In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “And you reckon she’s in Norfolk somewhere.”

  “I do, and I would like to know where, exactly, she is.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Billy.”

  “And what do you make of the Ruby in Albert Durant’s flat?”

  “I don’t know. It could be a weapon he’d had for years—perhaps even before he left Belgium. It begs the questions, why did he have the gun, and how did he obtain it? And who owned the revolver—same type—used to kill Rosemary Hartley-Davies?”

  “Well, miss, Durant had it for protection, I would imagine. And if there were a lot of them guns around, it might not have been so hard to get your hands on one.”

  “But what if he’d obtained the Ruby since coming here. Why?”

  “Again, for protection—possibly.”

  “Which brings us back to square one—who was he afraid of? You don’t expect a banker to be afraid for his life, do you, Billy?”

  Billy frowned. “You did about ten years ago! But you’re right, miss, we need to find out the names of the other men in that photograph. I mean, it’s a thread, and you’re always saying we have to pick at the fabric until we find a loose thread. They might not have known him that well, but there again, finding one might lead to someone else.”

  The telephone rang. Billy stood to answer it at Maisie’s desk. He gave the office number, and listened.

  “Just a moment, Miss Littleton,” said Billy, before holding out the receiver for Maisie to take.

  Maisie looked up and reached for the telephone. She nodded to Billy, indicating that he should remain in the room.

  “Miss Littleton. It seems I left you only a short time ago—is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m all right. Look, I’m in a telephone kiosk, and I don’t have many coins on me. I remembered the names of the two other men—Carl Firmin and Lucas Peters, though I think he spelled it with two e’s, so it’s P-double-e-t-e-r-s. And he might have changed it by now.”

  Maisie pulled a notepad towards her and began to write. “Yes, I’ve got that. Have you any idea where I can find them?”

  “I know where the records are—from the association. Rosie passed them all on to another refugee association, I think in Greenwich. I can’t tell you any more than that—I’ve tried, but I can’t recall the name of the woman who runs it.”

  “But about Peeters and Firmin—do you have any idea where I might find them?”

  “No, I’m sorry—and I must go n—”

  She heard a series of beeps, the telephone signal for more coins to be put into the slot and button “A” to be pushed. But no more coins were forthcoming, and the line disconnected.

  “Anything for us, miss?”

  “We have to find two men, a Lucas Peeters”—Maisie pushed her notepad towards Billy so he could see the spelling—“and Carl Firmin. If they are in the telephone directory, it shouldn’t be too hard. On the other hand, if they aren’t, then it’s back to the drawing board, the lists, and asking a lot of questions.”

  “Just a tick,” said Billy. He left his chair and went through to the main office, returning with the London telephone directory. “Well, Firmin’s here. Want me to find him?”

  Maisie shook her head. “I’ll go—and I’ll not telephone first. I don’t want to give anyone a chance to leave. And I’ll visit this association in Greenwich—I’m sure it’s on Sandra’s list.” She made a note of the telephone call on another sheet of paper. “So, Billy, what about Mike Elliot?”

  “Nice bloke. Seems as if he was easygoing—once upon a time, anyway. He works on the railways, but not at St. Pancras. I found him at Euston—they’d transferred him up the road there after the business with Addens and him having to identify the body. Turns out he met Frederick Addens when they were both apprentices, and they became pally, you know, had a drink after work every now and again. Mike worked in another part of the station and would wander over to see if Frederick was there and wanted to have a swift half-pint after work, that sort of thing.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “This Mike was still sort of shaken about it all. Said he couldn’t think why anyone would want to kill Addens—unless it was to steal whatever he had on him at the time, and of course we know now that he had more than a little bit on him, on account of having been given his wages and having overtime paid on top. Elliot said he was a good worker, quiet but not standoffish, and good to his wife and children. Mike said that if he asked Frederick to have a second pint, he would always say no, had to get back to the family.”

  “But nothing about any worries or concerns?” said Maisie.

  Billy shook his head. “Not exactly, but he did say that Addens had a cross to bear. He said he put it down to his background—not that he’d spoken much about it to Mike. But Mike said Addens couldn’t stand any discord, any argy-bargy at work, and even when they were younger, he would always step in if there was a bit of nastiness between a couple of the blokes they were working with. He said it was always the same, he would say, ‘Don’t argue, because arguments lead to battles and battles become wars and we all know where they lead.’” Anyway, Mike said he asked him about it once, why he was so touchy about it—I mean, they all knew what war meant, didn’t they?—and he just shrugged and said, ‘I saw too much death, Mikey, to leave it alone.’”

  Maisie nodded, imagining a younger Frederick Addens pouring oil on troubled waters, smoothing tempers and ironing out disputes. And she wondered about the death he had seen before his escape from occupied Belgium.

  “And did you get anything from the landlord at the Crown and Anchor?”

  “Oh, good old Smitty, the drinker’s friend!”

  “Smitty?” said Maisie.

  “He was all very chatty, very welcoming. Name of Phil Smith, but the locals all call him Smitty.”

  “I knew you’d have better luck than me.”

  “And I’ve saved the juiciest morsel for last, miss.”

  “Go on.”

  “I showed him that photo of Albert Durant, and he said he’s not one hundred percent sure, but he reckons he might have seen him a week or so before Addens was murdered.”

  “That’s as near a thread as we’ve managed to get so far,” said Maisie.

  “He wasn’t entirely certain, but I reckon there’s a good chance. Turns out the man came in after a Sunday darts match, when all the lads were having a drink to celebrate another win. He walks in and taps Addens on the shoulder—Smitty noticed it because, apparently, this bloke was well dressed, looking every inch the city type. Addens turns round, big beaming smile on his face, and then Durant—well, the man we reckon is him—whispers something to him, and they go over to the corner table and sit and talk, heads close together. Smitty said it wouldn’t have surprised him if Frederick Addens didn’t start to weep, his face was so torn. Said that he assumed the other bloke was an official visitor, bringing news of someone they’d both known who’d died. Frederick didn’t say much, according to Smitty—he just plonked money for his shout on the bar, said thank you, and they left.” Billy paused, looking at Maisie. “What do you think, miss?”

  “One part of me believes there is a very strong argument for this visitor being Durant, and that there was a connection between the two that began when they were refugees and continued through their time in England. On the one hand, it’s hardly surprising that there was some communication between them, but on the other, I wonder what news he brought that could have led to a reaction so obvious that Smitty remembered it weeks on.”

  “I was wondering that too,” said Billy, running his fingers back through his hair.

  For a fleeting moment Maisie thought she should tell him to be aware of the habit, for beyond Billy’s fringe his hairline was receding, and he might be making it worse. But perhaps the constant running of fingers along his scalp had nothing to do with the loss of hair. It was just Billy getting older. “I want to know if they knew eac
h other before they came here,” she said, her tone resolute. “We know they came from the same area, but that doesn’t mean they knew each other.”

  “This is where you wish they were from over here, then you could just whip to wherever they came from and have a word with the neighbors.”

  “Hmmm.” Maisie doodled on the edge of the case map with a red wax crayon, feeling Billy’s eyes upon her.

  “Miss, what with the train services stopped all over the place, I can tell you right now that you could never get over there. Even for a day. And it’s not only the trains and ferries that have stopped going to the Continent—there’s no aeroplanes going either, not for us civvies, anyway, as far as I know—so that idea won’t work.”

  Maisie looked up at Billy. “You’ve heard that old phrase, haven’t you? ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’”

  “I never liked that one. I mean, who would want to skin a poor cat anyway?”

  Maisie stood up and went to her desk, lifting the telephone receiver as she looked up at Billy. “I read that it refers to catfish—they’re from America somewhere, and the people there call them ‘cats.’ It’s about skinning a fish. And there’s one or two different ways to do it.” She began to dial. “I could do with that cup of tea now, Billy—I know you’re gasping, and you do make the best strong brew.”

  Billy gathered his notebook and pen and left the room, knowing Maisie was sending him from her office because the telephone call she was about to make was private—and they both understood why.

  Maisie dialed a number known to her by heart.

  “Yes!” a voice boomed, its timbre rich and round, with a resonance suggesting weight and strength—and that the man who answered would not suffer a fool gladly.

  Maisie held the receiver away from her ear for a second, then brought it back to speak.

  “Hello, Robbie,” said Maisie.

  “Hello, lassie. And if it’s Robbie you’re calling me, and not MacFarlane, then you’re about to try to butter me up, and this is not a good day to try any buttering.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be, Robbie. But I need your help.”

  “What can I do for you? And please make it easy.”

  “I think you owe me one or two favors, don’t you?”

  “Aye, lass, I do. More than one or two. So go on, tell me what it is.”

  Maisie paused, wondering if she wasn’t making a great error in taking Robert MacFarlane into her confidence. But on the other hand, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume Robbie knew everything she was working on anyway.

  “Hurry up, lassie—I’ve not got all day. The clock is ticking, the sun is nowhere near the yardarm anywhere in the British Isles, and my patience is being tested.”

  “Do you know if I could get on a government aeroplane to Brussels?”

  “What do you want in Brussels?”

  “I would like to travel on from there to a small town outside Liege, just to talk to a few people. A day’s work at most. I would jump at the chance of a driver if you could get me one, and of course I will pay all costs.”

  “No.”

  “Robbie, is that ‘No, there are no aeroplanes leaving for Brussels’? Or ‘No, you can’t get on an aeroplane’? Or is it ‘No, you don’t have to pay because we still owe you money’?”

  “It’s ‘No, because I won’t let you fly into danger.’”

  “You didn’t mind in 1938, did you?”

  “That was different.”

  “Yes, it was far more dangerous. This is just to get some answers to questions, and I’m not going there to do business with Nazis.”

  There was silence on the line, though Maisie could hear MacFarlane breathing, then turning the pages of a book. He swore in a whisper and returned to the call.

  “You don’t like flying—in fact, you hate it.”

  “I can do it if need be, as we both know. What about it, Robbie?”

  “It can be arranged. The aeroplane will not be leaving from Croydon or anywhere fancy now, and it won’t be comfortable—you’re likely to be in a Lysander normally used for aerial surveillance, and it will be landing in a field, not an airport in Brussels. But I daresay I can get a motor and driver for you, if you’re not in the bushes losing your breakfast.”

  Maisie shook her head, though she was never surprised at Robert MacFarlane’s colorful turn of phrase. “Thank you, Robbie. When do I leave?”

  “I’ll let you know, but it won’t be immediate. Strings will have to be tugged in a good many places, and I will say here and now it’s not without danger, lass. Things might have been quiet since war was declared, and as we know our friends over there in Belgium have again declared their position of ‘armed neutrality,’ but the Luftwaffe boys could be out in force any time—any time—and you could be in their sights. A Lysander was never built to go to war, only for reconnaissance and that sort of thing, whatever these boys do.”

  “I’ve been in Luftwaffe sights before, Robbie. I’ll be all right.” Maisie took a breath as Billy knocked on the door. “I’ll hear from you soon, then. And thank you.”

  “It’ll cost you a dram or two, lassie.”

  Maisie laughed, and replaced the receiver. She looked up at the door. “Come in, Billy.”

  “Here you are—nice cup of tea, good and strong,” said Billy. “That’ll get us through the war—though they say it’ll go on rationing soon enough.”

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, tea—along with everything else.” Billy set a cup and saucer on the table. Maisie came around from her desk and took her seat once again.

  “I don’t know why I bother to read the news. I should just wait to get it all from you every day, complete with a running commentary on my personal safety preparations.”

  “If I was doing that, I’d tell you not to go,” said Billy.

  Maisie reached for her tea and lifted the cup. “We’d better make the best of this, then—and might as well stockpile a few bags of Brooke Bond, or we’ll never get through the war.”

  “I just hope you know what you’re doing, miss.”

  “I’ll be all right, Billy. This is important. And I’m only going to Greenwich, and to—where does this Firmin man live?”

  “Lewisham.”

  “Lewisham—I’ll go there first tomorrow morning, then on to Greenwich. Not too bad a journey. And quite safe, don’t you think?”

  “Unlike Belgium,” said Billy.

  Maisie left early the following morning to allow for delays, though traffic diversions put in place to allow for the evacuation of children and movement of troops in the days immediately following the declaration of war had been lifted. It was just before ten o’clock that Maisie knocked on the door of a Victorian terrace house just off Lewisham Way. She waited a moment or two and knocked again. Soon footsteps could be heard, and the door opened. The woman who stood before Maisie had her blonde hair pulled up in a kerchief and wore a blue boiler suit, but no shoes. The boiler suit was cinched at the waist with a belt of a different shade, as if the woman were trying to grasp a last vestige of femininity while wearing men’s clothing. She was about thirty-five years of age, and before speaking, she took a cigarette from her mouth and blew smoke upward. She tapped ash to the side, just missing the step.

  “Whatever it is, love, I don’t want any—I can barely make ends meet as it is.” She stepped back, ready to close the door on Maisie.

  “Mrs. Firmin? Mrs. Firmin, I am not selling anything—I wanted to speak to your husband.”

  “I can’t pay you back, whatever it was for—and if you want to speak to him, you’d better know how to get to the other side, because he’s not on this one anymore.”

  “I’m so very sorry—and I am not looking to extract money from you. Could you spare me a moment or two?”

  “What do you want?”

  Maisie looked around at other houses on the street. “Probably best not to speak on the doorstep.”

  The woman sighed, stepping inside and pulling b
ack the door for Maisie to enter. “You can come in, but you take me as you find me. I don’t have time to run around with a duster and broom, and it’s all I can do to get a line of washing done these days.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Firmin.” Maisie stepped into the passageway, noticing a broom leaning against the wall with a small pile of debris behind it, as if someone had started sweeping the carpet and then abandoned the job.

  “Might as well go into the parlor—on the right, first door. Don’t breathe in—I think it was last cleaned a month ago, and what with the railway, all you get is dust everywhere. I bet they have dirt from Lewisham landing in snooty Mayfair, the way things are going.”

  Maisie stepped into the parlor and took a seat in the armchair nearest the cold fire grate. The armchair was part of a “three-piece suite” and was probably a good number of years old—not ancient by any means, though the design was very much a hallmark of the previous decade. Faded tapestry upholstery and curved wooden arms reflected an Art Deco styling. A variety of framed family photographs hung from a picture rail, and above the fireplace a mirror was secured with a solid brass hook and a sturdy chain.

  Firmin seated herself on the settee, close to the arm. A table next to the settee held a lamp and an ashtray. She pulled the ashtray closer, took a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from the breast pocket of her boiler suit, and lit up. She shook out the flame of the match and dropped it in the ashtray. “I’d offer you one, but I can tell you’re not the type.” She inhaled deeply on the cigarette and flicked ash on top of the match. “I don’t sit in here much, but my mother liked it. This was her place—rented, of course—but it’s only me here now, and I spend more of my time back in the kitchen. Lucky the rent is fixed, or I’d be out on my ear.”

  “Mrs. Firmin, this is my card.” Maisie passed her calling card to Firmin. “As you can see, I am an investigator. My client, one who has sympathies with the Belgian people, has asked me to look into the deaths of two former refugees who made new lives for themselves here during the war. And like your husband, they both remained in the country after the Armistice.”