In This Grave Hour

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember . . . I don’t even know if I was there.” Gervase Bertrand was weeping now.

  “But you know what happened, don’t you? He asked them to kill him, didn’t he? He asked them to kill him because he knew he would die, and he knew they would never abandon him all the time he was alive—he wanted to die to save his friends.” Maisie put her hand to her mouth, the story catching in her throat, but saw the panic in Francesca Thomas’ eyes and went on. “So, here’s what happened. Each of the boys had a Ruby revolver. They’d been manufactured cheaply, were not in short supply, and they had been issued to the boys by whoever was instructing them in their—let’s call them ‘assignments.’ They took their identical revolvers, put one bullet into each revolver, and then placed those revolvers under a coat. With Xavier screaming in pain, screaming at them to get on with it, they each took one revolver, and having expressed their love of him, their admiration, and having made a promise to look out for you until you reached manhood, they stood back and they took aim. Xavier was released from his pain instantly. No individual boy would ever bear the guilt of killing Xavier—by swapping the revolvers, perhaps, they could try to disassociate themselves from an act they abhorred. They buried Xavier and, because they believed marking the spot with a cross and a name was a risk, drew up a map and notes so that his grave could be found again. That map was held by the young man they all considered to be the one best suited to keeping a document safe—Albert Durant. And they agreed that the only truth you should ever know was that your brother was a hero. They saw you to the cusp of manhood, but by then you were on to greater things—an education paid for by someone else. And at some point they decided you should have Xavier’s weapon, something of his, to keep in a drawer, a memento.”

  Gervase Bertrand began to weep, and as he seemed to falter, Francesca Thomas came to her feet and knocked the revolver free with her knee, pushing Bertrand backward and slamming him into the wall.

  At the same time, Maisie picked up the revolver, aiming it at Thomas and her assistant.

  “Now stop, or so help me, I will shoot both of you.” She looked at Thomas. “And you of all people know I can use a gun.”

  “Maisie, what did I say about diplomatic immunity?” MacFarlane’s heavy frame seemed to fill the doorway as he turned and beckoned in two men, one in plainclothes—Maisie assumed he was with the Secret Service. The other was Billy. “Put that down, lass—I’m here now.”

  “You took your time,” said Maisie.

  “Traffic.” MacFarlane turned to the man who was now locking handcuffs on Bertrand’s wrists. “Go easy on the lad. We know what he’s done, but treat him with respect anyway.”

  “What about me? Make this oaf of yours let go of me, MacFarlane,” said Francesca Thomas.

  MacFarlane shook his head. “Dr. Thomas, my esteemed colleague, who has so little time for our police—not that I am of them anymore, but you know what they say, ‘Once a copper, always a copper’—first of all, that is Miss Dobbs’ very efficient assistant. Secondly, I think you and I should have a little chat about which secrets should be kept close to the individual heart, and which shouldn’t. This kind gentleman will take you downstairs and make sure you’re comfortable in my motor car until I’m ready to join you.” He gave a rueful smile. “And don’t run anywhere, Francesca—I mean, where would you go anyway? We need you. Both your countries need you.”

  When only MacFarlane and Maisie remained in the room, MacFarlane sighed. “Now, where were we? I think you’d got to the part where that tyke’s brother was a hero.”

  “They were just boys, Robbie—just boys. And they were fighting for their country. Of course his brother was a hero.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes with one hand, her other still holding the Ruby.

  “I think I’d better take that,” said MacFarlane, reaching for the revolver. “Seem to be a few too many about these days.”

  “You’d better hear the rest now,” said Maisie. “Because I can’t come back to your office for any little tête-à-têtes today.” She took a deep breath and allowed half a minute before continuing. “The boys—Addens, Durant, Firmin, and another who palled up with them along the way, by the name of Lucas Peeters—came to England and registered as refugees together. They kept Gervase Bertrand with them—he was so young, and they wanted to look out for him. As soon as they arrived, they were taken under the wing of Rosemary Hartley-Davies, who was one of the organizers of a refugee association. As I’ve said, Gervase was just a little boy, and she encouraged him to be a child whenever she saw him, which was frequently. It was as if he were her boy, in some ways. She called him her little lamb, and in time that’s what he called himself. He changed his name to Lambert—keeping his nickname from her and adding it to the first part of Bertrand. Why didn’t he retain his true name? I don’t know, but it might be to do with a sort of reinvention of himself. Only initials had been written on his first registration card—GB. He had not given a full name at that point—perhaps he could not spell his name, or had learned to be careful—and the older boys had not revealed anything else about him at that stage. Rosemary Hartley-Davies could not keep the boy, but I believe that in time she made arrangements for his care so that they could remain in touch. Xavier’s friends also remained in communication with him—I think you will find he saw a lot of them initially, but the boys became men and grew apart, and it appears their families were never told. Perhaps they were afraid of what might happen if the truth emerged. Then Gervase grew up. He’d rekindled his language skills, he had an education that clearly served him well—likely paid for by Rosemary Hartley-Davies—and he was taken on by Francesca Thomas. And why, you may ask, did that happen?”

  Maisie paced to the window, and watched as a black motor car drove away with Gervase Lambert in the backseat, flanked by two men. Billy was leaning against another official black vehicle, speaking to the driver. Smoke spiraled up from the rear window; Francesca Thomas lighting up a cigarette, waiting for MacFarlane to emerge. Maisie turned back to MacFarlane.

  “I think she might well have had some dealings with Addens, Durant, and Firmin, as well as Xavier Bertrand, while in Belgium. Perhaps she recruited them. She was working for resistance groups even before La Dame Blanche, so I believe earmarking good and willing fighters was one of her specialties—a young woman, praising those boys, who might well have wanted to impress her. I do not believe she knew Gervase Bertrand—Lambert, as he’d presented himself to her—was connected to those boys. His surname had been changed, and he seemed a good candidate for a job at the Belgian embassy. And I don’t think she knew he was the killer. But I have every confidence that she knew, the moment she came to speak to me about the case, that there was a connection between Addens and one of her earlier recruits—she just didn’t know what it was, and how the threads of evidence were woven together. And I believe she was quite happy that the police had hit a dead end—excuse the pun, if you will. She wanted the killer found before he caused any more damage, but she didn’t want the police to find him. She wanted to get there first, probably for reasons of security.”

  MacFarlane sighed. “Don’t think poorly of her. She had a tough job—a very hard job, and it isn’t going to get any easier. She’s loyal to Britain and to Belgium, and I have to work with her.”

  “She could have been honest with me.”

  “And that’s exactly what a certain Detective Inspector Caldwell is going to say to you, Maisie.”

  “I know.” Maisie looked at her hand, rubbing a ridge mark on her skin where she had clutched the Ruby.

  “One or two more things, Maisie, and then we’ll be off. How do you know all this—and what happened to Gervase Bertrand to spark this stream of murders? You can’t tell me he was planning this from the time he was six years old.”

  She shook her head. “No, though he might have known by the time he applied to work with Dr. Thomas. I found out most of this from a man named Father Bonhom
me, a priest in Belgium. It upset your man that I took time to see him, but it was worth it.”

  “He mentioned that. I told him I had to trust you.”

  “Anyway, I learned that Carl Firmin had been to see him about eighteen months ago. He had returned to Belgium, a sort of pilgrimage, I suppose—possibly a journey of atonement. The man was clearly in distress; memories had returned in sharp relief as he journeyed through his home country. The priest encouraged him to speak of what ailed him.”

  “Nice priest—what about the confessional?”

  “Father Bonhomme told me he met Firmin outside the church, and though by dint of being a priest, it was a confessional of sorts, he knew I was in great need of discovering the truth. And one thing more—Bonhomme told me he had received a letter from Firmin not long after the exchange. It seems he was filled with gratitude because he had been given sufficient courage to find and then to confess to Xavier’s brother. Now, did Gervase remember anything of the actual event? I believe not, because he was taken away by a woman, out of sight of Xavier’s final minutes, and far from the sound. However, when you question him, I think you will come to believe, as I do, that once he’d heard from Firmin—who had told Father Bonhomme he would recount the exact chain of events to Xavier’s brother—the story grew and grew in Gervase’s imagination to the extent that the truth was twisted beyond all proportion.” She rubbed her forehead. “When I think of the damaging thoughts that must have crossed his mind, it’s all so very sad. I believe Gervase wanted to be his brother’s hero—after all, hadn’t he been told by the others that Xavier was a hero to them all? If Maurice were here, he might well argue that Gervase Bertrand’s experiences as a child had left him with a dormant imbalance of the mind. He would suggest that those experiences of loss and dislocation had impaired his thinking—despite the fact that there were people who cared enough to give him a good chance in life. If—as I suspect was the case—those damaging thoughts flourished, he would have been increasingly tormented by Firmin’s confession as he went over it again and again in his mind. I believe he reached a point where he believed there was only one avenue available to him—to avenge Xavier’s death by taking the lives of the men who had ended his brother’s life.” Maisie looked up at MacFarlane. “Remember, even though they were all so young when this happened, to Gervase they were always grown men. And somewhere inside he was the child who had lost his brother, his hero. If this is how it happened, then all the persuading in the world would not have convinced Gervase that bringing Xavier’s life and suffering to an end was an act of love.” Maisie felt her breath catch. “Those boys shouldered an unfathomable weight. And Gervase was blinded by grief, loss, and the lingering vision of a child.”

  They stood for a moment, then MacFarlane broke the silence.

  “It’s a bloody shame. A bloody shame. The suffering of war, that’s what it is—and it goes far beyond the trenches.” He blew out his cheeks. “Anyway, we’d better get along. I’ve to report to every bloody government office you can think of this afternoon.”

  MacFarlane stood back, allowing Maisie to depart first, but stopped and sniffed the air.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s that terrible smell? It’s like the air force mess in here, with a load of lads having a drink and ready to go out on the make.”

  “It’s Brylcreem. Lambert—Bertrand—wore it when he was going about this terrible business of killing. It’s almost as if he were creating another person to be the murderer, or a stamp that could be left behind, and the stamp was this fragrance. You might find that his brother, Xavier, experimented with using brilliantine, or some sort of hair pomade—you know how boys do these things. But it’s also something that could put an investigator off the scent.”

  “Scent? Oh dear, I think you should go home and rest, Maisie.”

  “I can’t—I’ve important work to do. This isn’t my only urgent case.”

  Chapter 19

  Maisie reclaimed her motor car, and with Billy by her side in the passenger seat, she made her way through London traffic to St. Giles’ Hospital in Camberwell.

  “You know why she went there, don’t you?” said Billy.

  “Why who went where?”

  “Why the old girl went to St. Giles’—she could have gone to a couple of other hospitals. I reckon she went there because it used to be the workhouse infirmary—it was where the poor went and they knew they would get help.”

  “I wonder if she knew about the other voluntary hospitals,” said Maisie.

  “P’raps.” Billy was quiet for a moment. “You know, miss, that Gervase Lambert—Bertrand, whatever his name is—I reckon Dr. Thomas knew he was the one. P’raps not—what’s the word—consciously. But I bet she had an inkling.”

  “I believe she had her suspicions quite early on, when I was giving her reports on our progress.”

  “Why didn’t she do anything about it?”

  “Even the sharpest knife, someone such as Francesca Thomas, makes mistakes. Like me, she was probably waiting for proof.” Maisie paused, weaving around a horse and cart as they approached Vauxhall Bridge. “It’s this business of knowing the who, but not the why. Maurice always said that sometimes we instinctively know the identification of the perpetrator of a crime, but we don’t trust ourselves—or perhaps we cannot be trusted, in the circumstances. Which is why the ‘why’ is so important.”

  “And you can’t wait too long before you move on the why, once you’ve found it.”

  Maisie felt Billy looking at her. “I cut it fine, I know—probably when I wanted to completely rule out Peeters. At first I couldn’t see why Gervase might want to kill Dr. Thomas—but then it was evident. She stood for everything he’d lost. Now, it begs the question—did he know about her before he became her employee? My guess is that he made his application to the Belgian government in London to use his skill in language, and of course he was born in Belgium. I doubt he knew exactly who Thomas was, but it soon became evident. It might only have been a passing comment made by Thomas herself. As far as I know, Thomas was not working in a government-sanctioned resistance capacity until 1916, but my guess is she was active before that, though of course she was working in England at the start of the war.” Maisie shook her head. “It might only have been a slip of the tongue, perhaps during Firmin’s confession, that linked her to the boys, and by association, to the death of Xavier Bertrand. And of course, once Gervase knew she was with the resistance in Belgium during the war, he found another victim anyway. I believe any combination of these possibilities could be revealed when both Gervase Bertrand and Dr. Thomas have been questioned.”

  “And what about this map—what about the place where his brother was shot?”

  Maisie slowed the motor car as she came alongside St. Giles’ Hospital, maneuvering the Alvis parallel to the curb in front of the redbrick building with its distinctive white trim around the windows. A redbrick wall separating the hospital from the road had been designed to resemble a long garland hung from pillar to pillar.

  Maisie turned to Billy as she turned off the engine and held the ignition key. “I believe Durant had it, and left it in a place of safety. I think that’s what Bertrand was searching for in his flat.”

  “That’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Maisie. She looked at her watch. “Anyway, we’d better get going. If we miss visiting hours, they won’t let us in.”

  It was clear that beds positioned on either side of the long ward and perpendicular to the wall had been spaced according to an exact measurement—it was a measurement checked by the ward sister every day, and quite possibly by the matron during her rounds. Each cast-iron bed had been allocated two pillows, a top sheet, a bottom sheet, and one blanket. In the center aisle a desk was used by the staff nurse, with ancillary rooms at either end of the ward for the use of the sister, the doctors, and the nurses. The sterilizing room held an autoclave, bottles, bedpans, and various other equipme
nt. Maisie thought she could wander blindfold into the equipment room and find everything she might need—every item had its designated place, and woe betide the young nurse who made an error.

  Having asked for Mrs. Louisa Mason, they were directed to a bed at the far end of the ward. A screen had been pulled around the bed.

  “Are you family?” asked the staff nurse.

  Maisie shook her head. “Mrs. Mason’s granddaughter has been billeted with us, in Kent. I wanted to see her, to tell her that the little girl is well. Mrs. Mason is the only parent the child has ever known, as her mother died several years ago.”

  “Oh, poor little lamb—I suppose I daren’t even ask about the father.” The nurse placed a hand on the screen, but did not pull it back. “She’s very poorly,” she whispered. “The doctor says she has a respiratory disease, but she’s not up for even an exploratory operation. She’s very weak. She’ll come to for long enough to take some soup, or a cup of tea, but then she sleeps again. We keep them at this end, when it gets to this stage.”

  “How long does she have?” said Maisie, her voice low.

  “I’d be surprised if she’s still with us this time next week,” said the nurse. “A few days ago, I thought it would be more, but she goes downhill every day. We do all we can for her—we’ll drain her lungs tomorrow morning, and she’ll be more wakeful and be able to take more food. We’re just trying to keep her comfortable. Doctor wondered why on earth she didn’t come in sooner—he said more could have been done if she hadn’t left it to the last minute.”

  “She had the child to consider. I daresay it was easy to put it out of her mind, perhaps thinking she would get better if she ignored it.”

  “That’s what a lot of people do. Anyway, she might wake up—give her arm a little squeeze and tell her you’re here.” The nurse pulled back the screen to enable Maisie and Billy to approach Louisa Mason’s bedside. “There’s one chair—and don’t sit on the bed, sir. Sister will have you thrown out.”