Elegy for Eddie

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I say, I don’t know what Compton must find to talk to Churchill about over there,” said the man seated on Maisie’s other side, as he listed towards her in a waft of whiskey. “Everyone knows he’s got nothing better to do than pen his thoughts and then try to get them published.”

  “I’ve heard he’s a very good writer,” said Maisie, leaning back a little to avoid the downdraft of alcohol fumes.

  “Oh, I suppose he is, but there are others, and much better, too. Surprised there aren’t a few more here, but then Johnny’s keeping his stable of opinion-makers under wraps.”

  Maisie was about to ask what the man meant when Otterburn interrupted them.

  “Miss Dobbs, I see you’ve been set upon by my ne’er-do-well brother-in-law. Is he bending your ear with one of his stories?”

  “No, not at all,” replied Maisie.

  “Just making sure. He tells a tall tale and must be regulated at times—isn’t that right, Jonty?”

  The man looked half asleep as he leaned forward, almost into his soup, and Otterburn rolled his eyes.

  “Always the way. Don’t listen to anything he says—not all there, you know.”

  Maisie nodded and picked up her spoon.

  Conversation continued with Otterburn and the woman who had been so taken with the activities of the Prince of Wales, touching mainly upon the news of the day and the social calendar. Maisie looked down the table at James, who remained in deep conversation with Churchill, leaning behind Lorraine Otterburn, who was, in turn, cupping her ear to listen to the woman on the other side of Churchill. Her thoughts were interrupted when the port was brought in and their hostess stood up and indicated that it was time for the ladies to adjourn and leave the men to their cigars and politics. Maisie sighed, allowed Otterburn to pull out her chair so that she could exit the room with the other women, and felt a dread in her stomach at the next half hour or so in the company of women whom she did not know and who likely had little more to discuss than a new hat purchased at Derry and Tom’s, or a gown from Paris.

  Her fears came to fruition as the women were led to the drawing room, where Lorraine Otterburn directed the positioning of her female guests without appearing to tell anyone where to sit. She was as striking as her husband, with fair hair tied back in a chignon so tight it appeared to pull the skin across her high cheekbones. Her gown was of a black and gray silk blend that seemed to shimmer in the low light, and Maisie thought she looked like a Greek goddess in the midst of her handmaidens; it seemed she wielded a power no less potent than that of her husband. The women, arranged in clusters, proceeded to gossip about who was doing what with whom, and the trouble one had in hiring trustworthy household staff, especially as everyone wanted more these days. Maisie whispered to the woman seated next to her on a leather chesterfield—though she couldn’t remember her name—that she had need to “powder her nose.” She left the room and made her way along an endless hallway hung with paintings of gentry she suspected were no relation to John Otterburn. She thought she might delay returning until she heard the men leave the dining room to join the ladies for coffee.

  She reached a door left ajar, and, when she looked closer, could see the lights had not been switched off. Curiosity—she almost laughed when she remembered the conversation with Otterburn about the curiosity of an inquiry agent—fanned the flames of interest, and she pushed against the door, only to realize that this room was a study and library. At once she was reminded of her nighttime excursions into the library at Ebury Place when she was a maid on the bottom rung of service. In the early hours she had tiptoed into the library to read and to learn, and she had never lost her love of libraries, of places of learning. Now she crept alongside Otterburn’s bookshelves, her head to one side as she scanned the titles. Indeed, it was an enviable collection. Tapping her fingers against the leather spines, she stopped when she reached the two volumes of Mein Kampf, written by Adolf Hitler. She was at once surprised, then not, for this was the house of a leading newspaperman, and the German Chancellor was nothing if not newsworthy. She took down the first volume and began to read, skipping from one chapter to another as she drew upon memories of German classes from her student days. Then, with the book in hand, she walked across the room and took the liberty of seating herself at John Otterburn’s desk.

  Fifteen minutes later, she looked up at the mantelpiece clock and realized that time had indeed passed, and the men had likely finished their port and cigars and withdrawn from the dining room to join their womenfolk.

  “Oh, heavens!” she whispered into the silence of the room.

  Standing up, Maisie felt her foot catch on the carpet and began to stumble. She reached out for the desk to steady herself, knocking a pile of papers—which had been neatly stacked—onto the floor.

  “Blast!” she said as she set the book on the desk and knelt down to gather the folders and pages.

  She came to her feet slowly, leaning across towards the desk lamp to better see what was in her hand, but before she could read the words on the top page, she was interrupted.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Maisie?”

  James stood before her, his expression open, questioning.

  “I was reading this book—you know what I’m like with a library, James, and when I saw the light on, I couldn’t resist. Mr. Otterburn has a copy of Mein Kampf, so I began reading a few pages, and when I realized how much time had gone by, I started to hurry and knocked all these papers across the floor. I am so terribly sorry—I must have embarrassed you by not being in the drawing room with the other women.”

  James looked at the floor and at the papers in Maisie’s hand.

  “If I had no knowledge of your profession, I might be more inclined to believe you without question, but—oh well, look, let’s put it all back and then join the other guests. I had to insist upon coming to find you when you weren’t there with the women—frankly, I suppose I feared you might be up to something.” James squared the papers on Otterburn’s desk, while Maisie returned the book to its place. “There’s more drinking going on in the drawing room, Maisie. I don’t know if I want to stay long now, in any case.”

  They walked together towards the staircase.

  “You seemed to be having a lively conversation with Mr. Churchill.”

  “Yes, he’s an interesting fellow. I can’t say you did as well, what with that woman who’s obsessed with the Prince, and that drunk lolling all over you.” He put an arm around her shoulder. “Come to think of it, no wonder you made a run for the library.”

  Maisie laughed, relieved that another row had been averted.

  “Perhaps we should go home now, James.”

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Either will do.”

  James pulled her to him and kissed her tenderly.

  “Oh, I see you found your love, James.” Otterburn walked along the hallway towards them.

  “She was in the library, John.” James took Maisie’s hand. “If Maisie’s missing, it’s where I’ll always find her, you know.”

  “Anything to interest you on my shelves, Miss Dobbs?”

  “You have an impressive collection, Mr. Otterburn. I saw that you have the two volumes of Mein Kampf, so I started to read and . . . well, it’s what always happens with me when I’ve a book in my hand; I forget time, and that’s it.”

  “And what do you think of Hitler?”

  “I didn’t read very far into the book, just dipped here and there, but if I add what I read to what I know from the newspapers—your newspapers, actually—I would say he’s someone to be worried about.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Otterburn paused, extending his hand to James. Maisie thought it was the first time his Canadian accent had been evident in his speech. “In any case, my main collection is at our country home in Surrey. It’s where I do most of my serious thinking—and talking—at the week’s end. In fact, it’s unusual for us to entertain so many guests during the week, but Lorrie insiste
d it would be the most convenient day for our guests here tonight.” He turned to James. “See you again soon, James. Looking forward to it.”

  James caught Maisie’s eye, and it was clear that he had confirmed their presence at the Easter gathering at the Otterburns’ Box Hill estate in Surrey.

  John Otterburn escorted Maisie and James to the drawing room, where a few guests were making ready to leave, but others seemed to be settling in for an evening of convivial company.

  On the way back to Ebury Place, James once again reached across to Maisie.

  “Everything all right? You seem distant.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Oh, sorry. Nothing. Just thinking.”

  “Of me, I hope!”

  “Yes, James—I think of you all the time.” She smiled, teasing, and squeezed his hand in return.

  The earlier arguments were buried for now. But Maisie had not been thinking of James. She was wondering if it was so unusual to find Bartholomew Soames’ name on a file among the papers in John Otterburn’s study—after all, the man was a reporter. More interesting was a file entitled “Douglas Partridge.”

  But most intriguing was the sheaf of papers she had glimpsed while she was on her knees gathering them from the floor where they had fallen. On these pages were drawings—quite sophisticated drawings, each accompanied by detailed notes—of aeroplanes. She was not familiar with aviation, her experience limited to the wood-and-cloth contraptions that buzzed overhead like moths in the wind during the war, and, more recently, when she’d boarded an Imperial Airways Armstrong Whitworth Argosy aeroplane and flown from Paris to Croydon Airport with Maurice. She wished James had waited just a few more minutes before coming in search of her, for she remembered being told that Eddie had talked about aeroplanes. It was a recollection that chilled her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maisie and James breakfasted together at Ebury Place, then each went their separate ways to work. Little was said about the events of the previous evening, as if each wanted to steer clear of the matter now that a measure of oil had been poured on the troubled waters of their relationship. For her part, Maisie was anxious about the day ahead, knowing that she would be seeing Billy, and also accompanying Evelyn Butterworth to the writers’ studios at Lancaster Gate. She anticipated Evelyn’s nervousness at seeing the place where Bart Soames had worked.

  Leaving at the same time, the lovers turned to each other and kissed.

  “Will I see you this evening, Maisie?” asked James. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her, looking at his watch while asking the question.

  “I think we should talk, James. Don’t you?” Maisie sensed a resignation in his manner. She went on. “I think we must be honest with each other, and look at how we can best be a light for each other. I’ve been . . . well, I’ve been giving it all some thought, and—”

  “Me too. Yes, you’re right. How about a quiet supper at your flat?”

  Maisie smiled. “Oh, yes, James. Yes, that would be lovely.” She rested her hand against the side of his face. “You’re a good man, James.”

  He covered her hand with his, then pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. “See you later then.”

  “Yes, later. I’ll go straight to the flat after work.”

  “See you then, my love.”

  Maisie slipped from James’ grasp. “Well, we’d better be off, hadn’t we?”

  “Wouldn’t do to be late at the office, eh?”

  They parted, each walking to their separate motor cars, waving to each other as they drove away.

  Pushing all thoughts of James to the back of her mind, Maisie recollected in her mind’s eye the moment she began to pick up the papers that had fallen from John Otterburn’s desk. She could see the pile of manila folders and a sheaf of loose pages, and, as if time had slowed, she could again feel her shoe catch the carpet and her hand reach out, sending the papers cascading onto the floor. In her imagination she could see the words and drawings, and could feel the tremor of shock as James entered, looking at her as if he had come upon a common thief. She could see the images in front of her, as if she were still holding the pages in her hands. What was going on? The pieces of the puzzle were at odds: Douglas Partridge a friend of Otterburn; Bart Soames’ name among his private papers; and then detailed drawings of aeroplanes, the like of which she had never seen. Beyond what she already knew about him, who was Otterburn? And what had happened with Eddie Pettit that seemed to link him with Soames? James had said that Otterburn had a finger in many pies, intimating that he was a linchpin in the marriage between business and politics. One only had to cast a glance around the supper table at his Park Lane mansion to see the diverse walks of life represented. What strings was he pulling? And if there were strings being pulled, was he doing it to benefit himself, or another?

  Evelyn Butterworth was waiting outside her friends’ flat as Maisie pulled alongside the curb. She reached across and opened the passenger door for Evelyn, and as soon as her passenger was settled, Maisie negotiated the MG out into traffic and drove in the direction of Bayswater and Lancaster Gate, one of London’s most prestigious addresses.

  Decelerating as they approached a terrace of white stucco mansions alongside Hyde Park, Maisie slowed even more, to better see the properties, and Evelyn rolled down the side window.

  “There, I think that’s the one. Can you stop here?” said Evelyn.

  “It’s probably best to go around the corner and park by the church.”

  With the MG left close to Christ Church, the women walked back to the mansion owned by Douglas Partridge. As they walked, Evelyn told Maisie that, according to Bart, two floors had been designated as a place of retreat for writers who needed peace and quiet to accommodate the needs of their craft.

  Evelyn pushed against the main door, which was unlocked.

  “That’s a stroke of luck!” she said, turning to Maisie. “I wouldn’t know where to find the key.”

  A sweeping staircase led from the ground floor to the first floor, then narrowed as it snaked to the upper floors, where a series of private residences were rented out to gentlemen and women of means. A door at the first landing opened out into an expansive sitting room with a series of less ornate doors around it, each offering entrance to a small office for a working writer. A man sat in front of the fire, reading and smoking his pipe. He was dressed in corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Though his clothing seemed well cared for, it also showed age, with a shine to the trouser fabric and a line of darning at one edge of the jacket.

  “May I help you, ladies?” inquired the man.

  “Yes,” replied Maisie. “Would you direct us to Bartholomew Soames’ studio?”

  Holding the bowl of his pipe in his right hand, he waved the stem in the direction of the last office on the right. “Over there. Haven’t seen him in a while, though. Mind you, I’ve been away. India, you know. A lot going on there.”

  “Has anyone else been to visit his office?” asked Maisie.

  The man put on a show of thinking, closing his eyes and tapping the lip of his pipe against his temple. “I’m wondering who you could ask. Despite the professional envy from which we all suffer when someone sells an article or, heaven forbid, a book to be published, we tend not to invade each other’s havens, so any visitors would most likely have come from outside.” He cleared his throat and was about to draw from the pipe when he frowned. “Look here, are you supposed to be going in there?”

  “I am Mr. Soames’ wife, sir,” said Evelyn. “My husband passed away several weeks ago, and this is the first opportunity I’ve had to come collect his things. I asked my friend to accompany me.”

  “Bart? Dead? Oh good Lord, whatever happened to him? As I said, I’ve been away and this is my first day back.”

  Evelyn pulled a handkerchief from her handbag and pressed it to her eyes. Maisie put an arm around her shoulder.

  “She’s quite upset, if you don’t mind. We’ll go in now,” said
Maisie, leading Evelyn in the direction of Soames’ office.

  As they entered and closed the door behind them, Evelyn straightened her spine and looked around the room.

  “Right then, let’s get on with it.”

  “You’re very good, you know,” said Maisie.

  “My heart’s been broken, I’ve wept a thousand tears, and I’ve cursed every deity you can think of. And now I have to galvanize. Someone broke into our flat, into my home, my castle—small though it might be—and I am absolutely livid about it. So, let’s get on with what has to be done; I’ll do whatever I can to help you in your quest to get to the bottom of all this.”

  Maisie suggested to Evelyn that she go through the bookcase, take out each book, shake the pages, and check to see if anything had been written inside, other than marginal notes on the text itself. In the meantime, Maisie would search the desk, which was very much like that of a bank clerk, with a series of drawers on each side and a single wide drawer in the middle. Papers were stacked neatly on top, along with a pile of six or so books, leather markers lolling out from between the pages, like the tongues of dogs on a hot day.

  “Remember to go slowly, Eve. Don’t rush, just in case you miss something.” She looked around the room. “Then we’ll look at the piles of papers and books on the floor.”

  “Bart always was one for keeping things in piles on the floor. When he ran out of space on his desk—which, by the way, is worryingly tidy—instead of making more room, he would just start to pile things on the floor.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind about the tidy desk—but people are sometimes like that: untidy at home, yet neat at their place of work, or vice versa.”

  Evelyn began taking down the books as instructed by Maisie, who opened the top drawer of the desk. Pencils, a blade for sharpening, an eraser, and a ruler. Drawing pins, several unused notebooks, a hole-punch, a small box of paper clips. Instead of closing the drawer, she eased it out and laid it on the floor.

  One by one, she checked each of the other drawers, reading through correspondence, files of clippings of articles and essays written by Soames, and going through his notes. And as she finished with each drawer, she removed it, until finally all the drawers had been taken from the desk. She peered inside the wooden shell. Nothing. On her hands and knees, she stretched one arm in as far as she could and felt around the inside of the desk. Nothing. She even pulled the Anglepoise lamp from the top of the desk and directed the beam onto the dark interior wood, checking top, sides, and corners. Nothing. And as she replaced each drawer, she lifted it up to check the underside, to no avail.