The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Who did it, miss?”

  Maisie closed her eyes. “A system did it, Billy. War did it. Terror did it, and so did people living in fear.” She sighed. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to confront the man at the heart of this killing, and I’m going to make sure those concerned understand exactly what I know.”

  Maisie felt a wave of fatigue beginning to claim her. At once she wanted to be at Chelstone, waiting to collect her daughter from school. She wanted to be at the flat, counting the minutes until Mark Scott arrived—though she had accepted that she would probably never see him again; their exchange had seemed so final. She wanted to be finished with this case—a case she’d taken on because she hated to see a frightened child; a child who feared he would never be believed.

  “Anyway, in the grand scheme of things, most of what we learned today is only corroboration of something I know already.”

  “Miss, you were going to finish explaining why Miss Hunter was attacked.”

  Maisie nodded. “Of course, yes, you should know.” Maisie looked around and pointed to a place against a wall, well away from anyone walking past. “Billy, I am going to give you some highly classified information—you won’t forget it, so I can’t ask you to do that, and it might not even seem terribly secret, but it is.”

  “Who is she? I mean—what did she do, exactly?”

  “More than you can ever imagine,” said Maisie. “I suppose there’s probably no other way to describe her work except to say she was a spy. She was one of the best intelligence agents in the field working on behalf of France and Britain during the last war. She was part of a group reporting to Maurice, who was a linchpin between the intelligence services of Britain, France and Belgium.” She put her hand on her chest, feeling her breath become short, imagining Hunter anticipating an attack to the extent that she had prepared for it by wearing what the doctor thought was a “corset” but was in fact an item of protective clothing she had used in earlier years, when the threat of death was part of her job. “Gabriella has access to a stunning depth of information—and contacts everywhere. She knew exactly what had happened to Chaput, not only in France toward the end of the last war but also in the Levant—she was there for a time, though I do not know in what capacity, and I’m not going to ask. It didn’t take her long to recognize Chaput’s name as the leader of a unit involved in a deadly massacre that had been the subject of investigation, in case it represented a security breach. Any official record of the subsequent inquiry was conveniently lost so the disaster would be forgotten as the years passed—it was hushed up. But Gabriella knew the Chaput name, and she knew about Payot—she has a memory like an elephant, but because I’d made the inquiry, she called a few contacts to fill in any gaps.”

  “But if this Chaput was a war hero anyway, how could she hurt him?”

  Maisie took a deep breath and looked up at Billy, her eyes meeting his.

  “Cross my heart I won’t tell a soul, miss,” Billy assured her.

  “All right. Chaput is presently involved in subversive activities against the Germans in his country. He will be leaving England soon to continue that work and lead trained French citizens in acts designed to stop the Nazis.” Maisie felt as if she were tap-dancing around the truth. “For him it’s a matter of honor—I think that’s what Gabriella was trying to tell me. Chaput is determined to fight for the honor of France, and to reclaim a sense of worth lost years ago. He doesn’t want anything to stand in the way—and if the truth about Payot’s death gets out, it could prevent him from being sent across the Channel. A volatile leader can put a whole operation at risk, and if the facts regarding the debacle in Syria—leading men into an ambush—are revealed, then he will watch others depart to do the job while he’s behind a desk in London, which he hates. So all the time Gabriella was a benign academic, the past had been nicely stashed away in yesterday’s box. But then someone got wind of her new book—she had written about events in Syria, though she didn’t include names—and along with her inquiries on my behalf, her fate was sealed. Chaput knew she had too much on him, and that it was coming straight to me. Furthermore, his association with Hackett would come out, and along with the issue of Payot’s murder and the fiasco in Syria, Chaput would not be trusted to lead a dog to a kennel, let alone French villagers into a citizen’s battle with the Germans. History came to find Gabriella in the form of André Chaput—or whoever he sent to her home. He wanted his chance to atone for a past that haunted him, and was fearful it would just slip through his fingers. He was buying himself time.”

  “Blimey.”

  “And the extraordinary thing is that in this case, the past is all but untouchable. Right from the start I felt I knew who killed Claude Payot, though it’s all turned out to be rather more convoluted than I might have imagined—yet my knowledge will never put the killer in court. Justice will have to look on and weep. Or perhaps not, because this is wartime, and as Caldwell would tell you, Justice is hiding out in a shelter somewhere, wounded, her head in her hands, but not yet beaten down.”

  Billy nodded. “Be careful, miss. You’ll get on the blower when you’re done with it all, won’t you? I’ll be waiting.”

  “I will. And all will be well. I believe MacFarlane knows where I am already and where I plan to go, so I will be safe.”

  Chapter 19

  Maisie intended to stop at another pub known to Hackett, but decided there was no need. There was nothing to be gained from asking more questions. Later, perhaps, but not now. She knew where she was going, and she knew who she would meet there. It was as if the stones had been cast, the next moves already mapped.

  She did not stop to look or linger, had no desire to touch the ground or spend even a second at the place where Freddie Hackett had witnessed the death of Claude Payot, also known as Charles d’Anjou. She stepped around the point where she believed his body had hit the ground and walked on toward the almost derelict, bomb-damaged Victorian house where Freddie Hackett had delivered a message on the evening he saw one man kill another. Arriving at the house, she knocked on the door. Feeling a burst of anxiety course through her body, she wished she had stopped on the way, found a quiet corner somewhere in a bombed-out building, so that she might temper the emotion she could only identify as dread. She was walking straight into the lair of a killer. In the few seconds remaining before every one of her senses had to expand, had to go forward before her as if they were an advance guard, protecting her, keeping her safe, Maisie closed her eyes and whispered, “Maurice, help me.” She raised her fist to knock again, but the door opened.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Miss Dobbs.”

  “I thought you might, Major Chaput. May I come in?”

  “Please do.”

  Chaput stepped aside to allow Maisie to pass, though she turned to face him as soon as she could.

  “There are two chairs in that room now,” said Chaput. “As you know, I do not come here often. This is only the second or third time.”

  Maisie nodded and proceeded into what had been the parlor before the war. She picked up one of the chairs and walked with it to the window, where she could see out to the street and someone passing might have a view into the property—if anyone walked in this direction. Chaput grinned, an expression that accentuated the deep lines extending from just below his cheekbones to the sides of his mouth. He took the second chair and positioned it opposite Maisie. As he sat down, his unbuttoned jacket flapped open, revealing a pistol holstered against his chest. She leaned forward to place her bag on the floor, giving her the opportunity to cast a glance in the direction of his ankle, where another strap held a knife in place.

  “So, Miss Dobbs, now you know how I am armed, where shall we begin, you and I? We find ourselves in an unfortunate situation, because you know so much about me, yet I know almost nothing about you—except that for some reason you knew exactly who I was the moment we met, didn’t you?”

  “A lucky guess,” said Maisie, then corrected herself. �
��No, it was more than that. I know a killer when I see one. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  Chaput folded his arms, his head inclined, giving the impression of a relaxed man.

  “You’ve taken the lives of two men on British soil, Major Chaput,” said Maisie. “You’ve used the cover of war to claim ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ There was no need—and without doubt no need to involve Hackett.”

  “Oh, but there was, Miss Dobbs, there was every need, as you put it. But tell me what you know—it cannot do any harm now, and I’m curious anyway. It will help me become a little more vigilant next time—though I confess you are very well connected, which I think helped you in your little investigation.”

  Maisie felt her jaw tense.

  “All right, Major. Here we go.” She drew a deep breath, and began. “In the last war you were a captain—soon to be promoted to major—and you were encamped close to a local village with a British battalion not terribly far away. However . . . however, for several days there had been an increasing level of disruption among your men. Am I right so far?”

  “I’ll complain when you’re wrong,” said Chaput.

  “This part is fairly straightforward. In a local estaminet, a fight broke out between some of your men, and when one of them went for you, a British soldier stepped in. He wasn’t actually trying to help you; more likely he just wanted to have a go at someone because it was in his nature. But he saved you, didn’t he, and managed to get a swipe across his cheek with a knife in the process?”

  “It was toward the end of the war, and my men were becoming disillusioned. As were the British and the Germans. But that cut gave my savior the permanent ticket home he wanted, so it wasn’t all that bad for him.” Chaput glanced at his watch. “My time is precious, so please hurry, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Military police broke up the fight, Hackett was removed to a dressing station and you shook his hand as he was stretchered away. You thought you would never see him again.”

  “Hoped I’d never see him again—dissent is a danger to everyone on the battlefield, and I’d heard one of the British military police telling him to get out, and he refused, so I know he was no better than the worst of my men.”

  “Which brings us to Claude Payot and his cousin, Thierry Richard, who were with you again in Damascus. What a terrible job that must have been, given the way you were ordered to fight, to protect the French mandate against uprisings from a people who were quite able to rule themselves.”

  “We were not the only small group with orders that were just a little different from the army.”

  “Be that as it may, but Payot goaded you—I know what he did, what his constant provocation led to, and how your men were killed when your full attention was compromised by a lesser man who pushed you on when everything told you to pull back, because danger lay ahead. You allowed your better judgment to be undermined.”

  “The actions of Payot and Richard rendered us vulnerable.”

  “They rendered you vulnerable, Major Chaput. The fact that they lived, that subversive actions initiated by Payot led to the death of all but the three of you, was a thorn in your side—and not only did you blame them, you had to live with yourself, because there was an element of truth, wasn’t there, in the fact that you had a certain sympathy for the local people?”

  “I am a soldier of France—I followed my orders to the letter.”

  “Let’s not split hairs.” Maisie cleared her throat. “By chance Hackett ran into you in London—or was he lurking around just in case he saw you in places where the French spent their time, various clubs and so on? He was always in need of money, so instead of just giving him a handout—and therefore admitting to a debt—you had him run the odd errand for you, usually gathering information on where your agents went when they were on their own time in London. Now, my details are a little woolly here, but I would say he kept an eye on Payot for you and marked him as an alcoholic—after all, it takes one to know one. On the night of Payot’s death, Hackett followed him to get him drunk and part him from his money. I think the plan unfolded over several weeks, so during that time Payot believed he had made a friend.”

  Maisie shook her head and glanced out of the window before she brought her attention back to Chaput, who was silent, watching her. “It couldn’t go on for too long, this playing out of the line, could it? Hackett was a drunk himself, and time became of the essence. So on the night of the murder, Hackett led Payot to you, to the place where you were waiting. You wanted to make sure Payot paid for what happened in Syria. You wanted him to suffer for making you bear indignities in front of your men—indignities that distracted you. You were the sole keeper of this particular account, and you had the unpaid note. Oh, and you also wanted him out of the way, just in case that history was brought up before your superiors. I know an official report on the Syria debacle had once been tucked away in an old records office in Damascus, before it was lost.” Maisie shook her head. “But where did Hackett go? Did he watch you settle the account? Did he have any idea that his son had witnessed the whole thing?” She looked down at her hands as she rubbed the palm of her right hand across the back of her left. “Given the anxiety that festered inside young Freddie, I have wondered if indeed he saw two men taking on Payot, which is why he was at first confused between facial lines and scars, though he didn’t identify his father. I believe that in the boy’s mind, the killer merged with his father because he only ever knew Arthur Hackett to be a brutal man. But that is for me to talk to Freddie about, in time.” She brought her focus back to Chaput. “Hackett might not have been in his cups at this point, because he helped get rid of the body, dragged it from the pavement, probably around the back of a pile of debris. Then you returned, and I believe there was also assistance from another quarter. Do I have that right?”

  “Good enough.”

  “Someone provided a vehicle, and I think I know who that might have been. Anyway, I would imagine Hackett was almost sober at this point—he’s a nasty, weak, violent drunk, so it would have been no good using him if he’d hadn’t been able to control himself while he was about the business of getting Payot insensible. But later, after the body was disposed of, it was time to make sure Hackett’s memory was done for. What was it? A draught to make him forget? I’m fairly sure you have a veritable medicine cabinet at your disposal.”

  “I have tools.”

  “Of course you do,” said Maisie. “And now we get to the man who was killed in Scotland. Claude Payot’s cousin. Richard.” She sighed. “I have wavered, asking myself if he was pushed, or whether he fell. I think it was a bit of both. I believe you tormented him first—that was the initial push. You plagued him at every opportunity, letting him know that you recognized him, that you had not forgotten the fact that he aided his cousin in his quest to supplant you. You can be an intimidating man, Major Chaput, and I am sure Richard reached a point where he was terrified and thought it better to leave this earth than live one more day with you breathing down his neck. But on that fine autumn day in Scotland, you not only reminded him of his failings but attacked him and then allowed him to finish the job himself as he went over the top of that crag.”

  “He was a weak man. How he was ever recruited, I will never know. Women are stronger than that dolt.”

  “Our women agents have proven themselves to be every bit as strong, if not stronger, than men sent out to your country. And they have given their lives. Let’s just remember that.”

  Chaput shifted in his chair before bringing his attention back to Maisie. “In the end, yes, he took his own life. And did I push him to the final act? Yes, I did, and mine was the last face he saw as I watched to make sure the fall would kill him—of course I gave him a little extra help.” He scraped back his chair and stood up, pacing to the fireplace and back to the chair again. “You see, Miss Dobbs, those cousins had blood on their hands. They had the blood of every one of my men who was hacked to death that night. I vowed I would have my r
evenge. And do I have regret? No. I don’t. Not a sou.”

  Maisie heard a motor car pull to a halt outside. She stood up.

  “You made an error with Gabriella Hunter. She was a fine agent, someone who understands the damage wrought by war, and she was ahead of you. She will survive. For whatever length of time you have here in London, make sure she remains safe, because she knows what it is to truly honor her country.”

  “I made an error. I sent a neophyte, an incompetent agent, to her house.”

  “Which is down to you. And why did you try to scare a boy, Major Chaput? Why would you frighten a child by going to his school, when you have nothing to fear even from me, though I know what you’ve done?”

  “Miss Dobbs, that is where you make an error. You see, I wasn’t trying to scare the boy, I simply wanted to talk to him. His father is a monster. Hackett may have saved my life, but he did so to feed the violent devil inside him. War can make a cruel brute of the most benign soul, but I doubt Freddie’s father was ever a man of good temper. The woman and her children deserve their place of refuge, but be aware, Miss Dobbs—Hackett bears a grudge.”

  “I will ensure their safety.” Maisie stepped away from the chair toward the door. “I must go now, Major Chaput. But . . . but I wonder how you feel, Major—now you’ve done all you can to assuage your guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Yes. There was a feeling of inadequacy that dogged you from the time you were a young officer on the battlefield, wasn’t there? You, too, were a neophyte once, and in wartime, and when you fell foul of Payot’s constant digs about your ancestry, you didn’t know how to deflect the rhetoric coming from a pest like him. It might have been as simple as admitting your Levantine blood, laughing about it, then singing the Marseillaise.”