In This Grave Hour: A Maisie Dobbs Novel by Jacqueline Winspear

Author:Jacqueline Winspear [Winspear, Jacqueline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780062436603
Google: hBaZDAEACAAJ
Amazon: B01HBPQV2W
Goodreads: 30653727
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2017-03-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The London Overseas Reception Board was only a short walk from Greenwich Market. It was situated on the first floor of a modest Victorian building with a shop on the ground floor and a dwelling above. Maisie had managed to park the Alvis nearby, and waited until the manageress, Miss Golding, could spare her ten minutes. She suspected there were only about three or four staff, all told.

A young woman who introduced herself as Miss Hatcher led Maisie to a room with a table and chairs in the center, though around the walls were boxes in various stages of leaning to the point where it seemed they might fall at any moment. Golding was standing alongside the table leafing through a file as Maisie entered. At first glance she appeared to be a no-nonsense sort of woman. Her dark brown hair was permed into tight curls, reminding Maisie of winkles, the tiny black shellfish her father favored with bread and butter and a lettuce, tomato, and cucumber salad for Sunday tea. Her cotton blouse was starched, and she was dressed in a jacket and skirt costume of pale green wool barathea. Her appearance was in stark contrast to her employee, whose blonde hair was so fair it might have been colored at home, and who had enhanced the silhouette of her fashionable narrow dress with a leather belt that matched her wedge sandals. Golding wore brown shoes that Maisie thought were akin to a style that a school headmistress might have termed “sensible.”

Golding looked up. “Thank you, Miss Hatcher, that will be all.” She inclined her head in the direction of a chair, and Maisie took a seat. Without offering a greeting, Golding continued, “Miss Dobbs. I looked up the names you’ve furnished us with, and yes, it seems we have records for the men. I just have to lay my hands on them in one of these boxes. As you know, they were passed on to us by the Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association years ago. Normally it would have taken me ages to find them, but we’ve been having a huge sort out to make more room—and we’re moving to larger premises soon, in any case. We weren’t at all sure what to do with these records, and then the government stepped in. Most of the men and women who came through our original association—and the one Rosemary Hartley-Davies worked for—returned home after the war, and of those who remained, well, they’re here in Britain now, and no one knows any difference, do they?” Golding chattered on as she opened a heavy-duty cardboard box and began pulling out folders. “Mind you, we’ve had inquiries here about Belgian citizens, mainly to confirm details provided to the authorities when they arrived—I mean, as far as the population’s concerned, some of them could have been deserting Germans who now want to desert back the other way, couldn’t they? Personally, I’m worried that this vigilance is all going to get out of control, and anyone with a bit of an accent is going to be reported, or even worse.

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