Elegy for Eddie (10 page)

Maisie gasped. The nurse appeared not to notice.

“I know our registrar has already been on the telephone to that Dr. Masters,” added the staff nurse. “And an ambulance is expected any minute to take her over there, to the psychiatric hospital.”

“Oh, dear—what a mess. She’s a mother, and her baby—” Maisie shook her head. “Not to worry, I’ll sort it out. I’ll look after the family.”

As she was about to leave, Maisie turned once more to the staff nurse.

“I wonder, do you have Mr. Beale’s personal effects?”

“Yes, they’re in the office—usually they’re only handed back to the patient when they leave, or next of kin if the patient’s deceased.”

“I’m Mr. Beale’s employer, as you know, and there were some items in Mr. Beale’s possession that belong to my business. Could you make an exception for me to see the items taken from Mr. Beale when he was admitted?”

The nurse motioned for them to walk along the corridor.

“Follow me,” she instructed Maisie.

She stopped for a moment in the sterilizing room, where the kidney bowl and syringes were left on a table to be put into the autoclave, then led Maisie along another corridor, where she stopped outside an office and asked Maisie to wait. Two minutes or so later, the door opened, and the staff nurse emerged with a paper sack. Billy’s name was on the front.

“These are the things that came in with him—you can have a quick look while I wait.”

Maisie opened the bag and emptied the contents onto a small table outside the office. There was Billy’s watch—a gift from Maisie—along with a clean handkerchief, a pencil, about three shillings in change, the keys to his house in Eltham, and a small plain brown-paper-covered notebook.

“I’d like to take this—if I may?”

The nurse nodded. “You’ll have to sign for it here.” She handed Maisie a list that had been inserted inside the bag along with the contents.

Maisie signed for the notebook, thanked the nurse, and asked to be directed to a telephone kiosk.

“There’s one by the door, just as you leave—it’s on the right.”

“And may I call later for a report on Mr. Beale’s progress?”

“Of course, but try to telephone before afternoon visiting hours—it gets very busy here, you know.”

S
andra picked up the receiver after only one ring.

“Sandra, it’s me.”

“Oh, Miss Dobbs, I’ve been on the edge of my seat, waiting here for you to telephone. How’s Mr. Beale?”

“Very poorly, Sandra. He’s sustained some serious injuries, though I won’t know exactly until Andrew—Mr. Dene—sees him. Did you get a message through?”

Maisie held the wooden concertina door open with her foot and, holding Billy’s notebook to the light, flicked through the pages as she spoke.

“Yes, and he called back and said to tell you that he expected to examine Mr. Beale later today, and he’ll be in touch with you as soon as he’s spoken to the doctor who’s been treating him so far.”

“Good. Now, Sandra, I wonder—I’d like you to do something for me.”

“Anything you ask, Miss Dobbs. I want to help.”

“Billy’s mum has been left with the boys and the new baby. Can you go over there and give her a hand? She’s very independent, but she’s also a realist, and she’ll know she needs help; she’s getting on in years and those boys are good boys, but they might be getting upset without their parents and I am sure they can be a handful if they start playing up. They’ve been through a lot, so, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

“I’ll leave straightaway, Miss. I can nip home to pack an overnight bag and be on my way. I know where Billy lives, so rest assured, you don’t need to worry. I’ll see what I can do about baby milk on the way—the chemist at Boots will be able to help me.”

“Thank you, Sandra—oh, and take whatever you require from petty cash. You might need to go out for extra groceries. In fact, telephone the local shop and have them delivered, it’ll make things a bit easier. There’s a telephone installed at the house, though I think they only use it when I call and Billy answers. I am still wondering why Doreen didn’t telephone me when Billy failed to come home.”

“She probably forgot, Miss. People do that, when they’re not used to having something. I know of a woman who had a telephone put in, and when she spotted a fire in an empty house across the street in the middle of the night, she ran up the road to the telephone box, forgetting she had one at home.”

“I can believe it—especially if Mrs. Beale was getting more and more emotional as the night went on. Or perhaps she took something to make herself sleep, and didn’t panic again until the morning, when she realized he wasn’t home. Anyway, Sandra, will you call me later? You’ll probably get me at the flat. Let me know how you’re getting on?”

“Like I said, Miss, don’t worry. I’m the eldest in my family—I know how to look after them.”

Maisie held back tears that welled up again. “Bless you, Sandra. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Outside the telephone kiosk, Maisie looked down at a page in the notebook she had dog-eared during her conversation with Sandra. While still in Camden, and before he’d made a fateful visit to The Lighterman, Billy had discovered not only an address for Eddie Pettit’s former teacher, but the name of her sister, Mildred Taylor, who apparently lived in Brighton. Though there was no full address, Billy had noted “Shell Close” with a question mark alongside, and had taken the trouble to add that his information came from a Mr. Cooke, the shopkeeper in Camden who knew Mrs. Soames, and who had been tasked with receiving her mail from the postman and keeping it until her return. He had also noted a woman’s name—Eve—with an arrow pointing to the name “Bart.”

Chapter Six

M
aisie considered the time. It would take her a good two hours or more to reach Brighton on a Friday evening, so how on earth would she find Mrs. Taylor in the last few sociable hours on a Friday, or even on Saturday morning? She could, however, telephone Caldwell—perhaps he could help, enabling her to make an early start in Brighton on Monday, if she left on Sunday. But, on the other hand, that might not be the best idea. She leaned back in her chair, aware that she was shuffling obligations in her mind, that she was trying to work around the Hartmans’ party. If she had been alone, without James in her life, she would go to Brighton this evening. She would leave right now. But that one move would cause a row, a fissure that would take days to heal and leave them both wounded. It would be yet another one of those silly arguments that had started cropping up between them. Perhaps the investigation could wait. Would anything be changed by her acting now, except that it would allow her to feel as if she were doing something in the aftermath of the attack on Billy? She tapped her fingers on the desk, picking up the telephone receiver twice before putting it down again. Then it rang, causing her to start.

“Hello.”

“What, no reciting of the telephone number? No ‘Maisie Dobbs, at your service’?”

“You never give me a chance to make a formal greeting anyway, Priscilla.”

“I would, if you were at my house. Where are you? I’ve been waiting for ages.”

Maisie looked at the clock.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Pris—we’ve had an emergency here and—well—it’s been very difficult.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am, but Billy’s not—he was beaten up last night and only discovered early this morning. He’s already had an operation to relieve pressure on his brain, and he’s terribly ill. His wife has taken a slide backwards into the abyss, and—frankly, it’s all my fault.”

“You’re not being a martyr, are you? Is it really your fault?”

“Yes. It is. And I have to do everything I can to help.”

“Come over, Maisie. We’ll have a cup of tea and talk about it.”

“Tea?”

“I’m trying harder to change my ways. The trouble starts when I put a cube of ice in a glass, so if I go immediately to a cup requiring a hot liquid, step one on the slope down to a cocktail or two is eliminated.”

Maisie looked at the clock again. “Priscilla, look, I’ll have to put off our get-together; there’s so much to do—I’ll telephone early next week.”

“You’re about to rush off somewhere, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve just decided to go down to Brighton—I’ll be back tomorrow lunchtime anyway, to see James.”

“And how—”

“I have to hurry now. I can’t use my motor car, it won’t start, so I’ll have to get the train from Victoria—it’ll probably be quicker anyway. I’ll be in touch, Priscilla.”

“Maisie, is there anything I can do? If not for you, then for Billy’s family?”

Maisie was about to decline the offer when a thought occurred to her. “Could you spare Elinor? Perhaps for a few days? She’s a trained nanny, and with both Billy and Doreen in different hospitals, Billy’s mother is alone with the children, including a young baby. I’ve sent Sandra to help over the next couple of days, but—”

“Consider it done. Do you have a number for the house? I will telephone, speak to Sandra, and sort it all out for you. This is something I can take charge of without too much ado. Marshaling children and nannies is something at which I excel—have no fear.”

Maisie read out the number. “And thank you, Pris. I really—”

“Now, don’t start to grovel. Let me just get on with it and rise to the occasion. By the way, I was about to ask but you cut me off—how’s James?”

“Another time, Pris, I have to go.”

As she ended the call, Maisie wondered if this organization of the Beale family’s children and Billy’s mother might be just the sort of thing to set Doreen off if she knew about it. But what else could be done? She couldn’t leave hard-of-hearing Mrs. Beale with the boys and a baby, not in a new house where, as far as she knew, they hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know the neighbors. Things would have been different in Shoreditch, of course.

M
aisie stood for half the journey to Brighton on a train crammed with commuters returning to a burgeoning suburbia on the outskirts of London. It wasn’t until the train reached Croydon that she managed to claim a seat. When the station first opened, the town’s population was under fifteen thousand—now it numbered several hundred thousand people, with most of the growth due to the increase in railway services offering a fast means of travel into London. As she watched workers and shoppers disembark at Croydon station, Maisie thought half the town’s population must have been on that very train.

Arriving at Brighton station in darkness, Maisie took a taxi-cab to a small whitewashed hotel along the seafront, predictably named “Sea View.” Many guesthouses had only recently opened in readiness for Easter and the summer season, though some were looking tired, as if from the sheer effort of remaining in business at a time when few people had the funds for holidays by the sea. The taxi-cab driver had been true to his word and dropped her at a hotel “good enough for a lady traveling on her own.” He was also helpful, informing her where she could find the street she was looking for, so she asked him if he could collect her at nine the following morning; she would require his services for about two hours, after which she planned to catch a train back to London at eleven.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning, then. My name’s Sid Mayfield—tell Mrs. Hicks in there who brought you; it never hurts to let her know. And thank you for the work, madam—it’s still been a bit slow, even with the nice weather.”

Maisie paid Mayfield and stepped out of the motor car. A woman at the window, a green-and-yellow scarf covering hair set in curlers, waved to the driver, then smiled and motioned to Maisie that she was coming to open the door.

“Good evening, madam. Windy old night out there. You’ve come in late—here until Monday, are you?”

“Just until tomorrow morning, thank you.”

Maisie felt warmed by her busyness, by her chatter, and, not least, by the fire in the drawing room grate, visible from the entrance hall, its soothing flames countering the chill coastal air outside.

“I’ll have a fire lit in your room and a hot water bottle in the bed before you turn in. I don’t have a proper supper this evening, on account of the time of year, but I can do a beef barley soup—will that do?” The woman paused only long enough for Maisie to draw breath to answer before she went on. “Now then, here’s my rate for the night, and if you wouldn’t mind signing my book here. Cash in advance, if you don’t mind, Miss—?” She seemed to press her chin down into her neck when she asked for payment, and Maisie thought the expression could become confrontational with ease, if a customer tried to negotiate payment terms.

“Dobbs. Miss Maisie Dobbs. Soup would be lovely—and if you’ve enough hot water for a bath, I would be grateful. In any case, let me pay you now.” Maisie reached into her shoulder bag and took out her purse. Mrs. Hicks seemed relieved as she pocketed the coins.

“A hot bath—of course—I pride myself on my establishment. Let me show you up.”

Mrs. Hicks led the way upstairs, the seams on her stockings clearly visible, zigzagging along each lower calf, as if she had dressed in a hurry. She escorted Maisie to a room decorated in unmatching chintz fabrics; the overall impression was of a garden of roses left to grow wild. Wind rattled against French windows, beyond which a small filigree balcony allowed guests to enjoy a Channel view in summer. Mrs. Hicks drew the rose-bedecked curtains and turned to Maisie.

“There, we don’t want any drafts, do we? Let me take you along to the facilities.”

The bathroom was spacious, heated by bulbous brown radiators that were warm, not hot to the touch, and with a towel rail in front.

“I’ll leave you to yourself then. Supper in half an hour? Will that do?”

“Lovely, thank you, Mrs. Hicks.”

In her room once more, Maisie unpacked her overnight bag, took off her coat and hat, gathered her towel, and made her way along to the bathroom, where a girl was kneeling next to the claw-foot bathtub with her hand under the tap.

“Mrs. Hicks said to run the bath for you, madam.”

“That’s all right, I can do it myself now. Thank you.”

As soon as the girl left, Maisie turned the key in the lock, tested the heat of the water with her hand, and allowed the tap to run a little longer before stepping into the hot bath. She lowered herself into the water, hoping its heat might soften the ache left by the day’s events. Cupping water in both hands, she rinsed her face and leaned back against the enamel tub.

Maurice had spoken to her, more than once, about the importance of seeking distinctions when asking others to describe their feelings, or when trying to identify emotions in the self. At first she had not understood, and now, her eyes closed, she recalled the moment, the conversation when he said to her, “To just say, ‘I’m sad,’ isn’t enough. To gain greater understanding of the situation, of yourself or another, you must search for a word that better describes the moment. Sometimes we say we’re sad when we would be better served by using the word
melancholy
, for example. Sometimes anger can be more accurately described as
frustration
. The distinction helps us identify a path through the maze of emotion—and emotions can be debilitating, can paralyze us if we allow them power, and we do that when we fail to be precise. It’s rather like accruing knowledge of your enemy so that you can defeat him. So, Maisie, how do you feel?”

“Guilty,” said Maisie aloud, and with only a second’s hesitation. She scooped more water onto her face and rubbed her eyes. “I feel responsible, and I feel guilty. I feel inept. I feel inept in my work and I feel inept when it comes to James.” She splashed her hand down into the water. “I feel as if I am doing everything bloody wrong, and half the time I can’t get enough air in my lungs, otherwise I would probably scream!”

“You all right, dear?” a voice called from the other side of the bathroom door. “Your supper’s ready when you are.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hicks. I won’t be long,” Maisie called back. She felt annoyance building within her and acknowledged, too, her rising temper. She wanted to be out of this guesthouse, away from the busybody woman with her curlers and chins, her payment in advance and her overbearing pride; and she couldn’t wait to get home to her flat again—home to the place where she could do what she pleased, when she pleased. She couldn’t do that at The Dower House—there always seemed to be someone taking account of what she was about, and when. If she asked the gardener to do something different—plant a new shrub, for example—it was more than likely that Lady Rowan would remark on the new development. It was never exactly a negative comment, but an expressed opinion all the same. “Mr. Buckle told me you’d asked him to plant wisteria at the front of the house. You’re not taking out Maurice’s roses, are you?” Then there was her father. He always knew when James was with her, and when he wasn’t, and of course, the fact that he was courting Mrs. Bromley—Maurice’s housekeeper, whom she’d asked to stay on when the house became hers—meant he probably knew more than he let on. She realized how much she minded him knowing. She minded him worrying that she might have settled for something less than a commitment from James, though she knew it was she who was faltering when it came to the question of a promise. And what was a commitment if not a promise?

“Guilty. That’s what I am. And I have to put everything right.” Maisie lifted herself out of the bath, clasped the warm towel to her body, and readied herself to go down to the dining room for supper. She hoped the well-meaning but tiresome Mrs. Hicks would leave her in peace.

T
he proprietress must have been starved for company, or simply happy to have a paying guest on a gusty Friday evening. She pulled up a chair and talked, jumping from one subject to another, as Maisie ate the soup, occasionally dipping bread into the brown, hearty broth as she nodded her head, agreeing with whatever the woman said. Maisie thought she seemed like a talking machine, needing only a word to keep her going.

“I said to Mr. Jones, the butcher, I said, ‘My customers want the very best, you know. It might only be a simple stew, but it will be the best stew—tasty and fresh.’ And he told me, he said, ‘Madam, I like serving a customer who has high standards.’ And that’s what I have here, high standards.”

“Yes, I can see—”

“Now, there was this one couple, came in a week or so ago. Not a wedding ring to be seen, and I said to them, I said—”

And so she went on until Maisie pronounced the soup the best she’d ever eaten; in fact, it had made her so content she really had to turn in for the night.

A welcoming coal fire warmed the room, and a scuttle had been left so that Maisie could make up the embers before she went to bed. Her evening practice of meditation had been abandoned of late, and she realized that she felt the absence of the deliberate quiet it offered. In this stilling of mind and body it was as if she became rooted, and in that time she could plumb the depths of more than simply her own experience to answer questions. It often felt as if she had opened a vein of thoughts that were new to her, yet at once timeless, and she was served well by her practice, not least in the calm it bestowed upon her.

She sat for some time on the floor, her legs crossed, her eyes closed, and her hands one on top of the other in her lap with thumbs just one rice grain’s width apart. When she opened her eyes, it was as if she had been sitting for just a moment or two. Later, as she lay in bed, her eyes heavy as she watched flames lick around small red-hot caverns created by the burning coals, Maisie remembered something Maurice had said to her a long time ago.

“This work, Maisie, will touch you in many ways. In delving into the secrets held by the dead, by the living, and by those who have come to harm and caused harm, you will learn much about yourself. You will be challenged by this knowledge, and will be drawn to self-examination and—perhaps—recrimination. On the one hand, this is not without merit, and can offer a depth of understanding not previously available to you. But be warned—your allegiance must first be to your client, to those whose lives are touched by your work. There will be time enough afterwards to allow yourself the luxury of self-inquiry. When you are working on a case, that is to be the focus of your attention. You are the engine that drives the investigation, you are not the destination—attend to yourself only as required to reach that destination. Now, is that clear?”