At that moment, Billy returned to the room with a fresh pot of tea. “Sorry about the wait, gents. Mrs. Tapley is a bit better at the tea than me.” He handed a cup to Maisie.
“She’s a bit easier on the eyes, too, mate,” added Dick Samuels.
The men laughed. Good, thought Maisie. They were at ease.
She thanked Billy, then turned back to the men. “But Billy here is the man to track down Mrs. Soames,” said Maisie. “Did you hear what Seth had to say about Camden Lock, Billy?”
“Clear as a bell.” He pulled up his chair again. “I’ll get onto it as soon as the gentlemen leave.”
Maisie smiled. “Now then, have any of you recalled anything new since yesterday? Any memories been jogged?”
“Well, I didn’t set much stock about it at the time,” Archie Smith began. “But last night as I was running Gussie, my old horse, through the passage out to the back, I remembered seeing Eddie at the market—must’ve been, oh, about six weeks ago—and he had this notebook he was writing things down in. We told you about that, eh?”
Maisie nodded. “Go on, Archie.”
“Well, it was a right nice little book, none of your cheap stuff. Had a spine, and ‘Notes’ written on the front in gold letters. I mean, it wasn’t top of the line, but like I said, it wasn’t bottom of the heap. Anyway, I mentioned it to Ed. I said, ‘Nice little book you’ve got yourself there, eh?’ And he says, ‘Bart gave that to me.’ I was just about to ask, ‘Who’s Bart?’ when old Bill Flackley came over for a jaw about the moldy old oranges coming in from the docks, and that was that. Last I saw of Eddie that day, he was helping out a copper with a lame horse—they all knew Eddie, them coppers.”
“Bart?” asked Maisie. “Did anyone else ever hear Eddie talk about Bart?”
The men shook their heads, looking at one another as if hoping someone would say, “Oh, Bart—well, that must be . . .” But it was clear that no one knew Bart or had heard of him before.
Maisie made a notation on an index card while asking another question. “You’ve all said that there was something about Eddie that was different in the weeks before his death. A secretary at Bookhams mentioned the same thing, so I can’t help but come back to it. Can any of you put your finger on exactly what you could see that was different? Was he sad? Happy? Did he seem unwell? What do you think?”
Jesse Riley rubbed his chin. “It was as if he had something on his mind. And Eddie was never like that—your dad always said Eddie’s gift was right here and now, and that was the beauty of the man. It was as if—”
“I’ll tell you what it was like,” Seth interrupted. “It was like one of them fairy tales they tell you when you’re a nipper, you know, where a witch comes along and casts a spell, making everyone afraid of their own shadows. Well that was Eddie, going about as if someone had waved a wand and changed him all of a sudden.”
“And no one knows what happened?”
“Might’ve been that bleeding magic notebook, if you ask me,” offered Dick Samuels. “Reckon it all came at the same time. He never lost his way with the horses, though, even with whatever was going through his mind that was bothering him. Never more content than when he was with the horses, Eddie.”
Maisie and Billy talked with the men for another ten minutes or so, though no more specific information was imparted.
“Have you spoken to your dad, Maisie?” asked Archie Smith.
“Not yet, Archie, though I’m planning to see him soon.”
“You probably don’t remember this, girl, but your dad knew Eddie better than anyone outside of Maud and Jennie. In fact, when Eddie wanted a haircut, that’s where he went—around to where Frankie kept Persephone, underneath the railway arches.”
“Dad cut Eddie’s hair? I don’t understand.” Maisie leaned forward.
“Well, you weren’t to know, were you? I doubt if Frankie talked about it, on account of Eddie being afraid of the scissors.”
“What do you mean? I’m sure I saw Eddie using scissors or a knife to cut a bandage, that sort of thing.”
Jesse shook his head. “No, what it was, I reckon, was that Eddie didn’t like the flashing in front of his eyes, so close to his head. It was that sharp metal, that clicking—hated it, he did. When he was a lit’lun, it was all Maud could do to get the boy’s hair cut—Eddie could have a temper on him at times, no two ways about it. It was your dad who sorted him out. He told Maudie to bring the boy around to the stable and he’d cut his hair. Frankie knew, you see, it was as if he understood straightaway; he knew two things—that Eddie wouldn’t play up with a horse there to watch him, and that the boy didn’t like that sharp metal close to him. So your dad put a blindfold on Eddie, and cotton wool in the boy’s ears, and then he’d sing all the while he was cutting, so the sound of the snipping and the metal on metal wasn’t so bad. And it went on like that until your dad left—but that’s why he came up on the train every couple of months: to cut Eddie’s hair.”
Seth laughed. “Bet you thought it was to see us lot!”
Maisie smiled and shook her head. “The things you don’t know about your own family.”
“You can always trust Frankie Dobbs,” said Jesse.
“Yes, that’s something I know.” Maisie stood up and shook hands with each man in turn. “Billy will come down to the market and leave a message with one of you when we’ve got something to report. I think it’s best we just get on with it now—don’t worry if you don’t hear anything for a few days; it sometimes takes a while to get to the heart of an investigation. But send a message immediately if you remember anything—as I said before, even the smallest detail can help us.”
The men filed out, with Billy escorting them to the front door and out into the square. He came back into the room as Maisie was collecting the teacups.
“What do you think, Miss?”
Maisie set the cups and saucers on the tray with the teapot and looked up at Billy. “I think we have to find Pauline Soames, and we also have to find out who this Bart is. And I have to talk to my father—it seems he knew Eddie better than most.”
“Funny, that, about the hair,” said Billy, taking the tray from Maisie.
“Not really, when you think about it. Eddie was scared by things that were too much for his senses to absorb. The scissors close to his head was probably more than he could cope with, and scary for a person who felt emotions so keenly. And there was something about this notebook that I believe had the same effect on him—it was too much for him. Far too much.”
Billy nodded. “And that bloke Archie Smith, what did he mean about running the horse along the passageway?”
Maisie laughed. “Unless you’d seen a coster when he’s finished for the day, Billy, you wouldn’t know this, but a lot of them can’t afford stables, so they keep the horse at home if they’ve got a bit of a yard at the back. They take off the harness, lead the horse to the front door, then slap him on the rump so he trots along the passageway, past the kitchen and right out the back door to the yard. By that time the horse is good and tired anyway, so all it wants to do is eat a bag of oats, a flake of hay, and have a good night’s rest.”
“Well I never; me an East End boy, born and bred, and I never knew that.”
“And if you had Eddie Pettit around, you never needed to pay for doctoring, either,” said Maisie.
“So, you want me to look for this Mrs. Soames?”
“Yes, find out where she lives. I reckon she must be about sixty-five or thereabouts by now. And you might start at a library within walking distance of Camden Lock. Don’t go to visit if you find her—just bring me the details. And the other task is to nip along to a pub called The Lighterman; it’s just past Bookhams, at the end of the street. The workers get in there after the day shift has finished. It’s probably best if you give the impression that you’re looking for work, so you’re asking around to see if anyone knows of vacancies at the factory. Money is passing hands all the time these days—men who can barely feed their
families are parting with cash they’ve borrowed just to get a word in the right ear for a job, so you might need a few pounds.” Maisie opened her bag and pulled five crisp notes from her purse. “Here—I know it seems like a lot, but I’ve heard the foremen down the docks are rubbing their fingers together for no less than five pounds to pick someone out of the line for work. And I’d rough those notes up a bit if I were you—you don’t want to look as if you just came from the bank.”
Billy took the money. “Makes you sick, don’t it, Miss? How there are men out there—working men, union men—taking advantage of the poor blokes who are down on their luck.”
“It does—but I don’t mind parting with money to find out why Eddie had changed in recent weeks, and why he was scared.”
Maisie walked to the window and looked out across the dusky square. The day’s warmth was diminished now, as a chill damp air seeped up from the river and along the streets. She thought about her flat, knowing that if she were alone, she would doubtless set off for Chelstone that very evening—but not if she couldn’t get the MG to start. James had suggested she buy herself a new motor car, but she’d replied that all the time the MG was running without too much maintenance, it was good enough for her. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. If she went back to the flat and packed an overnight bag, she could be at Victoria by seven, and with a bit of luck she would arrive at Tonbridge station in time to catch the last branch-line train to Chelstone; she could walk from there to her father’s house. She wondered about James, knowing he would be disappointed not to find her at his home, but at once she knew that, not only did she need to see her father, but she had a great desire to be on her own for a while. As she considered her thoughts, she placed her hand on her chest. Yes, she needed to get away from London, from Ebury Place, if only for a day or so. She craved the fresh country air. She wanted to feel her lungs filled with one deep breath after another.
She picked up the telephone and dialed the Ebury Place number.
“Simmonds, good evening. It’s Miss Dobbs here. Would you take a message for Viscount Compton for me? Lovely, thank you. Please inform him that I’ve had to leave town for Chelstone and—no, Mr. Dobbs is in good health, thank you, Simmonds, but I have to see him on a matter of some urgency. I’ll most likely catch the early train on Thursday morning. Yes. Thank you very much.”
Later, seated in a warm first-class carriage, lulled by the side-to-side motion of the train as it made its way through London down to Kent, Maisie knew that she might fool Simmonds, and even James. But there was never a chance of fooling Frankie Dobbs.
Long way to come at this time of a night. Couldn’t you wait until the morning? Mrs. Bromley will be upset when she knows you’ve stayed here at my cottage and not up at the house—it’s your house now, Maisie, and Mrs. Bromley takes great pride in looking after you while you’re there. You might let her do a bit more for you, and—”
“Dad—please don’t. I just wanted to stay here tonight, in my old room. Now, if you would only move up to The Dower House—”
“I thought I’d made myself clear, Maisie.”
Maisie sighed. “Yes, you did. I’m sorry, Dad.”
Frankie said nothing as he poured scalding water into a brown teapot and slipped the lid into place. He wrapped a woolen tea cozy around the pot and set the pot on the kitchen table with two large mugs, a spoon, a jug of fresh milk, and a bowl of sugar. Finally, Frankie sat down opposite his daughter.
“Choked me up when I found out about Eddie.” Frankie turned his head and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed the cloth to his eyes, then faced Maisie again. “Terrible way to go, I’m sure.”
Maisie nodded. “They all came to see me, you know. The lads.”
“What do you reckon?”
Maisie shrugged. “If something’s amiss, I’ll find out what it is. Certainly, there are some unanswered questions. I thought you might be able to help me, Dad—you knew Eddie as well as anyone.”
She uncovered the teapot, stirred the tea, and began to pour the strong brown liquid into the mugs. Frankie wiped his eyes again.
“The thing you have to remember about Eddie was that he walked along a very narrow path. He didn’t like surprises, and anything new worried him; took him out of himself—but all the time he was inside himself and knew what was expected of him and how to go about his day, Eddie was a happy lad. He knew his mum, he knew Jennie and—bless his soul—old Wilf. He knew who he trusted at the market, and though he was nervous when someone new asked for him, as soon as he was in with the horse, you wouldn’t’ve known there was any tightness in him—when he was worried or out of sorts, Eddie could get very tight in his body. I remember when he was a boy, he’d get these turns when it seemed as if his whole body had gone like a board, with his little hands clenched. Maudie used to gather him up and hold him like he was in a vise, and soon he’d calm down. She learned how to cope with it, and he learned a bit about what made him unhappy—like I said, it was a narrow road, but as a man he knew not to stray, if you get my meaning.” Frankie sipped his tea, set the mug down, and sighed. Maisie said nothing, and soon her father continued talking.
“With Eddie it was get up in the morning—same time every day—have his bowl of porridge and a cup of tea, always in the same cup. Then he went off to his jobs, one after the other. Maudie would go with him the first couple of times if he had a new customer, just to make sure. But I give the woman her due, she made him stand on his own two feet. I remember her saying to me, ‘Frank, when I’m gone that boy’s got to look after himself, so I can’t mollycoddle him. I know what sets him off, and as long as I don’t push him too far, I reckon he’ll learn enough to do without me when my time comes.’ Poor Maud don’t have to worry about that now. I s’pose there’s a blessing there, because in truth I could never see Eddie getting on without Maud, and that’s a fact. And I feel terrible for saying it.”
Maisie reached out to hold her father’s hand. “I’m sure there are those who’ve thought the same—which is probably one of the reasons Eddie’s death wasn’t investigated properly, as far as I can see.” She paused. “Look, Dad, I hate to have to ask you all these questions about him, but I didn’t know you’d been cutting his hair for most of his life until the men told me about it—which means you must have seen him in the past couple of months.”
Frankie nodded. “Even during the war, when you were over there, I went up every now and again to see him and Maud, and to cut his hair. It was easier when he was younger and I had the old horse, but by the time I’d come down here to live, well, he’d got used to me and trusted me.”
“What happened to Eddie in the war? I always thought he was called up but they took one look at him and let him go.”
“That’s more or less what happened, though he did his bit. He went to work over on Hampstead Heath, just for a while, looking after the horses. The army’d requisitioned thousands of horses—as you know—and the Heath was one of the places where they’d gathered a lot of them. So Eddie ended up as a groom. He never went to France of course—he wouldn’t’ve lasted a minute before he went off his head. But apparently there was one officer who realized that as long as Eddie knew what to do and he did more or less the same thing every day at the same time—and that’s what the army does, anyway—he was a good worker. They kept him nice and peaceful, just working in the makeshift stables, but he was discharged when the regiment left.” Frankie shook his head and smiled. “I heard a story that, one time, there was all these army blokes, supposed to know their horses, and not one of them could make these horses what’d just been brought in pull a gun carriage. Eddie comes along and looks at the horses, then vanishes for a few minutes. He comes back with a bell, and as soon as the horses heard that bell, off they went. See, Eddie knew they were horses what’d pulled the buses—they went on a ring and stopped on a ring, and it was only Eddie who’d tumbled it.”
Maisie smiled back at her father, remembering Eddie at the work he mo
st loved. “So when you last saw Eddie, how was he?” she asked.
“Must’ve been about five or six weeks ago. I went up on the train to Charing Cross, then walked up to the market—you’ll remember, because I popped round to your office afterwards for a cup of tea before I went to catch the train home. Eddie was there, so I sat him down round the back of one of the sheds and cut his hair for him. We had our usual chat—he never was one for a long conversation, Eddie. He’d talk about the same things he always talked about; and if he was looking after a new horse, he’d tell me about it.” Frankie smiled, remembering.
“Nothing out of the ordinary then.”
“I suppose not, no—well, there was something that made me wonder a bit at the time because it wasn’t anything he’d ever commented on before.” Frankie looked at his daughter. “I don’t know why it didn’t strike me more at the time, because, now I come to think about it, it wasn’t like Eddie—you know I told you about his narrow path? This was off the path.”
“What did he say?” Maisie poured more tea into the mugs.
“He started off talking about birds, how he sometimes watched them flying. And I could imagine that, you know, him standing by the river, watching birds swooping down. Then all of a sudden, he started talking about aeroplanes. Just a mention, about things that fly.”
“You’re right, that doesn’t sound like Eddie at all to me.”
“He said he’d like to fly, because he’d been drawing aeroplanes.”
“Would he have seen an aeroplane?”
“You do see one go over every now and again, and there’s always something in the papers—them aviator types like Amy Johnson and Jim Mollison; photographs of folk in overalls leaning against the steps going up to their ship. I’ve sometimes been in the village and seen one go over, and everyone comes running out to look, so perhaps he saw one—and you know Eddie, once a thing captured his imagination, he’d keep on about it.”
“And did he—keep on about it?”
Frankie shrugged. “I s’pose that’s another funny thing. He made mention of an aeroplane, and then never said another word about it; just went back to the usual about horses, repeating himself, like he did.” Frankie looked out of the window, as if imagining Eddie Pettit, then turned back to Maisie. “You going to the funeral?”