A welcoming coal fire warmed the room, and a scuttle had been left so that Maisie could make up the embers before she went to bed. Her evening practice of meditation had been abandoned of late, and she realized that she felt the absence of the deliberate quiet it offered. In this stilling of mind and body it was as if she became rooted, and in that time she could plumb the depths of more than simply her own experience to answer questions. It often felt as if she had opened a vein of thoughts that were new to her, yet at once timeless, and she was served well by her practice, not least in the calm it bestowed upon her.
She sat for some time on the floor, her legs crossed, her eyes closed, and her hands one on top of the other in her lap with thumbs just one rice grain’s width apart. When she opened her eyes, it was as if she had been sitting for just a moment or two. Later, as she lay in bed, her eyes heavy as she watched flames lick around small red-hot caverns created by the burning coals, Maisie remembered something Maurice had said to her a long time ago.
“This work, Maisie, will touch you in many ways. In delving into the secrets held by the dead, by the living, and by those who have come to harm and caused harm, you will learn much about yourself. You will be challenged by this knowledge, and will be drawn to self-examination and—perhaps—recrimination. On the one hand, this is not without merit, and can offer a depth of understanding not previously available to you. But be warned—your allegiance must first be to your client, to those whose lives are touched by your work. There will be time enough afterwards to allow yourself the luxury of self-inquiry. When you are working on a case, that is to be the focus of your attention. You are the engine that drives the investigation, you are not the destination—attend to yourself only as required to reach that destination. Now, is that clear?”
She had answered that it was clear, though she had come to understand, sometimes painfully, that clarity developed slowly, and she had learned that particular lesson anew with each case. Now, in the darkness, with the sound of waves crashing across the seafront beyond the chintz curtains and filigree balcony, Maisie knew she had to deal with her guilt, with her mistakes, and she had to remember that the investigation was about gentle Eddie Petitt’s death. Her duty was not only to those left heartbroken by his passing, but to truth itself. And tomorrow she would visit another bereaved mother who had lost her son.
Them waves came in last night, eh, Miss Dobbs? Keep you awake, did they?” Sid Mayfield opened the passenger door for Maisie, ensuring that the hem of her coat was tucked inside before closing the door and taking the driver’s seat. “I did us a favor last night, after I dropped you off. When you told me the name of the lady you were looking for, I went to the pub at the end of the road there and I found out the exact—the exact, mind—address, so we’re in luck, eh, Miss?” Mayfield turned to face Maisie and smiled, revealing several missing teeth.
“That is good news, Mr. Mayfield. That being the case, I hope we won’t be too early.”
“It might take us about twenty minutes, half an hour to get there, as it’s just outside the town—on my way home, so don’t you worry, I didn’t go too far out of my way last night.”
“Thank you.”
Maisie understood why Mrs. Hicks and Sid Mayfield were a good commercial team but wondered how either one of them managed to get a word in edgewise, given the chatter that both seemed to thoroughly enjoy. Mayfield’s running commentary began with a summing up of the last season, and how they were hoping for a bumper spring, summer, and autumn. He talked about the shows coming to town—they were much better when he was a boy, mind, what with the old music halls still doing well; about the pier amusements—not what they were in his day; and about the number of motor cars queuing up to get into the town on a summer’s day—too many, and the roads not big enough to cope, and where were they all going to park, anyway? Having only responded with comments such as “Really?” or “Well, I never,” or “And then what happened?” Maisie was relieved when they reached Shell Close, the street where Mildred Taylor lived. Mayfield stopped at the end of the road.
“It’s number six, Miss. Shall I wait here, or outside the house?”
“Definitely here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. I might be an hour or so—or I might even be back in two minutes, you never know.”
Mayfield walked around to open the passenger door, and Maisie stepped out, her briefcase in her left hand, her right hand firmly holding her hat in place.
“You want to keep your hand right there, Miss Dobbs. You don’t want to go chasing that hat down the road.”
Maisie smiled and went on her way.
Shell Close comprised a series of Victorian semidetached houses, each with a front door and bay window, and a path on one side leading to the back of the house. The path to the front door of number six was flanked by splashes of color from spring flowers, and of buds promising an even more colorful garden in summer. The door, painted in a matte maroon color, was half-paned with stained glass formed in the shape of a bouquet of lilies. In recognition of this embellishment, a sign attached to the brickwork bore the name “The Lillies.” She lifted the brass door knocker and made three sharp raps.
From the depths of the house she could hear voices; then a woman walked towards the door—Maisie could see her shadowy outline approaching through the glass. The door opened.
“Mrs. Taylor?”
“Yes.” The woman smiled, her eyes revealing relief that it was a woman who had come to call, though she seemed somewhat wary nevertheless.
“My name is Maisie Dobbs. I wonder if I might see your sister, Mrs. Soames.” She reached into her document case. “Here’s my card. I’d be grateful if you could tell her that it’s about Mr. Edwin Pettit—my family were his neighbors in London, when I was a child.”
The woman took the card, half-closed the door, and went back towards the kitchen. Maisie could hear the murmur of a conversation kept deliberately low; then Mrs. Taylor came to the door again.
“Come in, Miss Dobbs. We’re in the kitchen, if you don’t mind.”
She stepped around Maisie and led the way past a front parlor and a dining room, to the spacious kitchen with an open range and a steaming kettle above the hot plate. Not a plate, cup, saucer, dish, or item of cutlery was out of place.
Pauline Soames rose from the table to greet Maisie, the calling card still in her left hand. Both Mildred Taylor and Pauline Soames were dressed in plain skirts and blouses, each with a cardigan buttoned to the neck, and each wearing small pearl earrings. And though Mrs. Taylor was just a little heavier, it was clear the women were twins. Maisie thought they probably did not plan to dress alike, but in the way that there is a depth of communication between siblings so close, it no doubt caused them some amusement when they came down in the morning to find that they had chosen almost identical clothing.
Before Mrs. Soames could speak, however, her sister had revealed herself to be the more dominant of the two.
“I suspect you know that my sister here has suffered a most difficult bereavement, losing her son only a year after her husband died. Did you know that, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie tempered her voice to meet the occasion. “Yes, Mrs. Taylor, I knew about Mrs. Soames’ recent loss, although I wasn’t aware that Mr. Soames senior had passed so recently.” She turned to the bereaved woman. “I am deeply sorry. I know this is not the best time for me to visit, and I wouldn’t be here today if it were not a matter of some import. I wanted to talk to you about Eddie Pettit, if I may.” Maisie paused; Soames nodded, her eyes welling as she reached for her sister’s hand.
“I come from Lambeth, Mrs. Soames—in fact, I went to the same school as Eddie. You’d married and left by the time I started school, otherwise you’d have been my teacher too.”
“I loved teaching at that school, Miss Dobbs. I was always being asked why I went there to teach—people made it seem as if little urchins from Lambeth with not a pair of shoes between them weren’t deserving of an education.” She continued speakin
g in a way that suggested she was putting off whatever question might come next. “Not that it was easy, no, not in a million years, but you know, in every child there’s a spark, and you just have to find that spark and you can light the fire. I loved it when I found that spark—made it all worthwhile. But of course I had to leave when I married, it was the rule.”
“You found the spark in Eddie, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes. There was a lovely light about Eddie Pettit—an unworldliness you didn’t see much in those parts. The other teachers said it was because he was nothing more than the local idiot, that he didn’t have it in him to know anything. But to me the guilelessness of the boy—his innocence—was the very thing that held promise; a lot of the knowledge the other children had was not the sort you like to see in a child—poverty, a good whipping every night at home, going out to work before they came to school or after school. No wonder so many got into trouble. Not all parents were like that, of course—there were some strong families on the streets of Lambeth; poor, but responsible with it.”
Maisie allowed the woman to speak freely without interrupting. There was time enough to pepper questions into the conversation; for now she wanted only to gain her trust.
“You’re spoken of highly to this day, Mrs. Soames. I know Mrs. Pettit thought the world of you, for what you did for Eddie.”
“Oh, a remarkable girl, Maud Pettit. Exceptional, when you consider what she came out of. She was very anxious for Eddie to learn to read and write—probably the only parent ever to come up to the school to see me. An old head on young shoulders. As far as many of them were concerned, the school was just a way-station for the children until they went out to work—twelve years old and one day you’re in school, the next you’re working at Bookhams, or Starlings, or the pickle factory, or on the river. Or you’re not working at all.”
Mildred Taylor cleared her throat to speak. “My sister is very involved in trying to change the school leaving age, you know. And in bringing more opportunity to the run-down areas. Very political, aren’t you, my dear?”
Pauline Soames nodded and smiled at her sister, then turned to Maisie. “What can I tell you about Eddie?”
“I understand you’d been giving him lessons in the past few months. When did he come to you?”
Soames sighed. “It must have been last summer—perhaps the end of the summer, I can’t quite remember.” She leaned forward towards Maisie, placing her elbows on the table and setting Maisie’s card in front of her. “What you should know is that Eddie was both simple and a bit more complicated, all at the same time. You knew him, so I believe you might understand exactly what I mean—though you’re a good bit younger than Eddie.” She paused again. “His mother had always pushed him to do more—and though that wasn’t exactly bad, I sometimes thought she didn’t need to press him. You see, for example, she wanted him to note things down—his hours, his earnings, his customers—yet she of all people knew that Eddie just remembered these things. He could tell you to the farthing how much money had passed his hands between this day and that day. He knew the names of his customers and their addresses—once he’d got over the initial problem of going to wherever they were, of finding his way there and back. But I suppose someone had suggested to her that there might be those who would take advantage of Eddie, so she started to nag him to write it all down. And I think that in her concern about what might happen to him when she went, she began to pass on that worry to him—Eddie told me she’d told him he needed to learn his letters properly, because he had to look after himself when she was dead and gone. Now, that’s all very well—she wouldn’t be the first anxious mother to chase after a child—but it just added a thread of concern, a weight Eddie found hard to bear.” She shook her head. “You see, Eddie was a boy—and man—who had to travel light, if you know what I mean. Everything had to be simple, or the spark would just . . . would just . . . it would just go out.”
Maisie nodded. “I’ve heard you were a wonderful teacher, Miss Soames.”
“I missed it very much when I married. But then, later, I had my children, and found joy in teaching them, too.”
“May I ask, what did you think when you first discovered that Eddie was dead?”
Maisie noticed Mildred Taylor squeeze her sister’s hand, giving a slight shake of her head. The former teacher nodded. She would answer.
“I was shocked beyond belief. It was as if something very dear had been taken from this world. You see—and I know how this might sound, but I will say it anyway—there was that innocence about Eddie, and I know I’m repeating myself, and I would imagine many have said the same thing—but when I think of Eddie, I think of him as if he were a flower blooming amid the rocks and stones. Lambeth can be a dark place, and indeed, unless you’ve got a bit of money put by, there seems to be such a darkness going on in the world these days. But Eddie, in his simplemindedness, had a light about him. He didn’t grasp good and evil, he only knew his world, what was expected of him, and the love of his mother, of her friend Jennie, and let’s not forget, every single horse he ever laid a hand upon.” She rubbed her throat and in silence rose and stepped over to the tap. As she ran water into a glass, her hands were shaking; when she turned back to Maisie, she leaned against the sink for support. “This may sound strange, and perhaps not easy to grasp, but it’s as if we who knew Eddie have lost something precious. We’ve lost that lovely simplicity that he brought with him wherever he went—and I suppose it’s fortunate that there are people who had that instinct about him, though they might never have put words to the sense of it.” She sipped her water.
Maisie nodded. “You’re right, Mrs. Soames. I’ve been talking to the men at the market who knew Eddie, and they’ve said the same thing, though without your eloquence.” She paused for a moment. “They came to me because they believe that Eddie’s death was no accident.” She paused again, picking over her words as if making her way across a rushing stream on stepping-stones. “You have my card, Mrs. Soames. You know I am an investigator, and because of where I come from, and because I knew Eddie, the men have asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding his death. I have made a promise that whatever the cause, whether it was an accident or a deliberate act that led to his death, I will find out what happened to him. That’s why I want to ask you about Bartholomew.”
“Polly, you don’t have to answer Miss Dobbs, you know.” Mildred Taylor folded her arms. “She’s not the police, and she’s very nice, but I don’t want you pulled this way and that by an inquiry agent. You’ve been through quite enough already.”
Pauline Soames refilled her water glass and took her seat once more. “That’s all right, Milly. It’ll probably do me good.” She turned to Maisie. “Please, go on, Miss Dobbs.”
“Tell me about Eddie and Bart—they knew each other, didn’t they?”
Soames nodded. “Yes. Eddie had set his mind to finding out where I lived, because he wanted to learn to read properly. He knew some words, and he could express himself to a point, but he wanted to show his mother that he could accomplish the task of reading and writing. I’d always had a soft spot for him—you can probably tell—so I said I would, and that he should come to my house once a week, and I’d also give him some homework—just a bit. Bart came to visit one day when Eddie was there. In fact, I’d told him about Eddie, so he must have known he would be there. Bart was very gentle with him, yet didn’t talk down to him. No, he spoke to him man to man, but made allowances for him. Eddie seemed to really appreciate it, and took a liking to Bart. In fact, Bart would help him with his lessons, which bolstered Eddie a bit, you know, another man reading with him. And Bart took an interest in Eddie’s work, asked about what he did, how long he’d been doing it, who he worked for. He even bought him a lovely notebook with gold lettering. And though Eddie was shy with my son at first, he became quite chatty—well, chatty for Eddie. I think it gave him a boost in confidence, to tell you the truth.”
Maisie traced a pattern o
n the tablecloth with her finger. “Did Bart see Eddie at other times, do you know? Or did they meet only at your house?”
“Oh, I can’t say. I would imagine not—but there again, they might have, though Bart never mentioned it. As I said, Bart treated Eddie like an equal, so he might have seen him again and never thought to tell me.”
Maisie drew breath, knowing she must navigate troubled waters. “Your son died in a tragic accident, I understand. Do you know what happened?”
“Pol—”
“I’m all right, Milly. I told you.” Soames turned again to Maisie. “My son fell from Lambeth Bridge in the dark of night. I was told he’d been seen drinking in The Prince’s Tavern on the other side of the water, and that he was the worse for wear when he set off to go home. There was a thick smog that night, and they believe he lost his footing and managed to pitch himself over the side.”
“And what do you think?” Maisie did not look away as she asked the question.
Pauline Soames returned Maisie’s gaze, though her thoughts seemed distant.
“I have my doubts, Miss Dobbs. I have my doubts. My son had stepped on a few toes in his time—he was a thorough and inquisitive journalist, and he had a way of sniffing around in places where people were up to no good. He didn’t like working for the newspapers, because he said they were always kowtowing to someone, somewhere, and that the big nobs were in the pockets of even bigger nobs. So I have tormented myself with imaginings, I must confess. But at the same time, he was courting another writer by the name of Evelyn Butterworth, and though it had nothing to do with me, I do believe they were living under the same roof, and that it was probably not a very calm union—or whatever it might be called, so you never know . . .”
“Living in sin,” said Mildred Taylor. “You can call it living in sin.”
“No, Milly, that’s not what I would call it, though I would rather they were courting and planning a wedding. But listen to me—talking as if it might happen any day now, when it won’t ever happen now.” Soames pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket.
Elegy for Eddie Page 11