The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “And the thing is,” he added, having described returning to the spot where the crime took place, and not finding a body, “the thing is that I’ve thought about it all a lot, and I reckon that the bloke what did it is not English. And he had a knuckle-duster as well as that knife he used to do in the other bloke.”

  “Can you describe what it was about the man that made you think he was a foreigner?”

  Freddie nodded and cleared his throat again. Billy pushed back his chair and moved toward a filing cabinet by the desk occasionally used by Sandra, who came in to deal with office administration.

  “Carry on, son,” said Billy. “I’m just getting you a cream soda to wet your whistle.”

  “I’d like one too, while you’re up,” said Maisie, returning her attention to the boy. “So he was a foreigner.”

  The boy nodded again. “It was the way he said certain words, though he sounded right posh. I’ve had to deliver to the Frenchies before, and I reckon he was French.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Maisie. She knew the boy was a runner for the various secret services, and would likely have been tasked with delivering messages to the Free French, who had their own intelligence sources. They were not happy with the fact that the British were landing agents in France.

  Billy handed the boy a bottle of cream soda and another to Maisie.

  “What about the knuckle-duster, son?” asked Billy.

  The boy lifted his hand. “If you wear one of those, it leaves marks right across there.” He ran a finger from the opposite hand across his knuckles. “You can always tell when a bloke’s had one of them on.”

  Maisie leaned forward and with a soft touch swept the boy’s fringe away from his eyes. It was a mother’s touch, gentle, and as the boy looked at her, his gray-blue eyes filled with tears.

  “And how would you know that, Freddie?” she asked.

  He looked down as if to study his worn hobnail boots, then looked up again.

  “Seen it on my dad’s hands.” He caught his breath and looked beyond the window, focusing on the autumnal canopy of trees shading the square. “Felt it too,” he whispered, taking a deep breath as he turned back to Maisie and Billy. “So’s my mum. But he keeps his hands to himself on nights I bring home the money. If I miss school to work, it upsets my mum, but it stops him going for her when I earn a few shillings, so it’s worth it. I can always read a book while I’m waiting to run a message. Mum likes to know I’m reading.” He looked down at the bottle of cream soda, lifted it to his mouth and drained the contents.

  “I’ll take that, son,” said Billy, reaching for the empty bottle and handing him his own bottle. “You’ve got a thirst on you, so have this one—I’ve not touched a drop.”

  “Is your school near the place where you saw the man killed, Freddie?” asked Maisie.

  “Not far.” Freddie Hackett began to sip from the fresh bottle of soda.

  “I have to go to another appointment when we’ve finished, however it won’t take long for Mr. Beale and I to accompany you to the spot so we know where it is, and then I’ll have to get on my way. After that he’s going to take you straight round to the school, and he’ll square things with your teacher, so don’t worry about it.” She paused. “Where does your father work? Near home?”

  “He works when he gets work. He couldn’t join the army, even the Territorials, on account of his wounds from the last war. He’s got a war pension.”

  “That won’t amount to much,” said Billy.

  “I don’t want anyone going round there to see my dad, miss. Please don’t turn up at our gaff or anywhere looking for him—and don’t you, Mr. Beale. I’ve got to consider my mum and Iris.”

  “Don’t worry, Freddie,” said Maisie. “We won’t be going to see your dad, but I will be popping into Scotland Yard a bit later on, to have a word with a detective I know, and he’ll ask for more information, just in case he wants to talk to you. But I’ll make sure he doesn’t go off to see your mum and dad without you knowing.”

  The boy seemed relieved as he stood up. “I’d better go now.”

  “Right you are, son. Let’s be on our way.” Billy pushed back his chair and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder as he turned to Maisie. “We’ll go and get a taxicab while you lock up, miss.”

  Chapter 2

  “This is it,” said the boy.

  Maisie tapped on the glass, instructing the taxicab driver to stop. Freddie Hackett clambered out of the cab, followed by Billy, who held out his hand to Maisie.

  “Watch them puddles, miss—there was a shower or two last night,” said Billy.

  Maisie turned to the driver. “Would you mind waiting here, please? We’ll only be a few minutes.”

  She paused to look at the bomb sites around them, where a few remaining houses stood like solitary teeth. Mounds of rubble were piled along the side of the street and between homes, enabling the thoroughfare to remain open for horse-drawn carts and other vehicular traffic—a sign that life was carrying on in a city under siege.

  “Over here, miss,” said Billy, who had found a long, thin piece of discarded iron and was poking away at granulated cement several inches thick that was covering the pavement. Freddie Hackett knelt at his feet.

  Maisie joined them. “It didn’t take you long to find it, Billy—the victim was definitely a ‘bleeder,’ wasn’t he?”

  “All I can say is, the copper who came out with young Freddie here couldn’t see to the end of his nose.” Billy stopped moving the sand around and rested on his haunches next to Freddie Hackett. “Look at this. Big old puddle of blood. I don’t know where the constable’s head was, but it wasn’t on the job.”

  He stood up and continued to prod with the iron rod, revealing more of the dark brown stain that was expanding as he cleared away sand and dust.

  “There’s no doubt that someone made sure this was well disguised with cement dust,” said Maisie. She leaned over and touched the stain, then stood up and looked around her. She began to walk backward and forward, peering down while expanding the breadth of ground covered.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Freddie.

  “It’s what they call a ‘grid search,’ son—instead of just wandering around looking for something when you don’t know what you’re looking for, you sort of mark out a grid in your mind so you don’t miss anything within a certain distance to and from a central point—this here is the central point.”

  “Sort of like geometry at school.”

  “Yeah, son, sort of like that. But then you look for something that just doesn’t seem right, something that stands out or is a bit odd, as if it doesn’t belong.”

  Maisie continued her search until she had walked every inch of a twenty-foot square around Billy and the messenger boy, which entailed negotiating a good deal of rubble. She looked up toward the bombed-out buildings and piles of masonry and squinted, standing for a few minutes before beginning to make her way back, adhering to the grid she had just walked while still concentrating on the ground. Then she stopped, and reached down.

  “What is it, miss?” asked Billy. Freddie stepped toward Maisie, but Billy stopped him. “Hang on, mate—we don’t want to disturb anything.”

  Maisie felt for the small drawstring cloth bag in her pocket, and drew out a pair of tweezers. She leaned forward with the tool and picked up half a cigarette.

  “Looks like someone’s old smoke to me—and I don’t know who’d have a mind to throw away half a ciggie. It’s hard enough getting them on the black market,” said Billy.

  Maisie nodded. “And that’s exactly what this is—a half-smoked cigarette.” She drew her attention to the boy. “Freddie, was the murderer smoking?”

  The boy closed his eyes tight, furrowing his brow so that at once he seemed like an old man in a youth’s body. He nodded and opened his eyes. “I was just remembering—and I reckon he was smoking when him and the other bloke started having a barney, and then he flung his smoke down before he started on him.�
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  Maisie turned to Billy. “It’s a French cigarette.”

  “Blimey.”

  “And there’s something over there, on that pile of rubble—do you think you can reach it for me, Billy?”

  “Right you are,” said Billy, walking to the edge of the pavement, where mounds of broken bricks, cement and the remains of what were once homes had been shoveled away from the road.

  “Can you see it?” Maisie watched as her assistant scanned the area she’d indicated.

  Billy smiled. “Got it, miss—it’s a wallet.” He stepped down and handed the old, worn wallet to Maisie.

  As she suspected, there was nothing inside; no identification, no money, no photographs. She closed the wallet and brushed sand away from the back and front.

  “There it is,” said Maisie.

  “What?” said Freddie Hackett.

  “It’s a bit damp, but you can see the words ‘Fabriqué en France’ embossed into the leather on the back. It was made in France.” She took a handkerchief from her bag and wrapped it around the wallet, along with the somewhat soggy half-smoked cigarette. “Of course, it could have been bought in London or anywhere else, but it’s an interesting discovery. I would imagine that either it dropped from the victim’s jacket in the struggle or was thrown there. Did you see the men on that pile of rubble at any point, Freddie?”

  Freddie shrugged. “They were all over the place, going for each other, so they could’ve stumbled up there.” He closed his eyes. “I was so scared, Miss Dobbs, I saw arms and legs everywhere. Then there was the knife . . .”

  “It’s a terrible thing to have seen, Freddie.” She paused, adding, “Well, an interesting find anyway. You never know, whoever removed the victim might have taken the contents of the wallet and thrown it over there. People’s personal belongings are scattered everywhere after a bombing, so anyone finding it wouldn’t have given it a second thought.”

  The driver of the taxicab sounded the horn and leaned out of the window.

  “Oi—you gonna be ’ere all day, love? You’re tallying a nice little bill, you know.”

  “Just one more stop, sir,” called Maisie in reply, turning to Billy. “Here’s what I’d like you to do. Could you go with Freddie to the school, let them know he’s been a sterling example of a young man doing his duty and reporting a crime and that he should have no punishment for the morning’s absence?”

  “Right you are—it’ll be my pleasure.”

  “I’ll see you back at the office later.” Turning to Freddie Hackett, she gave the boy her full attention. “And you, young man, are very brave, and you’ve shown great fortitude. I want you to keep in touch with us—you know where to find Mr. Beale and we know where to find you.” She paused, looking into his eyes, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Freddie, you seem skilled at remaining safe, but I want you to be vigilant—be even more aware of your surroundings wherever you go. In fact”—Maisie reached into her shoulder bag for her purse, and picked out a shilling’s worth of pennies—“I’d like you to stop at a telephone kiosk and place a call to Mr. Beale after school each afternoon for the next few days. He’ll give you two numbers in case there’s no answer at the first. Do you know how to use the telephone?” The boy shook his head. “All right, we can sort that out,” continued Maisie. “Mr. Beale will find a kiosk on the way to the school, and he’ll show you what to do and how to speak to the operator. Is that all right?”

  Freddie nodded.

  Maisie took a silver coin from the purse. “And here’s a florin to give to your mum.”

  The boy’s eyes widened as he looked up at Maisie. “Yes, miss. Thank you very much, miss.” Freddie reached for the money and put it in his sock.

  Maisie inclined her head. “Why do you put the money in your sock, Freddie?”

  “So it’s safe, for my mum.” He looked away from Maisie, then down at the reddish-brown stain on the ground. “My dad gets my running money, and if he’s there when I come home, he goes through my pockets to make sure I’ve given it all up.” The boy faltered for a moment, as if searching for the words in his mind. “And then he goes down the pub.”

  Maisie nodded, and felt her throat catch. She looked at her assistant. “All right, Billy—be on your way. I’ll see you later.”

  She watched the man and boy walk together, Billy ruffling the lad’s hair as they made their way along the street, then waving and calling out “Afternoon, mate” while touching his cap to acknowledge the costermonger who passed them with his barrow. The boy looked up at Billy and smiled, leaning in a little closer as Billy’s arm rested on his shoulder. Maisie sighed and returned to the taxi, stopping to give the driver another address before climbing aboard. She wanted to see the house where the alleged murderer had accepted a message from the boy runner.

  Once again, she asked the taxicab driver to remain on the street to wait for her. She was already late for MacFarlane, but she expected to be in time for the two interviews she was to conduct later. The driver would have to cool his heels just a little longer.

  “I hope you’ve got a few bob on you, miss, because this little jaunt won’t come cheap.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Maisie, looking down at her notebook. “You can stop just down there.”

  “Not a lot of life around here, is there? I reckon them houses will be condemned, if they’re not already. It’s a wonder they haven’t gone up in smoke before now—though likely as not there’s no gas, because the supply would have been shut off.”

  Maisie looked up at the three-story Victorian house as the cabbie pulled alongside. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, remembering that in Freddie’s recounting of the meeting, when he met the man he thought was a “foreigner,” he had described him carrying an oil lamp.

  She stepped from the cab and walked toward the house, up three steps to the front door, then lifted the blackened brass knocker. There was no answer to either the first or a second knock, so she applied pressure to the door. It moved just a little, allowing her to push it open and step into the passage, revealing a house that was familiar in design. Thousands of houses built in the mid- to late 1800s were constructed to more or less the same specifications, give or take a room or two. The entrance passage—and it was never referred to as a “hall” because only the upper classes had an entrance hall, whereas the lower classes referred to the same, albeit smaller entrance as a “passage”—had a parlor to the right, sometimes followed by a dining room, and at the end of the passage was a kitchen and scullery. Larger houses might have a cellar accessible via a door under the staircase—which was directly ahead as she entered—but this house had only an under-stairs cupboard. She anticipated two rooms above, and then another narrower staircase leading to an attic room. The WC would be outside, either at the bottom of the backyard or just to the left of the door that led from the kitchen to the yard—and it was a yard, a limited space with flagstones, which could never be called a garden.

  While the house seemed to have all its walls, she noticed large cracks across the ceiling and fallen masonry along the passage. She turned the key on a wall-mounted gas lamp; there was no telltale hissing, so the supply had indeed been cut off. She moved into the parlor. There was nothing of note to be found. And that, she knew, was a find in itself. The grate had been cleaned of ash, and the floor had been swept. There was nothing in the house to suggest a family had been here and then left in a hurry. Blackout curtains were drawn back. Blackout curtains. Hadn’t Freddie Hackett said the man pulled him in quickly because he didn’t want to get a mouthful from the air raid patrol, because light was visible through the open door? She looked at the long, wide crack across the ceiling and walked around the perimeter of the room once before stepping into the passage. Treading with care across fallen masonry, Maisie again focused her attention on the ceiling above, then the floor beneath her feet. If she were not mistaken, the collapse of part of the ceiling was recent—perhaps last night—and had fallen onto a swept floor.

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nbsp; There was nothing in the small dining room or the kitchen. No crockery left behind—not even broken china. The shelves were empty, and though she could see marks on the floor left by a freestanding kitchen cabinet, she suspected it had left the house with the family who lived there before bombs drove them away. She imagined them leaving with their belongings on a hand cart, and wondered where on earth they might be—housing in London and other bombed cities was becoming hard to find.

  She made her way upstairs. Beds and wardrobes had been abandoned in the upper rooms, which did not surprise Maisie. If a family were moving into smaller accommodation, some furniture had to be left behind. There were no sheets, yet on one bed a counterpane remained. She pressed down on the mattress as if she were in a furniture store, testing it for firmness.

  “I feel like Goldilocks,” she whispered, looking around her at the water-stained walls and even more cracks across the ceiling.

  She climbed the second staircase to the attic room. Perhaps if the country had not been at war for two years, the gaping hole in the roof above might have delivered a shock. Instead she merely sighed as she picked her way across fallen tiles and beams toward a bed in the corner. The fallen roof was recent—again, it could have come down last night as rain fell, forcing already weakened beams to give way—and there was a musty odor signaling mold growing around the walls. A counterpane had been pulled up, as on the bed in the room on the floor below, but that wasn’t what had drawn her toward the bed. She knelt down and picked up a scrap of manila paper with a small metal clip still attached. It was a fragment from an envelope of the type used in many offices and government departments, the sort secured by two prongs that poked through a hole in the flap and then split apart to hold it in place. It was clear that the flap on the envelope to which the fragment belonged had also been glued to ensure security, as the scrap of manila paper still had the metal fastener in place. It was likely the envelope had been opened in a hurry and the recipient was not aware that a piece had flown off. Easy to miss in the half-light. Easy to miss if you had been tasked with clearing the house of recent signs of life and you didn’t want to venture a second time into a room with a weakened roof whilst it was raining. She knew that even the most experienced criminal or even a highly trained agent could make a simple error. Hadn’t she been told as much during her training when she was first recruited into the realm of intelligence in 1938, when she accepted an assignment that took her to Munich? It was always the minor blunder that could catch you out: the bus ticket dropped from your pocket, or the shred of clothing caught on a nail, or the way you picked up your knife and fork. She slipped the fragment into the handkerchief with the cigarette end and the wallet.