In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie slowed to allow for Billy’s limp, now more apparent on the uneven ground. They found Harrington hop garden, and after two inquiries, located Leonard Peterson, sitting next to a young woman on a hop bin. He wore faded olive-green corduroy trousers, a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbow, a brown weskit, and a patterned neckerchief. Atop his head he wore a flat cap. Two older women picked alongside them, and a child of no more than three years of age sat on the ground, picking a sprig of hops into a wicker laundry basket.

  Maisie established that the man was indeed Leonard Peterson, and asked him if she might have a word in private, regarding an old friend of his.

  He shrugged and agreed, pointing across to coppiced woodland flanking the hop garden. Peterson pulled a half-smoked cigarette and a box of matches from his weskit pocket as he walked through a tunnel of hop bines ready to be picked, Maisie and Billy in his wake. When they reached the side of the wood, Peterson lit his cigarette and returned the box of matches to his pocket.

  “What can I do for you? You with the police? You look official,” said Peterson.

  Maisie looked at Billy. Peterson’s accent seemed pure London.

  “Mr. Peterson, I am grateful for your time. I realize you’re a newlywed and probably want to spend time with your wife, but—”

  “Don’t worry—it’s nice to get away from my mother-in-law and my wife’s sister and her boy. Gave me a nice break, you coming along.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Maisie. “But just so we don’t waste your time, may I ask if you were originally known as Lucas Peeters?”

  Peterson’s stance changed. He stood more upright, his shoulders drawn back. Maisie knew the doubt he’d shown had been replaced by a readiness to fight—with his fists, if need be.

  “We’re not from the government, or the police, or from any authorities that might do you harm, Mr. Peterson.” She did not take a step back, but tempered her breath so that her body became relaxed. Billy did the same. Peterson’s body seemed to soften. He took another draw on the cigarette, blowing smoke to the side as he exhaled.

  “What do you want, then?”

  “You came here to England when you were, what? Fourteen years of age?”

  “About that.”

  “And you left your family in Belgium.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never wanted to go back.”

  Peterson shook his head. “Got used to it here. Started a little plumbing business a few year ago, and I’ve done well for meself.” He did not render “year” into a plural—Maisie thought he sounded even more like a Londoner.

  “Do you know Frederick Addens, Albert Durant, and Carl Firmin?”

  “Didn’t keep in touch, but I knew them. Not well—they were a bit older than me, and it counts at that age.”

  “But you came to this country with them.”

  “I ended up with them. It’s not as if we were a little gang. I was on a boat at the same time as them, and we were placed together for a bit. Worked on a farm the first summer, and then that was it. Not seen them since.” He drew on his cigarette again, pinched off the burning end, and placed the small stub back into his pocket. “Why? What’ve they done? Robbed a bank?”

  “They’re all dead, Mr. Peterson.”

  Peterson’s color heightened, then drained, and for a brief second, Maisie thought he might faint.

  “Dead? What happened? They catch something?”

  “Addens and Durant were likely assassinated, and Firmin was possibly also a victim, but it was originally assumed he’d taken his own life.”

  Peterson looked from Maisie to Billy. “You reckon I’m next on the list, don’t you?”

  “It’s a risk, Mr. Peterson—I can’t deny the possibility. It depends upon what you know.”

  “What I know about what?”

  Maisie looked at the ground, drew breath, and brought her attention back to Peterson. “Addens. Durant. Firmin. What do you know about them?”

  “Well, they were tight. But what can I say? They knew each other well, I think, but beyond that, we were all scared, tired, fed up, and wondering if we’d be allowed into England. The Germans were marching, and—well, I know those boys had something to worry about, now I come to think about it. I can’t remember much, to tell you the truth, but I think it had to do with a bloke called Bertrand.”

  “Christian name or surname?” asked Billy.

  “Surname. Don’t know the Christian name.”

  “What happened to Bertrand?”

  “He died.” Again Leonard Peterson looked from Maisie to Billy. “And I don’t know how he died. I don’t even know if I got the name right. I was just on the—what would you call it? The edge of it all. But they were upset, I knew that.”

  “Didn’t you get close, that first summer, when you worked on the farm? Weren’t you all living in huts?”

  “Yeah, a lot of the hoppers had gone home, so we went into the huts. I sort of got on with them, but—as I said—they were tight. That woman was nice to us though—she might have something to say about them, after all, she worked for the association who got us sorted out, right at the beginning. Rosemary something or other—one of those double-barreled names that seem to mean people can wear tweeds. All very lah-di-dah.”

  “I swear you could come out of Shoreditch, the way you’re talking,” said Billy.

  Peterson shrugged. “She was all right—good to us.”

  Maisie reached into her bag and took out the photograph taken by Clarice Littleton. “Is there anything you can tell me about this photograph?”

  Peterson took the photograph and studied it. “The two women—Rosemary and her friend—they brought out flagons of lemonade for us, and sandwiches. I can’t remember how many people we had out there, helping out, but there was a fair queue for it. Then the other woman got out her camera, and took a snap or two.” He shook his head. “Yeah, we lined up, the four of us with that Rosemary, and then that little toe-rag squeezed in.”

  “The boy?”

  “I can’t remember his name—I don’t think I ever knew it, to be honest. Far as I remember, he’d lost his mum.” Peterson looked at Maisie. “You should speak to old Rosemary.”

  Maisie held his stare. “I have spoken to her. It was just before she was murdered.”

  Peterson shook his head and took a step. “I’m bleeding getting out of here. I’m going to get my bride, and we’re going away for a week or two. Dorset’s supposed to be nice.”

  “Mr. Peterson, are you sure you don’t know anything more—anything you can tell us that might help us identify the killer?”

  “I’m sure I don’t—but whoever’s doing the killing don’t know that, does he?” He began to walk back towards the cluster of hop pickers. “Mind you, could be a she, couldn’t it? That other woman, for a start, the one with the camera. They say a woman’s temper is worse than a man’s—and that’s another thing, Dorset is well away from my mother-in-law.”

  Maisie and Billy watched as Peterson half ran towards his wife.

  “He was a right one, wasn’t he?” said Billy.

  “Not quite what I expected, I must say,” said Maisie. “What did you think of him?”

  “He’s worked on that Cockney turn of phrase. Like one of them actor types.” He squinted towards Peterson in the distance, watching as the man pulled his wife aside and was now speaking close to her ear. “I can’t say as I trust him. All that losing his accent and sounding more like me than me—it’s another sort of disguise, innit, miss? As good as putting on a wig and face paint. And then there’s the business of changing his name. What’d he do that for? No need. If he really wanted to sound a bit more English, he could have called himself Luke Peters. And it’s not as if we found out much for our trouble, coming all this way.”

  “I’m not too sure about that, Billy. I think he gave us some interesting information. Anyway, let’s get you to the station. I’ll drop you in Tonbridge,” she said as they walked away from the h
op garden and turned onto the farm track. “Keep an eye on him, Billy. He’ll go to his rooms first—find out where he goes after that, and if his wife is still with him.”

  “I was going to do that anyway.”

  “I know.”

  When they reached the motor car, Billy took the passenger seat, closed the door, and wound down the window, but Maisie stopped. “Give me five minutes, Billy. I just want to have a quick word with the farmer.”

  “He didn’t seem like someone you could have a quick word with. Bit of a talker, one of them who likes to have a good moan about things, if you ask me.”

  “Just five minutes, Billy. Then on to the station.”

  As she walked towards the farmhouse, Maisie could feel Billy watching her. There was an item of business she wanted to discuss with the farmer, and it had nothing to do with Billy, and nothing to do with murder.

  Chapter 15

  It wasn’t a long journey from Tonbridge Station to Chelstone, and soon Maisie was driving through the village on her way to the Dower House. In front of her, along the lane not a quarter mile from Chelstone Manor, she saw a woman walking at the side of the road, a babe nestled in one arm, while holding what seemed to be a heavy bag in the opposite hand. Even from behind, Maisie sensed a deep fatigue in the woman, as if she were burdened by a heavier weight upon her shoulders. She slowed the Alvis and came to a stop alongside her, wound down the window and leaned across to speak to the woman.

  “Excuse me. May I give you a lift somewhere? You have a heavy bag and a baby. Are you visiting?”

  The woman nodded, catching her breath. “I was told this was the way to Chelstone Manor.”

  “Come on, let me take you. I’m on my way there now.” Leaving the motor car idling, Maisie stepped out and helped the woman and her baby into the passenger seat, placing her bag on the backseat.

  “This is very kind of you. My poor feet were killing me.”

  “Do you mind me asking—who are you going to see at the manor?”

  “I’ve to go to the Dower House, to see a Mrs. Dobbs.”

  “Mrs. Brenda Dobbs?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. She’s got my boys staying there, and I’ve come to take them home.”

  “Take them home? Isn’t that a bit dangerous? They’ve only been here a fortnight. And they are doing so very well in the country.”

  “A bit too well, if you ask me. I’ve had letters from them—Mrs. Dobbs makes them write, which is all very nice—and it seems to me they’re glad to get away from London, and us, their family.” She pulled the baby to her. “Anyway, I miss them, what with their father away all hours at the docks, and when he’s not there, he’s in the pub. No, they belong at home, and it’s back home I’m taking them. I reckon that Hitler has forgotten all about us anyway.”

  “Mrs.—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Preston. Mrs. Preston.” She took a deep breath. “No, they’re better off at home. I know all about them being safe, but I’m their mother and I know best, and what’s best is us being together.”

  “What about school?” said Maisie, pulling into the driveway that led first to the Dower House, then across extensive lawns to the Manor.

  “Bloomin’ ’eck, look at that. No wonder they think this is a nice gaff.”

  “Oh, they’re not in that house.” Maisie steered the motor car around to the Dower House’s back entrance. “They’re here—it’s still a fair size, though.” She did not open the door, but remained in the Alvis. “My father has a good way with the boys—that’s Mr. Dobbs. He’s from Lambeth, originally. So was I. My mother died when I was a girl. Brenda was the housekeeper here when my father was the groom—he came down during the war, to look after the horses when the men who worked here enlisted.”

  “And how come you got this?” She inclined her head towards the Dower House.

  “It’s quite a long story. Now then, let’s go and find your boys.”

  Maisie helped the woman from the motor car, taking her bag and leading her into the kitchen, where Brenda was setting the kitchen table for tea, and the girl from the manor who had been sent to help was preparing vegetables at the sink.

  “Brenda, this is the boys’ mother, Mrs. Preston.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Preston? You should have let us know you were coming—we’d have put up a welcome tea for you. It’s lovely of you to visit the lads. They’re helping Mr. Dobbs down at the stables at the moment, but they should be back soon. They’ll be very pleased to see you, I’m sure.” Brenda turned her attention to Maisie. “And Anna is out in the garden, with Emma.”

  “You’ve got a houseful, then. Just as well I’ve come to take the boys home.”

  Brenda raised her eyebrows. “Take them home?” She paused, as if ready to add vociferous commentary, but thought better of it. “Before you do anything, sit down, take the weight off your feet—there’s no need to rush off, not with a babe in arms. And she’s a pet, isn’t she? What’s her name?”

  “Violet. Six months old, she is,” said Preston.

  “You must be parched and tired. Look, we can make up another bed downstairs for you. Don’t you go hurrying back up there to the Smoke this evening—look at the time already. Have some tea, have a rest. Our young lady here can watch the babe, and then you can decide what to do.”

  Maisie nodded at Brenda to signal her approval of the approach, then turned to Preston. “Come on, let me take you into the drawing room where there are more comfortable chairs. And we’ll get you a nice cup of tea.”

  Signaling Brenda to follow, Maisie led Mrs. Preston into the drawing room, where the woman walked across to the window overlooking the gardens, holding the baby as if to show her the view.

  “This is all very nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is—very peaceful.”

  Preston stepped closer to the window. She frowned as she stared at Anna, who was sitting on the grass reading a book, with Emma by her side, her head on the child’s lap.

  “Oh, so here’s where that little girl ended up,” said Preston, jogging Violet on her hip as she began to fret. “I wondered about that one—she was at the station.” She turned to Maisie and Brenda. “I mean, it was teeming—teeming—with children and mothers crying, but I remember her, because it was all rather odd. And I always notice when something’s a bit off.”

  “What was odd?” asked Maisie.

  “We got there late. What with the boys, I’m always late. Everywhere I go, I’m late. We were supposed to leave from the school, all the children walking along in a crocodile, you know, in twos, holding hands. We were right at the end, running to catch up and me with the pram as well. I tell you, it was like a river of children and their mums in front of us, going up Denmark Hill towards the station. My boys were jumping up and down, trying to find their mates, when we got to the station, and that was when I noticed her, that girl. She was with an elderly lady. And the old girl was very poorly too, it looked to me, and you don’t want to get a nasty chest at that age. She was coughing—that’s what made me look. I remember thinking, I hope that child hasn’t caught anything from her nan—it’d struck me that the lady was her nan. I mean, I didn’t want my boys getting on a train with a sickly child—all them children squashed in together like sardines, and the weather what it was. If one caught something nasty, it would go through the lot of them like lightning.”

  “You’d never seen the woman before?” asked Maisie.

  “Never seen either of them before—but there were so many children from different schools, I didn’t know half the people there anyway. It was all I could do to get my lads with their class, and I caught a few choice words from their teacher. You’d’ve thought she was my teacher, the way she went on. ‘Not very good, Mrs. Preston,’ she said. ‘Not good enough at all.’ I thought she would give me a black mark in my book!” The woman laughed as if she were indeed a naughty schoolgirl caught misbehaving.

  The girl brought in a tray with tea and cake. Brenda tha
nked her, and began to pour.

  “What can you tell me about the old lady?” asked Maisie. “You see, no one knows anything about the child, except her name: Anna.”

  “She wasn’t with one of the schools, then?”

  “I don’t think she’d started school.”

  The woman put a sandwich and a slice of cake on her plate. “Excuse me, but I have to get a bite down me before I collapse.” Maisie and Brenda sipped their tea. Preston swallowed, then began to speak. “You know what’s just occurred to me—I think that old lady was just getting rid of her, the girl. Evacuation came up at the right time, I reckon. I mean, the woman didn’t look well enough to look after a child—and where was the littl’un’s mother, anyway? That’s what I’d like to know.” She took a cup of tea from Brenda. “Thank you, Mrs. Dobbs.” She sipped, picked up her sandwich again, and turned back to watching Anna in the garden. “The child was nicely turned out—not anything posh, but you could see she was clean. Had her little coat—probably secondhand and not thick enough for colder weather, when it comes. But it was pressed, and her socks were white. She didn’t cry, not like some of them. Mind you, mine had smiles plastered across their faces—you could see it on them. They were glad to get away from home and a smart smack on the legs every time they give me a bit of lip. I mean, their father’s never there to chastise them, so it’s all down to me.”

  “About Anna—could you describe the old lady?”

  Mrs. Preston shook her head. “I don’t know if I could.” She chewed another bite of the sandwich before continuing. “Her clothes were older, but looked after, as if she was short of a few bob, but had her standards all the same. You know the sort. She seemed kindly to the girl, talking to her, gave her a kiss and cuddle before she pointed, telling her to join the line. The little girl didn’t look back, didn’t shed a tear, just did what she was told. I remember—now I come to think of it—that she started sucking on her fingers, so perhaps that was comfort for her. The lady was coughing badly—wouldn’t’ve surprised me if she’d brought up some blood. I saw her walk off—I think she was having a good cry, if truth be told—and then I had to get after my boys, you know, give them a peck on the cheek and remind them there’d be a clip around the ear if they misbehaved.” She looked at Brenda. “I hope they haven’t been too much of a handful.”