In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Thank you, Robbie. I appreciate it.”

  “I would appreciate it more if I knew what you were up to, but—against my better judgment—I trust you. And speaking of trust, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll see a lot going on there, at the airfield. You know what the government posters say, don’t you? Keep mum.”

  As soon as Billy arrived at the office and they were settled, he recounted the results of his inquiries. Apparently, Clarice Littleton owned a cottage just outside Norwich, the property having been left to her by a maiden aunt. As a rule it was rented out during the summer months, providing a means of increasing her income—she would go to Norfolk on the train every two weeks to check the house and to welcome another family who had come to enjoy a rural respite alongside the river Yare. But with the declaration of war, the last two tenants of the summer season had canceled, and she had decided not to place an advertisement again until the following year. She had informed a local shopkeeper—as a favor to Littleton, every year he would place a card in his window with details of the cottage—that it might be safer altogether if she left London for the duration, she just wasn’t sure yet.

  “I’m surprised,” said Maisie. “She seems to have been pretty open with the shopkeeper regarding her plans. The way she moved along the road after I’d visited her suggested a worried woman in a hurry.”

  “Yes, but she told him all this last week, before she knew about the murders.”

  “You know, Billy, I would place money on her not being at the cottage at all. In all likelihood she has contacts—friends, perhaps—who would put her up for a while. It was easy enough for you to garner this information, which means that if she is at some risk, it would be easy for a killer to know her whereabouts.”

  “Are you going out there, miss?”

  “To Norfolk? I really don’t wish to waste petrol, but I want to talk to her. If anything, I want to know she’s all right.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s half past nine now, so if I leave by eleven, I can be there by early afternoon, and then return after I’ve found her and had a little chat. I’ll stay in a local inn overnight if necessary—the last thing I want is to drive in the blackout.”

  “Then what?”

  “Let’s see what she says. But I must also get to Chelstone to speak to Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ brother. And then there’s this.” Maisie took the ticket for the opera that she’d removed from the home of Rosemary Hartley-Davies. “It’s for the end of next week—I wish it were sooner.”

  “Are you going?”

  Maisie nodded. “If only to linger in the shadows, and see who sits in the seat next to the one indicated on this ticket.”

  “You think it could be the murderer?”

  “It could just be an old friend from school days who bought two tickets and sent one to Hartley-Davies, or the other way around. In any case, I hope the identity of the person who takes that adjacent seat will tell us something.” She returned the ticket to her desk drawer. “I’ll try to get a couple of seats in a box, so I have a good view of the audience. Interested?”

  “Me? The opera? Oh, blimey, no—my ears would never take it, miss. You get a bloke singing away in a high voice, with his passion and spittle, and all he’s saying is ‘Let’s go down the road for a pint.’ No, not my cuppa at all. Take Caldwell.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ll find someone.”

  At that moment, the telephone began to ring. Billy picked up the receiver and answered, as usual giving the number. Maisie watched as he listened to the caller, then smiled at Maisie. He put his hand over the receiver, still grinning. “Would you believe it? Out of the blue—a Mr. Stratton. Asking for you.”

  Maisie reached for the telephone receiver with one hand, and pointed to the door. “Thank you, Billy.”

  “I think I’d better nip down to get the post.” Billy winked at Maisie and left, closing the concertina doors behind him.

  “Hello, this is Maisie Dobbs,” she said, not knowing quite what else to say. She had not seen Richard Stratton for five or even six years, and while she had once addressed him as ‘Richard,’ she now felt unsure of herself.

  “Hello, Maisie. Richard Stratton. I was in London today, and thought I would give you a ring. I—I heard about your . . . your bereavement. I am so terribly sorry.”

  Maisie curled the telephone cord around her fingers. “Thank you, Richard. Yes, thank you. I suppose you understand more than some, having suffered a similar loss.”

  “Time, Maisie. It all takes time. I’d heard you were in Spain a couple of years ago—I thought it very brave of you. And now you’re back in business, in London.”

  “Yes, I’m back in business—and busy, so that counts for something.”

  “Of course—I’m sorry, you are most definitely busy. I wasn’t thinking.” There was a silence on the line; only a second, though it seemed longer. “Look, would you like to meet for tea? Or perhaps lunch? I’m in London at the moment, though I’ll be working in, well, the country, for the most part.”

  Maisie paused, opened the desk drawer, and lifted out the opera ticket. “Richard, might you be in London towards the end of next week?”

  “Let’s see, yes, I think so—I’m coming back in on Thursday. Meetings, that sort of thing. I’ll be staying at a flat until the Sunday evening.”

  “All right. Can you meet for a cup of coffee this morning? I must leave town today by eleven, so it would have to be quick, but I would like to see you.”

  “It’s work, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is—but I mean it . . . it would be lovely to see you, Richard.”

  “The usual caff, if it’s still there—in about half an hour?”

  Maisie laughed. “Oh yes, I remember you always said it was ‘More caff than café.’ It’s still there, still serving tea straight from a big urn, and the toast is still buttered until it’s dripping from the crust. I’ll see you there—and Richard, thank you.”

  “The caff, half an hour, Maisie.”

  “But Maisie, you’ve overlooked something here,” said Stratton, returning his cup to the saucer. “Everything’s closed—this ticket is useless. The theater performances were suspended last week. Government orders.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake—I cannot believe I missed that.” She looked at the ticket again. “And it’s not even for a big auditorium, but a small theater just off the Grays Inn Road. It was probably more music hall than opera.”

  “Now the Royal Opera House is being converted to a Mecca dance hall, there won’t be anything for a while anyway. Not that I’m a fan.” Stratton looked at Maisie. His once dark hair could now be described as pepper and salt. And yet he seemed more rested, more at ease, as if the strain of the years since his wife died, leaving him to raise his son alone, had been erased. “You’re looking better than I thought you might, Maisie.”

  “As you said, Richard—time. It takes time. The pain of loss does not go away, but it takes up a place in your heart. And it nestles there in the corner, another dragon to keep at bay—that’s what my friend, Priscilla, said about the war. He took up residence then, that war dragon, and must be mollified, not tempted out of his lair.”

  “Your friend has a point.”

  “What are you doing now, Richard—can you say?”

  “Roped in for war work. My son is now sixteen, and looking at university. I hope he keeps looking at it, to tell you the truth. The last thing I want is any heroics on his part. He says he wants to be a doctor. His mother would have been so very proud of him. At the moment he’s with his grandparents—her parents. School will start again in a week.”

  “I can’t believe you left your job—I’d been told you loved the school and your teaching post.”

  “They’ve given me a leave of absence until January. I don’t want to do this for long, and I believe it will only be short term anyway.” He looked around the café. “I doubt our lady of the urn over there is a spy, but just i
n case.” He lowered his voice. “There’s a move afoot to bring together scientists, mathematicians, those sort of people, to serve the country—it’s very unofficial, and will probably remain so. Their task is to keep us one step ahead of the Germans. I can’t say more than that, but I was earmarked to work with the War Office on security. The fact that I’m a mathematician at heart and have studied alongside the sort of men they’ll be recruiting, together with the fact that I was with both the military police and Scotland Yard, means that—according to the powers that be—I can work with security personnel as well as liaise with the boffins, who are the sort who generally balk at any suggestion that they must follow rules. According to the man who brought me in—and it wasn’t as if I was asked, exactly, it was more of an order—they’ll have one of their own among them, so we’ll know if we’ve got a bad ’un.’”

  “Richard, that sounds like more than a short-term job—I think they’ll want you for longer than they’ve given you to believe.”

  Stratton sighed. “Frankly, I would rather be teaching quadratic equations to pimply boys any day. I wanted my policing days to be over.”

  “You’re doing your service on behalf of the nation.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. How about you?”

  “Me?” Maisie shook her head, and was quiet before adding, “I don’t know. I might be a liability. You see, I don’t know that I have what it takes to do what I was trained to do anymore. I’ve not talked about Spain, but . . . well, let’s just say it’s another dragon to be mollified.” She looked at her watch.

  “What are you going to do about this case? The ticket seemed a pretty important lead.”

  “Important, but not the be-all and end-all. I have a feeling it will still come in handy,” said Maisie. She consulted her watch again. “I really have to be on my way—a long drive ahead.”

  Richard Stratton pulled a couple of coins from his jacket pocket and placed them under the saucer, a tip for the waitress. At the door he turned to Maisie.

  “You know, I have some time on my hands—I could find this theater and ask if they kept any record of when the ticket was purchased. There’s bound to be someone working in the office I can find to talk to. They might have retained a note of whoever bought the ticket—some of the smaller theaters do that, so they know the next time the person buys a ticket and can acknowledge a regular customer, that sort of thing.”

  Maisie hesitated before responding. “Only if you’ve time, Richard—and I’m so sorry, I have to run.”

  The drive to Norfolk gave Maisie time to think, to consider the morning and ask herself what she wanted in the way of information, so that by the time she returned to London it would be as if she had defined the parameters of the puzzle, and only needed the details, the center of the picture. The killer knew each of his victims—that, she felt, was without doubt. She believed Rosemary Hartley-Davies was not aware that the person of her acquaintance to whom she’d placed a call was the killer—or was he? Or she? And if not the killer, might the person who received the call have alerted someone else? That the telephone call took place at all was speculation on Maisie’s part, but she felt sure that Rosemary Hartley-Davies had been playing for time as soon as she understood the purpose of Maisie’s visit. And part of that time would have been spent informing another person that the two men had been killed. What was the connection? And the connection to Firmin, and possibly to Lucas Peeters?—apart from the fact that they stood together in one photograph. She didn’t like the direction in which the finger of her investigation was pointing. It was one thing to intuit the killer’s identity, but quite another to work out the grievance at the heart of such passion—and what was murder, if not a passionate act? It was an inflamed, yet devastating, immoral deed of destruction. And Maisie suspected that in this case it was a misguided and malevolent undertaking in the name of retribution. More than anything she hoped her undercover journey to Belgium would provide her with the knowledge she needed—that it would establish the why as much as the who behind the killings.

  If Clarice Littleton had taken precautions to render herself secure in Norfolk, Maisie had not been hampered by them. A few inquiries of neighbors at the cottage and a pub landlord led Maisie to the home of Miss Phyllida Lorimer, a friend of Littleton’s deceased aunt. Clarice Littleton showed no surprise when she came to the door to answer Maisie’s knock.

  “I might have known you’d find me,” she said. “Come on—let’s go into the garden. Phyllida is having what she calls her ‘afternoon forty winks’ upstairs—she probably won’t rise until after four.”

  Maisie followed Littleton into the garden, which swept down towards the river. Cast-iron chairs with blue-gingham-covered cushions were set around a matching table. Littleton pulled out chairs for herself and Maisie. “What do you want to know? Frankly, I think I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “You left London for a reason, Miss Littleton. And I don’t think it was simply to make your cottage ready for the next holiday let. To my knowledge, both parties have withdrawn their bookings—so it’s a surprise you’re not staying there, isn’t it?”

  Littleton shrugged. “Not really. Phyllida isn’t getting any younger, so I thought I would give her a hand until I go back to London.”

  “Which is when?”

  Littleton sighed. “Not sure. They say we’re pretty much in the line of fire, here in East Anglia—the Germans could whizz across on their way to London and make the most of bombing us at the same time. I wanted to make sure that Phyllida knew what to do in case of a bombing—she hasn’t an Anderson shelter, and I can’t see her staggering out into the garden anyway. But she should be all right with a Morrison table shelter in the house, though by the time she’d got herself in there, the bombing might be over. But having it there might be a comfort, at the very least—dogs always go under something when they’re frightened, so there must be something to it.”

  Maisie nodded. “What do you know, Miss Littleton? There’s a missing piece of information you’re keeping to yourself.”

  “I know only what you told me, and I did my own working out. Two of the men in that photograph of Rosie’s are dead—and so is she. That means two are left. And me. The woman behind the camera. I didn’t like the odds.”

  “Actually, three of the men are dead—Carl Firmin died a year ago. It was decreed a suicide at the time, though his wife seemed to have her doubts regarding the police report.”

  “Then there’s the other one. Peeters.” Clarice Littleton looked at Maisie, as if anticipating another question.

  “There was someone else in the photograph, wasn’t there?”

  “Just the boy,” replied Littleton.

  “Just the boy, yes.”

  “What was his name?” asked Maisie

  Littleton shook her head. “I don’t really recall. Rosie just called him her little lamb, because he followed her everywhere. I’m sure he was placed with a family at some point—the refugee families were very tight, and would have taken in an orphan. And you’ve got to remember, we were only doing administration—it’s not as if we were putting up refugees ourselves. It was just that for a few weeks in the summer, Rosie had this work for a few of them, and I think she’d felt sorry for this group, that they’d come over together and had had it pretty rough.” Littleton sighed. “I mean, we all felt terribly bad for them, which is why we moved heaven and earth to find places for them to live, to work, and so on. But Rosie was a soft touch, one of those people who was a little more involved than she had to be—I think it was her way of dealing with the loss of her husband. That boy was well cared for, and those lads looked out for him too.”

  “And you’re sure he was an orphan,” said Maisie.

  “As far as I know, he didn’t have anyone. So yes, an orphan.”

  Maisie looked into the distance, considering Littleton’s response, then turned back to her. “May I ask one more question?”

  “Of course.”

  “When I came to yo
ur flat, you were holding two letters you’d just received. I noticed one of the envelopes bore a striking resemblance to stationery used by the Belgian embassy. May I ask if they have made contact with you?”

  “Very observant,” said Littleton, raising her eyebrows. “It seemed the sort of letter they’d sent to a dozen people or associations. It mentioned the deceased Frederick Addens and said that it was their duty to collect any information as it was important to the Belgian government, and they thought I might have known him. It was sent from the office of someone called Dr. Francesca Thomas. I sent a quick reply that very day—before I left the house. I said I had been acquainted with him when he was a new arrival in England, and that I’d had no contact with him in over twenty years.”

  “I see. Yes, I think it might be just a formality, gathering information on someone who’s died—but you did well to reply straightaway.” Maisie once again consulted her watch. “I must get on the road soon. The last thing I want is to be out in the dark, or even at dusk, with my headlamps off.” She reached across to Clarice Littleton and took her hand. “Miss Littleton—Clarice—I know you’ve told me all you can now, however, the killer might think you know more than you do. You are not secure here. Finding you did not present me with a challenge, so I can only assume someone else would have similar fortune, if they were searching for you. Is there anywhere else you can go?”

  “Yes, I suppose so—I’ve an old school chum who lives in Yorkshire. I could go to her.”

  “Please pack your belongings and I will drop you at the station in Norwich. I would like you to leave without delay. You can make up a story for Phyllida. Just make it stick—Cornwall would be my suggestion, if you are telling tales. It’s lovely at this time of year, and perhaps you can invent a friend who is having trouble with her children now that their father has been called up into the army.”