The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  And as he ran, his legs pumping like pistons in the bowels of a ship, Freddie Hackett knew that he had to tell someone about what he’d seen, because he was sure it wasn’t his imagination. He couldn’t keep this to himself. He had to do the right thing, like his old grandad used to tell him before he was killed. The trouble was, he wondered who he could tell, because as far as he could see, there wasn’t anything to prove the two men had even been there. He’d have to think of someone. Someone who could do something about it. Someone who would believe him.

  Chapter 1

  “When will you be back, Mummy?” The little girl’s brown eyes were wide as she stood at the playground gates.

  “On Wednesday, darling. You’ll have just two sleeps, two nights of sweet dreams, and I’ll be home.” Maisie Dobbs knelt down and put her arms around her daughter. “And Grandad will be getting Lady ready for the show on Saturday, so you’ve got a lot to do. Your first gymkhana! Grandad will be ready to take you out to practice when you get home.”

  The child grinned, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. “Do you think we’ll win a rosette?”

  “I think you might. But remember, it’s your first show, so just going along is winning, in my book.”

  “Will Uncle Mark come to watch?”

  “Yes, he said he’ll come for a Friday to Sunday, so he’ll be right there with us cheering you on, Anna.”

  “I hope he doesn’t cheer too loud. He cheers loud. He cheered loud when we went to see Tarquin playing cricket.”

  “Well, Anna, Uncle Mark just gets very enthusiastic about games—”

  The sound of aircraft approaching interrupted Maisie. Looking up, Anna put her hands over her ears as a trio of Hurricanes flew overhead.

  “I hope that doesn’t happen on Saturday, Mummy—it might scare Lady.”

  “Oh, I think Lady is well used to that sound by now, don’t you? Nothing much unsettles that little pony.” Maisie smiled again as a teacher came out of the school and began ringing the morning bell. “Now then, off you go. You’ve a cheese sandwich for lunch and a nice russet apple. And you might find another surprise in there from Uncle Mark.”

  “Chocolate!”

  “Wait and see, my darling. Grandad will be collecting you after school—and remember, two sleeps and I’ll be home.”

  The girl gave her mother one final kiss and ran into the playground, turning once to wave before calling out to a friend.

  As Maisie walked the mile home from the school to the Dower House at Chelstone Manor, her thoughts drifted to Maurice Blanche, the man who had been her mentor since girlhood. She had once been his assistant and was trained by him in the art of criminal investigation. In his day, Blanche was a renowned forensic scientist, yet he was also an esteemed psychologist and philosopher, and therefore much of his teaching was not simply the nuts and bolts of his work but the importance of seeing the whole person in the perpetrator of a crime as well as the victim. She thought of the many lessons learned in Maurice’s company, and how she might imbue this child she loved so much with the very best of her mentor’s wisdom. She sometimes wondered if her father and stepmother were doing a much better job, simply by being steady fixtures in Anna’s life and enveloping her with a joyous love laced with discipline and a down-to-earth foundation—the very foundation that had anchored Maisie when she was a child, long before she ever crossed paths with Maurice Blanche.

  “Oh, it’s all such a rolling of the dice, the bringing up of children,” her friend Priscilla had counseled. “And let me tell you, as the mother of three boys, I know what rolling the dice is all about!”

  Yes, Priscilla knew all about that gamble, with one son in the RAF, and another having lost an arm as he brought home stranded soldiers from Dunkirk.

  As soon as Maisie entered the kitchen, looking up at the clock as she closed the door behind her, it seemed her stepmother wanted to speak to her. There was always a signaling when Brenda had something on her mind—a certain stance by the kitchen table, two cups out and a pot of coffee already made. Brenda had once been Maurice’s housekeeper, and it was after he bequeathed the Dower House to Maisie that a bond had formed between Brenda and Maisie’s father. Maisie knew that Brenda had been the only person to ever give Maurice “a piece of her mind.” Now Maisie thought that she, too, was about to be on the receiving end of a piece of Brenda’s mind.

  “I thought we could have a sit-down together before you raced back to London,” said Brenda. “Your train’s not for another half an hour, and George has offered to run you over to the station—Lord Julian said it’s all right to use the motor for shorter runs, and it’s quite warm outside already. They said on the wireless that it’ll be seventy-two degrees today, though it’ll go down the rest of the month, and then we’re in for some rain. This changeable weather makes everyone out of sorts. Anyway, I’m glad Lord Julian’s put his foot down and stopped Lady Rowan going up to London in the motor car. People look to them to set an example.”

  “Well, yes, I can see his point there—and not to worry, the station isn’t far for me to walk.”

  “Be that as it may, but I told Lady Rowan we’d be having a little chat this morning, so she’s sending George, which means we have a bit more time.”

  Maisie looked at the clock again. She knew what was on Brenda’s mind. Now it seemed it was on Lady Rowan’s too. She took a seat opposite Brenda, taking the cup of coffee as it was poured for her. It was a rare treat to have someone in the house who could make such a good cup of coffee. Certainly Mark Scott—the American diplomat Maisie had been seeing—was appreciative when Maisie explained that her former employer had enjoyed a fresh, strong brew made from ground coffee beans and had taught his housekeeper how to make the perfect cup.

  Maisie thought it best to claim the opening salvo. “Right, Brenda, I suppose I’m being stalled here for a grilling.” She took a first sip of coffee, and added a sparing quarter-teaspoon of sugar.

  Brenda spooned the same amount of sugar into her coffee. “It’s something that’s been on my mind for a while, but I haven’t said anything, and your father wouldn’t dream of interfering in your business. We live under this roof, though, and until we can go back to our bungalow when Mr. Beale and his family return to Eltham, it’s only fair I tell you what’s been said. Lady Rowan is worried too.”

  “What’s been said about what?” asked Maisie.

  “You know very well what I’m talking about. Mr. Scott.”

  “I thought you and Dad liked him.”

  “We like him very much—he’s a good sort, and he is wonderful with Anna. More importantly, he seems very good to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be like that with me, Maisie—you know very well what I mean. There’s been talk about it in the village, and it doesn’t reflect well on any of us, especially Lady Rowan, who has a reputation to consider. Not to beat about the bush, they’re saying you’ve been living in sin with the American and you’ve let the family down to allow it to happen—what with you being a widow and Lady Rowan’s daughter-in-law into the bargain. And having adopted a little girl on your own.”

  Maisie took another sip of coffee, remembering Maurice’s counsel. When emotions are running high, take time to center your thoughts before you speak. She held her left hand against the place where the buckle on her belt would fall if she were wearing one. With the other hand, she set the cup on the saucer.

  “First of all, I have never known Lady Rowan to care about anyone’s reputation—not even her own.”

  “She cares about yours, and—”

  “Let me finish, Brenda.” Maisie paused, still resting her hand on her middle. “Mark and I have an understanding, a companionship. Nothing happens in this house to alarm anyone. Anna is well-balanced, and she loves Mark’s company. I do not see any reason to change our arrangement—he comes to Chelstone when he can, and is a welcome friend to our family.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes. “That’s all very well, Maisie—but
people want to see a ring on that finger. I’m surprised you don’t.”

  “We are happy with our situation, Brenda, and we are both engaged in important work.” Maisie bit her lip.

  “And exactly what is this important work? Do you think your father and I haven’t noticed that things are different? Mr. Beale is taking on more, and you only seem to be involved in the bigger jobs—no bad thing, in my estimation—yet you’re still in London two or three days a week, and then every now and again you go off for a week at a time.”

  “Not often, only when a case demands it—and Anna is settled now, she’s used to it.”

  “No, I don’t think she is.”

  Maisie looked at the clock again. She was just about to counter Brenda’s comment when the telephone rang.

  “I’ll answer that,” said Maisie, pushing back her chair. She fled along the hallway to the library, which this morning felt like a refuge. She had the Bakelite receiver in her hand before the third ring.

  “Chelstone—”

  “Miss—what time will you be in today? Reckon about eleven?” Billy, Maisie’s assistant, sounded breathless.

  “If the train’s on time, yes, about eleven o’clock. I’ve to go out again at twelve, but we can discuss the cases when I arrive, and—”

  “Good—I just want to tell this boy what time to come back to talk to you.”

  “What boy?”

  “Oh, sorry, getting ahead of myself. Do you remember that boy, Freddie? Freddie Hackett? The one who comes with a message for you every now and again? Him.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Poor kid reckons he saw a man murdered a few nights ago. Knifed. Freddie said he wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s giving him nightmares.”

  “Murdered? Billy, that’s a job for the police. Tell him to go to see Caldwell at Scotland Yard. Make it easier for him—telephone Caldwell and explain that the boy is under a great deal of . . . of . . . pressure, given his work as a message runner.”

  “That’s the trouble, miss—he went to the Yard, and apparently they sent a copper out to the spot where he said he saw it happen and the copper laughed at him. Told him he’d been seeing things—there was nothing there. Apparently there was some checking of records, but the only confirmed dead were from the air raids. And one drunk. Mind you, we know they’re short-staffed at the Yard, what with the number of police in the services now and no one to nab all them criminals on the streets. Anyway, young Freddie remembered being sent over here with a message and seeing your sign at the front, so he thought he’d come back to tell us about it. I always gave him an extra shilling for his trouble, so I reckon he trusts us. Poor kid, running all over London in shoes more holey than righteous.”

  “Billy—you believe him, don’t you?” Maisie twisted the receiver cord around her fingers.

  “I do, miss. You’ll see him, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will.” Maisie looked up—a knock at the front door signaled that George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, had arrived to take her to the station. “Children should always be believed until proven otherwise,” she added. “Tell him to come back at a quarter past eleven. I’m leaving for the station now—see you in a while.”

  As she left the house, her document case in hand, Brenda came to the door. “Don’t forget this,” she called out, handing Maisie her gas mask. “And think about what I said. It’s time. You deserve more than a bunch of flowers and a box of American chocolates once a week.”

  Maisie leaned forward and kissed her stepmother on the cheek. “See you on Wednesday, Brenda. I’ll telephone this evening, but it might be a bit later than usual. I’ve promised to pop over and see Gabriella Hunter after work. Remember Miss Hunter? Maurice’s old friend? She wrote last week for the first time in ages, and she sounded a bit lonely so I thought I’d call on her.” She didn’t give Brenda a chance to respond, but ran toward the motor car, where George was standing with the passenger door open. “And I think we all like those chocolates, don’t you?” she called over her shoulder.

  Yet as George closed the door and Maisie waved one last time from the back seat, she wondered if perhaps she should have confided in Brenda regarding Mark Scott. But no, that would never do. Even if she had understood Maisie’s concerns, Brenda would only have worried.

  Maisie arrived at the first-floor Fitzroy Square office just before eleven o’clock. As she unpinned her hat and ran her fingers through her short black hair, layered in a way that enhanced the natural waves that curled around her ears, Billy brought her up to date with events at the office.

  “There’s two cases of theft—I’m not sure we can do much about it, but I’m talking to the people about getting their locks changed and securing their windows. I tell you, this looting is terrible—and according to a couple of the coppers I know, they say it’s all getting worse and the government bods are keeping it on the q.t. because they don’t want it in the press that crime is getting out of hand. They just want everyone to carry on thinking that we’re all working together against blimmin’ Hitler over there, and not against each other.” He paused. “And there’s another case come in for us—a bloke who reckons his wife is having an affair with an Australian officer assigned to the RAF.”

  “Oh dear,” said Maisie. “I don’t like those cases. Nine times out of ten, whatever we find out, it seems the couple who were so unhappy end up happy again and we are the bringers of good news or bad who are vilified for doing our job and being the messengers.”

  “Bread-and-butter work, though, miss. It’s bread-and-butter work, and we’ve still got another three small jobs, you know, basic security worries, that sort of thing. Nothing I can’t look after by myself—mainly it’s a case of settling people who’ve got themselves a bit worked up about what might happen to their houses while they’re down the shelter, or a bit of direction about what to do with their valuables. Of course, they’re the well-heeled people who can pay for the likes of us to make them feel better.”

  Maisie and Billy pored over papers for another ten minutes, with Maisie claiming tasks that she could fit in with her “other” work—a role that Billy would never inquire about, though he knew his employer was now involved in war service with a government connection.

  Maisie glanced at the clock. “Freddie should be here in a minute, so best we put away these files. If I remember correctly, he’s an observant chap—he was looking everywhere last time he came with a message.”

  “Oh, he’s a quick study, miss—but I reckon he’s scared too.”

  The doorbell rang, two sharp, shrill bursts.

  “That’ll be him, miss—I’ll go down.”

  Maisie finished putting files in a drawer, but instead of going through the folding doors that led into her own office, she pulled up two chairs in front of Billy’s desk, then changed her mind and positioned three chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, so they could all enjoy a view to the outside world. Maurice had often observed that to give someone another aspect as a backdrop to conversation—perhaps a more pleasing landscape to look out upon—encouraged a broadening of perspective. It could slow down the heart rate, stimulate memory and temper the nerves, allowing the interview subject to open both heart and mind. And there was something about Freddie Hackett that Maisie remembered—a feeling that the boy had a good heart and a wounded soul. She had felt it as their hands touched when he passed her the manila envelope from Robbie MacFarlane; a sensation across her chest that almost caused her to gasp. Yes, that was the memory she held of the young Freddie.

  “Here he is, miss,” said Billy, opening the door and holding out his hand as if he were the master of ceremonies introducing the next act at a music hall. “The best runner in all of London.”

  Freddie Hackett blushed and took a step forward. He was only a few inches shorter than Maisie; as a man he would stand just shy of six feet tall, she thought. He wore trousers that might once have been his father’s, for they were baggy and held up with a leath
er belt. His collarless shirt was clean enough, and over it he wore a knitted pullover in a Fair Isle pattern, which Maisie thought must have been uncomfortable, given the weather. He shook hands with Maisie, wiped his left hand across his forehead, and nodded as if deference were natural for him. As he returned her smile his pale blue, almost gray eyes reflected the light, changing his countenance in a way that made him appear so very young.

  “I’m glad to see you again, Freddie—but I’m very concerned about what it appears you have witnessed. Come on, come over here and tell us all about it.” She tapped the back of the chair to the left, not wanting to put Freddie between his interlocutors. “It’s such a lovely day, and I like to see out over the square after having to put up with the blackout before the sun’s even down for the night.”

  Freddie nodded, and took his seat. Billy sat next to him, and Maisie took the third chair.

  “Now then, Freddie, it seems you had a terrible shock. I know you’ve told the story to Mr. Beale here, but I would be obliged if you’d tell it again so I can get a clear picture of what happened to you. Sometimes people hear things differently, so we want to make sure we have all the right information to help us decide what to do next.”

  The boy nodded, cleared his throat and began recounting the events of the night he saw a man murdered. He described the man to whom he had delivered the envelope, running his fingers from his cheeks to his mouth and under his right eye as he recounted what he had seen as the door opened and he looked up at a face that he was sure he had seen not twenty minutes earlier—and his belief that the man before him was indeed the killer.