“I see you looking at my wig—yes, I know I should put it away carefully, and Williams will tut-tut-tut about it, but there you are. It makes my head itch and brings me out in a rash on my forehead, so I can’t wait to be rid of the thing when I leave court. But of course you’re not here to talk about my wig problems, are you?”
Maisie at once felt herself on guard. Here was an ambitious man, a man who was used to disarming those he questioned. Was that why John Otterburn had chosen the firm to represent his business interests?
“No, I’m here to ask a few questions that you may or may not be able to answer, about the death of Mr. Edwin Pettit at Bookhams Paper.”
“Very tragic. And I believe the man thought to have caused the accident has taken his own life. Yes, it’s sad all around. But how can I help? As the owner’s counsel, we ensured that Mrs. Pettit received a sum to help with funeral arrangements, though as you know, Mr. Pettit was not an employee and, frankly, should not have been on the premises. We have assisted the company in the process of instigating new rules regarding access to the factory by nonemployees, and as you know—because you’ve been to the factory, according to the manager, Mr. Mills—there are now additional safeguards in place so that such an accident will never happen again.” He smiled at Maisie. “Factories are dangerous places, and it’s a painful truth that it often takes an accident such as this to have the engineers and so on look again at the various processes and procedures to see what might be done to stop it happening in the future—tragedy as the mother of invention, if you will.”
“Quite. But that’s not exactly why I’m here, though I’d like to come back to the plight of Mrs. Pettit.”
“Go on,” said Herrold, his face giving away nothing of his inner thoughts.
“I’m curious to know why Bookhams took on a known criminal in James Merton. The man had previous convictions and seemed to wield a certain amount of power, especially when it came to preventing union activity in the factory. I wonder if that was sanctioned by the company? I’m here because, as the company’s legal representatives, you would have had a hand in development of policy regarding organized labor, I would have thought.”
Herrold took a moment to answer, clearly formulating his response with care, then he smiled again. It was a sudden smile, put on as if it were a mask.
“Miss Dobbs, I fail to see what any of this has to do with you, or with the death of Mr. Pettit, or, indeed, his mother’s needs at the present time.”
This time it was Maisie’s turn to smile. “Fair enough, but speaking of his mother’s needs, with the discovery of Mr. Merton’s guilt, a guilt that led to his death, one can conclude that a flawed yet obviously trusted employee—especially if he was tasked with the obstruction of union activity—not only may have had a hand in the death of Mr. Pettit, but at the very least might have prevented his death, or could have offered assistance when he was dying, which he didn’t. Now, Mrs. Pettit has been left in a precarious financial position, given that her son was the breadwinner in the family—indeed, he had worked for Mr. Otterburn in another capacity, I believe, assisting with his horses—so my visit here is to negotiate a . . . a settlement, I think is the word. Yes, a financial settlement to ensure she is not compromised by want.”
“Well, I—frankly, Miss Dobbs, I—” Herrold stuttered.
“Yes, you do know what I’m talking about, Mr. Herrold. And I suggest you discuss the matter with your client. I am sure he will be more than willing to accommodate Mrs. Pettit, given the fact that her son died a terrible death at one of his most important factories.” Maisie stood up. “I’ll give my name and telephone number to Mr. Williams, so you can contact me when you have a figure in mind. We’ll haggle then, shall we?”
She held out her hand, and saw that Herrold was beaming his confident smile once more.
“I will be in touch, Miss Dobbs.” He rang a bell and the door opened almost at once, giving the impression that Williams had been on the other side, like a faithful dog waiting for his master’s summons.
As Maisie reached the door, Herrold spoke again. “Well done, Miss Dobbs. I have to admit, very well done.”
Maisie smiled in return, nodding to Williams as she passed him in the corridor. She remained long enough to give the clerk her address and telephone number, and departed the offices of Sanders and Herrold, ensuring she thanked the porter as she left the building. John Otterburn would no doubt hear about her visit within a few moments, and she wondered if he would comment upon it when they met at dinner. It did not matter. Maisie had decided that instead of simply writing a check herself, she should try to squeeze some money out of Otterburn via his lawyers. It would mean a great deal to Maudie, and at the same time, Maisie might discover something of use. The fact that the ploy had worked so easily, that Otterburn’s representative was so quick to consider her request at just the mention of possible criminal activity, gave her pause.
A plain correspondence postcard from Eve Butterworth was waiting at the office. The message informed Maisie that she was available to visit the Lancaster Gate writers’ studio on Thursday morning. Using a similar postcard to reply, Maisie said she would pick her up outside her friends’ flat the following morning at ten o’clock.
Two new customer inquiries and a sit-down with Sandra to compare notes on work in hand saw another couple of hours go by. Caldwell telephoned at noon.
“Afternoon, Miss Dobbs. Got some news for you.”
“Is Billy all right?”
“Doing much better, sitting up and talking—in fact, as far as I can tell, he’s talking rather a lot.”
“That is good news.” Maisie put her hand on her chest. “I am so glad, I cannot tell you how much.”
“We were able to have a word with him this morning, just dotting i’s and crossing t’s in this Merton business, because that’s one thing I want to get right off my desk. Anyway, he’d like to see you—afternoon visiting tomorrow, if you’d like to go in. He is considered fully capable and his wishes make the previous instruction from Mrs. Beale null and void.”
“I’m so glad. How is she? Do you know?”
“Being discharged tomorrow, late morning, so I would suggest your little helper over there at the house should leave first thing.”
“I’ll make sure it’s done. Thank you, Inspector.”
“By the way, here’s a bit of police gossip. You know that lad I put you in touch with—PC Dawkins?—well, he’s vanished off the face of the earth.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Left a message that he was sick of the smell of the river and being on the water, so he just upped and left. Couple of the lads went round to his house and his mum said he’d gone out as usual that morning. She was dead surprised.”
“Aren’t you worried? Is there an inquiry in progress?”
“He’d been talking about going off, apparently. Told a couple of the other lads that he was always aching in his bones, what with the damp and all, and he said he didn’t really like the work. And off he went.”
“His mother must be sick with worry.”
“She is, but we reckon he’ll get in touch soon—or he’ll be back when he realizes that there’s hardly any work to be had, wherever he goes.” He paused. “I just wondered, seeing as you spoke to him recently—any idea where he might’ve gone?”
“Inspector Caldwell, I’m concerned for his safety. Of course I don’t know where he’s gone. And are you sure he’s just left to go off to find work elsewhere?”
“The note says as much, and he hasn’t been missing twenty-four hours yet. Mark my words, he’ll be back soon enough, though the police won’t take him on again. No, we need men with a bit more about them; not shirkers afraid of a bit of wet.”
“So you wouldn’t mind a shift or two on a cold night out on the water.”
“Not blimmin’ likely!”
Maisie left the office earlier than usual, arriving at Ebury Place to prepare for the evening’s outing to the dinner p
arty hosted by John Otterburn and his wife. James arrived home within an hour of Maisie, and swept her into his arms when he came into her room.
“I almost came over to the flat last night, I missed you so very much, Maisie.”
She smiled. “Oh, I had my usual bowl of soup. You were better off here, having a good meal.”
“No, not really. I rather miss our evenings at the flat.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it was a mistake, opening up the house.”
“Your mother was right, James. A man of your position needs a home in London, not to be living at a club,” said Maisie. “And you’ve breathed life into the old house.”
“It’s alive when you’re here with me.”
James held Maisie close, and she was filled with confusion again. How might it be, she wondered, if they were married? And with that question she felt the air leave her lungs and her breath become shorter. She pulled away.
“We’d better get ready, don’t you think? This one’s an early supper, so we don’t want to be late.”
“Right you are, General!” James turned. “Let’s have a glass of champagne before we go.”
“Lovely idea.”
Maisie, you look smashing, as always.”
Maisie looked down at her dress of heavy silk in the same violet-blue as her eyes. “It’s another one of Priscilla’s, gratefully accepted.”
“She probably had to give it to you—I can’t see that suiting her half so well, not with her chestnut hair. It gives you an air of intrigue—all dark colors reflected.”
“Oh dear, I do believe you’re in a poetic frame of mind this evening.” Maisie was glad they were in a light mood, almost as if it were the early days of their courtship. She hoped there would be no discord this evening.
Following a quick glass of champagne, they were soon on their way to the Otterburns’ Park Lane mansion. As they reached Hyde Park, James reached across and took Maisie’s hand.
“Be careful, James, you’re supposed to be watching the road.” She had noticed that James often waited for a nighttime journey to broach a troublesome subject, when the rhythm of the motor car conspired with the shadowy darkness to ease what he anticipated might be a difficult conversation.
“I want to ask you something, Maisie.”
Maisie felt herself tense. “Yes, James. What is it?”
“Look, I’ve been thinking a lot about your work lately, and I have to admit I’ve been getting more and more worried. This business with Billy rather floored me, and I think—if you don’t mind my saying—I think it’s the thick end of the wedge. I want to ask—no, in fact, in respect of our . . . our relationship . . . I believe I must insist, if that’s not too strong a word—that you give it up. Or perhaps not do so much or don’t accept these risky assignments. You asked what I really wanted, and I realized I want you to step back a bit, not only for your own safety, but for us. I mean, look, what is to be achieved by taking on these jobs? And this one has been for a simple man who died in an accident.”
“What? Did you just call Eddie a simple man?”
James ran a hand through his hair. “Look, that came out all wrong—but at the same time, please, Maisie, let’s be honest; from everything I’ve gleaned—not that you tell me anything about your work, not the details, I have to find that out myself—but from all I know, he was not quite all there, was he?”
Maisie thought her head might burst as questions formed in her mind—and a rising anger caught in her chest when she thought of what James had said.
“The only thing that matters is that he was a human being. In fact, he was the most innocent of human beings, James, and those men who came to me for help deserve everything I could do to bring peace to the memory of Eddie Pettit. I don’t have to explain any of this, James, but let me ask—what do you mean, you have to find out yourself? Am I the subject of an investigation?”
“No, not at all. I mean, well—”
“James, I will not spoil our evening, and I will not give you cause for embarrassment at the home of John Otterburn. But you can drop me at my flat after we leave, and then be on your way back to Ebury Place. I won’t be the subject of an investigation because you don’t like what I do. Have you someone snooping on me? Is that it? Well, that would certainly be one for the books.”
“Maisie, don’t take it like that. There’s no investigation; I’ve just been paying attention, that’s all. Really, I only wanted to let you know that I worry about you, that I’m concerned.”
“Then it’s best if you don’t know what I’m doing, or when. Then you won’t worry, will you?”
“You’re being unfair. Most unfair. You’re not a bachelor girl anymore, you’re a woman who is loved, and I think I have some say in your well-being.”
“Think of that next time you want to screech off somewhere in your Aston Martin, or go with your friends to watch motor racing. It cuts both ways, you know.”
“But, Maisie—”
“I do believe we’re here.”
James cruised the motor car to a halt alongside the main entrance to the grand house, and a footman came to open the passenger door. Maisie took his hand and stepped from the vehicle, then waited on the top step for James, who buttoned his jacket as he approached her.
“I love you, Maisie.”
She sighed. “I know you do, James. And I understand how you might feel. But my work is part of me. Now then, let’s compose ourselves and go in. This can wait for another time.”
At first glance, Maisie judged there to be about thirty people invited for supper, all of them clustered in the drawing room while footmen zipped to and fro with champagne and canapés. Maisie recognized several politicians, as well as two or three actors and a writer whose name she couldn’t quite remember. She recognized Winston Churchill, who was in conversation with an American whom she suspected was a man of commerce, and a very successful one at that, given the cut and quality of his suit, the way he stood, and the gold and diamond ring catching the light as he lifted his champagne glass to his lips. It was well known that Churchill had a fondness for Americans. His mother had come from that country to marry his father, and in so doing—with her not inconsiderable dowry—had shored up the fortune of the third son of the then Duke of Marlborough.
James mingled easily, his hand on Maisie’s elbow, steering her to meet people he knew, introducing her to Lady this and Lord that, to the heir of this title, the politician from that party. Words seemed to carry on the air, and Maisie thought that a guest at such a party was rather like a bee, buzzing from one bloom to the next in search of nectar, whether it be the sweet devilishness of gossip, the gravity of politics, or the weight of opinion. And everyone had an opinion.
“And she was wearing red. I mean, who’s wearing red this season?”
“I tell you, old chap, if I were you I’d keep an eye on those stocks; it’s not over yet.”
“Mark my words, that man Hitler has his eye on the whole of Europe, and we’re not ready for it. Not ready at all.”
“Put your money in land, that’s what I say. Land.”
“I do think it’s about time the prince settled down, don’t you?”
“And what about those Mitford girls? Can you imagine!”
On and on it went, like water tumbling across rocks in the riverbed.
And like a river, the groups and couples were soon on the move, funneled through double doors into a dining room that could quite easily have accommodated one hundred guests, thought Maisie.
She was surprised to find that she was seated to John Otterburn’s right, at one end of the table. His wife, Lorraine, was at the opposite end, with Winston Churchill to her left, and James to her right.
James smiled at Maisie and gave a subtle wave. She smiled in return. In truth she was not sure how she felt at that very moment, and each time doubt threatened to undermine the depth of consideration she’d given the matter while at her flat the previous evening, she pressed it back again. Her thoughts were lingering on the subjec
t of their relationship when she felt a hand on her arm.
“I said I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Dobbs—James has told me a lot about you.” John Otterburn cut an impressive figure; Maisie thought he looked not so much like a man of business as a film star, though she suspected his hair might have been dyed to hide the onset of gray. His suit was of an elegant cut, and his demeanor gave him an air of confidence and power, as if he were a king in his castle and those gathered around him at table were his court.
“Oh, Mr. Otterburn. I’m so sorry. I was distracted.”
“Probably by your amour at the other end of the table. I’m not sure he trusts me.”
“I am sure he does, Mr. Otterburn—why wouldn’t he?” Maisie picked up her water goblet to quench her thirst, then, without awaiting a reply, continued. “You’ve gathered an interesting assemblage of guests this evening.”
“You make me sound like a collector of butterflies. Actually, I rather like watching people, flitting here and there, wondering what they’re thinking—don’t you?”
Maisie nodded thanks to a footman who filled her wineglass, and turned back to Otterburn. “I rather believe everyone does that at times.”
“Certainly private inquiry agents have a tendency to more inquisitiveness than the average person.”
Maisie gave away nothing in her demeanor, nor did she take up the point with Otterburn. “Well, I would imagine so. How else would someone in that line of work get along, without healthy curiosity and something of an imagination?”
“Imagination?”
“I would say that in such a profession, one has to have an imagination, if only to grasp the full extent of what human beings are capable of, and to what purpose.”
Maisie was grateful when the woman to Otterburn’s left interrupted and firmly asked what he thought of the Prince of Wales and his current paramour. “It’s common knowledge,” she exclaimed, and asked if the newspaperman didn’t think the subject was worthy of a column or two, as people had a right to know.