Elegy for Eddie

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Has he been laid to rest yet?”

  “This Friday. St. Marks.”

  Maisie nodded. “Tell me what happened—Seth, you start.”

  Seth Knight and Dick Samuels were the younger men of the group; Maisie guessed they were now in their late forties. She couldn’t remember seeing them since they were young apprentices, and now they were men wearing the years on faces that were lined and gray, and with hands thick and calloused from toil.

  Knight cleared his throat. “As you know, Eddie made a wage from the work he did with horses. There wasn’t a hot or upset horse in the whole of London he couldn’t settle, and that’s no word of a lie. And he earned well at times, did Eddie. Reckon this was after you left the Smoke, just before the war, but talk about Eddie’s gift had gone round all the factories and the breweries, and last year—honest truth, mind—he was called to the palace mews, to sort out one of His Majesty’s Cleveland Bays.” He looked at Jesse, who nodded for him to continue. “But horses don’t have a funny turn every day of the week, so Eddie always made a bit extra by running errands at the paper factory. He’d go in during the morning, and the blokes would give him a few coppers to buy their ciggies, or a paper, or a bite of something to eat, and he’d write everything down and—”

  “Wait a minute.” Maisie interrupted Knight. “When did Eddie learn to write?”

  “He’d been learning again for a while, Maisie. There was this woman who used to be a teacher at the school, she helped him. He’d found out where she was living—across the water—and he’d gone to her a while ago to ask if she could give him lessons. I’m blessed if I can remember her name. Apparently, he’d been doing quite well with a new customer, and it’d finally got into his noddle that if he learned to read and write he might be better off in the long run. He’d started to pay attention to money. I’d say it was all down to Maudie, pushing him a bit. In the past all he did was hand over the money to her, and she gave him pocket money to spend on himself, for his necessaries. She put the rest away for him—she always worried that he wouldn’t be able to look after himself when she was gone, you see.”

  Maisie nodded. “I remember her being so attentive to him, always. I was in a shop once—I think it was Westons, the hardware store; I must have been sent on an errand by my mother. I was behind Eddie and his mum, and she made him ask for what they wanted, even though he didn’t want to. She went stone silent until he’d asked for whatever it was, and then counted out the correct money. No one tried to hurry him along, because people knew Maud was teaching him to stand on his own two feet.”

  Seth Knight went on. “Well, Eddie seemed to have a little bit more about him lately, as if he’d been keeping us in the dark all along. He started asking questions about how to save his money so it was safe—of course, it was hard for him to understand, and he’d come and ask the same questions again, but all the same, he was trying. Anyway, it turns out this teacher—Miss Carpenter, that was her name—had always had a soft spot for him at school. When he turned up, that is. Trouble with Eddie, as you know, he’d always been happier around horses, so even as a young boy, when he got a message to go and sort out a horse, Maudie never stopped him. And to be honest, they needed the money, being as it was only the two of them; Wilf and Jennie were there to help out, but Maudie always said they needed everything they had to take care of themselves, especially with Wilf coming home gassed after the war. He might as well have died at Plugstreet Wood, the way the pain took it out of him, after he came home—and he was older than most of them; he wasn’t a young man when he went over there.” Seth took a deep breath and looked down at his hands, the palm of one rubbing across the knuckles of the other. “Anyway, going back to Eddie, he’d started to write down the odd note when the blokes at the factory gave him their instructions, and I for one think he could understand more than anyone gave him credit for. In any case, he always came back with what they’d asked him to get for them, and he never made a mistake.”

  There was silence for a few moments, and Maisie knew that everyone was likely thinking the same thing, that Eddie wasn’t really gone, that he was as alive as the stories about him.

  “Go on, Seth.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve ever been in Bookhams, but them rolls of paper are massive. They come out on a belt as wide as this room, and then they go straight onto the lorries—Bookhams are going over to lorries now.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “But they’ve still got a few old horses there, stabled out the back, for when the lorries pack up and won’t go—which is more often than the horses went lame, and that’s a fact.”

  Maisie could see beads of perspiration forming on the man’s forehead, and the other men changed position or folded their arms. “Take your time, Seth,” she said.

  Seth Knight pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and rubbed it across his brow. “No one can say what happened, and no one can say the how or why of it, but Eddie was walking out of the factory floor to take a few lumps of sugar to the horses, them as are left, and the next thing you know, one of them big rolls had slid sideways off the belt and come crashing down. It was all over like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Poor Eddie didn’t stand a chance. Not a chance. He was crushed, Maisie. Crushed to death.”

  “Oh dear Lord, what a terrible way to go.”

  “That’s not all of it—soon as it happened, the horses at the back, still in their stables, they all started going on. They knew, you see. They knew he’d gone. It was as if he was one of them. Always was like that, with him and horses.”

  A choked cry caused Maisie to look back towards the door. Sandra had entered the room while Seth was speaking of Eddie’s death. She was standing by the door, holding the tray with shaking hands as tears ran down her face. Only months before, the young woman had lost her husband in equally tragic circumstances. Maisie nodded to Billy, who gently took the tray from Sandra and began handing out cups of tea to the men. Maisie stood up to comfort the young woman, whispering that if she wanted she could leave the office to sit in the square for a while.

  Jesse Riley drank back his tea, as if it were cold water quenching his thirst. He replaced the cup on the saucer and reached down to set it on the hearth. “So, we came to see you about Eddie, thinking you’d know what to do, Maisie. Your dad comes up here from the country every now and again and he tells us, you know, he tells us how proud he is of you, and that you’ve brought murderers to justice.” He leaned forward. “You see, Maisie, no one cares about Eddie ’cept us, and his mum and Jennie. The police didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about it, said it was a ‘regrettable accident.’ Accident, my eye. It was a deliberate act of murder, that’s what it was.”

  “But why? Who would want to see Eddie dead?”

  “That’s just it,” said Dick Samuels. “We don’t know. But we thought you might be able to find out.” He looked across to Pete Turner. “Pete’s got our kitty, he can tell you about it.”

  Turner leaned forward to speak to Maisie. “We’ve had another whip-round, us and a few more costers at the market.” He pulled out a drawstring bag. “We don’t want you to work for nothing—you’ve come up the hard way and earned every penny, so we don’t want favors—but we want you to find out about Eddie. We want you to find out who killed him.”

  Maisie was aware that all eyes focused on her. Not only the men were waiting for her to answer, but Billy and Sandra.

  “Of course I will, but—” Maisie was interrupted by a collective sigh of relief. She regarded each and every person present, then came back to Pete Turner. “But I don’t want your money. Eddie was dear to all of us, so it’s up to us to do right by him and find out the truth of what happened to cause his death. If it was an accident, well, I’ll discover why it happened, and make sure it will never come to pass again. And if he was murdered, I’ll find out who wanted him dead.”

  At first the men smiled and nodded to one another. Then Jesse Riley spoke up.

  “Maisie, I’m an old coster and it’
s not often I miss a trick. My mum, bless her, said that if you can’t pay anything else in life, you can pay attention, and I just noticed that you said you’d find out who wanted him dead, not that you’d find whoever it was killed Eddie.”

  Maisie stood up. “I just can’t imagine someone who knew Eddie, someone who saw him every day, wanting to do anything that might hurt him, which means that if his death was the result of a deliberate act, the person who wanted him dead might not have known him as we do. He had no means to protect himself, even as a boy. He was trusting, gentle and innocent. If he was killed intentionally, someone had a reason—and I can’t imagine what that reason could be. But that’s all speculation. In any case, my assistant, Mr. Beale—” The men turned to look at Billy; Maisie continued. “Mr. Beale will begin by asking each of you a good many questions, so we can get to the bottom of what you know and who you think we should be talking to. And in the meantime, here’s what I want you to do—I want you to rack your brains, think of anything unusual about Eddie in the weeks and months leading up to his death. Did he have any new work anywhere? Who was he dealing with? Did he upset anyone? Was he acting, well, not like Eddie at any time? I want you to think-think-think, and tell us if you remember anything you haven’t already told us about—even the smallest detail could be of use.”

  “Do you want us to stay here and talk to Mr. Beale today, Maisie? Until it’s done?”

  “Mr. Beale will want to speak to each of you for about an hour, so no, you’d all be wasting your time waiting here. Mrs. Tapley will draw up a list with a time for each of you. Come back here for your appointment with Mr. Beale—oh, and I think it’s best that you don’t say too much to the others down at the market; if they ask, just let them know that we’re looking into it. No more than that. Best to keep as much as we can between ourselves.”

  Jesse Riley stood up. “But we thought you’d be working on the case yourself, Miss.”

  Maisie nodded. “I will be, Jesse. But Billy and Sandra know what they’re doing—we’ve worked together on many cases, and I trust them implicitly. And while you’re doing your part and they’re doing theirs, I’ll be on my way to see Maud Pettit about Eddie. I’m leaving now—I remember where she lives. And after that, I’ll be visiting Bookhams.” Maisie picked up her coat, hat, gloves, and shoulder bag. She decided to leave her briefcase, as it might seem intimidating—official people carried briefcases, people who might want to take something from you, and she didn’t want to frighten Eddie’s mother. “Now then, I suggest we all meet here again, perhaps tomorrow—Sandra, how about late afternoon, when the gentlemen have finished their rounds? Would you put it in the diary?”

  Bidding the men good-bye, she motioned to Billy to come to the front door with her.

  “You know what questions to ask them, don’t you, Billy?”

  “Yes, Miss. And thank you, Miss, for putting this in my hands.”

  “You’ve been with me for enough interviews to open an inquiry; you know what to do, of that I am sure. In any case, we’ll go through the notes together before they come back tomorrow—we’ve got the rest of today to get started on this.”

  “What do you think, Miss? Do you reckon they’re onto something. I mean, that Jesse Riley’s getting on a bit, and he looks like the one who got everyone else started.”

  “The important thing is that they believe Eddie died in suspicious circumstances. They believed enough to cut into their day to see me, to turn up here in their best clothes and to risk my telling them the case wasn’t solid. The fact that they took the chance, and then had the whip-round to get the funds to start an investigation—that’s more than enough for me, Billy. More than enough.” She pulled her umbrella from the earthenware jar, and as she opened the door she turned to her assistant. “I knew Eddie. I remember him well. He was a lovely man—always more of a boy because he never quite grew up. Which is why everyone looked out for him, especially those who’d known him from the time he was a small lad. And he had a gift, Billy, a real gift. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I might not have believed it.” She sighed. “If those men have doubt, then I believe it’s well founded. One way or another, we’ll get some answers for them. Now then, I’d better be off.”

  “And you turned down their money, Miss. I bet you anything they won’t take your charity, they’re not that sort.”

  “Oh, no two ways about it. They’re proud—they’ll try to make me take the money, and perhaps eventually I’ll have to come to some sort of compromise. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve entrusted us to find out the truth about Eddie. I’ll worry about the money later. You see, when my mother was ill, it was my father’s mates down the market—and their families—who tried to help us. So I’m determined not to let them down. Now, you’d better get back up there before those boys get rowdy.”

  Maisie set off towards Oxford Street. From there she could use the underground railway to go across to Lambeth, but not before she’d stopped at the caff for a cup of tea. She had left the office because she wanted the men to know she had taken up the case with no delay, but in truth she wanted time to think. She wanted to remember Eddie, and to cradle his memory in her heart.

  Her first recollection of Eddie was when she was just a small girl, about six years old. She was standing with her father, watching Jesse try to calm his horse, a big gray gelding with an abscessed hoof. The animal was stabled under the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge, and it seemed the limited light and a few days standing idle had conspired to upset the horse, who had nipped and kicked out at anyone who dared to come close.

  “I’ve got to doctor ’im; if that abscess gets any worse, he’ll be no good to me, and it’ll be the slaughterhouse next.”

  Frankie nodded. “I’d send for Eddie Pettit, if I were you, Jesse. He’ll sort him out.”

  “I’ve already sent my boy round to Maudie. She’ll bring him, you can depend on that.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together.

  “He’s worth every penny, Jess, if you don’t want to lose that horse.”

  Maisie looked up, from one man to the other, and turned around when she heard footsteps clattering against the cobblestones.

  “Here he is.” Jesse touched his cap, and walked forward to greet the woman and her son.

  The boy was sixteen at the time, or thereabouts, and was tall for his age. It seemed his mother hadn’t managed to find castoffs big enough for him, clothed as he was in trousers that provided a goodly margin between hem and ankle, and a jacket that revealed his wide but boney wrists and long fingers. His eyes were large, and when she looked into them, Maisie thought it was like looking at the eyes of a cow or a horse. He had clear skin and red-red lips, as if he’d been feasting on berries. His hair was unruly, and he continually brushed it back with his fingers, holding his head to one side as he listened to the men. Maisie remembered his mother pressing a handkerchief into his hand, and telling him to blow his nose. “Always got a runny nose, that one.” Then she smiled up at her boy, and it was clear she loved her son as no other ever would.

  Jesse began to speak, but it was as if the boy hadn’t heard a word, for he walked forward and took the latch off the stable door.

  “Be careful, lad, he’s—”

  Maudie touched Jesse on the arm. “Don’t you worry, Eddie knows what he’s doing.”

  The boy stepped into the stable with calm confidence.

  Sitting in the caff, staring out of the window, Maisie could see Eddie now in her mind’s eye, and she could feel exactly the curiosity she experienced that day, watching the boy as he opened the door, how he seemed to change when he entered the stall. They could not see what Eddie was doing but could hear his soft voice, talking to the horse as if they were in a deep conversation. He did not shout, nor did he make a plea; he simply talked to a friend. Within two minutes, he had slipped a halter on the horse and was leading him from the stable, the horse with his head low, trusting.

  “Got hot water for me to do his foot, Mr. Riley?”
>
  “I don’t believe it. Truly I don’t.” Riley pulled a kettle off the brazier he’d set up on the cobblestones, and poured the water into a bucket.

  “Him just don’t like the dark. None of ’em do, but most of the time they’re too tired to say anything about it. Him’s had a chance to think about it, what with his foot. And he don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Well, he’s got to be for now. Or he’ll end up on a dinner plate. Can’t have a horse who doesn’t work for his keep.” Riley walked towards the horse, but Eddie stopped him.

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Riley. Best I doctor him today.”

  Maisie watched as Eddie cared for the horse, who seemed as soft as a kitten with Eddie there. He soaked the hoof, then dried it and applied a bread poultice, wrapping the hoof to secure the paste before leading the horse back to the stable. He remained in the stable for another five minutes, perhaps more, talking to the horse with a soft voice. Then he emerged, turning to put the latch on the door. And as he joined the men, his mother, and Maisie, the confidence seemed to ebb from him; he had nothing to say to those gathered. Jesse handed Maudie a few coins, and she nodded, and while the men began to clean up around the stables, Maisie watched mother and son walk away along the cobblestones: the small, rosy-faced woman and the tall boy, walking along in a loping gait, his arms held out at his sides, his head lowered to listen to his mother as she spoke to him. Maisie remembered thinking that he reminded her of a storybook character, a gentle giant.

  Maisie set down her cup and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost eleven o’clock. She wouldn’t be back at the office until mid-afternoon at the earliest, by which time Sandra would have left to go to her other job. She wanted to catch Sandra before she left the office, so she left the caff to walk down towards Soho Square, where there was a telephone kiosk.

  “Good morning—”