“Thank you, Corporal. Safe driving.”
Corporal Charlotte Bright smiled. “Mr. MacFarlane says he doesn’t trust anyone else to drive him, Miss Dobbs. So you’re safe with me, if I drive you again.”
Maisie smiled again and took her leave, though she stopped to look back as Charlotte Bright closed the passenger door and used a cuff pulled up over the heel of her palm to wipe a smear from the handle. A couple of young army recruits were passing, but slowed their pace to make their admiration of her ankles obvious and to pass comment. Though Bright appeared to ignore them, Maisie thought it was rather clever, the way she stuck out her foot and tripped up the one closest to her so he lurched into his friend and they both fell to the ground. Corporal Bright acted as if she hadn’t even seen them go down when she took the driver’s seat once again, closed the door of her motor car and moved off into traffic without looking back. It occurred to Maisie that she should probably feel honored that MacFarlane had sent one of his best drivers. She was sure the ATS corporal’s special training encompassed an ability to protect her passenger in any adverse situation, and given her impression of young Charlotte—“Charlie”—Bright, she had no doubt the young woman could take care of herself, and woe betide anyone who was foolish enough to underestimate her.
Maisie opened the envelope to find her travel warrant plus a clutch of notes, then made her way toward the departures board to find her platform. As she walked through the station she was framing a conversation she planned to have with Robert MacFarlane—or would she? Was he expecting her to mention Corporal Bright? Was he waiting for her to bring up the fact that he had just put another young woman she already knew into her orbit?
Putting all thoughts of MacFarlane and the journey to Scotland aside, Maisie began walking toward a telephone kiosk. Stepping in, she dropped her suitcase at her feet, took a handful of coins from her pocket and began to dial. The telephone at the Dower House rang only once before it was picked up.
“Mummy! Mummy-Mummy-Mummy—is that you?”
Maisie smiled. Anna had a habit of repeating herself when she was excited or nervous.
“Yes, my darling, it’s me! I’ll be back on Friday night, did Grandma tell you?”
“Yes-yes-yes! It’s a long time. And Emma hasn’t been well.”
Emma was another adoptee in the house—an elderly Alsatian Maisie brought home following the death of its owner. The dog and Anna had formed an immediate bond.
“Oh dear—what’s the matter with her?”
“Grandad says it’s her poor old heart, but just to let her rest, so I’ve been reading her stories.”
“I’m sure Grandad is right—he knows a lot about all animals.”
“But what if she dies? What if she dies, Mummy? What will we do if she dies?”
“Now then, let’s not think like that.” Maisie felt a sensation in her chest, as if the flow of blood to her heart had become constricted. “Which story does she like best?”
“I think the one you read to me about Peter and his magic ship—The Ship That Flew. I couldn’t read it all to her, but I remembered the story so I just told her without the book.”
“That’s a very good story, Anna. Now then, can you put Granny on the line, so I can talk to her? And remember to count the sleeps before I come home—there’s only three!”
“Three sleeps! I’m going to read to Emma again—here’s Granny Brenda.”
Maisie heard the telephone being passed from the child to the adult, and Brenda instructing Anna to put her slippers on.
“Brenda, what’s all this about Emma?”
“Oh Maisie, what a time for you not to be here. I know you have to do your bit, and there’s plenty of others doing the same, but . . . but little Anna is going to be crushed before the week’s over. Your father says Emma is on her last—we knew she was old when she came to us, and it’s only been the love of a child that’s kept her going. Follows Anna everywhere, that dog.” There was silence on the line. “Maisie—Maisie? Are you still there?”
Maisie nodded, the words caught in her throat. “I should come home right now.”
“Look, my dear, I’m sorry I was short with you earlier—we’re all a bit out of sorts, I suppose. What with this horse show—and I’m surprised they’re doing it, but I suppose life has to go on, doesn’t it? Even though it’s wartime. And you have important work. I don’t know what you do, but I know it’s important. Don’t fret about the littl’un. She has our arms around her, and when that dog’s time comes, we’ll hold her even tighter.”
“Brenda—Brenda—I think I’ve had enough.” Maisie felt her voice crack again.
“You just do your job and come home. You’ll have time to think about it all when you’re back under your own roof. You can go into that library, pour yourself a nice cream sherry and put out a glass of malt as if Dr. Blanche was in the room, and you can sit for a while and weigh it all up. You’ll know what to do.”
“How . . . how did you know I always pour a glass for Maurice? How did you know that’s what I do?”
“Because I do it myself sometimes. Just sit and think to myself, ‘What would Dr. Blanche say about that?’ I don’t do it as much as I used to, when I was the housekeeper, because I’ve your dear father at my side now. Frankie Dobbs is a wise man, Maisie—and he’s watching out for Anna, so don’t you worry. If you’re not here when that dog goes, we’ll look after her.”
“Thank you, Brenda—thank you so much.” Maisie looked up at the station clock. “Look, I’d better run—”
“Take care, Maisie.”
Maisie wiped the tears from her eyes, drew back the kiosk’s concertina door so she could check the departures board, and closed it again to make one more call. Again with her pile of coins at the ready, she began to dial, pushing button A to connect when Billy Beale answered. She heard the coins fall into the box, and began to speak.
“Billy—Billy—it’s me.”
“Where are you, miss? I thought you’d be here by the time I got back to the office.”
“I’m at the station—it’s important business, Billy. I’ll be back on Friday afternoon, I would imagine, though probably going straight to Chelstone. Look, I’ve not got long, but I want you to do something for me. I want you to find out everything you can about Freddie Hackett’s father.”
“His dad?”
“Yes, that’s right. We know Arthur Hackett is a drinker, and we both think Freddie gets the sharp end of his temper when the man is in his cups—and Freddie is fiercely protective of his mother and sister. But I paid a visit to his mother today, and if a photo in their kitchen is anything to go by, Hackett has an obvious scar on his face. I’d like to know more about his history—even military history, and I’d really like to know where he got that scar. If you can sniff around and ask some questions of Freddie’s teacher—pay a visit in confidence just as if you were checking up on him, making sure he’s all right—that might give us something to go on too.”
“She already knows me, miss, from when I took Freddie back to the school, so that’ll be easy. I know what to do.”
“Good. And one more thing—very much on the q.t.—find out from one of your newspaper friends what he knows about the French in London. And I don’t mean ordinary refugees—but military. Free French and anything else he knows about, say, French civil servants in London. I can get official information from MacFarlane, but I’d like to have any other snippets that come to the surface.”
“Right you are, miss. Consider it all done. I’ve written my report for the day—about the new clients.”
“I’ll try to telephone tomorrow, Billy. Can’t promise though.”
“I’ll be coming back down to the village on Friday. I miss my girls.”
“I’m sure they miss you, too. Perhaps you and I can have a chat on Sunday.” Maisie looked at the station clock. “Ooops, got to dash, Billy. Talk to you tomorrow, I hope.”
Maisie picked up her case and ran toward the platform for the t
rain soon to leave London for Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. Once aboard, Maisie was shown to her berth. Having stowed her suitcase in the luggage rack above the bed, Maisie loosened her jacket and took off her hat. She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head. In another few minutes she would hear the guard’s whistle and the train would begin to move. Soon enough the steward would come to check the blackout curtains were in place. At the front of the train, the locomotive would have a canopy across the engine that was required to be fitted onto all trains now, so that after dark sparks from the furnace would not be visible from the air, marking it as a target for any Luftwaffe pilot looking for an opportunity to add another notch to his Messerschmitt’s tail.
She slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. The words had tumbled from her mouth without thought. I think I’ve had enough. But had she? What would she do all day if she were to pass the business to Billy and return to Chelstone full time? Anna was in school from nine until almost four, and for her part she knew she wasn’t the sort to idle away her days.
When the war was over, it might all be different—she might buy a house in London, a larger property but still near Priscilla. She would enroll Anna in school nearby, and make sure she was there to collect her daughter every single day when the school bell rang at four o’clock. But she had Frankie and Brenda to think about. Her father was over eighty years of age, and though he claimed to be “as fit as a fiddle,” she had noticed the little things—the half-stumble here, a comment not heard there, a recent conversation forgotten. And now she had a job where the driver of a motor car sent to collect her had to be someone who could protect her if it became necessary, and perhaps even kill to do so.
Chapter 6
Despite the fact that it was wartime, there remained a certain pride of place evident in the dining carriage, a sense that standards were there to be maintained even at the worst of times. Comfortable seats, crisp white linens, and table napkins folded flute-like in the center of cutlery positioned just so were a hallmark of the service expected by the well-to-do traveler. Fortunately, the clackety-clack, clackety-clack of wheels on rails rendered private conversation inaudible to fellow diners.
“According to the notes I received, we have twelve recruits all told. Who else will be there?” Maisie lifted her spoon and immersed it into a bowl of mulligatawny soup as she waited for MacFarlane’s answer.
“Twelve British recruits, and we’ve a couple of Frenchies, an Algerian—or is he a Moroccan? Something like that. And a French Canadian.”
“Won’t there be a problem with the accent? I mean, the Canadian will probably sound as if he has a French version of a North American twang, compared to the locals. And the recruits from French North Africa have an accent—though I expect that’s where they’re going once trained.” Maisie stirred the spoon around the edge of the steaming soup before lifting a spoonful to her lips.
MacFarlane ripped a piece of bread from the roll on his side plate, and shook his head. He answered while continuing to chew. “We’ve been through that—they’ve all passed muster as far as language is concerned, and as you know, our little bundle of tests in Scotland is to separate the wheat from the chaff. To see who’s up to snuff and worth us putting in the time and effort training them to be heroes. And we’ve some others along for the ride too—including one from somewhere in French Indochina, plus a Belgian or two. By the way—”
“Yes, by the way,” said Maisie, setting down her spoon. “I thought it was interesting that a certain Corporal Bright was sent to drive me to the station.”
“She’s a good lass, young Bright. Got some spirit about her.”
“I know that.”
“And don’t read anything into the fact that you already know her. Oh, and while we’re on the subject of women who are working for their country, I thought you would like to know that both Evernden and Jones are under orders to proceed to Hampshire, and they’ll be across the Channel within a day or two. They’re lucky—they’re going out on Lysanders, so they won’t be up there in a Halifax bomber with a parachute each.” MacFarlane shuddered. “Brrrr—gives me the shivers. I could hop off an aircraft that’s just landed and still moving a wee bit, but leaping out while it’s a few hundred feet up in the air—I tell you, I take my hat off to every one of them.”
Maisie felt a chill settle across her arms and around her shoulders. “I always said I would never ask anyone to do something I wouldn’t be ready to do myself, but . . .” She shook her head. “But now more than ever, I feel as if I’ve pushed them into an abyss of terrible danger, and it’s not only because I know them. I feel for their parents, their families, if . . . if the worst happens, they will never be allowed to know the truth.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps it’s being a mother . . .” She felt her words falter as she imagined Anna grown, and perhaps not knowing where she might be.
“Whether man or woman, they all know what they’re doing, Maisie—if they go down, they know how it will be reported to the family.”
“And that’s the terrifying thing—Pascale and Elinor, for example, should be having the best days of their lives, but instead they’re putting them on the line for us, and the moment they’re in situ, if they’re captured or killed, we’re to deny all knowledge of them. They’re on their own over there, and there’s little we can do if they get into trouble.” She paused, took another spoonful of soup, and pushed the bowl away.
“You’d better finish that, lassie—none of us is so full inside that we can turn away good food. There’s people who’d be grateful for your leftovers.”
“Sorry—you’re right.” She pulled back her bowl and took another spoonful of the cooling soup. “The fact that our hands are tied if their cover is blown, and they fall into the hands of the Gestapo—it’s something I think about every time I have to assess whether a recruit is finally ready to be sent over there. And as I told you right at the beginning, when you came to me about this job, if I have reason not to pass someone for work in France or wherever they might be in line for, then you must give me your word that they will not be sent over.” She paused to finish the soup. “But it’s not just that. I don’t like being so far away from Anna. I’ll do the job I’m here to do—I’ll watch the new recruits as you and the other instructors try to kill them to see what they’re made of, and I’ll interview them and write my reports, but please, I just can’t be so far away from my daughter again.”
“You’ve forgotten that at least two of the women we approved for departure last week have families, Maisie. They’re doing what they’re doing so their little ones don’t grow up in a world led by an ugly fascist mob.”
Maisie leaned back into her seat. “I know.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same for your child? Isn’t that why you answered the call to duty, even though you hate every minute of it, as we all do?”
“I want Anna to live in a good world, Robbie. A better world.”
“Aye, and with that I rest my case—oh at last, here come the lads with our pie. I thought the kitchen carriage had worked its way loose from the rest of the train and gone off down another line!”
Maisie thanked the steward who removed the soup bowls, while another served them plates of meat pie and mashed potato covered in gravy, and poured a healthy measure of red wine almost to the top of each glass.
MacFarlane touched her glass with his own before she had even reached for it. “That’s what I like to see—a decent pour to the top of the glass. It won’t be in there long enough to breathe.”
“Robbie—what about Corporal Bright? Why did you send her to collect me? You knew very well our paths have crossed before—you’ve said as much, and I know for a fact that nothing much goes by you. I’m sorry to go on about it, but it seemed more than just a coincidence. I don’t think you’re being honest with me.”
“Look, Maisie—I know her father, it’s as simple as that. He’s a sergeant over at a police station near the Elephant and Castle, so when he told me she’d
finished her driver training with the ATS, I made some inquiries, pulled a few strings and snapped her up. She’s my best driver—and for you, Maisie, only the best will do.” He pointed to her meal, encouraging her to start. “Anyway, the fact that you knew her is, indeed, no more than a simple coincidence, so there’s your honest answer. Now then, eat up, because I don’t want to miss the pudding course, and if I leave it too late, it’ll sit on my chest all night.”
Maisie picked up her knife and fork and began to cut into the pie. “Maurice always had something to say about coincidence, you know—he said coincidence is a messenger sent by truth.”
“You’ve mentioned that before, Maisie, and not just once. You know as well as the next person—as well as the next detective—that in our business there are always coincidences. They settle like flies on dead meat in any investigation. Personally, if I look back on some of the useless alleys I’ve been led along while following a trail left by coincidences, I’d say they were dispatched by an evil little gnome bent on sending us off down the wrong line of inquiry.” He scooped up a forkful of mashed potato, holding it above the plate as he continued. “Some of these so-called coincidences mean something, and some don’t.” He put down his knife to take a hefty gulp of wine. “Right, now that’s out of the way, can we get stuck in to our dinner before it gets cold? And I want to talk to you about our plans for the next couple of days—we’ve got our work cut out for us. Oh, and one more thing—I’ve arranged for you to fly home. You’ll be getting a lift on an RAF flight from Prestwick down to Biggin Hill. All being well, Corporal Bright will pick you up and take you straight to your country seat, Your Ladyship.”
“That’s enough of the title, Robbie. Mind you, I’d have been shocked if you hadn’t pulled that out of your hat at least once over supper. But thank you for arranging the flight back—I appreciate it, much as I hate flying.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 9
