In This Grave Hour

  “I—I—thank you, Miss Dobbs.” Miller lifted his hand across his brow, brushing back his hair. “But it isn’t Miss Dobbs, is it?”

  “It’s my maiden name, and the name I use in my work. It makes things easier. Lord Julian and Lady Rowan are my late husband’s parents.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  Maisie interrupted Miller. “You know, you might be able to do me a favor. Our little evacuee has a—well, I suppose you could call it a surprise—coming her way later on, so I’d like her to be distracted. She’s barely uttered a word since she came here, as I explained, though I believe we may make headway today. Might I send her to visit, with Emma?”

  “I’m not very good with children—I mean, I haven’t even seen one since I was in France. I don’t know what I should do.”

  “Just talk to her, tell her what Emma was like as a puppy—I’m sure you have stories. And if you don’t—make them up. I’ll ask Mrs. Dobbs to bring her across this afternoon. You can sit in the garden with her. It’ll make a nice change, following all the war talk you’ll have to endure over lunch.”

  Chapter 16

  “Ready then? George is up at the gate, waiting.”

  “Just a minute, Dad. I want to telephone Billy.”

  “At home?”

  “He’ll understand.”

  Maisie went into the library to place the call.

  “Billy—glad I caught you at home.”

  “’Allo, miss. I was about to give you a ring. I was out doing some work on a couple of our small cases this morning, thought I’d get them cleared up before too long. More to the point, I’ve been sniffing around and I’ve got something for you on Peterson.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I got back to London last evening, I thought I’d wander around to Peterson’s gaff. I waited a bit, but no one came along. Then I thought that instead of catching the train that evening, the happy couple might’ve decided to get the coach the following morning—it’s cheaper, and I reckon that mother-in-law of his might’ve had something to say if they’d left with no notice. So I went along to the bus station, looked up the timetables, and worked out the earliest they would be back home. Nipped round there this morning, and there they were, coming along the road. Couldn’t believe my luck! I dropped into a shop doorway so Peterson couldn’t see me—tucked myself well in. Anyway, he says to her, ‘Come on, girl, let’s get ourselves sorted out and we’ll be on the Penzance train tomorrow morning.’ His missus asked him when they would be back, and he said, ‘Let’s just give ourselves a nice few days on our own—special treat, like I said yesterday.’ She asked if his job would be all right, and he said not to worry because he’s supposed to be down in Kent anyway.”

  “Did he say where they were going?”

  “I heard him mention going to Paddington in the morning, and nothing more than catching the Penzance train, so I thought I’d go to the station early, get myself a cup of tea, and keep an eye out for them—shouldn’t be too hard to find out where they’re going.”

  “Good work, Billy. You had a late night and an early start today—you must be tired. Are you sure you don’t mind the extra time?”

  “It’s what you pay me for, miss, and it takes my mind off what’s going on in this house. Bobby’s at work today, and Doreen and Margaret are out—getting a few bits and pieces ready for the off on Monday. Anyway, it’ll be a nightmare here tomorrow morning, what with the packing. I’ll be glad to get out of it, and I won’t get under Doreen’s feet! That way we’ll have a peaceful Sunday dinner and a nice evening into the bargain. And now I’m home I’m going to make myself a cuppa before going out and doing a bit in the garden—take my mind off it all, and it’ll please Doreen no end.”

  “All right, let me know if there’s anything to report. And Billy—look, I won’t be in the office on Monday, and I daresay I’ll be in late on Tuesday. When you get back to the office Tuesday morning, I’d like you to work on something else for me—and it’s a priority, so you’ll be busy.”

  “Right you are, miss. Fire away.”

  “It’s about Anna, our evacuee.”

  “Said anything yet?”

  Maisie shook her head, as if Billy were in the room, watching her. “Hardly anything, and then only to herself when she thinks no one’s listening. But I have a plan, and though my father is most disapproving, I think it might work.”

  “Hmmm, knowing your dad, whatever it is, I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  “I’m sure you would. Now, Billy, here’s the job. It seems Anna might have been spotted with an elderly lady at Denmark Hill Station, on the day of evacuation. It must have been teeming with children, but the mother of the two boys who were with us—”

  “Who were with you? What happened to them?”

  “The mother came to take them home to London.”

  “Silly woman—there’s a few who’ve done that. I reckon they’ll be back, just give it a month or two, let Hitler sort himself out, and then we’ll know there’s a war on.”

  “Be that as it may, Billy, but I can’t do anything about the boys at the moment. Anyway, the mother—Mrs. Preston—was here yesterday, and she thought she recognized Anna. In a way, I can see why, given her coloring—she stands out a little—but by the same token, Preston may have been mistaken. In the meantime, it’s the only lead we’ve had.”

  “What do you want me to do, miss?”

  “Apparently the woman with Anna was very poorly, possibly with a bad chest infection, or in the worst case, she’s a consumptive. She had a bag with her, and the boys’ mother said that she wouldn’t be surprised if the woman was going into hospital. There are a few voluntary hospitals within striking distance by bus or tram, so could you check?”

  “King’s College Hospital, Guys, St. Thomas’—and I’ll give the Royal Free a go.”

  “Good man. That’ll be a lot more shoe leather worn through. If you have any trouble with the staff, see if Caldwell can help you—perhaps a letter confirming who you are, or a call to the registrar will help. Explain the circumstances to him, and I am sure he’ll understand.”

  “Does he owe you a favor?”

  “No, I can’t say he does—yet. But he will, by Tuesday or Wednesday, I would imagine.”

  “You’re going over there, aren’t you, miss? To Belgium.”

  “Very briefly, yes.”

  “Do you think you’re close, miss?”

  “Sorry to rush, Billy. I’ve got to go now—Dad and George are waiting.”

  “George? The chauffeur?”

  “Billy, I’m a good driver, but I don’t want to get behind the wheel of Lady Rowan’s new horsebox.”

  Billy was silent for a couple of seconds before speaking again. “Oh, now the penny’s dropped,” he said. “I don’t like to speak out of turn, miss, but I wouldn’t want to see you set yourself up for another upset.”

  “The hospitals, Billy. On Tuesday. I’m depending on you.”

  “If the old lady exists, I’ll find her.”

  “It’s not like you, Maisie, to go off and do something on the spur of the moment,” said Frankie Dobbs as he sat beside her in the Bedford-Scammell horsebox, with Lady Rowan’s chauffeur driving. “I mean, it’s not as if you know the child, and she could be gone in a day or two. They’re bound to find her people—the billeting officer said they were looking, and as she’s not been evacuated with children she knows, they’re likely to send her somewhere else.”

  “I think the billeting officers are under water, and they’re probably just glad enough to have her settled somewhere.”

  “And where did you say you saw it?” asked Frankie.

  “Just up the road, not far now. It’s called Cherry Tree Farm. Here we are, George—along here on the left. It’s a bit of a tight turn.”

  “I can turn this twelve-tonner around inside a matchbox, don’t you worry,” replied the chauffeur.

  As the horsebox pulled up in front of the farmhouse, the farmer came to gree
t them, wearing the same old brown corduroy trousers, a pair of worn leather hobnail boots, and a gray shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. He wore a tweed flat cap, and carried a shepherd’s crook. A border collie stood at heel.

  “Heard that lorry coming a mile off—not seen one of them yet. She’s a beauty. And it’s nice to see you again, Miss Dobbs,” said the man, as he began to walk around the horsebox, admiring the vehicle.

  “Mr. Epps,” Maisie said, drawing his attention back to her. “This is my father.” She turned to Frankie. “I had to see Mr. Epps on business yesterday, and that’s when I made the arrangements to come back today.”

  Frankie touched the peak of his flat cap, and the farmer nodded by way of a response.

  “My father is the best judge here—I didn’t want to make the purchase without his advice.”

  “Wish my daughter were like that—you never know what she’s going to come home with, and none of it good for a farm,” said Epps. “Went up to London she did, a year ago in May. Said she was fed up with mud and chickens. She’ll be back, mind—yes, she’ll be back.” The farmer sighed and shook his head. “Right, let’s get on with it. The lass is this way—brought her up from the field this morning.”

  Three quarters of an hour later, Maisie and her father were on their way back to Chelstone. Apart from a conversation with George about what goods might be rationed, and whether the motor cars would be mothballed until after the war, Maisie’s father said nothing until they had almost reached Chelstone.

  “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, love,” said Frankie, looking out of the window, then back at his daughter.

  “But what?”

  “I didn’t say a but.”

  “I heard it, though.”

  Frankie was silent. Maisie knew he wanted to speak, but was aware of George’s presence. He lowered his voice, though George would have had trouble hearing their conversation over the roar of the engine.

  “I think what you’ve done is very nice and all that, but are you sure you’re not trying to make up for something? There, that’s what I wanted to say.”

  Maisie felt her face redden. She knew what her father was alluding to.

  “Not at all. But these evacuee children are a long way from home—it’s a long way for a child, anyway. I wanted to do something special for them.”

  “Or just for one of them?”

  “I didn’t know the boys would be leaving—and in any case, I have a feeling Mrs. Preston will be back with them in short order. A good number of London’s deserted schools have already been requisitioned for army use—for bomb disposal crews, soldier billeting, ambulances, and the like.” Maisie did not want to pursue the subject; instead she asked George if he wanted her to get out and direct him through the manor gates.

  “No need to run from your father, Maisie,” said Frankie. “Unless, of course, you think I’m hitting the nail on the head.” Frankie turned to watch George, who was leaning forward, concentrating on his maneuver, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “Anyway, just as well I went with you—that old boy thought he could pull a fast one. Always the way—but I just let him talk himself into a hole, and then I let him know what I know.”

  She smiled at her father and nudged his arm with hers to signal her appreciation. She had a distinct feeling, though, that he had more to say about her decision to buy a pony.

  George stopped alongside the Dower House for Maisie to jump down from the cab of the horsebox. She closed the passenger door, waved, and watched as the lorry rumbled along the graveled driveway. She remained in place until the vehicle turned left just beyond the Groom’s Cottage, and on towards the stables. When Maisie entered the Dower House by way of the kitchen, Brenda, having heard the lorry, had already put the kettle on to boil, and was setting out teacups and saucers on the kitchen table.

  “Is Anna still with Mr. Miller?”

  “Best to go and get her now, I would imagine,” said Brenda. “I took her up there after lunch. Lady Rowan had found some old children’s books, in case he could get her to read to him, or describe the pictures. He said he’d had a think and there were a few stories up his sleeve, if she didn’t come out of her shell.”

  “I’ll go now.” Maisie turned to the door, but stopped when she heard Brenda calling to her.

  “Maisie. Maisie, just a minute.”

  “What is it, Brenda?” Maisie could see the tension in her stepmother’s stance, the way she held on to the table, as if she needed something strong to lean on.

  “Maisie, before you go over there, I want to say something. I’ve come to think of you as my daughter, though I’ve known you from the days when you worked with Dr. Blanche, long before I became your stepmother through marriage to your father. And now I feel I must speak my mind, as one woman to another.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Brenda—it’s just something to make her feel more at home, perhaps to bring her out of herself.”

  “That’s all very well, Maisie—but what about when they find her family, and when she has to go home? Then what do we all do? What will you do?”

  Maisie looked at Brenda without speaking, just for a second, then she placed her arm around the woman’s shoulder. “You and Dad—don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right, Brenda. I’m up in London most of the time anyway. It was just to help things along with the children, not just one of them. I told Dad, I didn’t know two would be leaving. Anyway, Brenda, I’d better get going—they’ll have the pony washed and beautiful and ready for Anna soon.”

  Anna was sitting on a chair next to Robert Miller, Emma asleep on the floor between them, when Maisie entered the manor house drawing room. The child looked up at Maisie and gave what now passed for a meaningful smile. Without speaking she clambered down from her chair and looked at Miller, as if he could stare back into her eyes. She picked up the ever-present case and slipped the gas-mask strap over her head, leaving the books in a pile on the chair as she came to take Maisie’s hand, with Emma following.

  “I suppose that look I can feel is Anna saying thank you,” said Miller, smiling. He turned his face towards Maisie and Anna. “Thank you, Anna. You’re a very good listener.”

  Maisie felt the small hand grip harder.

  “It was lovely of you to entertain her, Mr. Miller. Perhaps Anna will read to you next time—I believe she’s a very good reader.”

  “Very well,” said Miller. “Oh, and by the way, I’ve spoken to Lady Rowan and informed her that I hope very much to cease being a strain upon the household as soon as I can. My cousin has already secured accommodation for me, and will take on a man to assist me with daily needs—so I won’t be a nuisance for him either.”

  “We’ll see a little more of you before you go, then.” Maisie was about to turn to leave the room with Anna, but stopped. “Would you like to come with us, Mr. Miller? We have a little surprise here today.”

  “It’ll make a change from a shock. Yes, of course. If my chair can get to wherever we’re going, it sounds as if it might be rather fun. And I’d like some fun.”

  Maisie looked down at Anna, who had reverted to her former seriousness, as if she were trying to guess what a surprise might be, and if she’d ever had one before. Soon Maisie was pushing Miller along a well-worn path from the Dower House to the stables at the back of Chelstone Manor, with Brenda and Anna following behind. In earlier days the stables had housed carriage horses, hunters, and draft horses for the farm beyond the gardens. One retired draft horse remained, his power now replaced by a tractor. The hunters—James’ hunters—were still there, for neither Lady Rowan nor Maisie could bear to sell them. They were exercised each day by two sisters who lived in the village. There was also a fine mare in foal, another Derby hopeful to join others owned by Lady Rowan Compton. Miller indicated that it was all right to leave him alongside a hunter, who poked his head over the stable door to be nuzzled. With Anna holding her hand, Maisie walked slowly towards a stable at the end of the row of stalls. She
could hear Frankie’s voice, and then the groom telling him, “They’re here.”

  “Hello, little Anna. And to you, Mr. Miller.” He nodded to acknowledge Miller, and turned his attention back to Anna. “I’ve got a surprise for you!”

  Anna looked up at Maisie. She wavered, as if not sure whether to go to Frankie, but Maisie nodded, and she released her hand.

  “Come on, got something special for you. Over here.”

  Frankie held out his hand, and as he did so, Maisie felt her throat catch, for in that moment she was a child herself, in Lambeth, on a morning when her father was taking her on his rounds, delivering fruit and vegetables to his customers. Still reticent, Anna walked towards Frankie, tiptoeing as if she were stepping across thin ice.

  “There you go, pet. Have a look in there,” said Frankie, his hand on her shoulder.

  At once Anna released her hold on her case and pulled off the box containing her gas mask, letting them fall to the ground. Frankie picked them up and handed them to Maisie—and she at once felt caught between laughter and tears, for Anna was embracing the white pony, who had been scrubbed until the deep-caked farm mud was washed away. Her hoofs had been trimmed, and her mane and tail brushed until they shone. Maisie watched as Frankie showed Anna the small child’s saddle he had brought from the tack room, and the bridle he would teach her to put on the pony before she went for her first ride the following day.

  As dusk began to fall, Maisie took Anna’s hand and led her from the stable, whereupon the child looked around as if panicked, remembering her case and mask.

  “There you are, Anna,” said Maisie. “I held on to them while you were with the pony.”

  Frankie remained behind to speak to Miller, saying he would be home directly the guest had been safely returned to the manor house. For her part, Anna clutched her belongings to her chest, half stumbling as she walked up the slight incline back to the Dower House, Emma at her side and Maisie and Brenda walking a step behind.