In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie led Anna to her room and drew back the bedclothes, pulling her pajamas from under the pillow.

  When the child was ready for bed, Maisie tucked in the bedclothes and asked, “Do you have a name for the pony, Anna?”

  Anna nodded.

  “What is it?” asked Maisie.

  She took a deep breath, as if ready to make a pronouncement. Instead she turned on her side and closed her eyes.

  With a hurried supper of ham, eggs, and fried potatoes in front of them, Maisie, Brenda, and Frankie sat down to eat. There was little conversation over the meal, though Maisie knew her father had more to say to her. And she knew it would be better if everything he thought about her purchase of the pony was out in the open.

  “What is it, Dad? You’ve had a sore head since before we set off. You haven’t said everything on your mind, have you? I think it’s best if you got it all off your chest.”

  Brenda looked from father to daughter, scraped back her chair, and collected the plates.

  “I’ll do that, Brenda,” said Maisie.

  “Then I’ll go and listen to the news, while you two have a word.”

  As Brenda left the kitchen, Frankie Dobbs looked out of the window into the night and folded his arms. He shook his head. “I know Brenda’s said something, and I know I’ve had a word, but I’ll say my piece and then have done with it.” He sighed and looked at Maisie, his eyes meeting hers. She felt herself begin to draw back, as her father’s pale blue eyes seemed to drill into her.

  “We’ve not crossed each other many times, my Maisie, though we’ve had our ups and downs—but no worse than any other father and daughter, I imagine. You’ve done well, and I’m proud of you.”

  “This is the ‘but’ you’ve been dancing around, isn’t it?”

  “I’m coming to it, because I’ve never known you so deaf, and they say there’s none so deaf as those that don’t want to hear. Now then—” He stopped speaking for some seconds, as if to consider how he might go on. “I want you to hear me out—and really hear me, Maisie. Brenda and me, we got into a bit of a panic with these children turning up, and fair to be said, it was like a fever around here, what with war being declared and then this business about officers at the manor, these Canadians who’re supposed to be coming. We took in the lads because it was what we should do—pull together. And then little Anna came along—not a sound out of her, but the lass has a strong will! I can tell you now, in my opinion it takes more to keep quiet than it does to use your voice. I said to Brenda, ‘It’s Maisie’s house, she should know what’s going on and come down here,’ so she got on the telephone, and you know the rest. But I felt it even then, that the girl would pull your heartstrings. And I’m telling you—because you’re my girl, my daughter—that you’ve got to stand back.”

  Maisie opened her mouth to speak, but Frankie silenced her.

  “And another thing—you’ve been looking into this business of refugees. I’ve heard you on the telephone talking about it to Billy, last time you were here. I told you before—evacuees are our own refugees, and refugees go home, Maisie. I saw it in the war—they came over here, and our people did their best for them. They opened their homes—but when the war was finished, they wanted them out, back to their own country, and with their own people. You see love, if refugees stay on, well, it’s not easy for them—because people who belong here can turn on a pin. Same with these children. The locals here might not like it, but they’re doing their bit—yet they’ll want them gone as soon as it’s safe for the nippers to go home. And their mums and dads won’t want them down here forever either. When outsiders come, there’s always someone local with a chip on their shoulder, and when those locals see the outsiders getting what they consider to be better treatment, they make it harder for everyone. Now, then—the pony is here, so the girl might find she has something to say now, and that’s worth the money because we’ll be able to find out where she belongs. We’ll do for her what we would do for any evacuee—and let that be the end of it. She didn’t come here to go home miserable when the time comes—and mark my words, that’s what will happen when she leaves that pony behind. What’s of account is the child’s feelings, and not yours, Maisie. You’re not one of these Lady Bountiful types, trying to make up for the fact that they’ve got nothing better to do all day by interfering in everyone else’s lives. And Anna can’t fill the hole that James—and the baby—left behind. I’m sorry, but I see it in your eyes, even if you can’t see it for yourself. It’s got to stop—for your sake as much as hers.”

  Silence hung in the kitchen. Her father had scored a knife through Maisie’s heart—but she knew he was right.

  “I think you know me better than I know myself. I’ve overstepped my mark, and I did it without thinking. I think I do it all the time. It’s my Achilles’ heel.” She sighed, tears biting at the corners of her eyes. “I can’t take the pony away now, but we can tell Anna she has to share it, if—when—the boys come back.” She sighed, stood up, and stepped towards her father, who had come to his feet; she reached to him for his embrace. “Thank you for coming with George to collect the pony. And you brought her up a treat; her coat’s shining, and she looks so bright—at least she’ll appreciate her new home, so it wasn’t such a bad day’s work.”

  Brenda had come back into the room, and soon they set about doing the washing up together. When all was done, Maisie kissed her stepmother on the cheek. “Good night, Brenda. And thank you too. I’m tired now, but I’ve work to do before I turn in. I’m going to the library for a while.” Maisie stepped away towards the door, turning back as she grasped the handle. “I won’t do anything else, I promise. She’s an ordinary little girl, and I’m sure Billy’s going to find her people very soon, so at least we’ll know who she’ll go home to, when the time comes.”

  Having caught up with her work, and made notes regarding Robert Miller, Maisie felt weary as she made her way up the stairs, reaching for the banister at each step. She walked on tiptoe along the landing as she approached Anna’s room, where she had left the door ajar, and peered in to check on the child. Anna was not in her bed, but standing by the window, Emma sitting on her haunches by her side. She was looking down towards the stables, where a night-light remained on—the groom was making his final rounds before returning to his cottage. Unaware of Maisie’s presence, the child rested a hand on the big Alsatian’s head, and brought her face close to the dog’s ruff.

  “Emma, her name’s Lady. We’ll call her Lady, and we’ll go for walks together. Anna, Emma, and Lady.”

  Maisie stepped back and crept back downstairs towards the library. She was risking her heart, and she knew Frankie was right—it had to stop, for all their sakes. But she couldn’t help thinking today’s risk had been worth it.

  It was as she drove back into London on Sunday afternoon that Maisie reflected upon the several days she had spent at Chelstone, and the commitment she had made to her father and stepmother. With the Preston boys at home in London—and there was still a consensus that they might well be back at Chelstone in short order—Frankie and Brenda had voiced a desire to return to their own home, yet they did not want to remove Anna from the house she was becoming used to. Indeed, she had been up at dawn to rush down to the stables, where the groom found her curled up on a horse blanket outside the pony’s stall, Emma having taken up a place alongside her. Maisie agreed that every Friday afternoon she would return to the Dower House, and would not leave again until early on Monday morning, when the girl from the manor came up to get Anna off to school. Frankie and Brenda would look out for Anna from Monday after school until Friday lunchtime.

  However, the events Maisie replayed again and again in her mind were those of the Sunday morning. Word had spread among the staff at Chelstone that the little girl had no suitable clothing for riding a pony. One of the gardeners came to the house with a pair of long trousers that had belonged to his son when he was Anna’s age, and the groom found a pair of very old leather boo
ts in a trunk in the tack room that might suit a child, though perhaps thick socks might be required. Brenda suggested that Anna could wear her white blouse until another was found, as it could easily be washed and dried before school the following day. In the same trunk, a small bowler hat had been discovered, leading Maisie to wonder if the clothing had once belonged to James’ older sister, the girl who had died so young. By all accounts she had been a fearless rider.

  But it was seeing Frankie with Anna that challenged Maisie’s composure. Her father’s sure hand, his clear instructions, and the way he taught the girl to groom her pony before she even thought about riding, how she should run her hands across the pony’s body and down her legs, feeling for heat or something that had not been there before. And Anna was so serious, following his every word, and each and every person present—not only Maisie, but Brenda, Lady Rowan, the groom, and even Robert Miller, who had insisted that he wouldn’t miss the event—seemed to react to the moment when Frankie said to the child, “Do you understand, Anna?”

  And the little girl who had seemed so intent in removing her very essence from the world looked up at him and said, in a calm, strangely mature voice, “Yes, Mr. Dobbs.” She patted the pony and rested her head against her neck. “Can I ride her now?”

  “Better get the girl on that fine steed, Mr. Dobbs,” said Robert Miller.

  Once Anna had learned how to mount, and to hold the reins, Frankie slipped a lead rope onto the bridle and led his charges out to the paddock. The onlookers dispersed, and only Maisie walked with her father and Anna down to the paddock, flanked by the two dogs. And as Frankie let out the lead rope, and Anna felt the pony move, she began to laugh, to chuckle as if this were the best thing she had ever done in her life.

  “Can I go faster, please?” she called to Frankie.

  “Not yet, love. Walk before you can run, Anna. Don’t get rush-headed—you don’t know the pony well enough yet.”

  Anna nodded, as if taking in Frankie’s words. But now, as Maisie remembered the morning, and the way in which Anna began to rediscover her voice, she knew that soon enough her true identity would be discovered—and then what? Frankie was right—she could well be removed from Chelstone and billeted with children in another area. And she knew why she had assigned Billy the job of finding the woman who’d been seen with Anna. He would be thorough, and if the woman existed, he would find her. Had Maisie taken on the job herself, she would have dragged her feet.

  Chapter 17

  Maisie departed her flat at half past three on Monday morning, enabling her to reach Biggin Hill in good time. MacFarlane had pointed out that the aeroplane would not normally be at this location, and because it was early, most crew would not even see it depart. Driving through deserted streets forming the southern edge of the capital, Maisie met little traffic, for which she was grateful. For years Londoners had been promised a new south circular road. Parts had been completed here and there, but Maisie knew that if her journey were being made later in the day, it would have taken ages. She was soon driving through Crystal Palace, on to Bromley, and from there to Leaves Green and the aerodrome nearby. She pulled up to the main entrance and was asked to show her identification card. The guard was questioning her, grasping a clipboard and checking her name, when a tall, well-built man emerged from the shadows of a breaking dawn. He flicked open a wallet to show his identification.

  “It’s all right, Sergeant. I can take over here.”

  The guard shone his torch on the proffered official documentation, and directed the beam to the man’s face. “Right you are, sir,” he said, opening the gate to allow Maisie onto the aerodrome. Once through, she stopped and allowed MacFarlane to take the passenger seat.

  “I always wanted a ride in this beast,” said MacFarlane.

  “You should have said, Robbie—you didn’t need to go to this trouble.” Maisie slipped the Alvis into gear and began to move the vehicle forward at a slow pace.

  MacFarlane pointed to a building set aside from the others. “Round the back there—park your motor, and we’ll have a little chat.”

  “Oh dear. When you say the words ‘little chat,’ I get worried. Wasn’t it a little chat that took me to Munich last year?”

  MacFarlane laughed. “And that, I suppose, is another reminder that this jaunt is payment of a debt I owe you. Fair enough, lass. Fair enough. But I’ve made some inquiries and a few arrangements that might make your life a little easier.”

  Maisie parked the motor car as instructed, turned off the ignition, and turned to MacFarlane. His face was almost indistinguishable in the early-morning light. “That’s handy. What have you arranged, Robbie?”

  “This is, of course, all in my own interests. The last thing I want on a Monday—or any day, come to that—is to have to get onto one of those rickety flying machines and go over there on a mission of mercy to bring you home.”

  “Rickety?” said Maisie.

  “I jest and exaggerate, but you know what I mean.”

  “Are you going to tell me, or shall I guess what you’ve done?”

  “I’m getting to it, Maisie.” MacFarlane’s tone became more serious. “You gave me reason to think you might need a hand, so here’s the hand. I told you before about the motor car waiting for you in Belgium. One of our men will be there when you land. He’ll take you to the town you specified—and yes, it’s not far from Liege, but more of a village, I would say, but then I come from Glasgow, so anything less than a city is a village. He will wait to bring you back to the airfield after you’ve finished your work. A reminder: the thing—and by that, I mean the aircraft—will only take one passenger, and that’s you, but do not try to communicate in any way with the pilot. You won’t be able to hear yourself think, in any case, let alone have a chat. All I will say is that this aircraft was earmarked for a delivery operation, and it just so happened I could squeeze you in.”

  Maisie nodded, knowing MacFarlane had more to say.

  “Now, two people know you’re coming. The local policeman—I found the most senior man I could, Janssens. And the mayor, very nice chappie. Monsieur”—MacFarlane pronounced the salutation “mon-sewer”—“Martin. He might not spell it like you or I spell it, though. Both speak English very well, so you won’t have to embarrass your country in the attempt.” MacFarlane paused.

  “I think I did pretty well when I managed to outrun Huntley a few years ago.”

  “I don’t believe you actually outran him, Maisie. I understand he caught up with you in Paris.”

  “But I take your point. Speak in English. And I suppose I can’t speak to anyone else.”

  “Our man there is under instructions to get you out directly you’ve had your second little chat. We are allies of our friends the Belgians, but it’s always best to take precautions just in case old Mr. Hitler has eyes and ears on the ground and no one knows those eyes and ears belong to a German.” MacFarlane sighed. “Not that you have anything of interest to them, but by now they might be a bit put out by the stunt you pulled in Munich last year. In any case, to try to keep you safe and sound and not having to go up in a kite in the first place, I thought I might try to get Janssens and Martin to agree to a tête-à-tête over the telephone, but neither of them went for the bait on that one—so you’re right, you should get over there if you’re looking for the confirmation you want. So long as the delay while you’re there is worth the risk.”

  “There won’t be another murder,” said Maisie. “That’s why I have just a little time to make sure.”

  In the distance an aircraft could be heard approaching.

  “That’ll be the five o’clock from Newmarket to a field in Belgium, via Biggin Hill,” said MacFarlane, mimicking a railway stationmaster. “Newmarket is home to this particular Lysander. Come on, Maisie, we’d better get over there.”

  It was, as Maisie had expected, a cramped journey in the only passenger seat on an aircraft hailed for maneuverability. But it could do the job—the Lysander was known to
be able to land or take off on almost anything, including, in this instance, Flanders farmland. Maisie had kept her eyes closed for most of the short journey, gripping the seat for support. She was a nervous flyer, and was glad to have foregone the opportunity to eat, and now, upon landing, felt her legs almost give way as she jumped to the ground, aided by the man waiting for her. He escorted her to an idling motor car, and returned to the aircraft to speak to the pilot, who handed him a large package. She saw the two men look at their watches, and the pilot nod before taking his seat once again. The man returned to the vehicle, placed the package in the back of the motor car, and covered it with a blanket. He turned to Maisie and shook her hand before opening the passenger door for her. “Lawrence,” he said.

  Maisie was about to ask whether that was a Christian name or surname, but held back. She was not meant to know. Lawrence was about forty years of age; he wore trousers of dark beige and a tweed jacket. His pale green shirt was complemented by a green and yellow cravat at his neck. His hair had been combed back and oiled to keep it in place. As he began to drive out onto the country road, Maisie looked at his hands on the steering wheel. They were broad hands, the hands of someone who had done manual labor, but it was as if they had been freshly manicured in an attempt to render them less rough and ready. They were, thought Maisie, the hands of someone who could very well use them to kill.

  “We’ll be in the motor for about three quarters of an hour.” With his right hand Lawrence pulled a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket, shook one out, and offered it to Maisie.

  “No, thank you,” Maisie said.

  He held the packet close to his mouth and clasped the most prominent cigarette between his lips. Having returned the packet to his pocket, he took a lighter from another pocket—it did not appear to concern him that the motor swerved every time he moved—and lit the cigarette. Lawrence snapped the lighter shut, put it back into his pocket, and inhaled on the cigarette. He removed the cigarette with the V between the first two fingers of his right hand, and blew smoke out of the open window. Flicking ash into a tray close to the gear-stick, he began to speak.