Elegy for Eddie

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Anything yet, Eve?”

  “No. And I’m not feeling terribly confident either.”

  “Still too tidy?”

  “Yes.” Evelyn Butterworth turned around. “Those books on the table each have a proper marker. Now, I’ve seen Bart when he’s working, and let me tell you, he rips off bits of paper all the time—from newspapers, usually—to place between pages he wanted to come back to—and he scribbles in books too. Here, look at this one—here’s where he’s made notes in the margin about something he’s questioned. That’s Bart. His mind was too active, and he learned that if he didn’t put in a makeshift marker while he thought about it, he would be onto something else and forget there was a question unanswered. And it’s not as if he didn’t have proper bookmarks in his desk—but his mind was often working too fast to do things properly.” She sighed and looked around the room while pushing back her hair with fingers dusty from handling books. “A big unanswered question—bit like this.”

  Maisie followed her gaze. “At the moment, yes, it is. But the answers will be found, you can mark my words.”

  Evelyn went back to taking book after book from the shelves as Maisie leafed through pages of manuscript on the desk. After turning each page so that it was face down on the desk, she would square it with the others. One by one, she turned the pages, reading a paragraph here, a sentence there. Bart Soames had been writing a novel, yet instead of being set in the present or even the past, it was a fantasy set in a mythical kingdom with an overpowering, godlike monarch; it was a story which, had she time to linger, might have intrigued her. As she lifted a page close to the end, however, she discovered that the following page was not part of the novel at all, but a list of fifteen names. “Douglas Partridge” was listed two-thirds of the way down the sheet of paper, and Maisie immediately recognized the others as being well-known novelists, for the most part, although she recognized the names of a playwright and a poet.

  “Eve, I’ve found a list of names here—did Bart know these people?” She took out the page and passed it over to Evelyn. “I mean, did he know them well, or was he connected with them in some way?”

  Evelyn looked down the list. “Hmmm, well, I recognize them, and certainly Bart knew of every one of them, but I don’t think he knew any of them well—I don’t think he’d ever met Partridge, even though he owns this place.”

  “You don’t recall Bart talking about any of them?”

  “No.”

  Maisie tucked her hair behind her right ear. “I think I’ll hang on to this.”

  “Do you think it’s important?”

  “You know, I have a feeling it might be. Anyway, let’s get on—and when we’re finished, we should go and ask someone if there are spare boxes around here. For two women who’ve come to clear out someone’s office, we are suspiciously bereft of boxes.”

  The women spent another hour and a half going through papers, which in the main amounted to transcribed interviews that had no connection to either Eddie Pettit, Douglas Partridge, or John Otterburn. They searched through the books, and they checked under a carpet and behind the picture frames, even going so far as to remove the back of each frame to check inside. Finally, they sat down—Maisie on the desk chair and Evelyn on a small button-back leather chair—and studied the room.

  “It’s very quiet, I will say that,” said Evelyn. “No wonder Bart liked working here.”

  “Are you still planning to try to take it over?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it a bit more, and, what with the distance, it’s probably best for me to just work at the flat—it’s not as if there’s someone else there to disturb me.” She shrugged. “Anyway, word went around my friends about the break-in, and people are dropping off bits and pieces for me over the next few days. I’ll probably end up with more than Bart and I started with, and I’m going to make sure I have a desk.”

  “And you’re sure you won’t find other accommodation?”

  She shook her head. “I suppose it’s my way of keeping him close, being at the flat. In fact, the burglars, whoever they were, probably did me a favor, because it won’t look like it did when Bart was there, when we were there together—but I’ll still feel him there.” She paused and closed her eyes. “I feel him here, too.”

  There was a faint aroma in the air that Maisie thought might remind Evelyn of Bart. Perhaps it was the soap he used, or hair oil, or the polish from his shoes; indeed, it was likely all three were blended to give an impression of Bart’s unique presence.

  As if woken from a dream, Evelyn looked up. “It looks like we’re finished here, doesn’t it, Maisie?”

  “Yes, I think we’ve gone over everything.”

  The two women stood up, and as they did so, Maisie brushed against a photograph on the desk, catching it as it was about to fall. “Oh dear, not again. That’s the second time I’ve knocked something off another person’s desk in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Is that a photograph?” asked Evelyn.

  “Yes. I noticed it when I first looked at the desk—I think it’s Bart’s mother, though it must have been taken a while ago. I took the photograph out of the frame and had a look.”

  “Let me see.” Evelyn took the photograph. “Yes, it’s Pauline. It was taken before she was married—that’s the school behind her.” She looked up at Maisie. “But Bart always kept this at home. He must have brought it here just before he died. I wonder why?”

  “Perhaps he wanted to write something about his mother and the photograph inspired him in some way,” suggested Maisie.

  “Yes. Yes, perhaps you’re right.” Evelyn placed the photograph on the desk. “Well, I don’t want it. Anyway, I’ll nip out to see if I can scrounge some boxes, or at least let someone know I’m coming back with them.”

  As Evelyn left the room, Maisie was already removing the back from the photograph a second time. Again, nothing. She replaced the cardboard behind the photograph and within another minute it was as if the photo had never been tampered with. There may have been nothing but an old photograph of the woman who had been Eddie Pettit’s teacher held within the simple frame on Bart Soames’ desk, but both the image of the young schoolmistress of yesteryear and its recent presence in the room among benign piles of papers and rows of books told Maisie something she knew already—that she would have to make another visit to Brighton as a matter of some urgency. When she visited Pauline Soames the first time, she could not escape the thought that something was being kept back. Now she felt she wasn’t wrong in the least. It was as if, in positioning that specific photograph on the desk when he did, Bart Soames had left a message of some sort, and she thought she knew what it might be. She also had to consider Douglas again, for she could not help but wonder if it was he who had come into Bart Soames’ quiet retreat after his death, and if he knew what he was looking for as he left the desk tidier than it had ever been during the younger man’s tenure.

  After dropping Evelyn at the flat, Maisie returned to the office.

  “Hello, Sandra. Off to work for Mr. Partridge?”

  “Yes, Miss. I’ve two messages here for you, and the invoices typed up from yesterday, and the letters.” Sandra handed Maisie a leather-bound ledger with blotting-paper pages; a document awaiting signature had been placed between each page. “There was a telephone call from a Mr. Buckle, who said he was the head gardener at Chelstone. He told me he was using your father’s telephone as he wanted to find out about a man called Mr. Dawkins who had just been to see him about a job.”

  “Oh good, at least that’s one question answered.” Maisie removed her gloves and hat, placing them on the desk. She pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Sandra. “I wondered—” She shook her head. “No, not to worry. Thank you for the letters. I’ll put them in the pillar-box myself as soon as I’ve signed them. You should be on your way now—you’ve a busy week ahead, what with the move.”

  “Is everything all right, Miss?”

  “Yes. In fact, I’
m just going to clear up a few matters here and I’ll be on my way to see Billy. He’s fully conscious and he wants to see me. I just hope Doreen takes it well when she learns I’ve visited.”

  “I’m sure she will, Miss.” Sandra gathered her own coat and hat, and picked up a cloth bag full of books.

  “Goodness me, Sandra, that looks fit to break.”

  “Oh, it does the job, Miss. It’s good enough.” Sandra smiled and waved. “See you tomorrow then.”

  “Bye, Sandra.”

  Maisie listened to Sandra’s footsteps as she made her way downstairs, then the door opening and closing as she left the building. Maisie leaned forward at her desk and rested her head in her hands. She had caught herself just in time, stopping herself from launching in and organizing Sandra’s books. “You need a nice strong leather bag,” she had almost said, already thinking of the lovely leather shop in Burlington Arcade where she would order a briefcase for her secretary. Indeed, it was as if Sandra had known exactly what was coming, had intuited that Maisie was about to come to her aid, and in that moment had staked a claim for independence. It does the job. It’s good enough.

  She drew the ledger towards her, uncapped her fountain pen, and began going through the letters and invoices, putting her signature to each document, often with a brief note thanking the client for their business. Having returned the ledger to Sandra’s desk, she put on her hat and gloves again—she hadn’t bothered to remove her jacket—gathered the letters to be posted, and left the office, taking care to lock the door.

  Billy, you’re looking . . . yes, you’re looking well. There’s a bit of color in your cheeks.”

  Maisie set a small bunch of daffodils on top of the locker at the side of Billy’s bed, which were soon whisked away by a nurse.

  “There’s a bit of color all over my face, if you’re telling the truth, Miss. There’s the blue and black around my eye, the purple going on yellow around my jaw, and as for this scar down here—” He used his bandaged hand to indicate a scar across his scalp above his right ear. “It’s a very nice shade of raspberry and blue.”

  “Oh, Billy, it’s all my fault. I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.”

  “Just joshing, Miss. You weren’t to know, were you?”

  “I think the fact that Eddie Pettit was dead should have told me a lot more than it did. How do you feel?”

  “Me head hurts at times, but I try not to take anything for it—I don’t want trouble with that morphia again, not like I had before. But I’ve been worried about my nippers, though, and Doreen.”

  “She’ll be at home by now, I should imagine. She was discharged today, so I daresay she wanted to see the children, and will be back here to see you in next to no time.”

  “I don’t know how my mum coped.”

  Maisie was quiet, looking down at her hands. “Billy, I know it was probably not my place, and I realize that now, but your mother had help. As luck would have it, Mrs. Partridge was able to send her boys’ nanny, Elinor, over to help—Sandra had been lending a hand for a day or two, but Elinor knows more about caring for a baby. So everyone is well, and in good heart. I know that’s what you wanted to hear, but I also understand that I probably overstepped the mark a bit too. I’m sorry.”

  Billy nodded, his movement slow, his eyes showing pain. “You always take care of things, Miss. I don’t know what we’d do without you. Don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  “You don’t need to. Doreen was rightly very upset and angry with me. You shouldn’t have been at that pub, should not have been at the mercy of Merton, or anyone else who would do you harm.”

  “Well, it weren’t Jimmy Merton, for a start.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Billy squinted at Maisie through swollen eyelids. “I just don’t think it was Merton. I mean, I was talking to him all right, in the pub. I went in and got into a bit of conversation, said I was looking for work—it’s all a bit hazy, to tell you the truth, but a little bit comes back to me every day. Anyway, I was asking him about the union, how there isn’t one, and he told me that they ain’t allowed there, but then, the company looks after its own, so they don’t need one anyway. He said it was his job to look out for agitators, looking to make trouble.”

  “Did he think you were looking for trouble?”

  Billy shrugged, wincing as he moved his shoulders. “I forget myself, at times. I forget what hurts and where—then I move and it’s agony.” He sighed. “Anyway, I don’t think he thought that at all. Well, he might’ve wanted to keep an eye on me, if I’d gone to work there. But cosh me and turn me over like that? No, I don’t think so. But I reckon he knew who’d done it, or that I’d been set upon. You see, it’s a bit like fog at the moment, the memory sort of goes in and out, like a sound you think you’ve heard in the night, only the more you listen the more you can’t hear it. I sort of remember lying there, with this taste of blood in my mouth, and my head pounding and knowing I was slipping away somewhere else, like one of them mornings you just can’t open your eyes for the tiredness, only it was worse. And I thought I heard him shaking me. It sounded like him anyway, saying, ‘Billy Beale. Beale, wake up. Come on, mate, get up, open yer eyes.’ Then this voice, if it was him, said, ‘Oh, what’ve they done? What’s been done to you?’ Then he said, ‘I’m sorry for this, mate, but I’ve got to leave you, got to get out, before they find me.’ ” Billy’s eyes filled with tears. “It probably wasn’t exactly like that, Miss, but that’s sort of how I keep remembering it. And to think he left me. Left me for dead, and me with three nippers and a wife at home. What would have happened then, eh? What would have happened to them?”

  “Shhh, Billy, don’t make it harder on yourself than it already is. You’re on the mend. You’re going to get well again—you’ll be amazed how quickly you pick up, now you’re awake and talking.”

  “But I keep thinking about it all.”

  Maisie touched Billy’s arm. “Hush. Hush now. As soon as you think one of those thoughts, put your mind to something else. There will be plenty of time to recount what happened, and when you’re better, that’s the best thing to do—get it out of your system. In fact, you might have to tell the story a few times, to bring it from the darkness and into the light, so you can see it and not be scared by it anymore. But in the meantime, help your body to heal—think of your children playing. Think of Doreen at home with little Meg. Get well, Billy. That’s your job now.”

  “I should tell you something, Miss.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That Caldwell told me Jimmy Merton was dead, that he’d taken his own life. And I didn’t tell him what I thought, that Jimmy might not’ve been the one to do me over. I reckon I just wanted to keep quiet about it, because I wasn’t sure what I was remembering, even yesterday.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll get to the bottom of it all. You just get better.”

  “Thank you, Miss.”

  “No need to thank me, Billy—you’ve done a lot for me, and for the business. You almost gave your life.”

  Billy smiled, a crooked black-and-blue smile. “Got nine lives, I reckon. Trouble is, between this and the war, I reckon I’ve run through a few.”

  Maisie shook her head. “You’re one of a kind, Billy, and that’s a fact. Take care, now.”

  Maisie sat in the MG for some minutes after leaving the hospital. She was wondering if she had the courage to go to John Otterburn’s Fleet Street offices, march in, and demand to know exactly what was going on, and what Eddie Pettit and Billy Beale had ever done to upset him. And as soon as the thought had crossed her mind, she examined it again, for it had come to her almost unbidden. She had been trying not to leap to conclusions, trying to keep the line of questioning open, so she could better see how Eddie Pettit and John Otterburn might be linked, and how Jimmy Merton fitted into the picture, with Bart Soames’ shadow behind them—but now she knew that she had been veering in Otterburn’s direction since her visit to Bookhams.

&n
bsp; She checked the time on Big Ben as she crossed Westminster Bridge. It would take her nigh on three hours to get to Brighton at that hour, so instead she decided to pay a visit to Douglas Partridge. Brighton could wait until tomorrow. They had elected to drive down to John and Lorraine Otterburn’s Surrey estate on Saturday. If she had more pieces of the puzzle in her hands, perhaps she could have that conversation with him then.

  Douglas was not at his office when she arrived, and it appeared that Sandra had already left for the day. Stopping at a telephone kiosk, she placed a call to the Partridge home, and was informed by the housekeeper that the couple were out for the evening, although if she wished, a message could be inscribed for them to read upon their return.

  Frustrated, she reconsidered the drive to Brighton—she was anxious to act upon her suspicions and obtain answers to her questions, but she knew the true need was to feel as if she were doing something instead of waiting, to make use of her time, to be in control, instead of marking time. Given the hour she would arrive in Brighton, she would have to stick to her plan to go tomorrow morning first thing, and be back in London by mid-afternoon. There was James to consider, and she knew it would cause more ill-feeling if she had decided to cancel their evening together.

  She found it hard to put the day behind her when she arrived back at the flat. Thoughts still swirled around in her mind, though she welcomed the silence, the peace that seemed to envelop her. She had stopped at a small grocery shop on the drive back to the flat and bought ingredients for a soup of vegetables and chicken, some bread, sharp cheddar cheese, and liver pâté. It would be their favorite supper—a picnic of sorts, but indoors, with a glass of wine.