Maisie entered her garden flat in Holland Park by the side entrance. As she slipped the latch on the gate, she could already hear a blues number playing on her gramophone, and the smell of cooking coming from the kitchen. A wicker table was set for two on the lawn, for the weather had changed again and it had become an unseasonably warm evening. She could hear Mark Scott singing along as he cooked spaghetti—she knew it would be spaghetti. It was always spaghetti when Mark was in charge of supper. Maisie wondered if the man had been weaned on Italian food, though she would not have thought to use herbs in the way that he used herbs—beyond a little sage and rosemary in the Christmas turkey stuffing, she didn’t know anyone who used herbs. Now Mark Scott was in her home, and herbs had become a staple in the kitchen.
“Hi hon,” said Mark, coming to the door, his shirtsleeves rolled, his tie loosened. He looked at his watch.
“You’re early,” said Maisie, allowing him to wrap his arms around her.
“Actually, Maisie, you’re late. Don’t you remember when I called and said I’d be getting away on time to cook dinner for us tonight? I figured I had some time owing, and I wanted to see my lady. But I guess she didn’t want to see me so much.”
“Mark, I am so sorry—really, I just had a lot to do today, and a new case came in, and—” She stepped back and looked up at her lover. Her smile faded. “You’re going back to Washington.”
“Maisie, you can read me like a book. But look, it’s not for long—not like the last time when I hadn’t a clue whether I’d be away for days or months. I’m flying over just for a week—well, maybe more. Maybe less. Have to see. Usual route via Lisbon—to be on the safe side. But I’ll miss the half-pint’s gym-thing.”
“Gymkhana,” corrected Maisie. “She’ll be upset, but—”
“But then she’ll be so excited by it all, the fact that her old Uncle Mark isn’t there won’t matter a bit.” He sniffed the air. “Oops, better check the dinner, don’t want to burn the pan again—and I mean ‘again this evening,’ because that’s the second sauce I’ve whipped up for you.”
“Oh, you didn’t throw away good food, did you, Mark?”
“Maisie, it was burned. I can’t put burned food on the table because it isn’t good, even though as you will probably remind me, there are people wanting for something to eat in this country.” He paused with a sigh that seemed to signal exasperation. “Anyway, as you can see, I thought we’d just have enough time to eat outside with a candle to light the way—it’s warm enough, though they say the weather will break tomorrow. I tell you, if you Brits didn’t have weather, you’d never talk to each other.”
Maisie thought of Gabriella Hunter’s words of advice. Love must be cradled gently. She smiled. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, darling—I wasn’t thinking. It’s been a long day.” She followed Scott into the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh garlic and tomatoes simmering teased her appetite—she realized she had not eaten since a hurried slice of toast at Chelstone before leaving for the station, and an Eccles cake that she could not finish at Hunter’s house. Now she realized she had admonished Scott for wasting food when she was guilty of the same thing.
“So, what calls you to Washington?” she asked, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. She leaned against the doorframe and accepted the glass of chilled white wine he passed to her.
“Oh, you know, embassy business.” Scott smiled as he clinked his glass against hers and leaned in to kiss her cheek.
She closed her eyes and breathed in his aftershave. The ship was righting itself again, and they were on an even keel.
“I don’t suppose it’s got anything to do with Hitler’s speech last week—about Germany being in a position to ‘beat all possible enemies’ no matter how much they spend. We all know that was a dig at the United States.” Maisie paused. “Sorry. Careless talk costs lives.”
“Sure does,” said Scott, turning back to the stove. He set down his glass and began serving spaghetti and sauce into two bowls. “Grab the bread from the oven, hon—it should be warm now.”
“The advantage of knowing you, Mark, is the food—and Anna just loved her chocolate treat this morning.”
“Now she tells me—I guess I know Anna only laughs at my jokes for the chocolate.” Holding the plates, Scott nodded toward his glass, and they made their way to the garden, Maisie carrying the glasses and bread.
“You’ve got that look on your face, Maisie,” said Scott, as they were seated and he raised his glass once again to touch hers. “You’re either worried about me—and I doubt that—or someone else. Is it Anna or your dad or Brenda or Rowan or . . .”
“You’re going through the family list until you see my face change, aren’t you?”
Scott laughed.
“I’m just a bit tired,” said Maisie. “As I said, long day.”
“All the days are long right now—for everyone.” He set down his fork and reached for her hand. “Maybe you should head back to Chelstone—you don’t need to do whatever you’re doing, Maisie. It would be good for you, for Anna. Maybe even for us.”
“For the time being, Mark, I have to make a contribution and do my bit as much as everyone else. It’s just that the bit I’m doing worries me at times, and today was particularly draining.”
“That bad.”
Maisie nodded. “Risking other people’s lives is always bad.” With her free hand she lifted her glass and took a sip of wine. “Forget I said that—I shouldn’t have.”
“Said what? It’s gone already, sweetheart.” He smiled at her. “It’s gone from my mind, never to return.”
Maisie held on to his hand. “I’ll miss you, Mark—when you’re away.”
“Me too, you too,” said Scott, holding her gaze for a few seconds. “Come on, eat up—there’s more in the pan. And let’s talk about something else. How’s your dad? Is his knee still giving him trouble? What does that old beau of yours say about it . . . the orthopedic guy?”
She released his hand, taking comfort in his deliberate attempt to bring the talk around to normal everyday things. Steering the ship forward. They discussed her father’s arthritic knee, the fact that Lord Julian was defying all attempts by the grim reaper to claim him, Anna’s progress at school, her squealing laugh when she was happy, and Brenda’s opinions, which seem to be gaining strength every day—though Maisie did not mention the morning’s conversation with her stepmother. Mark Scott enjoyed talking about life at Chelstone, about Maisie’s family, about Priscilla, her husband and boys, to the extent that Maisie sometimes thought that he felt a certain comfort, a sense of belonging, in claiming her family for his own.
The lightness of conversation lulled her, as if she were at the edge of a lake and each subject was a dragonfly skimming across the water on a warm summer’s day. She knew without a shadow of doubt that she was in love with Mark Scott. But the past had taught her that war was never a good time for love, though Gabriella Hunter’s words echoed in her mind. The war will be over one day, Maisie—what you do now will pave the way for how you will live in peace.
Chapter 4
Maisie did not go straight to the office the following morning, but instead made her way to Scotland Yard, where she asked to see Detective Chief Superintendent Caldwell. Having waited in a drafty corridor for fifteen minutes, she was informed that he could spare her a minute or two of his time.
“I know the way—you’ve got your hands full here,” said Maisie to a relieved police constable, who had a line of people waiting for attention.
Caldwell was standing outside his private domain as she approached, walking through an outer office where two detectives were at work. “I take it this is not a social call, Miss Dobbs—I just hope you’re not about to land more work onto my overflowing plate.” He held out his hand for her to enter the room. “Take a pew—just throw those files on the floor, I won’t get to them for a week anyway.”
Maisie regarded the man before her—stocky, his perspiring brow
furrowed and his hands ink-stained. He seemed flustered and tired at the same time, his tie askew and an unshaven shadow around his chin. The office was small, with a desk at one end underneath a high window that offered little natural light. There was just enough space for Caldwell to squeeze around the desk to take his seat. Several drawers on the two filing cabinets had not been closed—or perhaps they were jammed open—so the door into the office offered only sufficient room for a person to shuffle in sideways while holding their breath. There were piles of papers on the floor and visitor chair as well as the desk. Caldwell’s jacket, hanging on the door, partially obscured the glass that would allow him a view into the outer office, if the door were closed.
“I can come another time,” said Maisie.
Caldwell grinned. “Blimey, I must look rough if you’re offering to walk out of here before having your two penn’orth of my busy day.” He leaned on the desk, rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Want a cuppa? I can get one of the blokes to bring us some stewed tea and even find the odd biscuit of suspicious vintage, if you like.”
“I’ll take the tea, not the biscuit,” said Maisie.
“Thank the Lord for that—an excuse to get something wet and warm down me.”
Caldwell stood up, kicked a wastebasket to the side and walked to the door. He called out to a younger man in the corridor, “Oi! Watling. Two teas, splash of milk,” and turned back to Maisie. “No bloody good asking for sugar anymore, is it?”
Maisie laughed. “I was going to give it up anyway.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” Caldwell took his seat again.
A young constable entered holding two mugs of tea in one hand, and a plate with four plain biscuits in the other.
“Blimey, biscuits! Fresh-looking biscuits! And on a plate!” said Caldwell, clearing a space on the desk. “You’ll be the commissioner in a few months if you go on like that, Watling.”
The constable put down the mugs along with the plate of biscuits, and blushed. “Anything else, sir?”
“No, off you go, lad. Close the door behind you.”
With the door closed, Maisie reached for a mug of tea and changed her mind about the biscuit.
“Young Watling’s safe from call-up,” said Caldwell, taking up the other mug. “Turned down by the services on account of being color-blind. Normally we might have done the same, but we need all the help we can get.” He took two biscuits, pausing to dunk one into his mug of tea and popping it into his mouth before it disintegrated. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “Now then, let’s get down to business. What do you want? Is it something to do with that runner seeing things in the blackout?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, it’s to do with the runner, but I don’t think he was seeing things. I believe he witnessed a murder, though there is no body.”
“Tricky one, that. No body.” Caldwell took a deep breath and dunked his second biscuit, eating it with the same speed as he had the first. He coughed, thumped his chest, and took a generous sip of tea. “I tell you, this job is nothing but a recipe for terminal heartburn.” He paused. “Look, we are scrambling here at the Yard. I know you’ve probably heard this from other quarters, and probably even me, but all that nonsense about Londoners all pulling together and crime going down is just that—nonsense. There’s a black market to deal with, crime through the roof, looting, and suddenly human life isn’t worth what it was. And I haven’t got enough men to sort it out because they’re all in the army now—or the air force, or navy. So when I send someone to look for a body and they can’t find one—even though the Germans are making mincemeat out of us—I have to assume there was no bloody body in the first place.”
“I think there was, Superintendent Caldwell. I know your men are pressed for time, so I went along to the place where the boy said he had seen the murder take place, and I found blood.”
“There’s a lot of it about. And bodies, and bits of bodies.” Caldwell exhaled audibly. “You know what one of the firemen found the other morning? He goes into a shelter and finds everyone dead. Not a mark on them. Twenty people, women and children, and they are all dead. The bomb knocked all the air out of their lungs and they died instantly. Gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Maisie could see emotion overwhelm the usually derisive policeman. “We’re seeing terrible things, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know if we’ll ever get over it, Miss Dobbs. What I’ve seen since war broke out will stay in my head forever, I’m sure—and I’m a copper. We expect to see things most people don’t.” He shook his head. “Right then. Back to the boy. You say you found blood?”
“Yes, and it looked as if it had been covered with the crumbled cement and sand that’s left when the rubble has been cleared off the road—most of the area is a bomb site.”
“What was the lad doing there?”
“Running a message.”
“Who for?”
Maisie widened her eyes.
“Oh, all right,” said Caldwell. “But is there anything you can say?”
“I’m afraid I can’t—but I wondered if you might know which mortuary a body from that part of Vauxhall might be taken to, if it were found by the ambulance service. I haven’t been driving since last year—since . . .”
“Since your mate copped it. Don’t blame you. How is she?”
“One more operation to go—in December, a couple of weeks before Christmas.”
“Poor woman.”
“Anyway,” said Maisie, anxious to press on. “We would have taken the bodies to Lambeth, but I wanted to know if you’d received any word from the pathologist that a death by stabbing had been recorded.”
“What’s it been? Four days? We should have been told, but—”
“But when someone’s dead, they’re dead, and the pathologists are overwhelmed.”
“I hate to say it, but yes. Or—and believe me, I hate encouraging you in your little quests, Miss Dobbs—if what you say is true, the body could have been removed by someone else or taken down to the water and dumped there with some ballast tied to the feet. It’s not as if we’re short of lumps of rubble in London, is it?”
Maisie shook her head, sipped the last of her tea and stood up. “You’re right—but I had a few moments to spare and thought I’d drop in to see what you thought. Could you do me a favor and perhaps telephone the pathologist at the mortuary in Lambeth and—”
Caldwell caught her eye. “Are you as convinced as you say you are, Miss Dobbs? I’ve worked with you a few times now, and despite all I say to wind you up at times, I know you know what you’re doing. I know doubt when I see it too—and there’s a little bit of doubt in your eyes.”
Maisie sighed. “He was a tired boy at night in a bombing raid. On one hand I have to believe him because I have some more . . . anyway, on the other hand I know it’s possible to see dragons lurking in the shadows when you’re scared.”
“What were you about to say then? You have some more what? Evidence? Now then, let me just—”
“Sir!” The door opened following a single knock, and the young constable entered. “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we’ve just had the river police on the blower again, and they want to know when you’ll be down to look at the body that was hauled in by the crew trying to bring up the Spitfire that went down into the water last night. What with the crane and two dredgers, there’s people gathering to watch. They’ve been trying not to attract attention to the murder victim, but they’re getting worried about it, sir. I told them you were held up, but they said there’s already a reporter snooping around, though so far he’s only been interested in the Spitfire, which they’ll be hauling out as soon as they’ve got the chains around it. Shall I call down for the motor car?”
Caldwell raised his eyebrows. “Thank you for that, Watling, lovely timing as usual. I’m going to be having a word with you about the importance of maintaining confidentiality in the department.”
“Sir?” The young detective co
nstable’s brow furrowed.
“Oh, never mind. Yes, call Digby to bring the motor round, because we’re not walking down there.”
“Yes, sir.” The constable turned to leave and knocked his elbow against a filing cabinet. “Ow!”
“Watch it, Watling—that thing cost money. I’ll have your wages docked for that.”
Maisie watched the constable as he returned to his desk. She inclined her head, then turned to face Caldwell. “A body coming up from the river, Detective Superintendent?”
Caldwell sighed. “Yes, Miss Dobbs—a body. We got the message a little while ago. Knife wounds to the abdomen and heart, just the sort of thing you’ve been asking about—no more information than that at this stage. What with the disturbance caused by bringing up the Spitfire, it must have dislodged the deceased. I didn’t want to say anything, because we’ve been under attack for over a year, and it could be anyone.”
“Bombs don’t usually land with knives on board, Caldwell.”
“All right, all right—you’d better come with me. The pathologist is there now to see to the poor boy who went down with his Spitfire.”
A crowd of people had gathered around the police cordon along the Embankment, though it was clear their main focus was the Spitfire about to be winched out of the murky waters of the Thames.
“This is why I wanted the motor,” said Caldwell. “We could’ve walked, but then we’d have had trouble getting through that lot. Last thing I want is a blimmin’ press bod collaring me for a comment because he’s heard there’s more than one body coming up.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 6
