In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Bonhomme was silent, then spoke in a low voice. “The confessional is a sacred place—”

  Maisie shook her head, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and pressing it against the corners of her eyes. “I don’t believe it—surely you are not going to hide what you know behind the secrecy of the confessional.”

  The priest sighed, then looked up towards the ceiling, as if his God were sitting ready to judge. “I have information I was given outside, away from the confessional, though it has been argued that any confession made to a priest is sacrosanct.” He brought his attention back to Maisie. “It would have been over a year ago—perhaps a year and a half. I came out of my church and was met on the steps by a man I had never seen, not one of my parishioners. He did not want to come in, but it seemed to me he wanted to talk—so we passed the time of day, commented on the weather, and he asked about the repairs. The church was shelled in the war, and we had spent many years gathering funds to rebuild—that part of the church was covered with scaffolding on the day the visitor came. His name was Carl Firmin, and he had been baptized in the church, though he said he had lost his faith, that he had seen too much in life.”

  “I can understand that,” said Maisie.

  “And though I am a man of God, so can I. I knew I could not, at that moment, bring him back into the arms of the Lord, but I also knew that as a man, I had to listen to him.”

  The priest had drawn breath to continue when Lawrence entered the room, pulling back the curtain with an energy that Maisie thought might bring down the brass rail holding it up.

  “Excuse me, I don’t want to get blasphemous or anything, but you’ve been far longer than the promised five minutes.”

  “I beg your pardon. Lawrence, I will be another two minutes. Please leave, and I will be out.” Maisie felt herself biting back her frustration. She was so close.

  Lawrence held up his wrist, pointed to his watch, and said, “Two minutes, or God knows how I will get you back to England.” He turned to the priest. “Sorry about taking his name in vain, and all that.”

  Another five minutes later, Maisie ran from the church, and took her seat in the motor car. Lawrence pushed down on the accelerator, and was soon driving at speed. He never said another word to Maisie, and she said nothing to him. At the landing field, the Lysander’s engine was already running. Maisie leaped from the motor car, followed by Lawrence, who helped her clamber on board. She did not look back, did not offer thanks, but as the aircraft took off into the air, she looked down and waved before the Lysander merged into the clouds.

  It was on that flight home to England, as the coastline came into view, that Maisie wondered whether Father Bonhomme’s very name had dictated his path into the church. Bonhomme—good man. As far as Maisie was concerned, in a moment of difficult choice, he had been a very good man.

  Chapter 18

  “I’m glad to see you, miss—I was worried sick. I mean, I guessed you were going over there on the QT, but all the same, I’ve been on the edge of my seat.” Billy looked at his watch. “You’re later than I expected.”

  “I’m back now, and I’ve an important telephone call or two to make,” said Maisie.

  Billy pushed back his chair and stood up, grasping his notebook. “Miss, I think I’ve found her—the old lady who was with the little girl.”

  Maisie stopped at the threshold of her office, endeavoring to compose her features to reflect excitement, and not the dread she felt upon hearing Billy’s words. She turned to Billy. “That’s wonderful news. Well done. Come in, tell me what you’ve discovered.”

  The case map was already laid out, but neither Maisie nor Billy looked at it. They took their usual chairs alongside the table. Maisie turned to Billy.

  “I reckon she’s the one,” said Billy. “I went to all the hospitals she could possibly have gone to, though I think she’s a woman in St. Giles’ Hospital. Apparently when she came in, she gave her name as Louisa Mason, from an address in Camberwell—more about that in a minute. Gave her age as sixty years old, and widowed. She said she had no dependents—and I’ll come back to that too, in a minute. She’s in a special ward, as she’s got some sort of lung disease. It’s not consumption, but it’s serious—very serious—all the same. She hasn’t got long. I asked the nurse what ‘not long’ meant, because it’s not exactly a medical term, now is it? She said, ‘Weeks, not months.’ I said to her, ‘So about three weeks, then?’ and she said it was hard to say, but three weeks sounded about right, perhaps a bit longer or shorter. I managed to get Mrs. Mason’s address—they weren’t going to let me have it, but I just told them the truth, that I was looking for an elderly lady who’d been seen putting a little girl on an evacuee train, and the child is in a bit of a state, and we need to find the woman. All right, so I over-egged the puddin’ when it came to describing Anna’s distress, but it did the job. The nurse in charge let me peer over the notes, and I caught the address straight off. So I went down there, to Rye Grove—she had two rooms and a scullery in a terrace house there, with the WC outside, like they all have.”

  Billy paused, in case Maisie had questions, but she nodded for him to continue.

  “It’s not exactly London in its prime, if you know what I mean. But I spoke to a neighbor who saw me looking and called me over—she thought I might be from the Ministry of Health or something like that.” Billy raked his hands through his hair as he studied his notes. “Here’s what I got from the neighbor, a Mrs. Headley. The old lady lived in the house—her rooms, that is—with the little girl. It used to be just her and her daughter, Mary. The father died when Mary was about thirteen—and already looking twenty, by the sound of it. And I say ‘died,’ but apparently the father topped himself—hadn’t been right since he came home, after the war.” Billy paused. “Are you sure you haven’t got any questions yet, miss?”

  “No, I’m just listening and thinking. Go on, Billy.”

  “Now, there was also a son, older than Mary. But instead of looking after his mum and sister, like you’d think he would, he went off to Africa somewhere as soon as he could get on a ship. This neighbor said he worked his passage, and went to Cape Town—as far as she knew. Apparently there was work in the mines there, and he wanted to earn his fortune. She said he’d sent some decent money home for a time, and then it stopped, and so did the letters. Louisa had a factory job for a good while, and when they first lived in the street, the family rented the whole house, but then Louisa had to take in lodgers, which is why she ended up in the two rooms—and it’s not as if they’re big houses in a posh area. And from the time she was thirteen, this Mary went off the rails—that’s what the woman said. Went from one job to another and out all hours. There were rows, and the neighbors heard every word, by all accounts. Then Mary fell for a baby. They don’t know who the father was, but he never came round to the house, never put in an appearance. Louisa had told the neighbor that he was a sailor from Malta, and Mary was swept off her feet by him. Mary would only ever say his name was Marco. The neighbor said that a couple of adoption societies came calling, but Mary said no, she would keep her baby—brave girl, if you ask me.” Billy looked up. “I’ve been reading about the new adoption act—about time too, if you ask me. I mean, anyone can just go in and take a baby and go home with it. It’s not as bad as it was twenty-odd years ago, but it’s been harder to bring home an animal from Battersea Dogs and Cats Home than it is to get a new baby, soon as it’s born.” He shook his head and sighed. “So Mary kept the baby—sounds religious, doesn’t it? Louisa had to leave the factory work on account of her chest, so she took in washing, went out cleaning, that sort of thing—and she looked after the baby while Mary was at work. Then Mary went back to her old ways. Didn’t want to be a mum. Ended up being knocked about by a bloke one night, and died hitting her head on the pavement. He’s in clink for life—the defense persuaded the jury it wasn’t an intended death, so he didn’t swing for it—and the little girl’s an orphan, aside from her nan. And I take m
y hat off to Louisa—she didn’t put Anna into a Dr. Barnardo’s Home, not like some would. She kept her—but I suppose her chest kept playing up, which must have been terrible for the woman.” He sighed again, closed his notebook, and looked out the window, then at Maisie. “Once I started on this, I couldn’t stop. I thought, I’ve got to get to the bottom of this, for the little girl, for little Anna. I don’t know what that poor old lady went through, not knowing what would happen to her granddaughter—the only family she had left. Then came evacuation—it must have been like a rope thrown out to her before the ship went down. Mind you, I doubt she was thinking straight.”

  “Did this neighbor say anything about Anna?”

  “Just that she was a very polite child, that the grandmother made sure she was always nicely turned out, that she knew her pleases and thank-yous, and she used to take her to the library all the time—it was somewhere for them to go, I suppose. The neighbor said she thought Louisa was a bit scared that the child might be bullied, called names, on account of her coloring—but no one did any of that, because she was such a good girl. I wouldn’t have banked on it staying that way when she started school.”

  “She’s been all right so far,” said Maisie. “And Brenda’s been keeping an ear out for any trouble. With a big dog following her everywhere, I don’t know that anyone would dare, to tell you the truth.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, until Maisie spoke again. “That’s a lot to consider, Billy. It would be best if I went to see Anna’s grandmother. I might be able to go later in the day. I believe we will be busy this morning.”

  “I’ve got some information on Peterson too, miss.” Billy paused, as if unsure to go on, but continued when Maisie nodded. “I got there to Paddington, saw him and the wife buy their tickets, and went to the platform—the train was on its way down to Penzance, but they could have been stopping anywhere along the line. Once they’d gone, I went along to the ticket office and gave up a couple of bob—the bloke remembered them and said they’d bought two third-class returns to Exeter. Planning on coming back in a week.” Billy paused again. “Is it time, miss?”

  Maisie nodded. “It is. Yes, it’s time.”

  She stood up and walked around to the chair on the other side of her desk, picked up the telephone receiver, and placed a call to the office telephone number provided by Francesca Thomas. Gervase Lambert answered.

  “May I speak to Dr. Thomas? It’s Miss Maisie Dobbs here. She is expecting my telephone call.”

  “I am afraid she is not in the office, Miss Dobbs. May I take a message?”

  “I see. I wonder, could you tell me when she might be back?”

  “I believe it was her intention to go straight home following a meeting this morning.”

  “Right you are. Do you have her address, Mr. Lambert?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information, Miss Dobbs. I am terribly sorry. But I will ensure she calls you.”

  “Of course—I understand. Thank you very much. Good day, Mr. Lambert.”

  Maisie replaced the receiver, though she did not take her hand away. She looked up. Billy was staring at her, already putting on his jacket. She lifted the receiver again and dialed the same number. A young woman answered in heavily accented English.

  “May I speak to Mr. Lambert, please?” asked Maisie.

  “I am very sorry, but you have just missed him. He left the office a minute ago—may I take a message?”

  “No, thank you, that’s quite all right. I’ll call back later.” Maisie replaced the receiver to disconnect the call, picked it up again, and placed another call.

  “Yes!” The answer was as intemperate as Maisie expected, but she was in no mood to banter.

  “MacFarlane—Robbie—I need your help. Dr. Francesca Thomas—her address.”

  “Maisie, you know very well we cannot allow anyone—even you—to have her address. She works on behalf of two governments in a highly confidential realm, and her living arrangements—”

  “I know all that, Robbie, but we are on thin ice here—very thin ice. If you don’t let me have that address, I will not be able to prevent a murder.”

  MacFarlane allowed a second’s silence to elapse. “Here it is—government property. Sixteen Aldred Mews, Kensington.” He proceeded to give directions, and then added. “I’ll see you there.”

  “I’m on my way with Billy.”

  “One more thing.”

  “MacFarlane, I must go.”

  “It’s important. Remember there are agreements between allies. It’s to do with diplomatic immunity, Maisie. Don’t put a foot wrong—we don’t want trouble, and we don’t need any more enemies.”

  “See you there. And hurry.”

  Billy hung on to the leather strap above the passenger seat as Maisie negotiated the London streets at speed. He was silent as Maisie swerved around vehicles, sounded her horn when approaching a junction, and raced past lagging traffic. At last, Maisie slowed the Alvis.

  “I can’t risk driving into the mews—the sound will attract too much attention,” she said. “This will do—the mews is just around the corner.”

  Having parked on Cromwell Road, Maisie and Billy alighted from the motor car and ran into Aldred Mews.

  “It’s this one,” said Maisie. “Oh dear—”

  The door was ajar. Had Francesca Thomas answered the door and deliberately left it unlatched, so the breeze might push it open? Or had a caller come to the house and inadvertently left the door open? Or was it a deliberate invitation to witness a murder?

  “I’ll go first, miss,” said Billy.

  “No,” said Maisie, her voice low. “No, you won’t. I want you to stay here, at the bottom of the step. You’ve been gravely injured before, and I cannot face Doreen if you’re hurt on my time again. Do not confront anyone who comes—and if there is someone, just pray it’s MacFarlane.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “No time to argue.” Maisie turned away and began to make her way up the carpeted staircase.

  She had been in mews houses before, and knew there were limitations as to the possible design of a home converted from stabling for horses. At the top of the staircase, the door to the right was closed. One of the two voices inside was raised, the other lower, as if calming, playing for time. She listened for just a moment.

  “It was your fault—you were to blame.”

  “It was wartime. Xavier chose his path—we all chose our paths. And he knew the price and what the outcome might—”

  “Stay down there—stay there with your hands behind your head. Do not move, or I swear I will use this.”

  “What do you want from me? I cannot atone for something that happened so many years ago, and of which I was not a part.”

  “But you were—you knew!”

  “Not these boys, not Xavier. Not Frederick, or Albert. They were not my people.”

  “You brought in others like them, though—and you’ll do it again, if I don’t stop you. The others paid for what they did—but you, you have to be stopped.”

  Maisie knew she had little time. She placed her hands on her heart as if to modulate the rhythm, and having taken a deep breath, she placed one hand on the door handle. She opened the door and entered.

  Francesca Thomas was kneeling on the floor, her hands clasped behind her head. Gervase Lambert was standing over her, his right hand holding a revolver. It looked like a Browning, but Maisie knew it was the very similar Ruby.

  “Maisie, you’d better—”

  Maisie held up her hand to stop Thomas from saying more. She looked at Lambert.

  “Hello, Gervase. I’m sorry if my telephone call caused you to panic. It seems you had to leave the office to finish your job in case I was in contact with Dr. Thomas first.”

  “You do not understand what has gone on—I will kill you if you take another step. I don’t want to kill an innocent woman, so just leave. It will all be over soon.”

  “It can be over
immediately. You can put down the gun, and you can stop this now.”

  “I’ll go to the gallows anyway—but I’m not scared. They deserved it, all of them, for what they did. You have no idea.”

  “In fact I do have an idea.” Maisie kept talking. “Your name is Gervase Bertrand. You came here as a small boy. You left Belgium with your brother, Xavier, and your mother, though she died on the journey from your home near Liege. But Xavier kept going—because he had to. And you were among others—his friends, the friends he fought alongside: Frederick Addens, Albert Durant, Carl Firmin. They were the main ones, weren’t they? All in the snaking line of people making their way to the coast, and—everyone hoped—to safety in England.”

  Francesca Thomas lifted her chin just enough for Maisie to see. Keep going.

  “Your brother and his cohorts were all wanted by the enemy, were all being sought by the Germans—they were fierce resistance fighters, weren’t they? Your mother was both fearful for her boys, and so proud of Xavier. And of course you looked up to him—he was your hero.”

  Tears welled up in the young man’s eyes. He pressed his lips together; beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and cheeks, and ran down his temples. His now-Brylcreemed hair was slicked back, the smell beginning to pervade the room.

  “But here’s what happened—what no one believed would happen. You and the other refugees were strafed by a German aircraft. They believed resistance fighters were there among the stumbling line of people, and they took aim. One of the people brought down was Xavier—and he was hit trying to save you. He was a hero, Gervase—a true hero.”

  “But they killed him—they killed him!”

  “He was mortally wounded—he was in terrible pain, and there was no means of stopping his agony, his terror. And what did he say to them, his friends? If you remember what happened, what did he say?”