The Consequences of Fear

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I’ll remind you yet again that yours is not the only word, my friend. It’s just one impression. Others make the final decision, Maisie.”

  Maisie came to her feet at the same time as Robert MacFarlane. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “That Yank had better look after you, Maisie, or he will have to answer to me along a dark street on a stormy night.”

  “Oh, I think he knows that, Robbie.” She drew away. “And you take care.”

  “I will, hen, I know how to look after myself. I’ll see you at your big party on December the seventh!”

  She was reaching for the door knob when MacFarlane called her back.

  “Maisie!”

  “Yes?”

  “I forgot to tell you. Major Chaput.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead. He organized an unusually destructive act of sabotage against the enemy. A Nazi train carrying vital supplies of materiel, supplies, men and—well, and you name it—was struck and completely destroyed. Chaput led a small band from the front and was killed in the act of landing a hard blow on the enemy. The other agents survived.”

  “He did it deliberately, didn’t he?”

  “He paid his debt, and he made up for his actions in Syria. He died a hero. The piper has been paid, Maisie. The scales of justice are even again.”

  On the day Maisie completed her final accounting, she returned to her Holland Park flat weary, yet knowing she had done what she had set out to do, which was to find a killer with scars on his face, whether natural or inflicted by a weapon. She was tired, yet buoyed by thoughts of what might come next. As she walked along the path to the front door of her garden flat, she could already hear Mark Scott singing a number from a picture he’d seen while back in the United States. The words rang out as she opened the door. At last my love has come along . . .

  She ran into his arms, to be held in place for what seemed like ages.

  “You okay, my love?”

  “Yes, Mark, I’m okay.”

  “Happy?”

  “Very much.”

  “Wine?”

  “Love some.”

  “And guess what we have for dinner.”

  “Spaghetti.”

  “You know me too well.”

  “I certainly do.”

  “I cannot wait for you to be my wife. At last.”

  Maisie rested her head on the shoulder of the man she loved, closing her eyes as he continued the song, and they began a slow dance.

  Epilogue

  The family Elinor Jones had loved for over twenty years stood shoulder to shoulder in the small chapel. Maisie took a place next to Priscilla, and reached for her hand. Robert MacFarlane was on her other side, his voice booming during the one hymn, Elinor’s favorite, which she had specified in her will. It was “Cwm Rhondda,” a Welsh hymn, and as they reached the final verse, every member of the congregation raised their voice.

  When I tread the verge of Jordan,

  Bid my anxious fears subside;

  Death of death, and hell's destruction

  Land me safe on Canaan's side:

  Songs of praises, songs of praises,

  I will ever give to thee;

  I will ever give to thee.

  At the back of the chapel, Corporal Charlie Bright, who had brought MacFarlane and Tim to the barracks, stood to attention. The young woman who had received every one of Elinor’s messages sent from France for the eyes of the Special Operations Executive was in the opposite pew, along with a smattering of people from the headquarters in London. They did not remain to talk after the service, and Maisie would not have recognized them again if she passed them in the street.

  There was little said between those gathered while the chaplain shook the hand of each member of the congregation as they departed the chapel. In silence they stood outside, before stepping toward the motor cars that would whisk them away to their individual destinations.

  Out of the corner of her eye Maisie saw Corporal Bright beckon to her from a corner of the garden at the rear of the chapel. As Maisie joined Bright, the ATS driver turned away so no one else could discern their conversation, or see what might pass between them.

  “Miss Dobbs, I have something for you.”

  “For me? What is it, Corporal Bright?”

  “This letter is for you. The woman who died—I was the driver who took her from the house in Hampshire to the airfield. I have to do that sometimes, so I know where they’re going. She gave it to me to give to you if . . . if something happened to her. She knew I’d probably find out, one way or another. You hear a lot, driving the sort of people I have as passengers.” She glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention to them. “I know she didn’t die driving a lorry.” She handed Maisie a white envelope. “Anyway, better take this before Mr. MacFarlane comes over.”

  Maisie took the envelope and slipped it into her pocket. “You know, Corporal Bright, I wondered why our paths kept crossing. When that sort of thing happens, it sparks my curiosity, and usually there is a reason for the constant reappearance of a person as I go about my work. Yet I just couldn’t work out what it was about you. Now I know. You really are a messenger.”

  “I s’pose you could look at it like that, but—”

  “Shhh—here’s comes MacFarlane,” said Maisie, turning to the approaching Scotsman. “Robbie—Corporal Bright was just asking me about my engagement.”

  “I wanted to wish Miss Dobbs every happiness, sir, being as I was the only witness to the proposal. Are you ready to leave now, Mr. MacFarlane?”

  MacFarlane raised an eyebrow. “When you are, Bright. Only when you are.”

  Corporal Charlotte Bright turned to Maisie and saluted, then began to walk toward the black motor car parked on gravel in front of the chapel.

  “Interesting little exchange with Bright, was it, Maisie?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “‘Just asking me about my engagement,’ blah, blah, blah. You’d think I was born yesterday.” Robert MacFarlane smiled, then followed Corporal Bright, the messenger, toward the motor car.

  Priscilla, Douglas and their sons had decided to remain in London, so Maisie traveled with the family by train as far as Paddington. There was little conversation at first, aside from a tight-mouthed “Well, that went off very well” from Priscilla. Maisie thought the journey would be long and difficult, but soon the mood in the carriage changed as Priscilla’s sons began to reminisce, sharing their stories of Elinor.

  “Remember when she made Tim sit on the stairs with one of her scarves wrapped around his mouth because he was cheeky?”

  “And she tied his ankles with string, and he had to sit on his hands!”

  “What about when she drenched Tom with a bucket of water—you’d been flicking water at her after she told you to go and make your bed, but she waited for you in the garden with that bucket until you came out to find your bicycle—ha! I thought Tarq would split open laughing!”

  “Tarquin was the worst.”

  “I was not!”

  “And she spoiled you.”

  “Far from it! She smacked my bottom more than once—it’s a wonder I can sit down today.”

  “Well, you deserved it—you were a little monster. But she sorted you out!”

  And so it went on, the telling of stories about Elinor, a sad journey made lighter by bittersweet remembering.

  From Paddington Maisie took a taxi across to Charing Cross and caught a train to Tonbridge, where she would change for the branch line service to Chelstone. The solitary journey offered a welcome moment in which to read the letter from Elinor in private.

  Dear Maisie,

  If you are reading this, then you probably know exactly what has happened to me. I know I’m not really supposed to write this sort of letter, but I want to thank you for not striking me off the list of agents, and for entrusting me with this work even though you had your doubts. I am incredibly gr
ateful for this chance to do something of worth. Am I scared? Yes, I am. In fact I am terrified that I will make a poor job of things. But be assured I have done my best, whatever happened to cause this letter to be handed to you.

  Please look after my family. I know I was an employee, but I felt like I had a real family from the moment I was sent to work for Mrs. P., and I cannot imagine never seeing them again. I don’t think she knows quite how young I was when I was sent to help her. I’d barely left school, but I knew how to look after babies. I was good with children and I soon learned how to get those boys to do what I wanted. Seeing them grow into men has made me proud, but I’ve feared for them. If anything I do will stop this war sooner so that my family remain safe, then I will do it. I’m terrified of losing one of those boys more than I dread death.

  Look after Mrs. P. She’s been so brave, and I know the skin operations frighten her.

  I don’t think there’s more to say, Maisie, except I hope you know that I consider you my family too. You could have stopped me doing this, but you didn’t, and that means the world to me.

  Until we meet again.

  Elinor

  PS: I thought I should call you “Maisie” in the circumstances. I hope you don’t mind.

  Maisie read the letter one more time, then tore it into small pieces, which she placed in the envelope to burn later. Then she closed her eyes and whispered: “Roedd hi'n annwyl iawn.”

  George collected Maisie from the station, and although it was almost dusk, she asked him to drop her off at the end of the drive leading up to the Dower House. She took care not to draw attention to her arrival as she approached the back door and looked through the window, thankful the blackout curtains had not yet been drawn. Brenda was standing alongside the stove, while Frankie sat at the table opposite Mark Scott. Anna ran into the kitchen, clad in her pajamas and dressing gown, a puppy trailing in her wake, tugging at her belt as she clambered onto Mark’s lap and pulled his arms around her.

  At last, the lonely days were over.

  “I guess a registrar is like a justice of the peace back home. That was so fast, I’m not sure if I’m now your husband or if I just landed a job as your chef.”

  “Actually, Mark—what we just did means you’re both,” said Maisie, feeling the comfort of her new husband’s arm around her as George drove them from the register office in Tunbridge Wells, then home to Chelstone Manor, where the Comptons’ butler was overseeing a luncheon for a dozen guests at the manor house. When the luncheon concluded, with a round of planned speeches including a few words from Priscilla, who insisted on throwing tradition to the wind so she could extol the virtues of the bride and not let the groom forget even one of them, George would then whisk the couple away to the Mermaid Inn in Rye for the night. A larger reception would be held on the morrow, following a late-afternoon church blessing of the union. There would be a four-course supper and a party to follow, after which guests would filter out into the pitch darkness of the blackout.

  “And what about that hat Priscilla was wearing? Do you Brits always go for really strange headwear when you go to a wedding?”

  “She’s still a bit embarrassed about the scars on her face, though I don’t really think you can see them,” said Maisie. “And the skin grafts she’s having on Monday will help diminish the scars even more—when they heal.”

  “I wonder what she’ll wear to the church tomorrow,” said Mark.

  “Oh, that’s a much more elaborate affair, so she’ll wear something outrageous, you can depend on that. A church wedding—or in our case a blessing—is an occasion for Priscilla to shine. As you’ve just seen, a register office marriage is over in minutes.”

  Scott nodded and kissed his new wife on the forehead. “One more question—and I didn’t want to ask before, because it shows how ignorant I am, but what the heck is a wedding breakfast? I mean, are we all getting eggs over easy and bacon with hash browns?”

  “Oh of course not, Mark. It’s what they call the celebratory meal after the wedding. It’s the first meal as a married couple.”

  “I suppose it was the breaking of a fast, in a way.” Scott pulled her closer. “And there’s another thing, and I’d hate to get off on the wrong foot as your husband, but I’ve got to tell you, Maisie, it was a bit of a shock when the registrar called you Margaret—how come you never told me that was your full name?”

  “I’ve just always been ‘Maisie’ ever since I was a child. Anyway, I wanted to keep you on your toes. I’ve asked the vicar to use ‘Maisie’ during tomorrow’s service, but the registrar was the official part. The blessing is . . . it’s for the spirit.”

  “Hmmm. Okay, I get it. And you’re sure you don’t mind losing the title?”

  “I rarely used it anyway.” She remembered Gabriella Hunter’s housekeeper. “Just occasionally when I needed to cross a tricky threshold here and there.”

  The Service of Prayer and Dedication, the church ceremony during which the marriage between Mark Scott and Maisie Dobbs was honored before a congregation comprising family, friends, Scott’s fellow diplomatic staff from the embassy and a smattering of Maisie’s colleagues, including Robert MacFarlane, had also drawn a good number of villagers, who were pressed into pews at the back of the small church. Anna and Billy’s daughter, Margaret Rose, were bridesmaids, two little girls who could not stop giggling from the moment they followed the couple as they made their way along the aisle until Brenda turned and raised an eyebrow while putting her forefinger against her mouth.

  As he bound the ecclesiastical stole of embroidered silk around the hands of the married couple, the vicar of Chelstone Parish Church asked the congregation to forever love and support the bride and groom as they moved forward into a life together. He blessed the marriage, completing the service with the words, “May your love sustain you, support you in times of joy and sadness, in sickness and health, good times and bad, and for all the days of your lives.”

  Villagers who had gathered outside applauded, and someone shouted “About time!” as Maisie and Mark Scott emerged from the church into the low winter sunshine of late afternoon. Colors of red and gold leaves not yet fallen were reflected in Maisie’s cream gown, which was topped with a short matching woolen cape, while a thick band of silk embellished with pearls kept her hair in place. A photographer did his best to marshal the company, and the bridesmaids began their infectious laughter again. Robert MacFarlane’s voice suddenly boomed out, and soon the assorted guests were following his orders regarding where they should stand for the photographer, who seemed both grateful for the interference and intimidated by the source.

  Mark and Maisie stood up for their first dance as the band began to play “At Last,” the melody they had come to refer to as their song, and after a few moments, Mark steered Maisie toward Anna, picking her up with one arm so they danced on with Anna between them, the bridesmaid who still could not stop laughing. Mark nodded toward the Americans present, who cheered and raised their glasses.

  “This is just what my gang needed—a good day out and something to make them smile. They’re all enjoying themselves—it’s a break from London and the bombs.”

  Yes, it was a day to remember, a day when Maisie Dobbs felt as if she had rediscovered all she had lost years ago. She danced with every man and some of the women, laughing as she and Priscilla swept around the Chelstone Manor ballroom as if they had never been to war and never been scarred by death. She danced with each of Priscilla’s sons, though Tarquin left her with bruises across her feet, and in between each dance with a guest, she was swept away again by her husband.

  “Got a dance for your old man, love?” said Frankie Dobbs, as the band began to play a slow number. “This is about my speed.”

  “Dad! Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for this dance!”

  “I don’t need to ask if you’re happy, do I, Maisie?” said Frankie as he led his daughter at a slow pace on the dance floor.

  Maisie smiled. “No, you don’t. D
ad, I am happier than I have ever been. I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter. I have you and Brenda, and I have my best friend here, and look at how fortunate I am in having Rowan and Julian cheer me on. Billy is happy, Sandra is happy. We’ll all be even better when the war’s over, but for now, I could not be more blessed.”

  “The war will pass, love. It will pass. They always do. We’ll be changed, though.”

  Some guests were staying at the inn in the village, and a large group from the American embassy were being put up at the manor. Others were making their way home in the blackout, and all too soon the party wound down. Frankie and Brenda left a few minutes before Mark picked up Anna, who had fallen asleep under a tapestry-covered bench in the manor’s grand entrance hall. Watching her new husband carry the daughter he now claimed to love at least as much as her mother, Maisie felt she had to pinch herself in case this happiness were a dream and she might wake up at any moment.

  After putting Anna to bed, she joined Mark, Frankie and Brenda at the kitchen table, where they were exchanging stories from the day, discussing who had said what and who danced with whom. As their talk turned to everyone getting a good night’s sleep, the telephone began to ring.

  “Probably someone lost on the road in the blackout,” said Scott. “Lucky they found a telephone kiosk.” He looked at Frankie. “I don’t know about you, Frank, but my dogs are barking!”

  “He means his feet are killing him,” said Maisie as she rose from the chair and kissed her husband on the cheek, before hurrying along to the library.

  She felt the color drain from her face as she listened to the caller. “Yes—yes, of course. I’ll get him straightaway.” She put the receiver down on the desk and ran to the kitchen.

  “Maisie, what is it?” Scott’s smile evaporated as he looked up.

  “The call is for you, Mark. It’s . . . it’s very serious.”

  Maisie reached for her father’s hand.

  “I’ll make a cup of tea,” said Brenda, standing up and hobbling toward the stove.