The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Of course—you have my word.” Maisie smiled and walked toward the door, turning back to Hillman as she reached for the handle. “By the way, Mr. Hillman—about Dr. Maurice Blanche’s papers. I thought you might like to know that he bequeathed them to me, so I have them. All of them. Every last page.”

  Maisie left a message at her office for Billy, to let him know that she was going directly to Tunbridge Wells and might spend the night at the Dower House. Given that it was so close and a short journey on the local branch line, if she were late it would make sense to remain in Kent, rather than return to London.

  There was another reason. Throughout the visit to Hunter’s Mecklenburgh Square home, she had felt watched. It was a familiar feeling when working on a case and one that Maurice had described during her apprenticeship. “Remember, Maisie, that in identifying and focusing on the evidence we collect, we are also putting everything we know under the microscope to shed light on our inquiry, and without realizing it we also put ourselves under the same microscope. All that vigilance can make us feel as if we, too, are being watched—yet it is ourselves who are doing the watching when the task of looking inward becomes rote. You must be ever conscious of the landscape surrounding you, as well as that which is inside you.”

  Might Hunter’s attacker have not left the environs surrounding her home following his incursion, but instead hidden in plain sight? And might he have followed Maisie to Bedford Square, taken note of the office she had entered and then concluded the reason for her call? Could he now be waiting for her? If that were so, then she would have to take utmost care in planning her journey to Tunbridge Wells.

  By the time Maisie reached her destination, it was getting late. She had traveled by motor coach to Sevenoaks and from there caught a train to Tunbridge Wells, before the final leg of her journey in a taxi. She had studied every passenger on the coach and found nothing to concern her among the motley assortment of travelers. By the time she arrived in Tunbridge Wells, she was sure she had not been followed.

  “You must be Miss Dobbs,” said Joan Hillman, as she answered the door of her Georgian house situated on a street close to The Pantiles. She was an interesting study, slender verging on thin, wearing a pair of wide-legged trousers with pleats at a wide waistband. A collarless white shirt made for a man was tucked into the waistband, giving a blouson effect, and she wore her blond hair drawn up in a hurried topknot secured with a pencil, completing her ensemble with a floral folded silk scarf pulled around from nape of neck to crown and tied in a bow. On her feet she wore ballet slippers that were just visible under the trouser cuffs. She held a cigarette between two fingers as she answered the door.

  “Yes, that’s me,” said Maisie.

  “Come on in then. My study is at the back of the house.”

  Joan Hillman continued speaking as she walked ahead along the hallway, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray on a side table as she went. “I was going to come to the door with the manuscript, but I thought I’d better not in case someone was there waiting to have a go at me with a cosh—after all, my father made it sound all very cloak and dagger.” She opened the door to an orangery filled with all manner of exotic plants growing in large terra-cotta pots around the perimeter of the brick and glass room. A circular patterned carpet was positioned in the center of the flagstone floor, with a desk situated in the center as if it were the bull’s-eye on a target. A single log smoldered in a small cast iron firebox at one end of the room, and a pair of armchairs upholstered in a deep burgundy heavy-duty linen flanked either side of the heat source. A calico cat was asleep on a blanket thrown across the seat of one chair. A walnut drinks cabinet was set to the left of the double doors that led back into the house, and a matching walnut filing cabinet stood on the other.

  “Is it really that bad?” said Hillman, turning to Maisie.

  “It’s fairly serious. Miss Hunter is now in hospital, having suffered a grievous attack in her home.”

  Hillman looked at Maisie. “Come on, sit down and take the weight off your feet. I’ll get the manuscript for you.”

  Maisie was grateful to sit back in the armchair, while Joan Hillman unlocked the filing cabinet and removed a thick buff-colored envelope.

  “Do you have any idea what’s in this book?” asked Hillman.

  “I only know that there’s something in there for me—something Gabriella might have left there for me to find because she knew others might want to intercept the information.”

  “I’ve not managed to get very far with it, as I had another job to finish first. In fact, I hadn’t expected her manuscript for at least another month. Gabriella has a history of being a tyrant when it comes to getting her work in on time. Just terrible.”

  “May I?” said Maisie, holding out her hand.

  “Sorry—here you go.” Hillman passed the envelope to Maisie. “Would you like a drink? And I mean a drink, not a soppy cup of tea. Hate the stuff.”

  “Just a small one. Cream sherry, if you have it.”

  Hillman nodded, stood up and went to the drinks cabinet. Maisie opened the envelope and began to turn each page of Gabriella Hunter’s manuscript.

  “It’s an interesting book,” said Hillman, handing Maisie a glass of sherry. She brushed aside the cat, threw the blanket on the floor and settled into the chair opposite Maisie. “Quite different from anything she’s ever written before.” She sipped her drink—Maisie detected the aroma of anise. “Usually her work is firmly directed toward the student of European literature, whether that student has just come up to university or is a few years on and working on a doctorate,” continued Hillman. “But this is different. Yes, it is a sort of review of literature in the immediate period following the last war, right up until the present, but there’s more than that—it’s woven in with her memories.” She gave a half-laugh. “Mind you, I doubt she’ll go right into that realm of her past, after all, it’s all rather murky—isn’t it, Miss Dobbs?” She looked at Maisie, giving her a knowing wry smile.

  “I’m anxious to go through the manuscript. I believe that what I am looking for might not be part of the document itself, but something specifically for me.”

  “Look—would you like to read it here?”

  “But the blackout—I should be on my way.”

  “I think you’re a bit late for that, Miss Dobbs—it was almost as dark as pitch outside by the time you arrived. I have guest quarters at the top of the house with everything you might need, right down to a new toothbrush. And you can look at the manuscript, find what you’re searching for and leave it with me to continue my work tomorrow morning. I think this plan could suit both of us very well—and I’m clearly making the offer for selfish reasons, as I want to get on with my first read and the task of editing Gabriella’s book so I can send it back to her immediately she’s discharged from hospital. It might be the first of her books that we manage to get out according to the actual publishing schedule.”

  Maisie consulted her watch and realized that Joan Hillman was right—it was the best plan in the circumstances. “I’m sorry—I hadn’t realized it was so late.” She sighed. “Sometimes there are never enough hours at my disposal. Thank you very much for the offer, Miss Hillman—I’ll take you up on it, and I assure you I will be away from here and out of your hair on the early train. I think the peace and quiet of your top-floor room might be just what I need.”

  “Good, that’s settled. I’ll throw together something for us to eat—how about a salad, cheese, some bread and a glass of wine? We can tuck in and call it supper.”

  Maisie laughed. “That sounds like my staple diet when I’m in London.”

  “Cheese is getting harder to come by, but fortunately my cleaning lady makes her own bread. I don’t ask how she comes by the ingredients. Oh, and if we’re to open a bottle of wine to share, you must call me Joan—so enough of all this ‘Miss Hillman’ lark. That’s for the staff and even my father when we’re both in the office. All very proper. We’re ‘Mr. H
illman’ and ‘Miss Hillman,’ though I sometimes think my father would like to be ‘Saint John Hillman, patron saint of the publishing world.’ ”

  “Thank you, Joan—and please drop the ‘Miss Dobbs.’ It’s ‘Maisie.’ ”

  “Good,” said Hillman as she reached for a packet of cigarettes, shook one out and tapped it on the packet before picking up a lighter. As she ignited the flame she nodded toward the doors leading back into the house. “If you wander down the hall to the library—second door on the left—there’s a telephone in there. Nice and private for any calls you need to make. Then I’ll show you to your quarters. In the meantime, I’ll make sure all the blackout blinds are in place, otherwise we’ll be sharing our wine with Mr. Shilling, our local Air Raid Precautions man.”

  As Maisie made her way along to the library, she reflected on Hillman’s earlier confession of selfishness; the esteemed editor had yet to ask how Gabriella Hunter had fared following the attack, or whether she might visit her at some point. But for now, Hunter’s relationship with her editor was not of great import. Maisie wanted to telephone her father and Brenda at the Dower House and to speak to Anna, who she ached to see. She also wanted to contact Billy at the office—there was an extension line to the downstairs flat now, so if he had locked up the office, she hoped to locate him there.

  “ ’Allo, miss—I wondered what had happened to you.”

  “I’ve been chasing the not-yet-published book written by Gabriella Hunter.” She went on to explain the circumstances, looking around to ensure her privacy. Though she trusted Hillman not to be the slightest bit interested in her work and personal life, it was a habit to confirm there was no one listening while she discussed a case.

  “So have you read it yet?”

  “I’ll do it later this evening. I should be a good guest and not vanish to my room too quickly, though I doubt Joan Hillman will care much—she looks as if she’d rather have her nose in a book anyway. How about you?”

  “The first thing I’ve got to tell you is that Mr. Scott has been on the blower time and again, looking for you. He thought you were going to be at your flat, and had dinner on the go and everything, and now he’s a bit, you know, upset about it.”

  “Oh dear, I completely forgot.”

  “I’d say you’re in a bit of a pickle there, miss. You’ve blotted your copybook, and it’s not as if you can buy a bunch of flowers to say sorry to a bloke, is it? Anyway, I told him I was bound to hear from you this evening, and I’d get you to telephone him at your flat, which is where he’s going to wait. And he said, ‘Lucky you, knowing you’d get a call.’ ”

  “I’ll telephone him as soon as I’ve spoken to Anna.” Maisie rubbed her forehead. “Anyway, that aside, have you made progress today?”

  “I’m seeing my mate tomorrow morning, the one who knows a bit more about the Free French, and he said he’s got something on Freddie’s dad too. It took a while, what with one thing and another. He was in a telephone box and didn’t have enough money; said he had to get going. Drives me mad, that sort of thing, because I wanted him to tell me what he had there and then. Anyway, I’ll be seeing him in a caff just off Fleet Street.”

  “Frustrating. Very frustrating. I’ll meet you in the office after you’ve seen him. All right?”

  “Before you go, miss—I’ve got one more thing for you.”

  “Yes—what is it, Billy?”

  “The street sweeper, Mr. Jeeps. Nice bloke, though he’s a bit of a talker—probably down to spending all that time alone cleaning the streets, because he likes to have a chat. Anyway, he didn’t see anyone coming or going from Miss Hunter’s house, and the only other person he saw in the square asked him the way to the tube station. Young bloke, twenty-five-ish, looked like a student, had one of them scarves with the long stripes that students wear. Had a book or two under his arm, wore spectacles. That was all Jeeps could tell me.”

  Maisie sighed. “I’d put money on that being the attacker, and sticking around after the event.”

  “Me too.”

  “Thanks, Billy. I’ll see you in the office—about half past ten, do you think?”

  “Yes, miss. I’ll be there. And don’t forget to telephone that Yank. He’s like a blimmin’ terrier with a bone, I’ll give him that.”

  “Maisie, before you do anything else, you must ring your flat, because if I have to run to the library telephone one more time this evening, only to find it’s Clark Gable looking for you, I think I will just let him have a piece of my mind and with both barrels.”

  “Oh, Brenda, I am sorry—I forgot he was coming over and I’ve been caught up. Caught out, more like, because I won’t be returning to the flat this evening.”

  “Well, where are you then?”

  “I’m safe and with a client—a lady who’s connected to another client. It became late and she offered me her guest room, which meant I didn’t have to find my way home through the blackout.”

  “Hmmph—perhaps Mr. Scott has good reason to get a bit upset then.”

  “Brenda—can you put Anna on, please?”

  “Look, Maisie, sorry if I was a bit sharp, but I’ve said it before, that when you’re in the midst of a case, you do remind me of Dr. Blanche at times. I’m now starting to feel a bit sorry for Mr. Scott. He’s a very nice man, after all.”

  Maisie raised her eyebrows. “You’ve changed your tune.”

  “No, I always thought he was nice and he’s good to you and Anna. I’d just like to see a bit more, you know—”

  “I’ll telephone him as soon as I’ve spoken to Anna.”

  “Maisie?”

  “Yes, it’s me, Mark—I am so terribly sorry, I have been incredibly—”

  “Incredibly what? I’m the one who’s been incredibly worried, Maisie. You could have been dead under a bombed-out building somewhere, and how would I ever know? How would anyone get in touch with me if you were in a hospital somewhere, fighting for your life?”

  “Mark, this is not like you. We are both working on sensitive . . . sensitive remits, and I always thought we accepted it as it is.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that anymore. Maybe the sensitive thing around here is me, because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it all, and I reckon it’s time some big decisions were made. We can’t go on like this, Maisie.”

  Maisie placed her hand on her chest, feeling her heart begin to beat faster. So, this was it. She should have known it was all too good to be true. She should have realized that she would lose this man who she believed had loved her, who seemed to adore her daughter and respected her parents, even putting up with ways that must have seemed so strange to him. Now she had to accept that they’d had a good run, and though she loved him, it had come to this. He wouldn’t be the first man who’d had trouble with the nature of her work.

  “Yes, I think you’re right, Mark. We can’t go on like this.” She paused. “Look, I’ll be back in London tomorrow morning. Perhaps we can have one last dinner together—but I have to go now, and—”

  “A last dinner? Maisie? I know you’re listening, but I’m not sure you’re hearing me.”

  “All right, if you don’t want to, again, I understand. Perhaps it really is too much to ask of you. Anyway, I’ll be at the flat tomorrow evening. Good night.”

  Maisie quickly replaced the receiver before Mark Scott could say more, but remained standing by the telephone until there was a knock on the door.

  “Everything all right, Maisie?” Joan Hillman cracked the door just enough to see her guest. “There’s supper and a nice glass of chilled sauternes on the table.” She stopped speaking, studied Maisie and then continued. “I know that expression—only a man could cause a woman to look like that. Come on, let’s get stuck into the whole bloody bottle. Women of our vintage should not be enduring even one shred of angst about a man.”

  It was an hour and a half later, having listened to Joan Hillman’s entire romantic history involving three engagements, cold feet on the m
orning of her wedding—the expected culmination of engagement number three—and a series of wild affairs with “utterly the wrong sort,” that Maisie climbed the stairs to her room at the top of the house. She was grateful for Hillman’s nonstop monologue, for she had not felt obliged to offer a shred of information regarding her own personal affairs, beyond the fact that she was a widow with a child. Now she craved some peace and quiet, a time when she would sequester all thoughts of Mark Scott in a separate corner of her mind and heart, leaving room to apply her full concentration to the task at hand. She lay back on the bed, took up Gabriella Hunter’s manuscript and turned the first page, then the second and the third, feeling her breath become faster as she began the hunt for the former agent’s hidden message—a communiqué left in secret because she feared for her life.

  Chapter 18

  “According to my mate,” said Billy, “he doesn’t know a lot about the Free French, other than de Gaulle meeting with Churchill and speculation about what they think of each other. But he does know that Major André Chaput is quite a high-up bloke. Apparently he was decorated in the last war—awarded the Croix de Guerre for bravery in battle.”

  Billy flicked open his notebook. “Mick—my mate, known him since the war—poked around a bit and found out that after the war, Chaput was sent to the Levant, to Syria, because—and I’ve got to get this bit right . . .” He looked at his notes again. “Because of what went on between the British and the French out there. All right, I don’t want to get into all the details—mainly because I didn’t really want him to get into all the guff about it, but he said that the Arabs, who’d been our allies in the war, had all come together and planned a new sort of agreement, based upon peace with all the countries there—Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Mesopotamia. It looked very promising; we, the British, were supporting them—that’s his words—because they’d been our allies, but then we sort of did the dirty on them and handed it all over to the French, who wanted to get in there.” Billy looked up at Maisie. “Bit rough, when you think the Arabs were on our side, eh? Anyway, Mick said the Arabs got angry—and of course, they’re all different, from the different countries—because they were afraid of being pushed around because they knew exactly what they were doing and especially considering the hard work a bloke called Faisal had done. It was their land, after all, not anyone else’s. French soldiers were sent into Syria, and Chaput was put in charge of a band who were trained in a different sort of fighting. This was more like skirmishing, fighting with knives and pistols as well as grenades, and they’d been trained to kill with their bare hands. They fought dirty, and it was all done in secret. Not exactly a very nice way to treat your allies.”