“And the ashes?”
“He said Durant couldn’t let go of them, not straightaway, anyway. He’d asked him—Durant—if he would have them interred, and apparently Durant said he was going to take them somewhere special, somewhere that was loved by his wife.” Billy frowned. “Miss, why are you interested in the ashes?”
“It’s just an idea, Billy,” said Maisie. “Look, I’ll be away all day tomorrow—I’m making a little detour on the way down to Chelstone.”
“All right, miss—but I always worry about your little detours. I never know what might happen next. Anyway, Sandra here said we’ve had two inquiries for assistance. One’s a missing person, and the other is a man over in Belgravia who wants someone to look at his house to see if it’s secure enough.”
“Secure enough for what?”
Billy shrugged. “Blessed if I know.”
“All right—Billy, start the initial interview for the missing person case, and then take the Belgravia job on your own. Checking windows before they’ve been broken is not my bailiwick. But it’s an unusual request, I must say.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Sandra. “We’ve two more of those come in.” She held up the just-opened letters. “I suppose they’re worried about the number of people coming in—soldiers, refugees, and so on—and they think they’re all going to go on a burglary rampage.”
“Billy,” said Maisie, “you’ve got your work cut out for you. You’re now our expert on domestic security.”
Parking the motor car just outside Reigate on the Dorking road, Maisie hoped she had found the place where Albert Durant and his wife had taken their Saturday walks. She had dressed for a ramble across fields and along old footpaths, and was wearing trousers and a light cardigan over a cotton blouse, and carried a mackintosh in her knapsack, along with a flask of water and a sandwich. She had also brought the recent photograph of Albert Durant. Before locking the motor car, she swapped her footwear, and was now wearing a pair of stout walking shoes in well-worn brown leather. She looked around, crossed the road, and set off along a narrow path that flanked farmland leading farther up the hill, where she turned left along the edge of a field of golden stubble. Hay bales were strewn across the landscape, gleaming in the sun. Maisie thought they looked like nature’s ingots awaiting collection.
Every so often, she stopped and stared across the fields. At one point she watched a hawk hovering in the morning sunlight before swooping down to claim its prey. She had been walking for over an hour when she came to a stile and was presented with a choice of two routes—the first across the top of the field, so she would remain in the lee of the hill if she chose that way, or she could embark upon the path running perpendicular to the hill, which she thought would lead back down to the road. An area of woodland lay in the distance. Which of the two rustic paths should she take? She sat on the stile, pulled the flask from her knapsack, drank some water, and ran the back of her hand across her forehead before combing her fingers through her short hair—though it was not as short as it had been in Spain, when she had cropped it herself with nail scissors. Taking another sip of water, she set off on the route to the left, down the hill, returning the flask to the knapsack as she walked towards the woodland.
She was about one hundred yards from the cluster of trees when she saw a woman walking towards her with a dog, a spaniel that ran ahead, snuffling around along the verge, until he was called back when he ventured into the wood.
Maisie raised her hand, and the woman returned her greeting. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.” Maisie stooped to stroke the spaniel, who had scampered along the verge to greet her. “Do you come here every day with your dog?”
“Yes, I do—well, almost every day. My cottage is down there, close to the road.” The woman turned to point farther along the path.
“So you see a number of walkers, then, people coming out for the day.”
“You see some regulars. People who aren’t country folk don’t come this way—they go to the town instead. But you’re right—I always see a good few people walking, and there’s been more ever since the government started putting up posters telling us all we should get out and start ‘hiking for health.’ I suppose I’ve seen more faces I’d not seen before, but I know the regulars.”
Maisie reached into her knapsack and brought out the photograph of Albert Durant. “Did you ever see this man?”
The woman took the photograph and nodded, handing it back to Maisie. “I used to see him on Saturdays or Sundays. He walked here with his wife. Younger than him, she seemed—and I was worried when I saw her walking when she was expecting. I mean, along the flat is one thing, but she was striding out up and down these hills.” She shook her head and looked down at her feet. “I remember seeing him once more. He was on his own, and he told me she’d died.” She brought her attention back to Maisie. “I was very sad for him—he was quite distraught, and seemed so lonely. He asked me if I thought anyone would mind if he scattered her ashes in their favorite place, and I told him I didn’t think anyone would know. After all, people can be afraid of that sort of thing—ashes of the deceased—but it’s not the dead who can hurt you, is it? It’s the living.”
Maisie sighed. “My father has always said the same thing.”
The woman pointed across to the neighboring patch of woodland, and described a clearing beyond the fence, with a small pond surrounded by trees. “They would sit by the pond to have their lunch. It was secluded and it gave a bit of shade from the sun or—more likely—the drizzle. I can’t say for definite because I’d walked on by then to give him some peace, but I would imagine he scattered the ashes in there.”
“Thank you,” said Maisie. “I just wanted to know.”
“Do you know how he is?” asked the woman. “I wonder about him sometimes, when I come this way with the dog.”
“I’m afraid he passed away.”
The woman turned her head, as if to hide her tears. “Doesn’t surprise me. A broken heart took him. You could see it in his face. I thought then, no matter how old he is, he won’t see out another year. Happens more to men, you know.” She paused and sighed, adding, “I’d better get on. Very nice to have met you.”
Maisie thanked the woman and stood for a while at the edge of the field, watching her continue on her way, the spaniel running back and forth, as if hoping to flush a pheasant or a rabbit out of the tall grasses along the verge. When the woman was almost out of sight, Maisie climbed over the fence and into the woodland. Human ashes, she knew, never composted in the same way as ashes from a wood fire might.
There was nothing of note around the pond, so Maisie continued to spiral out towards the line of trees encircling the water. She kept her head down, and on occasion used a stick to prod away leaves. When she reached the trees, she began scrutinizing each trunk from her own height down to the ground. It was clear this was a place for lovers: there were hearts carved into the wood with pairs of names, one either side or etched into an arrow. Iris and Tom had been to the clearing; so had Peter and Millie. Alice and Sid had lingered, and B and E. Time had stretched some of the names as the trunk grew and widened. Maisie wondered if those couples were now married, and if time had given them children and perhaps grandchildren.
She moved on and, feeling hungry, looked for a place to settle for lunch. Beyond the main cluster of trees stood a large beech, its branches outspread as if they were wings. She chose her spot in the curve of its trunk where it reached the ground; it was as if nature had provided her with a seat and a place to lean back. Taking a bite of her cheese and tomato sandwich, she cast her gaze around, down past other trees to the pond, and from side to side. It was at that moment she noticed the words carved into the wood where the trunk seemed to curve around her: Albert, Elizabeth, and Baby, encircled by a heart. Maisie put down her sandwich and leaped to her feet. She began brushing back the carpet of leaves with the stick as she walked around the tree, and then stopped. Ashes.
White ashes had been distributed around the tree. Then she saw it—a hollow in the trunk.
She always kept a pair of gloves in the knapsack. She put them on and reached into the hollow, pulling out a broken earthenware cream soda bottle. An empty wallet. A cricket ball. Then her hand touched something else—a cylinder of some sort. As she brought it out, she saw it was a tall, narrow urn of tarnished, greening copper. She knelt on the ground and shook the urn close to her ear. Nothing. The urn was light—if it had contained the ashes, then all were now laid to rest under the tree. She sat back on her haunches, closed her eyes, and prayed the urn contained what she had set out to find. She unscrewed the lid and looked in: a cone of rolled paper. She pulled it out, put the urn to one side, and flattened the paper before her. There was no doubt. She had found the map indicating Xavier Bertrand’s resting place.
Maisie lingered in the clearing, the map in her knapsack, the urn again in the hollow part of the tree, though now it contained a photograph of Albert Durant and another of his wife, taken while standing alongside their woodland secret place on a fine day. She listened as a quickening breeze rustled through the tree canopy, and watched dragonflies skim across the pond beyond. In time she came to her feet, ready to be on her way, though she felt compelled to speak aloud.
“I will bring him to you, Elizabeth.” She placed her hand on the inscription Albert and Elizabeth Durant had left in their secret place. “I promise.”
Maisie and Anna were rarely apart from the time Maisie arrived late Friday afternoon, until Sunday evening, or Monday morning, when Frankie and Brenda returned to the Dower House. They visited Robert Miller, who had accepted an invitation from Lord Julian to remain longer at Chelstone Manor, and Lady Rowan, who delighted in having the child in her midst. Maisie watched as Anna rode her pony, and though Frankie was not present, Robert Miller was in his wheelchair at the side of the paddock.
“I might not be able to see you, young lady, but I can hear that trot—come on, make her step out. One-two-one-two—count as she makes her strides.”
In a quiet moment, while Anna was attending to the pony, Maisie asked Miller if he knew Gervase Lambert. “No,” he said, “can’t say that the name rings a bell. But then, Rosie had friends I was not aware of. At first—when I was feeling sorry for myself—I thought she was embarrassed about me. Then I realized she wanted to keep certain liaisons secret, though I bet Mrs. Bolton knew.”
In time she would tell him the truth.
While working with Maurice Blanche as a green young assistant, Maisie had followed a certain routine when closing a significant case where lives had been lost. There was always a point where her work was done, and it was time to conduct what she referred to as her final accounting. Maurice had instructed her that in visiting places and people pertinent to the case, as an investigator she was doing something akin to washing the laundry, then airing and pressing the linen before putting it away. The final accounting allowed her to immerse herself in the next case with renewed energy. It was time, now, to draw a line under the case Dr. Francesca Thomas had entrusted her with on the day war was declared.
During a visit to their home, she explained to Enid Addens and her daughter, Dorothy, that Frederick had been a hero, that he had undertaken resistance work before leaving Belgium, and that while he had not fought with an army, he had served his country with the heart of a soldier. And she had added that she could not reveal any more details, given the nature of Frederick Addens’ involvement in actions against the invading army, as the current state of war with Germany had placed Belgium once again in a vulnerable position. However, she informed them that the person responsible for the murder of a good husband and father had been found, and would pay the price for his crime. “Frederick Addens was a hero,” she reminded them again. “In that you can—I hope—take some comfort.”
“He was always our hero, Miss Dobbs,” said Dottie Addens, standing behind her mother, her hands on the older woman’s shoulders. “But thank you all the same.”
Frederick Addens’ daughter accompanied Maisie to the door, where she repeated her thanks, but added a comment that Maisie had been half expecting.
“I knew it was something to do with the war. He never spoke about it, and Mum didn’t know, but it was something he said once, when we—Arthur and me—were younger.” She looked over her shoulder into the house, as if to ensure her mother could not hear. “My brother was a bit of a lazy one when he first left school. Couldn’t get a job, didn’t really look for one. It didn’t last long, but I remember Dad giving him an earful, and then watching Arthur walk up the road, kicking a stone along. Dad shook his head and said, ‘Look at him. When I was that age, I was fighting for my country—I was taking my life in my hands for freedom.’ Dad never mentioned it again, and I never said anything, but I knew he hadn’t been in the army, so he must’ve been doing something else. Then as soon as you came along, I reckoned the something else had caught up with him.”
“He was extraordinarily brave, your dad,” said Maisie.
“I know,” she said, wiping a hand across her eyes. “Anyway, thank you—I’ve got to go to Mum now.”
As the door closed behind her, Maisie could hear Enid Addens speaking to her daughter.
“I bet she doesn’t know who killed him. She was just letting us think she did.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Mum. I think it’s because it’s a secret—you know how these people are.”
Maisie passed the Crown and Anchor, but did not enter. While she could not prove it, she suspected that Albert Durant had visited the pub to speak to Frederick Addens when he discovered that Carl Firmin had died, which was some time after the event. While there had been questions regarding the fact that both men had been murdered while in possession of more than a small amount of money, as Maisie informed Billy, it was a coincidence that had no other truth deeper than facts on the surface: one man was doing his job as a banker, and the other had received his wages. But, Maisie thought later, perhaps there was a deeper truth after all, in that both men had committed themselves to life in their adopted country, and each in his own way had done well.
She moved on to the flat where Albert Durant and his wife had prepared for the birth of their child. She was not allowed access to the flat, but had already spoken to Caldwell, who—when she explained the reason for her call—promised he would be in contact as soon as he had spoken to Durant’s in-laws regarding the disposal of his remains.
Maisie visited Carl Firmin’s widow and Leonard Peterson—formerly Lucas Peeters—on each occasion informing them that she was not at liberty to reveal the name of the killer, adding that, because the perpetrator was of foreign nationality, there were other considerations, including the penalty to be levied by the judicial system of another country. She hated the lie. To Irma Firmin, she explained that the scar on her husband’s leg had been caused by a wound sustained when the line of refugees was strafed by enemy fire. The widow shook her head and sighed. “I knew it was something like that—he had a rough time of it, poor sod.”
A drive to Norfolk on a fine day took Maisie to the home of Clarice Littleton, to whom she gave more information, having received a promise to keep all details confidential.
“Gervase Lambert—really, Bertrand? I never would have thought it. He was a good boy—a bit of a scamp when he liked, but he was a boy. He made people laugh. I know Rosie took him under her wing, but . . . what on earth made him do it? After all this time?”
“Possibly the shock of learning the truth about his brother’s death—and finding out that the men who had been as good as brothers to him had borne the ultimate responsibility. It must have been a staggering blow to his mind and soul. It seems he went on to convince himself that his brother could have been saved, that instead of collectively ending Xavier’s pain and terror, the friends could have worked together to bring him through. Gervase felt betrayed, and betrayal by ones we love is a dreadful thing. Gervase had placed these men on a pedesta
l. They had been so young and brave when they escaped Belgium, yet one by one he took them down.”
Littleton was quiet before speaking again. “One thing—I hope they let Gervase see that grave, so he can pray over his brother’s last resting place before they exhume the remains. If he has to go to his death, it’s the most honest thing they can do for him.”
“Yes, it is the most honest thing, Clarice.”
And when it came time for Maisie to leave, she pressed a card into Clarice Littleton’s hand. “It’s Robert Miller’s new address. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you—if you’ve time.”
Louisa Mason passed away with Maisie and Billy at her side. She had not wanted to see Anna again, nor Anna her grandmother—it was as if they were both complete in their communication with each other. Louisa asked Maisie once more to make sure Anna had good people to raise her. As Maisie said “I promise,” she felt the woman’s fingers become heavy in her hand, and the cold begin to reach up from her fingertips.
“I hope she’s at peace,” said Billy, running the edge of his cap through his hands.
“Me too, Billy. Me too,” said Maisie.
On a showery afternoon in London, Maisie met Richard Stratton for a cup of strong urn tea and a plate of toast and jam at the café where they had met so many times. Maisie felt comfortable there in the ordinariness of the place, where the clattering of cups and saucers and the coming and going of other patrons offered a sense of being cocooned in the warmth of humanity, rather than the cold edge of conflict.
“Another job done then, Maisie,” said Stratton, setting the heavy white cup onto its saucer.
“We have others on the go, which means I’m still in business. But I’m glad the jobs involving death—and by that I mean ‘murder’—don’t come along every week. Luckily, they usually bring in more money, so that tides us over and pays the wages.” Maisie sipped her tea. “And what about you—how are you doing with your new job?”
In This Grave Hour Page 29
