The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Payot called me a traitor, Miss Dobbs, for not going forward even though I could see it would lead to a rout for us. He pressed and pushed and then said he would lead the men if I was too scared to do it.”

  Maisie looked into Chaput’s eyes, at the misery reflected in their darkness. “I know—fear of losing face led you into the ambush. And fear is really the most omnipresent of emotions, isn’t it? Fear and panic can be crippling for all concerned. Given your standing, justice will turn a blind eye, but the scales remain, weighing you up. And though you are now a different man, an even braver soldier, you will always feel your actions measured against something you hold dear, won’t you?” Maisie shook her head. “Your personal honor.”

  She did not wait for Chaput to reply, but left the house and walked toward the motor car outside. A driver opened the rear passenger door, and she stepped in.

  MacFarlane waited until she was seated before he tapped on the window, signaling the driver to proceed.

  “All done, Maisie?”

  “Do we wait to hear the shot?”

  “No, he won’t do it yet. Probably at the end of the war—unless the Gestapo get him first. He’s going out on a Lysander tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you for coming with the car.”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Got a few minutes to spare me at Baker Street?”

  “Do I have a choice, Robbie?”

  “No. But I like to ask. It makes me feel like more of a gentleman.”

  Inside his office, MacFarlane walked to the filing cabinet, opened the bottom drawer, and took out the bottle of eighteen-year-old single-malt whisky and two glasses, pouring a good two fingers’ worth in each glass. He handed one to Maisie, who was seated on the other side of his desk.

  “You knew the entire time,” said Maisie.

  “Let’s not go over it all.” He took a hefty swig. “Yes, I knew. Would I have liked you to drop it? Yes, I would. All that business over there with the Arabs—I don’t understand it and never will. It all looks like a bloody mess dished up by too many incompetent imperialist cooks, if you ask me. Anyway, we’ve got a different war to be getting on with now. You’ve found out who did what, and now you’re done.”

  “You could have stopped all of it,” said Maisie.

  “No, I couldn’t. There’s an important alliance here, and one I have to protect, even when I have to clean up after our allies. On a personal note, there’s also the Auld Alliance, as we say in Scotland, or in the case of the French major, the Vieille Alliance with Ecosse—we’ve got to stick together to control the English after all, a matter of honor between Scotland and France.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I’m only half joking.”

  “Well, even with your warped idea of honor, you should have stopped the attack on Gabriella Hunter. Weren’t you having his people watched, so you knew where they were going?”

  “That was unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate? Robbie, she almost died! She could be dead now, and—”

  “But she’s not. I saw her this afternoon. Sitting up in bed. She knew the stakes, Maisie. She knew what would happen the minute she took a shovel and started digging up the past. It took just one or two telephone calls on her part. And I don’t have eyes in the back of my head or as many people to deploy as you might think. All the same, if she had been in contact with me, she would have had protection—she knows who I am, and she knew how to raise the drawbridge. Maisie, she was a top intelligence agent, for pity’s sake. She’ll be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. Anyway, it appears she managed to get out a bit of useful information to you in time.”

  Maisie nodded.

  “You know, Maisie, we will all be called to account in some way or another when this war is over. In the aftermath, actions taken in wartime aren’t necessarily looked upon kindly. Those who have never been to war can be the harshest of judges—their sense of what is right taking comfort in the soft pillow of peace rather than the bed of nails that is conflict.” MacFarlane refilled his glass. “Now then, before I go too poetic on you, a word about the files I gave you a few days ago.”

  “I rejected one.” Maisie sipped her whisky and felt the heat at the back of her throat. “What’s going on, Robbie? Why do you keep doing this to me? Sending me recruits I know and therefore cannot in all good conscience possibly assess.”

  “Keeping you on your toes, Your Ladyship. Everyone has to be tested now and again to make sure they’re paying attention, even you.”

  Maisie rolled her eyes, then took another sip of whisky. “Is that really it?”

  MacFarlane shook his head. “Not with Evernden and Jones. I knew I could trust you to be detached, even though you maintained it was a conflict of interest. I needed you to make the final report, Maisie. We all have to follow orders we don’t like—and that goes for me too.”

  “So what about Corporal Bright?”

  MacFarlane looked at Maisie. “Guilty as charged. That one was a test, Maisie. You see, I have to know if you’re standing back and not letting emotions get in the way. You’ve struck up a little friendship with the girl, and I had to be sure you could look at her dispassionately, whether you would just give me a bucket of reasons why you wouldn’t look at the file, or whether you would give me a solid assessment. I don’t know who the next person through my door will be. My next best agent could be one of your friend’s sons, and I have to know you’d approach your work with clarity. We don’t send people over who don’t want to go. Anyway, I won’t do it again, but I was honest with you—it’s part of the game, Maisie. Just part of the game. Anyway, I’m curious—why did you reject Bright?”

  “That’s an easy one, Robbie—and you know what it is, because you’ve thought as much yourself. She’s overconfident. She’s a sparky young woman with lots of spirit, but she’s got an answer for everything, and from what I’ve seen, she knows no fear—none at all.”

  “You’re right.” MacFarlane swirled the remaining whisky around in his glass. “Were you scared, Maisie? Going to see Chaput—were you frightened?”

  Maisie reached forward and set her glass on the desk. She nodded. “Of course. I knew the man would be armed, and I hoped I had the measure of his temper, but you never know how any animal might respond when it’s cornered. But I also knew he felt protected by his position here—and like any agent, he’s learned to manage the emotions that come with a threat. Well, I suppose to a point. But that’s what we all do, isn’t it? We take the energy produced inside us by the act of being scared, and we use it to propel us forward. It’s what kept men’s legs moving as they ran across no-man’s-land, and it’s what keeps Freddie Hackett running. If he stops, then he feels the terror, which is why he was doubly petrified when he witnessed the murder.”

  “Explain.” MacFarlane reached across to refill her glass, but she held a hand over the rim.

  “There was all that adrenaline pumping around inside him. He’d been running to the sound of bombs, to the sirens and ambulances. Then he had to stop, and it was as if his engine was flooded, in the same way that an idling motor car can get too much fuel if you put your foot on the accelerator. I believe there were two men tackling Payot at first, but he thought he saw only one—it was a consequence of what had gone before in his life.” She was silent, staring at her hands. “That poor boy must have seen that scar on his father’s angry face in nightmares, even on those days when he wasn’t striped time and again by the belt. It paralyzed him, the sheer ugliness of his father’s anger.”

  “You sure you won’t have another?” MacFarlane lifted the bottle again. “Might as well kill the bottle, eh, lass?”

  Maisie nodded and pushed her glass toward him. They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, both too tired for their usual back-and-forth banter.

  “So, what about the Yank?”

  “Getting a bit personal, aren’t you, Robbie?” Maisie swirled the whisky around in her gla
ss. “Anyway, seeing as you keep tabs on me, Robbie, I would imagine you already know, or you’ve guessed—it’s over.” She looked away. “I suppose it was to be expected. We’re both working hard, and—well, we’ve had a rocky few weeks, one minute all very happy and then seeming at odds with each other. You know how it is—that undercurrent of something brittle. And there’s the war.” She looked at her glass. “I wish I hadn’t drunk that—I’ve said too much.”

  MacFarlane nodded. “I’ll get a driver to take you home. Your flat?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No. Chelstone. I want to see Anna.”

  MacFarlane picked up the telephone, then replaced the receiver. “Not working again—I’ll just nip out to talk to the porter.”

  As the door banged shut behind him, Maisie leaned back in the chair and sipped her drink, already wondering how best to approach the question of Freddie Hackett and his family in light of the day’s events. She sat up when MacFarlane reappeared.

  “Bright will be here in about half an hour or so—bit longer than I thought. We can fill our time with idle talk, can’t we, Maisie?”

  The talk was far from idle, lubricated with more whisky. Maisie was surprised to note that almost an hour had passed when the porter came to the door to announce that Corporal Bright had arrived for Miss Dobbs.

  “I’ll leave you in this man’s capable hands, Maisie,” said MacFarlane. “He’ll escort you out. I’ve paperwork to get on with. Have a good evening.”

  Corporal Bright stepped from the driver’s seat and came to the rear passenger door, opening it for Maisie.

  “Thank you, Corporal Bright.”

  “Shouldn’t be too long a run down to Kent, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie smiled as she stepped into the vehicle.

  “Hello, Maisie—my pal Mac thought I should come along for the ride.”

  “Mark, but—”

  “Take a seat. We’ve got to talk.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Just listen.” Scott lowered his voice as the motor car pulled out into traffic. “Good.”

  “Mark? I thought—”

  “Now that’s the trouble—all this thinking, and you’ve reached conclusions that just aren’t right.” He shook his head. “And here I had all these words planned, to explain why you’d gone off in the opposite direction to the one I intended, and now I’ve forgotten all of them. Except about four, though I could cut it down to two.”

  “Mark, never mind about me getting things wrong, but you aren’t making any sense, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Maisie felt herself become impatient, a wave of panic beginning to envelop her.

  “Maisie—”

  “What is it, Mark? Is something wrong?”

  She reached for his hand and felt him grasp hers in return.

  “Marry me.”

  Chapter 20

  “Now, let me go over this again. I want to make sure I know exactly what happened, because what with Brenda going on and on about cakes and puddings and having to take the lives of a few chickens, I couldn’t keep up with any of it this morning. So you had no idea that Mark was in the motor car, and that MacFarlane had arranged to have him picked up, which is why you had to sit there chatting to MacFarlane and getting a bit tight on single-malt whisky while the driver went over to the embassy?” Priscilla mixed two gin and tonics, handing one to Maisie before sitting down at the opposite end of the sofa. “There you go—it’s a weak one for you as usual, though I would have thought you’d want a belter after what’s gone on in the past twenty-four hours!”

  Maisie laughed as she took the glass. “Weak is about all I could stand, Pris. And yes, I had no idea what was going on, though it seems Robbie knew more about the situation than I would have given him credit for. Mark had told Robbie I’d finished with him, while at the same time I thought he was so fed up with me, he’d thrown me over. I believe it’s called ‘irrational reasoning.’ It’s what happens to people when they’re scared, and it happened to me. It was all very confusing, and to be honest, I was tired and consumed with a case and, well—”

  “Haven’t I always said, Maisie darling, that you may be very, very good at your job, but when it comes to personal matters of the heart, you are verging on incompetent. Sometimes you think about things far too much. And by the way, about these all-consuming cases—I do hope that particular situation might change.”

  “There are a few developments afoot—we’ve been talking about it, Mark and I.” Maisie swirled the ice around in her drink, the words lingering in her mind. Mark and I. She smiled at Priscilla. “Nice having a refrigerator, isn't it?”

  “Never mind my new refrigerator and the ice in your drink—what do you mean? What changes?”

  “I’m going to see how Billy feels about assuming more control in the business. The majority of cases coming in since war was declared are right up his alley, and it’s only occasionally that we get something more . . . more involved. We might take on a new assistant to help him out.”

  “And I suppose you will just swoop in for the big cases, when someone has just been offed and no one knows who did the deed. Hmmm.”

  “What do you mean by ‘hmmm’?”

  “I’d just like to be a fly on the wall while you’re trying out this not-working mode, that’s all. Personally, I think you will be bored stiff, and I can’t see you in the local jam-making circle any more than myself. I tried, and it was a crushing bore, all about how to use local honey instead of sugar and how to make the silly jam set. I tried. Mine came out like syrup. A ghastly sweet, horrible concoction.”

  “Don’t worry—I’m not going to join any sort of circle. And nothing much will change, Priscilla. Just a little here and there. I’ve decided I will be up in town at my flat for just one night each week, so I can at least be on hand as a guide for Billy in the short term, and of course if that bigger case comes in, then I’ll be a little more occupied in London. The rest of the time I can work from my study at the Dower House. That’s how Maurice did things in his later days, when he wanted to be in Chelstone more than London—remember I was his assistant, and I had to hold the fort at his office on Wigmore Street. In the year or so before he retired and I started my own business, he left a good number of cases to me until something came in requiring his expertise or I needed help. He called it a ‘time of transition.’” Maisie set her drink on the table next to the sofa. “It will be wonderful—spending more time here, and Mark will come home to the Dower house from Friday afternoon until Monday morning, when we’ll return to the flat together.”

  “Well, I must say, you’ve got that bit sorted out nicely, and in a very short time. Now then—down to more important things.” Priscilla reached for a desk diary on the adjacent coffee table. “December the sixth you say, for the register office ceremony with just family and close friends, after which the wedding breakfast will be at the manor? Then the really big event will be the blessing at Chelstone church on the afternoon of the seventh, followed by a reception and dance, again at the manor but this time in the ballroom? I bet it hasn’t been used in years!” She closed the book. “And I’m sure the whole village will squeeze into the church to see you and your American walk down the aisle. Pity your Mark’s a divorcé, otherwise you could have done the whole thing there.”

  Maisie shook her head. “I didn’t want a full ceremony in church anyway. The register office will do nicely. But the church blessing is a different matter . . . it seems only right, because—”

  “Because that’s where you married James, and it’s as if he’s giving you away.”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  Priscilla sighed. “Well, I’m simply relieved that it’s all happening before my final operation on the eighth. I cannot imagine how I would have felt in my best dress nicely set off by a whopping great bandage around my head.” She reached for a notebook. “Which reminds me, I must see that lovely seamstress in the village. No good even thinking about a new dress, as you’ll need all our cl
othing coupons for a gown, so I’ll have her do something wonderful with an old thing or two I’ve had tucked away at the back of my wardrobe since before the war.”

  “Priscilla, we have more important things to discuss—and I know you’re deliberately avoiding getting down to it.”

  “I know. I am dreading it, Maisie. Just dreading the finality of saying good-bye to her.” Priscilla turned to Maisie. “We all loved Elinor—just adored her. We’re absolutely crushed.”

  “I know, Pris—I know.” Maisie paused, allowing a few moments before continuing. “Shall we go over the arrangements? After all, we want everything to be perfect for her.” Another pause. “Now then, George will pick me up next Saturday morning and then come over to collect you and Tarquin to take us to the station for the London train. We’ll meet Douglas and Tom at Paddington, ready to catch the train down to Westbury. And you’ve spoken to Tim?”

  Priscilla finished her drink. “Yes, I passed on your message that Mr. MacFarlane will be in Cambridge anyway, so he’ll pick him up and give him a lift to the military chapel in Wiltshire. Given that my middle boy seems to have inherited his mother’s penchant for the opposite sex in uniform, he won’t miss MacFarlane’s driver.”

  “No, he definitely won’t miss her.”

  There was another hiatus in the conversation, until Priscilla spoke again.

  “It’s just so incredibly sad, isn’t it? You come over to see me in the aftermath of your wonderful news, and here we are. Instead of discussing getting you married off to your dishy American, we’re confirming our journey to Elinor’s memorial service, so we can bid a final farewell to a young woman we all loved and who only wanted to serve her country.”

  Maisie reached for her friend’s hand.

  “Maisie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you promise me that, one day, you will tell me the truth? About Elinor, and how she died?”

  Maisie said nothing, but increased her grasp of Priscilla’s hand.

  Priscilla nodded, wiped a tear that had begun to run across her cheek and turned to Maisie, changing the subject.