Elegy for Eddie (25 page)

Maisie looked away. She had said enough. Her anger at Bart Soames’ willful use of Eddie Pettit was obvious and had led her to upset a grieving mother. But Pauline Soames was party to the abuse of Eddie—and that’s what it was, an abuse of power. She rolled the words around in her mind. They would remain with her for a long time.

“I’ll be leaving now,” said Maisie. “I think you and your sister ought to go on holiday, perhaps cross the Channel for a bit. No harm will come to you, but it might serve you to put some miles between you, London, and Brighton. Cornwall can be nice at this time of year, too.”

Mrs. Soames nodded as Maisie gathered the folders and placed them back in the box, making ready to leave. At that moment the door opened and a voice could be heard in the hallway.

“Very nice little motor car outside, dear. Did you see it?” Soames’ sister came into the kitchen, her shopping basket over her arm. She looked from Maisie to her sister. “What’s she doing here? And where’s she going with that box?”

“It’s all right, Millie. She knows everything, and she’s taking the box away with her.”

Maisie smiled at the woman, who was still clutching her shopping basket. “Your sister has just been telling me how much she would love to visit Cornwall, especially now that spring is just a little closer. I hear there are some lovely guesthouses in Penzance, and it’s a nice run down on the train. You should stay a while. Let this all blow over.”

“Let what blow over?” asked the woman.

Maisie held up the box. “This. Now then, I must be on my way. I have much to do in London today.”

Few words passed between the three women as Maisie departed the house, and she would have laid money on the sisters’ swift departure from Brighton, bound for Cornwall or even the Continent. She was less sure about information held within the box of files; there was nothing there that would blow over quickly.

T
hough she’d originally planned to return to London without delay, instead Maisie drove across Sussex and into Kent. She felt it might be safer to have the box with her at Chelstone. Time and again she checked behind her as she drove, to ensure she was not being followed. From the ancient town of Lewes, she made her way on towards Tunbridge Wells, then through Pembury, before reaching Chelstone. She went straight to The Dower House.

Instead of parking at the front of the property, she maneuvered the MG around towards the side entrance, and left it under an oak tree. The kitchen was warm when she walked in, the yeasty smell of fresh bread baking in the oven, and on the kitchen table evidence that two people had just eaten a midday meal. She walked through the house feeling like an interloper, stepping with care towards the conservatory, which had been Maurice’s favorite room, and was now hers as well. When at the house, she would often pull a chair into a shaft of sunlight, to sit and watch the countryside greeting the morning. She would drink her coffee black and strong, and would imagine her mentor in the same room, advising her or listening to her recount work on a case, or perhaps they would discuss the latest news or a book both had read. The voices grew louder as she approached the sun-filled room, and she smiled upon seeing her father and Mrs. Bromley enjoying a cup of tea together. Frankie Dobbs had maintained, to the point of argument, that he would not consider moving up to The Dower House. And in the wake of Priscilla’s brutally honest assessment of her behavior, she had sworn to herself that she would never mention the subject again—where her father lived was his business, and not a matter for her to dictate.

She stood at the threshold between the drawing room and the conservatory and cleared her throat.

“Hello, Dad.” She smiled as she walked towards her father and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bromley, I should have telephoned to let you know I was coming—it was a rather spur-of-the-moment decision.”

Frankie and Mrs. Bromley spoke at once, with the woman coming to her feet quickly, and reaching for the teacups.

“We were just having a spot of lunch, weren’t we, Mr. Dobbs—I’d have made more if I’d known you’d be coming.”

“And I must be getting on—work to do,” said Frankie, flustered.

“Oh, let’s not go through that again, Dad. Come on, have another cup of tea.”

“I’ll get a cup and saucer for you,” said the housekeeper, still blushing as if she were a schoolgirl with a crush. “Would you like a sandwich? I made some haslett meat loaf yesterday; it’s very tasty sliced with tomato. Would that suit you?”

“It sounds delicious, Mrs. Bromley.”

Maisie sat down and looked at her father. “This is a lovely place to sit back for a while, isn’t it, Dad?”

“Yes, it is, love.” He picked up his cup and saucer again, then pointed down towards part of the manor’s garden visible from the conservatory. “See that young man there, that’s the new under-gardener. Just been taken on—and mainly because he knows you. I suppose that’s why you’re here, to check up on him.”

Maisie looked up, her hand above her eyes to shield her vision from the sun as she gazed in the direction indicated by her father. In truth, the matter of the young policeman had slipped her mind. “Oh, yes. Is he getting on well, do you know?”

“I think this is only his second day, perhaps third. He’s lodging in the village at the moment. Mind you, it’s a wonder he’s got that far—should’ve seen the state of him when he arrived here.”

“What sort of state?”

“Had a shiner on each eye and a cut along here.” Frankie pointed to his jawline. “Said that it was the reason why he’d had enough of London and the job he did, that there were thugs all over the place. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the lad. Anyway, from what I know, he’s already showing he’s a worker—it never takes long to get the measure of someone when they’re working with livestock or the land: either they put their back into the work or they don’t.” He looked at Maisie. “Anyway, what’re you doing here—come for a bit of a rest until Monday morning?”

Maisie knew her father wanted to ask about James, but at the same time he was always reticent when it came to her personal affairs. As Mrs. Bromley returned with a tray bearing another cup, a jug of hot water to freshen the tea, and a sandwich thick with haslett, tomato, and pickle for Maisie, the thought crossed her mind that she should be more like her father when it came to the personal business of others—but wouldn’t that be nigh on impossible with her job?

The three sat together for as long as it took for Maisie to finish her sandwich and a cup of tea, at which point Frankie declared that sitting about all day would never get any work done, and Mrs. Bromley agreed, listing the many jobs she’d lined up for the afternoon.

Maisie took another cup of tea with her to the library, where she unpacked the box she had taken from Pauline Soames and laid out the folders on Maurice’s heavy oak desk.

Again she went through the drawings of aircraft, one by one, only this time with greater scrutiny. There were eight drawings, penciled with a heavy hand. Eddie had likely taken only a brief look at the original drafts, then committed them to his unusual memory until able to copy them out in his deliberate manner. She tapped the fingers of one hand with a pencil she held in the other, then went along to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Bromley, do you by any chance have any of that really thin paper you use for baking?”

The housekeeper looked up from creaming thick rich butter together with sugar in a large buff-colored earthenware bowl.

“Are you really needing tracing paper?”

“Well, yes, that’s exactly what I need.”

Mrs. Bromley smiled. “Dr. Blanche was just the same—always came in here to steal my baking parchment, so I ordered some special tracing paper for him. I’ll show you where to find it.”

The woman bustled into the library, pulled out a drawer in a chest next to the desk, and took out several sheets of the fine, almost transparent paper.

“There you are. You know where to find it next time.”

Maisie laughed, thanking Mrs. Bromley as she left the room. Soon she was copying each drawing onto the tracing paper. She placed her own drawings into another folder, and replaced Eddie’s copies back in the box. Then she began to read through Bart Soames’ notes, which amounted to an investigation of John Otterburn. As she read each sentence—and many were only a few words long, perhaps ending with a question posed by Bart, creating his own assignment as he went along—it was with a deepening sense of dread. How could he not see that he was effectively picking a fight well above his weight? Though the notes were inconclusive, it seemed to her that Otterburn was less a businessman with a “finger in a lot of pies” than a powerful manipulator first and foremost. Against the list of authors and artists—which included Douglas Partridge—were questions pertaining to their work, along with titles of articles, essays, and novels that seemed to be out of their familiar subject matter. Maisie could not help but see the pattern identified by Soames. And then there was a history of Otterburn’s relationship with Churchill and with other politicians—and his dislike of certain other leading lights in society. Maisie recognized the common denominator—John Otterburn’s personal war was against fascism. She chewed her lip. That was all very well—she had her own deep concerns, a foreboding that had intensified in recent months—but what were these drawings all about? And was any of this worth the life of Eddie Pettit? What was she missing? She rubbed her neck to alleviate the fatigue she felt throughout her body.

Maisie did not make any further notes but packed up the box and placed a folder with the copies she’d made in her bag. She walked through to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Bromley—gosh, they smell lovely, by the way.”

The woman was turning a batch of hot cross buns onto a cooling rack.

“I thought you wouldn’t be staying long this time—would you like some to take back with you? It’s not Good Friday without hot cross buns.”

“Yes, please! I almost forgot it’s Easter. And I’m sorry it’s been such a short stay; but I think I might be back earlier next week. I’m planning . . . well, I thought I’d take a few days off and come here. Just for some peace and quiet.”

“Right you are. Just let me know and I’ll get your favorite things to eat brought in.” Mrs. Bromley put a half-dozen hot cross buns in a bag and wrapped a plain round loaf in a sheet of paper. She pushed them across the table towards Maisie. “There. Nice with a bit of cheese, that cottage bread,” she said. Then, as Maisie was loading the MG, the housekeeper came out of the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her pinafore as she approached Maisie.

“He worries about you, your father,” said Mrs. Bromley. “He doesn’t say much, but he worries all the same. And he misses you. I thought you should know. Especially at his age.”

Maisie nodded. “I know, Mrs. Bromley. I’m glad he has you as a confidante, and I’m grateful to you for staying on to be my housekeeper. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Oh, and what would I do on my own? Twiddle my thumbs and do my tatting? Better to be here. I keep an eye on your father, you know, and we’re good company for each other. You can’t ask more than that, can you? Than for two people to be good company.”

Maisie felt a lump in her throat as she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think you’re right.”

And in a moment that could have embarrassed them both but didn’t, Mrs. Bromley reached forward and rested her hands on Maisie’s shoulders. “I heard Dr. Blanche once telling you not to take it all on your shoulders. Remember that, Maisie. Remember. Some things you just can’t change—about people or things, or the way of the world. And some are not yours to change.”

Maisie nodded. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

The woman shrugged, her cheeks reddened by the familiarity she had assumed. “I don’t know why I said that, but it just occurred to me. Perhaps it was thinking of Dr. Blanche, and how much he’s missed.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bromley. Thank you.”

Maisie waved as she drove alongside The Dower House, and decided that she would spend more time at Chelstone. Perhaps when the case of Eddie Pettit’s death was closed, and her load became lighter.

H
er solicitor, Bernard Klein, agreed to be responsible for the safekeeping of the box of folders, and together he and Maisie went to his bankers so that the box could be placed in safe deposit. From there she went to Ebury Place, to await James’ return from work. She would have liked to see Douglas, but time was not on her side; however, on the way back to Belgravia she stopped at Victoria Station, where she bought several newspapers from a vendor, and asked if any were available from the previous day. Fortunately, he had several days’ worth in piles ready to send back for pulping. She was careful to choose only Otterburn-owned newspapers.

She was in the library, the newspapers spread out across the desk, when James came home.

“Hello, darling—oh dear, that doesn’t look like a quick look at the day’s news. What are you up to, Maisie?” James eased the knot in his tie and unbuttoned his collar as he approached the desk and kissed Maisie on the cheek.

“I’m looking at John Otterburn’s newspapers.”

“Not trying to gather information with which to impress him tomorrow?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I will impress him at all.” She looked up at James. “I know I’ve asked you this before, James, but how well do you know Otterburn?”

“Funny you should ask, but I seem to know him a bit more these days. We’ve lunched a couple of times recently, and last week—I think you were in Brighton—I rode out with him early one morning in Hyde Park. He’d telephoned and invited me, so I went along.”

“What does he talk about?”

“Politics, mainly. And he wanted to know my opinion on several matters, mainly to do with business in North America. And he was interested in my thoughts on how Herr Hitler is received in the United States, what they think of him, in my view.” He scratched his head. “Let’s see. He’s also interested in aviation, such as it is. Wanted to know what I thought about transatlantic flight—how far we’ve really come since Alcock and Brown, and what I thought about the airships, that sort of thing. I told him I was no expert, just a simple old aviator washed up from the war, but he said my experience alone would give me more right to an opinion than many people he knew. All very flattering and jovial an exchange—and he has some smashing horses here in London, as well as those he keeps at Box Hill. I’m looking forward to going down there, actually—how about you?”