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

pillows and smiled at Maisie. “You can stay an extra five minutes today, becausethis patient is the only one who can frighten me. I’ve seen her motley assortment of scars, and I know she didn’t get themelbowing 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, theIrish 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—Iknew someone would come for me one day. You see, I know too much about too many things no one should know about, and thoughyears have passed since I worked with Maurice, in my line of business you can never be too sure that there’s not someone outthere 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 inflammatoryhas been extinguished. I suppose you could say she’s not just a good editor, but something of a censor.” She smiled. “Mindyou, it still might ruffle a few feathers, but as far as I’m concerned, a little feather-ruffling will keep everyone on theirtoes 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—youhelped 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 allfound 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 whitecotton coat and a white cotton triangle of fabric, which she would use to keep her hair back. She put on a mask and begansnapping 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 steelof his scalpel when he made the first incision. He began a conversation with Maisie, as if the task were no more serious thanrepairing 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 onlywith 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 thesad 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 stoppedfor 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, whisperingthe 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