Elegy for Eddie E-Book

Jacqueline Winspear

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Maisie Dobbs
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 515

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

April, 1933. To the costermongers of London, Eddie Pettit is simply a gentle soul with a near-magical gift for working with horses. When he is killed in a violent accident, the costers are sceptical about the cause of his death, and recruit Maisie Dobbs to investigate. Maisie, who has known these men since childhood and remembers Eddie fondly, is eager to help. But it soon becomes clear that powerful political and financial forces are equally determined to prevent her from learning too much about Eddie's death. As Maisie uncovers lies and manipulation on a national scale, she must decide whether to risk all to see justice done.

Leseprobe

ELEGY FOR EDDIE

A Maisie Dobbs Novel

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR

Dedicated toOLIVER AND SARA

And Allah took a handful of southerly wind, blew His breath over it, and created the horse.BEDOUIN LEGEND

For evil to happen, all that is necessary is for good men to do nothing.

EDMUND BURKE

Once in a while you will stumble upon the truth but most of us manage to pick ourselves up and hurry along as if nothing had happened.

WINSTON CHURCHILL

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

By Jacqueline Winspear

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Lambeth, London. April 1887

Maudie Pettit pushed the long broom back and forth across wet flagstones, making sure every last speck of horse manure was sluiced down the drains that ran along a gully between the two rows of stalls. Night work at Starlings Brewery suited Maudie, because the grooms and drivers were just leaving when she arrived in the evening, and there was only the night watchman there, and one stable boy who slept in a hayloft over the harness room, just in case a horse was taken ill. Maudie was all of sixteen, and though an observant woman with a measure of common sense could see that she was in the final weeks, if not days, of pregnancy, her long skirts and a loose blouse topped with an old coat served to cloak her condition. Disguise was crucial, because if the guv’nor found out, she’d be out on her ear with a new baby and no job to keep the poor little scrap. Maudie had been born in the workhouse, and she was determined that not only would she not be going back there, but her baby wouldn’t be born in the workhouse either.

From the time she was twelve years of age, Maudie had cleaned stalls at the brewery every night, and then gone on to the morning shift at the pickle factory, and sometimes picked up a bit more work at the paper factory in between. She had precious few hours each day to mind her own business, but considered herself lucky to have a roof over her head and fellow lodgers who looked out for her. Jennie and Wilf were brother and sister, born in the workhouse a few years before she came into that ugly world. But as luck would have it, all three managed to live beyond the age of ten to find honest work outside. And they stuck together, eventually renting two upstairs rooms on Weathershaw Street from Mabel Hickmott, who was, as Jennie often said, ‘Madam by trade and madam by nature.’ All the same, Mabel left them alone and didn’t want to know their business as long as she had the rent money in her hand on time.

‘Owwwwww,’ Maudie bent double, clutching her swollen belly with one hand, and holding on to the brass bars of a stall with the other. The old mare, Bess, turned away from her feed and came to investigate the noise.

‘Shhh, Bess, it’s only the baby moving, love. You go back to your mush, go on.’

The mare nickered, brushing her soft mouth against Maud’s fingers. Maudie loved the mare. The draught horses at Starlings were all geldings, but Bess had been there for years, and was used to draw the guv’nor’s cart when he went out to the pubs to check on business. They said that having the old mare at the stables kept the geldings in check, that she’d sort out any funny business with just one withering look across the stalls. Some of the stable lads were a bit scared of her, having felt a nip when they brushed her too hard. But Maudie always kept a treat for Bess, and would stop for a moment to run her fingers through the horse’s mane.

‘Oh dear God, Bess, my darlin’, the baby’s coming, and here I am in a manure gulley.’

Maudie pulled herself up and began walking up and down again, pushing the broom back and forth, even though the flagstones were now as clean as anyone had ever seen them.

‘Got to keep moving, haven’t I, eh, Bess? That’s what Jennie said to do, if she wasn’t at home when the baby came.’ She blew out her cheeks and stopped to rub her back. The horse did not return to her mush, but stood watching as Maudie walked first one way, then the other.

The girl’s work didn’t end until midnight, after the brass fittings on the stalls had been cleaned and the floor of the harness room was spick and span. She needed the money – good Lord, she needed the money, especially if she couldn’t go to the pickle factory tomorrow – so she had to carry on. She clenched her teeth to stop herself from crying out again. Then she dropped her broom and reached out towards the bars of the stall once more.

‘Oh, no, the baby’s really coming now.’

She was alone. The stable lad and night watchman were likely playing cards and taking a nip or two of whiskey in the feed room, which was just as well. She didn’t want anyone to know. She just wanted to lie down and have her baby. Taking a deep breath, she slipped the latch on the mare’s stall. Old Bess stood back and nuzzled Maudie’s pocket, then moved her nose across the rise of her belly.

‘That’s right, old love, my baby’s in there and he’s wanting to come out. Let me lay down with you, just for a minute. He might change his mind and the pains will stop.’

Maudie piled hay in the corner of the stall, covered it with her coat, and lay atop the softness. Old Bess leant down and nickered, her nose close to the girl’s head.

‘Leave me be, Bess, love. I’m all right, in truth I am.’

Soon the pains became almost too much to bear, and as she felt the baby move, Maudie clutched at her underclothes and pulled back her skirts. Tears cascaded down her face; tears for the pain, tears for fear she’d be found out, and tears of terror because she might end up in the workhouse once more. Again and again she took a deep breath and pushed, and at last felt the baby’s head, then his shoulders, and then, in her arms, her son, who squealed, announcing his arrival.

‘Oh Bess, oh Bessie, now what am I to do? Now what? I don’t know what to do.’ Still crying, she started to clean the baby with the sleeve of her blouse.

The mare leant towards the baby boy squirming in Maudie’s arms and began to lick his head, then his arms. Maudie lay back, astonished, exhausted, and too worn out to push the giant horse away. Then the mare looked up, her ears twitching back and forth.

‘You there, Maudie? Maudie? You there?’

It was the stable lad.

‘I’m here …’ She almost faltered, and without thinking, placed her hand across the baby’s mouth, for fear he would cry. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and lifted him to her breast. ‘Just making a bit of water in the mare’s stall, if you don’t mind turning your back and walking out again, Harry Nutley.’

Bess was standing by the door to her stall, looking out and giving young Nutley the eye that said that if he came close, she’d go for him.

‘Well, we’ve just brewed up, and there’s a cuppa here for you, if you want it.’

‘Much obliged, Harry. I’ve just got to do the brasses and the harness-room floor, then I’ll be going home.’

‘All right, Maudie.’

She heard his footsteps recede into the distance, and muffled voices as he and the night watchman continued on with their talk.

Jennie had never told Maudie what to do if there was no one to help when the baby came, but she knew she had to cut the umbilical cord. She pulled a length of ribbon from her underskirt, tied the lagging cord in two places, then the new mother leant forward and used her teeth to separate her son from her body. She breathed deeply, looked down at the baby as he continued to suckle.

‘What shall we call him, eh, Bess?’ she whispered. ‘They say my dad was an Edwin, not that I ever knew him. Died from the consumption before he even saw me. So I’ll call him Edwin. Little Edwin Pettit. Got a ring to it, eh? Eddie Pettit.’

And as if the mare had understood every word, she stood over mother and child and nickered.

There are those who say Maudie Pettit was seeing things that night. They said the terror of having her boy in the stables at Starlings Brewery had been too much for the girl, and she’d had the sort of vision you hear about. But Maudie stuck to her guns, and always maintained that when old Bess leant over them, Eddie raised his little fist and pressed it against her nose, and with that one touch from a newborn baby, the horse closed her eyes and sighed; then she turned around, pawed her spot, and lay down alongside the hayrack. Maudie said it was the mare who woke her before dawn, while the stable boy was still in his loft and the grooms and drivers had yet to arrive. The girl washed her underskirts in cold water and threw the soiled hay on the pile of stable debris at the back of the brewery courtyard, covering it with more hay so no one might wonder what had taken place. And as Maudie Pettit told it, when she walked away with her son in her arms, Bess called out to her, whinnying for her to come back. She said it was like having a guard of honour, with the horses all lined up to watch her leave, staring at the bundle in her arms as she walked past the stalls. Maudie always said that, even then, with only a few hours of life to his name, her Eddie could calm a horse just by being close.

CHAPTER ONE

London, April 1933

Maisie Dobbs pushed her way through the turnstile at Warren Street station, then stopped when she saw Jack Barker, the newspaper vendor, wave to her.

‘Mornin’, Miss Dobbs. Paper today?’

‘Mr Barker, how are you this morning? It’s very close, isn’t it? Summer’s here before spring!’

‘At least it ain’t as hot as it is over there in America – people dying from the heat, apparently. Mind you, at least they can have a drink now, can’t they? Now that their Prohibition’s ended. Never could make that out.’

‘You know, you’re the only newspaper seller I know who reads every single one of his papers,’ said Maisie. She took a coin from her purse and exchanged it for the day’s Times. ‘And there’s been a lot to read this year already.’

‘Ever since all that business about the bodyline bowling over there in Australia, it seems it’s been one thing after another – and not very nice things, either. Not that I hold with bad tactics in cricket, whether it’s ours or theirs, but I’m glad England kept the Ashes all the same. Mind you, not my sort of game, cricket.’

‘Jack, I have to confess, I still don’t know what that was all about. I never could quite understand cricket.’

Maisie’s comment fell on deaf ears, as Jack Barker continued his litany of events that had come to pass over the past several months.

‘Then there was all the noise about that Adolf Hitler, being made Chancellor in Germany. What do you reckon, Miss? Seems the bloke’s got people either worried or turning cartwheels.’

‘I think I’m on the side of the worried, Mr Barker. But let’s just wait and see.’

‘You’re right, Miss Dobbs. Wait and see. Might never happen, as the saying goes. And then we’ll all be doin’ cartwheels, eh? At least we’re not like them poor souls in Japan. I know it’s a long way off, the other side of the world, and can’t say as I’ve ever met one of them in my life – don’t expect I ever will – but they say it was one of the worst earthquakes ever. Hundreds killed. Can’t imagine what that would be like, you know, the ground opening up under your feet.’

‘No, neither can I – we’re lucky we live in a place where that sort of thing doesn’t happen.’

‘Oh, I reckon it happens everywhere, Miss Dobbs. I’m old enough to know it doesn’t take an earthquake for the ground to break apart and swallow you; you only have to look at all them who don’t have a roof over their heads or a penny in their pocket to put some food on the table.’

Maisie nodded. ‘Never a truer word said, Mr Barker.’ She held up her newspaper by way of a wave and began to walk away. ‘I’ll look for the good news first, I think.’

Jack Barker called after her. ‘The good news is that they reckon this weather will keep up, right until the end of the month.’

‘Good,’ Maisie called back. ‘Makes a nice change.’

‘Might be a few thunderstorms, though,’ he added, laughing as he turned to another customer.

She was still smiling at the exchange when she turned into Fitzroy Square. Five men were standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door of the building that housed her office; one of them stepped forward as she approached.

‘Miss Maisie Dobbs?’

‘Yes, that’s me, how can I – oh, my goodness, is that you? Mr Riley? Jesse Riley?’

The man doffed his cap and smiled, nodding acknowledgment.

‘And Archie Smith—’ She looked at the men in turn. ‘Pete Turner, Seth Knight, Dick Samuels. What are you doing here?’

‘We were waiting here for you, Miss Dobbs.’

‘Well, come in then. You could have waited for me inside, you know.’

Maisie unlocked the door, wiped her feet on the mat, and dropped her umbrella into a tall earthenware jar left alongside the door. The weather might be fine this morning, but she always took an umbrella with her when she left the house, just in case.

‘Follow me.’ She turned to speak again as she walked up the stairs. ‘Was there no one in to see you?’

‘Oh yes, Miss. Very nice young lady came to the door when we rang the bell. She said we could wait for you, but we didn’t want to be a nuisance. Then the gentleman came down and he said the same, but we told him we’d rather stand outside until you arrived.’

Maisie could not quite believe how the morning was unfolding. Here they were, five men she hadn’t seen since girlhood, waiting for her on the doorstep, all dressed in their Sunday best, in the flamboyant way of the cockney costermonger: a bright silk scarf at the neck, a collarless shirt, a weskit of wool and silk, and best corduroy or woollen trousers, all topped off with a jacket – second-hand, of course, probably even third- or fourth-hand. And each of them was wearing their best flat cap and had polished their boots to a shine.

Maisie opened the office door and bid her two employees good morning as she removed her hat and gloves. ‘Oh, and Billy, could you nip next door to the solicitor’s and ask if they can spare us a chair or two,’ she added. ‘We’ll need them for an hour at least, I would imagine.’ She turned to Sandra, who had stood up to usher the men into the room, which at once seemed so much smaller. ‘Oh, good, you’ve brought out the tea things.’

‘We told the gentlemen they could wait in here, Miss Dobbs.’

‘I know. It’s all right.’ She turned to her visitors. ‘I seem to remember this lot can be particularly proud, can’t you, Jesse?’

The man laughed. ‘Well. Miss D—’

Maisie cut him off. ‘I was Maisie to you when I was a girl, and I’m Maisie now. There’ll be no standing on ceremony. Ah, here we are, more chairs. Thank you, Billy.’ Maisie smiled at her assistant as he returned with several chairs stacked one on top of the other. ‘Come on, all of you, take a chair, sit yourselves down and tell me what this is all about – I can’t ever remember having a delegation of costers greet me, and at this time in the morning.’

Sandra had taken the tray with china and a teapot to the kitchenette along the corridor, and in the meantime, with the men seated around her, Maisie perched on the corner of her desk. She introduced each of the visitors to Billy and waited for Jesse to speak. He was about the same age as her father, but, unlike Frankie Dobbs, he still worked his patch of London streets, selling vegetables and fruit from a horse-drawn cart. She knew the reason for the visit must be of some import, for these men would have lost valuable income in giving up a few hours’ worth of work to see her.

‘We’ve come about Eddie. Remember Eddie Pettit?’

Maisie nodded. ‘Of course I remember Eddie. I haven’t seen him or Maudie for a few years, since I lived in Lambeth.’ She paused. ‘What’s wrong, Jesse? What about Eddie?’

‘He’s dead, Miss—I mean, Maisie. He’s gone.’

Maisie felt the colour drain from her face. ‘How? Was he ill?’

The men looked at each other, and Jesse was about to answer her question when he shook his head and pressed a handkerchief to his eyes. Archie Smith spoke up in his place.

‘He weren’t ill. He was killed at the paper factory, Bookhams.’ Smith folded his flat cap in half and ran his fingers along the crease. When he looked up, he could barely continue. ‘It weren’t no accident, either, Maisie. We reckon it was deliberate. Someone wanted to get rid of him. No two ways about it.’ He looked at the other men, all of whom nodded their accord.

Maisie rubbed her arms and looked at her feet, which at once felt cold.

‘But Eddie was so gentle. He was a little slow, we all knew that, but he was a dear soul – who on earth would want to see him gone?’ She paused. ‘Is his mother still alive? I remember the influenza just after the war had left her weak in the chest.’

‘Maudie’s heart is broken, Maisie. We’ve all been round to see her – everyone has. Jennie’s looking after her, but Wilf passed on a few years ago now. The grooms down at the bottling factory, the drivers at the brewery, everyone who looked after a horse in any of the boroughs knew Eddie, and they’ve all put something in the collection to make sure we give him a good send-off.’

‘Has he been laid to rest yet?’

‘This Friday. St Mark’s.’

Maisie nodded. ‘Tell me what happened – Seth, you start.’

Seth Knight and Dick Samuels were the younger men of the group; Maisie guessed they were now in their late forties. She couldn’t remember seeing them since they were young apprentices, and now they were men wearing the years on faces that were lined and grey, and with hands thick and calloused from toil.

Knight cleared his throat. ‘As you know, Eddie made a wage from the work he did with horses. There wasn’t a hot or upset horse in the whole of London he couldn’t settle, and that’s no word of a lie. And he earned well at times, did Eddie. Reckon this was after you left the Smoke, just before the war, but talk about Eddie’s gift had gone round all the factories and the breweries, and last year – honest truth, mind – he was called to the palace mews, to sort out one of His Majesty’s Cleveland Bays.’ He looked at Jesse, who nodded for him to continue. ‘But horses don’t have a funny turn every day of the week, so Eddie always made a bit extra by running errands at the paper factory. He’d go in during the morning, and the blokes would give him a few coppers to buy their ciggies, or a paper, or a bite of something to eat, and he’d write everything down and—’

‘Wait a minute.’ Maisie interrupted Knight. ‘When did Eddie learn to write?’

‘He’d been learning again for a while, Maisie. There was this woman who used to be a teacher at the school, she helped him. He’d found out where she was living – across the water – and he’d gone to her a while ago to ask if she could give him lessons. I’m blessed if I can remember her name. Apparently, he’d been doing quite well with a new customer, and it’d finally got into his noddle that if he learnt to read and write he might be better off in the long run. He’d started to pay attention to money. I’d say it was all down to Maudie, pushing him a bit. In the past all he did was hand over the money to her, and she gave him pocket money to spend on himself, for his necessaries. She put the rest away for him – she always worried that he wouldn’t be able to look after himself when she was gone, you see.’

Maisie nodded. ‘I remember her being so attentive to him, always. I was in a shop once – I think it was Westons, the hardware store; I must have been sent on an errand by my mother. I was behind Eddie and his mum, and she made him ask for what they wanted, even though he didn’t want to. She went stone silent until he’d asked for whatever it was, and then counted out the correct money. No one tried to hurry him along, because people knew Maud was teaching him to stand on his own two feet.’

Seth Knight went on. ‘Well, Eddie seemed to have a little bit more about him lately, as if he’d been keeping us in the dark all along. He started asking questions about how to save his money so it was safe – of course, it was hard for him to understand, and he’d come and ask the same questions again, but all the same, he was trying. Anyway, it turns out this teacher – Miss Carpenter, that was her name – had always had a soft spot for him at school. When he turned up, that is. Trouble with Eddie, as you know, he’d always been happier around horses, so even as a young boy, when he got a message to go and sort out a horse, Maudie never stopped him. And to be honest, they needed the money, being as it was only the two of them; Wilf and Jennie were there to help out, but Maudie always said they needed everything they had to take care of themselves, especially with Wilf coming home gassed after the war. He might as well have died at Plugstreet Wood, the way the pain took it out of him, after he came home – and he was older than most of them; he wasn’t a young man when he went over there.’ Seth took a deep breath and looked down at his hands, the palm of one rubbing across the knuckles of the other. ‘Anyway, going back to Eddie, he’d started to write down the odd note when the blokes at the factory gave him their instructions, and I for one think he could understand more than anyone gave him credit for. In any case, he always came back with what they’d asked him to get for them, and he never made a mistake.’

There was silence for a few moments, and Maisie knew that everyone was likely thinking the same thing, that Eddie wasn’t really gone, that he was as alive as the stories about him.

‘Go on, Seth.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve ever been in Bookhams, but them rolls of paper are massive. They come out on a belt as wide as this room, and then they go straight onto the lorries – Bookhams are going over to lorries now.’ He sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘But they’ve still got a few old horses there, stabled out the back, for when the lorries pack up and won’t go – which is more often than the horses went lame, and that’s a fact.’

Maisie could see beads of perspiration forming on the man’s forehead, and the other men changed position or folded their arms. ‘Take your time, Seth,’ she said.

Seth Knight pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and rubbed it across his brow. ‘No one can say what happened, and no one can say the how or why of it, but Eddie was walking out of the factory floor to take a few lumps of sugar to the horses, them as are left, and the next thing you know, one of them big rolls had slid sideways off the belt and come crashing down. It was all over like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Poor Eddie didn’t stand a chance. Not a chance. He was crushed, Maisie. Crushed to death.’

‘Oh dear Lord, what a terrible way to go.’

‘That’s not all of it – soon as it happened, the horses at the back, still in their stables, they all started going on. They knew, you see. They knew he’d gone. It was as if he was one of them. Always was like that, with him and horses.’

A choked cry caused Maisie to look back towards the door. Sandra had entered the room while Seth was speaking of Eddie’s death. She was standing by the door, holding the tray with shaking hands as tears ran down her face. Only months before, the young woman had lost her husband in equally tragic circumstances. Maisie nodded to Billy, who gently took the tray from Sandra and began handing out cups of tea to the men. Maisie stood up to comfort the young woman, whispering that if she wanted she could leave the office to sit in the square for a while.

Jesse Riley drank back his tea, as if it were cold water quenching his thirst. He replaced the cup on the saucer and reached down to set it on the hearth. ‘So, we came to see you about Eddie, thinking you’d know what to do, Maisie. Your dad comes up here from the country every now and again and he tells us, you know, he tells us how proud he is of you, and that you’ve brought murderers to justice.’ He leant forward. ‘You see, Maisie, no one cares about Eddie ’cept us, and his mum and Jennie. The police didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about it, said it was a “regrettable accident”. Accident, my eye. It was a deliberate act of murder, that’s what it was.’

‘But why? Who would want to see Eddie dead?’

‘That’s just it,’ said Dick Samuels. ‘We don’t know. But we thought you might be able to find out.’ He looked across to Pete Turner. ‘Pete’s got our kitty, he can tell you about it.’

Turner leant forward to speak to Maisie. ‘We’ve had another whip-round, us and a few more costers at the market.’ He pulled out a drawstring bag. ‘We don’t want you to work for nothing – you’ve come up the hard way and earned every penny, so we don’t want favours – but we want you to find out about Eddie. We want you to find out who killed him.’

Maisie was aware that all eyes focused on her. Not only the men were waiting for her to answer, but Billy and Sandra, who had remained in the room.

‘Of course I will, but—’ Maisie was interrupted by a collective sigh of relief. She regarded each and every person present, then came back to Pete Turner. ‘But I don’t want your money. Eddie was dear to all of us, so it’s up to us to do right by him and find out the truth of what happened to cause his death. If it was an accident, well, I’ll discover why it happened, and make sure it will never come to pass again. And if he was murdered, I’ll find out who wanted him dead.’

At first the men smiled and nodded to one another. Then Jesse Riley spoke up.

‘Maisie, I’m an old coster and it’s not often I miss a trick. My mum, bless her, said that if you can’t pay anything else in life, you can pay attention, and I just noticed that you said you’d find out who wanted him dead, not that you’d find whoever it was killed Eddie.’

Maisie stood up. ‘I just can’t imagine someone who knew Eddie, someone who saw him every day, wanting to do anything that might hurt him, which means that if his death was the result of a deliberate act, the person who wanted him dead might not have known him as we do. He had no means to protect himself, even as a boy. He was trusting, gentle and innocent. If he was killed intentionally, someone had a reason – and I can’t imagine what that reason could be. But that’s all speculation. In any case, my assistant, Mr Beale—’ The men turned to look at Billy; Maisie continued. ‘Mr Beale will begin by asking each of you a good many questions, so we can get to the bottom of what you know and who you think we should be talking to. And in the meantime, here’s what I want you to do – I want you to rack your brains, think of anything unusual about Eddie in the weeks and months leading up to his death. Did he have any new work anywhere? Who was he dealing with? Did he upset anyone? Was he acting, well, not like Eddie at any time? I want you to think-think-think, and tell us if you remember anything you haven’t already told us about – even the smallest detail could be of use.’

‘Do you want us to stay here and talk to Mr Beale today, Maisie? Until it’s done?’

‘Mr Beale will want to speak to each of you for about an hour, so no, you’d all be wasting your time waiting here. Mrs Tapley will draw up a list with a time for each of you. Come back here for your appointment with Mr Beale – oh, and I think it’s best that you don’t say too much to the others down at the market; if they ask, just let them know that we’re looking into it. No more than that. Best to keep as much as we can between ourselves.’

Jesse Riley stood up. ‘But we thought you’d be working on the case yourself, Miss.’

Maisie nodded. ‘I will be, Jesse. But Billy and Sandra know what they’re doing – we’ve worked together on many cases, and I trust them implicitly. And while you’re doing your part and they’re doing theirs, I’ll be on my way to see Maud Pettit about Eddie. I’m leaving now – I remember where she lives. And after that, I’ll be visiting Bookhams.’ Maisie picked up her coat, hat, gloves, and shoulder bag. She decided to leave her briefcase, as it might seem intimidating – official people carried briefcases, people who might want to take something from you, and she didn’t want to frighten Eddie’s mother. ‘Now then, I suggest we all meet here again, perhaps tomorrow – Sandra, how about late afternoon, when the gentlemen have finished their rounds? Would you put it in the diary?’

Bidding the men goodbye, she motioned to Billy to come to the front door with her.

‘You know what questions to ask them, don’t you, Billy?’

‘Yes, Miss. And thank you, Miss, for putting this in my hands.’

‘You’ve been with me for enough interviews to open an inquiry; you know what to do, of that I am sure. In any case, we’ll go through the notes together before they come back tomorrow – we’ve got the rest of today to get started on this.’

‘What do you think, Miss? Do you reckon they’re onto something. I mean, that Jesse Riley’s getting on a bit, and he looks like the one who got everyone else started.’

‘The important thing is that they believe Eddie died in suspicious circumstances. They believed enough to cut into their day to see me, to turn up here in their best clothes and to risk my telling them the case wasn’t solid. The fact that they took the chance, and then had the whip-round to get the funds to start an investigation – that’s more than enough for me, Billy. More than enough.’ She pulled her umbrella from the earthenware jar, and as she opened the door she turned to her assistant. ‘I knew Eddie. I remember him well. He was a lovely man – always more of a boy because he never quite grew up. Which is why everyone looked out for him, especially those who’d known him from the time he was a small lad. And he had a gift, Billy, a real gift. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I might not have believed it.’ She sighed. ‘If those men have doubt, then I believe it’s well founded. One way or another, we’ll get some answers for them. Now then, I’d better be off.’

‘And you turned down their money, Miss. I bet you anything they won’t take your charity, they’re not that sort.’

‘Oh, no two ways about it. They’re proud – they’ll try to make me take the money, and perhaps eventually I’ll have to come to some sort of compromise. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve entrusted us to find out the truth about Eddie. I’ll worry about the money later. You see, when my mother was ill, it was my father’s mates down the market – and their families – who tried to help us. So I’m determined not to let them down. Now, you’d better get back up there before those boys get rowdy.’

Maisie set off towards Oxford Street. From there she could use the underground railway to go across to Lambeth, but not before she’d stopped at the caff for a cup of tea. She had left the office because she wanted the men to know she had taken up the case with no delay, but in truth she wanted time to think. She wanted to remember Eddie, and to cradle his memory in her heart.

Her first recollection of Eddie was when she was just a small girl, about six years old. She was standing with her father, watching Jesse try to calm his horse, a big grey gelding with an abscessed hoof. The animal was stabled under the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge, and it seemed the limited light and a few days standing idle had conspired to upset the horse, who had nipped and kicked out at anyone who dared come close.

‘I’ve got to doctor ’im; if that abscess gets any worse, he’ll be no good to me, and it’ll be the slaughterhouse next.’

Frankie nodded. ‘I’d send for Eddie Pettit, if I were you, Jesse. He’ll sort him out.’

‘I’ve already sent my boy round to Maudie. She’ll bring him, you can depend on that.’ He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together.

‘He’s worth every penny, Jess, if you don’t want to lose that horse.’

Maisie looked up, from one man to the other, and turned around when she heard footsteps clattering against the cobblestones.

‘Here he is.’ Jesse touched his cap, and walked forward to greet the woman and her son.

The boy was sixteen at the time, or thereabouts, and was tall for his age. It seemed his mother hadn’t managed to find cast-offs big enough for him, clothed as he was in trousers that provided a goodly margin between hem and ankle, and a jacket that revealed his wide but boney wrists and long fingers. His eyes were large, and when she looked into them, Maisie thought it was like looking at the eyes of a cow or a horse. He had clear skin and red-red lips, as if he’d been feasting on berries. His hair was unruly, and he continually brushed it back with his fingers, holding his head to one side as he listened to the men. Maisie remembered his mother pressing a handkerchief into his hand, and telling him to blow his nose. ‘Always got a runny nose, that one.’ Then she smiled up at her boy, and it was clear she loved her son as no other ever would.

Jesse began to speak, but it was as if the boy hadn’t heard a word, for he walked forward and took the latch off the stable door.

‘Be careful, lad, he’s—’

Maudie touched Jesse on the arm. ‘Don’t you worry, Eddie knows what he’s doing.’

The boy stepped into the stable with calm confidence.

Sitting in the caff, staring out of the window, Maisie could see Eddie now in her mind’s eye, and she could feel exactly the curiosity she experienced that day, watching the boy as he opened the door, how he seemed to change when he entered the stall. They could not see what Eddie was doing but could hear his soft voice, talking to the horse as if they were in a deep conversation. He did not shout, nor did he make a plea; he simply talked to a friend. Within two minutes, he had slipped a halter on the horse and was leading him from the stable, the horse with his head low, trusting.

‘Got hot water for me to do his foot, Mr Riley?’

‘I don’t believe it. Truly I don’t.’ Jesse Riley pulled a kettle off the brazier he’d set up on the cobblestones, and poured the water into a bucket.

‘Him just don’t like the dark. None of ’em do, but most of the time they’re too tired to say anything about it. Him’s had a chance to think about it, what with his foot. And he don’t want to be here any more.’

‘Well, he’s got to be for now. Or he’ll end up on a dinner plate. Can’t have a horse who doesn’t work for his keep.’ Jesse walked towards the horse, but Eddie stopped him.

‘I’ll do that, Mr Riley. Best I doctor him today.’

Maisie watched as Eddie cared for the horse, who seemed as soft as a kitten with Eddie there. He soaked the hoof, then dried it and applied a bread poultice, wrapping the hoof to secure the paste before leading the horse back to the stable. He remained in the stable for another five minutes, perhaps more, talking to the horse with a soft voice. Then he emerged, turning to put the latch on the door. And as he joined the men, his mother, and Maisie, the confidence seemed to ebb from him; he had nothing to say to those gathered. Jesse handed Maudie a few coins, and she nodded, and while the men began to clean up around the stables, Maisie watched mother and son walk away along the cobblestones: the small, rosy-faced woman and the tall boy, walking along in a loping gait, his arms held out at his sides, his head lowered to listen to his mother as she spoke to him. Maisie remembered thinking that he reminded her of a storybook character, a gentle giant.

Maisie set down her cup and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost eleven o’clock. She wouldn’t be back at the office until mid-afternoon at the earliest, by which time Sandra would have left to go to her other job. She wanted to catch Sandra before she left the office, so she left the caff to walk down towards Soho Square, where there was a telephone kiosk.

‘Good morning—’

‘It’s me, Sandra – only don’t say anything. Are the men still there?’

‘Just one, then another couple are coming back later.’

‘Sandra, I’d like you to do something for me – when Billy’s finished with the interview, tell him you have to leave on an errand. Here’s what I want you to do – go down to Fleet Street, to both the Express and the Times, and look up anything you can find on an accident at Bookhams Printers. Billy will be able to give you the exact date. If you’ve got time, you can leave your notes at the office for me to read when I get back.’

‘Right you are.’

‘Good girl. Do you have a lecture this evening?’ Sandra was enrolled in classes at the Morley College for Working Men and Women. ‘Yes, so I won’t be home until about ten.’

‘And I won’t be there this evening, Sandra; you’ll have the flat to yourself. See you tomorrow.’

Standing in front of the small, soot-blackened terraced house on Weathershaw Street, where Maudie lived with her son and Jennie, brought back memories of Maisie’s own childhood. She had lived in such a house in Lambeth. Her mother and father had started off with one room, then managed to rent another, and then the kitchen and downstairs parlour of the ‘two up, two down’ house. The same had been true of Maudie and her lifelong friend, Jennie. Time had moved on and they now had the downstairs rooms as well as the bedrooms above.

‘Hello, Mrs Pettit.’ Maisie remembered that the woman had always been referred to as ‘Mrs Pettit’ out of respect for her son, even though she had never married. ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but—’

‘O’ course I remember you; you’re Frankie Dobbs’ girl. Went across the water to work and ended up doing well for yourself – but didn’t you come back here to live in Lambeth a few years ago?’

‘Yes, Mrs Pettit. I lodged at the boarding house on Solomon Street for a while.’ Maisie leant forward. ‘I’ve come about Eddie, Mrs Pettit. May I come in?’

The small woman looked at her for a moment, and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. ‘Well, what with this heat and that reek coming off the water, you’ll catch something dreadful if you stand out here, make no mistake. Come in, girl, and sit in the scullery. Jennie’s made up the fire and the kettle’s on.’

Maisie followed the woman along a narrow passageway to the back of the house. Jennie Robinson was taller than Maud, and was strong about the shoulders, though lean, whereas the dead man’s mother seemed not only small but diminished. Now they were indoors, Maisie could see Maud had become frail, and it was hard to believe she was sixty-two – she appeared to be closer to eighty. She took her seat alongside the black cast-iron stove as if she were cold into her bones and could not get enough warmth.

‘Jennie, remember Frankie Dobbs’ girl? Went into service across the water, after her mother died, God rest her soul.’

‘Of course I remember,’ said Jennie. ‘They always said you’d do well, what with you having a bit more up there than most.’ She pointed to her head.

‘Any success I have is probably down to the fact that my mother and father taught me the value of a good day’s work.’ Maisie paused, her heart breaking for the women before her, who seemed grey and dark with grief. But she had a job to do. ‘Mrs Pettit, I think I should come straight to the point.’

‘Sit down first, love. It’ll be easier on all of us, especially if it’s about my Eddie.’

Maisie took a seat at the heavy kitchen table, bowed with age and pale with years of scrubbing. Jennie set a cup of tea in front of her. The women sipped from their own chipped cups, then looked up at her, waiting.

‘I’ll not beat about the bush. You probably don’t know this about me, but I am what they call an investigator, a private inquiry agent to some, and—’

‘Weren’t you a nurse, in the war?’

‘Yes, I was. And afterwards. Then I, well – it’s a long story, but I had this opportunity, and—’

‘And someone – I bet it’s that Jesse Riley – thought you’d be able to find out what happened to Eddie.’

Maisie sighed. ‘That’s about the measure of it, Mrs Pettit.’

The woman took out her handkerchief, covered her eyes, and crumpled forward, resting her forehead against her hands.

‘Perhaps I’d better go. I can come back another time.’

‘Sit there, Maisie. Just let me have my moment.’

The woman soon sat back, whereupon her friend placed an arm around her shoulder.

‘She’s had it rough, Maisie,’ said Jennie. ‘Eddie was her life.’

‘I know. Truly I know. He was a lovely man, so gentle,’ said Maisie.

‘And he had a gift. I was blessed with that boy.’ Maud cleared her throat. ‘Now then, here’s what I’ve got to say. There’s talk that my Eddie was … was murdered. There’s them what reckon someone had it in for him, and so the next thing you know, there’s an accident, only it’s not really an accident. I don’t know what to think, but here’s what I do know – and I used to work down at Bookhams, on the rag vats, until not that long ago before the rheumatism got to me. I never heard of an accident caused by them big belts going or tipping. There was accidents, of course there was; there’s always someone who don’t pay attention, getting their fingers in the way of the guillotine, that sort of thing. But no one was ever crushed under a roll of paper.’ She paused again, looking directly into Maisie’s eyes. ‘So if you want to look for the reason why it happened, more power to you. Every single day that’s passed without Eddie, I’ve felt like topping myself so I could be with him up there in heaven, but I’d stay right here to see someone brought to justice.’

Maisie nodded. ‘Then can you answer some questions for me, Mrs Pettit?’

‘Maudie. You’re a grown woman now, Maisie Dobbs, so you can call me Maudie.’

Maisie took a clutch of index cards from her bag, and a pencil. ‘Right, let’s start with Bookhams.’

‘Then you’ll have to start with me, Maisie, because I worked there on the afternoon shift before I had Eddie. About nine months before I had Eddie. Three different jobs I had, in those days.’

By the time she left Maud Pettit’s house in Lambeth, Maisie had learnt several things she hadn’t known before. She knew that Maudie had been assaulted while walking from the factory to the brewery; it was dark, so she had never known her attacker – the father of her child.

She discovered that Eddie had only ever been bullied by one person, a boy who made fun of him at school. In fact, Jimmy Merton had made Eddie’s life a misery, mimicking his voice, his walk, his simple way of being. She had a recollection of Merton from childhood. Her mother had warned her to keep away from the Merton children because they were all trouble, every single one of them. Jimmy was older, Eddie’s age, but she still passed to the other side of the street if she saw him in the distance. Apparently, Jimmy Merton had lately come to work at Bookhams.

But of the notes she had penned while sitting with Maudie Pettit, the one that she would come back to, would underline again and again, even after adding it to the case map that she knew Billy would start as soon as his interviews ended, was the note that repeated Maud’s words: ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but my Eddie seemed to have changed lately – in the past month, perhaps more.’ Eddie’s mother had gone on to speculate that Jimmy Merton might have started bullying him again, and she wondered if Eddie was hiding some physical ailment, perhaps a pain or discomfort he didn’t want to talk about. Or if he had lost a horse. ‘Took it hard when a horse went, did my Eddie,’ Maud Pettit had told Maisie. And Maisie had nodded. Yes, gentle Eddie would have taken it hard.

CHAPTER TWO

The afternoon sun was casting shafts of light through the trees on Fitzroy Square by the time Maisie and Billy took their seats at the big table alongside the window. Billy had already pinned out a length of plain white wallpaper upon which they would transcribe their notes using pencils and thick wax crayons of different colours.

‘Sandra came back from Fleet Street – she left this for you.’ Billy handed Maisie a sealed envelope.

‘Oh, good. She seems to be getting on very well, don’t you think?’

Maisie had been concerned that Billy might not take to having another employee at the office, but the two seemed to have settled into working together.

‘I think so, Miss. She’s still looking grey around the edges, though. I reckon a young woman like her shouldn’t be expected to wear her widow’s weeds for a year – all that black can’t be doing much to cheer her up.’

‘I think you’re right, Billy. I’ll see if I can talk to her about it. In fact, the best person to have a word with her would be Mrs Partridge – she always speaks so highly of Sandra, and says that since she’s been working part-time for her husband, she has really organised his papers beyond belief,’ said Maisie. ‘I’m so glad I found out that Mr Partridge was looking for clerical help and was able to recommend Sandra for the position – we don’t have enough work to keep her occupied full-time here, so it was a stroke of luck all around. Mrs Partridge is so thrilled because Douglas is extremely happy with Sandra’s work – which gives him more time with the family – so it wouldn’t be a surprise if she endowed Sandra her entire collection from last year.’

‘Bit of a woman for the latest fashions, isn’t she?’

‘Oh, no doubt about it. Paris would go out of business without Priscilla.’ Maisie looked at the notes, each circled with a thick coloured crayon of contrasting colour. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got in the way of rough edges to start nibbling at here. Thinking back to your interviews, did anything stand out? Was something said at any point that made you look up and want to dig deeper?’

Without glancing at his notepad, Billy nodded. ‘I’ve still got a couple to do in the morning, and Mr Riley said there were a few other blokes at the market who might have a word or two to add, so I’ll go down there tomorrow before the gentlemen come back here in the afternoon.’ He paused, tapping a crayon on the wallpaper, leaving a series of dots at the edge of the sheet. ‘These men didn’t see Eddie regularly, not daily, as a rule, though they said they usually crossed paths with him a couple of times a week – what with all them horses down the market, it wasn’t unusual for the word to go out to get Eddie over there. Mind you, this is what gave me a bit of a chill – each and every one of them said that Eddie hadn’t been himself for a while. Not all of the time – he wasn’t going round with a face as long as a week every day – but they said that you’d watch him walk down the road, and it’d be as if he had something on his mind. And what Mr Riley said made sense, though at first it don’t sound very kind of him, but he said, “It was a bit queer seeing him looking like that, as if he had worries, because Eddie wasn’t normally like that – he didn’t have enough up there to hold thoughts for long enough.”’

‘Oh dear, that does sound a bit harsh, but Jesse wouldn’t have meant it badly. He thought the world of Eddie.’

‘He said that, Miss, and you can tell they all looked out for Eddie. Mr Riley told me that Eddie’s thoughts weren’t in his head, like with most people.’ Billy put his hand on his chest. ‘He said that this is where Eddie held his thoughts, and when he saw him looking, you know, sad, he was worried that his thoughts had started weighing upon his heart, and his heart was the best of him.’

‘Mrs Pettit said the same thing, that Eddie had not been himself. She wondered if he’d been feeling poorly and didn’t want to tell her – he might’ve been worried about the money it would cost to see the doctor.’

‘He could’ve gone to Dr Blanche’s clinic.’

‘Of course he could, but even though there’s a sign outside the clinic informing people that services are without charge, they’re still often worried in case they’ll be asked for money they don’t have. Fear of illness putting them in the workhouse stops many a sick person from seeking help, especially someone like Eddie, who knew very well that his mother was born in the workhouse and was lucky to get out. Billy, did anyone give any idea what might have been bothering Eddie?’

‘No. They knew he’d been doing a lot of work for some quite well-to-do people recently – that little stint at the Palace Mews helped word get around about him, and apparently he’d been travelling a bit farther afield to sort out difficult horses.’

‘Again, his mother indicated as much, and she said that at first she was worried about him travelling on the bus or the underground, but she said he’d memorised the stations across the whole railway and probably knew every single bus on the route as well as the conductors. And of course, there’s that new map of the underground railway; it’s made it easier to know where you’re going, even though the lines on the map look nothing like what’s really down there. Eddie had a good memory for the little details – I remember that about him, despite what anyone said about there not being much in his head. He just had a different way of thinking and seeing the world, I think.’ She made a note on the case map. ‘The interesting thing is that his mother doesn’t know the names of some of these people he worked for.’

‘I suppose he wasn’t the sort to keep a record of who he was seeing and when.’

‘That’s something else, apparently he had started a little book with his customers’ names, but it wasn’t there when they gave Mrs Pettit the sack of personal effects at the mortuary.’

‘Could it have dropped out?’

‘Or it might have been taken.’ Maisie looked at Billy. ‘Look, here are the notes I made after I visited Eddie’s mother. I’ve circled the items that need to go on the map, so if you can do that, I just want a minute to look over what Sandra’s left for me.’

Maisie sat at her own desk and began to read through observations written in Sandra’s neat, precise handwriting. For speed she had used pencil, but Maisie noticed that in her work at the office she generally used a marbled fountain pen, a gift from her late husband’s parents when they learnt she planned to attend night classes. Sandra had indented each new note with a tiny star, and she had underlined any point she believed to be of particular interest. One of those points in turn piqued Maisie’s interest: No union membership had been allowed at Bookhams since the company was bought by John Otterburn. Otterburn was the owner of daily and weekly newspapers throughout Britain, in particular the London Daily Messenger, a newspaper that had garnered a wide readership in the past three decades. The newspaper owner’s opposition to union membership was well known, along with his belief that Bolshevism would ‘buckle commerce and lead to the downfall of the British Empire.’ Despite powerful unions in the print and allied trades, Otterburn had kept organisation of workers out of Bookhams – and men who needed work didn’t argue.

From Sandra’s meticulous notations, she learnt that Otterburn had visited Bookhams himself following the accident, promising a full inquiry and an investigation into safety procedures at all Otterburn factories and offices.

In one newspaper report, it was said that Eddie’s presence was ‘tolerated’ by staff, who felt sympathy for his condition; a manager was quoted as saying, ‘Luckily for him, on account of his impaired mind, he wouldn’t have felt anything when that roll hit him.’

‘What a callous thing to say!’ Maisie thumped the desk as she put down the notes, pushed back her chair and proceeded across the room to the case map. ‘It says in a column in the Express that a manager at Bookhams reckoned Eddie wouldn’t have felt a thing because of his “impaired mind”.’

‘That’s nasty, Miss.’

‘I wish I knew his name, and that’s a fact.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Bookhams is owned by John Otterburn.’

‘The bloke who owns all the papers? Millionaire, ain’t he?’

‘Yes, he’s a very rich man. I believe his family were from Canada, and seeing as there’s a considerable timber industry there, it should come as no surprise that the Otterburns made a lot of money in the paper business. In any case, I know where I can get more information about him.’

‘Viscount Compton?’

Maisie nodded. ‘I’ll ask him tonight.’

Billy gathered the pencils he was using and looked down, his cheeks showing a blush of pink. While he was aware his employer was ‘walking out’ with James Compton – who was not only heir to Lord Julian Compton but had also assumed complete responsibility for the family’s interests in timber and construction in both the British Isles and Canada – even the smallest hint regarding the depth of their relationship caused Billy embarrassment. He preferred not to know about his employer’s personal life.

‘Of course, Miss. He would have some important information for us, I daresay,’ added Billy.

Maisie tapped a pencil against the table. ‘And I want to know what happened to Eddie’s notebook. I’ll talk to Mrs Pettit again tomorrow, and let’s ask the men if they know who was first to reach Eddie’s body after the accident. At some point that notebook – if he had it with him – left his person. I want to know who has it now.’

‘Right you are, Miss.’

‘According to the early reports, the conveyor was working properly, so why did the roll of paper fall? What caused the “inexplicable” accident?’

‘What shall I do next, Miss?’

‘Let’s finish this job first, see where we are and if anything leaps out at us. Then here’s what I want you to do – but wait until after my visit to Bookhams. I want you to have a word with some of the employees, ask around as if you’re looking for work, that sort of thing. Find out about the union situation. I daresay there’s a local pub where a number of the men go after work.’

‘Oh, I get your train of thought – an accident would give union organisers a bit of weight, even if Eddie wasn’t strictly a worker.’