Detective Sergeant Andrew Robson of the Metropolitan Police had just turned the corner at Stepney Way when he saw a woman gesturing wildly at him. An hour earlier he’d moved some tumbled-over sandbags blocking the entrance to the Royal London Hospital for that same woman and her toddler. Since mothers with children under five were evacuated the first week of September, Robson had wondered at the time why this tiny bird-like woman with the pale, pinched face had stayed to take her chances with Jerry’s bombs. But as she’d strode past him, the steely gaze and resolute jaw made him think: “There goes someone won’t be knocked sideways by anything the war can throw at her.” But when he caught up to the woman now, she was nearly hysterical.

“C’est lui!” She tugged on Robson’s good arm and pointed to a tall lanky fellow a few yards away in a tweed cap, green shirt and brown trousers. The man was leaning against a lamppost, apparentaly waiting to cross White Chapel High Road. Tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks and onto the head of the child clinging to her threadbare coat. “Please Monseiur. You must to stop heem!”

“Why? What did he do?”

“Mon mari! Celui, il l’a battu!” The woman choked on a sob and then cried, “Mon mari. . .maitenant il est mort!”

A little redhead, a real looker even in the no-nonsense navy skirt and white blouse, materialized from out of nowhere at his elbow. She cleared her throat and said, “Perhaps I might be of assistance.”

“I can manage meself, Miss, thank you very much.”

The girl raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Do you speak French?”

... See the rest of this story in July/August issue of FMAM ...