The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Grace shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. Not now. It was a long time ago, and I’ve been cleaning houses to make ends meet for years. Even if I was called for an interview, I’d just be the woman who scrubs floors, dusts, does the laundry and polishes the silver.”

  “You’ve done well with your children, Mrs. Hackett. I understand that Freddie is coming along at school”—Maisie turned her attention to Freddie—“when he goes.”

  Freddie, still standing, looked down at his shoes.

  “I know it’s a new school, Freddie—but I think you should attend,” said Maisie. “You’re not that long from getting your school leaving certificate, and that will make all the difference to your future.”

  “I’ll end up in the army anyway, what with this war,” said Freddie.

  “I believe it will be over by the time you’re of enlistment age. But I want you to go to school, Freddie—and I can make sure your mum is safe.”

  Freddie shrugged, still sullen.

  “Anyway, the reason I came here today is that I wanted to see you, Freddie.” Maisie reached into her bag and brought out the photograph of Major Chaput. She passed it to Freddie. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  Freddie studied the photograph. “He looks posher in this photo, what with him wearing a uniform. And younger. But he’s the one I saw when I delivered the envelope to that house, on the night I saw the murder.”

  Maisie stared at Freddie. “And you told Mr. Beale and myself that he was the same man who committed murder.”

  Freddie paused, looking again at the photograph. “Yes. Yes, he was. He’s the same man.” He passed the photograph back to Maisie. “And he’s got them funny lines on his face, big folding lines like an old bloke, but he doesn’t look old.” He avoided Maisie’s eyes. “I s’pose they look like scars, and there’s that bit under his eye, like he got splashed with bleach.”

  Maisie nodded. “You’re sure it was the man to whom you delivered the envelope?”

  Freddie nodded. “Mmmm, yes, I’m sure. And he looks like the same man who came to the school. How did you find him, Miss Dobbs?”

  “It was a bit of luck, actually. I met this man a few days after you came to the office to speak to us. Because he fitted your description, I thought it would be unusual to come across a person similar in looks so soon after having a picture in my mind of a man who looked like him, based upon your recollection. I paid attention, and I was therefore in a position to make inquiries. That’s what I do.”

  “Mr. Beale said you make lucky guesses about things.”

  Maisie laughed, picked up her cup and took another sip of the cooling tea. “I suppose it might look like that—but as I said, it’s about paying attention.” She replaced the cup in the saucer and set it on the tray, and this time stared Freddie in the eye for more time than he might have found comfortable. “Yes, I watch and listen, Freddie. To everything people say and do. I also listen carefully to the things they don’t say and do.”

  She put away the photograph, and came to her feet. “Mrs. Hackett, thank you so much for the tea. I should be on my way. Do not worry about your journey to and from work—you will be safe. You are secure in this flat, and it is being monitored by the local police—a favor to me from people I know.” She turned to Freddie. “Which means you can return to school. If you like, I can speak to your teacher. You will be perfectly secure there, Freddie—and you don’t have to worry about your mum. You are all so much better off than you were living with . . . living at your previous address.”

  “What about the other man, Miss Dobbs—the one who was knifed? Have they found him yet?”

  Maisie’s reply was direct. “Yes, they have. He has been identified, though I cannot tell you more than that.”

  “Will that man go to prison and be hung, the one who killed him?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because he’s important. I could see that in the picture. He’s in a French uniform, and he’s got a lot of medals. He must be important.”

  “No one is too important to get away with a crime, Freddie.”

  Maisie regarded Freddie Hackett and saw him draw into himself, as if he were already sprinting away in his mind, his legs carrying him from the room as a fear-stoked engine drove his energy forward.

  “Oh how lovely to see you, Your Ladyship. I am sure Miss Hunter will be delighted you’ve called again. She’s in her study, working on something she’s penning for a journal.” Gabriella Hunter’s housekeeper stood back to allow Maisie to enter the hallway. “Mind you, I don’t know when it will be published—it’s all they can do to get enough paper for the dailies, isn’t it? Everything’s running short—except Mr. Hitler’s bombs!”

  Maisie agreed—it seemed that everyone had an opinion these days, whether it was about the shortage of sugar, of bread, or whether that beef in the shop was really horse meat and the butcher was pulling the wool over his customers’ eyes.

  “Maisie, my dear, I can’t say I’m surprised to see you again so soon. You’re so like Maurice at times—give you a little something to chew on, and then you come back to ask for more. Sit down and tell me.” Gabriella tucked her bobbed hair behind one ear, as if ready to hear what Maisie had to say. “Something exciting?”

  “It might be exciting to some,” said Maisie as she took a seat.

  “Go on.” She put her notebook and pen onto a side table and faced Maisie, her hands in her lap. Maisie thought she looked like a schoolgirl.

  “I am here to ask for more help. You still have some contacts in France, though you may not even have to go that far to find out what I need to know.” She passed Gabriella the photograph of Chaput, along with a piece of paper on which was written his name and that of Charles d’Anjou.

  Gabriella Hunter studied the photograph. “Quite dishy—if you’re a Frenchwoman. This type doesn’t appeal to the average British girl.”

  “Really?” said Maisie, smiling. “I’ve been told that he reminds people of Victor Mature.”

  “Good lord, no. Mature is . . . well, he’s more of a heartthrob, if you ask me. This one is a bit too swarthy, a bit too . . . folded in the face. But I know just the person to ask.”

  “Gabriella, I have a feeling that there is a troubling past history connecting these men and perhaps another—and I believe it goes back a long way.” Maisie began to rub her hands, at once unsure of her ground. “It’s hard to explain, but there was something in your comments about honor that has been like a pebble in my shoe, nagging me a bit. I suppose because I was working on this case at the time, I couldn’t help but wonder if honor might have some bearing on the investigation—whether it was a thread I should pull on.”

  “If there is something to know, I can find it—but I would like a few days. Fortunately, not all of my contacts are in France.”

  “They’re in London?”

  Gabriella Hunter tapped the side of her nose. “My contacts, my business, Maisie. I protect my sources.”

  Maisie nodded, smiling. “As you should, Gabriella. As you should.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “If it’s later this week, the best bet is Chelstone, the Dower House.”

  “Still Maurice’s old number?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I loved the Dower House, you know. And the rose garden tended by the man who lived in the Groom’s Cottage—is he still there? A dear man, he seemed to be able to make roses bloom from spring until autumn.”

  “Gabriella—that groom was my father, and yes, he still loves his roses, though he’s living with me at the Dower House, along with my stepmother and my daughter. We’re all together. Perhaps you’d like to come down to visit us? You remember Lady Rowan, I’m sure—she would love to have you to stay at the manor.”

  “Oh yes, before the last war she had some sparkling suppers—lots of arguments across the table. Julian always managed to prevent anarchy though. Such a distinguished man—I take it he’s still with us.”
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br />   “Both of them are at the manor house. A bit less mobile, yet very busy, always very busy, plus they have Canadian officers billeted there, which they love. They adore my daughter, and when I’m not at home she will often go to have tea with Lady Rowan after school.”

  “Yes, they would cherish her. It was such a tragedy when they lost their own daughter, and then to lose James years later . . . oh, Maisie, you were married for such a short time.”

  “It’s been a few years now.”

  “Do you think— No, it’s not for me to ask. I’m sorry, forget I said anything.”

  Maisie smiled. “You were going to ask about my gentleman friend again, weren’t you?”

  “Remember I’m half French, Maisie—I love romance, so you can’t blame me for asking, can you?” Gabriella laughed, then grew pensive. “There are many ways of being at odds with a person you love, Maisie, and they’re not always as serious as you think.”

  Maisie rubbed the back of her hand where the burns had been most deep. “Mark has to return to America every so often, which is of course a dangerous journey by aeroplane, usually via Ireland and Lisbon—it frightens me, to tell you the truth. I miss him very much when he’s away, and I look forward to his homecoming—it’s wonderful when he’s here and of course Anna adores him, which warms my heart. But my concern is that Britain is not his home, and though he professes to love it here and has even said that he could see himself retiring to the life of a gentleman farmer in Kent, I’m never sure if he’s serious, because so much of what he says is lighthearted banter. Of course, we both know that no one can plan during wartime—the future is so unsettled—but the truth is that I cannot leave England. I have responsibilities here. And I don’t feel confident that he would stay, not only due to his work, but—well, this is not his home.” She shook her head and rubbed her fingers against the scar again. “It all means the leap might be too far for both of us, and I sometimes think the little tensions that then become bigger are down to the fact that we veer away from any talk of the future, because we’re afraid of where it might lead. It might be a relief for both of us if we part, but we veer away from that decision too.”

  Hunter nodded. “I think I understand, my dear. I was your age when I had an intense affair of the heart—certainly not my first, by any means. But it was important and I loved the man very much indeed. I look back and wish we had both been a little more, well, I suppose ‘malleable’ might be a better word. You see, with age we become somewhat less flexible in many ways, don’t we? Even someone like you, who is trained to see the gray between black and white.” She fingered the loose strap of her watch and whispered, so that Maisie could barely hear her, “And even the man who trained you.” She looked up and smiled. “We also become rather reticent when it comes to taking the leap into love, which I think can be such a tragedy because love is always worth the leap.”

  The older woman held up the photo and sheet of paper with the two names. “Anyway, this is the second time I’ve lectured you on the subject of love, so I’ll get on with this, Maisie. Expect to hear from me soon.”

  Maisie stood up, thanked Gabriella and leaned down to kiss her on both cheeks before turning to leave. As she reached the door, Gabriella called to her.

  “Maisie—if you love your American, do say yes if he asks you to marry him. I said no too many times because I was afraid of losing myself and . . . well, what with my work, you know. But now the years have passed, I confess I harbor some regrets—I think I deprived myself of much happiness. Anyway, I’ll be in touch, Maisie.”

  Consulting her watch, Maisie realized that, once again, it was time to make her way back to the flat in Holland Park, though on this evening she would not disturb the privacy of Priscilla and her family. She enjoyed the proximity to the house owned by Priscilla and Douglas. It was not unusual for Priscilla to telephone Maisie almost as soon as she knew she had arrived home from the office, asking her to come round and join her for a “quick G and T.” The trouble was, Priscilla’s G and Ts were neither quick nor to Maisie’s taste, though she loved her friend’s company.

  When Gabriella mentioned Lord Julian in their earlier meeting, it had given Maisie an idea—one she admonished herself for not acting upon earlier. Having arrived home and checked her blackout curtains, she went to the telephone and dialed the number for Chelstone Manor. She felt a sense of encroaching loss when it took Lord Julian longer than usual to come to the telephone after being summoned by the butler—so much would change with his passing.

  “Maisie—how are you? Our delightful Anna was here this afternoon, and she was quite enchanting. We had a long discussion about the next gymkhana, and I think she is up for it.” Lord Julian’s enthusiastic tone was encouraging.

  “She’s been very upset about losing Emma,” said Maisie.

  “Massive dog, wasn’t she? Went a long time, that one. The larger breeds don’t always have a good lifespan. Anyway, my dear, I do believe you’ve telephoned to ask me a question. Fire away!”

  Maisie smiled, her dark thoughts now completely banished by the elderly man’s hearty response. She knew he welcomed being asked to assist her with his contacts.

  “There’s something I’m curious about, and I think you might be able to help with it—you still have quite a name at the War Office.”

  “And a number of those so-called contacts who know that name are hanging on and haven’t yet met their makers. I should warn you, though—in case you didn’t hear—the records are in a terrible state, because the office where they were kept was bombed. But give me the details, Maisie, just in case I can find out anything. My pen is at the ready.”

  “I already know about the records office, but I’m just sniffing around for anything else. The name is Hackett.” She spelled out Arthur Hackett’s surname. “According to information I have already, he was in the East Surrey Regiment. It would be useful to know if there was a neurasthenia report—any comments from commanding officers regarding temperament.” She paused. “And any special skills for which he was noted.”

  “Special skills?”

  “Oh, you know—was he an excellent shot, or was he trained in hand-to-hand combat? That sort of thing. Or perhaps he had an ability in languages. Any details about his background, that’s what I’m looking for—and pension arrangements.”

  “Right you are. Probably take a couple of days—so I suppose you can rest until then.” Julian laughed.

  “Too busy—as you well know!” Maisie had an easy relationship with her former father-in-law, though she had once found him intimidating. “Before I go—do you remember Maurice’s friend Gabriella Hunter?”

  “Gabriella—once met, never forgotten. Fiercely intelligent woman. Brave and opinionated. Rowan loved her, though they were known to lock horns—and come out laughing. She and Maurice were . . . were very good friends, I suppose you could say.”

  “Yes, so I understand. I’ve seen her a few times lately, and I think she’d very much like to see Chelstone again. As you know, the Dower House is full, but I wondered . . . perhaps you and Lady Rowan might invite her at some point. I think she could do with a Friday to Monday.” Maisie ran the telephone cord through her fingers, a habit formed by nervousness on the first occasion she had ever used a telephone. “Julian, I think she’s rather lonely now.”

  “I’ll have a word with Rowan, and she’ll give her a ring—excellent idea to get her down here, and it would do Rowan the power of good to see her. And when will you be home again?”

  “By Thursday, I hope—I only came up to town today.”

  “All righty, I should have something for you regarding this Hackett in a day or so, I would imagine. Always interesting to be one of your worker bees! Until then, Maisie.”

  Worker bees. Maisie considered the comment. Yes, she had her worker bees, valuable contacts who would seek whatever information she needed, buzzing around their gardens of endeavor until they found the pockets of intelligence she had requested. But the riches they broug
ht to her were never sweet; indeed, the plethora of detail gathered during a murder inquiry tended to have a stark bitterness to it.

  Chapter 15

  The interviews with F-section agents who would be leaving for France within the week took up Maisie’s entire day. In addition, she was tasked with reviewing files on new recruits. For those who had endured the rigorous training, once again Maisie would be compiling reports on each man or woman, attesting to their state of mind prior to departure. It would have been unusual for one of the cohort to be plucked out and sent home at this final stage, but it had happened in the past.

  It was late in the afternoon, following a final interview, when a young woman in the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry entered the interview room. Female recruits to the Special Operations Executive were ostensibly members of FANY.

  “Mr. MacFarlane requests your presence, ma’am. Please follow me.”

  Maisie was glad to leave the small room, which had only a skylight to provide natural illumination. She was escorted down a flight of stairs to a room where MacFarlane was seated alone at a desk. The young woman pulled out the only other chair for Maisie, who began to feel a little claustrophobic in the windowless office.

  “Thank you, Lawson,” said MacFarlane, without looking up at the young woman. “That will be all.”

  “Is it Pascale?” asked Maisie.

  MacFarlane nodded. “The next forty-eight hours will be crucial. We’ve heard via our sources that she managed to reach her grandmother’s house and is in hiding. The shoulder wound was caused by a bullet, though as far as we know it’s not too bad, but not entirely superficial—and she has lost some blood. The grandmother wants her to recover, but Granny is also nobody’s fool. She knows Pascale is effectively hiding in plain sight and must be on the move again soon. Seems both the old lady and Pascale have a way with canines, otherwise both would have been torn to shreds by the German guard dogs. I’d pay good money to see how the women calm them down—I could use their technique with my sister’s Jack Russell. Little piranha that he is. If it were a Saturday-morning comedy at the picture house, this would be a funny situation—how that grandmother is working right under the noses of the Gestapo.”