In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Then money must have been going out somewhere else,” said Maisie. “I think I will have to go back to see the family—perhaps when the daughter isn’t home. She’s returning to work this week. But Mrs. Addens was distraught about money when I saw her—and I thought it a bit odd then, for the same reason, Billy. And she also told me the railway workers had started a whip-round for the family, so they had some more money coming in.”

  At that moment the telephone on Maisie’s desk began ringing. Sandra leaped up to answer it, placing her hand on her middle as she lifted the receiver. Billy looked at Maisie and raised an eyebrow. Maisie widened her eyes and put her finger to her lips.

  “Miss, it’s Inspector Caldwell—says he would like to speak to you.”

  Maisie frowned. “I only left him a little while ago.” She stood and reached for the receiver. “Inspector, to what do I owe this call?”

  “You’re going to thank me, Miss Dobbs. You’re going to thank me because you’ll know something important before your client, whoever he is.”

  Maisie felt a shiver across her neck, along the line of the scar she’d sustained in the Great War. It was as if someone with a cold hand had run a finger against her skin from one ear to the other.

  “Go on, Inspector. You have my attention.”

  “Albert Durant. Age thirty-eight. Banker working in the City. Lives in Maida Vale—nice mansion flat with no family, no dog, no budgie. Found in an alley round the corner from the bank where he works. Same specs as our Frederick Addens. A bullet in the back of the skull whilst kneeling down, according to our friendly pathologist.”

  “And you’re going to tell me he was a Belgian refugee, aren’t you?”

  “Bit of a sharper type than Addens—working in a bank and all that. Came over . . . let me see, yes, 1916. Just before the Somme, I would imagine. Anyway, it looks like our thief has his eye on the same sort of target.”

  “If it is theft, Inspector.”

  “Oh, it’s theft, all right. This one had a bundle when he walked out—had just taken it from his account to go around the corner to another bank, according to the clerk who worked alongside him. Said he always maintained it wasn’t good to keep all your eggs in one basket, even if it is the bank you work for.” He laughed. “Nice if you have the eggs in the first place, if you ask me.”

  “Is there anything more you can tell me, Inspector?” said Maisie, ignoring his comment.

  “Come along for another cup of Able’s weak tea first thing tomorrow, and we two can have a chat. You never know what I might be able to leave on the desk while I wander out to find out if he’s gone searching for digestive biscuits.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “And you know how it goes, Miss Dobbs, don’t you? Share and share alike.”

  “I may have a few details of interest to you.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Tomorrow at nine? No good doing anything now—I mean, rushing around isn’t going to bring him back, is it?”

  Maisie shook her head. “Tomorrow at nine, then. And I will make a telephone call to my client now.”

  She exchanged pleasantries with Caldwell and replaced the receiver.

  “Another one?” asked Billy.

  Maisie nodded. “I’ll have to call Dr. Thomas immediately.”

  The telephone began to ring as Maisie finished her sentence.

  “Shall I?” Sandra pushed back her chair.

  Maisie shook her head and picked up the receiver.

  “Maisie—”

  “Dr. Thomas—we should meet. I know about Albert Durant.”

  Chapter 4

  Maisie sat in her walled garden after work, comfortable in a wicker armchair, a glass of wine on the table next to her. Another chair on the other side of the small matching wicker table was empty, awaiting a visitor.

  The following morning, Billy would return to St. Pancras Station. Sandra would not be at the office—her work was only part-time, two or three days per week, dependent upon cases pending. The rest of the week she spent working at home for her husband’s publishing company. She had previously been employed in the company’s offices, however the couple decided to adhere to convention—it might not have gone down well with other staff had she continued working at the office following her marriage. That Maisie was reestablishing her business and needed help with administration had been something of a blessing for both of them, though Maisie wondered how long Sandra might continue working. Yet she felt nothing but joy for Sandra, who had known much sadness in her life, and was now happy in her union.

  The gate at the side of the house rattled, and as Maisie looked up, Francesca Thomas emerged from the path into the garden. She wore a light jacket and skirt costume in a shade Maisie thought should be called “hazelnut”—it was a linen blend in a cream color that seemed to veer towards brown. Thomas had tied a dark green scarf at her throat—the customary disguise to hide the scar she kept from the world—and carried a pair of olive green gloves in her hand, along with a brown leather document case of a type that seemed as if it should be used to carry sheet music. A fashionable Robin Hood–style hat of nut brown felt with a green band sat atop her head, and a gas mask in its distinctive square box hung by a strap from her shoulder.

  “I see you started without me,” said Thomas.

  Maisie shrugged. “It took me a long time to realize that I can have a measure of wine in the comfort of my home without asking permission of anyone. Would you care for a glass? It’s French—just an ordinary white. It’s been steeped in a bucket of water under the sink all day, in an effort to keep it cool. I’ve been thinking of investing in a refrigerator, but I’m not sure—I think the noise would keep me awake at night.”

  “I’d love a glass of wine any way you pour it, Maisie.”

  “And I have some bread and cheese, if you’re peckish.”

  “Thank you, Maisie. Yes, thank you.”

  Maisie stepped across the threshold into her sitting room. A door to the right led to a passageway and a kitchen that was large enough for a table and two chairs. She prepared a tray with another glass, along with the bottle of wine she had opened just before Thomas arrived, and a plate with crusty bread and a wedge of cheddar. She added two smaller plates, two knives and two table napkins, plus a couple of apples from a bowl inside the kitchen cabinet. She carried the tray into the garden, setting it on the table between the two chairs.

  “Fill your plate—I’ll pour you some wine. And take a few bites first. We’ll have a more constructive conversation if neither of us has a growling stomach.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Well, you’re the trained nurse, so I had better do as you say, eh?” She picked up an apple, rubbing the skin with her napkin. “Lovely apples—russets?”

  “My favorites. There are several orchards near my house—it’s in Kent, after all—and the farmer sends a boy over with a basket every Saturday morning in the season. My father has a couple of trees in his garden, and while they are still fresh, he will wrap each apple in paper, then lay them out in his shed for the winter. They keep until spring, easily. I’ll be getting more this Saturday—I’ll bring you some.”

  Thomas thanked Maisie, placed a knob of cheddar on a quarter-slice of bread, and topped it with a wedge of apple. She took a bite and a sip of wine, and when she had finished the portion, she began to speak.

  “So the police told you about Albert Durant.” It was a statement, not a question, and Maisie thought she detected a suggestion of annoyance in the other woman’s tone.

  “Yes. Inspector Caldwell. I might have told you that Caldwell and I have not always enjoyed the most satisfying of collaborations, but it seems he has become a much—well, a much more likable person to deal with. He allowed me access to confidential files yesterday, and his explanation for the police seemingly dragging their feet on Addens’ death held water. They had little to go on—and on the face of it, it seems the attack really was a theft that became more aggressive than might have b
een intended.”

  “Then they’re not looking hard enough.”

  “Francesca”—Maisie set her glass on the tray and leaned forward, her hands on her knees—“as far as we know there were no witnesses. No one to see who shot Mr. Addens. We know the weapon used, but already my assistant, Mr. Beale, has voiced some doubts. The police believe it was a Browning of a certain type that was copied and sold as a Ruby, which were manufactured in Spain in great numbers during the war, and supplied in the main to the French, and then—and this is interesting—to the Belgians. More to the point, it is somewhat easy for a novice to use but can also go off when you don’t want it to, or fire several shots instead of the intended one. Perhaps the killer only meant to fire one bullet into Frederick Addens but was a neophyte when it came to handling a gun, and could not control the firing mechanism.”

  Maisie reached for her glass and took a sip of wine. She sat back, rolling the stem between finger and thumb as she considered her words. Francesca Thomas made no attempt to interrupt. “Frederick Addens might indeed have known his killer,” Maisie continued, “but by the same token, the killer might be someone who knew him and knew when he would receive his wages. In defense of Caldwell’s department, there is not much to chew on. I wonder why you didn’t tell me about the money Addens was carrying.”

  Thomas shrugged. “I thought I had. I thought I’d noted it in the envelope of information I sent over to you.”

  “We received his date of birth, details of his entry to the British Isles, his work, and his family,” said Maisie. “We know where he worked, what he did, where he lived. But I did not know his father and brother were killed in the war. We had to discover ourselves how he came to be an engineer for the railway—and it wasn’t particularly hard to find out. And I didn’t know he had just been paid, therefore had money in his back pocket.”

  “He was foolish—he should have known better,” said Thomas.

  Maisie leaned forward. “Why? Why should he have known better? An ordinary man going about his ordinary work and on a payday receiving an envelope with a wage that would not buy a couple of nights at the Savoy. I would imagine that his mates did the same—put the envelope in the back pocket and either go home or, like Addens, go back to work for the overtime. And with the extra trains being laid on because the government has been preparing for yesterday’s announcement for months, the overtime was there for the taking.”

  Thomas topped up her own glass and reached across to pour more wine into Maisie’s, which was still half full. “I meant that anyone—anyone—should have known to be careful, given the greater number of refugees moving into the country in recent weeks. Especially someone who was once himself a refugee. He should have remembered how desperate people can become.”

  Maisie allowed silence to descend upon the conversation—silence except for a couple of blackbirds in the garden’s lilac tree, followed by the crisp domestic sounds of Thomas breaking off a piece of the bread and cutting another slice of apple.

  “And now it seems Mr. Durant is also the victim of theft, and killed in the same manner,” said Maisie. “I would like to know if there was ever a connection between the two men,” she added. “I think you might know.”

  Thomas shook her head. “Apart from both being Belgian—no. There’s no connection, as far as my information is concerned. A railway worker and a banker? They might be Belgian, but let’s both admit, this is England. A banker would have little to do with a man wielding an oily rag and a spanner.”

  “Therefore they had never met, never heard of each other, their paths never crossed—and it was just a coincidence that these two men have been murdered. And on top of it all, you have asked me to find the killer.”

  “I didn’t expect there to be a second murder.” Thomas held her glass to her lips and finished her wine. She reached for another slice of bread and cut more cheese. “I’ve not eaten all day—I’ll have one more bite and then I must go.” She bit into the makeshift sandwich, set the remains on her plate, brushed her hands against her table napkin, and reached into her bag. “Here, some information on Albert Durant. The police might have the same details for you tomorrow, but you should have this. He was a very clever man—his job was not exactly as an ordinary bank clerk, but one who dealt with the needs of the better-heeled customers, the sort who wanted to move money around.”

  “He helped the rich get richer, then,” said Maisie.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Are you sure there is nothing more you can add for me?” asked Maisie.

  Thomas shook her head. “Scotland Yard will have as much luck finding the killer of Albert Durant as they have Frederick Addens. I am depending upon you, Maisie. I realize my patience might be tested, but I trust you will find the killer. And my interest in this case is purely on behalf of the Belgian government.” She came to her feet, took up her document case and her gas mask, and turned to leave. “Could you spare me one of those russets?” she added.

  Maisie smiled. “Of course.” She went into the kitchen, wrapped two russet apples in newspaper, and brought them to Francesca Thomas, who thanked her again, said she would be in touch, and then left by the side gate.

  Instead of clearing the plates, Maisie picked up her glass of wine, and sat back in the wicker chair. Dusk was beginning to close in, and as she looked up, she thought the barrage balloon overhead resembled a giant sea creature beached on the sky above. Britain had been at war for one day. She wondered when it would start. When would the invasion begin? After all, that’s what they said would happen: that German troops would come ashore from Dover to Penzance, that they would sail along the Thames, and they would land their aircraft on the fields of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland; that everyone would be heiling Hitler in Britain’s very own streets. But for now everything was quiet. Quiet except for the voice in her mind, the nagging tone suggesting she pay very close attention. And the message was clear, so very clear: that Francesca Thomas—brave, fearless Francesca Thomas, who had only the year before given Maisie the tools she needed to save her own life while on assignment for the British Secret Service in Munich—was lying to her. During her initial briefing, Thomas had stated that she wanted to stop it—murder—happening again, yet only minutes ago, she said she didn’t expect there to be another murder. Of course, she could have confronted Thomas on that point, could have maneuvered her into a corner—but for now, she wanted to see how things played out.

  She watched as her neighbor pulled dark blackout curtains across a lamp-lit window, hiding any sign of light and life from an enemy that might wheel down from the sky. Her own lights were off and she thought, then, what a strange life she was living, when her list for the morrow included visiting a detective, then a woman whose husband had been murdered—and afterwards coming home to draw her own blackout curtains, so the enemy could not see her.

  “So, this new bloke, Albert Durant, he lived alone in Maida Vale—nice mansion flat, all very leafy around there, but still in London and easy for him to get to work. His wife died a couple of years ago, and they had no children. Was she English, or one of them, you know, a refugee?”

  “As far as I know, Durant married an English girl too. In any case, I’ll find out more when I see Caldwell.” Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Speaking of whom—I should be off. Billy, I’ll see you back here around twelve.”

  “With a bit of luck that newspaper boy will have noticed something.”

  “Yes, ask around again. There’s also Addens’ friend Mike—and do you still have that contact in Fleet Street?”

  Billy nodded. “Not seen him for a bit, but I know where he drinks. And they all drink, those boys—as soon as the afternoon edition is put to bed, they’re down the Old Bell; your compositors, your delivery boys, your reporters. I bet you could hear a pin drop over at the Express come twelve o’clock, except for the typists, holding the fort.”

  “Just try to get him before he’s had a few too many. Find o
ut what he knows about the Addens case.”

  “As good as done, miss.”

  Just as Maisie and Billy were about to leave, the telephone rang.

  “Do you want to leave, so I can say you’re out and not have to tell a white lie?” said Billy.

  “I should answer this one. You go on, and I’ll see you at noon or thereabouts. I’ll lock up before I go.”

  Billy nodded, touched the two fingers of his right hand to his forehead, and smiled. “See you then, miss.”

  Once alone, Maisie answered the call. It was her stepmother, Brenda.

  “Maisie, dear, I don’t like to bother you at work, but I thought I should give you a ring.”

  “Brenda—is everything all right? Is Dad ill?”

  “No, I should have said straightaway, knowing how you worry. Your father is in fine fettle—in fact, I think having to take those boys under his wing has put a spring in his step. They love Jook, and it’s perked her up too, chasing a ball for them—she’s not a young pup anymore.”

  “What about the little girl? Is she all right?”

  “That’s what I’m calling you about. I think you can help her, Maisie, and I was wondering if you could come down tomorrow instead of Thursday—just a bit earlier than you’d planned. Or are you too busy?”