The Consequences of Fear, Jacqueline Winspear [most important books to read TXT] 📗

a job for the police. Tell him to go to see Caldwell at Scotland Yard. Make it easier for him—telephoneCaldwell and explain that the boy is under a great deal of . . . of . . . pressure, given his work as a message runner.”

“That’s the trouble, miss—he went to the Yard, and apparently they sent a copper out to the spot where he said he saw it happen and the copper laughed at him. Told him he’d been seeing things—there was nothing there. Apparently there was some checking of records, but the only confirmed dead were from the air raids. And one drunk. Mind you, we know they’re short-staffed at the Yard, what with the number of police in the services now and no one to nab all them criminals on the streets. Anyway, young Freddie remembered being sent over here with a message and seeing your sign at the front, so he thought he’d come back to tell us about it. I always gave him an extra shilling for his trouble, so I reckon he trusts us. Poor kid, running all over London in shoes more holey than righteous.”

“Billy—you believe him, don’t you?” Maisie twisted the receiver cord around her fingers.

“I do, miss. You’ll see him, won’t you?”

“Of course I will.” Maisie looked up—a knock at the front door signaled that George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, had arrivedto take her to the station. “Children should always be believed until proven otherwise,” she added. “Tell him to come backat a quarter past eleven. I’m leaving for the station now—see you in a while.”

As she left the house, her document case in hand, Brenda came to the door. “Don’t forget this,” she called out, handing Maisieher gas mask. “And think about what I said. It’s time. You deserve more than a bunch of flowers and a box of American chocolatesonce a week.”

Maisie leaned forward and kissed her stepmother on the cheek. “See you on Wednesday, Brenda. I’ll telephone this evening,but it might be a bit later than usual. I’ve promised to pop over and see Gabriella Hunter after work. Remember Miss Hunter?Maurice’s old friend? She wrote last week for the first time in ages, and she sounded a bit lonely so I thought I’d call onher.” She didn’t give Brenda a chance to respond, but ran toward the motor car, where George was standing with the passengerdoor open. “And I think we all like those chocolates, don’t you?” she called over her shoulder.

Yet as George closed the door and Maisie waved one last time from the back seat, she wondered if perhaps she should haveconfided in Brenda regarding Mark Scott. But no, that would never do. Even if she had understood Maisie’s concerns, Brendawould only have worried.

 

Maisie arrived at the first-floor Fitzroy Square office just before eleven o’clock. As she unpinned her hat and ran her fingers through her short black hair, layered in a way that enhanced the natural waves that curled around her ears, Billy brought her up to date with events at the office.

“There’s two cases of theft—I’m not sure we can do much about it, but I’m talking to the people about getting their lockschanged and securing their windows. I tell you, this looting is terrible—and according to a couple of the coppers I know,they say it’s all getting worse and the government bods are keeping it on the q.t. because they don’t want it in the pressthat crime is getting out of hand. They just want everyone to carry on thinking that we’re all working together against blimmin’Hitler over there, and not against each other.” He paused. “And there’s another case come in for us—a bloke who reckons hiswife is having an affair with an Australian officer assigned to the RAF.”

“Oh dear,” said Maisie. “I don’t like those cases. Nine times out of ten, whatever we find out, it seems the couple who wereso unhappy end up happy again and we are the bringers of good news or bad who are vilified for doing our job and being themessengers.”

“Bread-and-butter work, though, miss. It’s bread-and-butter work, and we’ve still got another three small jobs, you know,basic security worries, that sort of thing. Nothing I can’t look after by myself—mainly it’s a case of settling people who’vegot themselves a bit worked up about what might happen to their houses while they’re down the shelter, or a bit of directionabout what to do with their valuables. Of course, they’re the well-heeled people who can pay for the likes of us to make themfeel better.”

Maisie and Billy pored over papers for another ten minutes, with Maisie claiming tasks that she could fit in with her “other” work—a role that Billy would never inquire about, though he knew his employer was now involved in war service with a government connection.

Maisie glanced at the clock. “Freddie should be here in a minute, so best we put away these files. If I remember correctly,he’s an observant chap—he was looking everywhere last time he came with a message.”

“Oh, he’s a quick study, miss—but I reckon he’s scared too.”

The doorbell rang, two sharp, shrill bursts.

“That’ll be him, miss—I’ll go down.”

Maisie finished putting files in a drawer, but instead of going through the folding doors that led into her own office, shepulled up two chairs in front of Billy’s desk, then changed her mind and positioned three chairs in front of the floor-to-ceilingwindows, so they could all enjoy a view to the outside world. Maurice had often observed that to give someone another aspectas a backdrop to conversation—perhaps a more pleasing landscape to look out upon—encouraged a broadening of perspective. Itcould slow down the heart rate, stimulate memory and temper the nerves, allowing the interview subject to open both heartand mind. And there was something about Freddie Hackett that Maisie remembered—a feeling that the boy had a good heart anda wounded soul. She had felt it as their hands touched when he passed her the manila envelope from Robbie MacFarlane; a sensationacross her chest that almost caused her to gasp.