“So far, so good, but I wasn’t sorry to leave police work, and I won’t be sorry to leave this, when they let me go.” He looked around the café, then returned his attention to Maisie. “I mean, it’s not as if I was strong-armed into it, but there was an element of pressure.”
“I’m sure there was.” Maisie lifted her sleeve to check her watch.
“Do you have to rush off?” asked Stratton.
“Soon. Not yet though.”
“Good. Let’s have another cup of that dreadful tea before we leave.”
The final task for Maisie to complete concerned the ashes of Albert Durant. She explained to Caldwell that she had discovered where Durant had scattered his wife’s ashes, and that she would like to take possession of Durant’s, so she could ensure they were left in the same resting place.
“I’ll do my best. The body’s not required now, and there’s never enough room for the dead, so they’ll be cremating him soon, seeing as there aren’t any relatives waiting to take him home. The father-in-law doesn’t want the ashes, though he said he would’ve taken them if he’d had his daughter’s, as it would have been right to keep them together.”
Caldwell was as good as his word, personally delivering the ashes to Maisie’s office. She lost no time in making another journey to Reigate. The weather seemed less than inclined to favor her on the day she walked down towards the woodland Albert and Elizabeth Durant had designated their secret place, yet despite a steady fine rain, the ground underfoot was quite dry, protected by branches thick with leaves above. Close to what she now thought of as the grandmother beech tree, Maisie pushed back fallen leaves until she could see Elizabeth Durant’s ashes, spread on the loamy ground by her husband. She tipped the urn, watching as the breeze stilled and the ashes floated down to a gentle landing. Once all were distributed around the base of the tree, she covered them with leaves and placed the urn in the beech tree’s cavernous trunk. And before leaving, with her forefinger she traced the names carved on the trunk: Albert, Elizabeth, and Baby.
“May you now all rest in peace,” she whispered, before walking to the edge of the woodland. There, she looked back once, then went on her way, back to the Alvis. Her final accounting was complete.
The party to see Thomas Partridge on his way to Cranwell for the commencement of his Royal Air Force training was an intimate event, with just Priscilla’s husband and boys, along with Lady Rowan and Lord Julian, whom Priscilla had come to know quite well over the years. Thomas had also invited a young woman of about eighteen years of age, who—Maisie thought—conducted herself very well, considering the scrutiny she was receiving from Priscilla. Jokes were made back and forth across the table, and guests laughed at stories of Thomas’ childhood, including how he broke his wrist jumping from the top of the stairs, his arms wrapped in a sheet to simulate the wings of a Tiger Moth. Douglas made a speech, Thomas thanked everyone present and raised a glass of champagne to his parents, and soon Priscilla—possibly having had one gin and tonic too many, thought Maisie—came to her feet.
“This is my toast to my son, to the leader of our pack of toads. You took your first breath and I was given you to hold, and I have been holding you ever since—when you grew too much of a man for my arms, the muscle of my heart did the holding.” Laughter accompanied her pause. “I know it will be a few weeks before you achieve your dream to fly, but I insist you never, ever repeat the landing you made on the tiles in the entrance hall.” More laughter. “And may you come home every chance you get.”
Thomas blew a kiss to his mother, but instead of sitting down, Priscilla continued speaking. “And tomorrow your beloved Tante Maisie and I will have a surprise for you. After all, it’s not only you boys who have to do your bit. But it’s a secret until tomorrow, so you’ll have to read your letters, Tom.” Another round of laughter ensued, though there were glances back and forth between Priscilla and Maisie. Priscilla lifted her champagne glass and looked at her husband, who came to his feet. Their guests followed suit.
“To Thomas Philip Partridge.”
Voices echoed the toast.
“Thomas Philip Partridge.”
Maisie made her way home from the party, escorted by Timothy and Tarquin. She bid them good night as she reached the house, giving each a kiss on both cheeks, then watched as they ambled back along the road towards their home. At one point Tim pushed Tarquin, who pushed back, and then they raced down the street until she could see only shadows in the grainy light of a late Sunday evening.
As she walked to the flat’s garden entrance, she was aware of cigarette smoke curling up into the air, and was not surprised to see the silhouette of a visitor seated in one of her wicker chairs outside the French doors leading into her home.
“You could telephone first, you know,” said Maisie.
“I didn’t break in this time—I thought I’d just wait for you.” Francesca Thomas took another draw of her cigarette. “A good send-off for Tom?”
“Yes, it was a lovely evening.” Maisie joined her on the terrace, taking a seat in a wicker chair. “I have something for you,” she added.
“A report? I dread to think what you’ve concluded about me.”
“I have a report—with no criticism, just the facts as they emerged since the last time you were here.”
“Good. I think I’m under a big enough microscope already.”
“You didn’t know who Gervase Lambert was when you took him on, did you?”
“He was simply a qualified applicant with a superb grasp of English and also French as it is spoken in Belgium. I had no reason to suspect him.”
“Until you did—and even then you didn’t believe it.”
“He was a mild-mannered young man, with good references. He was considered trustworthy with delicate information—he had none of the hallmarks of a killer.”
“Dr. Thomas—Francesca—I don’t know what you consider to be the hallmarks of a killer, but a somewhat common one is that of a person terribly wounded by circumstance, and your assistant fell into that category. He was not a man who killed for the sheer joy of the chase and the final surrender, but a person who was trying to vanquish ghosts he never knew existed until Carl Firmin came to make his confession.”
“Firmin should have stopped at the priest.”
“It would have saved lives had Gervase never known the truth, but truth has a certain buoyancy—it makes its way to the surface, in time.” Maisie sighed. “What will happen to him?”
“He is currently imprisoned—I cannot say where. He is awaiting certain . . . certain judgments from the British government. It is a highly confidential, delicate matter; however, we are endeavoring to get him transferred to a prison in Belgium. His life—or death—will be no easier, wherever he is.”
Without looking at her guest, Maisie asked another question. “When you came to me on the day war was declared, why weren’t you honest with me? Why didn’t you tell me about Addens, about his role in the resistance, and that there were others in the same group who’d remained in England? Why was I left to waste precious time fumbling in the dark, when you suspected Addens was not the killer’s first victim? You knew about Firmin’s death, after all.”
Thomas was silent for a minute, then sighed. “In a nutshell, I suppose it’s the habit of keeping secrets, Maisie—to the extent that even talking in this way with you is difficult.” She lowered her voice and turned her head as if to detect the presence of another. “I deal with highly confidential information all the time, and I’m used to protecting people, keeping their secrets. That is my world. I have to take utmost care when I provide or receive information. And I made an error, I know that now. My training, almost my entire adulthood, has required me to live a life apart—and if I am brutally honest with myself, in this instance it was to the extent that I had detached in such a way that I did not suspect Gervase. Add to that the obvious issue of keeping details of our resistance work under wraps as far as possible, and certainly not allowing it to
become part of a reported crime and fodder for the press. Suffice it to say, we know—as do you—there are German infiltrators in Britain, and we cannot afford even the slightest hint at our plans for future intelligence efforts.”
Maisie allowed more time to elapse before she spoke again. “I have something of importance to the case.”
Thomas drew on her cigarette. “No more shocks, please.”
“It’s a map indicating the location of Xavier Bertrand’s remains. At the very least, perhaps Gervase could be allowed a visit to pay his respects.”
“I doubt that, but I will take the map now, and be on my way.”
Maisie took a key from her pocket, let herself into the flat, and returned with an envelope, which she handed to Thomas.
“Thank you, Maisie. I suppose all that remains is for you to send me your bill.”
“It’s in the envelope,” said Maisie.
Thomas gave a half smile and began to walk towards the side gate. Maisie accompanied her to the front of the property.
“I don’t know much about your work, Maisie, but I would imagine that this was not an easy case.”
Maisie looked up into the night sky, at the stars visible between barrage balloons. “Death is never an easy case, Francesca.”
The following afternoon, Priscilla arrived at Maisie’s office at four o’clock. Sandra had left early, and Billy was visiting a new client, and would not return until Tuesday.
“Are you ready?” asked Priscilla.
“You certainly look the part,” said Maisie. “Very sensible.”
Priscilla was dressed in a plain costume of navy blue jacket and skirt, brown shoes, and matching brown leather bag. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, and she wore a brown Robin Hood–style hat with a blue band.
“You too—but then you always look sensible when you’re at work. Bit too sensible after work too.”
“Let’s go, then,” said Maisie, ignoring the jibe. “I’m glad one of us brought a motor car—at least we can prove we can drive. Did you remember your papers from the war?”
Priscilla took a sheaf of documents from her bag and held them up for Maisie’s inspection. “I think we’re more than qualified.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Positive. And you? What about your work, and little Anna?”
“It won’t be every day. When I asked, they said the shifts would be mainly at night. I’ll tell them I’ve responsibilities from Friday to Sunday evening.”
Priscilla looked at Maisie, as if gauging her response. “Might be best all around, when she can join a family to settle into.”
Maisie nodded.
“Well, then, what are we waiting for? Come on, Maisie—let’s hold hands and jump into the deep end together.”
Maisie steered the motor car into Tottenham Court Road traffic. The journey was short, taking them to a West End depot of the new London Auxiliary Ambulance Service. Maisie left the Alvis outside the building. They entered together, joining a queue of women waiting to place their applications. Finally it was Maisie’s turn.
“You’re at work during the day, and you finish at about five or six, you say?” said the man, his eyes moving down the list of responses Maisie had made to a series of questions.
“Yes, but I’m flexible, due to the nature of my work. I can meet the demands of your shifts.”
The man looked up at Maisie and seemed about to question the type of work she was engaged in, before thinking better of it. He looked down at her application again. “Trained nurse—yes, good. Casualty clearing station over in France during the last war.” He looked up at Maisie. “S’pose we’re all getting used to calling it the last war now, aren’t we?” He went back to the page. “Right, that’s good. And Spain too?” Once again he looked up from the pages into Maisie’s eyes, this time grinning. “What’s the matter, don’t you like it at home?”
Maisie met the joke with a smile. “I want to volunteer to serve my country. I can drive. I know I can tend the sick and wounded, so I have the right experience.”
He nodded towards Priscilla, waiting by the door. “She your friend?”
“Yes, we came together.”
“Then you two’d better get busy—ambulance drivers need to be fighting fit, and you’ve got a few years on the other women in that line. It creeps up on you, does age. Anyway, here are your instructions. Report here tomorrow evening, for the start of your training—it’ll mainly be uniform distribution and general rules, though you’ll be back Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and we’ll need you for a few weeks’ worth of more training—not all day though, again, mainly evenings. We’ll tell you more tomorrow. And we’ll try to roster you two together, but we can’t promise. You both know what we’re in for, so we might need you to go out with a girl who’s still a bit wet behind the ears—at least you know what death can look like.”
The man’s words lingered in the air as Maisie stood up and gathered her bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Ready to do your bit?” He smiled as he came to his feet, shuffled her application papers, and added them to a folder.
Maisie smiled in return. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Author’s Note
Those familiar with the events of September 3rd, 1939 will know that the first air-raid sirens were sounded very shortly after the broadcast of Neville Chamberlain’s speech in which he announced that Britain was at war with Germany. In this novel the sirens are heard some twenty minutes after the broadcast ends—I added the lapse in support of the story at that point. Though preparations for war had been in progress for months—the sandbagging of Tube stations and shops, barrage balloons overhead, post boxes painted in a yellow paint that would change color to signify the presence of poison gas, and trenches prepared in London’s parks, for example—the first air-raid siren was a terrible shock to a populace on tenterhooks, many hoping war could be avoided. It was, however, months before the Luftwaffe mounted a full-on air raid on London and other British cities, leading to the hiatus being known as the “phoney war.”
About the Author
Jacqueline Winspear is the author of the New York Times bestselling Maisie Dobbs series, which includes Journey to Munich, A Dangerous Place, Leaving Everything Most Loved, Elegy for Eddie, A Lesson in Secrets, and seven other novels. Her stand-alone novel The Care and Management of Lies was also a New York Times bestseller and a Dayton Literary Peace Prize finalist. Originally from the United Kingdom, she now lives in California.
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Also by Jacqueline Winspear
Maisie Dobbs
Birds of a Feather
Pardonable Lies
Messenger of Truth
An Incomplete Revenge
Among the Mad
The Mapping of Love and Death
A Lesson in Secrets
Elegy for Eddie
Leaving Everything Most Loved
The Care and Management of Lies
A Dangerous Place
Journey to Munich
Copyright
in this grave hour. Copyright © 2017 by Jacqueline Winspear. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Cover design by Archie Ferguson. Cover illustration by Andrew Davidson.
first edition
Digital Edition MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780062436610
Print ISBN: 978–0–06243660–3
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Jacqueline Winspear, In This Grave Hour
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