In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I’ll be about five minutes—two to pack and three to have a chat with Phyllida.”

  As Clarice Littleton ran into the house, Maisie strolled down to the river. The current was calm and steady, appearing to meander with ease as it made its way to the North Sea. In that moment, she felt the passage of time, the flow of the years, and the way in which death had stalked her—even in her choice to join Maurice in his work. Her thoughts returned to the reasons for a premeditated murder. She knew only too well how blame could eat into a soul, and she understood how hard it could be to forgive—hadn’t she suffered a lack of compassion towards the woman she’d held responsible for her husband’s death? And the path to forgiveness had not been an easy journey for Maisie, but she had come to learn that it was the only way to break free from the dark grief that could grow like bindweed around the heart, pressing into the fibers of her goodness, rendering her unable to feel anything but anger, and precluding any understanding of why events had unfolded in a given way. Forgiveness had been the only way to release herself, because she had not been able to prevent James’ death.

  An image of the girl Anna came to her. Poor Anna, as homeless and rootless as the boy Rosemary Hartley-Davies had called her “little lamb.” Children, Maisie believed, could often only see their world in black and white, never shades of gray—which meant the hard-found forgiveness that provides respite from the dark melancholy of blame might never lift from the soul of a wounded child. And Maisie wondered, then, what she could do to bring light into Anna’s heart, so that a smile was not just a movement made by her lips because she thought it was expected of her, but an immediate and unlimited response to deep-felt joy and complete contentment. What could she do to help the child feel safe?

  Chapter 14

  Sandra looked up from her desk when Maisie arrived, her document case in one hand and her shoulder bag in the other.

  “Miss—what happened to your gas mask?”

  “Oh, blast! Did I leave it here yesterday?”

  “Yes, it’s on your desk. Better not do that again—I mean, you never know, do you?”

  “You’re right—I’ll try to remember. But it’s such a silly thing—it gets in the way when it’s around your neck, and when I’m in a hurry, I always forget. Here, I’m going to get it now and hang it on the back of the door—then I’ll see it as I leave.”

  Sandra smiled. “You’re not the only one who forgets. Apparently there are shelves upon shelves of them in lost property at the railway stations, and people keep leaving them on the buses and trams. There was a man talking about it at the bus stop this morning—you know, one of those old military types with the handlebar mustache. He said that the army should let off some sort of nasty-smelling bomb, you know, harmless, but one that spreads a stink. He said that would make everyone remember their gas masks a bit sharpish. I don’t know if I would care for that.”

  “It would make you very sick indeed, Sandra. I remember when I was—” Maisie stopped, and shook her head. “Anyway, how are you feeling, Sandra?”

  Sandra’s complexion was heightened. “Much better. Much better—I feel a bit more, well, optimistic in myself. Lawrence has been wonderful, very understanding.”

  “He’s a good man, Sandra. And speaking of good men, any idea what’s happened to Billy?” Maisie leafed through the post on Sandra’s desk, as if the comment had been offered in passing.

  “I think there’s trouble at home. He’s not said much, but I’ve had the impression that Doreen is suffering again—not like before, but due to her anxiety about young Billy being in the army. She’s seeing the doctor—that nice woman you put them in touch with a few years ago—so I reckon it will be all right. Little Margaret’s school hasn’t been evacuated yet, but apparently they’re off on Monday—personally, I think it would be best if Doreen takes Margaret and goes down to the country to be with family, like Billy said they would. Bobby has his apprenticeship, and he can do for himself, though it’ll be only him and his dad in the house—which might not be a bad thing, as it can’t be good for the lad, being around his mum when she’s that anxious. I think he remembers what it was like when Doreen was so ill. Probably scares the life out of all of them.”

  “Thank you for telling me, Sandra. I knew something was wrong. It might help if I offer to put Billy on shorter hours. He’s an air-raid warden anyway, so he has his shifts. And what with the war, we don’t know how business will go—everything changes in wartime.”

  Sandra nodded. “There was a telephone call from Mrs. Dobbs too—she said she thought you would be back at Chelstone today. She sounded anxious.”

  “I’ll go later, but I have to get some work done before I set off.”

  “And another telephone call came in, this one from a young man.”

  “A young man? Who?”

  “Name of Arthur Addens. Son of Frederick Addens. He’s on a short leave, going back on Sunday morning to a barracks in Colchester.” Sandra looked up from the sheet of paper on which she had transcribed the message. “I don’t think he should be telling people that, do you?”

  “I daresay he shouldn’t—but what else did he say?”

  “He was in a telephone kiosk, and said he would come over here at ten, taking a chance on seeing you because you can’t telephone him back. And he didn’t say why—just said he wants to see you.”

  “All right—that sounds promising, and a bit ominous. He might be coming here to harangue me for going to see his mother twice.”

  The door opened, banging back on its hinges. “Miss, I’m really sorry, but—”

  “It’s all right, Billy, really—”

  “I found Lucas Peeters.”

  “Oh, well done! How did you do that?—No, wait, catch your breath. Come on in and sit down. Sandra, you too.”

  Once seated at the table in Maisie’s office, Billy pulled the tin of crayons towards him, ready to add details of his discovery to the case map.

  “I got his last-known address from a bloke he used to work for, and I took it from there, wearing out shoe leather until I realized that the man called Leonard Peterson living in a couple of rooms above a cobbler’s in Islington must be Lucas Peeters, only he’s changed his name. I saw the name next to the door downstairs, matched the initials, and put two and two together.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “I spoke to the cobbler—and I thank my lucky stars, because he made my poor old soles as good as new before I left. Anyway, that Peterson—about thirty-five years of age—apparently doesn’t have an accent at all, except on the odd occasion when he’s had a rough day at work. According to Jim—the cobbler—the rest of the time you’d think he was a London boy born and bred. Mind you, he said he reckons Peterson has worked at it. And apparently he got married a few weeks ago—out of the blue—to a hairdresser, name of Alice. Neither of them were at home, and Jim said they’d gone down hop-picking—their honeymoon, of all things.”

  “Where is the farm?”

  “Out Charing way.”

  “Do you have the details?”

  Billy grinned, leafed through his notebook, and pulled out a page. “There you are, miss. Got the lot.”

  “Excellent! Billy, let’s get this map up to date,” said Maisie, looking at her wristwatch. “Frederick Addens’ son is due in about half an hour, so with any luck we can be on our way by eleven. We’ll drive down together—should be there easily by one o’clock—and after we’ve found him and had a chat, I’ll drop you at the station and you can go straight back home from there. We’ve a lot to talk about on the way, in any case.”

  “Have you got your motor spirit coupons? I don’t want us getting stranded—and I know how fast that jam-jar of yours can go, so you bet it drinks up the juice.”

  “I have my coupons, and I also have a full tank—plenty of ‘juice,’ as you say. And today you might find out exactly how fast my jam-jar can go!”

  Billy seemed ready to make a game retort when he looked down at the case
map and saw the name Maisie had written in red letters, joining the names of the dead.

  “You’re kidding, miss.”

  “I wish I were, Billy. I wish very much that this was a joke.”

  Arthur Addens arrived at the office at a quarter to ten. He was dressed in his No. 5 Battle Dress serge, with his trousers tucked into heavy black boots polished to a shine. Arthur Addens’ son was a tall man. And although there was no requirement for him to take off his cap, he removed it as he entered the office and tucked it into his blouse epaulette. He ran a finger between his collar and neck, revealing a red welt where the fabric had rubbed his skin. Maisie offered him a seat. She explained that both her assistants would remain in the room, and that anything he chose to reveal would be kept in utmost confidence.

  “My mum and sister—Dorothy—told me that you’d been to the house to talk to them, and that you were investigating my father’s death, on a sort of private basis, not working with the police. I thought I’d come and ask you about it. I want to make sure they’re all right. And what with me being gone, and them two women on their own, I thought I should know what’s going on.”

  “Thank you very much for coming,” said Maisie. She went on to explain her role, and that she had been contacted by a representative of the Belgian government in London to have another look at the case, given that Arthur Addens’ father was a Belgian citizen, though a resident of many years standing in London.

  “So they reckon the police aren’t doing their job, is that it?”

  “Not exactly.” Maisie was aware that Billy had raised his eyebrows in response to her comment, then looked away. “With the tensions of war mounting in recent months, and following the prime minister’s speech the Sunday before last, they are very . . . busy, let’s say. Not that there’s more crime, as such, but there is much to do with an influx of new refugees and a great movement of people—soldiers, children, and of course the many arrangements that have to be made to ensure the security of the citizenry.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here in this scratchy, uncomfortable uniform—security and all that.” He looked at his hands, then at Maisie. “And you still don’t know who killed my dad.” It was a statement made with no indication of blame.

  Maisie chose her words with care. “We are coming closer. It’s hard to describe how we work, Mr. Addens, but it’s a bit like making our way into a funnel. At first there are a broad range of possibilities, so we go back and forth, testing our assumptions and questioning each other, making sure we don’t eliminate a suspect or motive before time. Then the options narrow, and we find ourselves focusing on one or two possibilities, which is when we have to be absolutely sure we have an understanding of history—of what events might have led to the taking of life.” Maisie could see that Addens was about to interrupt, and gave him no opportunity to do so. “You were probably about to ask why we don’t just alert the police to make an arrest of two or three suspects and whittle it down while they are behind bars, so we don’t take the chance that they will strike again. I can only say that it is a very calculated risk—but we must have absolutely no doubt when we make our move.”

  “How long will it be before you’ve got rid of all that doubt?”

  “Another five days at most, I would say.” Maisie could see the young man’s anger rising. He rubbed his hands up and down along the rough serge of his trouser legs.

  “Well, you’d better tell me first, so I can have the bast—”

  “Steady, son,” said Billy. “There are ladies present. You’re not in a barracks now. And Miss Dobbs knows what she’s doing. When she brings in your dad’s killer, no one will have a shred of doubt—there’ll be no chance of the beak letting him off on what they call a technicality. Now then, pull your neck in.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Dobbs. I know we’re lucky to have someone else and not just the police looking into who shot my dad.” Arthur Addens’ eyes filled with tears, and at once he seemed less the soldier ready for battle than a boy in a man’s uniform. “I believe you will find him, now I’ve heard what you have to say. But I just want to know my mum and Dottie are safe, that’s all.”

  “Either Mr. Beale or I would be more than happy to go round regularly to check on your mother while Dottie is out at work, if you like.”

  “I’ll go too,” said Sandra.

  Addens looked at Maisie, then at Billy and Sandra. “Would you do that? I mean, I know Smitty goes along sometimes after afternoon closing time, but—would you do that?”

  “Of course, son—and I’ll have a word with Smitty as well,” added Billy. “I’ve met him, so he knows who I am.”

  Addens stood up, holding out his hand to Billy, then to Maisie. “That’ll take a weight off my mind. I mean, I know the Belgian people at the consulate—or whatever it is . . . I know they’re looking out for us, sending someone around, but—”

  Maisie felt both Billy’s and Sandra’s eyes upon her. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Addens—Arthur—did you say the embassy sent someone around to the house? To see your mother and Dottie?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know who it was, but apparently it was a courtesy visit to ensure that the family were all right. And the bloke also said he needed documents from us, you know, my dad’s papers.” He looked from Maisie to Billy, then back to Maisie. “Do they usually do this sort of thing?”

  “Where former refugees are concerned, yes, I believe so,” said Maisie.

  “I don’t think Dottie liked it. Since Dad died, she’s been a bit like a terrier when it comes to protecting our mum.”

  “No one could blame her for that,” said Billy.

  Addens stood up. “Anyway, thank you for your time, Miss Dobbs.” He pulled the beret from his epaulette and pressed it onto his head, flattening the saucer of wool against his right ear. “Better be off. I said I’d get the garden sorted out today, before I have to go back to barracks.”

  As Sandra left the room to escort Arthur Addens to the door, Maisie was aware that Billy was staring at her.

  “What’s that Dr. Thomas playing at, miss?”

  Maisie consulted her watch and made a note of Addens’ visit. “I don’t know—it’s all part of some great circle of secrecy.” She sighed. “And it seems we could have been given a bit more in the way of information about embassy protocols—if that’s what they are. Of course, Francesca Thomas could pull me off the case, but she hasn’t—she knows that would spike my curiosity even more. But she can try to deflect my attention.” She looked up at Billy. “There are elements here that are defying explanation—at the moment. Anyway, we should get on our way. At least the hop dust might give us a good night’s sleep.”

  “And that’s something I could do with,” said Billy.

  By the time Maisie pulled onto the chalky track that led to Cherry Tree Farm, it had been arranged that Billy’s new hours would be from ten in the morning until half past three in the afternoon. The amount in his wage packet would not change, but it would be left to him to undertake overtime if he saw fit and if the case required it. Maisie advised him to take the following Monday off to go to the country with Doreen and Margaret, as it had been decided they would leave London and Billy should go with them, to make sure they were settled. Apparently Bobby was working late anyway, as so many ordinary motor cars were being altered to do war work. According to Billy, his boy was spending more time welding metal to make ambulances than working on engines, but at this point, as far as Maisie was concerned, having Billy out of the office on Monday would keep him in the dark regarding her own plans.

  “And Bobby says, these motors he’s working on are being given up by ordinary people—obviously people who can afford it—because they reckon this petrol rationing will get worse, and we’ll end up seeing private vehicles banned anyway. So this nice motor of yours will end up in a garage somewhere. I can’t see it being useful for real work, can you?”

  “Thank you, oh prophet of doom,” Maisie teased. “In any case, I can leave the Alvis in a
barn at Chelstone, if it comes to that. I’ll make do with trains and buses—it just takes longer and limits me in getting to and from some places, and in this work we don’t always have the luxury of the extra time it takes to catch a bus, do we?”

  “It’s a case of having to make do.”

  They drove past tall just-picked Kentish cherry trees and a field with three ponies, before the farmhouse and oasts came into view.

  “I don’t know what Mr. Dobbs might say about that pony in there—the little one. She’s full of mud and dust, and it looks like she’s been picked on a bit—see, she’s standing all by herself.”

  Maisie glanced at the field, then brought her attention back to the track. “Yes, Dad would sort them out, of that there’s no doubt.”

  They pulled up in front of the farmhouse to find out where they might locate Leonard Peterson. Mr. Epps, the farmer—a gruff man who Maisie suspected was in his late fifties—pushed back his cap, admired the Alvis, and proceeded to tell Maisie that she would have been better off with a tractor for coming down a farm track.

  “I’m surprised you’ve got an axle on that thing, what with our bumpy old road!” He scratched his almost-bald pate, and after declaring that the Alvis seemed to be “well up to it” after all, he directed them to the third hop garden on the left along the track. “And if you’re not sure, ask for Harrington—that’s the name of the hop garden where he was this morning. Oh, and I’d walk if I were you. Lucky you brought a decent pair of shoes, miss.”

  “Are you all right, Billy?” asked Maisie, after the Alvis was parked and they had set off along the track.

  “It’s these old roads that get the leg a bit, but otherwise, yeah, I’ll be all right.” Billy looked across to another hop garden as he stopped to rub his lower leg, where shrapnel shards from his 1917 wounding remained embedded deep in his flesh. “It’s mostly women who come down to do the hopping now, so I reckon any blokes out here are old soldiers like me, and more than a few with a fair bit of shrapnel in them. Best not to moan.”