“How would anyone have known you’d been there? Unless she was in the murderer’s sights already.”
“I think she alerted her killer. There’s no telephone at the house, but there’s a kiosk in the village. I suspect she walked to the kiosk and placed the call from there.”
“And someone was able to come down from London to take her life before she said anything to you.”
Maisie allowed a beat of time before replying. “Of course, they might not have come from London.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so. And I take it there were no witnesses—no one saw anyone going into or leaving the property.”
“It’s a quiet village, and the house is on the outskirts. I was lucky a policeman came along when he did. This suggests that the man—if it was a man—came on foot, or parked a vehicle at a distance. I checked at the railway station, and the station manager could not recall seeing a stranger, though he said that there’s often a visitor or two who comes via train just to see the church—it apparently has the oldest weather vane in the country and an impressive series of misericords. He told me he cannot account for everyone. And our one witness was woken by the gunshots.”
“So there was a witness? What does he know?”
“Not terribly much, I’m afraid, even though he was in the house at the time. He’d sustained rather devastating wounds in the war—he is blind and crippled in his lower legs. I suspect his sister—one of the deceased women—did little to encourage him to be even a little more independent. And I believe it would have been possible for him, though he clearly required assistance. I think it assuaged some level of guilt in her to be his keeper and caregiver.”
“Why would she do such a thing?”
“It could have been because she felt distress at having lived—her husband had been killed at Arras, which is why she immersed herself in helping refugees. That’s how she met Addens and Durant. And her guilt deepened when her brother came home from the war wounded.”
“Are you speculating here, Maisie?”
“That’s what my job is about. It’s like sticking pins into anything I touch, until I hear someone scream ‘Ouch.’ Only that scream is something I feel in my heart, as if the dead are letting me know I’m on the right path.” Maisie paused, wrapping the telephone cord around her fingers. “And if that sounds dramatic, let’s just say that if I were tracking an animal in the forest, I’ve only seen a few footprints here and there in different directions. There is no clear path to the killer.” She took another breath. “However, I have a photograph of Addens and—possibly, now I’ve had time to think about it—Durant, taken on a farm somewhere in the southeast of England, I would imagine. After all, most of the refugees came through Folkestone, so it was in this region that a good number were able to find work and a home until the war ended. Of course there were settlements in other parts of the country—Elizabethville in the north, and others in the Midlands. The thing is, in the photograph the dead woman, Rosemary Hartley-Davies, is with them, along with two other men. That’s why I would like us to meet soon. I want to know if you can identify them.”
“Maisie, I didn’t personally know Addens and Durant—I am involved on behalf of the Belgian embassy. I doubt if I’d know anyone in the photograph.”
“I’d like you to look anyway. When and where could you see me?”
Maisie heard Thomas sigh. It was a sigh of forbearance, as if she had no choice but to indulge Maisie.
“Lyons Corner House. Charing Cross. About noon.”
“Right you are. Until then, Francesca.”
Maisie returned the telephone receiver to its cradle and leaned back in her chair before standing up and stepping across to the window. She cast a gaze at the terra-cotta pots in the yard below, wishing she could put her finger on the deep-seated feeling she experienced now whenever she spoke to Dr. Francesca Thomas. Shaking her head, she turned, passing the case map pinned on the table on her way to the concertina doors, which she drew back to call Billy and Sandra into the office. It was time to bring her assistants up to date on the events of the past few days.
“I’ve this photograph, so I’m taking it to Dr. Thomas, to see if she can identify the other people.” Maisie placed the photograph she had taken from the home of Rosemary Hartley-Davies on the table and pushed it towards Billy. She tapped the images of two men with her forefinger. “Those two could be Frederick Addens and Albert Durant, respectively.” She paused, giving him an opportunity to study the photograph. “At first I’d only concentrated on Addens, but later I thought I recognized a younger Durant alongside him, though I could be wrong about both. And the woman in the middle is Rosemary Hartley-Davies. Billy, could you see if you can find out anything of note about her late husband, Rupert Hartley-Davies? Here are the details of his death—he was an infantry officer.”
Billy passed the photograph to Sandra so she could look, and picked up the paper Maisie handed to him.
“I’ll jump to it. And remember, I went over to the City last week, after you left, and I’ve a few things to report there. What with the banks being closed last Monday on account of war being declared, it was a bit of chaos all week—you’d’ve thought a bomb had dropped!” He looked at Sandra, as if waiting for a smile, but she did not respond. He turned back at Maisie, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment that his joke had fallen on stony ground. “Anyway, I went back to St. Pancras.”
“And I did some more checking on refugees from the war, when I came in on Thursday,” added Sandra.
“Let’s get it all on the map. You first, Billy.”
“Well, I went along to St. Pancras Station, as I said, and I saw the woman with the flower stall. She said she knew Addens because he was always one to pass the time of day with her and would buy a bunch of flowers once a week to take home to his wife, on a Friday. She said she knew something was wrong when he didn’t come back for the blooms he’d picked out when he came outside for a smoke during his dinner break at twelve o’clock. He’d been at work since about six in the morning, and they stop for a quick smoke and cuppa at nine, if they can, and then at noon they have another break. That’s when he asked her to keep the flowers for him to pick up later.”
“Did she say anything about his demeanor?”
Billy sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing an unruly fringe from his eyes. “Sort of, and not really. She said he appeared a bit worried, but that he’d been like that for a little while, and she thought there might be trouble at home with their son. He’d told her he was wondering what would happen to the boy if war came—and let’s face it, miss, we’ve all been like that, us who’ve a son of fighting age. Not that you can stop them if they want to go. Hotheaded, they are—like I said before, they come over all mannish and start talking big before they fit their boots.”
Maisie looked at Sandra, who raised her eyebrows. Maisie would speak to Billy about his own worries later.
“So he had been preoccupied, but we don’t know why,” she summarized. “Let’s speculate that whoever he met was the reason for his concerns. Did the woman see him leave to meet a friend? The attack seems to have happened as he was taking a breather between the usual end of his working day and starting his overtime.”
“She said she was suddenly very busy, what with it being the end of the working day and people rushing home. She saw him step out at about five o’clock—she could not be sure of the time—but only caught sight of him for a second, and didn’t think any more of it until she was packing up a couple of hours later and he still hadn’t come back for his flowers.”
Maisie tapped the case map, though she had nothing to add. “I think that to get anywhere on this case, we have to speculate more than in the past. First the easier part—and let’s face it, we could be wrong—that the same man or woman killed our victims. What might have caused someone to kill each of these people? Frankly, we can’t help but come to the common denominator, that of Belgium. We could assume that something that happened before they reac
hed our shores is at the root of this case.”
“What about the woman in Sussex, and her housekeeper?” asked Sandra.
“If she knew Addens and Durant, then we could posit she knew the killer. But did she know this person was a killer? Or did she believe she was speaking to a friend, or someone who should know the other men had died?” Maisie lifted her hand. “Perhaps we shouldn’t try to answer the questions now—let’s just note them down. Maurice always said the power in a question is not in the answer, it’s in the way the imagination gets busy when the question is at work.”
“I didn’t get much joy from anyone who knew Durant over where he worked in the City,” said Billy. “I think banking types are more up your street when it comes to an investigation, miss. I mean, they hear me, and you can see it on their faces—what with my accent, they think I’m nothing more than a barrow boy in a suit. And I’m not going to start adding me aitches for the likes of them. I reckon they’re all blimmin’ crooks anyway—let’s see how they look when it comes to putting on a uniform.”
“But Billy—coming back to something you said last week, about Addens.” Maisie leaned forward, tapping her pen on the paper again. “You thought Addens had been a soldier, didn’t you? Now look at this photograph.” She pushed the photograph taken from Hartley-Davies’ home towards Billy. “What do you see? And what about Durant? This was probably taken not long after he came here as a refugee. I would imagine we were still at war in any case, that it was before the Armistice.” Maisie stood up and went to her desk. She picked up a magnifying glass and passed it to Billy as she returned to the table.
Using the glass, Billy studied each face in turn. “Miss, there’s something about both of them, and you can see it—but even with what I said about Addens being a soldier, I can see a sort of sadness in all of the men. The boy as well. And the woman, come to that.” He shrugged. “You’ve got to be careful, haven’t you, miss? I mean, if you want, you can see anything in anyone’s eyes, and give them feelings they didn’t have.”
“I’d like to know who the other men are,” said Sandra. “Here, I managed to get the name of a woman who worked with Hartley-Davies—perhaps she can help.”
Maisie looked at the paper Sandra passed to her. “Miss Clarice Littleton,” she read aloud. “No telephone number, but an address in Maida Vale. Now that’s interesting—I wonder if she kept in touch with Addens.”
“I was curious about that too,” said Sandra. She put her hand to her mouth. “Excuse me—” She ran from the room.
Billy looked back as the outer door slammed, and the sound of footsteps moving in the direction of the lavatory echoed along the corridor outside. He turned back to Maisie.
“Reckon she’s going to tell us soon?”
“I don’t know, Billy,” said Maisie. “She’ll let us know when she’s ready.”
“I mean, it’s not as if I don’t know a woman with a bun in the oven when I see her—what with my Doreen having had four of ’em, and not one an easy time of it.”
Maisie looked at Billy. He glanced back at her, and sighed.
“I know—you can see something’s up with me a mile off. It’s probably showing in my eyes, as far as you’re concerned.” Billy pressed his lips together before speaking again. “My eldest has gone and enlisted. I thought he would wait until his call-up papers arrived on the doormat, but no, he went and did it anyway, and of course I could try to stop him, but . . .” He sighed. “Of all the blimmin’ things, he wants to drive a blimmin’ tank. A tank! I told him, the only thing he’s driving is his mother and me up the wall! Mind you, I suppose if they give him a job like that, at least he’s inside something strong—not like I was, when I was over there in the last war. I was under the ground digging tunnels, and half the time I could hear the Germans digging tunnels on top of mine! I tell you, all the money they get, these politicians, and they have nice houses to live in—yet they can’t sort out an argument to stop us all ending up at war.”
“Adolf Hitler is a very dangerous man, Billy. I saw more than I can say, when I was in Munich. He has to be stopped—we all know that.”
“Of course he does. I just don’t want my boys being the ones out there trying to stop him, I s’pose.”
“Is Doreen holding up?”
“Our little Margaret Rose keeps her from going down. Blimey, if we lost her like we lost our Lizzie, it just doesn’t bear thinking about. Her mind just couldn’t take the strain. But if the Germans start to bomb us, like they’re saying they will, then she’ll go down to her aunt, the one who lives in Hampshire. We can’t go through that again, in and out of them mental hospitals. And seeing as you’ve asked, I—”
Billy stopped speaking as Sandra came back into the office holding a glass of water, and took her seat.
“I think it’s time I told you, miss—and you, Billy.” Sandra swallowed, and took a sip of the water. “I’m expecting a baby.” She leaned forward and began to weep. Billy reached across and took away the glass before she spilled the water.
“Oh, Sandra, that’s wonderful news, just wonderful,” said Maisie, moving to comfort her assistant. She looked at Billy, who nodded and stepped away into the outer office, closing the doors behind him. “Sandra, whatever is it? This is not a time for sadness—it’s a time of great joy for you and Lawrence. A baby—after all you’ve been through, you’ll have a new baby.”
Sandra pulled a handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve and wiped her eyes. “I know, I know all that—but how can I feel joy, bringing a child into a world like this?” She paused, choking back her tears. “And do you know what I saw this morning, miss? I was walking down to the tram stop, and a woman was coming towards me with a pram. I’d never seen one like it—it was like a metal box on wheels, with a little window so she could see her baby inside. It was as if the baby was in its own special chamber to protect it from gas. What kind of world will I bring my baby into? What kind of world, when the poor little mite has to have a pram like a metal box to stop it being gassed to death?”
Maisie held on to Sandra as she continued her weeping, allowing the younger woman to cry until she could shed no more tears. But she said nothing. There was nothing she could say about a baby in a metal box to protect it from poison gas.
Francesca Thomas was sitting alone at a table set in the shadows of the busy Lyons Corner House. Maisie joined her, slipping into the chair opposite as Thomas stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray. A waitress in the distinctive Lyons uniform—black dress with red buttons, white apron, and a black-and-white band with pleated edges across her forehead—had seen Maisie take her seat, and began to weave between the tables towards them.
“You can tell why they call a Lyons waitress a ‘nippy,’ can’t you?” said Thomas. “I’ve been watching them at work—they nip everywhere. They’re like little mice, nipping back and forth between the tables.”
The waitress reached the table, and flicked open a notebook to take their order.
“A pot of tea for two and a couple of Eccles cakes, thank you,” said Thomas.
Repeating the order, the waitress said she would be back immediately with the tea and cakes.
“You must have known Eccles cakes are my favorites,” said Maisie.
“Just something I remembered.” Thomas shrugged. “Do you have the photograph?” She reached into her handbag and brought out a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles as Maisie handed her the photograph. “Ah, that’s better,” she said, and began to study the print.
Maisie watched Thomas’ eyes move, as if concentrating on one face after another. She saw her gaze linger in two places, but no movement indicating unexpected recognition—except perhaps once, when the ridged skin between her eyebrows crinkled to form a well-worn frown. She shook her head and passed the photograph to Maisie.
“I could pick out Addens and Durant from the photographs I’ve received since their deaths—I wanted to at least know what they looked like. But no, no one else. And if that woman is the lates
t victim, Rosemary Hartley-Davies, then I would say she is a bit of a flirt, wouldn’t you?”
Maisie looked at the photograph. Without doubt, Hartley-Davies was having a good day despite any observations Billy might have made about her expression in the photograph. Those present in the field—she now thought it must have been during haymaking—seemed sun-kissed, even in the sepia tones of the photograph. They were smiling, and if there were clouds overhead, they weren’t apparent. Hartley-Davies seemed at ease among the men, and the boy appeared to be leaning into her, as a child would his mother.
“I wonder who the boy is,” said Maisie.
“Probably a farm worker’s child.”
“Yes, probably—country children always work throughout the summer. It’s all hands on deck, helping with the harvest, picking fruit and hops.” Maisie slipped the photograph back into her bag. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have taken Hartley-Davies for a flirt—I think she’s just at ease. Perhaps her work and the knowledge that she was helping people took the edge off her grief.”
“And we both know what that’s like, don’t we, Maisie?”
The question, posed as a throwaway comment, felt akin to a fine blade entering Maisie’s heart. She opened her mouth to speak, but was grateful when a voice broke in.
“Pot of tea for two, and your Eccles cakes,” said the nippy, unloading her tray onto the table. A cup, saucer, and plate were set before each woman, with the teapot and milk jug between them. Another plate bearing two cakes was placed on the table. “Would you like anything else?” asked the girl.
Maisie shook her head, still unable to speak. Thomas reached for the teapot. “Thank you, that will be all.” She poured for both Maisie and herself, and pushed the milk jug towards Maisie. “I’m trying to take it black and definitely without sugar. Preparing myself in case we can’t get any in the days to come.”
In This Grave Hour Page 13
