Elegy for Eddie

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie shook her head. “I truly don’t believe what I’m hearing. No—no, that isn’t so. I believe every word of it. Every single word. But there is one thing John Otterburn has very wrong—it’s not Churchill who’s the prophet, no, it’s him.”

  “I think the imagination is Churchill’s, the preparation is Otterburn’s. Churchill is an orator and a strategist, but he cannot be seen to be acting upon his predictions—he’s a politician, first and foremost. I believe Otterburn is one of his men behind the scenes—perhaps the most important at this point. I am sure he has more than one man who can procure and put ideas into some sort of action. And he’s only ever seen socially with Otterburn; from my observations, he measures evidence of their partnership with care. He’s never been present in any meetings I’ve had with Otterburn, nor does he let on that he knows I’ve been taken into Otterburn’s confidence, or what has been asked of me. We have had conversations about Germany; he’s solicited my opinion on all sorts of matters, actually.”

  Maisie topped up their cups with still-warm coffee. She sipped with both hands clutched around the cup. They were quiet again for some moments.

  “What are you thinking, Maisie?” asked James, who had taken his seat once again.

  She looked across the land, where mist was lifting from the fields of nearby farms, and caught sight of her father with his dog at heel, leading a willing old horse out to pasture.

  “I’m thinking about Eddie Pettit.”

  Maisie and James spent a quiet, if somewhat melancholy, Sunday at Chelstone. They went for a ride in the afternoon, with Maisie borrowing an old pair of Lady Rowan’s jodhpurs. She was comfortable around horses, but during her childhood in London, horses were beasts of burden and not a means of recreation for those of her station. She knew exactly how to care for a horse and was at ease in the saddle—she’d spent too much time with her father to be otherwise—but though Frankie had put her on a horse when she was younger, and she would sometimes ride Persephone, bareback, around the streets, the opportunity to ride was not something available to her in adulthood.

  Frankie picked out an older gelding for his daughter and helped her mount. He reminded her to keep her heels down and her hands quiet, and cautioned James not to exceed a gentle canter. It occurred to Maisie that her father might enjoy the fact that improving her riding was something he could teach her. She wondered why it had never occurred to her before.

  Having exhausted themselves with talk of John Otterburn, they avoided mentioning his name again for the remainder of the day. They enjoyed the ride, trotting along a bridle path through the woods, crossing a stream and cantering up the hill on the other side. Soon they were at a vantage point from which they could see the village of Chelstone, with its steepled church and a cluster of houses scattered around, from beamed workers’ cottages to terraced houses built in Victoria’s reign for the men who laid down the railway lines. Chelstone Manor, which had been in the Compton family for generations, was known locally as “the big house.” Each year, on the first Saturday in August, James’ parents opened the grounds to the villagers with a tea party laid on for one and all. Men, women, and children dressed in their Sunday best, and Lady Rowan held court, complimenting mothers on their children, farmers on their crops, and the young men on their luck in bringing the most beautiful girl in the village to the party.

  Now, as they gazed at the village in the distance, it seemed that both Maisie and James were taken with the same thought.

  “It’s Easter, James, and so peaceful. It’s supposed to be a time of new life. I can’t imagine it being pulled apart again—such a small village, and such a long list of names on the war memorial, so many local lads lost in the war. I can’t stomach the thought that—” She turned her head. She did not want James to see more tears.

  “I can’t bear it either, but it’s thinking that this way of life, these people and all we have here could be at risk again—one day—from those who would wage war upon us, makes me all the more determined to do what’s been asked of me.” He reached down and ran his hand along the muscled neck of his stallion. “Those aeroplane sketches could be well out-of-date by the time anything happens, if it does happen. In fact, if I had my way, they would be superseded time and time again, and Otterburn would lose his money on more designs because war never came.”

  “I just want him to be wrong,” said Maisie. “But right here, in my heart, I fear he is right. I may not like him, and I detest his way of working, but I have to admit, I think his predictions ring true. And I know I’m like you—I would do anything asked of me if it helped keep us safe.”

  James looked at Maisie, then at her horse. “Uh-oh, your trusty steed is dozing off. Come on, let’s get back. I should have tea with my parents—you don’t have to come if you want to remain at home.”

  Maisie nudged the gelding, turning him in the direction of The Dower House. “Yes, I think I’ll stay. Dad’s in the stables today. I’ll give him a hand. He’ll probably tell me about all the things I did wrong as we rode off.”

  “He probably will. But you don’t mind, do you?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s time to let those gods of perfection have their day.”

  Monday having been a bank holiday, Maisie was at the office early to open up again on Tuesday morning, following a crack-of-dawn departure from Chelstone. James dropped her at the Fitzroy Square office, then went on to the City, so she was at the table by the window when Sandra came in at half past eight.

  “Good morning, Miss. Did you have a lovely Easter?”

  “It was busy, Sandra. How about you? How did the move go?”

  “Oh, very well, thank you. I don’t have much, and it didn’t take long. We girls got ourselves settled in the flat, then ended up going out on Sunday—we took the train out to Whitstable, had a walk around and treated ourselves to afternoon tea. Didn’t touch any oysters, though, slimy-looking things. Anyway, since then I’ve been catching up with my reading for college, and I went to a meeting yesterday evening.”

  Maisie looked up. “What sort of meeting?”

  “It’s a women’s gathering. We talk about the inequities between what men and women are paid, working conditions, and how women are taken care of when they’re old.” She hung her coat and hat on the hook behind the door and continued speaking to Maisie as she uncovered her typewriter. “It’s all men-men-men, you know. Women are treated as if we never did a day’s work, and as if our money is just pin money, you know, a little bit on the side to help out. Well, it’s just not true. We women have to look after ourselves, and we will show we mean it when we say we want equal rights—the same day’s pay for the same day’s work.”

  “Good for you,” said Maisie. She smiled. Sandra, she had observed, was finding her voice. “Well, I’d better get back to this case map, Sandra. I’ve left a couple of letters to be typed on your desk, and also the file on another one of Mr. Beale’s cases—I think I’d like your help on that one. Perhaps we can talk about it later today.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss,” said Sandra.

  Maisie returned her attention to the case map. She had made notes in red, and linked names together, and also listed a series of reasons why Jimmy Merton might have been murdered, and also why he might have taken the instruction to warn off Eddie Pettit further than was ever needed or requested by his paymaster. John Otterburn clearly had a level of employee who could only be described as a thug, his orders trickling down a chain of command so that his wishes could never be linked to the outcome. Men in the next link along might have ended Jimmy’s life because his actions left Otterburn and his factory, Bookhams, under a cloud. Yes, that could have happened. But Maisie did not think events unfolded in quite that way, though she suspected that it was Otterburn’s men who saw to it that Billy was attacked, either to throw blame on Merton, perhaps to scare him, or perhaps they were watching and didn’t like the questions Billy was asking. But more than anything, she didn’t believe Merton killed himself, either. And
that was one loose thread she had to deal with.

  Maisie remained in the office for most of the morning, reviewing pending cases with Sandra. She talked with the young woman about college and helped her with an essay that was troubling her—she had waited for Sandra to ask her for assistance, without first offering. Sandra left at noon to go to her job with Douglas Partridge, and by the time Maisie looked up from a series of invoices she was checking it was mid-afternoon. The costermongers would be back at the market, emptying their carts. As Maisie walked down the street towards the market, she saw Jesse in the distance, talking to another coster. She waited on the corner until they had finished, and waved to him as he was about to move on.

  “Maisie. Ray of sunshine on a breezy afternoon. Lucky it’s not too cold, that’s what I say.”

  “How are you, Jesse?”

  “Mustn’t grumble. Had a nice morning, got myself a new customer, so everything in the garden is rosy, as they say.” He grinned, revealing a gap where two lower teeth should have been. “I thought we was all done, Maisie. Do we owe you any more, girl?”

  She shook her head. “No. You don’t owe me a penny,” she said. “But you do owe me the truth, I think.”

  “I don’t catch your meaning, love.”

  “Then let’s go somewhere private where I can explain. Are the others here?”

  Jesse looked around. “There’s Pete over there. Look, hold on, I’ll see if I can find the lads.”

  Five minutes later, the group were standing together. Maisie made sure her eyes met those of each man. “There’s a caff up the road, on Long Acre. Care to walk with me?”

  She knew Jesse was just about to point out that Sam’s was closer, but she wanted to go to a place of her choosing this time. It was a larger concern than Sam’s, with wooden tables and ladderback chairs. A tea urn was on the counter, while glass shelves displayed an assortment of cakes and pastries, though the proprietress also offered sandwiches, toast, or a plate of egg and bacon.

  “Tea all round.” Maisie smiled at the waitress, who counted the men and scurried away behind the counter.

  “What’s happened, Maisie? Is it your Mr. Beale? Taken a turn for the worse, has he?” Archie Smith’s concern was genuine as he leaned on the table to face Maisie.

  “He’s doing well, much better. And I found out it wasn’t Jimmy Merton who had a go at him. It was someone else who didn’t like the questions he was asking.”

  “I’d like to find him, whoever he is,” said Pete Turner.

  “So, what’s this all about, Maisie?” Jesse Riley sat back in his chair, and Maisie could not help but smile, recognizing that he was putting literal distance between them.

  “Jesse, it’s like this.” She looked at each man in turn. “You, Pete, Seth, Dick, Archie—are the oak trees of my childhood. You were giants to me, especially when my mother was ill. For that I will never forget you, and for that I will be in your debt. However—” She stopped speaking, as images of the men when they were younger, when she, too, was younger, flooded her mind. “However, you took the law into your own hands, and I cannot let you think I don’t know. I cannot let you imagine for a moment that I would condone taking the life of Jimmy Merton, though I know exactly what sort of man he was.”

  “Now, look here—”

  “Jesse, I was brought up to mind my manners, so it grieves me to have to tell you to button it until I’m finished.” She pointed to her lips. “I may be a woman who lives on this side of the water now, but if you think I’ve forgotten the streets, you can think again.”

  “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, Maisie.”

  “But you could have been wrong, and you could’ve been on your way to the gallows. I don’t know who did what, but I know that you’re all responsible for the death of Jimmy Merton. You’re guilty of removing his body, of taking it by boat to the Lambeth Bridge, and for hanging him there as if he’d taken his own life.”

  “What if we did?”

  “I just want you to understand that I’m aware of what happened, and that, even though I know very well he was responsible for making Eddie’s life a misery, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “He would never have been taken in, Maisie. He would’ve got away with it.”

  She sighed and looked away, then back at Jesse. “You’re right. So help me, you’re right; he would most probably have got away with it. But what you did was wrong.” She thought of Otterburn and his description of Storm Troopers beating ordinary people on the streets if they even looked foreign; how they were guilty of dragging innocent tourists through the busy thoroughfare because they had failed to salute when everyone around them was shrieking “Heil Hitler” as the brown-uniformed men marched past. “It’s wrong because we have a procedure here, we have something to protect in our country, and that is our judicial system. It’s part of what we fought for, Jesse, in the war. And you especially, Seth, Dick. It may appear broken, but we have to protect it.” She looked away so the men might not see her emotions.

  “There, there, love.” Seth put his arm around Maisie. “You’re all worn out, look at you. We shouldn’t’ve burdened you with our worries about Eddie; though we were more than grateful you got somewhere with it all.”

  “She’s right,” said Pete, his voice low, because the waitress was clearing a nearby table. “We’re responsible. We’re not proud, but Eddie was one of us and we look after our own. It’s not as if any of us makes a habit of that sort of thing, and we know what happened was wrong. So I reckon you’ve about said what needs to be said, about justice and all that.” He paused, looking down at his hands. “You know, I’ve got to tell you, girl, I know you’re right, but I can’t say as I’m sorry about my part in what went on. I don’t want to ever remember that night, and to be sure, we were that mad when we saw him. But Jimmy Merton’s gone now, and good riddance. Whole bloody family can go, as far as I’m concerned.”

  The other men nodded.

  “I have to be off now,” said Maisie. “You’ll be glad to know that Bookhams, through John Otterburn, who owns the company, will be providing Maud with a generous settlement. They’ve realized that they should be looking after her until she passes from this life, so she and Jennie will never have to worry about money again.”

  “Good on you, Maisie,” said Archie.

  “I’m going now,” said Maisie.

  “Don’t be a stranger, love. Come down to the market, pass the time of day when you can.”

  “See you then,” she said, and stepped towards the door. She did not look back as she walked in the direction of the underground station. It was in something of a daze that she made her way back to Pimlico, forgetting she’d promised James that she would see him that evening.

  Maisie entered her flat, which was quiet but for the distant sound of foghorns on the river. She went into the kitchen and picked up the kettle, but found that at once she had no energy to make tea, so she walked into her bedroom, closed the blinds, and without taking off her coat or clothes she slipped under the eiderdown and slept.

  It was dark when she opened her eyes, and though her lids were heavy and sleep tried to claim her back, she could hear noise somewhere close. There was a rattling of metal, and as she squinted in the dark, she thought she could see a shaft of light. Her eyes closed again, against her will; she fought to open them, battling to come to consciousness. Sleep still did not want to relinquish its grip. She dozed once more and opened her eyes, this time more wakeful. But she lay there on the bed and thought she heard music, faint though it was, playing in the distance. Was it in her flat or from above? She reached for the clock on the table beside her bed. Eleven o’clock. She had been asleep for perhaps six hours. Her face felt dry, her eyes sticky. Had she wept in her sleep? Rising from the bed, she walked over to the door, where she stopped to listen. The music was coming from the drawing room, and someone was in her kitchen. She tiptoed along the hallway at the same time as Priscilla emerged from the kitchen, an apron drawn around h
er waist, a glass of wine in one hand, and a basket with bread in the other.

  “Oh, good. How are you feeling, dear friend?”

  “Pris? What are you doing here?”

  “Your error—should never have given me a key to use in emergencies.” She sipped from her glass. “Excellent wine, filched from Douglas’ secret stash of Montrachet. I’ll pour you one—hang on a minute.”

  Maisie sat down at the table, which was laid for two.

  “Here you are. Chin-chin, darling.” Priscilla placed the glass in front of Maisie. “Your sweet amour telephoned me to say how worried he was about you, and that he thought it best if he didn’t come to see you at the moment, though he did ask if I might drop along to check up on you. Douglas has taken the boys to see his mother. Not exactly my idea of a satisfying evening; and as they are staying until tomorrow morning—no school this week—I thought I would come over here. Your delightful little box room is all I need for a good night’s sleep.”

  “Thanks, Pris.”

  “I doubt you’ve seen them yet, but Sandra left a lovely bouquet of flowers for you, with a note of thanks.”

  Maisie rubbed her eyes, and nodded. She was about to say, Oh, really? She shouldn’t have spent her money on flowers for me. But instead she replied, “How dear of her—so thoughtful . . .”

  “So, cassoulet for a late supper? It was made yesterday, so it’ll be even more tasty this evening. Luckily I managed to chauffeur it here without spilling a drop. Good enough?”

  “Good enough.”

  The two women finished the meal, their talk deepening as the minutes passed. Maisie felt an old comfort return, as if they were new at college and she and Priscilla were establishing their friendship again, through midnight feasts and marathon discussions.

  “So, what’s happened to you, Maisie? You look all in. Is the dragon awake?” Priscilla had often described her memories of war as “the dragon.”