“Did your husband ever talk about anyone who had upset him in any way—perhaps a fellow engineer, or someone on the darts team? Or someone who he’d disagreed with, something like that?”
The woman shook her head. “No. I mean, there might have been a niggle here and there—we all have them—but nothing serious, nothing lingering.”
“How about friends from Belgium? He came over with others, didn’t he?”
“No, no one that I can remember. I even asked him about it, and he said his wife and family were his best friends, and that his first family—that’s what he called them, his first family—were all gone anyway.” Enid Addens was quiet, kneading her handkerchief. “I know that when he came away from Belgium, he had seen some terrible things. Houses being shelled, people running from their homes, and the Germans coming in. It was as if he wanted to just push everything to the past, where it belonged. He came here to start anew, he said—and what was gone, was gone. You couldn’t bring it back, and he said that he didn’t want to.”
Maisie allowed some seconds to pass before pressing with her next question. “Do you know why your husband was not with the Belgian army, during the war? I know he was young, but he could have passed for older, I would have thought.”
“He said he tried to join, but there was his age, and the doctor said he had a heart murmur into the bargain, though he never had any heart trouble that I was aware of. He never had cause to go to the doctor here about it.”
Maisie could see Enid’s eyes becoming glazed, as if she were unable to focus. And soon the tears returned. “It’s hard, isn’t it, speaking about them as if they’re gone, and then not gone. You just can’t get the words right; they’re here and then they’re not here. And you realize, you’ve just had a day, then a week, and then a few weeks that they are never going to see again, and you can’t talk to them about those weeks because they aren’t here anymore.”
A shadow fell across the floor where a shaft of sunlight had been gleaming.
“I think that’s enough, Miss Dobbs. My mother’s very tired.” Dottie came back into the kitchen and put an arm around Enid’s shoulders. “You should go upstairs, Mum, try to get some shut-eye for a bit. I’ll make something nice for dinner.”
Maisie stood up, put on her straw hat and placed her jacket over her arm. “You’re quite right, Miss Addens. Your mother is very tired and should rest.”
“I’ll see you out,” said Dottie.
Maisie caught the young woman’s eye. “Thank you.”
When they reached the doorstep, Maisie turned to Dottie. “Do you have any idea who might have borne a grudge of some kind against your father? Someone who he could have slighted, even inadvertently?”
She shook her head. “My father was a gentleman and a gentle man, Miss Dobbs. I have gone over this in my mind, because I would love to lay my hands on the throat of whoever killed my father.”
“Did you notice anything different in your father’s behavior in the weeks or days before his life was taken? Anything at all?”
Dottie Addens shook her head, a smile grazing the edges of her lips. “‘Before his life was taken.’ That’s rich—as if someone just came by and calmly took the life out of him, leaving only a shell. No pain, no terror, nothing unsanitary, just ran off with his soul. No, Miss Dobbs—before my father’s brains were shot out of his head across the pavement, I hadn’t noticed a thing. He was as kind as always, as considerate and funny as always, and as tired as always.”
Maisie was quick to respond. “Any more tired, perhaps, than usual?”
Dottie Addens shrugged, the vertical lines between her eyes gathering. “He might have been. But then, he did a tiring job, and it’s been hot. He always said his job was harder in summer than in winter, and it’s been a sultry few weeks.”
“Granted.” Maisie paused. “You know, Dottie, if you want to channel that anger—and believe me, I know the destructive power of anger—then let your eyes and ears work for me. If you think back on anything—anything—different about your father’s actions, mood, or behavior, then come to me. Nothing is so small as to be insignificant.”
“I’ve got to help my mother now.”
Dottie Addens held Maisie’s gaze for a second, then closed the door, leaving Maisie on the doorstep.
Maisie stepped away from the house, but before setting off in the direction of the underground station, she looked back and considered the many houses that seemed so ordinary on the outside—yet inside their shells lingered untold human sadness. “May they know peace,” she whispered, and went on her way.
The Crown and Anchor, not one hundred yards from Frederick Addens’ house, looked less than inviting. Maisie knew, though, that she should take the opportunity to talk to the landlord. It was clearly what her father would have called a “drinking pub”—rough around the edges, one where the women would be welcome in the saloon bar but not in the public bar; different entrances for different sorts. Even before she opened the door with the stained-glass window etched with the words “Saloon Bar,” she could smell the blended aroma of beer and smoke.
She stepped inside. There was no one in the bar, though she could hear conversation coming from the public bar; the two were divided by a narrow wall and double doors, which would be opened to allow a bigger celebration—the winning of a football match, or a wedding party.
“Help you, miss?” asked the landlord as he mopped along the shining wooden bar with a damp cloth.
“A shandy, please, sir.”
“Right you are, miss.”
As Maisie stood watching the landlord, beads of sweat across his balding head, his sleeves rolled up and an apron tied across his middle, she considered her conversation with Enid and Dorothy Addens. That Dorothy Addens was a protective and loving daughter was without question. That Dorothy idolized her father was evident. But there was something; a flicker of emotion Maisie had seen in her eyes, not only when she was questioning her mother, but when Dottie shut the door as Maisie left the house. It was barely visible, like a dust mote caught in a sunbeam, a feeling that the daughter had some knowledge about her father that she was keeping to herself.
“There you are, miss. That’ll wet your whistle.”
Maisie reached into her bag for her purse and paid for the shandy. She took a sip and declared it just what she needed. “I wonder if I could ask you a question or two about one of your customers.” She took a card from her bag and laid it before the landlord, adding, “I work independently and I am helping a friend of Mr. Addens—a friend from long ago who is not happy about the length of time it’s taking to find out who was responsible for his death.”
The man took up her card and squinted at her name. “Bloody eyes—can’t see a thing without my glasses, and my glasses are never where I want them.”
“My name’s Maisie Dobbs. I’m an investigator. Would you mind very much if I asked you a couple of questions?” She took another sip of the lukewarm shandy.
“Let me just make sure the rabble next door are topped up. The men in there all came off a shift an hour ago, and one of them’s getting hitched—well, he says he is. I’ll believe it if I ever see him walk up the aisle!”
Maisie sat on a stool, and looped the handle of her bag over the hook for women’s handbags under the top of the bar. She did not take out her notebook—she would have to remember everything until she was on the Tube back to the office.
“Now then, what can I tell you about Fred?” The landlord returned to the saloon bar, took up a fresh dry cloth from a hook on the wall, and began to wipe it across the counter between them, as if his hands needed to keep moving. “Terrible business. Terrible. Nice bloke, very nice—wouldn’t hurt a fly—so I don’t know why someone would hurt him. Probably knew he had his pay packet on him, being a Friday. And him having to come over here to stay alive in the war. I was in Belgium, and I saw what the people went through.”
Maisie did not interrupt, though it was clear the landlord was going to rambl
e on. Maurice had always taught her that there were times when it was best to let people talk even if the chatter meandered away from the route she would like the conversation to take. “You never know what gems might fall out of pocket while they’re on their own merry-go-round,” he had cautioned.
“I mean, I witnessed it myself. A long line of families walking towards the docks. They had horses loaded up, they had handcarts filled to overflowing with everything they owned. Little children hunched over with sacks; poor little mites. They were going one way, and we were going the other, straight into the German army. And it went on. Mind you, talk about brave—those people had it here.” He took his fist to his chest, just as Maisie had reflected Enid Addens’ feelings when she touched her chest to signify her broken heart. “They pulled together, and then they had to fight too—women and children, boys—I know what happened. That’s why I liked Frederick—we all did, us old soldiers who’d been over there. We knew what it took for him to get here, and then make a go of it. And he’s a worker—hard bloomin’ work too, six days a week on the railway, come rain, shine, and snow. Hot and cold. Bloomin’ good darts player too—could get a double top without even squinting at the board. Bull’s-eye was easy for him. I mean, some of them are so off-kilter when they throw the feathers, you’d have to duck if you were out there on the street! And he was a good sport.” The man seemed to choke up. “We miss him. Something rotten, we miss old Frederick.”
Maisie asked if Frederick Addens had ever argued with anyone. No. Had he seemed changed lately? No. She asked if he had been seen with anyone not known to the regulars, anyone of note. No. She asked what the man knew of Addens’ life before he came to England, if they’d ever spoken of it over a pint. No, Frederick never talked about it. She asked if Addens had lately seemed distracted, perhaps more fatigued or worried than usual.
“Miss, I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up, but there’s a war just been declared, and we all knew it was on its way because we’ve been preparing for it since March. There’s them bloody barrage balloons up over London, there’s barely a child on the streets because they’ve all been sent away, and it looks like old Adolf is going to do his level best to blow us to bits and then march in here and take over. Everyone’s been tired for months, everyone’s worried, and if—like Frederick and me—you’ve been at the sharp end of it before, then you’re not going to be sleeping easy in your bed, now are you?” He paused, his mood altered as he picked up Maisie’s glass, still half full. “Another?”
“No, thank you, sir. You’ve been most kind, and I appreciate your help. As I said, I am trying to find out who might be responsible for the death of Mr. Addens.”
The landlord sighed. “Don’t mind me, love. I’m sorry. It’s this weather bearing down, like you’re being suffocated.” He shrugged. “It’s just that there’s us who know what war really means.”
Maisie set a coin on the bar by way of a tip. “I know, sir. I was a nurse. I was there too. And I was wounded and saw my friends killed.”
“Then you’ll know why our Frederick was tired, why he looked a bit pale. He’s seen it all before, and he could see it coming again.”
Chapter 3
Maisie tried to get comfortable on the underground train as she considered the conversation with Enid Addens and her daughter. But it was an off-the-cuff comment by the pub landlord that remained with her. He’s seen it all before, and he could see it coming again. It was true though, that’s what some people were saying: they’d never trusted that Hitler, the appeasement was all a load of hot air, and that we’d better not believe any newspaper if it told us the war would be all over by Christmas—that’s what the politicians said the last time and then look what happened. But Maisie wondered if Frederick Addens had seen something more coming—had he known his life was in danger? And from whom? A bullet to the back of the head hardly suggested an act of revenge by a disgruntled office clerk, upset because the train back to Purley was running late.
Maisie left the underground at Charing Cross. She might have chosen Embankment Station—it would certainly have shaved a few moments off her walk to New Scotland Yard—but tunnels first sealed during the Sudeten crisis of 1938 were now blocked again. The Sudeten crisis, when Adolf Hitler’s armies moved to claim Czechoslovakia for the Third Reich, had inspired fears that Britain would be next, and the proximity of the station to the Thames rendered it vulnerable to flooding if it were bombed—and it was predicted this new war would be played out in the air, if the blitzkrieg upon the ordinary citizenry on behalf of Franco during the recent civil war in Spain was anything to go by. Maisie felt ill every time she remembered the German and Italian aircraft lowing in the distance, and then coming in close for repeated bombings, with the terrifying Stukas, their sirens wailing as they swooped down. She had volunteered as a nurse in Spain, in part to exorcize the loss of her husband and unborn child while tending the wounded men and women who fought for freedom from oppression. It wasn’t only Frederick Addens who had seen terror coming.
New Scotland Yard’s distinctive ornate redbrick building designed by Norman Shaw loomed into view, its spires, turrets, and chimneys, together with its strategic place on the Victoria Embankment, conspired to intimidate all who crossed the threshold. She entered the building and asked a policeman at the inquiries desk if she might see Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell. The man raised an eyebrow, and directed her to be seated on an uncomfortable wooden bench, then picked up the telephone receiver in front of him. She watched as he nodded, smiled, and replaced the receiver. He looked up and beckoned to Maisie, his curled finger summoning her to the counter.
“Detective Sergeant Able will be down in a moment. He’ll escort you up to see Inspector Caldwell.” He pointed towards the seat again. “He won’t be another five minutes.”
Maisie thanked the man and stepped away. She did not sit down, but instead walked back and forth along the corridor, her first thought dedicated to the unfortunate Detective Sergeant Able, who, if she knew anything about the banter within the Metropolitan Police, probably had a hard time of it, given his name—she suspected he must be a good sport to work with Caldwell. By the time she had turned and reached the desk, the detective sergeant was waiting for her.
“Miss Dobbs? Detective Sergeant Able. Please follow me.”
Able was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches and trousers of light gray wool. His shoes were polished to a military shine, though his tie was askew, and from what she could see of his white shirt, he was a man who lived alone and had only a passing acquaintance with an iron.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Dobbs—it is all right to call you Miss Dobbs, isn’t it?” Able did not wait for a reply, but went on, as if nervous in Maisie’s company. “I mean, Inspector Caldwell said you have another name, with a title, but he said not to use it. I hope he’s right, Miss Dobbs.”
“He’s right, and thank you for asking, Sergeant Able. I would imagine he told you I would get stroppy—he likes that word—if you used the title. But I wouldn’t bite your head off. It’s just better for my work to be plain Miss Dobbs.”
They left the staircase and turned into a corridor. “Inspector Caldwell was telling me about that case you worked on a few years ago—the army bloke who’d killed someone, murdered him in a dugout in the war. He said you just went in and faced him down.”
Maisie smiled and looked up at the young detective sergeant. “My, that is praise coming from your guv’nor! How is he?”
“I’ve not worked with him for long—I was in uniform before I got the job.” He paused just before they turned into a room with a scattering of desks. “Mind you, the lads say he’s got a lot more amenable since his promotion.”
“That’s encouraging,” said Maisie as they entered the room. “Ah, speak of the devil.”
Caldwell had emerged from his box of an office and was walking across the room towards Maisie. “Miss Dobbs.” He held out his hand, smiling. “I know you’re not here on a social
call, but let me say it is very nice to see you again. Mind you, I have a feeling this warm glow might not last very long—you’re not here to have a quick chat, I take it.”
“Hello, Detective Inspector Caldwell. You look well,” said Maisie. She sized up Caldwell, who seemed to have developed something of a paunch since she last saw him—perhaps too many liquid lunches at the pub, compounded by late dinners due to his working hours. His jawline was less taut, and he had lost some hair, leaving his widow’s peak more pronounced. However, his blue eyes seemed to sparkle as he grasped the opportunity to offer a quip or two.
“Not the very best time to be in our trade, is it? Give me another day or two, and I might not be so full of joy. It’s too hot, there’s too many people coming into the country, there’s too many people getting themselves into a spot of bother, and now you turn up—come on, let’s repair to what you could loosely call my office. You can tell me all about what’s brought you to my door.” He turned to his assistant. “Able, do you think you might be able to ably make a cuppa for the good lady and myself? You know how I take mine, and milk, no sugar, for the lady, oh ablest of Ables.”
“Right you are, sir.”
In This Grave Hour Page 4
