The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  At the Cuillins of Skye, MacFarlane’s favorite public house—only the sign was evident, as the building was partially clad in sandbags—he pushed open the door to the slightly more comfortable saloon bar, which had several armchairs and a settee covered in matching green-and-red tartan fabric. The public bar, by comparison, was a noisier place, with sawdust on the floor and a lunchtime crowd that would soon disperse to return to work on the railway or at the coach station, or with one of the many crews clearing what they could of broken buildings and piles of rubble from repeated bombings. The pub offered the opportunity for some camaraderie, a chat with others, and a chance to forget about war, if only for the time it took to down a pint. Maisie often wondered if she would ever remember walking along a street before it was bombed, and what it looked like without broken buildings looming out of the detritus of war like shattered teeth.

  “Cream sherry?” asked MacFarlane.

  “A small one, thank you,” replied Maisie.

  MacFarlane returned with a large single-malt whisky for himself and a sherry for Maisie, placing the drinks on a low table between the armchairs they had chosen for privacy, close to the window and well away from the door. There were only two other patrons on this side of the pub, and they were seated at the bar.

  “What was the dead man’s name?” asked Maisie.

  “Thierry Richard.” MacFarlane’s pronunciation of the deceased agent’s last name was flat; he said “Richard” as if it were an English Christian name.

  “I think it’s pronounced ‘Rishard,’” said Maisie. “And was he about forty?”

  MacFarlane nodded. “Maisie, you were never a star when it came to languages—we found that out when we were training you for the Munich assignment, so you’re the last person to chime in on pronunciation. Anyway, Major Chaput is understandably very upset—raging, would be a better word for it. Richard”—he pronounced the word correctly, with a slight pause as if to dare Maisie to fault him again—“Richard had been with the major since the last war. They were at Verdun together, and he was with him later, in Syria, during the French mandate.”

  “Really? So Thierry Richard would have been about twenty-five or twenty-six then, and the major—what? Probably not much older. Thirties?”

  “Yes. The major is nothing if not loyal—and his men are loyal to him too. He hand-picked all of them, and we’re counting on them. Working alongside the French is vital for our success over there—they’re our linchpins with the local resistance people. We’re still building trust.”

  Neither Maisie nor MacFarlane spoke for half a minute. Maisie was framing her next comment, though she knew there was no other way to phrase what she had to say. “Look, Robbie—going back to what happened with Dr. Jamieson. It was clear to him—and he’s the expert—that Richard was murdered, and as you know, I could not help but agree with him. That’s two Frenchmen killed within ten days, and there’s one common denominator.”

  “My hands are tied, and I don’t suspect him anyway.”

  “I can’t believe this. Every bone in my body is telling me the MacFarlane I knew before this war would have had that man at Scotland Yard under caution right now. And you’re letting it go. Surely you’d concede that it’s more than possible that the man who received the delivery of an envelope from Freddie Hackett was Chaput.”

  “I don’t know anything about the message, who it was from or where it was going—don’t imagine I know everything that goes on in every different intelligence section. A lot of envelopes are dispatched with only a number on the front anyway, and no name for the messenger to remember, and they are coded. But here’s what I know—children see monsters in the dark, Maisie. They get a bit scared, and the next thing you know, there’s a big hand waiting to grab their feet and drag them under the bed. There is no evidence to suggest Major Chaput had anything to do with killing another Frenchman, or anyone else for that matter. And even if I did want to question him, this is not the right time. We have a sensitive and very important alliance to protect, and that’s with the Free French here in London. We need them, and we need their people who are over in France—if all that falls away, then we might as well start stocking up on bratwurst.”

  Maisie sighed in frustration. “This goes against everything I have ever believed about honoring the murdered dead; making sure that if the deceased were looking down upon us, they would know that while their earthly form is being mutilated by the pathologist’s scalpel, someone else cares enough to find the killer and bring them to justice.” She paused. “But having said that, I see your point. I understand. Some things have to fall by the wayside during wartime. And on every level it seems to me that there’s an abdication of respect for human life.” She lifted her sherry glass and took first one sip, and then another.

  “I know that tone, Maisie,” said MacFarlane, picking up his glass and draining the contents in one deep swallow. He slapped the empty glass down on the table with such force that the man and woman sitting at the bar turned around. “Sorry!” said MacFarlane. “Dodgy wrist—dropped my glass.” He laughed, though his smile evaporated when he turned back to Maisie. “That, hen, is the tone telling me you are going to be the dog that won’t let go of this particular bone. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I will drop the bone if you insist, Robbie.”

  Another silence. MacFarlane rubbed his forehead, then looked up at Maisie. “I don’t insist because I expect you to do the right thing with regard to my position—let me remind you that I’m the one who carries the can if you cause trouble with our French brethren. I know you’re trying to do your best for the Hackett lad, but at the same time I want to know if you discover anything—anything. Make that immediately, not a day or two after the event. And leave ‘Rishard’ to me. You weren’t there. You didn’t witness a thing, and you only saw the body, not the place of death where he was found. I hope I can depend upon you to watch what you’re doing.”

  “I will. Yes. You can count on me to be discreet, Robbie.”

  “Aye, and I reckon I can also count on you to land me in a diplomatic straitjacket.” He cleared his throat, and came to his feet. “By the way, you might like to know that both those young ladies you’re particularly interested in are now in France. So far, so good. Miss Jones sent over her first radio communication this morning. We’ll be giving them orders via a message tucked inside a BBC broadcast tonight.”

  Maisie stood up, making sure her voice was low. “And Miss Evernden?”

  “She’s where she should be. We’ve no reason for any concern about her.”

  “I appreciate your letting me know, Robbie.”

  “You’re off the hook in the meantime, Maisie. No more recruits to analyze. I’ll be in touch though.”

  “Of course.”

  “By the way,” said MacFarlane, opening the door for her, then joining her on the pavement outside. “You want to watch that Jamieson. I think he’s sweet on you.”

  Maisie pinned her hat. “Robbie—for goodness’ sake, you think everyone’s sweet on me.”

  “Just observing. I’ll be off now. Be careful, Maisie—just be careful. You’re on your own time for a few days, but you’re still on my watch.”

  Maisie took Billy into her confidence, inasmuch as she could, discussing with him a certain element of synchronicity that had occurred during a recent meeting. She was not specific about the details, that the meeting in question took place in a manor house in Scotland where recruits for a secret intelligence section were being put through their paces.

  “So what you’re saying, miss, is that you think you know who killed the bloke in the street, the murder young Freddie witnessed.” Seated at the long table in Maisie’s office, Billy leaned forward, his notebook open.

  “I—I believe so. But here’s the thing—assuming the body retrieved from the Thames is that of the man Freddie saw murdered, both the pathologist and I believe that at least one of the two men—either the man with the knife or his victim—was a professional
killer, and I wouldn’t rule out the second either. The pathologist agrees that the victim might have been an assassin, based upon wounds to his body—they were consistent with someone who has been in serious scrapes.” Maisie went on to recap the postmortem findings on the man who rose to the surface of the river at the same time as the Spitfire. “I know that at first blush it sounds like a wild suggestion based upon supposition, yet in my experience speculative comments from experienced pathologists reflect what may at first seem like a guess, but they’re really an intuitive response rooted in their depth of knowledge.”

  “And what do you think of this French major, the one you met at a party?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s not one for talking—though his command of English is excellent. He is an observer, though.”

  “What do you mean? An observer?”

  “He keeps his eye on everyone around him, all the time. Now, to be fair, that’s his job—it’s the mainstay of anyone working in his position,” said Maisie, aware that she could only share so much information with Billy. She was sure he had more than a passing clue about the real nature of her work, though. “But his level of awareness seemed rather intense. He seemed as if he was always expecting the devil to walk in, or to appear among the company.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid of something himself—fear could be his devil, couldn’t it? Do you want me to see what I can get on him?”

  “I think you’ll have trouble there, Billy. We’ve a diplomatic angle to consider, and I don’t want MacFarlane around here shouting his head off.” She pointed to Billy’s notebook. “Now then, any more on Freddie Hackett?”

  “Sporting a nice blue-and-purple bruise across his left cheek, apparently sustained when he fell while running an errand. He might have got a bloody nose in the same so-called fall.”

  “Oh dear Lord.” Maisie rubbed a hand across her forehead, before consulting her watch. She stood up. “Right, I’m going over to the school—I should be just in time for the children to be leaving.”

  “You would stand more of a chance of catching Freddie by going straight along to the Albert Embankment—when I talked to him on the blower, he told me there’s a big office along there where he’ll usually go first, then the porter tells him where to run to next, perhaps Baker Street or that fancy hotel. He’ll be setting off as soon as that school bell goes, so he can pick up his first job. He’ll probably be running from there to Baker Street again. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t sneak out of his classroom to get there on time.”

  “Billy, would you come with me? You’re the father of boys, and he trusts you.”

  Billy nodded. “I’m glad you asked, miss. I like the boy and want to do right by him. For a start, I know about a certain nose I’d like to rearrange, if I lay eyes on the owner’s dial.”

  “Freddie Hackett?” repeated the porter at Freddie’s regular first stop. “Hasn’t turned up yet—the little bugger is late and I’ve got something to go out in a hurry. Mind you, it’s the first time. He’s usually here bang on four. He pops home after school to see his sister, if he can, then he comes straight here, and I don’t think he was told yesterday that he’d be starting off somewhere else today. I usually send him to the caff down the street for a bacon sandwich as soon as he gets here—we’ve got a kitty here to make sure the messengers get something inside them, what with all that running. Poor little Fred—probably the only decent food he gets in a day.”

  Even before the porter had finished speaking, Maisie and Billy had begun to move toward the door, with Billy calling back, “S’all right, mate—don’t worry, we’ll catch up with him, wherever he is.”

  Chapter 9

  Billy gave the taxicab driver directions to follow the most likely route that Freddie would have taken from school, to home, to the Albert Embankment, just in case they saw him running along the pavement. Their first stop was the school, which was quiet, as all the children had gone home, though an army lorry was parked in a far section of the playground now designated military property for the duration of the war.

  Billy called out to a soldier who was working on the lorry. “Oi, mate—over here.” The soldier looked up from the engine. “Do you know if everyone at the school has gone home now?”

  “The kids ran out of here a while ago—but there might be a teacher or two in there working late.”

  “Much obliged,” shouted Billy, waving to the soldier.

  The doors for the girls’ and boys’ separate entrances were already locked, but they were able to flag down the caretaker in front of the main double doors.

  “Hold up, mate—anyone in there?” asked Billy.

  The caretaker shook his head. “Nah, the bell went at a quarter to four, and you can’t keep them in there once they’ve heard it. Miss Rice sometimes stays for a bit—she’s the headmistress—and so does Miss Arnold, who teaches art. She has a lot to clear up after her last class, but she left not five minutes ago.” He turned the key and then looked around at Billy and Maisie. “You looking for anyone in particular? Not many kids here anyway, only the ones brought back from evacuation or who never went in the first place—I know most of them by name.”

  “We were looking for a boy named Freddie Hackett,” said Maisie.

  “Oh, young Freddie. Nice boy, that one. Works hard. No, he’s gone. Saw him tearing out of here—quick on his pins, is Freddie. Can’t think where he got that from because his old man’s a right one—he moves from the house to the pub and back again, and only one way at any speed. We know which way that is!”

  “Thank you,” said Maisie, turning back toward the waiting taxicab.

  “Funny, everyone seems to be looking for Freddie—popular lad today.”

  “What do you mean?” said Maisie, bringing her attention back to the caretaker.

  “A bloke came round not twenty-five minutes ago, asking for him.”

  “Had you seen the man before?” asked Maisie.

  The caretaker shook his head. “Never laid eyes on him. I thought it might be someone Freddie worked for, or the lad had got himself into a bit of trouble. Even the good ones get up to something every now and again—specially now.”

  “What was the man like?” asked Billy.

  “Big fella, dark, sort of Spanish looking. Nice dresser. Good suit on him.”

  “Did he have an accent?” asked Maisie.

  “He never said enough for me to notice. Asked if he’d missed Freddie Hackett, and that was it. Sounded all right, but then I’m a bit hard of hearing anyway—and it was noisy, what with lorries coming and going over there on the army side. It’s quieter now—though give it a chance and the bombers will start flying in for another go at us soon. We won’t be able to hear ourselves think.”

  Returning to the taxicab, Maisie instructed the driver to go to the Hacketts’ address.

  “Wait here, please,” said Maisie as they stepped from the cab.

  “What, again?” said the driver.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be paid,” Billy called out over his shoulder as he followed Maisie through the courtyard, past the lines of washing.

  She knocked on the Hacketts’ door. There was no answer, so she knocked again, then both Maisie and Billy stepped back and looked up to the first-floor window.

  “Freddie! Freddie, if you’re there, it’s Miss Dobbs and Mr. Beale here,” shouted Maisie.

  “If you’re up there, come down and let us in, son,” Billy called out even louder. “There’s only us here, Freddie.”

  Maisie thought she saw the ragged curtains twitch, then she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  “Mr. Beale.” The voice was strained. “Is that really you?”

  “I’m here, Freddie—are you alone?”

  “No, I’m with Iris. Mum’s not here.”

  “Where is she, love?” asked Maisie.

  “I don’t know—she’s usually home by now.”

  “Fred—open the door for us. There’s no one else here,” said Billy.

 
; Hearing a bolt being drawn back, Maisie reached into her purse and pressed a few coins into Billy’s hand. “Better give the cabbie something to keep him here.”

  Freddie opened the door just wide enough for him to check that only Maisie and Billy were on the other side.

  Maisie heard Billy talking to the cabbie and then his footfall behind her.

  “Come on, son,” said Billy. “Open the door properly and let us through, then we can lock up again so no one else can get in.”

  “All right,” said Freddie. He pulled back the door just wide enough for the visitors to enter, then slammed it shut, let the latch down and pulled a bolt across.

  “Will your mum be able to get in when she returns?” asked Maisie.

  “She’ll call up to the window for me to go down and open the door.”

  “Let’s go upstairs and you can tell us what’s going on,” said Maisie. “I’ll make us a cup of tea. Is Iris all right?”

  Freddie nodded. His eyes were bloodshot and his left cheek bruised. There was a cut across the bridge of his nose.

  A younger child’s voice squealed from the top of the landing. “Freddeeee. Freddee!”

  “Coming, Iris. I’m coming, darlin’— I’m here, and I’ve got a couple of friends with me.”

  Freddie ran up the stairs and picked up a girl who looked to be about five years of age and too big to be carried by her brother. Maisie showed no surprise when she registered the child’s clear blue almond-shaped eyes and pale skin, with freckles peppered across her flat nose. Instead she smiled and made sure her eye contact was true. “Hello—you must be Iris! I’ve heard all about you from Freddie.”

  The girl began to suck her thumb before hiding her face in the curve of her brother’s neck.