Yes, Maisie was happy to have drawn everyone she cared about around her. All the moves had seemed to slot into place—though danger was still ever-present. No one was safe, even amid the fields, forests, orchards and hop gardens of Kent. But life had to go on.
Now the late night had caught up with Maisie and the morning was escaping her. Scotland Yard was her first destination. She had received a postcard message from Caldwell yesterday, to the effect that he had tried to reach her by telephone, and that he wanted to talk to her. Sometimes it was better to see Caldwell in person; like MacFarlane, he had a tendency to end a telephone call with no warning, leaving her listening to the long tone of disconnection just as she was about to ask another question—and sometimes that question was the most important of her queries. Fortunately the desk sergeant recognized her as soon as she arrived at Scotland Yard, and waved her on with the words “He’s in his office—you can go on up.”
Maisie tapped on the open door. “One of these days I’ll have to rescue you from underneath a pile of papers, Detective Chief Superintendent.”
Caldwell looked up from a file from which papers fanned across the desk, and shook his head. “Afternoon, Miss Dobbs. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a bit more fresh air in here.” He pointed to the visitor chair with the barrel of his fountain pen. “Shove those bits and pieces onto the floor and take a seat. I just want to sign off on this warrant here and—” The sentence was left unfinished as he returned to his task.
Maisie gathered the clutch of papers on the chair and placed them on the floor.
“There we go,” continued Caldwell, closing a folder. “That’s one job out of the way.” He put his hand to the side of his mouth as if it were a loudhailer and called out, “Anyone out there? Someone come and get this warrant and—” He lowered his voice. “Oh, right, there you are, Collins. Run this over to the commissioner for me. Time being of the essence and all that.”
“Right you are, sir,” said the detective constable, taking the folder from Caldwell and leaving the office, banging his shoulder on an open filing cabinet drawer as he went.
“Did you want to see me about the Hacketts?” Maisie had known Caldwell since he was a detective sergeant, and though they did not get on well at first, over time they had each won the other’s respect, a quality enhanced by being direct.
Caldwell sighed, shaking his head while looking for another file and pulling it toward him. “I’ll get to them. It’s about your French deep-river diver.”
“Have you found out any more about him?”
“First of all, let’s be fair—we don’t actually know he’s French, do we?” said Caldwell. “All right, the pathologist made a bit of a guess there and it looks likely, given everything you’ve said, but we don’t really know. And I have plenty I do know about to be getting on with—but I was wondering if you had anything more you could push across my desk.”
Maisie shook her head. “I would have been here before now, if I had. And if we’re talking about who knows what, we also both know you wouldn’t have called me unless there were more to discuss—and my guess is you have something important to tell me.”
Caldwell leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Maisie could see the man was exhausted.
“It’s at times like this, Miss Dobbs, I sometimes think I should have upped sticks long ago and taken myself, the wife and our nippers down to the country so I could be on a rural beat and only have to worry about the odd sheep snatcher or blokes nicking copper roofing from churches.”
Maisie laughed. “We both know there’s all manner of untoward goings-on at those big country houses, don’t we? You would’ve been sniffing out murderers in dusty old drawing rooms.”
“Ha! So the penny dreadfuls would have us believe, eh, Miss Dobbs?” He shook his head. “Anyway, here’s what’s bothering me. I made a few inquiries myself about this here conundrum we’ve found ourselves sinking into—I talked to a few people here and there, and what I’m really interested in is the witness to the crime.”
“Freddie Hackett?” Maisie frowned, any hint of humor now draining from the conversation. “What’s he done?”
Caldwell shook his head. “I don’t think he’s done anything, as such.” His tone was uncharacteristically gentle. “But I was in the area, so I went over to the school and had a word with his teacher—nice woman, Miss . . . Miss . . .” He referred to his notes. “Sorry, seeing a lot of people lately—her name’s Miss Pritchard. Also had a word with a Miss Arnold, the art teacher. Anyway, she said something that made me think. The father’s a bit of a toe-rag, not a nice bloke at all, and I reckon we both know that. Seems he might have brought home more of the last war than he should have, and he kept it inside him—though he wouldn’t be the first.” He shook his head. “He’s not quite all there—got a temper on him.”
“But—”
“Let me finish. This is not to do with Hackett senior—well, not directly. What I found out was that every week in Freddie’s class, they do composition, you know, telling a story. I remember having to do it when I was at school, and all I wrote about was dogs—I told you, I should have been a country copper, bicycle and all that.”
Maisie detected a certain nervousness in Caldwell’s demeanor. He doesn’t want to tell me what he’s discovered, she thought. She leaned forward.
“Well, Freddie’s stories are all very vivid, according to the teacher, and amount to something horrible happening to a man with a scar on his face,” said Caldwell, his words hurried, as if he were in a race, trying to outrun the truth in his pronouncement. “Not all the time, mind you, but it turns out he’s quite the little storyteller and can weave a yarn about anything. The teacher usually gives the class the first sentence and then they write what they want. Apparently she started a story a couple of weeks ago, along the lines of ‘You’re walking along the road and a dog goes running by with a string of sausages in its mouth, and—’ She said Freddie even turned that opening into a story about a man with a scar on his face chasing the dog, and he ends up nabbed and put away, and the dog’s a hero!”
“So what you’re telling me is that Freddie could have been spinning a tale about seeing a man murdered by another man with a scar on his face.” Maisie sighed. “Which is all very well, but I have reason to believe there is sufficient evidence in hand to see at least some element of truth in Freddie’s claims. Let me tell you why.” Maisie went on to describe, again, the ground where Freddie had seen the murder take place, about finding the wallet and the end of a French cigarette.
“Anything else, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie sighed. “Well, yes, there is. It’s to do with the house where Freddie had to deliver the envelope—and as you might imagine, that is where I must zip my lips or have the full weight of the Official Secrets Act tied to my feet as I’m thrown from the ramparts of the Tower of London. Suffice it to say that there was enough there for me to have doubt.”
Caldwell leaned back in his chair again. “I’ll accept that.” He sighed. “It’s bloody scary out there for a lad like Freddie. Running the streets when bombs are falling. I don’t hold with mollycoddling children, but there’s the other extreme and that’s expecting too much of them. My two have to pull their weight—as I tell them, they’re big enough and ugly enough now and all grown up—but at night when it’s raining bombs and god knows what else, I want them down the bloody shelter with their mum.” Caldwell pushed back his chair and stood up, pressing his hands against the small of his back. “To be honest with you, I feel sorry for the lad—hard blimmin’ life, if you ask me. But given what I’ve heard, I’m advising you to let this whole thing drop. That’s what I’m doing. I’ve got to close the case.”
“There’s the question of a dead body and a boy who might be in danger because a killer knows he could likely identify him—and you’re closing the case?”
“Miss Dobbs, what makes you think he’s in danger?”
“Apparently a man was asking for him at the school—and the care
taker has corroborated the story.”
“Probably the school board inspector, wondering why Freddie’s absent so much.”
“Caldwell—”
“All right, all right—I know you’re worried about the lad, Miss Dobbs. But as far as I’m concerned, this case is as cold as ice and I don’t have the manpower for it. You’d be advised to let it go too—it’s not as if you’re being paid by Freddie Hackett to prove he had all his faculties about him, and was not scared witless running messages just to keep his dad in drink.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to continue. I believe Freddie—and I don’t like letting people down.”
“Oh, I believe him, Miss Dobbs—I do believe he thinks he saw something, just like a man fearful he’ll expire in the desert will see a blimmin’ great pond in the distance. There’s no accounting for what’s going on in that boy’s head.”
“Fair warning, Detective Chief Superintendent.” Maisie stood up, and though she was disappointed, she softened when she took account of Caldwell’s gray, tired pallor, and the deep purple circles under his eyes. “Thank you for taking me into your confidence—and for at least going to the school. I know how stretched you are here, and rest assured I appreciate your looking into the case.” Maisie stood up to leave. “I’ll keep you apprised of anything I can find out.”
“I’d be much obliged if you would, Miss Dobbs.” Caldwell seemed subdued in his response. He put the file to one side and picked up another sheet of paper. “This might interest you too, while you’re about your investigation.”
“What is it?” Maisie reached for the paper.
“Information from the birth certificate of one Frederick Bartholomew Trantor.”
“Trantor?”
“His mother’s maiden name. I asked one of the new blokes to do a bit more digging on the matter—nice little job to see what he’s made of, seeing as his flat feet kept him out of the army and he ended up moved from uniform over to my doorstep. It’s surprising what he found out. Turns out Grace Trantor was a governess at one of those nice country homes—you know, the sort you were talking about, with dining rooms where they find a body or two. Well, at least they do in those cheap books people are taking down the shelters.” He gave a half-laugh. “Anyway, you know the story—all very predictable, I suppose. There’s a widower with two children who needs a nice young woman to care for the nippers because he’s been left alone. Governess falls in love with widower, one thing leads to another . . . and he no more wants to marry the lowly governess when she gets into trouble than he wants to fly to the moon. He looks after her enough for her to have the baby well away from anyone who knows her, and then the next thing, she finds out he’s upped and married a nice young lady more fitting to his station in life. Meanwhile, with the money he’s ‘settled’ upon her running out fast, Freddie’s mum passes herself off as a widow and marries the first man who comes along and sees she’s got enough in her purse to treat him to a drink or two. But it’s rough for her because he turns out to be a bit of a nutter. They have another child, and that child is . . . well, you’ve seen her, poor little mite. Hackett senior doesn’t have a son of his own, but what he does have under his roof is two kids who are a reminder that he is a failure. And as we’ve already mentioned, he’s quick with his temper and even faster with his hands.”
“Oh, poor Grace.”
“Poor all of them. But I’ve heard from your Mr. Beale that you’ve swept in to the rescue.”
“I have the means and opportunity to lend a hand and I’ve an empty flat, so someone might as well use it.”
Caldwell nodded. “Good for you, Miss Dobbs. I’ll make sure our boys over at the local station walk past a bit more regular than usual when they’re out on the beat. They could even pop in just to make sure.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“So, what will you do, Miss Dobbs?”
“Continue with my work, as I said. I believe Freddie. I believe that on this occasion he saw events unfold exactly as he described them to me.”
“I don’t doubt he saw them, Miss Dobbs. I just don’t think they happened. It’s all very delicate and that’s why I wanted to have this here little chat, so I could tell you what we’ve done at this end, and what we found out. Now then, I haven’t got all day. Must be getting on—which is what the missus says when she’s been listening to the wireless and dinner’s nowhere near the table.”
Maisie extended her hand toward Caldwell, who nodded in her direction and shook her hand. No words were spoken; there was no need.
The conversation with Caldwell had thrown Maisie. Walking along the Embankment at a slow pace, she reconsidered everything that had happened since she received the call from Billy regarding Freddie Hackett. She held each image in her mind and aligned them like pieces from a jigsaw puzzle, yet even though she pressed hard on those she thought should fit, the whole picture failed to emerge. She saw the scene of the murder, the items found at the site, her visit to the house where Freddie delivered a message to a man he maintained had scars—or at least deep lines—on his face. She reflected upon her journey to Scotland, meeting the Frenchman, Major André Chaput, and then the second murder. Yes, the second murder. She had to find out more—and she had no reason to believe that MacFarlane would help her at this juncture.
Taking a seat on a bench, Maisie closed her eyes, feeling another weight—that of doubt settling inside her as it prepared to take up residence, ready to sap her energy, slow her mental reflexes and bring down her defenses against that most powerful of emotions: fear. And wasn’t there enough fear in the air, despite the fighting talk of politicians and despite the cheery strength of Londoners who were doing their best to keep each other going every single day, surmounting it with humor, compassion, hard work, and an immersion in being busy? Fear, she thought, had a viscous quality to it, to the extent that you could even feel it in your feet as you were running to the shelter; a burden slowing you down, despite the fact that you were moving as fast as your legs could carry you. Fear was sticky, like flypaper, something to steer clear of as you went about your business, because if you were sucked into that long banner of worry, you would be like an insect with wings adhered and feet stuck, never to escape. Fear was the scariest of emotions and it nestled there, growing ever stronger and sprouting shoots, a seed in the fertile soil of doubt.
Once again she drew upon her early lessons, reaching back into the foundations of her work to answer the question of what lay before her. “Go back to the facts, Maisie. Return to the question of information,” Maurice had counseled. “When the way forward is not clear, perhaps there is a need for discovery. Identify new sources, Maisie, and go toward them.” She allowed her eyes to close, turning her head toward the sun’s beams and for a moment banishing the acrid smell of smoke that hung in the air. Sounds of the city became fainter, and a light sleep enveloped her.
“Sorry to bother you, madam, but is this seat taken?”
Startled, Maisie gasped and began to apologize.
“Oh, it’s me who should be apologizing.” The man sat down at the other end of the bench as Maisie came to her feet. “And please do not leave on account of my arrival here. I won’t disturb you; I have my reading matter.” He held up a paperback book.
“No, no—sorry—it’s not you. I just have to be on my way to see someone. Really, you did me a favor, waking me up.”
She thanked the man and walked on, increasing her pace to a run. She knew exactly where she was going and what she would do when she arrived at her destination. She was returning to the task of gathering the facts, building a cache of information and while doing so, remaining alert to the possibility that she might encounter that nugget of illumination that would change everything.
Crossing the road in the direction of the nearest telephone kiosk, Maisie decided it would be best to place a call first, especially as Dr. Elsbeth Masters might be in the midst of another attempt at retirement. All previous efforts had co
me to naught, given not only her passion for her work—the psychiatric care of those who had suffered a profound, debilitating emotional and psychological shock—but the fact that an abundance of energy rendered her indefatigable also made her something of a nuisance for family, friends and neighbors during any extended period of relaxation. Stepping into a kiosk, Maisie drew an address book from her black bag, lifted the receiver and pushed the requisite number of coins into the slot, then waited for her call to be answered. Pressing button A directly she heard a voice on the line, Maisie made her request.
“Good afternoon—may I speak to Dr. Masters, please?”
“Right you are, caller, just one moment.” A series of clicks followed as the hospital operator put through her call.
“Masters!” An exasperated sigh followed a greeting that reminded Maisie of MacFarlane.
“Hello, Dr. Masters—Elsbeth. It’s Maisie Dobbs here.”
“Maisie! Good lord! Breath of fresh air before I completely lose my mind—though I suppose I’m in the right place if I mislay my faculties. What can I do for you, Maisie? I’m sure this isn’t a social call.”
“If I could get over to your office within about half an hour, would you see me?”
“Drat! I’ve patients until this evening, and then I have to dash as soon as I’ve seen my last patient—a very difficult man—he gets what I call the sundowner seizures, though when I was a child in East Africa, a sundowner seizure was what my father appeared to experience when our house boy was late coming in with the gin and tonics!” Masters’s throaty laugh echoed down the line. “Anyway, time is tight because my nephew is home on leave for only a couple of days, and I really must see him with his wife and the children while I can. I am so sorry—but look, I’ve a moment or two now. How can I help? Can I telephone you back? It sounds as if you’re in a telephone box.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 15
