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

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 whokilled Claude Payot, though it’s all turned out to be rather more convoluted than I might have imagined—yet my knowledge willnever put the killer in court. Justice will have to look on and weep. Or perhaps not, because this is wartime, and as Caldwellwould 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 fromasking more questions. Later, perhaps, but not now. She knew where she was going, and she knew who she would meet there. Itwas 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 Hacketthad witnessed the death of Claude Payot, also known as Charles d’Anjou. She stepped around the point where she believed hisbody had hit the ground and walked on toward the almost derelict, bomb-damaged Victorian house where Freddie Hackett had delivereda message on the evening he saw one man kill another. Arriving at the house, she knocked on the door. Feeling a burst of anxietycourse through her body, she wished she had stopped on the way, found a quiet corner somewhere in a bombed-out building, sothat she might temper the emotion she could only identify as dread. She was walking straight into the lair of a killer. Inthe few seconds remaining before every one of her senses had to expand, had to go forward before her as if they were an advanceguard, protecting her, keeping her safe, Maisie closed her eyes and whispered, “Maurice, help me.” She raised her fist toknock 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 thirdtime.”

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