In This Grave Hour Page 7

  Maisie bit her lip. “I am a bit busy—but tell me how I can help. I thought the billeting officer was finding out where she belonged, and was planning to situate her nearer children she knows.”

  “Well, that’s the thing, love—they don’t know. No one seems to know anything.”

  “Oh, Brenda, that’s not right—the child must have a mother and father. She must belong to someone. Someone knows which school she comes from, or even if she’s with the orphanage children, if the poor thing doesn’t have a family. They’re all probably hoping someone else will do the job—they’re just overwhelmed, I would imagine.”

  “I don’t know so much, Maisie. And I don’t know how to say this, really I don’t—but it could be because she’s a . . . well, you know, she’s a—”

  “She’s a what?” said Maisie. “A little girl with no name?”

  “She’s a darkie. A touch of the tar brush, as the billeting officer said.”

  “She’s a child, Brenda. She’s a poor love who has been bundled on a train, only now she’s lost.”

  “I know that, but the billeting officer says that’s what the problem is. I don’t think she’s all that dark, really,” Brenda went on. “Your father said that you were only a little bit lighter, as a child, on account of your mother’s coloring. And your complexion is as white as mine now, isn’t it, though you do catch the sun quickly, if you’re out in it.”

  “I lived in London, Brenda—and no one ever called me a darkie on account of my hair and a tendency to catch a bit of color when the sun shines.” Maisie bit her lip. The last person she wanted to be short with was her stepmother, the woman to whom she attributed her widowed father’s newfound happiness. “I will drive down tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

  “She’s perfectly clean. The billeting officer reckons she can’t be five years old yet, but she takes herself off to the bathroom sink every morning, closes the door behind her, and you can hear her washing herself. Yesterday I went in there after she’d put on her nightgown and gone to her bed—and she takes all her things with her everywhere she goes, bundles everything into that little case and won’t let it out of her sight. Anyway, there were her underclothes, all rubbed out with soap and water, rinsed and left hanging over the edge of the bath to dry for the morning. Bless her, the poor little mite. You’d think she was a lot older, the way she’s coping.”

  Brenda stopped speaking, and Maisie heard her take a deep breath. She realized that making the telephone call had taken some gumption on the part of her stepmother, who was not one to ask for favors, and could deal with almost any domestic situation. Maisie suspected Brenda was more than a little concerned for the child.

  “The thing is, Maisie,” said Brenda, “you do your work and you know how to get people to talk. And this dear little girl must want someone to talk to—she can’t keep all of it in, not at her age, and she’s not said a word since she got here. The little mite looks so lost at times. Even Jook feels it—I can see it in her. She will go up to the girl and put her nose to her dear little hand and gets a pat for her trouble. I’d hoped she’d start telling the dog all her problems, but she might not even speak English, for all I know. That’s when I thought you would be able to get her to say something.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Brenda. I am sure we’ll find a way to help her. And I’ll find out who she belongs to.”

  “Thank you, Maisie. Your father said you’d be the one to bring her out of herself. He told me that once you’d had a case where a girl wouldn’t say a word, but you started her talking.”

  “I wonder how he knows that.”

  “Dr. Blanche and your father would often stop for a chat.”

  “It was a long time ago now anyway. Brenda, I’ll do my best to drive down tomorrow, after work. Otherwise it will have to be Thursday.”

  While on the underground railway, Maisie could not get the plight of the little evacuee girl out of her mind. The child had probably been put on the train by her mother, trusting the schoolteachers to keep a keen eye on their charges. But at least the child had been fortunate to be placed in a good home where people cared for her well-being—though Maisie pitied the poor mother who had assumed her daughter was now safe in the country, well away from the slings and arrows of war. And she wondered, as the train beat a rhythm, moving from side to side as it wove its way under London, about the little girl choosing not to speak—if it was a choice. Loss of voice could have many causes—shock, pain, distress, fear. But in this case, Maisie wondered if the child was not remaining silent for another reason—to retain a semblance of power in a situation where all power was lost.

  Maisie’s first stop was Scotland Yard. As she exited the Tube at Charing Cross, it began to rain, with thundery clouds lumbering overhead, and a clammy warmth to the air. Caldwell was in his office waiting for her—Sergeant Able had once again been sent to bring her up to what was now Caldwell’s fiefdom.

  “Close the door behind you, if you’re able, Able,” said Caldwell, as he gestured Maisie to take a seat on the opposite side of the desk.

  “I think you’ve given that name of his quite a run for the money, don’t you?” said Maisie.

  “All in jest, Miss Dobbs, all in jest. Now then, let’s have a share and share alike, shall we?”

  “I wish I had something to give you in return for whatever you can give me, Inspector. You’re right, this one seems cold from the time the perpetrator left the scene.”

  Caldwell shook his head. “My boys are checking a few avenues of inquiry now, but as yet there’s no meat on the bone.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk towards Maisie. “You know this already, I daresay—Durant was a widower, lived alone in Maida Vale, very ordinary life. Went to work, came home again, and not a lot in the way of outside interests or vices. And I do like to find a vice or two—uncover a vice, and nine times out of ten, you beat a path to the murderer.”

  Maisie picked up the notes. “It says here he and his wife liked walking, that on Saturdays they were known to take a train out to Reigate and then walk the Downs, usually having tea in a village somewhere. That’s what I’d call an interest—did he continue after his wife died? After all, he was still a relatively young man at thirty-eight.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that his walking habits are much to go on. Murderers don’t usually hang around among the cream buns and pots of Darjeeling, do they?”

  Maisie began to write in her notebook while continuing to speak. “And the weapon is the same—the examiner says it was a Ruby—the Browning copycat.”

  Caldwell nodded. He was distracted by a letter he had just opened, the contents of which caused him to smile. He put the letter to one side and cast his attention back to Maisie.

  “Sorry about that—yes, a Browning. Or what was it you said it could be? A Ruby? I spoke to our weapons man about it, and he said it was a possibility it could be either one, because there were more Rubys around than Brownings on this side of the Atlantic, not that it makes any difference. A gun is a gun, and we just have to find the man who’s been using it.”

  Maisie tapped the paper. “All right, I have the address and I know where he worked. If I find out anything you might be interested in, I’ll let you know—but as I said, I have my client to consider.”

  “I think I have a right to know about that client. Your client might be the killer, Miss Dobbs—thought of that, have you?”

  Maisie nodded and came to her feet. “Yes, Inspector, I have thought of the possibility—it’s one of the first things to cross my mind in a case such as this. But I have no fear in that regard.”

  “And why’s that? Pray tell, Miss Dobbs.”

  She smiled. “Because if my client had been the killer, no one would ever have found the body.”

  Color drained from Caldwell’s face. “I think that’s it for now, don’t you, Miss Dobbs? I’ll get Able to see you out.”

  Maisie had reached the door when Caldwell called to her. “Oh, Mis
s Dobbs—that letter I just received.” He waved it in the air, as if he were a child taunting another. “Informal note from one of my mates in another division. Thought you would be interested in what it said. It’s about Richard Stratton. Remember him? I was his sergeant for a few years, and was given my promotion when he moved on. He went to Special Branch, then threw in the towel to be a teacher of mathematics and physics at a boys’ school down in Wiltshire somewhere, because he wanted to see more of his son, who was getting a free education into the bargain. And our friend Stratton was given a house in the grounds, so no rent to pay—jammy, eh? Mind you, being a widower and with it being just him on his own with his boy—who could blame him? This job’s not for a man with domestic responsibilities, is it?” The grin borne of sarcasm spread wider. “Anyway, turns out he’s been lured back—special job for the government. Security. So he’s on the force again, in a manner of speaking. All very hush-hush, apparently—well, I say that, but these things get around, don’t they? Anyway, better get along now—you probably don’t even remember him.”

  “It was a few years ago, Inspector,” said Maisie. “I’ll be in touch.”

  As she walked back along Victoria Embankment, then up towards Charing Cross, two quite different thoughts clamored for Maisie’s attention, both of which she tried to dismiss. The first was in connection with Richard Stratton. Of course she remembered Stratton—as Caldwell knew only too well. She and Stratton had crossed paths during several of her investigations in the past; in fact, she’d met him at the conclusion of her first case after Maurice retired. It had been obvious that Stratton was sweet on her, and she had been drawn to him, to his straightforward manner and clear head in the most difficult situations. Not for him the cheap joke or spear of sarcasm—he was no Caldwell. Stratton had placed the needs of his son before his work with the police, which surprised many, as he had been a young chief inspector, and was destined for an even more promising career ahead—especially following his transfer to Special Branch, and work on the hinterland of the Secret Service, along with Robert MacFarlane, who was now more deeply entrenched in one of the country’s intelligence divisions. Yet Stratton found working with MacFarlane difficult—the Scot’s brusque manner and dismissive tone had added weight to his decision to leave the police. In choosing to become a teacher, he was returning to the job he had trained for before the Great War. Now, Maisie wondered if she might encounter Richard Stratton again.

  The second, more worrisome thought was one brought to the surface by Caldwell’s question. Your client might be the killer, Miss Dobbs—thought of that, have you?

  It was an impertinent comment, one designed to wrong-foot Maisie. Caldwell might be sharing knowledge with her, but it was only because he wanted her help in return. And yet the question lingered, and she wondered if her defense of Francesca Thomas might have been too quick. Because the truth was that she had doubted her client, and though she would defend her until proof indicated otherwise, Maisie knew that she had to keep a door open to the possibility. Francesca Thomas was a woman of fierce intelligence and unquestionable bravery—but she was also a trained killer.

  Dorothy Addens was out at work when Maisie called, as she had hoped. Enid Addens answered the door, at once looking up and down the street and back into the house, as if a ghoul might emerge from the bushes and enter her place of safety.

  “Might I come in for a moment, Mrs. Addens?” asked Maisie.

  “Yes, of course. My Dottie could be home any minute, though, and she gets very funny, what with the police coming round.”

  “I thought they hadn’t been here since about the time your husband died, Mrs. Addens.”

  The woman pulled out a chair for Maisie but remained standing, leaning against the wall in front of Maisie, as if she were afraid to settle herself too close to the visitor.

  “Well, that’s right. They came once, and then the inspector came again. But all the same, you have to be careful.”

  “Mrs. Addens, to all intents and purposes, your husband’s death was at the hands of a thief, someone who knew or guessed he had his wages tucked into the pocket of his overalls. Have you reason to fear this man might find you?”

  The woman shook her head, and folded her arms. “No, of course not. I couldn’t see how he could find us anyway, I mean, it’s not as if Fred kept his name and address on show. And I’m sure none of his workmates knew where we lived, though they might have known about the darts team at the pub down the road—you know how men talk. He might have told them about winning a lot—which he did. I never begrudged him a half pint at the local, though, not like some women would. He was a good man, and he worked hard—and he never came home having had too much. No, he just needed a bit of a change in his pocket and to forget his work for a bit. He was a good man.”

  “You met him when you worked for the railway, didn’t you?”

  “I did, yes.” She began picking at a hangnail, oblivious to the nervousness it revealed. “I was a conductress, checking tickets, that sort of thing. I liked it. I wasn’t stuck in one place, and I was earning money. I’d been putting away as much as I could so I could get married, for my dress and for bits and pieces for our house, if we could get one. But my fiancé was killed, in France.” She shrugged. “Anyway, after a time I met Frederick, and we began walking out. His English was all right—I mean, I could understand him—but it became a lot better once we were courting, because I couldn’t speak his language, so he had to learn mine properly. The children can still speak his language, Dorothy more than her brother. You see, when they were nippers, we had this agreement, that I would only speak to them in English and Frederick would only speak to them in French. He said that was what his family spoke when he was a boy, though Dottie says it wasn’t French like they speak in Paris. Anyway, I’m going on a bit too much.” She folded her arms again.

  “Mrs. Addens, this is not an easy question to ask, and it will be a difficult question to answer as it might seem too intrusive, however, given my task—which is to find your husband’s killer—I have to think of all the reasons why he might have been killed, over and above the money in his pocket.” Maisie noticed the woman visibly appear to retreat inside herself, moving to one side and folding her arms even tighter, as if she wanted to encircle her own body. But she continued. “You mentioned that times were difficult for you, in terms of money. I know your husband brought in a fair wage—he was a skilled man—but it occurred to me that, since they left school, your grown children must be contributing to the household’s costs. I know I brought my father money when I was first working in service, and—”

  “You? You worked in service?” Enid Addens leaned forward. “You, an educated woman, worked in service?”

  Maisie nodded. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Look at your daughter—she left school but continued her education. She has willpower.” She regretted the off-the-cuff remark, as it had deflected attention from her question—but on the other hand, the woman’s surprise might work in her favor. “What I wanted to know was whether your husband might have had money worries. I know some people fret about money even when there is no good reason, but did you and your husband have cause for concern?”

  “No cause for concern. We know most people take money from their grown children towards their keep, but we only took a little. Dottie has to be nicely turned out for work—after all, you can’t have a scruffy librarian. And our son always liked to look smart too. That’s how you get on, looking like the people who are better off than you, so you can earn more than them one day. My Frederick worked hard for the family, and I worked hard here to look after us all. That’s how it was. And we always put some by, so we could get away down to the coast in summertime, and put good food on the table, and not scrimp and scrape for a decent Christmas dinner. Of course, I’ll depend upon them more now—my son will send money home, and Dottie will give up a bit more. And like I said yesterday, Frederick’s workmates have had a collection for us, and there’s been someone rou
nd from the railway too. We’ll have to be careful with what we’ve got, but we’re used to that.”

  Maisie nodded. “I want to ask you one question again—was your husband fearful at all in the weeks or days before he died? Did he seem troubled?”

  “No. He was his usual self. Happy. Content. Hardworking. Of course he’d agreed to the overtime, but he would always take it on if the opportunity was there—and it was often there, with the railway.”

  Maisie noticed the woman look at the clock on a shelf above the stove, and she in turn consulted her watch. “If you think of anything else—even something that seems small, insignificant, please let me know. You can send a card, or if you wish to telephone me, here’s my number. There’s a telephone kiosk just down the road, I noticed.” Maisie passed a card across the table.

  “I think Dottie took the card you left the other day, so I’ll keep this. But there won’t be anything to tell. Nothing at all. My Frederick didn’t know who killed him—so it’s all down to the police, and I suppose you too, to find out who did.”

  Chapter 5

  Maisie had just reached the front door to her office when a tall young man of twenty-five or twenty-six approached. He was of slender build, and Maisie thought he was the same height as her late husband, about six feet two inches. His light-brown hair held sun-bleached streaks, as if he had been sailing in fine weather, and the blue of his eyes was of such a pale shade, it was as if they were almost transparent. He wore a charcoal-gray suit of light wool, a white shirt, and a black tie, and his shoes were plain and polished.

  He bowed his head briefly by way of greeting. “Excuse me, but might you be Miss Dobbs?”

  “Indeed I am—how may I help you?”

  “My name is Mr. Gervase Lambert and I am from the Belgian embassy. My superior, Dr. Francesca Thomas, instructed me to hand this to you personally.” He held out the large buff-colored envelope he had been carrying under his arm. “And if you would be so kind, I am required to obtain your signature.” He took a slip of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Maisie before uncapping a pen taken from the same pocket.