tea and sipped. Drawing back, she looked at Sandra, who had pulled her own chair closer. “I’ll wait a while, and then I’ll go to the hospital—I must, Billy’s my responsibility. I’ll telephone Dr. Masters to ask her advice, then I’ll go.”

  “Right you are, Miss Dobbs. And I’ll telephone Mr. Dene, and I’ll find out what I can about Jimmy Merton. Do you reckon he’s responsible for this, Miss?”

  Maisie shook her head. “I did what I had taken pains to stop the gentlemen from doing—I jumped to a conclusion without evidence, because I want someone brought to book for the attack on Billy. Merton might have something to do with it, and he might not—but I do know he was a thug who had made Eddie’s life difficult in the past, and I would bet without a shadow of doubt that he’s a regular in The Lighterman.”

  Following a brief telephone conversation with Dr. Masters, Maisie thanked Sandra for taking care of matters at a difficult time and left the office. Still in a daze, she walked to Tottenham Court Road and hailed a taxi-cab to take her across the river to St. Thomas’ Hospital. If Doreen had been given medication as instructed, she would be calmer. But she knew that Doreen—for whom the same daily round was crucial to her well-being—would be seriously affected by the sudden news of the attack on her husband, especially following a night of worry, when it was likely her fear had led to a paralysis of action. And Billy’s aging mother, though sensible and strong, would have found it difficult to deal with the younger woman—a woman who, though happy with her baby, might be suffering from the ups and downs of new motherhood. Masters had cautioned Maisie to “tread carefully.”

  The taxi-cab dropped Maisie outside the austere exterior of St. Thomas’ on Westminster Bridge Road in Lambeth, across the river from the Houses of Parliament. She lingered a while, trying to compose herself for what she might encounter within the walls of this venerable old hospital. It had been in its present location since the end of the Crimean War, when Florence Nightingale had been consulted on the move from Southwark, where the hospital had been situated since its founding some eight hundred years earlier. Nightingale had decreed that ceilings in the new hospital should be high, and wards must be light-filled and airy, so that patients might feel better and be at less risk of infection.

  Maisie felt small as she walked those long, high-ceilinged corridors towards the men’s surgical ward. She had been informed that Billy was now in a side ward on his own, and that a policeman was currently with him, as was his wife, for whom a small camp bed had been rolled into the room. Apparently, Elsbeth Masters had warned the ward sister that they might have a significant problem to deal with if Mrs. Beale could not remain with her husband. Maisie acknowledged her fears as she continued walking, hoping that Bi
lly might be awake, hoping that his injuries might be overcome in time, perhaps soon. She felt she might have made a terrible error in her belief that in helping Billy and Doreen to move into a new house in Eltham, far from the slums of Shoreditch, she was doing the right thing. If what Sandra recounted was true, perhaps she had overstepped the mark—yet Doreen had been so very pleased with her new home, hadn’t she? Maisie sighed, straightened her shoulders, and went up a staircase to her right, then along another corridor. She reminded herself that Doreen was deeply emotional, and that such fluctuations had a poor effect on her well-being, on her ability to cope with even the smallest task. Billy’s condition would have brought back memories of losing their beloved daughter, so she would be deeply troubled and—Maisie knew this—barely responsible for her words or actions. But despite her own medical training and her understanding of the wounded mind, Maisie felt the mantle of guilt heavy upon her shoulders.

  A policeman was outside the door when Maisie arrived. Caldwell, who was sitting next to Billy’s bed, looked up and waved her into the room.

  “Miss Dobbs. He’s just come round, though he goes in and out, but he’s been telling me a bit about what happened.”

  Maisie rushed to Billy’s side and took his hand. His head was swaddled in white bandages, and his face swollen, with deep purple eyelids he seemed unable to open.

  “S’all right, Miss. I can’t see you, but I know you’re there.” Billy croaked the words, and began to cough.

  Maisie looked around for a water jug and glass. “Where’s the—”

  Caldwell caught her eye and shook his head, pointing to a sign above the bed. “Nil by mouth.”

  Maisie sat down on the opposite side of the bed and looked at Caldwell, with Billy between them. Caldwell shook his head again and pointed to his stomach. He didn’t need to say anything—Billy could not take fluid due to the possibility of internal injuries.

  “I was a nurse, I should have known better,” whispered Maisie.

  “I did exactly the same thing—it’s natural.”

  “What, Miss?”

  “Nothing, Billy—we were just wondering who did this to you.”

  Billy smacked his lips together. “I’m dry, Miss. Can’t hardly talk. And they’ve got this Christmas tree here pushing water into my veins, yet where I need it is in my mouth.”

  “I’ll talk to the doctor, see what we can do.” Maisie paused and was about to ask if he remembered anything, when his breathing changed.

  “He’s gone again,” said Caldwell. “Goes in and out, like I said. I’ve been here half an hour so far. He can only tell me that he can’t remember anything—well, he remembers ordering a half pint of light and bitter, then he started talking to some of the lads from Bookhams. That’s not to say that there wasn’t a lot more talking done, but that’s where his memory stopped. I had to question a bloke last week, got himself in a motor accident, and his last memory was having his breakfast that morning. Funny, that.”

  Maisie nodded and whispered. “I’ve asked a friend of mine to see him—he’s a senior consultant here, and he’ll know who to bring in.”

  “Always down to who you know, eh, Miss Dobbs?”

  “What do you mean?”

  At that point a shrill scream pierced the air. Maisie turned and saw Doreen outside the door to Billy’s room, her open mouth and bloodshot eyes distorted by the glass as she screamed again. Maisie could see the panic in her expression. The door rattled as Doreen tried to enter the room but in her distress had difficulty coordinating her movements until, with a final turn and push, the door opened and crashed back against the wall and Doreen stumbled in, her hands held out before her. She ran at Maisie, who caught her wrists, and as Doreen began screaming, trying to beat Maisie with her fists, the constable and Caldwell restrained her.

  “You did this! All he thinks about is doing his best for you, and this is what happens. ‘Do this, Billy, Do that, Billy.’ And off he goes, like a lamb to the slaughter for his Lady-bloody-Bountiful. What was he doing in a place like that, my Billy? Look what you’ve done to him, just look. He was better off working as a caretaker than for you. I rue the day he ever met you—never mind about knowing you in the war and you saving his life. Look where that’s got him now. And we were better off in Shoreditch—now we’re beholden. And look where it’s got us, look . . .”

  Spent, Doreen Beale slipped to the floor, her legs caught under her. The two men reached down to help her to her feet.

  “Leave her be. Just leave her be.” Maisie sat on the floor next to Doreen and put her arms around her, holding her as tight as she could. She felt the thin, bony shoulders and elbows through her clothing, and the depth of sorrow and pain as Doreen sobbed. “There, there, just you cry, Doreen. There, there.” Rocking back and forth, Maisie felt herself rubbing her cheek against the woman’s hair, and she felt the weight of her vulnerability, and how that burden must have been so hard for the family to bear.

  “I thought they were doing so well now,” she whispered to Caldwell.

  “They probably were, Miss Dobbs.” The detective knelt down beside Maisie, his voice far more tender than she might have given him credit for. “But this is a serious matter, and what with her having a new baby and all . . .” His voice trailed.

  “It’s just not fair. They’ve gone through so much. No family should have to endure this . . . this . . . suffering.”

  “But it happens. I see it all the time. There’s some people who seem to be dealt the wrong hand, and it’s just one thing after another.” He signaled to the policeman to help Doreen to her feet; it was as if she were a deadweight, with no thoughts to inform her limbs. “Come on, let’s get her over to that camp bed before sister comes down the ward breathing fire and wondering what the racket’s all about. PC Henley, as soon as we’ve got her settled, you go and find the staff nurse, see what they can give her—she’s half with us and half not, so she needs some help.”

  With Doreen settled and the constable sent to summon the staff nurse, Maisie turned back to Billy. It was clear he was aware of what had just happened, for as she took his hand again, a single tear emerged from each swollen eye and trickled across his bruised cheeks.

  “I’ll find out who did this, Billy. I’ll find out,” whispered Maisie. She felt the pressure of acknowledgment in Billy’s fingers.

  Once in the corridor, Maisie and Caldwell stood aside to allow the staff nurse to pass; clasped in her hand was an enamel kidney bowl with two large metal syringes.

  “Miss Dobbs, I heard what you had to say to Mr. Beale, about finding out who did this, and I must caution you—you are not to try to find out anything. This is a job for the police, and, quite frankly, I don’t want to come visiting you in this hospital, or any other hospital for that matter, and I don’t want to be seeing more people looking like that.” He nodded towards Billy.

  “But Detective Inspector—”

  “Now then, we’re on the same side here.” He gave a half-smile. “I’ve told you before, I don’t mind them dead, but I can’t stand to see all that wounding on a person still drawing breath, so I don’t intend to make a habit of it. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Beale is the victim of an attempted murder, and I will be looking into it.”

  “I think it’s to do with Eddie Pettit’s death. Do you see? It might not have been an accident at Bookhams.”

  Caldwell said nothing, the only sounds a soft moaning from the room, where drugs were being administered to Doreen, and the tap-tapping of his foot on the tiled floor.

  “All right, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But I’ve got to be careful, you know. Why don’t you and I have a cuppa together on Monday morning and compare notes. Will that suffice for now?”

  “Yes, it will. Thank you.”

  Maisie shook hands with Caldwell and turned to go back into Billy’s room to have a few words with the staff nurse.

  “Oh, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell. “Remember, Mrs. Beale’s a sick woman. Don’t set too much s
tock by what she said in there.”

  “Thank you, Detective Inspector. The thing is, I think she might be right. Perhaps I have taken advantage of Billy. I’ve made errors of judgment, and the fact that a good, kind man is lying in there so badly injured is down to me. Now I have to sort it all out.”

  “Just be careful you don’t make it worse, that’s all I can say. See you Monday.” Caldwell turned and walked away.

  Maisie was about to step into the room when the staff nurse came out.

  “No more visitors, madam. I think there’s been enough excitement around here for one day. I don’t know what Matron will have to say about it.”

  “What will happen to Mrs. Beale?” Seeing the nurse’s hesitance to speak, Maisie added, “I was a nurse in the war—and just afterwards, at a psychiatric hospital—so I have some understanding of the situation. I arranged for Mrs. Beale to see Dr. Masters, who has been advising on her state of mind.”

  The nurse chewed the inside of her lip, as if debating how much to reveal; then she sighed. “Oh, that’ll have been the last straw, that little outburst in there. We’ve done our best, what with the nature of her husband’s medical condition—it’s almost unheard of to bring in a bed so a family member can stay. We only ever think about that for the little ones, but even then it’s rare. But we thought he might go after the first operation, to release pressure on the brain.”

  Maisie gasped. The nurse appeared not to notice.

  “I know our registrar has already been on the telephone to that Dr. Masters,” added the staff nurse. “And an ambulance is expected any minute to take her over there, to the psychiatric hospital.”

  “Oh, dear—what a mess. She’s a mother, and her baby—” Maisie shook her head. “Not to worry, I’ll sort it out. I’ll look after the family.”

  As she was about to leave, Maisie turned once more to the staff nurse.

  “I wonder, do you have Mr. Beale’s personal effects?”

  “Yes, they’re in the office—usually they’re only handed back to the patient when they leave, or next of kin if the patient’s deceased.”