In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “They’re fairly important to me, Miss Littleton. So if you can find out how I might have access to them, and a name of someone to contact, I would be very much obliged to you.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Littleton took Maisie’s card from her pocket and looked at it again. “‘M. Dobbs. Psychologist and investigator.’ That sounds very good, doesn’t it? How does one get to do what you do?”

  Maisie smiled and came to her feet. “A long and arduous training, Miss Littleton.”

  Clarice Littleton made as if to stand.

  “I can let myself out,” said Maisie. “You stay there, and I suggest you rest for the remainder of the afternoon.” She paused, wondering if she should add the caution she felt was necessary. “One thing, Miss Littleton. Do take a measure of extra care—please do not just open the door to anyone, and use the chain on the door if necessary. I don’t want you to live in fear, but you must consider your personal security. I believe Rosemary was killed because she knew something about the killer. You might not have the same knowledge—it sounds as if she’d been rather more involved in the lives of a number of the refugees. But your friendship with her and the work you did for the association render you vulnerable.”

  “I can take care of myself, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Not against a man with a revolver.”

  Littleton rubbed her forehead. “I’ll see if I can find out about the files, then perhaps go to stay with an old friend in Norfolk. I can take some time off work.”

  “You won’t lose your job?”

  The woman shrugged. “It’s not for the money—my parents left me well provided for, and I was the fortunate beneficiary of a maiden aunt on my father’s side. I suppose it’s the sunny side of being the only one left to carry the family name. I go to work to stop the walls drawing in and pressing me into the past.” She looked towards the photograph on the mantelpiece, then back at Maisie. “But who would have believed it would come to this, twenty-odd years after the Armistice? I don’t see how someone could commit murder, not when there’s been so much death and going to be more. Goodness, how on earth do you do your job?”

  Maisie rested her hand on the door handle, ready to leave. “I do it for the dead, Miss Littleton, and for those left behind. And when I’ve done my job, Justice has to carry the weight.”

  Maisie did not at once leave the neighborhood. There was a small park opposite the street where Clarice Littleton lived, so Maisie chose a seat and watched the entrance to the flats. There were several passersby, none who drew special attention. All were carrying gas masks. A few raindrops fell, and Maisie wished she had brought an umbrella. But she remained in place, partly protected by the canopy of tree fronds overhead. Once again she looked at the barrage balloons bobbing in the sky above the buildings, finding their apparent lightness surprisingly soothing. It was just at the point when Maisie stood up to leave that she saw Clarice Littleton step out of the front door of the converted mansion, carrying a small case, her gas mask in its box with the strap over her shoulder, and a handbag. Littleton hailed a passing taxicab and was soon on her way. Maisie suspected the woman had elected to go to Norfolk sooner rather than later, a decision she considered sound. There had been a moment of recognition when Littleton reached the top of the stairs and saw her. Among the letters Littleton held in her hand was one written on stationery Maisie recognized. It was of course not an unusual stationery, but the smooth cream vellum was familiar, and used by at least one office of the Belgian embassy.

  Before leaving Maida Vale, Maisie looked up the address of Albert Durant in her notebook and then took out her London map. The street was not far, and overlooked the Regent’s Canal. Fortunately, the clouds had all but cleared and showers had passed. The address proved to be that of a grander terrace of mansion flats, not smaller conversions of what was once home to one well-to-do family. The property was significantly larger than the one that housed Clarice Littleton’s abode.

  The flat she was interested in was on the first floor above ground level, offering a residence of considerable size. Maisie imagined it to be light and airy, comprising a spacious drawing room with doors through to a dining room. Bedrooms would be on the other side of a wide hallway, and in recent years there would have been the addition of a bathroom and perhaps an additional separate lavatory. There would be a kitchen and even a scullery for the washing of clothes and other heavier chores. Maisie doubted the residents had a live-in housekeeper, though in all likelihood there was a daily, a woman who came in at six in the morning and remained until late afternoon, a woman who would cook and clean, who could wash some laundry and sort the rest to send out. And there would of course have been a nursery, decorated in anticipation of the new arrival. Maisie thought she knew how Durant must have felt following his wife’s death in childbirth, for hadn’t she returned to an apartment in Toronto following the passing of her husband and stillborn child? And hadn’t she broken down on the threshold of the nursery, a sweet room painted in shades of shell and sky, with a crib empty, and the counterpane drawn back, as if awaiting the child who would never come home?

  And she wondered, now, if the killer had known of his victim’s sorrow. Had he known this man might well have welcomed the bullet that took his life, that put an end to the terrible thoughts and nightmares that must have tortured him? Or could she be projecting her own emotions, because she had endured a similar loss? While Maurice had always encouraged imagination, he had also cautioned against such leaps of creative thought, telling her that just because she would feel a certain way in a given set of circumstances, she must not conclude that her feelings were universal. It was sometimes hard to reconcile his lessons, but in time she had come to understand the importance of grounding intuition and speculation in truths she discovered along the way.

  It was clear Durant had some consideration of the future, because he was on his way to deposit funds at another bank—the most efficient means of investment, as he’d informed a colleague. Or could that have just been his training? Perhaps it was second nature for him to move money around as if he were playing a tactical game.

  Maisie approached the front door of the building and was poised to ring the bell to summon the caretaker when it was drawn back and a young man emerged, almost bumping into Maisie.

  “Oh, Miss Dobbs. What a surprise to see you here.” The man paused. “Well, perhaps not, considering the work you’re undertaking for Dr. Thomas and our department.”

  “It’s Mr. Lambert, isn’t it?” Maisie held out her hand, in part to watch as Lambert passed a clutch of documents from one hand to the other, enabling him to take her hand. “And I am surprised to see you here, but by the same token, perhaps not, in the circumstances.”

  The young man met Maisie’s eyes. “I had to find some paperwork with regard to Mr. Durant’s period of residence here in Britain, for consular purposes. The police gave permission, and I was provided with a key, which has to go back to the police station.” He paused. “I would have thought you should’ve been given leave to inspect the flat, all things considered.” He consulted his watch. “Shall I show you up? I have time.”

  “Thank you—yes, I would appreciate seeing where Mr. Durant lived.”

  Lambert led the way to the dead man’s flat, and opened the door with a key on a fob with a silver lion’s head.

  “Were those the keys found on the deceased?” asked Maisie.

  Lambert nodded. “Yes. They were at Scotland Yard, and I had to present myself there to receive them. A Sergeant Able helped me.”

  “Oh yes, I know him. Tell me, do you know if there was a guard on the flat at any point following Mr. Durant’s death?”

  “I believe there was for a couple of days while the Murder Squad men did their work, but not since.”

  Lambert left the keys on the stand in the hall. It was made of dark wood and comprised a mirror, several hooks for hats, and others at the side for coats. Two umbrellas were poked through a hole in the center of the stand, with a porcela
in bowl on a ledge underneath to catch water, should the umbrella have been brought in wet. Another series of smaller hooks underneath the mirror held a few keys and a clothes brush. Maisie imagined Durant leaving for his job in the City every morning, perhaps checking his tie and brushing off his jacket before leaving the house, or if it was winter, putting on his heavy coat and gloves, taking up his keys, and then opening the door to be on his way. She wondered if his wife used the brush, if she picked specks of lint from his shoulders and drew him towards her for a kiss before seeing him off for his day of work.

  The flat was more or less as Maisie imagined it, though the kitchen was larger and the dining room less spacious. If one of the bedrooms had been decorated for a new baby, Maisie could not tell which one it was. There was nothing in the flat to indicate that it was the home of anyone other than a man without a wife, though perhaps one who liked a few feminine touches.

  In the corner of the dining room a roll-top desk had been left open.

  “Was that open when you came in, Mr. Lambert?” asked Maisie.

  “Yes, it was—fortunately, because I didn’t have a key for it, and the identification documents and passport were in there.”

  “I’m surprised the police didn’t take them,” said Maisie.

  Lambert shrugged. “I’m not, and neither is Dr. Thomas. The reason she asked for your assistance is because Scotland Yard have seemed less than willing to work a bit harder on these two cases.”

  “In their defense, Mr. Lambert, they are somewhat overwhelmed at the present time, and it is a difficult case. Not much in the way of clues.” She stepped towards the desk. “I’ll just have a quick look here.”

  Maisie leafed through a series of bills, some receipts, and other items of little interest. A ledger kept in a fine hand offered a precise accounting of household finances and notes on economies and the odd purchase considered extravagant. A small pile of correspondence tied with string revealed cards and letters of condolence. A folder in the top drawer contained various notes in connection with the dead man’s deceased wife, and a death certificate confirming her passing was due to an embolism, which also led to the death of the unborn child. Details of the funeral revealed that the woman had been cremated, though there were no notes indicating a final resting place for the ashes. The last item in the folder was a photograph of a woman wearing walking clothes—a pair of long shorts, a short-sleeved blouse, and strong leather lace-up boots. With one hand she was holding back fair, windswept hair, and in the other she held her knapsack. She was standing at the edge of a field, with woods to her left—Maisie could clearly see ridges in the field, carved by a plow. In the background, one had the impression of a hillside.

  “Anything of interest?” asked Lambert.

  Maisie sighed. “No, nothing really. Just an old photograph. It might prove to be useful.” She slipped the photograph into her jacket pocket and closed the drawer. She reached down to open the second drawer, but as she pulled it towards her, she heard a rattle. She closed the drawer and opened it again. Once more the rattle sounded.

  “That’s a very old desk,” said Lambert, looking at his watch.

  “Yes, it is. I just don’t want the drawer to get stuck on anything—it can take ages to put this sort of thing right.” She knelt down and pulled out the drawer partway, turning back to Lambert. “Did you look in here?”

  He shook his head. “No, everything I wanted—passport and identification papers—was in that little cubbyhole at the top, so I left the drawers alone. I felt a bit bad touching anything, actually—it’s all personal, isn’t it? I was just keen to get the things I was asked to find, and get out of the flat.”

  “Are you scared?” Maisie asked, turning back to the drawer. She squeezed her hand in, turning it so her palm faced the underside of the drawer above.

  “It gives me the shivers, Miss Dobbs. This is the house of three dead people—a man, his wife, and their not-yet-born child. To be perfectly honest, the sooner we leave, the better. I only wanted to fulfill my task and then report back to Dr. Thomas.”

  Maisie removed her hand, took a clean linen handkerchief from her bag, and reached back into the drawer. “You’re going to have more to report than you expected, Mr. Lambert.” She withdrew her hand again and held up a revolver, her linen handkerchief protecting the integrity of any fingerprints remaining on the grip. “This thing, for a start. It looks like a Browning, but I believe it’s known as a Ruby. I think we should take a taxicab directly to Scotland Yard. Caldwell is not going to like this at all.”

  Lambert stepped back, the color draining from his face. “Won’t he be pleased you found it?”

  Maisie shook her head. “I doubt it—because either his men missed it when they made their own search, which I concede was probably cursory. Or it was used to kill four people and brought here once the job was done—which means it is as clean as a whistle, because only the most careless criminal would leave his fingerprints all over a murder weapon. And the other scenario is that it was indeed the property of the dead man.”

  “Pity he didn’t have it with him on the day he died,” said Lambert.

  Maisie looked at Lambert. “Surprisingly, I don’t think he was that kind of man, though if it was his revolver, I would like to know why he had possession of it in the first place.”

  Chapter 11

  “Miss Dobbs, I just knew it the moment you walked in here the other day, that you would start making my life a misery again.” Caldwell held up the revolver, with Maisie’s linen handkerchief still wrapped around it, and let it swing back and forth. “I’ll send it down to our weapons man and see what he thinks. You were wise to keep it clean, but my guess is that there is not one dab to be found.” He looked up from the gun. “Do we still have yours on file?”

  “Let’s do them again—it was a while ago, so we should make sure.”

  “And you didn’t see or touch this thing, sonny?” Caldwell looked at Lambert.

  Lambert shook his head, his eyes widening. “Absolutely not, Inspector!”

  “No, I wouldn’t have thought so.” He sighed. “Right then, we’ve got your statement, Mr. Lambert, so you’re free to go. I hope we haven’t breached any consular agreements keeping you here for a bit.”

  “I’m sure it’s all perfectly all right, Inspector.” Lambert came to his feet, turning to Maisie. “I’m glad you came along when you did. Thank you.”

  Maisie gave a brief nod. Though no words were spoken, she knew Lambert understood the message in her eyes: she would be in touch with his superior later.

  Lambert appeared to shuffle out of the small office, as if he were afraid to allow his lanky frame the freedom of a long stride lest he knock over a chair or a pile of papers. He closed the door behind him, and through the glass Maisie saw Sergeant Able approach to lead him out.

  Caldwell shook his head. “They’re like two peas in a pod—all arms and feet and a bit dozy with it. Both still going on fifteen, by the looks of them.”

  Maisie made no comment on Caldwell’s observation. “Let’s get my fingerprints done, shall we? And that gun inspected.”

  Caldwell and Maisie stood up at the same time.

  “You seem quiet, Miss Dobbs.”

  “It’s nothing, Inspector. Just thinking.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Bad for the constitution.”

  The revolver was confirmed to be a Ruby, although the “weapons man” had not yet come to a conclusion about when it was last fired. Maisie did not expect an easy answer. She had known as soon as she looked at the gun that it had been cleaned well and by someone who knew how to look after a revolver. Although it often seemed like yesterday, some eighteen months earlier Maisie had been pressed into work with the Secret Service, which in turn required she learn to use a gun—and part of her training was in understanding the importance of cleaning her weapon to military standards, ensuring that every speck of dust was removed whenever it lay dormant, so that when the time came to use it,
she could feel confident her revolver was in full working order. She made her way back to Fitzroy Square, pondering the fact that the same brand of revolver had been discovered twice—one at the scene of Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ death, and one in Albert Durant’s flat. It had also been implicated in the killing of both Durant and Frederick Addens.

  Billy was already at his desk when Maisie entered the office.

  “Hallo, miss. Ready for a cuppa? I know you think I do nothing but drink tea all day, but you look all in. A cup would do you the power of good.”

  “I’m all right, Billy—perhaps later. Did you find Mike Elliot? And what about the publican at the Crown and Anchor? Come on in and tell me what you’ve found out.”

  Billy followed, notebook in hand. Although he’d loosened his tie, he had kept his jacket on. He took a seat alongside Maisie at the table as she pulled out her own notebook.

  “Did you find that woman—the one who worked with Rosemary Hartley-Davies during the war?” asked Billy.

  “I did indeed. She’s very strong, forthright. And though I don’t think she was fearful when I first arrived, by the time I left, she had changed her mind and seemed rather unsettled. Mind you, that’s hardly surprising.” Maisie went on to recount the events that followed her visit to see Clarice Littleton.