In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  They discussed the case of missing jewelry—not the sort of assignment Maisie would usually take on, but the client had been referred by Lady Rowan. Billy reported on a case regarding a wife who doubted the fidelity of her husband, and the trio conferred on another case concerning the whereabouts of a wealthy widow who appeared to have vanished, but who Maisie—having located the woman—knew very well just wanted to get away from her manipulative adult sons.

  As Billy left and Sandra began a series of telephone calls, Maisie stood by the windows in the main office and watched her assistant make his way across the square. She could see from the way he carried himself that he was glad to be starting out on a bigger case. The dodgy wills and missing valuables were only engaging to a point; Billy always liked to sink his teeth into a more substantial assignment, one they were all working on together. But she knew he was troubled too, with one boy of enlistment age, another approaching it, and a wife with a history of mental illness. She would have to keep an eye on him. And on Sandra too. For if she was not mistaken, her newly married office administrator was expecting a child—and given her comments this morning, Sandra was fearful of what the future might hold for her firstborn.

  For her part, Maisie knew that each day had to be taken as it came, and to do her work she must be flexible, to move the fabric of time as one might if sewing a difficult seam, perhaps stretching the linen to accommodate a stitch. She had learned, long ago and in the intervening years when she was apart from all she loved, that to endure the most troubling times she had to break down time itself—one carefully crafted stitch after the other. If consideration of what the next hour might hold had been too difficult, then she thought only of another half an hour. She had explained this to Priscilla, once, and her friend had asked, “What’s the longest time you could bear, Maisie?” And she had whispered, “Two minutes.” But at some point the two minutes became five, and the five became ten, and as time marched on she was able to imagine a day ahead and then a week, until one day, almost without realizing it, she could plan her life, could look forward to time laying out the tablecloth as if to say “Come, take what you will, be nourished and know that you can bear what might be on your horizon, the good and the ill.”

  Now, on this day, some twenty-four hours after a new war had been declared, she wondered if she might have to begin reining in the future once again, with her thoughts only on the next hour, and the hour after that. She stepped back to the table and leafed through the folder of papers. As she read through the notes, the nagging feeling returned that Dr. Francesca Thomas had not been entirely open with her regarding some aspect of the assignment. Or was it that, despite her regard for Thomas—the nature of her past, her bravery, and her ease with secrecy, subterfuge and danger—Maisie had never quite trusted her, despite her own assurances to Sandra and Billy?

  Picking up her hat and document case, Maisie left the office—only to return to collect the gas mask she had left behind.

  Chapter 2

  Twenty-five Larkin Street, in Fulham, was just beyond the World’s End area of Chelsea. Maisie traveled by underground railway to Walham Green Station, and walked to Larkin Street. Having been born in Lambeth and engaged in work that took her from the poorest streets to the most exclusive crescents in London, Maisie had no fear of a slum. Though now a woman of some wealth, for the most part she dressed in an unassuming manner. Her clothes were good but plain, and it was not her way to flaunt her status in any perceptible fashion. Thus she walked with ease through an area so called because King James II—who rode regularly along the King’s Road in his day—had described the region as being at the end of the world.

  For Frederick Addens it had been a world that had saved his life, following his escape from the German army occupying Belgium. According to the notes furnished by Thomas, Addens had entered Britain aboard a fishing boat that came aground just outside Dymchurch. Some twenty people had made the crossing in storms plaguing the English Channel—it was not a long journey by any means, but for refugees fleeing an enemy, it might as well have been a million miles. Addens was almost sixteen when he at last reached safety, the same age as the century. He was married two years later, to an English girl, Enid Parsons, a young woman three years older than her new husband. Her first sweetheart, the boy she had loved since childhood and thought herself destined to marry, had perished in August 1916, in one of the many battles fought along the Somme Valley in France from July to November that year.

  Maisie slowed her pace. How had it been for the young couple, both grieving for what had been lost, yet embarking on a new life together? She understood loss, understood how it could leach into every fiber of one’s being; how it could dull the shine on a sunny day, and how it could replace happiness with doubt, giving rise to a lingering fear that good fortune might be snatched back at any time. Yet they had raised a son and a daughter, and now Enid Addens—a woman just a little older than herself—was enduring the brutal death of her husband, and perhaps the departure of her son to another battlefield. Maisie wondered how she would ever be able to speak to the woman, to question her about her husband’s murder. The truth of the matter, that she might stir the woman’s heart with her inquiries, almost made her turn back to the office. And then she remembered the trust placed in her by Francesca Thomas, and she knew she had it within her to gain the widow’s confidence. Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell’s less compassionate approach, on the other hand, might have cost him valuable time and information.

  Arriving at the rented terrace house, Maisie appraised the property where Frederick Addens had lived with his family. It was clear they had endeavored to keep a clean home in a grubby area. Unlike those on either side, number 25 had received a fresh coat of paint in recent years, probably work carried out by Addens and his son. What was his name? Ah, yes, Arthur, named for Enid’s brother, who had died on the very same day, in the same battle, as her sweetheart. The girl was named Dorothy, and called “Dottie” by the family. She bore her grandmother’s name. Maisie wondered why there was no hint of Addens’ relatives in the naming of their children.

  The path had been swept and the tiled doorstep looked as if it received a generous lick of Cardinal red tile polish every week. Someone had tried to grow flowers in the postage stamp of a front garden, but the blooms were patchy. Maisie approached the front door and lifted the knocker, rapping three times. The drawn curtains at the side of the bay window were tweaked back, indicating someone was at home. She rapped twice more. Footsteps approached, and after a lock was turned and a chain withdrawn, the door opened, but only enough to allow a young woman with fair hair and bloodshot eyes an opportunity to size up the caller.

  Maisie smiled, her manner exuding kindness. “Hello, you must be Miss Addens. My name is Maisie Dobbs. One of your late father’s compatriots has asked me to visit you and your mother.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Dorothy Addens.

  “I’m calling on behalf of someone who knew your father in Belgium. I am an investigator, and I believe Scotland Yard might have missed a few details regarding the circumstances of your father’s death.”

  The young woman waited a few seconds, as if considering the request put to her by the unexpected caller. “Just a minute,” she said. “And I have to shut the door on you. Sorry.”

  “That’s all ri—” Before Maisie could finish the sentence, the door closed. She heard footsteps receding on the other side, and Dorothy Addens calling, “Mum. Mum, there’s a woman to see you, from Belgium.”

  Two minutes later, Addens returned, opening the door as Maisie was looking up at the barrage balloons overhead. “They’re an eyesore, aren’t they?”

  “Horrible. But I suppose they make us all a bit safer,” said Maisie.

  “They didn’t keep my dad safe, did they?” Addens’ tone was sharp, then softened. “Sorry, Miss Dobbs—it was Miss Dobbs, wasn’t it? We’re all very upset around here. My mother’s had a terrible time of it, what with my brother joining the army
to top off everything else. Come in. She said she’ll see you. But please don’t stay long—she’s very tired.”

  “Of course.”

  Maisie followed Dorothy Addens along a passageway into the kitchen at the back of the house. From the doors to the right, leading to a parlor and dining room, to the kitchen overlooking a narrow garden planted with vegetables, the house was like so many she had visited, and like thousands in towns across the country. They had been built to meet the demand for housing during the exodus of workers from the country in the middle of the last century: people beckoned by a promise of opportunity as the boom in industry powered by steam, steel, and petrol seemed poised to render agriculture yesterday’s business. Each house in Larkin Street comprised three floors, and Maisie suspected the top-floor rooms might be rented to lodgers.

  “Mum, this is Miss Dobbs.” Dorothy Addens pulled out a seat for Maisie and took the chair next to her mother, who sat with her elbows on the oilcloth cover spread across the table, twisting a handkerchief over and over in her hands.

  With a gray, lined face and hair scraped back into a bun at the base of her neck, Enid Addens could well have passed for a grandmother. Maisie remembered seeing her own reflection in a mirror after James was killed, and she wondered now if she had appeared so worn, so beaten by circumstance.

  Frederick Addens’ widow looked up at Maisie. “You know my husband?”

  Maisie noticed how Enid had used the present tense. The knowledge that her husband was dead had not yet seeped into the deepest part of her heart. Speaking of him as no longer being in her world likely felt akin to a knife thrust into her chest. Maisie coughed, laying a hand against the fabric of her jacket, close to her own heart—the cough had deflected attention from the pain she felt when she observed the woman’s distress. She did not want to slip.

  “I know someone who has asked me to look into the circumstances of your husband’s passing, Mrs. Addens.” Maisie opened her bag, took out a calling card, and placed it in front of the woman. “I am by training an investigator. I assist my clients in situations where questions remain regarding something untoward that has happened. My client is from Belgium, and wants to ensure the person responsible for your husband’s death is found, and so came to me.”

  “Someone killed my father, Miss Dobbs—if the police can’t find out who did it, then how can you? Eh? I don’t want you coming here to upset my mother, even if you have the best of intentions.”

  Enid Addens laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Now then, Dottie. You’re the one getting upset. I’d like to hear what the lady has to say. Be a good girl and put the kettle on—make us all a nice cup of tea.”

  Dorothy Addens scraped back her chair and stepped across to the stove.

  “And open that back door, love,” added her mother. “What with this weather and that stove, it’s like a bakehouse in here.”

  “It is close, isn’t it, Mrs. Addens? Would you mind if I took off my hat and jacket?” asked Maisie.

  “Not at all, please—we don’t stand on ceremony in this house.” Enid looked up at Maisie, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know what will become of us, without Fred.”

  Maisie took a breath. Yes, she would entrust the woman with something of herself. She would touch her hand, tell her a little about her past, encourage the sharing of a confidence.

  “I know what it is to lose your husband, Mrs. Addens. My husband was killed a few years ago. It takes time to recover yourself—and I still grieve for him.”

  Enid’s stare seemed to dare Maisie to look away, as if she were measuring the depth of Maisie’s sadness to see if it matched her own. In time she spoke again. “So, you’re an investigator and you want to find out who killed my husband. I will answer your questions as best I can. Dottie, bring the tea and you sit down too—your memory’s better than mine.” She looked up at her daughter as Dottie placed cups of tea in front of her mother and Maisie. Enid turned to Maisie. “She’ll be back to work tomorrow—she’s already taken too much time off on account of me. We need the money, though the railway had a whip-round for us, so we won’t be short for a while, and my son will be sending money home.”

  Maisie reached into her bag and brought out a notebook. “Mrs. Addens, can you tell me about your husband’s last morning? It was at the end of the first week of August, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was a Friday, August the fourth. I remember it, everything about that day now. It’s as if the news made everything sort of big—do you know what I mean?” She looked at Maisie, as if to see if she shared the experience.

  Maisie nodded. “I know very well what you mean, Mrs. Addens—I could describe even the smallest detail about the day my husband died. It’s branded into my memory.”

  “I’d been working in the shop—I’ve a job at a haberdashery shop up on Fulham High Street, part-time. I hadn’t long been home, and was sitting down having five minutes to myself with a cup of tea to listen to the news on the wireless, and the police came to the door. I remember, I was thinking about that General Franco—they were saying how he had just declared that he would only answer to God and to history, and he’d set himself up as the ruler of Spain. And after all they’ve gone through, I thought to myself, now they’ve got a dictator in charge. Makes you wonder what’s going to happen to us.” She looked away, fixing her gaze on the garden.

  “My father was interested in what goes on in the rest of the world, Miss Dobbs.” Dorothy Addens lifted a cup to her lips. “So we all have opinions in this house.”

  Maisie smiled, understanding that the younger woman felt the need to underline her credentials. She wanted Maisie to know that, despite the area in which she was born, she, Dorothy Addens, was an intelligent woman, the daughter of a man who understood the importance of educating oneself.

  Maisie turned back to Enid. “What happened then—what did the police say?”

  “There was a man from the railway police with them, and someone from the railways board. It was a right little crowd on my doorstep. I thought straightaway that my husband had been killed by a train—one of Frederick’s mates was killed by a loco a few years ago, and another scalded to death by steam. I wondered what had happened. And I couldn’t move. I was stuck to the threshold, but the railway policeman took me by the arm and led me into the parlor, and he sat me down and said that Frederick had been murdered. All these men were sitting in my parlor looking even bigger, uncomfortable perching on the edges of the chairs, while this Detective Chief Inspector told me what had happened. Frederick had been killed outside the station, down an alley not far away. They don’t know what he was doing there, because he didn’t knock off work until six on a Friday, as a rule—unless he had overtime—and it happened at four, or so they think. They told me he had been shot.”

  “And who identified the body?”

  “One of his mates, a fellow he worked with. Mike Elliot. I couldn’t go to see my husband, on account of what they said were the circumstances, but Dottie—she came home while they were here—she said they were covering it up. And she said it to their faces, told them that the reason we couldn’t see her dad was that it was so bad and they didn’t want to tell us the truth. She can be a terror, can Dottie—if she’s put out, she can get very uppity, and she was uppity with the police. Takes it all in here, you see.” Enid Addens tapped her chest with her hand as she looked at her daughter.

  “Mum! I’m all right. Just tell Miss Dobbs what she needs to know—you don’t need to ramble about me.”

  Enid gave a half smile. “She wouldn’t have cried in front of them, so her temper started up. That’s how it is with some people. Friend of mine had a dog who was a right growler, showed his teeth to anyone who came up to him, but it was as if his wires had been crossed when he was a pup—that growl was a purr, and all he wanted was a pet. Well, she growled at the police until I sent her off to make a pot of tea. I tell you, Miss Dobbs, I could hear that girl crying her eyes out in the kitchen, and I knew that all she
wanted was someone to comfort her—and I couldn’t do it because it was as if I was paralyzed in my chair. The railway policeman—he was a big fellow, looked like a family man—he went out and I heard him say, ‘That’s it, love, get it out of your system, you have a good cry.’”

  “He came where he wasn’t wanted. If you remember, Mum, I sent him off packing back to the parlor.” Dottie reached into the pocket of her summer dress and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  “Go outside if you want to do that, Dottie. I have enough trouble with the flue on that stove, without you smoking up the kitchen.”

  Dottie Addens pushed back her chair and flounced out to the back garden, where Maisie could see her light her cigarette and inhale deeply. She held her head back and blew out a series of smoke rings.

  “I’m sorry about that. She’s normally such a good girl—has some spirit, but she idolized her father. He always said she reminded him of himself, when he was younger—well, it must have been much younger, because he was married to me at eighteen.” Enid Addens rubbed her upper arms, tears welling in her eyes again. “He was so young, really, but a man already. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted a wife and a family, and to be settled—that’s what he wanted, and he chose me, so I was a very lucky woman. I thought I’d lost my chance, and then Frederick came along.”

  Maisie brought her attention back to Enid. “Mrs. Addens. I’m used to meeting people in these difficult situations—I would be just like Dorothy if I’d lost my father.” She paused for a second. “Can you tell me what else the detective said?”

  “He asked lots of questions—he was like a gun, firing off one shot after the other. He wanted to know if Frederick had friends, who his friends were. He wanted to know about the darts team at the pub—really, that was the only thing Frederick did outside the family; darts practice on a Friday night at eight, and then a match of a Sunday. He’d be back in time for a quick bite to eat and we’d work in the garden—we did that together; we loved the garden, small though it is. We never had our dinner until later in the evening on a Sunday. It was one thing that Frederick was firm about. He said he wanted his Sunday dinner like they did it when he was a boy—in the evening, not in the middle of the day, when afterwards all you do is sleep. No, he liked to have something to show for his day, Frederick. And seeing as he’d left his own country behind to come here, it was the least I could do for him—put a Sunday dinner on the table at the time he liked it, though it wasn’t how I was brought up.”