The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I’ll breathe more easily when she’s in London.”

  “Maisie, unless there are indications to the contrary, she’ll only be here for debriefing to see if she’s got the will and spine enough to go back there, and after some more training, that’s where she’ll be. We can’t invest in qualified agents and not use them.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Hmmm. Anyway, you didn’t call me to blether on about agents in France, and not on a Sunday when good people are singing hymns in a blacked-out church.”

  “I want your help, Robbie. I’d like a photograph of Major Chaput—I’m sure you have one in a file somewhere. I need it. And I want to know if he’s been taken to see the body pulled from the Thames, on the off chance that he could identify the deceased.”

  “What the hell are you thinking, Maisie? Are you still trying to help that daydreaming boy? Who, I might add, has failed to turn up to run a few messages for us.”

  There were times when Maisie wanted to scream at Robbie MacFarlane, and those moments became more urgent—and therefore more volatile for Maisie—when MacFarlane seemed at his most obtuse.

  “Here’s what’s been troubling me, Robbie. First of all, yes, this is conjecture, but I have a boy who seems to have witnessed a murder—and don’t interrupt me; I’m coming back to that. Then he delivers a message, and there’s a good chance it went to our Major Chaput, who was nowhere in the abandoned building when I proceeded to the same address. As you know the house was empty—of everything. Now, the message came from the department, and if it was you, it was therefore all above board, because you are liaising with a Free French intelligence officer. Fine. But Freddie believes he saw our Major Chaput kill another human being. The deceased vanishes in short order, and the next thing we know a body is being pulled from the Thames. It would never have been found had it not been for the retrieval of a Spitfire from the river.”

  “That body could have been anyone’s. And according to pathology reports, there were signs that a goodly amount of alcohol had been consumed.”

  “The pathologist believes he was French, and I think I’d go with his observation. So, I am formally requesting that you take steps to ensure Chaput is instructed to view the body. I’d like to know if he can identify the man—and I want the facts. Not just your idea of the truth.” Maisie felt herself becoming terse.

  “Maisie,” said MacFarlane, his voice softer than usual. “I know you care for the safety of that boy and his family, but I must point out that it’s not for you to give me orders, lass. Look, you’ve had a rough few days—breaking the news of a death is difficult, and god knows I’ve done it enough times. But you’ve got to drop this whole rigmarole with young Hackett. And it’s not as if anyone is paying you for this one. Even though you’ve got a few bob tucked away, you should be taking on cases that bring in a bit of revenue, not ones that wear you down for nothing in return.”

  “I’ll worry about the money, Robbie—and that’s a fine red herring to throw around. In the meantime, Freddie Hackett is close to a breakdown, so if I have anything to do with it, he’s not going to be running messages for anyone. But I really must have that photograph—surely you can at least do that for me, if only to dispense with this case once and for all so I can tell Freddie and his mother that I believe him but we don’t know who he saw on that night. I must do this for Freddie. And I want to know, if at all possible, the identity of the man dragged up from the Thames. There may be a link to that dead man in Scotland—or did you think I’d forgotten about him?”

  “That has nothing to do with you.”

  “Is that why you brought me in on the postmortem and then whisked me away? I believe you know very well that they could be connected, Robbie, and if so, you have a murderer in your midst. How can we keep the Free French even remotely settled here, balanced between hating us and joining us in our quest to fight the Nazis, if they’re killing each other on our soil? I know I’ve signed a good deal of my working life over to you for the duration, but I can find a way out.”

  “I think you’ve been looking for a way out since that wee girl came into your life, haven’t you, Maisie? You want to be with your child, but you can’t give up your work, and there you are, falling over yourself to hold it all in your arms.”

  Maisie felt herself bristle. MacFarlane had a way of needling her, of seeing a situation in black and white—or pretending to. “My personal life is none of your business, Robbie, though I’ll admit you always seem to know too much about it. Now, will you help me out? A photograph of Chaput?”

  “Yes. My office, tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock be all right for you?”

  “Thank you. And what about finding out if Chaput can identify the man from the river?”

  There was silence on the line, followed by a sigh.

  “Robbie?”

  “He’s already done it. The dead man is one Charles d’Anjou, though seeing as it sounds more like a cheap wine, it’s probably not his real name. But whoever he is, Chaput confirmed that he had been one of his men, and that he was also a drinker and a liability.”

  “Don’t tell me he killed him for being a drinker?”

  “Bit sarcastic for you, Maisie.” MacFarlane gave a half laugh. “An alcoholic is always a liability, but it’ll get you kicked off a job, not knifed by your boss. Chaput didn’t kill him.”

  “So he says.” Even to Maisie, her reply sounded childish.

  “I believe him. Someone murdered the man, and Chaput has admitted that he wasn’t sorry to see him gone.”

  “And the man in Scotland?”

  “My bailiwick, Maisie—not yours.”

  “What if they’re tied together in some way?”

  “They’re not.”

  Maisie sighed. “Robbie—”

  “Look, Maisie, here’s what you should do—and far be it from me to give advice to someone like yourself, plus I am sick to death of repeating myself on this one, but why don’t you look after young Freddie and his family as much as you want, but drop this investigation. As far as your brain is concerned, I need you here as often as your expertise is required. In the meantime, you can leave all the other investigations to your Mr. Beale.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do.”

  “Ah, but that’s the rub, isn’t it—you can’t let go of the more interesting ones. You don’t want to find out who’s gone off with the family jewels, or even someone else’s wife, but you do like it when a real puzzle comes along to pique your interest, and if you think you can save a life along the way.”

  Maisie sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Robbie—I’ll collect the photograph when we meet.”

  “And you’ve three assessments lined up, just so you know.”

  Maisie paused for a few seconds. “I’ll be there, Robbie. Until then—” She replaced the receiver before MacFarlane had a chance to hang up first. She was fed up with listening to the continuous tone of the disconnected call at the end of every telephone conversation with Robbie MacFarlane. This time it was her turn.

  Chapter 14

  “Here you are, Maisie—you can feast your eyes on the dashing Major all you like now.” MacFarlane pulled a photograph from an envelope and pushed it across the desk as Maisie entered his office on Monday afternoon. “There’s your Major Chaput, looking all very debonair—and with a bit of luck those natural folds in his skin won’t scare the boy.”

  “Thank you, Robbie. I appreciate it.”

  “Friends again, are we? Anyway, sit down, Maisie. I want to talk to you.”

  Maisie smoothed her narrow navy blue skirt with kick pleats just below the knee, and took the seat opposite MacFarlane. As always, the air was close in the small room, so she unbuttoned the matching navy jacket to reveal a cream silk blouse underneath. “What is it—have you news of Pascale?”

  “No, not yet. But I have some other news. Freddie Hackett’s father received a strong police warning on Saturday evening—I only found out this morning. It s
eems he discovered where his family are living and went over there. Luckily there’s that locked outer door, and though he tried to lob a brick through the glass, no damage was caused, or he would have been behind some very strong bars by now. The caretaker telephoned through to the local police station and they sent a couple of young coppers around to have a word with him. He eventually went on his way, albeit with a promise to come back with a stick of dynamite.”

  Maisie rubbed her forehead. “I thought it would take a bit longer for him to find them. I wonder—”

  “Don’t wonder anything. He’s probably all talk, that one. All mouth and trousers, as the saying goes. And I’ve checked the local constabulary to make sure they’re following Caldwell’s orders and keeping an eye on the family—another voice for good measure.”

  “What about keeping an eye on Hackett senior?” asked Maisie.

  “That wandering waste of time? He wanders about looking for work until the pubs open, so he wanders in and that’s it for another day until he wanders home. He’ll soon be kicked out of his lodgings because Grace and Freddie aren’t bringing him every scrap of money they make.”

  “I’d better go round to see them,” said Maisie.

  “Not just yet, Maisie.” MacFarlane leaned back in his chair. He wore no jacket in the office; he had loosened his tie and slipped his trouser braces off his shoulders. “There’s never any bloody air in these small rooms.” He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk before him.

  “But Freddie—”

  “Stop talking about Freddie blimmin’ Hackett for just a minute, would you? Now then—how did Mrs. Partridge take the news?” MacFarlane had not missed a beat between subjects.

  “The whole family is devastated. They’re at their house in Holland Park—Tom managed to get a twenty-four-hour leave, and Tim came down from university. Elinor—Miss Jones—was as much a part of the family as if she had been born the boys’ big sister.”

  “And you told them there had been an accident.”

  “All according to your instructions.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Robbie?”

  MacFarlane shook his head. “No—not at all. I’m just thinking.” There was a second’s hiatus before he spoke again. “Now then—your orders for the week. Here you are.” He passed a sheet of typewritten paper to Maisie. “The personnel files pertaining to the men and women you’ll be interviewing will be available for you to read through as soon as you get here tomorrow, and then your meetings will commence one after the other. They’ve all passed through the tests up in Scotland, and of course the radio operators have gone through training. This is the final assessment before they go over.”

  Maisie took the sheet of paper.

  “You’re off to see the Hacketts?”

  “Yes.”

  MacFarlane nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Right you are, Robbie. See you tomorrow. Ten sharp.”

  Maisie walked at a slow pace to the underground station. It was a fine day, a day when she might consider ambling through Regent’s Park, if only to gather her thoughts.

  Sometimes she imagined her work as akin to creating a patchwork quilt. Each square of fabric represented another piece of information, of intelligence or a consideration that had come to mind based upon previous experience—what MacFarlane would call a feeling in his gut. If different colors were assigned to that which was known fact, or conjecture, or elements of the case based upon a depth of feeling inspired by her training, she would hope to see the quilt formed of pale colors on the outer edges, and as she gathered more intelligence, the colors would become darker toward the center, as the heart of the case became clear. The colors of Freddie Hackett’s quilt were coming together in a haphazard form, adhering to no clear pattern. However, she had a folded sheet with more information in her bag, and she knew who she would go to for help in determining whether the intelligence was light or bold. But first she wanted to see Grace, Freddie and Iris Hackett.

  Grace Hackett appeared to have only just arrived home from work when Maisie rang the bell—she had retained a key to the outer door, so did not need to summon Freddie’s mother to the street to let her into the entrance hall. Freddie was not at home, though it seemed that Iris had just been dropped off by the caretaker’s wife.

  “Lovely to see you, Miss Dobbs. Come in—I’ve just put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I’d love a cup, thank you, Mrs. Hackett,” said Maisie. “And where’s Freddie?”

  “Just nipped down to the shop for a pint of milk.”

  “Mrs. Hackett, I heard your husband came to the house and was troublesome. Do you feel safe enough? Are you all right here?”

  “There’s two doors between him and us, so yes, once I’m inside the flat I feel safe, Miss Dobbs. But not so much when I’m out.”

  “Is that why Freddie isn’t at school? Is he going to your place of work to make sure his father doesn’t come near you?”

  Grace Hackett pressed her lips together as she fought tears. “Yes, he does. I’ve told him I want him to go to school, but he walks with me to the bus stop and then to the house, and after that he gives me a hand—he just won’t leave my side in case his father comes after me. He worries that he’s watching us.”

  “And do you think he is?”

  “I suppose I worry, but I also know what he does with his day—he looks for work until the pubs open, then he hangs around hoping someone else will buy him a drink. Sometimes he picks up a job here and there, but not every day. And as for finding the right mark to buy him that drink—it’s not as difficult as you might think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My husband is a bit of a con man, Miss Dobbs, but of course you know that. He can chat to people quite easily when he likes—he’s got that gift of the gab. Draws them in, and before long, they’re buying the rounds. People who drink in pubs generally like a bit of company while they’re downing the pints, and my husband can always see that need for companionship in people.”

  Maisie wondered if Hackett had seen the need in Grace, had identified a mark and drawn her in with his patter. The money settled upon her after Freddie’s birth was not a fortune, but attractive to a man who had little. Maisie was about to ask another question when Iris—who was sitting at the table, turning the pages of a picture book back and forth—looked up at Maisie and gave her a broad, toothy grin. The little girl then held up her arms, opening and closing her fingers as if she wanted something.

  “Would you like to sit on my lap, Iris?” said Maisie, pulling out a chair next to the child. “Come on, let’s look at your book.”

  “I’ll make the tea,” said Grace Hackett, smiling as Iris clambered onto Maisie’s lap.

  Freddie returned with a bottle of milk just as Grace went into the kitchen and Maisie began reading to Iris, who clapped her hands and called out “Freddeee” when her brother came into the sitting room.

  “Miss Dobbs!” Freddie seemed to pale when he saw Maisie.

  “I thought I’d drop in and say hello—see how you’re all getting along here, Freddie. And I wanted to have a quick word with you.”

  “I’ve just got to take this to Mum.” Freddie lifted the bottle, and walked at speed past Maisie into the kitchen.

  Maisie turned back to Iris, who had watched her brother and began to suck her thumb, and as Maisie continued reading to the little girl, she could hear raised voices in the kitchen.

  “But I don’t want to go to school, even if she is here to make me go,” said Freddie.

  “I promise you, Fred—I will be safe.”

  “How do you know that? He’s a nutter.”

  Maisie began pointing to characters on the page, asking Iris to say each word after her, while at the same time trying to follow the conversation unfolding in the kitchen.

  “Don’t speak to your mother like that,” said Grace.

  “I’m fed up with school a
nyway. It’s all really easy stuff. I’m not learning anything I couldn’t learn from a book in the library. And I’m a man now. I’ve got to look after you—it’s not as if he ever did, is it?”

  “Freddie—he’s your father!”

  There was silence in the kitchen. Maisie stopped reading, and Iris looked behind her toward the kitchen door.

  “I don’t care, because he isn’t my real father, is he? And we both know he’s bad.”

  Maisie started as she heard the sharp slap of hand on face, and Grace gasping.

  “Mum!”

  “I’m sorry, Fred—I’m sorry. Look, love, let’s talk about this later—we’ve to take in tea for Miss Dobbs. She wants to have a word with you. And you show her some gratitude, because if it weren’t for her, we’d still be back there with him.”

  Maisie heard the rattling of crockery, and Freddie appeared, holding a tray with teacups and saucers, his mother following with the teapot and milk jug.

  “Miss Dobbs, every time I make tea or put the dinner on, I’m so grateful to you for offering us this flat.” Grace set down the tray and pulled out a chair. As soon as she was seated, Iris jumped down and went to her mother. “It’s very nice here, and really it’s too good for the likes of us.” She began to pour tea.

  “No—it’s perfect for you for as long as you need it, and it would otherwise be standing empty, so I’m the one who’s grateful, because any home should be lived in,” said Maisie. “I understand you were once a governess, Mrs. Hackett.”

  Grace Hackett looked at Maisie for several seconds before handing a cup of tea to her. “Yes, I actually trained to be a teacher, so I can do more than clean, you know.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Maisie. “I’ve had a busy morning and not stopped for even a glass of water.” She took a sip of tea and set her cup in the saucer. “You could still teach, if you wanted to,” she continued. “You seem to be doing well with Iris. There are a number of children coming back into London, and I think some additional teachers are needed because so many have remained with their classes while they’re evacuated. I know they’re a bit short at my daughter’s school, and that’s in the country.”