Consulting the map she had carried with her, Maisie pointed into the distance. “So the recruits will exit here where we’re standing and then make their way toward that rough crag over there.”
“That’s the first stop,” said MacFarlane. “We’ll stagger their departure, and this time they go alone.”
“And they each have a different set of instructions?”
“More or less, though we give them a chance to cross paths, as we did the last time we were here. We’ll find out what they do when they meet one another during their quest—will they ignore each other or say a few words and be on their way? Or will they exchange notes on what they’re doing, which isn’t allowed? We have people watching, looking for traits such as misplaced trust, fear, hesitancy—too much time spent lingering, and a lack of imagination or anticipation. As before, we’re weeding out foolhardiness, though we want to see a certain spirit and an ability to overcome challenges we put before them—but there’s always a middle ground.”
Maisie nodded. “And where do you want me to wait?”
MacFarlane leaned toward Maisie and pointed to the map. “You’ll have to leave the path here, then pass that bothy before continuing on to a stand of firs here. You’ll find an old hide in that spot, so linger there and complete your observation record.”
“Where will you be?”
“Waiting for them here.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “We have . . . what did we call them last time? Obstacles. We have obstacles at each of these points, whether it’s geographical or something else to push a few buttons upstairs.” He tapped the side of his head once again. “Nothing like pushing those mental buttons, is there? They think they’re going on a nice little Scottish ramble, but if they’re not shaking in their boots by the time they get back, I want to know where we went wrong. I want to see an ability to overcome, to get on the right track again—in more ways than one—and I don’t want to see overconfidence.” He looked at his watch. “Want to take a nice little ramble now—before your interviews? It’s been a long day already, Maisie, and I for one don’t like waking up early on a train and then having to race out here as if I’m fresh as a daisy. It’s a wonder I didn’t drop off into my haggis at lunchtime, so I thought we could both do with a bit of fresh air to get the blood going again.”
“Just a short walk then, Robbie—I want to go through my interview strategy one more time before we start.”
“Strategy?” MacFarlane shook his head. “Strategy. Now there’s a word. I wish there was a bit more strategy somewhere in this bloody war. Sometimes I think no one knows what they’re really doing and we’re all just winging it.” He sighed. “Anyway—come on. Twenty minutes of this country air, and we’ll be set up for what’s left of the day.” He began walking, and Maisie fell into step beside him. “One thing I’d like to know, Maisie—what was all that about, in the dining room? I saw you give the Frenchie major an old-fashioned look. I’ve seen you do that a few times over the years, hen—what’s on your mind?”
“His face is on my mind, Robbie.”
“Taken a fancy to him, have you, Maisie?”
Maisie stopped and looked up at her tall, heavy-set companion. “What on earth are you talking about? For goodness’ sake, Robbie—it’s his whole physiognomy.” She ran a finger down each side of her face. “If young Freddie Hackett, the messenger boy, had drawn a picture of the perpetrator of the crime he witnessed, or taken a photograph, the image would have been a dead ringer for Major Chaput. Right down to those lines on his face and that small white blemish under his right eye.” She shook her head. “Oh, and I had a quick look at his knuckles after we shook hands—he has healing abrasions that could be from using a knuckle-duster.”
MacFarlane seemed nonplussed, as if trying to picture the Frenchman, but then he began to laugh. “I’m going to put this ridiculous behavior down to battle fatigue, Maisie. For a start there was no blemish that I could see—perhaps just a bit of slightly whiter skin—and those lines are what Chaput’s mother and father bestowed upon him. Mind you, he does have a touch of Victor Mature about him.”
“Robbie, you know very well that an almost exact description of a suspect is a rare thing—usually there’s something off somewhere, but not in this case. I can’t believe you’re ignoring me.”
MacFarlane stopped walking and raised his hand. “Stop right there. Stop. Maisie, this is not like you, and if you continue I will have you pulled off this round of recruitment testing. And I mean what I say. As soon as I heard about the boy’s claim, I spoke to Caldwell. I’ve had a word with Larkin too, and Freddie Hackett is a boy with a lot on his shoulders—and that’s in addition to the load he carries for us, running through the streets. Even a touch of fear can lead to seeing things, Maisie, especially for children. Oh, and according to Larkin, the only treat he gets is the odd hour on an occasional Saturday at the picture house when his dad is still in the pub—the boy loves the flicks, especially a good old scary picture.” He ran a hand across his balding head. “There has been no body found—apart from the bloke you saw dragged out of the drink—and there’s no proof it was the same fellow Hackett thinks he saw killed. That one probably met his end in a fight outside a pub somewhere. There’s no evidence of murder, even with you going back to where it was supposed to have happened and sniffing around with your Mr. Beale. There’s absolutely nothing to indicate a crime has taken place, and there’s nothing—nothing—anyone can do about it. In fact, the best anyone can do for Freddie Hackett is to give him an extra couple of bob for his mum when he comes trotting along with a message—which is what we all try to do.” He placed a hand on Maisie’s shoulder. “But I can’t have you imagining things that aren’t there, Maisie—not now, not when so much is at stake. I need you and that quick mind of yours on the job right here.”
“I believe the boy, Robbie—and I also have my doubts about Major Chaput. If it were not for the almost spot-on descrip—”
MacFarlane was quick with his interruption. “Then you’ve given me no choice. I’m sending you back. I can’t have you here sniffing around a senior representative of an allied intelligence section. I’m pulling you off the afternoon’s interviews, and you won’t be observing tomorrow’s testing. I’ll have a motor car here within the hour—you can go straight to Prestwick and from there to Biggin Hill and home. If there’s no flight going down, you’ll be put up in a local hotel until tomorrow morning. It will all be arranged as a matter of urgency, and I’ll explain your absence as having to do with an alternative assignment. Sounds better than a family matter, because we’ve all got family matters, haven’t we?”
Maisie shrugged. “Suits me, Robbie. I detest this work anyway.” She began to walk away, a sick feeling beginning to roll in her stomach. She knew she was acting as if she were a stubborn girl of fifteen.
“So much for doing your bit, eh?”
Maisie turned to MacFarlane. “Don’t you dare—you know better, Robbie MacFarlane. I’ve done my bit, as you well know. I did my bit in France when I was seventeen.” She lifted her hair to reveal the fading scar at the back of her neck, and let it fall again. “And ever since the last war I’ve been doing my bit, every single day.” She held up her hands, fingers splayed, knuckles toward MacFarlane, streaks of thick white tissue still evident. “And those scars on the back of my hands are from the flames that seared my skin while I was trying to help Priscilla, who was doing her bit by saving two children from a burning house. And you know what my next bit will be? My next bit will be the well-being of my daughter, who comes before absolutely everything else. Oh—and I’ll be finding out the truth about Freddie Hackett—that’s a very big bit that I’m intent upon sorting out.”
MacFarlane stared at Maisie. “Freddie Hackett, well, god bless his cotton socks—perhaps that’s a case for children being seen and not heard.”
Maisie felt the heat rush through her. “Don’t goad me, MacFarlane, just don’t, because I will tell you right now that any children crossing my
path will always be seen and heard—and until I have evidence to the contrary, I’ll err toward believing them. I’m surprised you would not take the same action.”
“Temper, temper, Maisie! I wonder what the great Dr. Maurice Blanche would say about that little outburst.”
“And please don’t bring Maurice into this—don’t you dare! Not only would Maurice have given me leave to make my own decisions, but he wouldn’t have countered my observations in the first place. He might have asked me a few more questions, possibly to sharpen my surveillance skills, and he might have guided me toward another conclusion—my conclusion—but he . . . he . . . he would never have discounted me. Ever.”
“One thing, Maisie. You may be going back, but you’re not off the hook. You’ve signed papers. You agreed to a certain task on behalf of your country, and you still report to me. I’ll be in touch.”
She turned and walked away from MacFarlane, wondering how it had come to this; how a peaceful stroll along a rustic path in the wilds of Scotland had fast become a shouting match. Yet in one respect, and one only, she knew MacFarlane was right. Her lack of confidence in a representative of an allied intelligence section meant that she should relinquish her duties. But there was another question lingering in the back of her mind. Had she pushed MacFarlane deliberately? Might she have deliberately put MacFarlane in the position of dismissing her, because she wanted to go home?
As she crossed the lawns at a brisk clip, making her way toward the carriage sweep that led to the manor’s front entrance, she remembered something that Maurice had pointed out many years before. It was to the effect that sometimes the mind takes the initiative without forethought, as does the body. The two might function in this way alone or in concert, and why they do it is simple—they are interceding to protect the heart.
There was no official aeroplane departing until the following morning, Thursday, so after a sleepless night in a guesthouse arranged by one of MacFarlane’s staff, Maisie was taken to the aerodrome at Prestwick early to board a Halifax bomber routed to Biggin Hill. There was no comfort on the aircraft, just a hard jump seat and a bumpy journey in weather that had become even more changeable; her legs almost gave way after the Halifax landed and steps were brought to the door for her to disembark. A motor car was idling, waiting for her on the tarmac, and as soon as she began to walk away from the aircraft Charlie Bright stepped out of the motor car and opened the passenger door. She stood to attention and saluted as Maisie approached.
“Good morning, ma’am. Nice to see you again, Miss Dobbs. Should be an easy run down to Chelstone, and it’s a lovely morning for it now the weather’s cleared up again.”
“Thank you, Corporal Bright,” said Maisie. “Do you know the way?”
“A bit of help when we reach the village would be handy, thank you, ma’am.”
Maisie was grateful the driver seemed to sense her need for a quiet journey and did not endeavor to make conversation, though she asked for more specific directions after they had passed through Tonbridge and were close to Chelstone. Soon they were driving through the village, followed by the gates leading to Chelstone Manor.
“It’s this house on the left,” said Maisie. “You can pull in to that approach to the back of the house.”
“It’s a smashing house, ma’am—my dad would love those roses around the door. His are all gone by now,” said Bright. “And who lives in that whopping great manor house over there?”
“My late husband’s parents live at Chelstone Manor. This is the Dower House—I was fortunate to inherit it from a . . . from a very dear friend and teacher.”
“Blimey—I couldn’t imagine being friends with any of my teachers.” Bright drew the motor car to a halt. “There’s your welcoming committee—what a beautiful little girl. Is she yours?”
Maisie smiled, a rush of pride filling her heart. “Yes—that’s my daughter, Anna.” Without waiting for Corporal Bright, Maisie unlocked the passenger door and opened her arms as Anna ran to her.
“Mummy, Mummy, Mummy—you’re home, home, home! Poor, poor, poor Emma . . .”
“Yes, I’m home, my darling.” Maisie enfolded her daughter in an embrace, then let her slip to the ground. “Come on, this lady has to be on her way again, so help me with my bag.” She watched Anna return to the kitchen carrying her shoulder bag while she collected her overnight case and waved to Brenda, who was at the door. “Would you like a cup of tea before you go?” asked Maisie, turning to Corporal Bright.
“Thank you for the offer, ma’am, but I’ve to be on my way.” Bright consulted her watch. “Got to get back to London—picking up Mr. MacFarlane at another aerodrome actually.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, shouldn’t have said that.”
“Not to worry.” Maisie noticed Bright’s frown. “What is it, Corporal Bright?”
“It just that the orders are a bit creepy—you know, Mr. MacFarlane coming back early as well as you, and I’ve to pick him up with the mortuary van following behind me.” Bright stopped speaking, stared at Maisie and shook her head. “Oh blimey—I’ve done it now. You didn’t know about the mortuary van, did you?”
Maisie held up her hand. “As I said, not to worry. I’ll be speaking to him later today.”
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s not like me to make a slip like that . . . I assumed—”
“Just don’t do it again, and you’ll be all right. No need to make a confession to Mr. MacFarlane. Have a safe journey back.”
Bright saluted again. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“And please—Corporal Bright, there really is no need to salute. I am not in uniform, so it’s quite unnecessary.”
Maisie watched as the white-faced ATS driver reversed her vehicle back onto the driveway, then turned toward the gate and the main road, on her way to collect Robert MacFarlane, who, it appeared, was accompanying a body back to London.
Maisie sat in the conservatory with Anna and Emma, the old Alsatian Maisie had rescued following the brutal murder of her owner two years previously. Anna and Emma had become inseparable, the dog accompanying her charge to school every day, and waiting by the gate for her return. As Emma’s breathing began to falter, Anna lay beside her, her arms around the dog as her life ebbed away. Maisie lifted the weeping child, while her father knelt down to wrap the animal in a white sheet. With her daughter’s little body tight against her own as she sobbed, Maisie felt the pain of loss leach into her heart, and gave thanks for the argument that had brought her home to her family sooner than planned.
The following morning, Maisie, Anna, Brenda and Priscilla stood alongside the grave Frankie Dobbs had prepared for his granddaughter’s beloved dog. It neighbored the place where he had laid his own dog, Jook, at the turn of the year. As he lowered Emma into the ground using the sheet and allowed it to fall across her body, Anna threw handfuls of petals from late-blooming roses onto the white linen, calling to Emma that she was the very best dog in the world and it was good that she had company because she was now with Jook and they could play together in the fields. With the impromptu funeral service complete and the grave filled in, a rosebush that promised scarlet blooms, come summer, was planted atop the grave according to Anna’s wishes—she had stipulated that the roses had to be a different color from those that would bud and open again next year on Jook’s grave.
“I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of coffee,” said Brenda. “And I’ve made some Eccles cakes—a treat for all of us, to celebrate old Emma’s life.”
“I’m going with Grandad to see Lady before it rains again,” said Anna. “Grandad says a job of work is what we need, so we’re going to do a job.”
Frankie winked at Maisie, then ruffled his granddaughter’s hair. “All right, love. Have you decided about the show? What do you think about riding Lady?”
Anna shook her head. “I want to stay here, with you. And Lady’s sad about Emma, so she doesn’t want to go either.”
“I think that’s a good idea, Anna—we can all sta
y at home and tell stories about Emma if you like. Come back for something to drink soon, when you and Grandad have done your jobs.” Maisie watched as Anna took Frankie’s hand and they walked away in the direction of the stables.
“That child scares me at times,” said Priscilla. “She’s upset, grieving, and she’s shed her tears, but she takes it all in her stride. I had a complete tantrum when I was that age and my dog died.”
“It’s a sad thing, when your child knows how to deal with death—but she’s had practice. And she will feel Emma with her.”
“That’s what worries me,” said Priscilla. “The thought of some ghostly canine roaming the house—brrrr, it gives me the shivers. Anyway, shall we get that cup of coffee? And look—I didn’t bring any gaspers with me. I’m taking your advice and giving up filling my lungs with smoke . . . well, inasmuch as I can.”
Maisie smiled and shook her head in mock disbelief. She consulted her watch as they arrived at the kitchen, knowing that in all likelihood it was only a matter of time before the telephone started ringing and MacFarlane was shouting down the line from a mortuary somewhere in London. She wanted to speak to Billy first, so as soon as Priscilla left the house, she went straight to the privacy of the library.
“Billy—hello.”
“Miss—you’re back a bit early. Thought you wouldn’t be home until Friday.”
“Change of plan, Billy.”
“How’s the littl’un? I heard from Doreen that the dog was on its last.”
“Emma died last night, but Anna is taking it as well as can be expected. She planned a little funeral, so that helped her—and now she’s with Dad. He’s lined up some jobs for her.”
“Bit of work never hurt anyone. Anyway, I’ve got some information on Freddie Hackett’s father, miss. Not a lot, because I could do with more time.”
“Have you heard from Freddie?”
The Consequences of Fear Page 11
