Elegy for Eddie (16 page)

“Have you been over to the studio since Bart died?”

She shook her head. “No, but I’ve applied to take over Bart’s desk. He was the only newspaperman there, the others are all poets or authors; there’s a biographer and a man writing a book about the planet Mars. The man who owns the property doesn’t have anything to do with the running of it. The writers are supposed to keep it clean themselves, and the one who’s been there the longest keeps the waiting list—I was hoping I could jump the list, being as I was Bart’s, well . . . friend. Anyway, it’s very pally there, a sort of salon. There’s a general seating area with armchairs and a fireplace, and the writers take it in turns to buy coal in the winter, so you can read of an evening in comfort—in fact, you can do everything but sleep there.”

“That sounds just the ticket for you, Eve.” Maisie paused. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you to visit Bart’s room and to check his desk. I didn’t have time to explain in any detail earlier, but as Mrs. Soames told you, I’m investigating the death of a man who was known to Bart; in fact, Bart became his friend and was trusted by him. There’s a chance that something about Eddie Pettit will be among Bart’s papers.”

Eve looked at Maisie. “I never thought of that. I met Eddie once. He was a very sweet man, wasn’t he? Bart’s mother was helping him with reading, and I was over at her house, with Bart. That’s how Bart met him, when she was giving Eddie a lesson.” She smiled. “I don’t know if anything came of it, but Bart told me that Eddie Pettit had given him a real gift.”

“What sort of gift?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but Bart was a reporter, and there’s only one true gift you can give to a reporter, and that’s a really big scoop.” She leaned forward and rapped on the glass between the driver and his passengers. “Just at this corner, please.”

As Eve Butterworth stepped out onto the curb she opened her purse. Maisie shook her head. “I can pay when I get home. Not to worry.”

“Thank you, Maisie. And thank you for all your help. I just wish we could have found something that might have helped you in the flat.”

“Oh, I think you’ve helped enormously. Now, remember, you have my card. Please get in touch with me if anything occurs to you. And I know someone with some old furniture I can send over, if you like.”

“If you can spare anything, I would be grateful. But I’ll see what I can find secondhand—there’s a lot more people trying to sell their belongings off cheap these days.”

Maisie smiled. “Eve, I almost forgot. The studio where Bart went to write—do you know who the absent owner is?”

“Yes. His name is Douglas Partridge. You might have heard of him. Bart never met him, but apparently his wife is considered one of the best-dressed women in London, so they must have money.”

Maisie took a deep breath. “Yes, I do believe I have heard of him. Thank you, Eve. Now then, you need to go inside and put your feet up, and I have to get home. I’ll sit here in the taxi until you’re inside the front door.”

Evelyn Butterworth thanked Maisie again as she stepped onto the curb. Maisie watched her walk to the door of the building and ring the bell. As she pulled her red jacket around her, she could feel the woman’s aloneness, an all-too-familiar demeanor she had witnessed in so many women when she was a nurse. The wives and sweethearts of wounded men would come to the hospital, and when the extent of their lovers’ injuries were realized, it was as if they could see the rest of their lives before them. They would either be caring for a man almost destroyed by war, or they would be widows. And sometimes when the loved one died of those wounds, Maisie would see that moment of relief in the young wife’s eyes, when she understood that her beloved husband’s passing had released her—but she also saw the veil of loneliness as it came down around the woman whose hand clutched the still-warm hand of a love gone forever. Evelyn Butterworth wore that gray veil, despite her colorful garb, despite the bright red lipstick and rouge, and her intention to stay in the flat she had shared with her lover, Bartholomew Soames.

As the door opened, Evelyn turned to wave one more time, and once she was inside, Maisie leaned forward. “Fifteen Ebury Place, please.”

“Right you are, madam.”

Maisie sat back in the taxi-cab and thought about Bart Soames and Eddie Pettit. A cold shiver went through her as she saw the case map in her mind’s eye, the threads of color linking the names and events, an inquiry that had already taken her from the dark streets of Lambeth and a man who could barely read, to the studio of those who wove words together and created poetry. And in her heart of hearts, she faced up to something she had not wanted to believe, that Eddie had been a pawn in a bigger game; a game he was not equipped to comprehend. A game in which it seemed her best friend’s husband might have played a part, a part he hoped to conceal from her. Or did he?

Chapter Nine

M
aisie had only just stepped into the entrance hall at 15 Ebury Place when James came downstairs, calling to her.

“Maisie, I thought something dreadful had happened to you. I telephoned the flat in case you were there, and when you didn’t come home at your usual hour—though heaven knows what that is anymore—I wondered if I should get in touch with the police.”

James was dressed in trousers the color of charcoal, with a soft, white Vyella shirt and a navy-blue silk cravat at his neck. His blond hair with threads of gray at the sides was combed back with a side parting, and at once it struck Maisie that he seemed older than his years; closer to his father, Lord Julian.

“I was helping a young woman who’d had her flat broken into. Her—” Maisie hesitated. “Her husband died a few weeks ago and I had to see her about something, but when I arrived she was in rather a state. There was no telephone on the premises or nearby, and it was clear she needed help.”

“Had her flat broken into? And how did her husband die, may I ask?”

Maisie handed her coat to the butler, her cheeks blazing. James had confronted her as if the servant were not there, listening. This, thought Maisie, was a perfect example of the chasm opening up between them—she was humiliated at being spoken to in front of someone she had never considered to be anything less than an equal, despite his position in the household, whereas James did not even appear to think it necessary to temper his comments in front of the man. She smiled and thanked Simmonds, who caught her eye for just a second. Maisie thought she saw the faint cast of a smile in return.

“I think we’ll go straight through for drinks, if that’s all right,” said Maisie.

The butler inclined his head. “Right you are, Miss Dobbs. At once.”

He left with her coat, and Maisie looked back at James.

“Let’s have a drink before supper and I’ll tell you all about it, if you like.”

James seemed mollified, and as if he had caught himself acting poorly, he came to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’m sorry. I was just worried.”

Maisie nodded. “Really, there was nothing to worry about.”

Once settled in the drawing room—James with a whiskey and soda and Maisie with a small cream sherry—she gave him an abbreviated version of the story, to the effect that she had called at the address not far from King’s Cross station just moments after the woman had discovered her flat in a state of disarray. Given the young widow’s emotional response to the violation, Maisie had remained with her to help clean the flat and to accompany her to a home shared by some women friends.

“Did she call the police?” asked James.

“No, and frankly there was precious little to be garnered from a search of the flat—it would have been listed as just one of so many burglaries in London today.” Maisie paused. “Did you have a good day, James?”

He shrugged. “The usual sort of things. All a bit boring, to tell you the truth.”

Maisie nodded, twisted the stem of her glass in her hand, and looked up at the man who was her lover, the man whom she knew wanted to marry her, but who would not ask because she had not given him reason to think he might be accepted. He was waiting for her to come to him, as if he were standing at the far end of a large field, and she were meandering her way across, stopping to look at anything that drew her attention along the way, and likely at any moment to strike out in another direction. And for that she felt an ache of guilt, because James was a good man, a sensitive man who had fallen in love with her, and she had believed she loved him, too. Doubt, the parasite, had become embedded in her heart, and increasingly she was aware of the differences between them, rather than the elements of character and experience that allow a man and a woman to see themselves reflected in each other.

“James, are you happy in your work? Do you feel as if you’ve had a hand in a job well done at the end of the day?” asked Maisie.

“What sort of question is that? I don’t stop to think about it, Maisie. I just get on with it.” James stood up, walked to the drinks tray set out earlier by the butler, and poured himself another whiskey. Maisie felt herself take a breath when she saw the large measure he’d allowed before adding soda. James turned back to her. “If I win a contract or pull off something big—buying at a good price, selling at a higher price—I certainly smile about it. But that’s my job. I have the family corporation to run. I don’t expect it to be a picnic. As I said, I just get on with it.”

Maisie took care in framing her question. “That’s not quite what I meant. Let me ask you this: If you weren’t working for the Compton Corporation, what would you be doing?”

“That’s just plain foolish, Maisie. I don’t have a choice.”

“But if you did. What would you do?”

James slumped down into the chair, and Maisie was dismayed to see his eyes water; he looked down at his drink and ran a hand through his hair. “I would be out. I would not be in an office, and I would be somewhere . . . oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know. I think I would probably be a farmer, so that I could only see land, land, land around me.” He appeared to be warming to the question. “I’d love to live in Canada again, but not in Toronto—somewhere else in Ontario, or in Alberta, or somewhere out in the prairies. Yes, that’s where I’d like to be a farmer—a million miles away from everything. But this is what is expected of me, so . . . so this is the sort of talk that gets us nowhere.” He looked up at her. “And I’d miss you, Maisie.” He paused. “Is this what you want, Maisie? It’s my turn now. What do
you
want?”

She had talked herself into a corner. Was this the time for honesty? And if it was, then what would she say? That she loved him, but did not feel she could live his life? But at the same time, was she ready to let him go? Was she with James because she feared being alone? Had it come to that? Were they, in fact, suffocating each other? And was this the time to bare their souls, or were they both too vulnerable for the conversation that must follow?

At that moment the door opened and Simmonds came in to inform them that supper was ready in the dining room.

James smiled, put down his drink, and embraced Maisie. “As long as you want me, Maisie, I’ll be here. That’s all that matters.”

She smiled in return. The moment was gone, the opportunity whisked away by time and chance. They had ventured out with their hearts towards honesty, but had scurried back to protect their feelings, and now they must follow the protocol of life in the mansion. Supper was ready. Time to eat, then time to sleep; to wake, to start another day. Maisie wondered if it wasn’t such a bad thing, this call to dine. She wasn’t sure of her feelings, but felt confident she knew exactly what she didn’t want. Yet at the same time she could not quite articulate what she
would
have in her life. And at that moment, she yearned to be able to share her confidence with Maurice, just once more. He would have known exactly what questions to put to her. Hadn’t he always said that the power of the question was in the question itself? He’d taught her that one must let a question linger in the mind as one might savor wine on the tongue, and he’d cautioned that a rush to answer could diminish all chance of insight. Indeed, if one continually avoided questions by trying to answer them immediately, such impatience would become a barrier on the path to greater knowledge of oneself.

The evening passed with light conversation, and they were both grateful for an element of humor as James told a story and Maisie laughed.

“You never really said that, James!”

“It just slipped out before I could stop myself.” He lifted his glass of wine, took a sip, and held on to the glass as he continued. “And the man is one of our best clients. My father, who was at the luncheon, looked at me as if he had brought a six-year-old along to a grown-ups’ party—haven’t seen that look in years. I wish I could say since I was six, but I fear I’ve seen it more than a few times since then.”

James seemed as if he might slip into melancholy again, so Maisie described walking along the Embankment, and how the wind gusted so much she thought she might be lifted off her feet. “I felt like one of those silly women you see in a picture-house comedy, grasping my hat, the wind lifting my skirt. Had I a few yards of string, I would have tied my clothes down with it.”

“I would have paid good money to see that!” said James.

There was laughter once again.

Maisie went on to describe the pontoon used by the river police, though did not explain her reason for being there. “I don’t know how they do that job,” she added. “Even on a warm spring day, it can be quite cool down by the water, so it must be freezing on a winter’s night.” She shivered, though the evening was mild.

There was a moment of silence, then James spoke again. “Oh, just to remind you, the Otterburn dinner—it’s this week. And we’ve also been invited down to their estate in Surrey for Easter, a Friday to Monday. They live more or less on Box Hill, actually; beautiful for a hack across the downs—would you like to come? There’s also the hunt, probably one of the last of the season; I’d love to go, if there’s the opportunity. I know I couldn’t persuade you to follow on a mount, but you could spend a few hours in their library. I understand they have a smashing collection, some very old books there.”

“Let’s see—it really depends upon how the next couple of days go, and how Billy progresses. I know it’s a bit informal, but would it be all right to let Mrs. Otterburn know on Wednesday?”

“I’m sure it would, can’t imagine why not.” James drained his glass and poured himself more wine. Maisie shook her head when he reached to refill her glass. And at once she saw a picture in her mind’s eye, of James on horseback in a field of wheat, the golden crop reflected in his windswept hair and smiling eyes. It was an image as clear as day, and she felt as if he had left her. The vision—daydream, whatever it was—seemed to be a portent of possibility, and Maisie thought that perhaps she should encourage James to step out towards the life he yearned for. Surely the Compton Corporation had groomed someone to assume responsibility if it had come to pass that James had died in the war. Wasn’t there a great-nephew or second cousin of Lord Julian Compton’s who worked for the company?

Supper was soon over. Coffee was served in the drawing room, after which James took Maisie’s hand and led her upstairs. She leaned on his shoulder, feeling competing emotions: a warmth of affection and a level of confusion. She would miss him, that much she knew. But she also knew she must encourage him to follow a path he could see but was afraid to step towards. As she turned over the possibility in her mind, she felt a weight leave her chest, felt her breathing come with more ease than it had in weeks. Maisie hoped that one day, when the time was right, she could do what she must without arguments, raised voices, or too much heartache. Hadn’t she forged a friendship with Andrew Dene, a past love who had also wanted to marry her? And she had been the first to congratulate him on his marriage and subsequent fatherhood. Perhaps it could be like that with James.

J
ames had arranged for a mechanic to come to the mews behind 15 Ebury Place, where the mansion’s motor cars were kept. A diagnosis of the MG’s engine ailments was made and repairs duly completed. The motor car, apparently, would not let her down now, no matter how damp or harsh the weather, or how high the temperature might rise.

“So far, so good,” thought Maisie as she made her way to the office. An earlier light rain shower had given way to bright sunshine, which seemed to bring the fresh green leaves on the square’s trees into sharp relief. Steam was rising up from small pools of water on the road, and it promised to be another fine day. Evelyn Butterworth was due to telephone around nine-ish, and Maisie hoped she could arrange to collect her and then go together to the writers’ studio where Bart Soames had a desk. Having parked the MG on Fitzroy Street, she walked in the direction of the office. A police vehicle parked close to the front door caused Maisie to start.

“Now what?” she said, under her breath, stepping with care across the slippery flagstones.

Only the driver was in the black vehicle, so she assumed Caldwell and his assistant had gone up to the office. She was a little late; she hoped Sandra had arrived. As she opened the front door, it occurred to her that the visit might be in connection with Billy. She ran up the stairs and into the office.

Detective Inspector Caldwell was sitting at Billy’s desk, drinking tea, his assistant in a seat opposite him. They were discussing whether a British woman who had married a foreigner should register as an alien—an item of news in the papers that morning. Maisie caught the tail of the conversation.

“Well, what I think is, why marry outside of your race, anyway? Aren’t there enough British men for you girls?”

Sandra’s back was ramrod straight. “Well, actually, Detective Inspector, if you took notice of the population numbers, you would see that there aren’t enough men—there is currently a surplus of women, which means an unmarried woman of, say, my age, stands only a one in ten chance of finding a husband. That’s nine women alone. And I don’t see why you should lose your nationality, just because your husband is Russian or Dutch.”

“What if he’s German?”

“What if? We’re not at war anymore.”

“Not yet, young lady.”

“Looks like I arrived just in time to stop another war,” said Maisie. “Good morning, Sandra. Is the revered inspector here causing trouble?”

Sandra blushed. “No. Just a bit of conversation about the news today.”

“At least we were spared football, cricket, or more on the bowling controversy.” Maisie spoke while taking off her coat. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Inspector? When I first saw your motor, I thought you might have unwelcome news of Mr. Beale, but as I ran up the stairs and heard your voice, I realized you wouldn’t be quite so cheerful had it been so.” She took a chair from behind her desk and sat closer to the policemen. “How is he? I visited again yesterday, but couldn’t see him.”