Elegy for Eddie

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “It amounts to more columns on what must be protected about our way of life here than I’ve encountered in any other paper.”

  “Well, if that’s the way of the future for the press, Otterburn is going to be at the forefront, without doubt.” He reached out and put his arm around her. “I know your job means you have to look closely at things, but don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, Maisie.”

  She tapped the table, then took out a folder from underneath the newspapers.

  “I don’t know whether I should show you these, but, well, you’re the only person I know intimately who’s been up in an aeroplane.” She opened the folder and fanned the sketches across the table. “What do you think of these?”

  James removed his arm and, resting his knuckles on the table, leaned forward to look at the drawings. “Where did you get these, Maisie?”

  “They’re second-round copies, these tracings in front of you being my attempt at copying from sketches of what I think must have been original engineering drafts.”

  “But where did you get them?” James faced her, repeating his question with more vehemence.

  “Funny, I thought your first comment might have been regarding the aircraft depicted here, perhaps something along the lines of ‘I’ve never seen the like of it before.’ But instead you act as if these designs are not new to you.”

  “Maisie, you’re dealing with information that could be explosive if it went beyond this room.” With haste he gathered the sketches and walked across to the fireplace. “I’ll save us both grief and do the right thing here and now.”

  Maisie stood back and watched him, first crumpling the papers, then taking them to the fireplace, where paper, kindling, and coals had been set to light later. He took a match, lit a spill, and held it to the paper. Flames leapt up, illuminating James’ face as he stared into the fire and set alight the drawings. Maisie met his eyes as he turned around.

  “James, when I said those sketches were second-copies, it means I know where the first round of copies are, and they are held in very safe keeping. I have knowledge of those sketches and could probably lay out a passable copy right now. But what is your part?”

  “My part is insignificant and only to the extent that I know classified information when I see it—and in my job I see more than you might imagine, though from a commercial perspective. No, those drafts are better off as ashes. I would guess that they were never meant to be seen, especially not by those who have no idea what they are looking at.”

  Maisie drew back. There was no point in going on, in pushing James to reveal anything more—if there was more to reveal. She knew he could be intractable on matters he considered serious, and clearly this was serious to him. Tomorrow they would travel down to the Otterburns’ country estate. There would be time then to pull at the threads again and see if they led to the same skein of wool.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They had not planned to leave until around noon, allowing for a stop on the way for lunch, perhaps somewhere near Epsom, followed by a leisurely drive to Box Hill for arrival at the Otterburn estate just before tea. At breakfast, Maisie told James of her plan for the morning.

  “Look, I know you’ve some work to do, so would you mind if I went to see Priscilla? I’ll be back in time to leave at twelve, and I’m packed already.”

  “Of course. Aren’t they out of London, though?”

  “No, the boys are having some friends from school to stay, so I daresay Priscilla will be planning all sorts of things to keep them amused,” said Maisie.

  “I would have thought just having more banisters for them to slide down would be sufficient.”

  Maisie smiled. “You’re right there—those boys keep everyone on their toes.” She looked at the clock. “I’d better be going then. See you around half-past eleven-ish.”

  She stood up and leaned forward to kiss James on the forehead. He turned and pulled her onto his lap.

  “Methinks you might be up to something. Are you sure you’re going over to Priscilla’s?”

  “Oh, yes. In any case, I always love to see the boys, terrors though they are.”

  “All right then, see you later.”

  Though Maisie was indeed on her way to the Holland Park mansion where Priscilla lived with her husband and sons, it was Douglas Partridge whom she was now determined to see. If she could just place one more piece of the puzzle, she would feel more confident about confronting Otterburn. The problem was, she needed something concrete to put to him, other than her speculation that it was at his direction that Eddie Pettit lost his life.

  The housekeeper opened the door.

  “Miss Dobbs, how very nice to see you. But I’m afraid Mrs. Partridge is out at the moment—she and a troop of boys have gone to Exhibition Road, I think to the Natural History Museum, to look at Dippy, that dinosaur thing.”

  “Is Mr. Partridge with them?”

  “Oh no, he’s working in his study upstairs.” She pointed towards the ceiling, as if Douglas might be floating above her.

  “Would you let him know I’m here to see him, and would love to talk to him if he has a moment?”

  Having been shown into the drawing room, Maisie waited by the long narrow windows and looked out at the garden. The weather had remained unseasonably fine for some days, and already cherry trees in the garden were in full blossom.

  “Maisie. How lovely to see you.”

  She turned as Priscilla’s husband approached her. Douglas Partridge walked with a profound limp, using a cane to balance as he put one foot in front of the other.

  “Hope you don’t mind me dropping in on you like this,” said Maisie.

  “Priscilla will be so upset to have missed you. How are you?” Douglas kissed her on both cheeks, then pointed his cane towards the plush sofa, waiting for her to be seated first.

  “I’m very well, thank you. It’s been a busy few weeks, actually.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m glad I caught you. You see, I’ve crossed paths with someone known to you; in fact, I’ll be seeing him later today. John Otterburn.” Maisie looked at Douglas, who at once appeared uncomfortable and glanced towards the window.

  “Yes, of course. I know Otterburn,” he said. “Mind you, he and his wife are quite active socially, so I think half of London must know them.”

  “Douglas, forgive me for being so overt with my question, but I do believe you might know him better than most. In fact, aren’t you working for him at the moment?”

  “Did Sandra tell you something?”

  “Oh, good Lord, no. Sandra is a stickler for confidentiality, and would no more tell me about your business than she would confide in you about mine. No, I gleaned the information from a couple of sources, most particularly in notes left by a young man by the name of Bartholomew Soames. In fact, I think you know him—he was a resident at the rooms at Lancaster Gate that you let out to writers.”

  “Oh, yes . . . yes. Took his own life, didn’t he?” Douglas shook his head. “A great waste, for he knew how to write and could turn out a thumping good article, the sort of work that was approachable both to the common man and the expert reader alike. In fact, I heard that one of his articles on the hunger marches inspired a heated debate in the Commons. But he had notes on me?” Douglas looked at Maisie, then away, once again as if unwilling to meet her gaze.

  “Yes, he did. Your name was on a list of writers—some poets and playwrights, as well as authors of essays and fiction.”

  “Well, how about that.”

  “Douglas, if I may stick my neck out, because I must rush back to Belgravia in a moment, and I have a desire to sort a few things out in my mind—I wanted to say that I know you’re writing for Otterburn, and I believe you and the other men of letters are all composing your work in such a way as to sway public opinion, to make them more—how shall I put it?—yes, to make them more aware of the wonder of this country of ours, whether it’s our countryside, our c
ity streets, our King and Queen or our Empire. His regular reporters are doing that already.” She rubbed the back of one hand with the other. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I think you are all, effectively, engaged in some sort of propaganda—and that just doesn’t seem like you, Douglas. I’ve always thought of you as being above the influence of men such as Otterburn.”

  “I think you might be surprised about Otterburn.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Maisie, I know you very well indeed, and I know how you can hold on to suspicion like a terrier with a bone. But you cannot ask me about this matter. My acquaintance with John Otterburn is not one of friendship, though I have a certain respect for him, and—believe it or not—I hold him in some regard. He has the courage not to look away when others find it expedient to remain indifferent to affairs that might affect our country.”

  “What’s going on, Douglas?” Maisie leaned forward.

  Douglas turned toward her. “I can’t be the one to tell you, Maisie. If you’re going to confront Otterburn anyway—and I’m sure you are—you might as well ask him about me at the same time, because I can neither confirm nor deny that I am working for him.”

  “Oh, you’ve already done that, Douglas. But I wonder if you know the sort of man you’ve thrown in your lot with. He may well be a well-positioned businessman, but he’s also someone to be feared. I have reason to suspect he may have taken steps to have an innocent man killed—his name was Eddie Pettit, and he would not have harmed a fly. So you see, although I am waiting to be proven incorrect in my summation, I believe John Otterburn is a master of manipulation.”

  “I think you’ll find he’s a man of vision, Maisie. The trouble is that others do not believe what he can see. He’s the sort of man we need in this country, and he may prove to be the salvation of us all.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry if I can’t help you any more, but that’s all there is to it. I always hope that in a small way, perhaps, my work will make a difference, either now, or at some point in the future.”

  Maisie regarded Douglas—his posture, his manner of speaking—and once again she considered how very fortunate Priscilla had been to have fallen in love with him, and he with her. He was a man of integrity, and even now, as he deflected her concerns, she respected him. But she had more questions.

  “Did you visit Bart Soames’ office after he died?”

  “Yes, I did. I can’t deny it. I know I shouldn’t have, but I’d learned his death was somewhat suspicious, and I thought I’d check to see if there was anything in his office that might throw light on what might have inspired him to commit suicide. The desk was terribly untidy, so I moved a few things around as I was looking; straightened things up a bit.”

  “He didn’t take his own life, Douglas. He was murdered. Someone killed him because he knew too much about John Otterburn.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “You’re sure?” asked Douglas.

  “I have a very strong feeling about it. Let’s assume that much.”

  “Here’s what I have to say to you, Maisie. That there are times—funnily enough, more often during the war—when I have found that I must disregard my personal feelings about a person’s conduct and look to something else about them. There were men I would not have given a thank-you for in civilian life, but fighting alongside them in the trenches, I discovered what it meant, truly, to be among the brave. If Otterburn has done what you say, then I believe that one day he will be brought to book. But at this moment I know I will continue with the task in hand, which I see has merit. I am not a killer, though I am sorry to say I have killed. Not one man goes to war thinking himself a murderer, and we go forward with honor in our hearts. But in truth, there is—too often—that searching of the soul, where we realize that if we had killed that same person on the street and not on the battlefield, we would go to the gallows for it. Thus I am a killer who does not sanction killing. With this news you’ve imparted, I find I am at odds with myself—and I probably sound it, too.”

  Maisie reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Douglas, for being so frank with me. I am sorry if I’ve upset you with my questions, and to have challenged your decision to do whatever it is you’re doing for John Otterburn. One thing I know, Douglas—you are a man who will always do the right thing.”

  They sat for some moments longer. Maisie asked about the boys, and Douglas proudly recounted their recent accomplishments and seemed equally pleased to reveal their mischief.

  “There’s something about the life in them, Maisie. There’s this devilish energy that gets into them, as if they’ve drunk their weight in fizzy Whites lemonade and they’re about to pop. Of course I reprimand them, but I’m secretly pleased. You see, I fought for them to have the freedom to laugh, to tease each other, to climb trees, and to run headlong into the world. And I’ve come to realize that everything I do—especially in my work—is another step towards protecting that freedom.”

  Maisie felt a lump in her throat and picked up her bag. “I have to be on my way. James will be waiting for me. We’re off to Box Hill—to the Otterburns until Monday morning.”

  “They’re wonderful hosts, you know.”

  “Yes. I’m sure they are.”

  James was driving a new Swallow SS1 coupe, and for the first half hour of the journey to Box Hill he extolled the virtues of the motor car, which was considered a very good buy, with an advertising slogan touting that it was an automobile worth one thousand pounds for the price of just three hundred and ten.

  The day had become quite warm, though showers were expected. As planned, they stopped for lunch in Epsom, then drove on towards Dorking, and then to Mickleham, where Maisie read out directions to the Otterburn estate, which commanded views across the North Downs; indeed, from a vantage point it was said one could look across the land for miles on a clear day, and see the South Downs in the distance.

  “This is it.” Maisie pointed to double cast-iron gates that bore a warning to the effect that trespassers would be prosecuted.

  “Look, there’s the gatekeeper,” said James. “That’s handy—I wouldn’t want to have to creep around looking for a way in.”

  “You wouldn’t have to do that,” said Maisie. “There’s an electric bell—see it at the side of the gate. Very expensive, I would say.”

  The gatekeeper walked to the motor car, a clipboard under his arm.

  “Good afternoon, sir, madam. You are expected?”

  “Yes. James Compton.”

  The man tapped a page on the clipboard and smiled. “Very good, sir. Please follow the drive along to the front of the house, where the footmen will take your luggage and your motor car will be put away in the garage.”

  James thanked the man, who touched his cap before moving back to open the gates and wave them through.

  “I wonder how many guests they have at the house this evening—I think I saw quite a few names on that board,” said James. “I know John wanted to hack out tomorrow morning, and there was that talk of a hunt. I’m looking forward to seeing his stable of horses.”

  She looked across manicured gardens towards a grand mansion that was, she thought, quite new when compared to a property such as Chelstone Manor. The Otterburn home was built in the style favored by William Morris; in fact, she thought it looked like the artist’s home, which had been named Red House, for the color of the brickwork. The roofs were steep in pitch, and even from a distance she could see windows embellished with stained glass. It was a mansion in every sense of the word, and she thought it must have many, many rooms.

  As promised by the gatekeeper, a veritable battalion of footmen was at the ready to unload luggage before a chauffeur stepped into the motor car, to park it in the garage. The butler and housekeeper welcomed James and Maisie, and it was left to the housekeeper to show them to their rooms—in diplomatic country house fashion, they had been assigned adjoining quarters. The housekeeper informed them that tea would b
e served at half past three in the orangery, allowing for some relaxation before drinks at seven in the drawing room and supper at eight.

  “Shall we go for a walk, darling? I don’t know about you, but I think the ride was a bit less than smooth.” James rubbed his neck.

  “Smoother than the MG,” said Maisie. “I think a walk would be lovely, especially as the showers may have passed. Come on, let’s get our walking shoes.”

  Soon they were out on the downs, with a sharp breeze reminding those venturing out that it might be a sunny day, but summer was still a long way off. Birds caught on the wind seemed to fly in place, and the trees bent this way and that, swept back and forth by the wind. A boy and his father struggled with a kite, and James ran to their aid when it crashed into the ground before them. Maisie watched as he took the kite, helping the boy to hold on to it while the father wound the string, ready to try again. Whether it was a kite or an aeroplane, James adored flight. She wondered how much he might know about the sketches she’d taken from Pauline Soames. Had he prior knowledge? Or did he warn her based upon his understanding of aircraft and a sense that the aeroplanes depicted represented something new by anyone’s standards? Perhaps the drawings were intimidating to someone who had an understanding of aviation. This is what she had come to find out, and she believed the only way to accomplish this was to talk to John Otterburn alone.

  More than one person had warned her about him, and now she was gripped by the feeling that she was fighting above her weight. But she had no choice. Because of Bart Soames, Eddie had been fighting well above his weight, and it had led to his death and that of Bart, his so-called friend. Maisie was ashamed at the anger she felt at Bart Soames, wishing he were still alive so she could take him to task for duping a man who could not answer for himself.

  “I used to love kites when I was a boy,” said James, rejoining Maisie. “The trouble is, I wasn’t actually much good at it, always ending up in a tangle with the kite in a tree. If you walk around Chelstone, you’ll see the wooden carcasses of kites I lost in childhood, hanging in the branches of the tallest trees.” He smiled at Maisie, putting his arm around her and kissing her on the forehead as they continued their walk, making their last stop when he just had to show her the very spot where a man had suffered a fatal fall from his horse, and was reputedly buried head-down in the ground, in the manner of his fall.