Maisie signed the chit confirming delivery of the envelope, and before she could thank the messenger, he was gone, hurrying in the direction of Warren Street. Maisie took the envelope up to her office, along with post she had picked up from the hall table. She placed the letters on her desk, then stepped through to the main office, where she opened windows overlooking the square so a breeze might air the office. A few sheets of paper flapped on Billy’s desk, so she secured them with a paperweight. It was then that Maisie saw a note left for Billy in Sandra’s handwriting—it must have been placed there on Monday. It was to the effect that Dr. Elsbeth Masters had telephoned, and could he return her call at his earliest convenience. Maisie knew Dr. Masters—she was a specialist in psychiatric care, the doctor to whom Doreen Beale had been referred in the dark months following her young daughter’s death. Hearing Billy’s distinctive step on the stairs, she moved away from his desk into her office. She was opening the large envelope when he entered, whistling.
“Afternoon, miss.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which Maisie noticed had become flecked with silver over the past year. “It’s another sticky one out there, ain’t it? My neighbor—old boy with seaweed hanging off the gutter, says it helps him predict the weather—he reckons it’ll be a lot cooler towards the end of the month, and then we’re in for a chilly autumn. Right now I could do with a bit of chilly—another round of thunder and lightning to clear the air would be nice.” He drew breath, but barely paused. “Anyway, how about a cuppa? I feel like a man just come in from the desert.”
“Lovely, Billy. Then we have work to do.”
Billy nodded and set about removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and taking the tray along to the kitchenette at the end of the corridor. His absence gave Maisie an opportunity to peruse the notes Thomas had sent regarding Albert Durant.
According to Thomas, Durant’s English wife had died in childbirth a couple of years earlier. Ten years his junior, she’d been felled by a blood clot. The baby died with her. Maisie closed her eyes to gather her thoughts, placing one hand on her chest; the pounding felt as if it would ricochet into her ears. The loss of the child she had been carrying, delivered during an emergency operation following James’ death, was not as raw as it had been—time had healed the immediate physical and emotional wounds. But if those scars became irritated by a stranger’s comment or an unguarded thought, it was as if her memories conspired to drag her under in a wave of grief. She composed herself, using lessons learned in girlhood to temper her breathing and gentle her mind. Only when she felt settled could she continue reading.
Durant was successful in his work, and had moved into the spacious Maida Vale flat with his then-pregnant wife—it appeared the property was the perfect London home for a successful man and his family. Durant was not known to engage in pastimes, though Thomas noted she had discovered that, indeed, once a fortnight he would take a train to Reigate and retrace walks along the southern flank of the North Downs, rambles that he and his wife had enjoyed until quite late in her pregnancy.
“Facing down his dragons,” whispered Maisie, as Billy entered the room, tray in hand.
“What’s that, miss?” asked Billy.
“Oh, nothing—just talking to myself.”
“First sign of madness, that.” He set the tray at one end of the table. “Right, then, let’s get this down us, and we’ll have the case solved in an hour, you watch.”
Soon they were seated together, the case map pinned out before them. Billy did not seem in a rush to begin; instead, he read aloud the headlines from a newspaper given to him by his Fleet Street contact.
“They’ve got Churchill in again. First Lord of the Admiralty, he is.” He turned the page. “That’s him off the sidelines—now let’s see if he can do better than he did the last time.”
Maisie nodded, picking up a red crayon. She would not comment—her late husband had been engaged in work sanctioned by Churchill via his many contacts. In his case the contact was John Otterburn, a man Maisie hoped never to see again. She knew only too well—as did many—that Churchill had been a fierce critic of the German chancellor, and worked behind the scenes of government to prepare for a war he deemed inevitable. The member of parliament Nancy Cunard might have observed that “Churchill is finished” a few years earlier, but Maisie was aware that the portly man had been far from a political non-entity.
“And you’d better get some petrol in that motor car of yours, miss—motor spirit is going on ration soon. So you’ll need to get your coupon book.”
“I wish I’d not bought the Alvis now,” said Maisie, leafing through the post.
“Oh, as long as you don’t go everywhere in the motor, just save it for going down to Kent, and you’ll be all right. But I hope you’ve got your blackout curtains up. It’s a one-hundred-pound fine if you don’t have them, and it’s the likes of me who’ll be reporting you!”
Maisie raised an eyebrow. “The likes of you?”
“I joined up with the local Air Raid Precautions a few months ago, when they were calling for men to come forward, and for everyone to do their national service for the sake of the country. I mean, let’s face it, what with everything going on since March, when them Nazis took over Czechoslovakia—and you were over there in Munich last year, so you saw a lot more than most—well, we all knew what we were in for, didn’t we?” He shook his head. “And it’s not as if everyone’s been that pally since the Armistice and that conference in Paris, is it? Anyway, I’m an ARP man now, ready to do a shift when I get home from work. Five nights a week after I’ve had my tea, I’ll be out walking the streets with the old tin hat on my noddle, knocking on doors if I see even so much as a needle of light coming through. We’ve all got to do our bit, haven’t we, miss? Them German blighters could come down out of the sky any night or day, just like we’ve been warned. Mind you, it’s not as if they’ve been teeming over here to bomb us out yet, is it?”
Maisie drew breath to speak, but Billy went on, tapping his rolled newspaper on the table as if to underline his comment.
“And the German navy hasn’t been slow off the mark. See what they did to that ship, the Athena? That’s not war, that’s not fair play—it’s murder, what with all them passengers on board, and there was no army and no Royal Navy, but ordinary people. And it happened not far off our coast. Makes me sick.” He flung the newspaper down and shook his head again.
Maisie allowed a few seconds of silence to pass. Billy had been more vocal about matters of government of late, taking any opportunity to voice his opinions. She pushed his cup of tea towards him.
“Billy, have a look at this photograph of Albert Durant. What do you think—notice anything?”
Billy reached and took the photograph. “Looks very official, doesn’t he?”
“It’s a private bank, where he worked—small, not like some of the bigger concerns. This one is more for investments. Every member of staff has his or her photograph taken for the personnel files—that’s why it looks official.”
“And he looks older than thirty-eight or -nine—wasn’t that his age? More like sixty-five. Mind you, I’m no oil painting, am I? I bet he saw a battle or two, that one.”
Maisie shook her head. “According to this, he hadn’t. He couldn’t join the army for some reason—probably his age—and came over to England during the war with other refugees.”
Billy frowned, looking up at Maisie as he placed the photograph on the table in front of her. He was silent for a moment, as if considering how to express his thoughts.
“You know what you always say, don’t you?” He reached for his cup of tea. “About trusting your instincts—like listening to a voice inside you. Well, I’ve got one of them instincts right now that there’s a bit of information missing on this fellow. I only have to look at those eyes, miss, and I can tell you without a shadow of doubt—and that’s something for me to say, because doubt could be my middle name—but I would say he saw a battle or two, that one.”
He tapped the photograph as if to underline his words. “I’m an old soldier, and it was only when I got back that it struck me. We all know our kind, all of us who fought in the war. I don’t care whether a man was on our side or the other side—if he was on a battlefield, I’d know it.”
Maisie stood up and went to her desk. She leafed through a clutch of papers until she found the envelope that had contained the earlier notes sent from Francesca Thomas. She looked into the envelope and reached in, drawing out another photograph. “They always stick to the inside of the envelope—I meant to check again to see if she’d sent us a photograph.” The image of Frederick Addens was informal, taken with his family, perhaps in a garden, or possibly the photographer had situated himself at the park one Sunday afternoon, the better to drum up custom from couples walking with their children, mothers pushing baby carriages, and families out for the day. Maisie passed the photograph to Billy, who took it from her and squinted.
“Frederick Addens. His face is quite clear.”
“It’s clear, all right,” said Billy.
“According to the notes, he wasn’t sixteen when he arrived in England. Too young for service, I would imagine.”
“Hmmph! There were a lot too young for service, whichever side of the line you were on.”
“So what do you think?”
Billy sighed and turned away for a second as if to compose himself. “Makes me wonder what my young Billy will be like, when he’s my age. I mean, you try to look after them, you work hard to give them a better life than you had, and then the next thing you know, there’s a nutter somewhere over there wanting to take over the world. And that really upsets the apple cart for all of us.” He rubbed his forehead and looked at Maisie. “My instinct says, miss, that this man went to war. Of course, you could say he saw enough in Belgium, losing his brother and his father—losing everything, really—but he’s got that look, that stare in his eyes. He was a boy who’d done a man’s work, and I don’t mean the sort of work you do under a locomotive at St. Pancras Station. Speaking of which, I wish I’d had this when I went over there this morning.”
“What did you find out?” Maisie leaned forward. “Did you discover anything new?”
“I discovered that there was a different newspaper seller on the street—the usual bloke had to go to a funeral. And the tea lady couldn’t add much, but now I’ve got this picture of our Albert Durant, I could nip back over there tomorrow morning and ask whether anyone’d seen him around, and whether he was asking for Frederick Addens.”
“I’d love to find another connection between these two men, so while you’re at it, could you pop over to this pub and ask the same questions?” Maisie scribbled an address on a piece of scrap paper. “I was in there yesterday—it’s just at the end of the street where Frederick Addens’ family lives. The Crown and Anchor, it’s called. I’ve already been in, so I don’t want to spark any more interest than necessary—and I think the landlord would remember me. You know the sort of story to make up about Durant—debts, on the run from a wife, whatever you like—but see if he’d been seen in the pub. I have to be careful with Enid Addens. She’s very fragile, so I don’t want to press her too hard, or the daughter will pull up the drawbridge.”
Billy went on to recount the finer points of his visit to a Fleet Street pub where he met the contact who was now a reporter on the Daily Express. Having left school at fourteen, Billy’s friend had started work as a compositor’s apprentice, before enlisting for service in 1915, as soon as he was able. Upon his demobilization, he had returned to the Express, but this time as a reporter. According to Billy, it wasn’t just that Stan Ditton had a way with words—he landed his stories because he wasn’t afraid of much, not after the war.
“So Stan says to me, ‘I know about that Durant. I heard about the murder and went down there.’ Of course all the banks were closed on Monday on account of the war, and you know how quiet it gets in the City, after everything closes on a Friday and the men in their bowler hats go home.” Billy cleared his throat. “Stan says it was a street sweeper who found him, in an alley just off Paternoster Row. Poor fella ran out of the alley and raised the alarm. There was a lot of blood, and the body was in bad shape, on account of the weather and how long it had been there. A copper was close by, and it wasn’t long before the Murder Squad boys were on the scene and with no less than Spilsbury to inspect the body and then have it taken away for postmortem. And you know how important he is—they were bringing out the best for the job.”
“Does Stan have any information on who the police think was the murderer? I can’t say I trust Caldwell to be completely forthcoming.”
Billy shook his head. “No. In fact, he said they were apparently muttering about it being another attack just for the money, likely done by a bloke who isn’t too clever with a gun. He had a dekko in his notebook, and he confirmed that our mate Caldwell had told him, ‘The man we’re looking for is well and truly cack-handed, and shouldn’t be left alone with a wooden spoon, let alone a gun.’”
“Typical Caldwell,” said Maisie.
They each continued to recount news of their morning, with Maisie making notes on the case map.
“What now, miss?”
“I would give anything to discover a link between these two men. There has to be one, over and above them both being from Belgium and both being murdered in the same manner. Billy, you poke around using those photographs. It’s yeoman work, but it has to be done if we are to find a nugget to bite on. And I will look into their family lives—find out whether their wives might have been related, or even if there was some sort of thread at all between the Addens and the Durant families. Most important”—Maisie reached for a folder on her desk, then leaned towards Billy as she opened the file—“this is Sandra’s list of associations. Each one has a name for us to contact—an administrator of some sort. I would imagine that these have been disbanded now, but there are a handful of people here that we should really speak to.” She sighed. “I’m driving down to Chelstone tomorrow morning. It’s earlier in the week than I would have liked, what with this case in progress, but there are some problems with the evacuees, and everyone seems to be losing their heads.”
“Except your dad, of course.”
“Yes, except my father. He takes things in his stride, and it seems he’s already sorted out the boys.”
“I bet he’s got ’em working in the stables, miss—like he did with me, when I needed sorting out.”
“It’s worked for all of us at some point, Billy.” She made no mention of the “sorting out” that Billy referred to—an addiction to narcotics as a result of being over-medicated after he was wounded during the war.
“Do you think these administrator ladies—and they’re always ladies, aren’t they, that get stuck in to organize refugees and the like, and people needing a home—do you think they’ll remember?”
“I’m going to have to work my way through them. I’ll start tomorrow morning, before I go down to Chelstone.”
“All right, miss. I’ve got to catch up with these other cases, or we’ll be giving back the advances if we’re not careful. Then I’ll get back on it tomorrow morning.” Billy stood up, pushing back his chair. “What shall I tell Sandra, when she comes in?”
“This is a tricky one, but she has the right manner to do it. Just in case I can’t find out the information from these associations, ask her to place telephone calls to both the bank where Durant worked and the engineering office at St. Pancras—find out if they have a place of birth on file for each of the men.”
“Well, it would be Belgium, wouldn’t it, miss?”
“Yes, it would—but I want to know exactly where in Belgium. And I want to know if they came over here at the same time. I want to know if there was any way they would have had cause to meet—a social club, something like that. We might be overlapping in our searches here, but it won’t do any harm—if Frederick Addens had any cause to cross paths with Albert Durant during
or after the war, I want to know about it.” Maisie made some additional notes on the case map. “And I want to know anyone else they were particularly close to—as a group, or individually.” She stepped towards her desk as Billy came to his feet, gathering his newspaper and notebook, but before he returned to the outer office, Maisie made one more comment. “We’ve had seemingly unconnected but similar cases before, and something always links them. We just have to find out what it is.”
“From where I’m standing, the only thing linking these two is your Dr. Thomas,” said Billy.
“I’m very aware of that, Billy. But remember, Dr. Thomas is very loyal to Belgium, so any adversity affecting a Belgian refugee from the war would affect her deeply. However, if she knows and is not telling, then you can bet it’s a matter of utmost secrecy—and she has been very clear regarding our need for care where the gathering of information is concerned.”
“And it could always just be a coincidence, couldn’t it? And we know you don’t believe in those.” Billy grinned. He knew only too well that Maisie would never discount a coincidence.
“Oh, I believe in the serendipitous moment, Billy. Just not too many at once. Remember what Maurice always used to say? ‘Coincidence is a messenger sent by Truth.’”
“We should write that on a big piece of paper and stick it on the wall, so it’s the first thing we see when we come into the office.”
“Not a bad idea, Billy. Not a bad idea.”
There were three associations at the top of Maisie’s list: the Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association, which had been based close to Cambridge Circus; the London Overseas Reception Board, in Greenwich; and the South-Eastern Displaced Persons Relief Board, originally in Folkestone, but now with a small office in Tunbridge Wells. All had been dedicated to registering refugees entering Britain during the Great War, placing them in accommodations, and assisting with clothing, food, and—in the case of many—work. She was not sure what she might find at any of those addresses. The latter two, according to Sandra, had not disbanded following the war, but had been scaled down over the years. As she pointed out, though, the steady trickle of Jewish refugees from Germany over the years had become a flourishing river once again; it was said that the government was looking at placing limits on how many could be received and accommodated.
In This Grave Hour Page 8
