“You know what stuns me, Maisie, is that you said ‘Yes.’ You didn’t say, ‘Oh, let me give it a bit of thought until next year.’ And you didn’t throw excuses one after the other, you know, about how he’s an American and will never understand you. You just accepted there and then.”
Maisie shrugged. “I suppose I broke the habit of a lifetime. But if there’s one thing about wartime—and indeed love—that I’ve learned the hard way, Pris, it’s that you don't dither when it comes to happiness. And in this case it’s not only my happiness, but that of my beautiful daughter.” She put her hand against her chest, feeling a welter of emotion rise up. “You know, it’s as if something is so very complete when we’re all together. I see Anna in her element with this big family around her—Me, Dad, Brenda, Mark, her Auntie Pris, Douglas, the boys, Grandma Rowan and Papa Ju-Ju, which is what she’s started calling Julian, much to his delight, which has surprised us all. Now she’ll have a father, and I must say she is like a puppy with two tails. They’ve gone out this afternoon for a walk together to search for chestnuts, and you would not believe the smile on her face.”
“Oh, that reminds me—talking of puppies and tails, what is that thing I saw Anna and your father with, when I came over to the house this morning?”
“Her name is Little Emma. Mark brought her back from America and had someone at the embassy look after her for him until he found an opportunity to bring her to Chelstone for Anna. She’s another Alsatian. He couldn’t bear the thought of Anna being so upset over losing her beloved dog. I can’t say he’s in Brenda’s best books, given Little Emma’s antics, but the dear pup is learning fast.”
The conversation lulled as Priscilla mixed herself another drink, holding up the bottle to inquire whether Maisie wanted a top-up. She shook her head—she had barely touched her cocktail—and Priscilla returned to her place on the sofa.
“So, you think you’ve done it right this time, Maisie?”
“I believe I did it right with James, but yes, I’ve done it right this time too.” Maisie stood up. “Sorry to leave you to drink alone, Pris, but I must be getting on now—I have work to do. My current case isn’t quite finished. There are a few tasks to complete before I can close the book on it.”
“Oh yes, your final accounting or whatever you call it.” Priscilla stood up and accompanied Maisie to the door. “By the way, has a honeymoon been mentioned?”
“It has, but it won’t be until after the war. Mark is talking about taking me to his home in America, followed by a sojourn in Hawai’i.”
“Terribly exotic, I’m told.” Priscilla drew Maisie to her, kissing her on both cheeks. “I just wish the rest of the bloody Yanks would come in and help us out a bit. The papers say that over seventy percent of them are in favor of war now—and that’s a big change, isn’t it? It’s because they’ve seen what we’re going through here on their newsreels, and they’ve been listening to Mr. Murrow’s broadcasts from London. We’ve held the line against Hitler for a long time, and we’re so terribly small and alone in the world, aren’t we? Anyway, I’m not going to spoil your day with my moaning about this bloody war. I’m going to return to the task of learning a bit of Welsh to add to the few words I’m composing for Elinor’s memorial service.”
“What do you want to say?”
“I’m not completely sure, but I know how I’ll begin.”
Maisie waited for Priscilla to answer.
“Roedd hi'n annwyl iawn.”
“Which means?”
“She was much loved.”
Though excitement about her forthcoming marriage to Mark Scott had begun to consume the family, Maisie knew there would be no clear start to a new life if she did not begin her final accounting, the process by which she drew each case to a close. She often thought of it as akin to washing and ironing the laundry, folding each pressed item with care and putting it away in the linen cupboard. It was a way of closing the door on a case, as far as she could manage. Sometimes that final click took years to achieve.
Her first stop was the very place where Freddie Hackett had witnessed a murder, a killing that confused him in a part of his psyche that he might never understand. In overlaying an image of his brutal stepfather with the ultimate act of aggression, he had seen nothing more than a scarred man—a man with a terrifying disfigurement that he saw in every story he wrote in school, in every nightmare keeping him awake at night.
She had no desire to enter the bomb-damaged house where Major Chaput had created a refuge, the secret haven where he received sensitive documents and also hatched a scheme for revenge; where he had met Hackett to plan how he might take an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, payment for terror that had stained him during the French occupation of Syria. Again she hoped for peace, not only in far-flung corners of the world, but in her world, a part of London that was once full of hard-working families, neighborhoods where back doors remained open to anyone who called, and children played football and hopscotch in the street.
At the pub not far from the rooms where the Hackett family had lived, she was informed by the landlord that Arthur Hackett was now in police custody for being drunk and disorderly, and that it might be some time before he was a free man, given the list of “previous” held against him. He would have no rooms to return to anyway. Following a recent bombing, the back-to-back dwellings had been condemned, and Mrs. Dunley was now with relatives in another part of London; relatives she hardly knew, according to the pub landlord.
Gabriella Hunter was sitting up in bed when the ward sister, a rotund Irish woman with a ready wit, ushered Maisie into the hospital room. She fluffed up Gabriella’s pillows and smiled at Maisie. “You can stay an extra five minutes today, because this patient is the only one who can frighten me. I’ve seen her motley assortment of scars, and I know she didn’t get them elbowing her way into a jumble sale!”
The women laughed, and after taking Gabriella’s temperature and making a note on the clipboard at the end of the bed, the Irish sister left the room.
“I’m really quite a tough old boot, you know, Maisie.” Gabriella reached for her hand. “And I knew it was likely to happen—I knew someone would come for me one day. You see, I know too much about too many things no one should know about, and though years have passed since I worked with Maurice, in my line of business you can never be too sure that there’s not someone out there bearing a grudge, or worried that something you say might reveal too much about them. It could happen again.”
“Aren’t you worried about your book? Might it put you at risk?”
Hunter sighed. “It crossed my mind with rather more gravity after I was brought in here, but Joan has made sure anything inflammatory has been extinguished. I suppose you could say she’s not just a good editor, but something of a censor.” She smiled. “Mind you, it still might ruffle a few feathers, but as far as I’m concerned, a little feather-ruffling will keep everyone on their toes in this war.”
“I think you’re right,” said Maisie. “By the way, did I tell you that Joan has been in touch with me again?”
“I bet I know what for.”
“And I bet you do too. She knows I have Maurice’s papers, and she’s after a book. In fact, she’s talked about a couple.”
“Did you agree?”
“I’m going to see her anyway, so I’m sure it will come up. I’ve a lot on my plate at the present time, Gabriella, so—”
“You’re doing the final accounting, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Maisie. “Just few more items on the list.”
“Maurice was a stickler for it. I suppose that’s why I wrote my book. We all have to do a final accounting at some point, don’t we?”
Maisie was about to answer when the ward sister entered the room.
“Time for you to go, Miss Dobbs. The little alarm clock in my brain just went off.”
“Thank you, Sister.” Maisie stood up and leaned forward to kiss Hunter on the cheek. “Thank you for everything
, Gabriella—you helped me tie up all the loose ends.”
“And I think one loose end in particular. Don’t leave me off the invitation list, will you?”
“Of course not—though my husband will probably corner you to ask all sorts of questions about the last war.”
It was only as she left the hospital, standing outside to hail a taxicab, that Maisie realized she had said the words “my husband.” She smiled.
The meeting with Dr. Duncan Jamieson took an unexpected turn almost as soon as Maisie entered his place of work.
“Maisie, the very person I need at just the right time—can you assist? I’ve had four brought in—bombing last night, and all found dead with not a mark on them.”
“And you want to find out if the pressure caused an arrhythmia or whether the impact collapsed the lungs.”
“You’re ahead of me—shouldn’t take long, but I’ve more coming in today, plus a little something on behalf of Scotland Yard, and I’d just like a hand with this family.”
“Oh dear—a family,” said Maisie, removing her jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door while reaching for a clean white cotton coat and a white cotton triangle of fabric, which she would use to keep her hair back. She put on a mask and began snapping rubber gloves into place as she joined Jamieson.
Once again, the pathologist addressed each of the deceased as he worked, as if they were still able to feel the cold steel of his scalpel when he made the first incision. He began a conversation with Maisie, as if the task were no more serious than repairing a leaking tap.
“So, I was right about the Frenchman then?”
“Almost—he was French Canadian, from the province of Quebec, but he’d spent a significant amount of time in France, not only with family but in the army during the last war.”
“I see. And what was he doing here?”
“Oh, some sort of war work,” said Maisie. “Nothing too important.”
“He must have sustained injuries to cause those scars in the last war. Strange, I pegged him for a professional killer—what they called a guerrilla during the Napoleonic Wars. I’m not often wrong.”
“I suppose a soldier is a professional killer, in a way.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Jamieson nodded.
Maisie leaned forward to hold back blue flesh, enabling Jamieson to better reach into the heart cavity of the deceased woman.
“Hmmm. Yes,” said Jamieson, as if his diagnosis regarding cause of death had been confirmed.
“As you suspected? It certainly looked like an arrhythmia.”
“Extraordinary, isn’t it, Maisie? The heart stops because the impact of a bomb has knocked it out of rhythm. I suppose the sad truth is that war can cause a heart to break, both literally and figuratively.”
It was a few days later, while she was on the way to Pimlico to visit Grace, Freddie and Iris Hackett, that Maisie stopped for a moment along the Embankment where she had seen a Spitfire dragged up from the Thames, still with the aviator inside, a young man who was likely not yet twenty years of age and who had given his life for his country. She bowed her head, whispering the words “May he know peace” and also directing her thoughts toward the spot where Claude Payot’s body had touched land again. She was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Well, well, this is a surprise, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie opened her eyes and turned around. “Detective Chief Superintendent Caldwell—I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Caldwell stood next to Maisie and looked at the water. “Paying your respects?”
“Actually, I was. It was a dreadful thing to witness, the Spitfire being pulled from the water.”
“Makes us all more determined to beat them, doesn’t it?” said Caldwell, removing his hat. “Whenever I’ve got a moment, which isn’t very often, mark you, I come down here to have a silent word, you know, to thank the pilot.” He pointed across the river to bombed-out buildings. “Look at that mess, the blighters taking down whole streets. Night after night, and they just keep on.”
Maisie nodded. “We’re doing the same to them.”
“But they started it, didn’t they? What with Hitler wanting to rule the world. And here we are, holding on with no help from anyone. I wonder how much longer we can do it.”
“We will—I believe we will.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, Miss Dobbs.” Caldwell replaced his hat. “Oh, by the way—I believe you owe me a report on that Hackett case.”
“Give me a few days, if you don’t mind.”
“Just a few.”
At Maisie’s request, Alice Langley agreed to continue seeing Freddie Hackett once each week, simply to listen to the boy, encouraging him to talk about the traumas he’d witnessed. The plan had two functions, the first being to help Freddie recover from years of abuse at the hands of his stepfather, and then the terror of witnessing a murder. However, as Langley pointed out, young Freddie had seen enough horror while running with messages as bombs fell, and the images that festered in his psyche would take time to work their way out, splinters of memory that would rise to the surface for years. Now Maisie wanted to see Freddie at home, along with his mother and Iris.
“Miss Dobbs—Maisie—I cannot begin to explain how everything seems to have fallen into place. First of all, Iris is more settled, and your caretaker’s wife has found out about a new school that she can attend, especially for children like Iris. She knows all about it on account of her niece’s little girl.”
“That’s excellent news, Grace. Is it close?”
“Well, that’s the thing—it’s not. It’s in Surrey, but I’ve got a new job too, and it’s in the same place. I couldn’t believe it—one thing led to another. It turns out that because the children live in, they need what they call a house mother, helping put the children down at night and looking after them.”
“And what about Freddie?”
“All very good, because most of the boys and girls from his old school were evacuated to a village not far away, and he’s going to join them. It’s as if someone waved a magic wand to help us out. We have somewhere to live too. It’s a flat at the school, so Iris can stay with us unless she wants to be with the other kiddies—and that might be better for her, in the long run. But it’s even more exciting, because Freddie’s PE teacher, the one who went with the evacuees to the village, is looking forward to having him there. He says that with some decent training, Freddie’s got it in him to do well with his running.” She looked down at her work-worn hands. “It was Mrs. Langley who put the final touches on the whole idea, because she’d worked with one of the doctors at this new school, so she asked about the job on my behalf.” She paused, catching her breath. “It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it? I mean, it’s like dominoes—you touch one and then the others start to go, and sometimes they fall in the right direction and one person knows another and it all opens up like a flower.”
“I could not be happier for you, Grace.”
“I might need your flat for a bit longer, six weeks perhaps, because they don’t require me to start until the new year.”
“Not to worry—take your time.” Maisie stood up to leave.
“And I hear congratulations are in order—you’re getting married!”
“How did you find out?” asked Maisie.
“Oh, a Mr. MacFarlane came round to see how Freddie was doing, and gave him five bob. Five shillings! For a boy! Such a generous person. Anyway, he told me.” She stopped speaking and looked at Maisie, holding her gaze. “He said your fiancé was a good man. You deserve a good ’un, Maisie. Nothing but the best.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, he’s a good man. An American, actually.”
Grace Hackett laughed. “Oh, very nice, I’m sure.”
MacFarlane waved to Maisie to enter as she arrived at the open door of his Baker Street office.
“Come in, lass, come in. Take a pew. Close the door behind you. I won’t be a minute.” He rifled through a pile of papers a
nd stacked them to one side. “Just getting everything sorted for us to discuss a few new recruits. Now then, some news for you.”
“Pascale?”
“Just arrived at Southampton airport, came in via Lisbon and Shannon. Debriefing at an undisclosed location in Hampshire. Sorry, can’t tell you where.”
Maisie felt the tension release through her body as she exhaled. “Oh, thank god.”
“It’s been a stinking ride, this one.”
“I was just terrified,” said Maisie, placing her hand on her forehead. “I’ve had to go on pretending—pretending to Priscilla, to Mark, to my dear Anna, to everyone I love, that I am having the best time of my life and that everything is tip-top, but I have been feeling sick with fear every single day in case Pascale failed to reach safety.”
MacFarlane shook his head. “I’ll tell you now that it was touch-and-go at times, and that girl is a terror for not following orders. I thought you said she wasn’t like her aunt.”
“She’s not—well, not entirely. If she didn’t follow orders, there must have been a very good reason. If Priscilla decided not to follow orders, it would have been because she didn’t feel like it.”
MacFarlane folded his arms. “The lass isn’t going out again. Not for us, anyway. That wound might not heal as well as we thought, and the Welsh girl’s fate has left a bigger scar on Miss Evernden than we had hoped. But that’s an early impression. We’ll see.”
“Please, Robbie—don’t even consider sending her, even if she seems as if she’s recovered. Find something else for her—training recruits, my job, anything but a resistance line.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to do your job anymore?”
“I don’t know if I can, Robbie. I don’t know if I can willfully commit another man or woman to a task charged with such terrifying uncertainty. The stakes are so high.”
“Being engaged making you soft, Maisie?”
Maisie shrugged. “Perhaps.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 29
