In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Your first appointment is at half past eight, with the police chief. No need for correct salutations—a simple ‘M’sieur’ will do. Same with the mayor. Both nice chaps, though you mightn’t get much joy with either of them. Close-lipped about the war—most people just want to forget.”

  “We’ll see,” said Maisie, looking out of the window across the flat land of Belgium. More than once they had passed cemeteries and memorials to war dead. “I believe they know something that will prove of use—I wouldn’t have made the journey had it not been important.”

  “Fair enough. The Lysander wouldn’t have landed if you hadn’t been important. That thing can swoop down low and drop anything for me; I sometimes wonder if I couldn’t just reach up and take it from the pilot’s hands before he goes up again.” Lawrence sighed and pointed in the direction of fields alongside the road, and then at two cemeteries for war dead in the distance. “Hard to believe how churned up this was after the war. They’ve done a marvelous job of rebuilding their towns and villages, the Belgians. If you hadn’t seen those cemeteries—and keeping them up is down to the British—you wouldn’t know a war had been fought here.”

  “I think I would,” said Maisie. “Not only can you feel it, but you can see the ridges across the landscape. Those scars there, as if something had scraped the topsoil—it’s where the trenches were. You can’t just fill in that amount of earth and expect it not to show.” She kept her gaze trained on the fields as they seemed to flash past. “War has left its scars here, Lawrence. And those scars might never heal.”

  Conversation between Lawrence and Maisie sputtered, started, ended, and started again throughout the journey, as they each avoided questions that might reveal more than they wanted the other to know. They spoke about the local food, the beautiful lace from Bruges, paintings Lawrence had seen in the museums in different Belgian towns—he admired Bruegel, and wondered aloud what Hieronymus Bosch would have done with scenes from the Great War. Having mentioned the war again, he veered away from the topic and asked if Maisie was hungry, if she needed a cup of coffee. She declined, though she said she would like something to drink when they arrived, but felt it might be best to keep her stomach empty given the possibility of another bumpy flight in just a few hours.

  They passed through several small towns and villages, and soon entered the town of their destination. Neither acknowledged the fact, though it was not long before Lawrence parked outside a house that was grander than the others. Maisie was aware that she had reached the home of the bourgmestre, the mayor.

  A man in uniform answered the door and addressed Maisie by name. She was relieved to be addressed as “Madame Dobbs” as she feared MacFarlane’s string-pulling had included using her title by marriage.

  “M’sieur Martin will see you in the library,” said the uniformed man.

  With their tall ceilings and ostentatious moldings, the rooms they passed through might have seemed overwhelming, but curtains of soft velvet and the way light fell across the rich, textured carpets rendered the mayor’s official residence welcoming.

  “Madame Dobbs, it is my pleasure.” Martin’s hand was outstretched almost as soon as Maisie entered. He took her hand, then waved to the soldier—if the man was indeed a soldier—and with the same hand indicated a chair next to an unlit fireplace. Every movement seemed to be executed with a flourish. The chair faced another of the same type—its frame carved and gilded, upholstered in rich red and yellow. The coat of arms of the municipality of Liege had been embroidered into the back of each chair.

  “Mr. MacFarlane explained that I might be of help to you—you are investigating the unfortunate deaths of former Belgian refugees who remained in England following the war.”

  “Yes,” said Maisie. “I thought you might be able to assist me. You see, I know at least two came from this town, and the others from nearby, perhaps a neighboring village. I believe—I suppose I should confess it is more of a guess, at this point—that their connection here is the common denominator and that something happened in the war that has now, years later, triggered the killings.”

  “I see. As you know, there was enough death throughout Belgium to affect an impressionable young man or woman, and of course you know our immediate region, along the Meuse, was the scene of some of the most terrible battles. We were particularly vulnerable, given our proximity to Germany.”

  “The men concerned were not old enough to fight, they were too young to enlist or be conscripted. I know at least two who left were with family members who perished, either on the journey to the coast, or soon after arrival in England.”

  Martin sat back, one leg extended in front of him. He leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair, and rubbed his chin. Maisie suspected he was a veteran of the war, that he had suffered leg wounds—she hadn’t noticed a limp, but she was sure there had been an injury to the limb he was unable to bend.

  “When the Kaiser’s army invaded, there was a certain amount of chaos—war is always chaos. Boys who had not enlisted were rounded up—those young enough to still be clutching their mother’s skirts were allowed to return. Older boys, those who would have been in uniform within a year or two, were taken away. Some as prisoners of war, some to be killed. Murdered.”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, I have heard this.”

  “But we knew what was coming, and many of those boys, though they did not fight in our uniform, they fought in any other way they could—joining women in acts of sabotage, gathering vital information on the passage of the enemy, and of course, if need be, they were also assassins, though that was rare. We had an invader in our midst and we did all we could to stop him. The Germans had marched into a sovereign nation and tried to take her—it was rape by any other name.”

  Maisie watched Martin as he spoke, saw the anger rising. “You must be very worried, M’sieur Martin.”

  “We are neutral now. Armed but neutral.”

  “Do you think you’re safe?”

  “I think we’re safer than the British.”

  Maisie moistened her lips with her tongue and spoke again. “The young men who left, I wonder, did you know them? Or I should say, know of them? Their names were Frederick Addens and Albert Durant.”

  Martin looked down at his hands, now clasped together, and ran his thumbs around each other, as if creating a small wheel that might drive his thoughts. Maisie knew he was debating how much he should tell her. At last he placed both hands on the arms of the chair and rose to his feet. As he walked closer to the fireplace, his limp was quite distinct. This man had fought in the war.

  “Addens and Durant left because they had to leave. If the Germans had caught them, they would have killed them—and the Germans were looking. Addens and Durant were engaged in resistance work—all those things I mentioned. Addens, especially, showed a talent for anything mechanical, and taught himself to make explosives. They were responsible for actions that led to the deaths of German soldiers and the destruction of a significant amount of ordinance. They left because they had to—there would have been more death.”

  “They were very brave.”

  “Very brave—they were little more than children when they began. And know this—our women fought too.”

  “La Dame Blanche,” said Maisie.

  “Yes—that came later. You know, then.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Maisie broke the silence with another question. “Do you recognize the names Carl Firmin and Lucas Peeters?”

  Martin looked at Maisie. “These men are both dead too?”

  “One of them.”

  “Do you think they were known to Addens and Durant?”

  Maisie nodded. “I do. I believe they might have been involved in the resistance efforts together, or might have met each other on the journey to the coast, and then on to England.”

  “Yes, I suppose it’s possible.”

  “But what I want to know is why a killer targeted these men.”

  Martin shrugged. “I canno
t help you, Madame Dobbs. They were our heroes. All our townspeople—men, women, boys, and girls—they were all heroes. I hope they don’t have to become martyrs again.”

  Maisie came to her feet and walked towards Martin. “Thank you for your time, M’sieur Martin. I am grateful for your assistance.”

  The man shrugged. “It was only a little information, for you to have come so far to receive.”

  “It was enough.”

  “You know, there was another lad, the same age as Frederick. His name was Xavier Bertrand. He was one of those who had to leave with his family. The Germans were after him too.”

  Maisie shook her head. “No, that’s not a familiar name. I’m sorry.”

  Martin took her outstretched hand. “I wish you a safe journey home, madame.”

  “And I wish you well in the months to come.”

  As Maisie left the residence and descended the steps towards Lawrence in the motor car, she knew she was closer. There had been a sensation in her body, almost a shiver, though she had given away nothing in the meeting with the mayor. If she were with Maurice, she would have described a feeling that began in the center of her being, and flooded out from there. And he would have said, “Go on, Maisie. Trust your instinct. And then prove it. Always, you must have your proof.” Xavier Bertrand. Now she had to find out how, exactly, this name would fit into the puzzle. But she knew, as if by instinct, that she was already halfway there.

  Lawrence drew the motor car alongside a dour gray stone building that Maisie thought she could have easily picked out as the police station. The man known only as Janssens came to meet her, inviting her into a small square office, with a single window offering light but no view.

  “Please sit down, madame. May I offer you refreshment?” Janssens remained standing.

  “Just a glass of water, please.”

  The police officer gave a brief nod, turned to a tray on a sideboard behind his desk, and poured water from a carafe into a fresh glass. He placed it in front of Maisie, who thanked him. Janssens sat down, pulled his chair in close to the desk, and clasped his hands on top of a file of papers before him.

  “You are interested in men who were boys when they left for England due to the occupation of our town.”

  “Yes,” said Maisie.

  Janssens nodded. “It would have been better had they returned, instead of remaining in a foreign country. We could have done with their help.”

  “They were all at that age, I suppose, when it’s easier to put down roots, and by the time the war ended, they had become entrenched in life in England.”

  Janssens nodded. “Yes, that’s true. And they were all brave young men.”

  Maisie leaned forward. “I believe Frederick Addens and Albert Durant belonged to a resistance group, and were being sought by the German army, given the success of their work.”

  Janssens chuckled. “Oh, they were a success indeed.” He became serious. “And it wasn’t just those boys either—their sisters, mothers, and grandmothers helped. The Germans couldn’t believe old women could cause much trouble, and only looked for the boys—but in some cases the women and children still had to leave in haste, because they would have been murdered in the attempt to gain information from them.”

  “The name Xavier Bertrand has come to my attention, yet he is not known to me or, I believe, to the British authorities—though I can check again when I return to England.”

  “Xavier Bertrand, Frederick Addens, and Albert Durant were as thick as thieves. The Three Musketeers. Then there was another boy, from a village along the Meuse—name of Firmin. Younger, I think . . . though perhaps not. He became part of their little gang.”

  “Were you here then? Or away fighting?”

  “I was here for longer than I wanted—my eyesight. But then the eyesight wasn’t a problem anymore—getting men in uniform to replace those who had perished, that was the problem.”

  “Did Xavier Bertrand have family? Are they still here—mother, sister, brother?”

  Janssens frowned, pushed back his cap, and scratched his head. “A mother who wasn’t well—she hadn’t been well since the youngest was born—Xavier persuaded her to go with them. There was a sister who had died before the war, and the younger brother—I think he was a much younger brother.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  Janssens closed his eyes. “It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue. B-B-B . . . no, no.” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “I am so sorry—I cannot remember.”

  “Do you have a registry of births? Would I be able to see it in the church?”

  “That is a possibility. You’ll find the church just along the road. There is a ledger held there, a record of all marriages, funerals, and baptisms. You could ask the priest, Father Bonhomme. Otherwise, to obtain that information would take longer than you have at present. There are procedures, and even I cannot make them go faster.”

  Maisie came to her feet. “Yes, of course. I understand.” She took up her glass of water and drained it, then held out her hand.

  “Would you like another glass?” said Janssens, shaking her hand.

  “No, thank you—I have to run now. I don’t have much time.”

  “Good luck, madame.”

  “And good luck to you too.”

  Janssens smiled. “God willing, we will never see war again here.”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes. God willing.”

  Lawrence looked at his watch. “My instructions were to get you straight back to the airfield.”

  “I think just ‘field’ would be enough of a description, don’t you? Look, both those meetings were not as long as anticipated, so we have a little time. Please, I must go to that church, and it’s just along the road.”

  Lawrence wound down his window and threw out a half-smoked cigarette. “This could lose me my job, you know.” He steered the motor car out on the road towards the church.

  “Oh, come on, Lawrence—don’t let’s be dramatic, just when we’re getting along so well. Take me to that church, and then we can go. I will be five minutes. And you would not lose your job just because I might be a minute late to get onto that aeroplane.”

  “We have the authority, but not exactly the permission, with regard to a given field.”

  “So you’re worried a farmer with a pitchfork might come out steaming with anger and an intent to kill because you’ve plowed down his sugar beet.” She had not intended to be so curt, but did not want to be tripped up by her driver at a crucial moment.

  Lawrence seemed to glare at the road ahead. “Here’s your church. Five minutes.”

  Maisie ran into the church, which was still, silent, and enveloped her in chill air, a counter to the warm late-morning weather outside. Walking along the aisle, she noticed a place in the roof above the altar where repairs appeared to have taken place in recent years—and she imagined the unholy scene when a shell—for surely it had been a shell—had ripped through the building. As she approached the altar, a priest emerged from behind a rich velvet drape, beyond which Maisie suspected church records were kept.

  He smiled at Maisie, and she stopped, lowered her head before a carved wood depiction of Christ on the cross, and looked up again towards the priest.

  “Excuse me . . . Father Bonhomme?” Unfamiliar with the protocols of the Catholic church, Maisie hoped this man spoke her language, even a few words. “Do you speak English?”

  The man smiled. “I studied theology at Cambridge, madame. Before the war. I’m a little . . . a little rusty, as you might say.”

  “Oh, thank heavens! I mean—I’m glad. Father—I am in need of your help.”

  He gestured towards the confessional.

  “No, no—no, that’s very kind of you, but not that kind of help.” Maisie explained her need to view the church records of baptisms.

  “Come this way. I can see this is very urgent. How far into the past do you want to go?”

  “Let me see—to about 1910, so let’s say a y
ear or two either side.”

  Father Bonhomme led Maisie to a wood-lined room that was small, cold, and smelled of dust and foxed papers. He opened a tall cupboard and took down a substantial leather-bound ledger, some three inches thick—Maisie could see him strain to lift it. It must contain a record of births from the parish and beyond extending at least a century into the past, she thought. The priest let it half fall onto the table, leaned forward to locate the red ribbon marker, and opened it to the most recent page. Each birth had been entered in a fine Italic script, naming the child, the date of birth and of baptism, along with names of the parents, grandparents, and godparents. He leafed back through the pages.

  “Here we are. Nineteen hundred and eight. You can start there.”

  Father Bonhomme stood next to Maisie as she ran her fingers down the list of names, until she reached the surname she was looking for. She held her breath, looked away from the ledger, and closed her eyes.

  “You do not want to see what you came to see. Is that it?” asked the priest.

  “Yes. I’m afraid it is.” She met his eyes. “Father, I am an investigator. I am searching for someone I believe has taken the lives of others. This is always a troubling moment for me, when I am close to the perpetrator of a terrible crime, yet in possession of the knowledge that something equally dreadful must have happened to that person—and I must know what it is, otherwise I cannot draw my work to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  Bonhomme nodded. “And you are seeking your own absolution, for in revealing a man who has taken life, you might also send him to his death.”

  “I have to know everything. And though I can see a name here, and I have my finger on it at this very moment—not quite the name I want, but I know what I am looking at—I have much more to do. I have to discover the why. I have to find out what leads a person to do such a thing.” Maisie felt hot tears of frustration rise up, flooding her eyes.