In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Not to worry—Mr. Dobbs has them under his thumb, and he’s enjoying having them here.”

  “I’m still taking them back, though. We can catch the London train in Tonbridge and be home by ten, I would imagine.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to think about it? You should see the billeting officer, and the children’s teacher, at the very least,” offered Maisie.

  “They’re my sons, and I don’t have to get permission from anyone.” She looked out of the window. “That looks like them now, coming up the hill with the old boy.”

  “That’s my father, Mrs. Preston,” said Maisie. “And he can handle your lads quite smartly.”

  The woman grinned in a sheepish manner, as if to apologize for an error that, in truth, she found quite amusing. “Could you let me know where I can change the baby? I’ll let the boys have a bite of their tea, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Maisie drew breath to offer an alternative when the woman spoke again.

  “You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if that old girl hadn’t been on her way to a hospital. She had a bag with her, and it crossed my mind that she was going somewhere too. Probably somewhere to die, if the state of that cough was anything to go by.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Preston. We might find Anna’s family yet. Now then, let me show you to the bathroom—I’ll get you a fresh towel, and you can take all the time you need.”

  “Thank you, Miss Dobbs—it is Miss, isn’t it?” As she followed Maisie, Preston added, “I wouldn’t let that big dog near one of my children. German thing, you never know where its teeth might end up.”

  Maisie bit her lip. She had learned that sometimes it was best to let words die of their own accord, rather than fight them.

  “She’s out there in the garden with those two dogs now—went out there as soon as she’d had her breakfast. All in her own little world, isn’t she? And I know those lads only went last evening, but it’s not as if she appears to miss the company of other children.” Brenda joined Maisie and her father at the kitchen table. “She has a way about her—like a fairy child. What do they call them? She’s like a changeling.”

  “I think she’s probably been used to a quiet life,” said Maisie. “I’m speculating here, but from what we know, it seems she was brought up by an elderly lady, and therefore the house was probably quite quiet. She hadn’t started school, and perhaps the woman kept her in a lot, to save worrying about her playing with other children out on the street.”

  “I wouldn’t be too concerned,” said Frankie. “You were a bit like that, as a girl. I mean, you had your little friend around the corner—what was her name? Susie? Yes, that’s it, little Susie Acres. But after her people upped and left in a moonlight flit and we never saw her again, you kept to yourself a bit more. Always had your nose in a book.”

  Maisie looked out of the window. “Susie Acres. I haven’t thought about her for years.”

  Frankie put down his cup. “Right, this won’t do, sitting about of a morning. What time do you want to set off?”

  Maisie looked at the clock above the fireplace. “I’m going over to see Robert Miller now, so let’s say about eleven.”

  “And you’re sure about it, Maisie? You know I don’t hold with this cock-eyed plan of yours.”

  “I think it might help—both of them, actually.”

  Maisie arrived at the manor house, and was shown into the drawing room by Simmonds, the butler. Simmonds had previously worked for James and Maisie at their Ebury Place house—James had taken over the property when his parents decided they no longer wanted to come into town for the Season, and were happy to remain at their country estate. Lady Rowan’s most recent butler had left their employ, so it was fortuitous that Simmonds was able to take the position.

  “You’re looking very well, Your Ladyship,” said Simmonds.

  “Thank you—I’m feeling much better these days,” said Maisie. The fact that Simmonds always addressed her by the title bestowed upon her by marriage made her cringe. It had never suited her, and felt like a piece of ill-fitting clothing whenever someone used the form of address. In Canada, James had much preferred to be known as Mr. Compton, and Maisie was happy to be plain Mrs. Compton. He had told her, “I can get away with it here—no one pays attention to my title anyway.” Although their life together was far from ordinary, being in Canada seemed to give them a greater sense of freedom to do and be who they pleased. And along with that freedom came such happiness and contentment—until the day James was killed, having broken a promise to Maisie that he would not fly, not with a baby on the way.

  “The nurse is bringing Mr. Miller into the drawing room. It really was better for him to be accommodated on the ground floor. This is a very old house, and with all the beams, it would have been a struggle to get him up and down the stairs each day.”

  “Of course. I am sure he is just glad to be away from any sort of institution,” said Maisie.

  “And away from the bloody police too.” Robert Miller wheeled himself into the room, the nurse following behind.

  Maisie smiled at the nurse. “That’s all right—I can assist Mr. Miller while I’m here. And thank you, Simmonds.”

  Simmonds allowed the nurse to leave the room first, and gave a short bow as he closed the door.

  “I suppose I should start by thanking you—but I don’t feel very polite today.” Miller’s voice revealed a bitterness, each word spoken as if it was stuttered from a machine gun.

  “That’s perfectly understandable, Mr. Miller. You have suffered a terrible bereavement, and you were unable to prevent the death of your sister. Then you were left to suffer.”

  “I don’t understand why he didn’t just kill me. Why not shoot me? God knows, he would have done me a great favor. You don’t know the number of times I would have liked to shoot myself since the war.” He turned his head away from Maisie. “I used to do it all, you know. I rode to hounds, played tennis, could give up a good game of rugby. I sailed—Cowes, every year. Then this. Bloody legs won’t do a thing, and I can’t bloody see.”

  Maisie was silent for a moment. She did not counter with suggestions of other activities—not yet. And she did not offer condolences or express her sorrow at Miller’s condition. When she spoke, it was with a compassionate, yet matter-of-fact tone.

  “Mr. Miller—Robert—I know you’ve answered many questions for the police, but I would like to ask a few this morning. I realize you will have heard most before, but I would like you to bear with me.”

  “I suppose it’s the least I can do, considering what you’ve done for me.”

  “Yes, we’ll talk about your arrangements later, another day. Just get settled in first. In the meantime, I want you to try to clear your mind.”

  “Dear Lord above, I hope you’re not thinking of hypnotizing me.”

  “No, of course I’m not,” said Maisie. “But in the process of trying to clear your mind, you avoid any distractions in this room, or for example thinking about Mr. Avis, the gardener, who has just walked past the window stamping his feet, which you can no doubt hear. So, please, do your best to clear away any sounds from around you—except for my voice.”

  Miller frowned and raised his chin, as if he were able to look at the ceiling.

  “Robert, I want you to cast your mind back to the day of the tragedy. What happened?”

  Miller lifted a hand and rubbed his forehead. For a second he covered his sockets, and it occurred to Maisie that he must have been an attractive young man before he fell in battle. “I know there was a visitor, a woman, earlier—that was probably you. I heard Mrs. Bolton answer the door. I heard the back-and-forth of voices, and I heard Mrs. Bolton show you—the visitor—into the drawing room, and then leave after Rosemary had come in from the garden to see you. Emma was probably with her—follows her everywhere.” He paused and lifted his hand to his eyes. “I’m sorry—I mean, followed her everywhere.” He let his hand fall and turned to Maisie. “By the way, I understand you’
ve even rescued Em. You’re the perfect little angel of mercy, aren’t you?”

  Maisie felt her face become flushed.

  “I must apologize yet again. It seems every time I open my mouth, nasty words come out. I truly didn’t mean that, Miss Dobbs.”

  “You’re in pain, Mr. Miller—it has to come out somewhere. I’ve found that people in distress, either emotional or physical, often cannot help themselves—as if that which hurts has to be exorcised, and inflicting some sort of harm on another provides an immediate if temporary relief.”

  “Well, I’m sorry.” Another pause, another deep breath, and he continued. “Then you left—I heard the door open and close, voices, footsteps crunching down the driveway, and then a motor car start, and you drove off.”

  “Then what?”

  “Rosie talking to Mrs. Bolton. Then a little while later, I heard her leave the house and run down the drive—I could tell she was running. Crunch-crunch-crunch on that driveway. Then Mrs. Bolton came up with a tray—a sandwich and some lemonade. I asked where Rosie had gone, and Mrs. Bolton said she had walked down the road to the kiosk to make a telephone call—apparently to a shop in Tunbridge Wells. Mrs. Bolton said she was supposed to pick up something and wouldn’t be going in after all. So she was going to ask them to deliver.”

  “I see. Then what?”

  “I lost a sense of time, then I fell asleep. That happens a lot—as if my mind finds it hard trying to be useful, so it just gives up. And it takes me a while to come to—I’m in a netherworld. I sometimes wonder if they put something in my tea, or my food, to make me go to sleep. It’s such a burden for them, caring for me.”

  Maisie noticed that Miller had slipped into the present tense again when speaking of his sister and Mrs. Bolton. She waited. In a moment, he sighed and began again.

  “Rosie brought me a cup of tea a bit later, sat with me while I drank it. Then I must have fallen asleep again. At some point I woke up—I think it was dark, because the window was open and the air had that evening feel about it, sort of warm and damp, yet with a chill on the breeze. I hadn’t heard a motor car, though I was aware someone was in the house—I’ve come to realize that you have a different sense of things when you have no sight, and especially if your motions are limited. But Emma hadn’t barked, hadn’t made a fuss, so I thought it might be someone Rosie knew. Or at least, if Emma had not seen the man before, then she was at ease because Rosie had no reason to be afraid. Em is a funny dog—she’s a sweetheart, a real rug dog, and very rarely will she be upset—unless she has due cause. That due cause is invariably associated with those upon whom she has bestowed her affections. I understand she’s now the protector in chief of an evacuee child.”

  “Yes, a little girl. They make an interesting pair. I’m hoping Emma can get the child to speak—she’s said only a couple of words, and only to herself, and that took a lot of effort.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, shock can do that to you—I saw it in the war. One of my men, the battalion chatterbox—he was struck dumb when his best mate was blown up next to him, and he was left holding his arm where he had reached to pull him to safety. They put him in an asylum where the doctors tried electric shock to his tongue, but the last I heard, he was still unable to utter a word. Perhaps he needed an Emma.”

  The room began to feel musty, as if there were not enough air. Maisie continued speaking to Miller as she opened the French doors to the lawns. “Getting back to the events of Rosemary’s death, when did you know something was wrong?”

  “I was still in that sort of half sleep, but I heard raised voices, then two gunshots. What I can’t understand is why Emma ended up locked in the kitchen. Was the killer afraid of dogs, so Rosie put Em away? That’s a possibility. And I know that since war was declared, she said she might have to be careful with Em, being a German breed—you never know which way people will turn. Thank heavens for those Rin Tin Tin pictures Rosie told me about—might make people think more kindly towards dogs like Emma. Anyway, I think that’s what might have happened—and the other possibility is that Emma took a dislike to the caller, and not knowing quite what to do, Rosie shut her away. One thing’s for certain—Rosie or Mrs. Bolton were the only ones who could have put the dog anywhere, no one else. Frankly, I would always trust a dog.”

  “Mr. Miller—Robert—could you describe the shots to me?”

  Miller furrowed his brow. “It was quick. Smartly done. One shot, then another. A revolver. I’m not an expert, but it sounded like a Browning, something like that—the army teaches you a few things, you know. There was no screaming, no pleading on the part of Rosie or Mrs. Bolton. Not enough time, I would imagine. Just two shots. Then I heard the footsteps back and forth through the rooms. Drawers being opened. Emma was barking, and something was said to her—again, I’m surprised, really. Why didn’t he just shoot her? It was as if he wanted to kill just one person with little other damage—Mrs. Bolton was that other damage. Or perhaps he liked dogs. He certainly didn’t want to kill me—if I was dispensable in his mind, I would be dead, wouldn’t I? In fact, I’d bet it was his intention to shoot me at first, then he saw my sockets—a man can’t identify you if he has no eyes with which to see, can he? And of course there was the wheelchair close by, so it was evident I could hardly get after him, or wrestle him to the ground. But I could yell, and he soon put a stop to that.” Robert Miller allowed his head to drop forward, his chin lowered, almost touching his chest. “You know, I think Rosie put something in my tea after all—I think she wanted me asleep when the visitor came. You see, after she returned to the house—following that walk to the telephone kiosk I have assumed she made—she brought me the cup of tea, insisting I drink every drop. And my sense of taste hasn’t been the same since the war, so I wouldn’t have known if there was a sleeping powder in there. Upon reflection, while I have every reason to believe she could not have predicted her death, she did not want to risk my hearing the visitor. It was all I could do to hear the things I’ve recounted to you—and by the time he entered my room, I didn’t have the fight in me to resist being tied, being silenced.”

  “I suspect you’re right about the sleeping powder, though a deep sleep without the help of drugs can have the same effect. But yes, you’ve probably hit the nail on the head. What happened next? He’d tied you, silenced you—did he speak to you, ask you the whereabouts of anything?”

  “He loosened the gag and asked where the files were. I told him I didn’t know about any bloody files—what did he think I was? My sister’s blind crippled secretary?”

  “What about his voice?”

  “What about it? Ordinary. No regional accent. I would have put him as a middle-class mister nobody—no dropped aitches, no north country dialect, no southern rolling of the r’s—nothing to distinguish him at all. Except that bloody Brylcreem on his hair. He must have plastered the stuff on. Isn’t that what they call the RAF now? ‘The Brylcreem Boys.’ I was listening to the wireless and heard it the other day. Maybe he’s a bloody aviator.”

  “He definitely asked for the files, though,” reiterated Maisie.

  “Files, records, I can’t remember the word he used. I have no idea what he meant.”

  “I understand Rosemary passed all the Belgian refugee records onto another association after the war.”

  “Probably. I know she had a big sorting-out when we moved to Etchingham. She might have kept something, but that was behind her by a good few years. We all lived a very quiet life, really. Too quiet, I thought. I often asked her why she didn’t have company.”

  “What do you think prevented her from expanding her social circle?”

  Miller turned, as if to look at Maisie. “Honestly? I think she was trying to keep us in a bubble, the sort of little world we were in as children. There was Rosie, me, and Mrs. Bolton—and usually a dog of some sort or another. I think she was comfortable like that. I suppose it felt safe—isn’t childhood supposed to be safe?”

  Maisie sighed. “Not for all chil
dren, Mr. Miller.” She came to her feet. “Would you recognize that voice again—the man who killed your sister and Mrs. Bolton?”

  Miller sighed. “I think I would. Yes. If necessary.”

  Maisie nodded, reached for his hand. “I’ll leave you to rest here now. There’s a nice breeze coming in from the garden. Is there anything else you need? There’s a wireless in here now, so I can turn it on if you like. Or I can take you back to your room.” Miller shook his head. “Lady Rowan will insist upon your presence at dinner, and I wouldn’t cross her if I were you. One of the men—probably Lord Julian’s valet—will be along to help you dress for dinner, if you require some assistance. And you can go outside. Here’s the bell.” Maisie took Miller’s hand and reached it towards a bell pull close to the wall. “There are stables here. My father was once the groom, and he helps Lady Rowan decide on matters to do with the breeding of racehorses. We could get you down there, you know—just to be around them.”

  “I can’t bloody ride, though, can I?”

  Maisie looked at the man in the wheelchair before her. “Mr. Miller, you still have working arms, and the horse can see. There’s a strapping groom, a strong chauffeur, and some very hefty gardeners, so I am sure they can get a man in the saddle.”

  A shy smile began to form at the corners of Miller’s mouth. “Do you think—?”

  “In your good time, Mr. Miller. Now then, I’ll allow you a rest before Lord Julian’s valet comes for you. I should probably have mentioned—there’s no lunch on a tray in your room at Chelstone. Unless you go down with a frightful cold, you’re expected in the dining room. Lord Julian has a military attaché from the Canadian embassy here today—troops from Canada are going to be coming over at some point, and will be setting up camp not far away. The officers are to be billeted here.”