In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I think we’ll be all right for milk,” said Maisie. She cleared her throat, still stung by Thomas’ comment. “Anyway, there’s more to discover about Hartley-Davies, and I am sure I will be able to identify the other men in the photograph soon. I’m seeing another woman later—another volunteer who worked with Hartley-Davies to assist refugees.”

  “With any luck she’s lending a hand again—they’ve been coming in thick and fast since the Sudetenland was sold to the Nazis by this government, and since Poland was invaded, who knows which sovereign land will be next on the Fuhrer’s list?” Thomas sipped her black, bitter tea and winced. She cut a small wedge from her cake, and finished it in one bite. She pushed the plate away.

  “Have you had any reports from Scotland Yard?” asked Maisie.

  “Your friend Caldwell keeps in touch, but even I can see how difficult this might be—which is why I called you in.”

  “I would have liked to be further along, to be perfectly honest.”

  “You will be, Maisie.” Thomas took up a paper napkin and dabbed her mouth. “I have every confidence. Telephone me when you have more news. Now, I must go.” She reached into her bag as if to find her purse.

  “No, that’s all right—I’ll pay for this. You’ve hardly touched your cake anyway. And I’ll telephone you in a day or so unless there’s more to report.”

  “Right you are,” said Thomas. She scraped back her chair, smiled at Maisie as she pushed it under the table, then turned and left the cafeteria.

  Maisie topped up her teacup, and sighed. She had not taken a bite of her cake. She wrapped it in a paper napkin and placed it in her bag, then pulled the remaining cake left by Francesca Thomas towards her and began to eat. What had Thomas seen on the photograph that had unsettled her? What was the emotion she’d experienced that gave rise to a comment that could only disable Maisie’s thoughts? She knew the words were akin to Thomas drawing her sword. But why would she reveal herself in such a way? What had led her to be so unguarded in that moment?

  “Well, you both enjoyed those Eccles cakes, didn’t you, madam? Would you like more tea, or something else?”

  “No, I’ll just settle up.”

  It was later, as Maisie walked to the underground station to catch a train back to Warren Street, that she realized she knew quite well which of those faces had undermined the tight control Thomas was accustomed to exercising over her emotions. And she decided that, at the present time, she would do nothing more about it. Like a fisherman on the bank of a river, she would play out her line, she would watch the fly skim across the water’s surface, and she would bide her time. It would serve her to wait.

  Chapter 10

  With Billy dispatched to speak to Mike Elliot about his friend Frederick Addens, Maisie made her way to Maida Vale to see Clarice Littleton. The address furnished by Sandra—before Maisie sent her home to rest—was that of a flat in a tall terrace house built over one hundred years earlier. Maisie thought it resembled the house where her own home was situated, though she was fortunate to have the ground-floor flat, which offered more space given the doors leading out to the garden. Clarice Littleton lived on the third floor, which entailed climbing several flights of stairs. When Maisie reached her door, a note pinned to the frame informed callers that Miss Littleton would be “back in five minutes.” She checked her watch—Littleton had left ten minutes ago, according to the time penciled on the note. But she had not informed the woman of her visit, so she would wait. Maisie thought it interesting that a note had been left at all. Had the woman been expecting a visitor who might arrive early while she was out on an errand? Or was she perhaps lonely, and did not want to miss a friend who had popped by on the off chance of her being at home. Maisie thought it might be the latter, and hoped Miss Littleton would not be disappointed. She checked her watch again, and leaned against the bannister.

  Two minutes later, she heard the front door to the house slam, then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs towards her. It sounded as if the woman had been running, for her breathing was labored. As she reached the last stair bringing her to the third floor, she stopped and put her hand on her chest. Then she saw Maisie.

  “Oh my goodness, you made me jump.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Maisie. “I thought you might be expecting someone—you left a note.”

  Clarice Littleton waved a hand as if the note were of little significance. “Oh, I always leave a note—you never know when someone might call, and I wouldn’t want to miss a visitor. Not that I get many of those—though I have two letters today!” She smiled, holding up the post she had just collected from a table set inside the front door. It was a welcoming smile, a smile without guile. “Come on in—if you’re waiting here, then it’s me you want to see.”

  Littleton unlocked the door and led Maisie a few yards along a hallway, dropping the letters on a small table set against the wall as she went. She opened another door on the right, which led—Maisie knew already—into the drawing room. She had anticipated the entire geography of the woman’s flat. A door to the right would lead to the drawing room, with big bay windows overlooking the street. If she had proceeded farther, a second door to the right would lead to a bedroom, and that to the left to another bedroom. A bathroom would come next, also on the left, and then there would be a kitchen, with perhaps a small room—possibly used as a dining room—overlooking a brick yard at the back.

  Littleton was a tall woman with shoulder-length hair in a mass of black curls, some of them turning gray at her temples. It seemed to Maisie that perhaps in the past the woman had tried to control her hair, but had given up and now allowed the curls to cascade down. She wore a summer linen skirt, a white blouse, and a short black jacket, which she took off and draped across a sofa upholstered in a fabric of geometric designs popular fifteen years earlier. Her black leather sandals were likely worn for comfort, not fashion. As they entered, she ran her hands along the mantelpiece over the fireplace until she found a pencil. Inviting Maisie to take a seat on one of two leather armchairs, she twisted her hair and pinned it into a high chignon, using the pencil.

  “That’s better. I can’t remember a summer when I have felt so sticky all over, even when it rains.” She smiled at Maisie. “You know, this is terrible of me—I’ve dragged you in here and I don’t know your name or why you were outside my door. I might not even be the person you’re looking for. I just hope it’s Clarice Littleton, or I’m going to have to show you back out again!”

  Maisie returned her smile. “You’re exactly who I’ve come to see.” She reached into her bag, now set alongside the armchair, and passed a calling card to Littleton.

  “Oh my goodness, private investigations. I do hope you don’t think I’ve nabbed someone else’s husband.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Not at all. But I think you might be able to help me. May I ask you some questions about an association you volunteered with during the war—”

  “Belgian refugees,” Littleton interrupted. “You’re here about Albert Durant, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. I have been retained by the Belgian embassy to look into the case. Of course, Scotland Yard are investigating, but the embassy wishes to conduct its own inquiries, and I have worked with their representatives before.”

  “Right, I see.” Littleton nodded. “He only lived a few streets away. I didn’t keep in touch with him—I didn’t think it was right, and of course there were so many who came through, and you can’t keep tabs on everyone. But I would send a Christmas card, and of course a card of condolence when his wife died. That was terrible, after all he’d been through.”

  Maisie nodded. She wavered between asking more questions about Durant and telling Clarice Littleton about the death of Rosemary Hartley-Davies. She didn’t want her to lose track of whatever memories she had of the dead man once she’d heard about the murder of her former fellow volunteer, so she would take the chance that holding the information just for a while would not alienate the woma
n.

  “Miss Littleton, could you tell me how you came to volunteer for the Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association, and describe your interactions with the refugees—how well did you come to know them, and how long were you in communication with them?”

  “I was roped in by my friend Rosie Miller—well, that was her maiden name, and we’d known each other since school days. She married Rupert Hartley-Davies just before he left for France. Needless to say, she was completely devastated when he was killed—I mean, it was happening to everyone we knew, it seemed, losing a sweetheart or husband, or they were coming home wounded, so you tried not to show how affected you were.” She looked at Maisie. “I’ll be absolutely frank—I became fed up with all that ‘just get on with it’ nonsense pretty fast, you know. I wanted to scream from the rooftops, so to see all these ramrod-straight backs made me rather angry, to tell you the truth.”

  Maisie glanced up at the mantelpiece at the photograph of a young man in uniform, alongside a single fresh red rose.

  “Anyway, Rosie pulled me in,” continued Littleton. “She said we both could do something worthwhile, and it would take our minds off everything else, and there were other women involved, so why not just get stuck in? And so we did. We weren’t the only association trying to help, but a good number of refugees—women, boys and girls, and the elderly—were being sent to us. When they arrived, we did several things—registered their names and any other pertinent details, then we set about supplying them with what we termed their basic human needs. Many had left with only the clothes they stood up in, so if they needed clothing, we sent them down to our lady who worked in the room with all the unwanted items people had sent along. By the way, I should add, the association managed to get premises for next to nothing for the duration.”

  “A generous landlord?”

  “Yes—egged on by Rosie’s name. She was very well connected socially.” Littleton glanced out of the window as if to gather her thoughts, then brought her attention back to Maisie. “Where was I? Oh, yes—once they were clothed and fed, we found the refugees lodgings. At first people were very accommodating—we had a good number of names on our list of possible foster families. That’s what we called them—‘foster families.’ And during the registration we checked any personal documents refugees brought with them, and helped to get them identification cards. If they could do a job of work, then we would find them a position if we could—seamstress, secretary, plumber, clerk . . . many of our refugees were very able when it came to work, and of course with our boys all over there, and women having to do all manner of jobs, the extra help was needed—and they wanted to work. Within a short time, a lot of the refugees were very self-sufficient. We tried to direct the families to the Belgian villages that had been set up—they even had their own churches and used their own currency in those places.”

  “So you became very organized and very efficient very quickly,” said Maisie.

  “Miss Dobbs, I think it’s fair to say that some of our volunteers were like regimental sergeant majors—they threw themselves into the work and did what had to be done, and the rest of us did the same. It took your mind off your own problems and straight onto another’s, and with our men fighting over there, what was it to give up your days to help people? At least we weren’t in trenches.”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, you’re right, of course. Did you keep in touch with Mrs. Hartley-Davies?”

  Littleton shrugged. “We were quite pally at one point, but when her brother returned home, she became obsessed with being his helpmeet, I suppose you could say—though they were siblings, not husband and wife.” She seemed wistful for a moment. “Actually, when we were all younger, everyone thought it was going to be me, that because Rosie and I were such good friends, Robert and I would marry. But I met David instead, and that was it, as far as I was concerned.” She looked up at the photograph. “We were going to be married on his next leave, but he never made it to the next leave. He’s buried near Albert—it’s a town in Belgium. I’ve been over there a few times. I was going to go again soon, but not with the war, not now, and travel across the Channel is at a standstill anyway.”

  “So were you courting Robert Miller at one point?” asked Maisie.

  “Oh, not really. It’s just that we got on so well, and we’d known each other for years, so everyone jumped to the conclusion that we would one day throw in our lot with each other. Then at a party, just before the war—we were all there, of course, the Littletons and the Millers—I met David, and my world changed. We fell in love. And there would never be anyone else, not for me.” She sighed. “Anyway, now I have a job four mornings a week, including Saturdays—very easy, in a dress shop. And I’ve joined the Women’s Voluntary Services too. I can put all that work in the last war to good use. It left me with an ability to organize anyone to do anything, you know.”

  “Yes, I am sure it did, Miss Littleton.” Maisie paused. “Miss Littleton, I am afraid I have some news for you, and it’s very bad news. Mrs. Hartley-Davies is dead, along with her housekeeper. She was murdered, and it’s likely the attack is connected to the death of Albert Durant, and that of another Belgian refugee, Frederick Addens.”

  For a few seconds, time seemed to cave in on itself. Clarice Littleton stared at Maisie, her shock registered in the involuntary movement of a muscle under her right cheekbone, which gave the impression that she was trying to stifle a giggle. Her eyes closed, and her breathing quickened.

  “Miss Littleton, please put your feet up, go on, lie back. I can guess where the kitchen is—I’ll make some tea.”

  Clarice Littleton did as instructed, while Maisie plumped a pillow and placed it under her ankles. She pressed two fingers to the woman’s forehead and then lifted her wrist and felt her pulse.

  “You’ll feel more stable in a moment—the shock caused your blood pressure to drop.”

  A few minutes later, with a cup of sugared tea clasped between two hands, Clarice Littleton was sitting up, the color now returned to her face.

  “I’m so sorry. You know, since David was killed in action, every time I hear of someone I know dying, it’s as if I am falling down a big hole—as if I’m hearing the news of his death all over again.” She sipped her tea. “And if this war goes the way of the last, I suppose I will hear that news over and over again, only this time it will be the sons of women I knew when I was a girl—those who were lucky enough to be married.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must ask you some questions.”

  Littleton sighed. “Yes, I suppose you must. I knew Rosie better than anyone else involved in the association, and I knew one of the dead men. The other doesn’t really ring a bell.”

  “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind looking at this.” Maisie held out the framed photograph taken from Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ house. “It’s quite old, from the war, and the faces aren’t very distinct. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  Littleton set down her cup and saucer on a side table and reached for the photograph. She shook her head.

  “No one familiar to you?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that. I looked at this photograph, and it was as if time had wrapped her arms around me. Look at the laughter—a sunny day in a hay field, people with broad smiles, and yet so much grief to weather. How could we ever smile in those days?”

  “We did, though—and make no mistake, as bad as it was in France and Flanders, and in all those other places where men fought, there were times of laughter. Just because the circumstances might be almost intolerable does not mean there are not moments when the light shines in.” Maisie looked down at her hands and rubbed them together, remembering.

  “Anyway, yes, I can tell you about this photograph. And it’s simple, really—I was the photographer. Not terribly good, I confess, but I was on the other side of the camera.”

  “Then what can you tell me about the young men either side of Rosemary?”

  “It’s coming back to me now. This one is Albert and this one is
Frederick—until I saw his face, the name didn’t click, but now it does. Gosh, I wish I could remember the names here—I think that one was Peter and the other Thomas. Or was his surname Thomas? I can’t remember the others—it will probably come back to me later. And then there was this little scamp. I can’t recall his name at all. He arrived in England alone, but with the older boys. I think his mother died on the walk through Belgium—though I could be mixing him up with someone else. But there were deaths on the journey. If you add malnutrition, thirst—and of course fear—those things could quickly conspire with some disease or another to bring them down.” Littleton looked down at the photograph again. “This was taken on one of the farms Rosie’s father owned. Rosie said they needed extra help with the haymaking, so she arranged for a number of the lads on our books who had either not yet found a job or were only getting piecemeal work to go down to Sussex—they stayed in the old hopper huts, and the farmer provided food and so on. I went down to visit, just for a couple of days. You could see how much good it was doing everyone—their cheeks were rosy, they’d put on weight, and for those lads, it helped to be doing a job of work in the open air. I mean, what were they? Fifteen or sixteen, something of that order. That was the summer of 1917, I think. Or was it 1916? I should remember, shouldn’t I, but sometimes I look back and it’s all a bit of a blur, with certain moments standing out. David was dead by then, killed at Neuve Chappelle in early 1915—so it was after that.”

  “Could you find out the names of the other men for me?”

  Littleton shook her head. “Oh dear, I’m not really sure what happened to the records. At the end of the war we were assisting with repatriation, and of course Rosie had left the association by then, as her brother was in a military hospital in Surrey. I left too, to look after my mother—she’d gone down with that terrible flu, as had my father. It didn’t kill them, but it certainly shortened their lives. Anyway, you don’t want to know all that, do you?” She tapped the photograph against her palm. “There is a woman who might well know if the files are still available. The association merged with another after the war, and of course when all the repatriation was done, it was disbanded, but the information might be lurking somewhere, though it could well be in several places. You see, we had a card file with basic information on everyone as they came in that we could get to quickly, then we began establishing proper records so we could assist with jobs and—with a bit of luck—refugee repatriation at the end of the war. We knew it had to happen eventually, even though at times we thought it would never end.” Littleton sighed. “Anyway, you never know, these records might one day be important to someone.”