Elegy for Eddie

by Jacqueline Winspear

  She nodded. “Of course. Will you come up?”

  “I’ll come on the train—in fact, I could come back with you. Thursday morning you reckon you’re going back? Early train? Yes, I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss seeing the boy off, and there’ll be a lot of lads from the market there, paying their respects. And from Lambeth, from the old streets. Gentle soul, Eddie. Loved by a lot of people, he was.”

  “Stay with me at the flat, Dad.” Maisie reached out to hold her father’s hand.

  “I might do that, love. Let me see how I feel—at my age, you want to sleep in your own bed of a night.”

  Maisie moved to clear the mugs and teapot. “Oh, that’s true for all of us, I think.”

  With her back to him as she washed the mugs and rinsed the teapot, Maisie wouldn’t have seen her father’s expression. Had she turned, she would have seen a father who wanted to inquire about her comment, but decided it was best to leave well enough alone.

  Maisie remained at Chelstone until early Thursday morning, when father and daughter left the Groom’s Cottage when it was still dark and caught the milk train to Tonbridge, and traveled from there to Charing Cross. Frankie insisted upon going to the market first, so Maisie gave him a key to her flat and went on her way to the office. Sandra was at her desk when Maisie arrived.

  “Good morning, Miss Dobbs.” Sandra looked up from her typewriter and smiled. “Nice day again, isn’t it?”

  “I only hope it lasts,” said Maisie. She took off her jacket, which she hung over the back of her chair. She placed her hat on the mantelpiece and pushed her gloves into her briefcase, then sat down at her desk. “I came up from Chelstone this morning, with my father, so I’ll be leaving earlier today—tomorrow’s Eddie Pettit’s funeral; it’s in the late morning, so I’ll be out for a few hours. Are there any messages for me? Has Billy been to Camden Lock yet? Or Bookhams?”

  “Mr. Beale was at the market for a fair time yesterday, talking to the men again, and he interviewed a few more; then he had a letter about one of the other cases, so he had to attend to that. He went over to Camden Lock this morning to make inquiries, and then he’ll get down to the pub down the road from Bookhams by opening time. I would imagine he’d go home from there rather than come back to the office.” Sandra paused, flipping over a page in her notebook. “And there was a message from Viscount Compton; he asked if you would telephone him.”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes. Indeed. Thank you.”

  “I’ll make a cup of tea then,” Sandra busied herself with the tea tray and left the room.

  Maisie sighed, picked up the telephone and dialed the number for the Compton Corporation. Upon being put through to James Compton’s secretary, she learned that James was engaged in a meeting with a client but would return her call at the earliest opportunity. She thanked his secretary and placed the receiver in its cradle, whereupon the telephone began to ring.

  “Fitzroy—”

  “Miss, it’s me.”

  “Billy—is everything all right? You sound breathless. Are you calling from Camden?”

  “Yes, in a telephone box round the corner from the library.” Billy coughed. “ ’Scuse me, Miss. I thought this weather would make it easier on my chest, but it’s sort of damp and sticky out and it goes straight to my lungs. And what with all these flowers coming out and giving me trouble—that market started me off yesterday, I’m sure of it.” Billy coughed again and Maisie could hear him struggling to breathe; his lungs were damaged by poison gas when he was a soldier during the war. Wheezing, he continued. “I reckon I’ve found out something really interesting, Miss.”

  “Go on, Billy, but take another breath—you shouldn’t have been running. You know it strains you.”

  “Well, anyway . . .” He dismissed her concern. “I went to a couple of libraries—I told the librarians that I was an old pupil of Mrs. Soames’ from when she was a teacher, and I wanted to talk to her about one of my mates who’d passed on and who she’d remember from the old days. At the second library, they knew her and said she was a regular, and one of them remembered seeing her with a man in his forties, they thought. One of them said he seemed a bit slow, so I reckon that must’ve been Eddie Pettit.”

  “Good—did they tell you where she lived?”

  “No, they didn’t want to give her address—and wait for this bit.”

  “What did they say?”

  Billy coughed again, and Maisie wondered if he might be coughing up blood, which she knew could happen at any time, but especially when there were changes in the weather.

  “Take your time, Billy,” she added.

  “I just need to lean my head over a bowl of scalding hot water with Friar’s Balsam when I get home, that’ll help me out. Anyway, here’s what the second librarian said; she said she didn’t want to give me the address, due to Mrs. Soames being away. Apparently, she’s a widow, so she lives on her own, but here’s the thing—Eddie’s old teacher left London about a couple of weeks ago to stay with a sister who lives in Sussex, on account of the fact that she needed to get away from London because she’s grieving, having lost her son.”

  “Her son died? And probably a few weeks ago? That’s—”

  “That’s one of them coincidence things, that’s what it is, Miss. But I haven’t finished. Turns out she has two sons, but one went off to Australia about five years ago—he’s an engineer or something like that. It was the other one who died, in an accident. Drowned, he was, in the river.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Drowned? Did they have any details?”

  “No, just that they’d heard he’d fallen late at night from Lambeth Bridge—might’ve been the worse for wear, by all accounts.”

  “Billy—what was his name?”

  “Bartholomew Soames. Everyone called him Bart, apparently. He was a newspaperman, a journalist. Only he didn’t work for just one paper, but would write his stories and then sell them to whichever paper was interested.”

  Maisie was silent as she considered this new piece of the puzzle.

  “Miss?”

  “Good work, Billy. Look, your chest sounds awful. I think you should go home for the rest of the day.”

  “I’ll be all right, Miss. I just want to try a few of the shops, see if I can find out more about Mrs. Soames, and I’ll pay a visit to the Lighterman over near Bookhams before I go home.”

  “Be careful, Billy.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Miss. I’ll be all right.”

  Chapter Five

  Maisie!”

  Maisie started as she answered the telephone, and held the receiver away from her ear.

  “Maisie, I’ve missed you.” James Compton’s voice was so loud, the line echoed. “Did you really have to rush down to Chelstone in such a hurry?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, James, and I’ll be staying at the flat this evening—my father’s in London and we’ve a funeral to attend tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, that man who was good with horses, I remember now.” There was a pause, and James’ voice changed. “When will you come back to Ebury Place, Maisie?”

  Maisie coiled the telephone cord around her fingers. He sounded like a wounded child; she felt as if she were being drawn into placating him in some way. “Well, how about Saturday afternoon? We could drive out to Richmond.”

  “We’ve a party on Saturday, an invitation from Duncan and Rose Hartman. Remember? It’s his fortieth birthday, so there will be dancing until the small hours, then breakfast served at four in the morning to round off the night. And don’t forget there’s the Otterburn supper coming up next week too.”

  “Oh dear, yes, of course.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  Maisie stood up straighter and smiled. “No, not at all—it’s just that I’d forgotten all about the Hartmans. I’m sure we’ll have a lovely time, James.”

  “I think Priscilla and Douglas are going too.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t doubt it! Priscilla came
back from a visit to Paris a couple of days ago, so she’s bound to have a new gown or two to show off.” Maisie smiled. She looked forward to seeing her friend.

  “In my eyes you’ll always be the belle of the ball, Maisie.”

  For a second, Maisie didn’t quite know how to respond. “That’s very sweet of you, James.”

  “It’s true.”

  Maisie glanced at the clock. “So, I’ll see you on Saturday, about lunchtime. Richmond in the afternoon, and the Hartman do in the evening.”

  “I’ll see you then, my love.”

  “Yes, see you, James.”

  Maisie sighed as she replaced the telephone receiver, feeling the call’s tension ease. Though she hated to think about it, she wasn’t sure what had happened in the relationship, but this feeling of suffocation, which began as just a passing sensation, was growing. Now every conversation felt stilted, and she found herself questioning feelings she’d had for James and her own declarations of love. She picked up the telephone and dialed Priscilla’s number.

  “Darling, how are you?” Priscilla was effusive in her greeting.

  “I’m well—how was your trip to Paris?”

  “Absolutely divine! I adore my toads, but sometimes there is simply too much maleness in this house and I have to get away. Mind you, two or three days in Paris on my own and I’ve had enough of that, too, though I had a wonderful time choosing a few more dresses for summer. You should come with me next time—there’s more to a shopping trip than a quick dip into Derry and Tom’s for a new woolly cardigan, you know, or to Debenham and Freebody during the January sale.”

  “Shall I pay you a visit? How about later tomorrow afternoon? I’ve a funeral to go to in the morning, but I’d love to see you.”

  “Oh, dear Lord, please, don’t come in that black dress again, Maisie. Do promise me you won’t drag out that miserable-looking garment for another airing in company. I swear, if I see that thing again I will scream. Either change before you get here, or buy a new black costume to wear to the funeral.”

  “I’ll just change before I come over.”

  “And James?”

  “What about him?”

  “Oh, Maisie, that doesn’t sound very promising.”

  “See you tomorrow afternoon, Pris.”

  “I’ll have refreshments ready. About four then?”

  “Yes, about four. See you then.”

  Maisie set down the receiver and sighed, then looked up to see Sandra staring at her.

  “Sandra?”

  “I just wondered if everything’s all right, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Yes, of course it is. Now then, I expect you’ll have to be leaving soon, to go to your job with Mr. Partridge.”

  The young woman shook her head. “No, Mr. Partridge has given me time off while he works on something else—and he’s paying me! I don’t mind, because I can catch up with reading for my studies. But it’s really generous of him, not a lot of people would do that.”

  “Douglas Partridge is a man of generous spirit—I am sure it’s the quality that attracted Mrs. Partridge.”

  “They married after the war, didn’t they? He does well for a man with only one arm, and who can’t walk without a stick.”

  “They met in southwest France, actually—both trying to get away from their memories, if truth be told. They were married some thirteen years ago—yes, it was, because their eldest is now twelve. And he and his two brothers are growing like weeds. Anyway, I’m sure Mrs. Partridge will tell me more about her husband’s exciting new job.”

  Sandra slipped a sheet of paper into the typewriter and smoothed it against the platen. “Oh, I doubt that, Miss Dobbs. I think it’s something he’s doing on the QT.”

  Maisie was about to ask what Sandra meant but could see she had spoken without thinking and was oblivious to the curiosity such a comment might inspire.

  Maisie stood at the side of the road with her father to watch the hearse carrying Eddie Pettit pass along streets he’d walked as a child. Drawn by two gleaming jet-black Friesian horses, their manes braided and with black plumes attached to their browbands, the hearse was followed by costermongers driving carts and pushing flower-filled barrows, by a few mounted policemen, and by horse-drawn drays from Starlings Brewery, the leatherwork and brassware of their harnesses polished to a shine. When the cortege passed, Maisie held on to Frankie’s arm, and they stepped out to join the procession to St. Mark’s Church, where Eddie would be laid to rest.

  As they stood in the church, Maisie looked at Maud Pettit during the reading of the lesson, and could see grief enveloping her small, vulnerable frame. She leaned on Jennie, who looked tired but stood tall—and while watching, Maisie wondered what those early years of motherhood had been like for a young girl with not two ha’pennies to rub together. How she had worked, and what a struggle it must have been. And how comforting to have her old friends, Jennie and Wilf, to help support the young boy in his early years.

  “Best be going now, love.” Frankie waved to another man he’d known in his days at the market, and began to walk away from the churchyard.

  Once again Maisie slipped her arm through his. “Will you stay at the flat again this evening?”

  “No, love. I should be getting back.”

  “All right, but look, I’ll come to the station with you.”

  “You’ve no need to—” Frankie looked up as Jennie walked across the churchyard towards them. She was holding something in her hand, waving it as she called out.

  “Maisie! Maisie, wait a minute.” Jennie pressed her free hand to her chest as she approached, dressed in an old but well-ironed black skirt and jacket, with a brooch pinned to her lapel. A black cloche was pulled down on her head, with a small patch of black decorative net covering her face. She pushed back the net.

  “Nice send-off you gave him, Jennie.” Frankie removed his cap as he spoke.

  “No more than he deserved, God love him.” She turned to Maisie. “I found this yesterday. We’d already done a bit of clearing in Eddie’s room, but to tell you the truth, it was too much for both of us, so we sort of left it. I was turning the mattress yesterday and found this underneath. It’s his pay book. Maud always told him he had to try to write down what he’d earned, so he could keep an eye on his money. He wasn’t very good at writing his numbers, but Maudie nagged to get him to keep it all in his little ledger. Anyway, this one has the details for this year so far, and it’s got the money he earned in his last few months. I might be able to find more of these, but as you can see, when he came to the end of a book, he added it all up, then rubbed out everything he’d written and started all over again, with the amounts earned that year listed before the new earnings.” She opened the book. “Look at this first page, it goes back five years, according to the list of numbers, but as you can see—” She flicked the pages in front of Maisie. “As you can see, the pages are all gray now because he kept rubbing out the numbers and names so he could write new ones in.”

  Maisie took the notebook and squinted to read the thick, deliberate, but almost illegible hand. She turned page after page. “He didn’t do too badly, with all these jobs, did he? And you’re right about what you said when I came to the house—he was working a bit further out, and for some wealthier people. He’d upped his prices for them, too.” As she turned the pages, Maisie realized she was looking for a particular name, and was somewhat disappointed when she couldn’t find it, though it would have been a surprise all the same. Then several pages before the notations ended, Maisie stopped.

  “Oh.”

  “What is it, Maisie?” asked Frankie.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing.” She turned to the woman beside her, who was now kneading a handkerchief with her fingers and looking down so that no one could see her face.

  “Are you all right, Jennie?”

  The woman nodded. “I’ll come round. I’ve got to keep my chin up, what with looking after Maudie. But we’re broken without our Eddie. We’d always looked
after him, you see. He was the sun in our lives, even though he wasn’t right, and he could be a handful—remember that, Frankie?”

  “Oh, yes, I remember, Jen.”

  “But we miss him.”

  Maisie nodded. “May I keep this?”

  “Of course you can, love. If it helps you, then you keep it.” She paused and rubbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “We might have laid our Eddie to rest, but there’ll be no rest for us until we know the truth about what happened to him. Now then, this will never do—I’d better get back to Maudie.”

  Father and daughter watched her walk away.

  “I don’t want to miss my train, love—look at you, you’re miles away,” said Frankie. “I know that look—there’s something on your mind.”

  “What? Oh, sorry, Dad. Yes, let’s get on.”

  They turned to walk in the direction of Lambeth underground station; Maisie had every intention of seeing off her father at Charing Cross Station.

  “Anything useful in that book?”

  Maisie shook her head. “I don’t think so, but I’ll go through it again—I need to know all I can about Eddie.”

  “Right you are, love. With a bit of luck we’ll get to the station before that big old cloud over there breaks open.”

  Maisie unfurled her umbrella, just in case.

  Now it was raining hard, a rain that caused a shadow of steam to rise from the path ahead when it struck the warm pavement. As Maisie quickened her step, water splashed into her shoes and up around her ankles, leaving her stockings with black pockmarks at front and back. Stepping across puddles, she entered the square, and as she approached the former mansion house in which her office was situated, she could already see Sandra looking for her from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the first-floor office. She waved as soon as she caught Maisie’s eye, turned from the window and was opening the front door to meet her as Maisie reached the steps.