In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “My husband is dead, Miss Dobbs.” Firmin looked at the card and placed it on the table, next to the ashtray. “And I doubt there’s anything I can help you with.”

  “Let’s see, shall we? First of all, when did your husband pass away, Mrs. Firmin?”

  “A year ago. August 1938. Probably best he went, because he couldn’t have stood this—barrage balloons, sandbags, armies on the march, and us just waiting for bombs to drop.”

  “How did Carl die?”

  “Died by his own hand.” Firmin drew on her cigarette and blew a smoke ring. “Got on a train, went down to Folkestone, and bang! Put a gun to his noddle and topped himself. Not very pretty, and I had to identify him by a scar on his leg—he copped it in Belgium, when he was coming over. Apparently a group of them made their escape together, though a couple wouldn’t leave without their families. Something happened on the way—he wouldn’t talk about it—and he was wounded. I never found out how he’d been hurt—would you believe a man could be that closemouthed with his own wife? It could have been a knife, a bullet, falling over an ax—who knows?”

  Maisie made a note in her book. “He died in Folkestone, August 1938.”

  “Better get it all in. The fourth of August, it was.”

  Maisie stopped, and looked up at the woman. “The fourth of August?”

  “What—that your birthday or something?” She shrugged. “He always got a bit on edge that time of year, and I just left him to it. He said it was on account of the memories, of things that happened, you know, in the war. He’d been over there, back to Belgium, for a visit a couple of months earlier. He was only gone about three days. I couldn’t go with him—we didn’t have the money for that—but I could see he had to go.”

  “Did he ever say anything specific about those memories?” said Maisie.

  “Not a peep,” said the woman, drawing on her cigarette again. She pressed the stub into the ashtray and leaned towards Maisie. “Is this going to take long? I’ve been at the factory since the middle of the night, and I don’t have a lot of time to myself to get a bit of shut-eye and do something human before I go back there again.”

  “I’m so sorry—just one more thing.” Maisie took photographs of Frederick Addens and Albert Durant from her bag. “Have you ever seen either of these men?”

  Firmin reached for the photographs. She shook her head. “No, never met either of them. Why?”

  Maisie nodded. “I’m afraid they’re both dead, and I believe they were acquainted with your husband. The first died in August, the other a few weeks later.” She replaced the photographs in her bag.

  Firmin shook her head, pinched out the cigarette, stood up, and put the remains in her pocket. “Well, I’ve never seen them.” She turned towards the door.

  Maisie came to her feet and followed Firmin. “Did Carl keep in touch with any friends from Belgium, others that came to this country?”

  “Not as far as I know.” She led Maisie towards the front door. “The only Belgian I ever met was that woman from the embassy, or consulate, or whatever you call it.”

  “Really? Someone came after your husband died?”

  “Not that long afterwards. I suppose they had to inform the authorities of his death—the police did that. She came to offer her condolences. Nice woman, very smart, quite sophisticated, like a mannequin, I suppose.” As they reached the front of the house, Firmin turned the lock, opened the door, and stood aside for Maisie to pass. “Mind you,” she added, “I saw her reach into her bag—she leaned over, just like you did to take out those photographs—and when she did, her scarf slipped. She had a nasty scar right across her neck. At first I thought it looked as if someone had tried to take off her head, but then I thought, no, she must have had a thyroid operation. They say you’re left with a very nasty scar if they get in there and mess about with your thyroid.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Firmin.” Maisie turned to her and smiled. “By the way, most remiss of me—may I ask your Christian name?”

  “Irma. Irma Firmin. Hard to believe, isn’t it? I said to Carl when he proposed, I said, ‘You couldn’t change that name of yours, could you?’” She laughed. “Anyway, sorry for being rude, but I’ve got to get some sleep now.”

  Maisie thanked her for her time, and made her way down the steps and to her motor car, which now had a gaggle of three boys and a girl gathered around like bees on a rose.

  “This your’n, miss?” said a lad with red hair and a peppering of freckles across his nose.

  “No, it belongs to my boss—so I hope it’s not scratched, or he’ll give me the sack and a bag to carry it in,” said Maisie, smiling as she paused to find her key. “Anyway, why aren’t you all evacuated? And shouldn’t you be in school?”

  The tallest boy laughed. “Our mum said she missed us and came down to fetch us home. She said there hadn’t been any bombs, and it looked like that Mr. Hitler had forgotten all about England—he’s got more on his plate over there. And when we got back here, there was nowhere to go to school—the army are in our school now. Mind you, the school board man has been round and said we’ve got to go back down to the country, but Mum said no.”

  Maisie looked at the barrage balloons above, and then at the four children, alone in a street with no other children. She reached into her bag, took out her purse, and handed a coin to each child. “Here comes the ice cream man—treat yourselves to a penny dipper each.”

  The children’s eyes widened as they looked at the coins, uttering a quick “Thank you” in unison as they turned and ran towards the ice cream man on his bicycle. Maisie smiled for an instant, but her thoughts were elsewhere. In her mind’s eye she could see the scar on Francesca Thomas’ neck, a wound sustained while a young woman, and member of the Belgian resistance during the Great War. But Thomas had prevailed in that fight, killing the man responsible for the death of her husband.

  Chapter 12

  The London Overseas Reception Board was only a short walk from Greenwich Market. It was situated on the first floor of a modest Victorian building with a shop on the ground floor and a dwelling above. Maisie had managed to park the Alvis nearby, and waited until the manageress, Miss Golding, could spare her ten minutes. She suspected there were only about three or four staff, all told.

  A young woman who introduced herself as Miss Hatcher led Maisie to a room with a table and chairs in the center, though around the walls were boxes in various stages of leaning to the point where it seemed they might fall at any moment. Golding was standing alongside the table leafing through a file as Maisie entered. At first glance she appeared to be a no-nonsense sort of woman. Her dark brown hair was permed into tight curls, reminding Maisie of winkles, the tiny black shellfish her father favored with bread and butter and a lettuce, tomato, and cucumber salad for Sunday tea. Her cotton blouse was starched, and she was dressed in a jacket and skirt costume of pale green wool barathea. Her appearance was in stark contrast to her employee, whose blonde hair was so fair it might have been colored at home, and who had enhanced the silhouette of her fashionable narrow dress with a leather belt that matched her wedge sandals. Golding wore brown shoes that Maisie thought were akin to a style that a school headmistress might have termed “sensible.”

  Golding looked up. “Thank you, Miss Hatcher, that will be all.” She inclined her head in the direction of a chair, and Maisie took a seat. Without offering a greeting, Golding continued, “Miss Dobbs. I looked up the names you’ve furnished us with, and yes, it seems we have records for the men. I just have to lay my hands on them in one of these boxes. As you know, they were passed on to us by the Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association years ago. Normally it would have taken me ages to find them, but we’ve been having a huge sort out to make more room—and we’re moving to larger premises soon, in any case. We weren’t at all sure what to do with these records, and then the government stepped in. Most of the men and women who came through our original association—and the one Rosemary Hartley-Davies worked for—retur
ned home after the war, and of those who remained, well, they’re here in Britain now, and no one knows any difference, do they?” Golding chattered on as she opened a heavy-duty cardboard box and began pulling out folders. “Mind you, we’ve had inquiries here about Belgian citizens, mainly to confirm details provided to the authorities when they arrived—I mean, as far as the population’s concerned, some of them could have been deserting Germans who now want to desert back the other way, couldn’t they? Personally, I’m worried that this vigilance is all going to get out of control, and anyone with a bit of an accent is going to be reported, or even worse. People start taking matters into their own hands, don’t they?”

  Maisie was about to respond when Golding resumed her monologue. “Ah, here we are, yes, all in one box together.” She put the box to one side and stacked the folders on the desk in front of her, then looked at Maisie, one hand tapping the pile of folders. “The reason they are in the same place is that they came in on the same day, or thereabouts.” She opened one file after another, studying the first page before moving on. “And it seems they all lived in roughly the same area.” Golding tapped an open file. “I don’t know much about the geography of Belgium, but there’s a line for a comment here regarding place of birth and residence, and name of nearest large town or city, and it seems these men—Peeters, Firmin, Addens, and Durant—all came from the same region, or thereabouts. You will also see that there are other files here too, other boys, women, and children who were on the same boat. Of course, these men would have been too young to join the fighting—they were still boys, for the most part.” She pushed the folders towards Maisie. “You might as well look through these yourself—I’ve checked your particulars with Scotland Yard, and in any case, there’s nothing there that seems top secret in that lot, so I might as well save myself some time and hand them over to you. You can stay here in this office if you like—but not for long, as I’ve got a couple of my girls coming in soon to start boxing up files ready for transport up to London.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “Our instructions are to send them to the Home Office in the first instance, where the information will be catalogued. I’ve an inkling, though, that they’ll be sent to the Belgian consulate—after all, it’s their people and it’s part of their history now, isn’t it?” Golding stepped towards the door. “Right then—I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so.”

  She was gone before Maisie could thank her, so she reached into her bag for her pencil and notebook, which she opened to a blank page. She laid out the folders and picked up each one in turn. The ages of the young men when they arrived in England were similar—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. As Golding had observed, little more than boys. And confirming Golding’s comment, Maisie could see that they all came from an area not far from Liege. She wrote down the first and last names of each man, along with details of any family members he had traveled with. Death, it seemed, had stalked them on their journey to the coast, for by the time they reached England, several were alone in the world—except, perhaps, for one other.

  While there was not much of note in the files, Maisie jotted questions as she read. Did the young men know each other? If so, how? There was nothing to indicate common schooling—only the proximity to Liege—that in itself would have drawn them into a tight group. She had hoped there were at least two who came from the same community, who knew the same people. But then, why would these boys have known each other, apart from managing to find a way onto the same boat for a crossing of the English Channel? Could they have met on the journey, the arduous walk to freedom? Maisie sat back, considering her questions, reaching for each file in turn and reading a second time before stacking them in a pile. She consulted her wrist watch, and could hear voices in the corridor signaling that Golding’s “girls” were on their way to begin preparing the boxes for transit to London. She closed her notebook, but before leaving the room, she pulled the box towards her and leafed through a few remaining files—mainly women and children, a few more boys. She lingered over the final file. Something was amiss, though she could not quite put her finger on what was making her go back and forth, rereading every note on the refugee.

  Miss Hatcher entered the room, with another young woman following her. They both held shorthand notebooks and pencils.

  “Sorry, Miss Dobbs, but we have to get to work in here now. I hope you’ve found everything you’ve been looking for.”

  “Do you happen to know what might have happened to this one?” Maisie passed the folder to Hatcher, who took a cursory look at the information—most of the pages contained only short answers to mundane questions.

  Hatcher shrugged. “Not much information there—he couldn’t even write a full name. But as far as I know, some children arrived on their own and couldn’t speak or write in English. I would have thought someone of this age would have been situated with a Belgian family who’d already found accommodation, or placed in a children’s home. There were also British families of Belgian extraction who took in refugees. There’s no forwarding information, so I would imagine this one was sent back to his home country, eventually.” She placed the file in the box and looked at Maisie. “Anything else we can do?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No, that’s all right—I’ve gathered as much as I can from the notes. I’m obliged to you for your help.”

  She returned to the motor car and sat for a while, the engine idling, before putting it into gear and moving off into traffic. She knew it was even more imperative now that she reach Lucas Peeters—perhaps for no other reason than to save his life.

  At the office, Maisie read a note from Billy, and another from Sandra, who had come to work after Maisie’s departure, and left before her return. Telephone calls had been received, and their messages transcribed in Sandra’s neat hand, with time and date recorded, along with a personal note regarding her impression of each call’s urgency. There were messages from Lady Rowan Compton regarding the imminent arrival of Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ brother. Maisie had arranged for Robert Miller to be brought to Chelstone Manor on Wednesday morning, but just for a fortnight at most, as it transpired that a cousin with whom his family had been in touch only sporadically over the years had offered accommodation at his home in Wiltshire. Miller, it seemed, was not without funds, as both he and his sister had inherited money from their parents, and Rosemary had received a significant legacy from her late husband, a sum that would pass to her brother in due course. Maisie suspected Miller would in time move into a home of his own, though he would always require a companion to assist with everyday needs; but for now he should have a place of rest while he recovered from the death of his sister and Mrs. Bolton. Maisie could only agree with Brenda when her stepmother observed, “Well, at least he’s got money tucked away—think of the thousands that haven’t. And who’s looking after them? I’ll tell you who—the poor women they came home to, that’s who does the looking after, and with precious little to help them!” Whatever Miller’s circumstances, she would at least have the opportunity to question him at Chelstone.

  There was a message from Priscilla, and from Brenda, who asked when Maisie would be at Chelstone, and whether she could come early again, instead of waiting until Friday. The note from Billy was by way of an update, informing her that he was trying to find out more about Lucas Peeters, as well as continuing work on another case involving a woman who had not believed her husband when he said he had joined the army. The man had not arrived at the barracks he had stated as his destination, and the army had no record of his enlistment.

  She lifted the telephone receiver and placed a call to Priscilla’s home.

  “Thank goodness—I thought you’d gone off on a ship again, never to return,” said Priscilla. “You live less than one hundred yards along the road, and it’s all I can do to gain the attention of my best friend in my hour of need.”

  “Rather dramatic, Pris, don’t you think?” offered Maisie. “Sorry—I’ve been busy.”

 
; “Well, just so you know everything happening under this roof, I’ll start with the good news. Tarquin is staying out of trouble, which is more than I can say for the other two, and even, perhaps, my dear husband.” Priscilla’s voice cracked, evidence of her emotional state.

  “Start with Thomas—I know he’s at the heart of this, Priscilla.”

  “He’s gone and joined the RAF. We all knew it was coming—he just couldn’t resist it, could he? Instead of applying to university, perhaps to study something like, oh, I don’t know—let’s say something boringly safe, such as philosophy, politics, and economics—he applied to Cranwell, the air force college in Lincolnshire, for officer training. And he’s just old enough to be accepted, but thankfully not old enough to fly in a real battle, though we both know how so-called rules are broken, don’t we? Anyway, the good news is that he will be there for a while, at least until next summer, I hope! I confess, my mind went a bit blank as soon as he told us, so the details might be woolly.”

  Maisie could hear Priscilla’s breathing quicken, and suspected the mood in the Partridge household was far more volatile than her friend would reveal in a telephone call.

  “I could throttle him, to tell you the truth, Maisie,” continued Priscilla. “In the meantime, Douglas has been pulled into the Ministry of Information, and Timothy is professing readiness to join the Royal Navy, claiming that a midshipman would have been a boy in Napoleon’s time. And as you know, the trouble with Tim is that he is so very quick with his tongue, you can’t argue with him, and I end up shouting at my own beloved son. Tarquin, bless his cotton socks, has stated his intention to join the Peace Pledge Union, clearly a move to rattle the cages of his older brothers—he takes a childish joy at starting them off, as if they were toy motor cars you could wind up with a key and let whizz across the floor. The stupid thing is that my boys would kill anyone who threatened one of them, and yet I sometimes think they’ll murder each other when they get going. Tarquin seems to be enjoying walking around with a beatific look on his face, though we both know he still cherishes the aviator’s cap that James gave him, and if truth be told, he’s only taking his current position because it’s in direct opposition to his brothers.” Priscilla paused for half a second. “Anyway, I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me. Do come over for a drink after you get home from work. I have some other news for you.”