“Oh, it’s not too bad, we’ve got warm clothes for the really bitter nights in winter, and that’s when I take a flask of something hot out with me. I tell you, I sleep well when I get home, since I’ve been doing this job.”
“Even having seen a few jumpers in the course of a shift?” asked Maisie.
The constable nodded. “You get used to it. In a way. Some are accidents, there’s the odd murder, but most of them jump. And you get all sorts—the man who lost everything on the stock market, the woman who’s lonely because her husband died in the war, or—this happened a few weeks ago—a woman who’d lost her sons in the war, all of them, and then when her husband passed on, she just didn’t want to live anymore. Sad, that one. Made me think of my mum, because my father died at Gallipoli. I make sure she’s never lonely, that there’s always one of us going round, taking her out.”
“You’re a good son, PC Dawkins.” Maisie took another sip of her tea. “What can you tell me about Bartholomew Soames? I understand you were the one who pulled him out.”
“There’s generally a couple of us on the boat, but I saw him and got my mate to keep the boat steady while I pulled him in—we’ve got this hook we use. It was a really cold night and, funnily enough, we’d got to him not long after he jumped.” He bit off a chunk of his currant bun, chewed, and swallowed. “I needed that, Miss Dobbs,” said Dawkins before continuing. “We got him out quickly, and wrapped him up in a blanket—we have a special drill, so we can get them out sharpish. Most of them are dead, and he was not far off. I tried to save him, but it was clear he was a goner—talk about blue. And I could hear he was trying to talk to me, so I leaned down to listen, and told him I was there, and could hear him. But his breath—that man must’ve downed a bottle of whiskey before he went over, probably trying to pluck up the courage to do it—some of them are like that, they either drink too much at the pub and fall in on their way home, or they drink to get drunk quickly and hope it takes them into the water and away, if you catch my drift.” The PC clutched his white mug and looked towards the brazier’s glowing coals.
“What did he say? Anything you could distinguish?”
“He said, ‘Tell Eve . . . tell Eve,’ then he coughed, caught his breath—one of his last—then he said something I couldn’t make out; his voice was very quiet, what with all that water.”
Maisie nodded. “So Mr. Soames didn’t say anything else that you could hear.”
The police constable looked down at his feet and shook his head. “No, nothing else. He just drifted off. People don’t realize how cold that river can be, even in hot weather. It can kill you in seconds, at night especially—that’s if you’re not hit by a barge.”
“I should have asked Detective Inspector Caldwell about this, but do you know who conducted the postmortem?”
“No, none of my business, that.”
Maisie drank the remains of her tea and looked over towards the constable’s mug. “Finished?”
He nodded.
“Would you like some more? Or another bun to take back to the pier with you?”
Dawkins shook his head. “No, thank you, Miss Dobbs. I’d better be getting back in any case, though I’m officially off duty now.”
Maisie passed the mugs back to the old man who had served her, and as she turned, she saw PC Dawkins walking away at a brisk pace. “Oh no you don’t,” she said to herself, and ran after him.
“PC Dawkins,” she said, coming alongside him. “Gosh, that air can take a layer of skin off your lungs when you run, if you’re not careful.” She placed a hand on her chest, as if out of breath. “You never gave me a chance to thank you for your help.”
Dawkins shrugged. “That’s all right. Glad to be of service.”
Maisie looked at the young man and leaned forward so that he had to look at her in return.
“What is it that you’re afraid to tell me, PC Dawkins?”
The policeman sighed and looked around him, then back at Maisie. “That man, in the water, he said something else, but I was told—word came down very quickly through my sergeant—to keep quiet about it and not say anything to anyone. No one threatened me as such, but I reckon I could lose my job.”
“If they sack you, I’ll take you on. Don’t worry about your job, PC Dawkins. It’s the truth that counts.”
“That’s what my mum says. ‘Tell the truth, son. We might not have much, but we’ve got our pride, and you can’t go far wrong in telling the truth.’ Mind you, she doesn’t do my job.”
“What did Bartholomew Soames say to you?”
“He said those other things, but the first thing he said, when I pulled him into the boat and turned him over, was ‘Pushed. Pushed me.’ ”
“And what were you told?”
“I was told by my sergeant to just get on with it. That there are always jumpers who say that sort of thing because they don’t want their relatives to know they committed suicide.” He paused and scratched his cheek. “And the other thing—and I know this sounds strange—but he didn’t sound drunk, this Bartholomew Soames. I mean, I’d pushed on his chest and there was whiskey coming up along with that rotten water, but it was as if it hadn’t gone very far down here, inside.” The constable pressed his hand against his chest, then tapped his head. “It wasn’t up here. It was like the drink hadn’t had time to get to his head. And that’s funny, to me, because the ones who fall or jump are usually well gone—and despite what people say, a bit of cold water doesn’t suddenly make a drunk think straight. This man was all but dead, but he was thinking straight. It was just that he was in such a bad way, couldn’t get the words out.”
Maisie looked up at the tall policeman, who at once seemed more boy than man. And for a second an image of Eddie came into her mind’s eye and she wondered when childhood ended and the life of an adult began, and if there wasn’t always, somewhere, the child inside.
“I thank you for your honesty, PC Dawkins. Your mum would be proud of you if she knew.” Maisie opened her briefcase and took out a card. “Don’t leave that around where anyone can see it, but let me know if you have any problems with your job.”
“You know a few high-ups, don’t you?” said Dawkins.
Maisie laughed and held out her hand. “If you can call Detective Inspector Caldwell a high-up, then I suppose I do.”
“He is to me.”
“Then that’s good enough. Thank you again, Constable Dawkins. You’ve been most helpful.”
Maisie turned and walked away, stopping once to look back. Dawkins was still standing there, looking at the card; then he folded it with care and placed it in his pocket before pulling up his collar and stepping forward into the wind.
Chapter Eight
Billy was asleep when Maisie arrived at St. Thomas’ Hospital, though she was able to speak to a police constable outside the private ward where he had been placed at police request. The policeman informed her that this would be his last day, and that Mr. Beale would be moved to the public ward tomorrow as there was no need to keep him sequestered; danger to him had been assessed and it was believed there was no further risk, that the attack was random and unlikely to be repeated.
Maisie could see the sense in this decision and agreed. Being situated in one of the main wards—where there would be nurses moving to and fro, the sound of hospital business and men talking to each other—might be good for Billy, stimulating his mind. He liked to show off his sense of humor, and he liked to be among others, so the move might well accelerate his recovery.
From St. Thomas’ she traveled to another hospital, the psychiatric institution where Doreen had been taken while her mind was still so unsettled due to the attack on Billy. With more than a little trepidation, Maisie made her way to the office of Dr. Elsbeth Masters, with whom she had worked many years before and whom she had consulted on Doreen’s condition during her last and most serious breakdown.
Elsbeth Masters was known not only for the excellence of her work with acute psychiatric cas
es but for her personal eccentricity. Born and raised in British East Africa, she was known to describe her childhood as being a time when she was “at one with the wild.” She preferred to forgo footwear whenever possible, and was often to be seen kicking off her shoes, sometimes even in the midst of her rounds. A nurse would pick up the discarded shoes and follow Dr. Masters, ready to pass them to her when she realized she was in her stockinged feet and was wondering where she had left the heavy brogues she favored. Now in her later years, she was peppered with the freckles of age and intense exposure to the sun in her youth. Maisie had known the doctor since she’d returned to nursing and the care of shell-shocked men following her own wounding in the war. Masters was now in charge of Doreen’s case.
“The trouble is, Maisie,” said Masters, “this all happened—the attack on her husband—during a very vulnerable time for Mrs. Beale. Granted, she was well on her way to recovery, but I had been most concerned about the pregnancy in the first place—it’s too simplistic to assume that she was trying to recreate the child she’d lost, but on the other hand, her state of mind and the distress accompanying loss rendered her worthy of continued observation. And she was doing quite well, but as I am sure you understand, that doesn’t mean the mind can take on the huge responsibility that comes with caring for an infant—by the way, do you know what’s happening with the children?”
“It’s all in hand. My friend, Mrs. Priscilla Partridge, has sent her nanny to look after the boys and the young baby. She’s an efficient young woman, well able to bear the weight of responsibility in this case. And of course Mrs. Beale senior is there and can help, though she couldn’t have taken on all three children alone.”
Masters nodded and looked at Maisie directly; she was known for her compassionate yet often brutal honesty. “She won’t see you, Maisie. In her state of mind, Doreen Beale needs someone to blame, something concrete to attack in order to release the anger and despair, so she’s holding you responsible. Of course, that will, hopefully, change, and I will make sure she knows the children are in very good hands.”
“She’s right—I am responsible. I asked her husband to go to the place where he was attacked, so it’s up to me to put things right. ”
Masters continued to meet Maisie’s eyes without deflecting her attention as she listened to Maisie. She slipped off her shoes—as was her habit—and rested one foot on top of the other.
“If you step out of yourself, Maisie, you will see what you’re doing.”
Maisie frowned and shifted in her chair. “Dr. Masters, I really don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not your doctor, Maisie, but I knew you years ago, when you returned from convalescence following your wounding in the war, and since we rekindled our professional dealings with each other, it has not gone beyond my notice that you have struggled.” Masters picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “There’s nothing wrong in wanting our lives to be ordered—it makes things a bit easier if we can do it—however, I sometimes sense that you walk a very narrow path.”
Maisie felt as if her voice might not work if she opened her mouth to speak. She had a sudden awareness of repetition. Hadn’t someone—was it her father? perhaps Jesse or Seth?—hadn’t someone spoken of Eddie walking a narrow path?
Masters continued. “The man who has been mentally affected by war can be a controlling person, setting boundaries so that, for example, every event in the daily round happens at a certain time. Even the smallest thing outside the accepted rhythm of the day can cause a complete upset in personality; a late delivery by the postman, perhaps, or something not working—let’s say the plumbing springs a leak, that sort of thing.”
“But I’m not like that. I have lots of things go awry in the course of a day.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do. Yet I would wager that you keep a very tight rein on what happens in your personal solar system, even though you are a woman of some means—and can thus let others do things for you—and you are successful in your profession. Let us look at the way in which you assist your employees. In ‘helping’ them, you’re affecting their lives, making decisions on their behalf that they might not have made for themselves or might come to at a different time.”
“I was only trying to make life easier for them, Dr. Masters. I have the ability to assist, and I wanted to see Billy and his family settled, and to . . .” Maisie faltered.
“And what else? Who else have you been trying to help? How might you have been trying to make the lives of others conform to your view of the world?”
“I think that’s rather strong. I have the resources to help my employees and friends, so—”
“Step back, Maisie. I am sure you think you are well on your way to putting the past to rest, and certainly you give that impression. However, I sense—and I know that’s not a medical term, but I am a different kind of doctor, as I am sure you know—but I sense that you are overly protective of yourself, that you have perhaps too strict an idea of what you should and should not be doing.”
“I—”
“Consider it, that’s all I ask.” Elsbeth Masters held up her hand. “I’ll say no more as I may be on the wrong track, but there could be something there for you.”
Maisie nodded. She did not want to upset her professional relationship with Masters, but at once she felt as if she wanted to run from the place. Instead she spoke as if the dialogue concerning her state of mind had not taken place.
“Might it be possible to let me know when Mrs. Beale is to be discharged? I would like to have Elinor—the nanny—leave the house before she arrives home, to avoid additional distress.”
“Of course.” Masters slipped her shoes back on and stood up to say good-bye. “And do drop in to see me again, Maisie. We women in the professions must stick together, eh?”
Maisie smiled, said she would keep in touch, and turned to leave, though she could still feel a tremor in her limbs as she walked from the hospital; it was a physical sensation that began the moment Elsbeth Masters had challenged her.
As she left the hospital, she stopped to lean against the wall and rubbed her forehead, for she thought a headache might be coming on. A man approached to ask if she was all right, and she assured him that all was well, she was just a little warm. She was reflecting upon her own actions, weighing them up as, one by one, they seemed to line up in her mind, waiting to be considered in light of the unexpected judgment against her. She had tried hard not to push Billy and Doreen into the house, waiting for them to take her up on the offer of a cheaper rent in a much better area. And it was a much better area—look how the boys were so much healthier, and how the family had more room. She had encouraged Sandra to continue her education, and had brought home details on Birkbeck College and other places the young woman might aspire to attend. Was that controlling, especially as Sandra was doing so well now? Offering her lodging at the flat until she was on an even keel in the wake of her sudden widowhood was a natural extension of a desire to help—after all, the girl had stayed there before. That was all caring, surely, not control.
Maisie began walking again, and as she straightened her back and stepped out with purpose, she decided that Masters had taken the wrong tack; that in caring for her patient, she had focused on Maisie without due cause. It occurred to her, briefly, however, that her father might agree with the doctor. But hadn’t she drawn back from trying to get him to move to The Dower House when it was clear he really didn’t want to? Of course, it would be better for him if he moved; any daughter in her position would have done the same thing.
As she made her way to the bus stop, Maisie tried to distinguish the feeling she had when Masters had said that there might be “something there for you.” It was a phrase used by Maurice, when he had observed a trait in her that she hadn’t seen herself. Invariably, at some point, she caught up with him and was able to view her actions through a stronger lens, and as a result felt as if life had expanded around her in some way. She wondered what had inspired Maste
rs to confront her, why she had spoken her mind in so candid a fashion. Maisie had felt discomfort, yes, but something else had happened. For the first time since Maurice’s death, she felt . . . tightly held, as if Elsbeth Masters’ honesty were enveloping her with caring, even as she challenged her actions.
Number 1 Shelley Street, the address given for Evelyn Butterworth, proved to be a narrow, modest, end-of-terrace house divided into flats, not far from King’s Cross station. Though it was not in a particularly good area, someone had tried to make a garden, but soot from the trains rendered the district gray and tired, and even the sunshine failed to cheer the street. Looking up at the house, Maisie noticed that the curtains on the third floor were quite bright. She had never seen fabric in such a myriad of colors, and wondered if it had been hand-dyed to achieve the vibrant effect. She thought this might be the flat rented by Bart Soames and his lover.
A series of names had been written on paper and slipped into brass holders at the side of the door. To the right of each name a bell pull was provided, though with rust and dents, the system bore signs of age and mishandling. Maisie pulled the two-fingers’-width handle next to Evelyn Butterworth’s name—she was indeed on the top floor—and a bell sounded faintly within the house. As she waited, Maisie noticed that Bartholomew Soames was not listed at the address, and wondered if his name had been removed already, or if their status as an unmarried couple had something to do with it. No one came to the door. Maisie pulled again, then after a moment or two gave the door a light push. It opened onto a small square entrance hall, in front of which a staircase led to the upper flats, with the door to the ground-floor flat just visible beyond the staircase. A bicycle was resting against the wall, which she assumed belonged to the ground-floor resident.
Elegy for Eddie Page 14