“Now you know what it’s like! When the toads are asleep and quiet, I breathe a sigh of relief and slump into the chair—even with the amazing Elinor,” said Priscilla.
“So make the most of the peace and quiet now, you two!” Douglas raised his glass to James and Maisie, and leaned to kiss his wife on the cheek.
Maisie was quick to change the subject. “How’s work, Douglas? Priscilla tells me you’re contributing regularly to the New Statesman now.”
Douglas nodded. “Thank goodness! And my latest book has done well—though I think rather eclipsed by Winston Churchill’s, which seems to be in all the bookshops.”
“Oh dear, I feel rather a Philistine,” said James. “I think I’ve missed that one.”
“Came out not that long ago,” said Douglas.
“Even I’ve dipped into it,” said Priscilla. “It’s a collection of essays, some of them written in years past. Oh dear, what’s it called? Now my memory’s going.” She frowned as she looked at her husband.
“Thoughts and Adventures,” said Douglas. “It’s well worth reading—I’ll send a copy to you, James. I bought the book and then received another as a gift.”
“Thank you—look forward to reading it,” said James.
“Is there another book on the horizon, Douglas?” Maisie took a sip of champagne; her interest in Douglas’ work was genuine.
“Oh, I’ve been taking a little time to myself, and with Priscilla and the boys, so I’ve given Sandra a bit of time off. It’s been all work and no play for a while—not what I planned at all!”
The group laughed, and it seemed that all too soon they were discovered by their hostess, who herded them out of the dining room to enjoy the dancing. Priscilla and Douglas were swept along by the tide of people, and Maisie soon lost sight of them among the guests. As others moved on into one of the many reception rooms at the Hartman residence, to talk, to dine or to dance, the crowd seemed to have thinned.
“Shall we have a dance or two, then call it a night?” said James.
“Yes, let’s do that. How about this number? Think you can keep up with me, James?”
“Always.” He took her left hand in his, placed his right arm around her waist, and led her onto the dance floor.
It was after midnight when they arrived back at 15 Ebury Place. She thought about the party while applying cold cream to remove the light dusting of rouge on her cheeks. It was the brief conversation with Douglas that she reflected upon, for she had a distinct feeling that her best friend’s beloved husband was lying to her. Of course, it might not be a significant lapse of truthfulness, but it bothered her all the same. She liked Douglas very much. He was a person of profound dignity, one who measured his words with care and gave thought to those issues that troubled him, and he always seemed to reach a balanced view of a given situation. She knew he adored her friend, and that alone stood for a lot in Maisie’s book. But why would Douglas not tell the truth? Hadn’t Sandra said he had taken on a new assignment of some sort? She thought about it, then told herself that it was absolutely nothing to do with her—and frankly, she had enough to worry about at the present time. But the sense of a lie niggled her all the same.
I was so glad when Elinor arrived on Saturday night—you wouldn’t believe it, she sorted those boys out in next to no time, and had the baby fed and asleep just like that.” Sandra snapped her fingers. “And she charmed the old lady, who—would you know it?—had a Welsh granny and knew a few words of Welsh, so that endeared them to each other, Billy’s mum and Elinor. Did Billy ever tell you that, about his mum? That she had a bit of Welsh in her? Mind you, it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t know. Anyway, Mrs. Partridge is a gem to have sent Elinor round. Apparently she’s going over there herself this morning—I can just see the looks on the neighbors’ faces when she pulls up in front of the house in that bright-blue posh motor of hers.”
Maisie noticed that she had barely arrived at the office before Sandra began her account of the last few days, as well as the week ahead. “And I’m in for a busy time of it after all, what with my work for college and everything else,” continued Sandra. “Mr. Partridge has started working on a new book—he telephoned me right here this morning. As I told you, at first he didn’t want my help, but now he says he’s got a lot to do, and it’s very important. He also said it’s confidential, but I don’t suppose he meant you, being as you’re all friends. Anyway, I have to look after his other matters—correspondence and what have you—so he can get on with it.” She looked up at Maisie. “And I’ve had an idea.”
“What’s that, Sandra?” Maisie replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. She had begun to place a call to Scotland Yard, but Sandra’s expression more than her words caught her attention.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Sandra, “and here’s what I’ve come up with: I know Billy was trying to find out information on what happened to Eddie Pettit, and who might have wanted him harmed, and I thought I might be able to do it instead, on account of him being in hospital.”
“No, Sandra. I can’t have you snooping around Bookhams, not in light of what’s happened to Billy. It’s too risky. I will have to think of another means of assessing what’s going on there—if anything is going on at all. We also have to consider that the attack on Billy might have been random, and nothing to do with Eddie Pettit’s death.”
“But listen, Miss—”
“Sandra—no. You’re valuable to me here and now, and you’re more than busy, anyway. The very fact that Billy was set upon in such a violent manner is cause for deep concern, and it’s my job to get to the bottom of it without risking harm to anyone else’s life. Now then, let that be the end of it.” Maisie paused and rubbed her neck. “Oh dear, I am sorry, that sounded so ungrateful. You are an asset to the business, Sandra, and I have such an admiration for you—perhaps I should tell you that more often. You’ve gone through a loss in the past year that might have broken a lesser person, and I cannot allow you to do anything that might jeopardize your well-being.”
Sandra was silent for a few seconds, drawing breath as if to counter Maisie’s instruction, and then seemed to think better of it.
“All right, Miss,” she said. “I’ll just get on and type these reports. And what do you want me to do about these three smaller cases that Billy was working on?”
“Let’s talk about those when I’ve had a chance to look through his notes.” Maisie looked at Sandra and saw how keen she was to be of service. “Perhaps there’s something you can take over for him.” She remembered an old saying, that if you gave a job to your busiest employee, you could expect it to be done properly.
“Right you are, I’ll do a good job. I promise.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I know you will. Now, let me just make this call to our friend at Scotland Yard.” She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed.
“Detective Inspector Caldwell.”
“Could have set my watch by you, Miss Dobbs. First thing in the morning, and there you are—like clockwork.”
“Happy to be of service, Inspector.” Maisie smiled. After a very shaky start, when Caldwell was promoted to take the place of Detective Chief Inspector Richard Stratton, they now enjoyed something of a rapport, if one marked by the odd sarcastic comment or two. However, she had learned to counter like with like and had discovered that he was actually warmer when a little friction entered the dialogue. It was as if it were a game to be played, and he rather enjoyed the challenge.
“Right then, the river police.” He paused. “Did you know, by the way—and here’s a bit of history for you, Miss Dobbs—that our esteemed brethren, the river police, otherwise known as the Thames Division, were the first police in London? Interesting, that, don’t you think?”
Maisie sighed. Caldwell was unusually loquacious this morning. “Actually, that’s something I know. My grandfather was a lighterman, so he was on first-name terms with a few of them.”
Caldwell went on without acknowledgi
ng Maisie’s comment. “Funny blokes, though. Ask them how they are, and they start to tell you how many jumpers they’ve dragged out of the drink during their shift, dead or alive, as if it’s a game of catch. Not my idea of a day’s fishing, I must say.”
Maisie felt herself getting a little impatient. “Did you discover anything about Bartholomew Soames?
“Yes, I did. He was a jumper. Drunk himself silly, then whoops, over the side of Lambeth Bridge, straight into the murky waters of London’s most famous river, held with great affection by us all.”
Maisie rolled her eyes and waited for Caldwell to continue.
“But I do have the name of the constable who tried to revive him, and if you go down to the Embankment—I’ll give you exact directions—you’ll find him there at about half-past ten. And do report back to me, won’t you?”
“Of course—and thank you. I appreciate your assistance in this matter.” If Caldwell thought Bartholomew Soames’ death important with regard to either the attack on Billy or the death of Eddie Pettit, he would surely not have allowed her to meet the police constable.
“Whatever helps, Miss Dobbs. We’re still on the case of Mr. Beale’s attack and hope to make an arrest in the not-too-distant future.”
“You do?”
“Can’t say anything yet, but I might be able to let you know more when you telephone in after you’ve seen Constable Dawkins, Thames Division. He’ll be mucking about on his boat at Waterloo Pier, the floating pontoon. And don’t worry, he’ll recognize you—I’ve told him what you look like.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes. I said, ‘Worried-looking woman with a hat pulled down over her eyes, but nicely turned out. Usually carries a briefcase.’ You don’t see many ladies carrying document cases.”
“I don’t think that’s quite true, but anyway, I am sure we’ll find each other.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Miss Dobbs.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Her second call was to Priscilla, to make arrangements to meet for afternoon tea at Fortnum and Mason, following Priscilla’s visit to the Beale household. She would have liked to ask Priscilla not to overwhelm Billy’s mother with her ebullient and commanding manner, but as her friend was being generous with her time and her sons’ nanny, she considered such concerns best left unspoken.
“Sandra, I’m going out shortly. I’m to meet a certain Constable Dawkins of the Thames Division at half past ten, then I want to see if I can locate a woman named Evelyn Butterworth, so you’ll probably be gone by the time I’m back here in the office. I want to see Billy if I can, and—oh dear, this will be difficult—Doreen as well. She rather hates me at the moment, but I want to assure her that all is well with her children.”
“She’ll get over it, Miss Dobbs. It’s the shock, that’s all. Shock can cause you to say and do terrible things.”
Maisie nodded. “I suppose we’ve both been in that situation.”
“Yes, Miss. I suppose we have.” Sandra smiled. “Oh, Miss Dobbs. I wanted to remind you that I’ll be moving out of the flat on Saturday afternoon—you’ll have your spare room back again. We’ve paid the deposit on a flat on the other side of Gower Street, us girls, and the landlord said we can take our things over as soon as we like.”
“Sandra, forgive me, I’d forgotten all about your move. Look, can I do anything? Can you manage? Let me—”
“No, thank you all the same, Miss Dobbs,” Sandra interrupted. “You’ve done me a huge favor in allowing me to stay when I had nowhere else to go. I’m on my feet now, and I was lucky to meet the other women my age, and all of us looking for lodgings. We’re pleased as punch about the flat—especially me, as it’s not that far to walk here, and of course with Warren Street station so close, it doesn’t take me that long to get over to Mr. Partridge’s office. And it’s not as if I have much to move anyway—so no thank you, I can manage it all on my own.”
“Well,” said Maisie, reflecting Sandra’s smile, “it’s just as well I’ll be away then—at least I won’t get under your feet. But let me know if you need anything at all, won’t you?”
“Thank you, Miss Dobbs—you’ve been kind enough already.”
Sandra went back to her typing while Maisie hesitated for a moment, then continued assessing the cases Billy was working on. She decided that two inquiries of no particular urgency could be handed to Sandra, and one she would take care of herself—an investigation on behalf of the owner of a small company where a member of staff had absconded with funds from a bank account; the member of staff was the owner’s nephew, hence a desire not to alert the police. A short telephone call to the client would buy her some time, and she hoped to attend to the assignment while working on the fast-expanding case of Eddie Pettit.
Maisie pulled out the case map that she and Billy had begun for Eddie. She added new notes and, using the colored crayons, looped names together and circled questions. It was Maurice who had introduced Maisie to the process of building a “case map” when she was his assistant. A length of paper was drawn across and pinned to the table—the reverse side of a wallpaper offcut proved to be a cheap but ideal material for the job—and as more information was gathered, it was laid down on the paper in a nonlinear fashion. With the assignment forming the center of the map, new knowledge, thoughts, and hunches were added as they became apparent, sometimes in the form of a sketch, sometimes in words marked in red, green, or blue. “We must spark the imagination, Maisie, for the solution to any case is often the one that seems most unlikely, or so obvious that we can easily pass it by on the way to another thought that we consider to be the most brilliant deduction of the day. Everything must be added, even if we think we will embarrass ourselves by revealing what is going on in our minds—the most amazing facts can be revealed by our fictions, you know. We must be creative in our thinking.”
Maisie smiled as she recalled Maurice’s words, remembering the early days of their work together, a time when there was the excitement of a new case, yet before she was required to bear all responsibility. Maurice had been careful, adding more weight to her remit only gradually so she would not be overwhelmed at a point in her life when she was so vulnerable. He had understood that she had been as shell-shocked as any man who had been to war, though she had denied such an affliction. She had pushed back the memories, the visions that assailed her at night and drove sleep away when a terrible wakefulness enveloped her. At times she wondered how far she had come; the abyss was certainly at a greater distance now, though on occasion she felt as if a downdraft of random recollections was trying to drag her towards the brink again. The demons might be knocked down, but they weren’t necessarily out for the count.
She tapped her red crayon on the edge of the map. Eddie Pettit, Bartholomew Soames. She wrote the names and linked them in red. She sat back and added Bookhams, followed by Otterburn. And then, a few inches away, she scribbled another name with a question mark and circled it. Douglas? Why had Douglas Partridge come to mind? She had been trained to look for anomalies, her senses alert to contradictions and coincidences—but didn’t people often make comments that were out of alignment with something they’d mentioned before? She thought back over the past days. What was it Sandra had said? He’s working on something important and new. And then at the party, Douglas more or less told her that he wasn’t working on anything of note. Perhaps she was making too much of it. Was her anxiety to get to the bottom of Eddie’s death taking her down misleading paths? She drew a series of question marks.
In time everything written on this map would be funneled into a solution. There was always a moment when order came to the case, when everything seemed to fall into place and an explanation for all that had come to pass rose up and unfurled like a bud coming into blossom. But she was nowhere near that moment. There was still much to be done, much to discover—and to understand.
Maisie buttoned her lightweight navy-blue jacket and pulled her cloche down further against cooler air coming off the wa
ter. Remembering what Caldwell had said about her hat, she pushed it up a little and paced back and forth close to Waterloo Pier. She held down her skirt to counter a gusty breeze that had blown along the Embankment, and had to pull down her hat again in case it was carried off. She was glad she wasn’t the only woman striking various poses in her attempt to retain both hat and modesty.
“Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie turned to see a young man in police uniform.
“Yes—you must be PC Dawkins.” She smiled, and decided to remove her hat; another sharp breeze caught her hair, which she struggled to keep out of her eyes.
“Come with me,” said Dawkins. “There’s a bloke with a van serving tea along here. We can talk out of this here wind. Not that it’s cold, but it gets on your nerves—I know, I’m in it all day.”
Maisie nodded and followed the constable, stopping alongside the van from which a gruff and gray man served tea across a counter lowered from the side of the vehicle. An iron brazier filled with hot coals had been set up on the pavement. Dawkins was right, it was not a cold day, but there was comfort in the fire’s warmth.
“There you go, you stand there. Tea?” asked Dawkins
“This is on me—I’m grateful to you for seeing me. Would you like tea and a bun?”
“Very nice, Miss Dobbs. I’m a bit hungry on account of being on duty since early morning. And we’ve had a few jumpers, too; one of them—”
Maisie held up her hand, smiling as she remembered what Caldwell had said about the river police . . . they start to tell you how many jumpers they’ve dragged out of the drink, dead or alive.
“I’ll just get the tea, Constable, before we’re blown along the street.”
Returning to their spot close to the brazier, Maisie handed a cup of tea to the policeman, on top of which she had balanced a plate with a buttered currant bun. “There you are, a little sustenance to keep you going.”
“Thank you, Miss Dobbs,” said Dawkins.
Maisie gripped another cup of tea in her other hand and took a sip as she stood shielded by the van. “That’s better.” She looked up at the tall, gangly young constable and judged him to be in his mid-twenties. “You must be perished when you’re on the night shift, out there on the river for hours at night in the cold.”
Elegy for Eddie Page 13