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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Maisie Dobbs
- Sprache: Englisch
London, October 1941. Freddie Hackett, a message runner for a government office, witnesses an argument that ends in murder. Dismissed by the police when reporting the crime, Freddie turns to private investigator Maisie Dobbs for help. While Maisie believes the boy and wants to help, she must exercise caution given her work with a secret government department spearheading covert operations against the Nazis. When she stumbles upon the killer in a place she least expects, Maisie soon realises she's been pulled into the orbit of a man who has his own reasons to kill - reasons that go back to another war.
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Seitenzahl: 514
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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THE CONSEQUENCES OF FEAR
A Maisie Dobbs Novel
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
Dedicated with admiration and gratitude to my wonderful editor Jennifer Barth
‘Fear makes us feel our humanity’
– Benjamin Disraeli
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
St Ermin’s Hotel, Caxton Street, Westminster, Friday evening, 3rd October 1941
‘Right, son, this one’s going to that address in Leverstone Road – you go over Vauxhall Bridge and after a few lefts you’re almost there. Know where it is?’ The porter pointed to the handwritten address on the envelope as he handed it across the desk to the boy, who grasped it, ready to leave for his next destination.
‘Reckon I know it,’ said the boy, glancing at the address. ‘It’s on my way home.’
‘Not so fast, young Freddie Hackett. You might have to leg it back here with a reply before you can run all the way to your gaff. The bloke you give this to will let you know.’ The porter glanced at the boy over half-moon glasses, pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and nodded as he checked the time. He regarded the boy again. ‘Now you mind how you go, laddie – this run’s a good couple of miles, so let’s hope he don’t have a return message. You’re quick on your pins all right, but them bloody Gerry bombers are at it again.’
‘I’m like a cat, Mr Larkin – I can see in the dark.’ The boy grinned and held out his hand, wiggling his fingers.
‘Don’t you worry – I wouldn’t forget this.’ The porter reached into his pocket and brought out a shilling, then flicked it towards the boy. The boy caught it between two fingers, slipped the money into his jacket pocket, fastened a safety pin to keep the pocket closed and pushed the envelope into his trouser band, covering it with his pullover. Then he was gone.
Poor little bugger, thought Larkin as he made his way back into the foyer. Poor little legs running all over the blimmin’ place.
‘The runner get off all right?’
Larkin looked up as a large man in a well-cut pinstripe suit descended the sweeping staircase leading to the upper floors of a grand building that seemed designed to give an impression of strength and yet genteel hospitality, as one might expect of a hotel with a series of upstairs rooms requisitioned by clandestine government services.
‘Yes, sir, Mr MacFarlane. He just left.’
MacFarlane ran a hand across hair that was fast balding, and nodded. ‘You don’t like it any more than I do, Larkin – sending boys not old enough to shave off along the streets of London when bombs are falling.’
‘Can’t say as I do, Mr MacFarlane. But that one has got some speed to him, make no mistake. I reckon he could run a marathon, could young Freddie Hackett. The Air Raid Precautions bods who recruited him when they went round the schools, well, they said he was the fastest runner they’d seen – and with enough speed on him to go to the Olympics one day.’
‘Good – we can all be there to watch him get his gold – and beat Hitler’s bloody Germans,’ said MacFarlane.
‘Not a chance. By the time this war is over and they get around to having an Olympics, I’d say his best will have passed him by – that’s if he comes out the other side, poor little bugger. He’s only twelve.’
‘And he’s not the only one out there, Larkin. Not the only youngster doing war work.’
The porter nodded and tapped an evening newspaper he’d picked up from a nearby table. ‘Seen this? Turns out Hitler has said that the Germans have all but destroyed Russia and that they can beat all possible enemies no matter how much money they’ve got, even billions. What do you reckon to that, Mr MacFarlane? Sticking his neck out a bit, don’t you think?’
MacFarlane raised his eyebrows as he answered in a low voice. ‘Probably trying to wave a red cape at the Yanks, is my guess. Trying to pull them in so he can say he’s knocking them into the next world.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right, I’m leaving. Got to see a man about a dog and then I’m off to Baker Street.’
Larkin smiled as MacFarlane turned and made his way towards the side entrance. Got to see a man about a dog. See a pint or two in the Cuillins of Skye more like, thought Larkin. He could just as easily have had his drink in the Caxton Bar at the hotel, but who could blame the bloke for wanting to get out to his favourite pub for a bit of a breather? After all, it wasn’t as if he had anyone at home, waiting for him. And he worked all hours, if Larkin’s ledger was anything to go by.
The boy raced across Vauxhall Bridge, looking up every few paces as he ran, feet light on the ground and not even breaking a sweat. He was the best and always had been. He’d won every race at school – the teacher told him he would smash the stopwatch wide open one day. He ran fast because the winner always got a sweet, and he really wanted that sweet the teacher held in his hand. He would have run to the moon for a bit of chocolate. Sometimes he saved it for Iris, his sister – a special treat for their lovely little Iris. But most of the time he couldn’t wait and would pop it in his mouth, ready to run again.
Two florins and a half-crown jangled in his pocket – he couldn’t hear the jangling on account of the bombers, but he could feel the coins bumping against this hip. He slowed down towards the end of the bridge, looking left across the water in the direction of the East End. It was burning again and he could see fires south of the river, in Walworth and Bermondsey. And there was that sound the bombs made when they dropped, a sort of crump-crump-crump, and he could hear the bells from ambulances and fire engines. Those were the only sounds on his run over Vauxhall Bridge.
The bombers didn’t come over like they did in the Blitz, like a swarm of big death-dealing insects blackening the sky, but they still came and they still had it in for London, and all over the country. He sometimes read the papers while he was waiting for a message, so he knew all about the other cities and towns that had copped it. He wondered if boys like him in Leeds and Portsmouth had to run through the night with envelopes tucked in their trousers. But he reckoned that if he kept running, he’d be all right: a moving target was harder to hit. It was stopping that scared him. It had been a warm couple of days, for October, but he didn’t want to slow down to take off his jacket in case his money dropped out. If he didn’t hand his earnings over to his father, he’d get the belt for his trouble.
He turned onto one street, then another on his way to the address on the envelope – he never had to look twice at an address – and at once the sky lit up again. Crump-crump-crump. That’s when he saw two men ahead, illuminated by a Bomber’s Moon and falling incendiaries. He didn’t like what he saw – there was shouting, and then the men were struggling, hanging onto each other, fighting, and he didn’t want to run into any trouble. This blimmin’ bombing was trouble enough. He slowed down, but felt a finger of fear, of warning, shimmy down his spine. A doorway offered refuge, but was he too close? Could they see him? Bloody hell, he might as well have asked for the lights to go on all over London. He flattened himself against the wall. If the house behind him hadn’t been a bombed-out shell, he would have knocked on the door and begged to be let in. He heard his heart beating in his ears and hoped that whatever was going to happen, happened soon – bombs he could tolerate, but people trying to kill each other when the Germans were trying to slaughter everyone in the blimmin’ country, well, no, he couldn’t understand that at all. People going for each other like that, it scared him something rotten.
Freddie crouched down in the doorway. One of the men appeared to have the upper hand now. He’d taken the other man and whisked him round, and had his neck in the crook of his elbow. Blimey, that bloke had big hands. Another flash of light and he saw everything, as if someone had turned up the gas lamp. The big bloke was wearing a raincoat, his dark hair swept back. If he’d had a hat, he wasn’t wearing it now. More flashes and the man was illuminated again. Who was that film star he looked like? Freddie had gone to the pictures one Saturday morning, spending the bit extra Larkin had given him out of his own pocket. Old Larkin was a good sort – it was as if he knew what it was like for Freddie at home. Victor Mature! That was his name. Lon Chaney Jr was in the picture too. It was called One Million B.C. But this bloke looked nastier than old Victor – and, blimey, that’s a scar.
More flashes of light, more crump-crump-crump as bombs fell. Freddie wanted to get moving, but was now paralysed by the violence before him. The big man with the dark hair pulled out a knife – Freddie saw it glint in the flashes of light coming from the skies. And then it was done. He saw the man push the knife straight into the other man’s left side, then pull it out, and with a snarl across his face, he plunged the weapon into the man’s heart. It wasn’t like one of those pictures at the Gaumont. This poor sod went down with his eyes wide open, blood pouring from his mouth, and the murderer – oh dear God, he had just seen a real murder – pulled the knife out of the dead man’s body and wiped it across his chest. For a second, Freddie thought he saw two men standing over the body, but his eyes had gone all blurry, so he wiped the back of his hand across his face to stop himself seeing double and looked up again in time to see the man – the killer – calmly put the knife in his pocket. He looked about him, then he’d gone on his way. Just walked off, steady as you like, into the darkness.
The boy leant over and vomited onto the dusty red tiles outside the remains of the door. And he’d wet himself. He felt his bottom lip tremble and his hands were shaking. Oh Christ, I hope the envelope … but it was all right, it was dry. Not like his trousers.
Freddie Hackett sat for a while longer, trying not to sob. The envelope had to be delivered soon, or there would be trouble. But trouble would come when he got home and his father found out about the mess he’d made of his trousers. If he was lucky, Arthur Hackett wouldn’t be home when he got there. And perhaps they’d dry with the heat of his body. That’s what his mum said when the washing hadn’t dried properly on the line out the back. ‘Never mind, love,’ she’d say. ‘It’ll dry out with the heat of your body.’ He sometimes wondered why she bothered at all, scrubbing the clothes and putting them through the wringer, only to see smuts from the trains all over them when she brought in the laundry.
Another minute, that’s all he’d need, and he’d be ready to start running again.
After a while the patch on his trousers didn’t feel so wet, so he emerged from the doorway. He jumped up and down to get his legs moving, as if he were letting a motor car idle in neutral so the oil could get around the engine before putting it into gear, and then he started running again, making sure to look the other way as he passed the body of a man he’d seen murdered while bombs fell across London, probably killing a few hundred more when they landed. Or a few thousand.
It took another ten minutes to find the address, a row of houses still standing in a street that had otherwise been razed to the ground. He looked up at the Victorian terrace house and reached for the door knocker – but the door opened without him even touching the brass ring. A man holding an oil lamp put his hand on Freddie’s shoulder and pulled him in.
‘I don’t want the air raid patrol round here because someone’s seen a light coming from my house,’ said the man.
Freddie looked up and saw a scar move. No. Two scars moved, one on each side of his face, and there was another little one under his eye too, or was that the way the lamp flickered, making a bit of skin seem extra white? Freddie didn’t like scars – they frightened him. But were they scars, or was it just the man’s face? It didn’t matter, because right now this bloke scared him something rotten, even though he was smiling. Freddie was as frightened as he had been in that doorway, because he could have sworn on his grandmother’s grave that this was the very same man he’d just seen murder another bloke. He was standing right there, in front of him – a killer.
‘You’re a brave boy, running through all that. Which way did you come?’
Freddie might have wanted to vomit again, but he was no fool and took care not to reveal his route. ‘Oh, I took a shortcut I know after the bridge – down Chamois Street and then round the back of Watsons’ factory.’
‘I don’t know that way.’
Freddie shrugged, looking down at his feet because he didn’t want to see the man’s face again, not if he could help it. ‘Any message to go back, sir?’
‘Just a minute. You can wait in there by the fire.’ The man pushed open the door to the parlour, where a small fire was beginning to catch. ‘Looks like you could do with drying out. Nasty out there when those bombers come in. I’d shit myself every night, if I were you.’
Freddie entered the room and held his hands out to the flames. If he moved closer the growing heat might finish the drying on his trousers. Funny that, having a fire – it’s not as if it was chilly in the house. Mind you, he never felt the cold much, even in winter. But there were papers in the grate, scorched, as if the man had been burning documents. Freddie knew that wasn’t unusual – he’d often seen people do that with a message he’d just delivered. They’d take a match to the paper, or open the door to a stove and push it in with a poker. But there was this room, and it was strange too, he thought. His family didn’t have much, but his dad had an old armchair and there was a straight-backed wooden chair for his mum, while he and Iris had orange crates to sit on. And there was a bit of scraggy carpet on the floor that his dad told him had ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’. This room was almost empty. No pictures, no mirror, no plant in the window – his nan always had a plant in the window to stop the neighbours nosing in. Well, she did until she and Grandad were killed when the house was bombed out.
The door opened and the man nodded towards the passage.
‘No return message. You can go. Get on home, boy, to your people.’ Freddie rushed past, ready to scamper out of the house. ‘Hey, not so fast, Jesse Owens. Take this.’ The man pressed a half-crown into his hand, the long lines on his face appearing to have a life of their own as he smiled and patted him on the head.
Freddie ran down the road, stopping once to slip the half-crown into his sock. If he positioned it right, it would sit nicely on top of the soft bit where there was a hole in his shoe. It would even him up a bit. This coin was one he was keeping. He’d earned it for Mum and Iris tonight, and it wouldn’t be piddled up the wall outside the Duke of Northumberland pub when his father turned out in his cups.
As Freddie ran, doubt began to creep in. The man with the scars on his face had been very generous. Almost kind. Could he have imagined it all? Could he have been wrong about witnessing a murder – might he have been mistaken, and the second man just sort of fell? His mum would tell him off for reading too many comics if he told her about it; she’d tell him he had a very active imagination. His mum was a clever one and said things like that. But even though she used long words and read library books in the evening when his dad was down the pub, she never minded him spending a few pennies to go to the pictures of a Saturday morning, if he wasn’t running. She said he deserved a little dose of fun. Last week his dad had come home drunk and found her hiding a book behind the clock on the mantelpiece as he walked in the door. He had taken that book down and shoved it in the stove. Freddie had seen the flames leap up as he stabbed it in with a poker, then he’d pulled out that poker and gone for his mum with it. When Freddie leapt up to get between them, the poker landed across the back of his head. No one had any fun when his dad was around.
Next day at school he’d told the teacher his hair was bloody on account of tripping backwards on a run. His teacher gave him a funny look, but he still won the sweet for sprinting that day when the teacher took the boys out for PT. Not that there were many of them to beat, because a lot of his mates were still evacuated. In fact, half the school buildings had been taken over by the army, the blokes from the Royal Engineers who sorted out unexploded bombs. One of them had told him that the Germans were deliberately dropping some bombs that didn’t detonate straightaway, because they knew it made everyone terrified. People would see the bomb sticking out of the ground or down in a big hole, its sharp fins a sign of the threat lying in wait for someone to make just one false move. And then they were frightened to even breathe while soldiers moved along the cordoned-off street, one careful step at a time, to reach the bomb, climbing down into the hole to take out the detonator – sometimes it was so tricky the bomb went off, and those lads never came out again. Blood on the streets wasn’t such a strange thing to see any more.
As terrified as Freddie had been half an hour ago, he felt a bit braver now and couldn’t resist retracing his steps, just for a quick look. He legged it along the streets until he reached the spot where he’d seen the struggle between two men. But where was the other one? Where was the dead body? Crump-crump-crump. Bombs were falling across London, but Freddie could not hear them. He looked around, then knelt down, squinting as the skies lit up above him. Where the blimmin’ heck was the body? As he stared at the ground, hoping that an incendiary might drop just close enough for him to see a bit better, but not so close that he was hurt, it was clear to Freddie that there was nothing there. No blood, no nothing. He felt sick again, and he knew that if he didn’t start running right this second, he might have another accident and then his trousers would really stink. That, and he wanted to go home, to see his mum and give her the extra half-crown before the old man walked in the door, drunk as a lord.
And as he ran, his legs pumping like pistons in the bowels of a ship, Freddie Hackett knew that he had to tell someone about what he’d seen, because he was sure it wasn’t his imagination. He couldn’t keep this to himself. He had to do the right thing, like his old grandad used to tell him before he was killed. The trouble was, he wondered who he could tell, because as far as he could see, there wasn’t anything to prove the two men had even been there. He’d have to think of someone. Someone who could do something about it. Someone who would believe him.
CHAPTER ONE
‘When will you be back, Mummy?’ The little girl’s brown eyes were wide as she stood at the playground gates.
‘On Wednesday, darling. You’ll have just two sleeps, two nights of sweet dreams, and I’ll be home.’ Maisie Dobbs knelt down and put her arms around her daughter. ‘And Grandad will be getting Lady ready for the show on Saturday, so you’ve got a lot to do. Your first gymkhana! Grandad will be ready to take you out to practice when you get home.’
The child grinned, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. ‘Do you think we’ll win a rosette?’
‘I think you might. But remember, it’s your first show, so just going along is winning, in my book.’
‘Will Uncle Mark come to watch?’
‘Yes, he said he’ll come for Friday to Sunday, so he’ll be right there with us cheering you on, Anna.’
‘I hope he doesn’t cheer too loud. He cheers loud. He cheered loud when we went to see Tarquin playing cricket.’
‘Well, Anna, Uncle Mark just gets very enthusiastic about games—’
The sound of aircraft approaching interrupted Maisie. Looking up, Anna put her hands over her ears as a trio of Hurricanes flew overhead.
‘I hope that doesn’t happen on Saturday, Mummy – it might scare Lady.’
‘Oh, I think Lady is well used to that sound by now, don’t you? Nothing much unsettles that little pony.’ Maisie smiled again as a teacher came out of the school and began ringing the morning bell. ‘Now then, off you go. You’ve a cheese sandwich for lunch and a nice russet apple. And you might find another surprise in there from Uncle Mark.’
‘Chocolate!’
‘Wait and see, my darling. Grandad will be collecting you after school – and remember, two sleeps and I’ll be home.’
The girl gave her mother one final kiss and ran into the playground, turning once to wave before calling out to a friend.
As Maisie walked the mile home from the school to the Dower House at Chelstone Manor, her thoughts drifted to Maurice Blanche, the man who had been her mentor since girlhood. She had once been his assistant and was trained by him in the art of criminal investigation. In his day, Blanche was a renowned forensic scientist, yet he was also an esteemed psychologist and philosopher, and therefore much of his teaching was not simply the nuts and bolts of his work but the importance of seeing the whole person in the perpetrator of a crime as well as the victim. She thought of the many lessons learnt in Maurice’s company, and how she might imbue this child she loved so much with the very best of her mentor’s wisdom. She sometimes wondered if her father and stepmother were doing a much better job, simply by being steady fixtures in Anna’s life and enveloping her with a joyous love laced with discipline and a down-to-earth foundation – the very foundation that had anchored Maisie when she was a child, long before she ever crossed paths with Maurice Blanche.
‘Oh, it’s all such a rolling of the dice, the bringing up of children,’ her friend Priscilla had counselled. ‘And let me tell you, as the mother of three boys, I know what rolling the dice is all about!’
Yes, Priscilla knew all about that gamble, with one son in the RAF, and another having lost an arm as he brought home stranded soldiers from Dunkirk.
As soon as Maisie entered the kitchen, looking up at the clock as she closed the door behind her, it seemed her stepmother wanted to speak to her. There was always a signalling when Brenda had something on her mind – a certain stance by the kitchen table, two cups out and a pot of coffee already made. Brenda had once been Maurice’s housekeeper, and it was after he bequeathed the Dower House to Maisie that a bond had formed between Brenda and Maisie’s father. Maisie knew that Brenda had been the only person to ever give Maurice ‘a piece of her mind’. Now Maisie thought that she, too, was about to be on the receiving end of a piece of Brenda’s mind.
‘I thought we could have a sit-down together before you raced back to London,’ said Brenda. ‘Your train’s not for another half an hour, and George has offered to run you over to the station – Lord Julian said it’s all right to use the motor for shorter runs, and it’s quite warm outside already. They said on the wireless that it’ll be seventy-two degrees today, though it’ll go down the rest of the month, and then we’re in for some rain. This changeable weather makes everyone out of sorts. Anyway, I’m glad Lord Julian’s put his foot down and stopped Lady Rowan going up to London in the motor car. People look to them to set an example.’
‘Well, yes, I can see his point there – and not to worry, the station isn’t far for me to walk.’
‘Be that as it may, but I told Lady Rowan we’d be having a little chat this morning, so she’s sending George, which means we have a bit more time.’
Maisie looked at the clock again. She knew what was on Brenda’s mind. Now it seemed it was on Lady Rowan’s too. She took a seat opposite Brenda, taking the cup of coffee as it was poured for her. It was a rare treat to have someone in the house who could make such a good cup of coffee. Certainly Mark Scott – the American diplomat Maisie had been seeing – was appreciative when Maisie explained that her former employer had enjoyed a fresh, strong brew made from ground coffee beans and had taught his housekeeper how to make the perfect cup.
Maisie thought it best to claim the opening salvo. ‘Right, Brenda, I suppose I’m being stalled here for a grilling.’ She took a first sip of coffee, and added a sparing quarter-teaspoon of sugar.
Brenda spooned the same amount of sugar into her coffee. ‘It’s something that’s been on my mind for a while, but I haven’t said anything, and your father wouldn’t dream of interfering in your business. We live under this roof, though, and until we can go back to our bungalow when Mr Beale and his family return to Eltham, it’s only fair I tell you what’s been said. Lady Rowan is worried too.’
‘What’s been said about what?’ asked Maisie.
‘You know very well what I’m talking about. Mr Scott.’
‘I thought you and Dad liked him.’
‘We like him very much – he’s a good sort, and he is wonderful with Anna. More importantly, he seems very good to you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t be like that with me, Maisie – you know very well what I mean. There’s been talk about it in the village, and it doesn’t reflect well on any of us, especially Lady Rowan, who has a reputation to consider. Not to beat about the bush, they’re saying you’ve been living in sin with the American and you’ve let the family down to allow it to happen – what with you being a widow and Lady Rowan’s daughter-in-law into the bargain. And having adopted a little girl on your own.’
Maisie took another sip of coffee, remembering Maurice’s counsel. When emotions are running high, take time to centre your thoughts before you speak. She held her left hand against the place where the buckle on her belt would fall if she were wearing one. With the other hand, she set the cup on the saucer.
‘First of all, I have never known Lady Rowan to care about anyone’s reputation – not even her own.’
‘She cares about yours, and—’
‘Let me finish, Brenda.’ Maisie paused, still resting her hand on her middle. ‘Mark and I have an understanding, a companionship. Nothing happens in this house to alarm anyone. Anna is well-balanced, and she loves Mark’s company. I do not see any reason to change our arrangement – he comes to Chelstone when he can, and is a welcome friend to our family.’
Brenda rolled her eyes. ‘That’s all very well, Maisie – but people want to see a ring on that finger. I’m surprised you don’t.’
‘We are happy with our situation, Brenda, and we are both engaged in important work.’ Maisie bit her lip.
‘And exactly what is this important work? Do you think your father and I haven’t noticed that things are different? Mr Beale is taking on more, and you only seem to be involved in the bigger jobs – no bad thing, in my estimation – yet you’re still in London two or three days a week, and then every now and again you go off for a week at a time.’
‘Not often, only when a case demands it – and Anna is settled now, she’s used to it.’
‘No, I don’t think she is.’
Maisie looked at the clock again. She was just about to counter Brenda’s comment when the telephone rang.
‘I’ll answer that,’ said Maisie, pushing back her chair. She fled along the hallway to the library, which this morning felt like a refuge. She had the Bakelite receiver in her hand before the third ring.
‘Chelstone—’
‘Miss – what time will you be in today? Reckon about eleven?’ Billy, Maisie’s assistant, sounded breathless.
‘If the train’s on time, yes, about eleven o’clock. I’ve to go out again at twelve, but we can discuss the cases when I arrive, and—’
‘Good – I just want to tell this boy what time to come back to talk to you.’
‘What boy?’
‘Oh, sorry, getting ahead of myself. Do you remember that boy, Freddie? Freddie Hackett? The one who comes with a message for you every now and again? Him.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Poor kid reckons he saw a man murdered a few nights ago. Knifed. Freddie said he wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s giving him nightmares.’
‘Murdered? Billy, that’s a job for the police. Tell him to go to see Caldwell at Scotland Yard. Make it easier for him – telephone Caldwell 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 signalled that George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, had arrived to take her to the station. ‘Children should always be believed until proven otherwise,’ she added. ‘Tell him to come back at 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 Maisie her gas mask. ‘And think about what I said. It’s time. You deserve more than a bunch of flowers and a box of American chocolates once a week.’
Maisie leant 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 on her.’ She didn’t give Brenda a chance to respond, but ran towards the motor car, where George was standing with the passenger door 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 have confided in Brenda regarding Mark Scott. But no, that would never do. Even if she had understood Maisie’s concerns, Brenda would 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 locks changed 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 QT because they don’t want it in the press that 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 his wife 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 were so unhappy end up happy again and we are the bringers of good news or bad who are vilified for doing our job and being the messengers.’
‘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’ve got themselves a bit worked up about what might happen to their houses while they’re down the shelter, or a bit of direction about what to do with their valuables. Of course, they’re the well-heeled people who can pay for the likes of us to make them feel 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 enquire 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, she pulled up two chairs in front of Billy’s desk, then changed her mind and positioned three chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, so they could all enjoy a view to the outside world. Maurice had often observed that to give someone another aspect as a backdrop to conversation – perhaps a more pleasing landscape to look out upon – encouraged a broadening of perspective. It could slow down the heart rate, stimulate memory and temper the nerves, allowing the interview subject to open both heart and mind. And there was something about Freddie Hackett that Maisie remembered – a feeling that the boy had a good heart and a wounded soul. She had felt it as their hands touched when he passed her the manila envelope from Robbie MacFarlane; a sensation across her chest that almost caused her to gasp. Yes, that was the memory she held of the young Freddie.
‘Here he is, miss,’ said Billy, opening the door and holding out his hand as if he were the master of ceremonies introducing the next act at a music hall. ‘The best runner in all of London.’
Freddie Hackett blushed and took a step forward. He was only a few inches shorter than Maisie; as a man he would stand just shy of six feet tall, she thought. He wore trousers that might once have been his father’s, for they were baggy and held up with a leather belt. His collarless shirt was clean enough, and over it he wore a knitted pullover in a Fair Isle pattern, which Maisie thought must have been uncomfortable, given the weather. He shook hands with Maisie, wiped his left hand across his forehead and nodded as if deference were natural for him. As he returned her smile his pale blue, almost grey eyes reflected the light, changing his countenance in a way that made him appear so very young.
‘I’m glad to see you again, Freddie – but I’m very concerned about what it appears you have witnessed. Come on, come over here and tell us all about it.’ She tapped the back of the chair to the left, not wanting to put Freddie between his interlocutors. ‘It’s such a lovely day, and I like to see out over the square after having to put up with the blackout before the sun’s even down for the night.’
Freddie nodded, and took his seat. Billy sat next to him, and Maisie took the third chair.
‘Now then, Freddie, it seems you had a terrible shock. I know you’ve told the story to Mr Beale here, but I would be obliged if you’d tell it again so I can get a clear picture of what happened to you. Sometimes people hear things differently, so we want to make sure we have all the right information to help us decide what to do next.’
The boy nodded, cleared his throat and began recounting the events of the night he saw a man murdered. He described the man to whom he had delivered the envelope, running his fingers from his cheeks to his mouth and under his right eye as he recounted what he had seen as the door opened and he looked up at a face that he was sure he had seen not twenty minutes earlier – and his belief that the man before him was indeed the killer.
‘And the thing is,’ he added, having described returning to the spot where the crime took place and not finding a body, ‘the thing is that I’ve thought about it all a lot, and I reckon that the bloke what did it is not English. And he had a knuckleduster as well as that knife he used to do in the other bloke.’
‘Can you describe what it was about the man that made you think he was a foreigner?’
Freddie nodded and cleared his throat again. Billy pushed back his chair and moved towards a filing cabinet by the desk occasionally used by Sandra, who came in to deal with office administration.
‘Carry on, son,’ said Billy. ‘I’m just getting you a cream soda to wet your whistle.’
‘I’d like one too, while you’re up,’ said Maisie, returning her attention to the boy. ‘So he was a foreigner.’
The boy nodded again. ‘It was the way he said certain words, though he sounded right posh. I’ve had to deliver to the Frenchies before, and I reckon he was French.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Maisie. She knew the boy was a runner for the various secret services, and would likely have been tasked with delivering messages to the Free French, who had their own intelligence sources. They were not happy with the fact that the British were landing agents in France.
Billy handed the boy a bottle of cream soda and another to Maisie.
‘What about the knuckleduster, son?’ asked Billy.
The boy lifted his hand. ‘If you wear one of those, it leaves marks right across there.’ He ran a finger from the opposite hand across his knuckles. ‘You can always tell when a bloke’s had one of them on.’
Maisie leant forward and with a soft touch swept the boy’s fringe away from his eyes. It was a mother’s touch, gentle, and as the boy looked at her, his grey-blue eyes filled with tears.
‘And how would you know that, Freddie?’ she asked.
He looked down as if to study his worn hobnail boots, then looked up again.
‘Seen it on my dad’s hands.’ He caught his breath and looked beyond the window, focusing on the autumnal canopy of trees shading the square. ‘Felt it too,’ he whispered, taking a deep breath as he turned back to Maisie and Billy. ‘So’s my mum. But he keeps his hands to himself on nights I bring home the money. If I miss school to work, it upsets my mum, but it stops him going for her when I earn a few shillings, so it’s worth it. I can always read a book while I’m waiting to run a message. Mum likes to know I’m reading.’ He looked down at the bottle of cream soda, lifted it to his mouth and drained the contents.
‘I’ll take that, son,’ said Billy, reaching for the empty bottle and handing him his own. ‘You’ve got a thirst on you, so have this one – I’ve not touched a drop.’
‘Is your school near the place where you saw the man killed, Freddie?’ asked Maisie.
‘Not far.’ Freddie Hackett began to sip from the fresh bottle of soda.
‘I have to go to another appointment when we’ve finished, however it won’t take long for Mr Beale and I to accompany you to the spot so we know where it is, and then I’ll have to get on my way. After that he’s going to take you straight round to the school, and he’ll square things with your teacher, so don’t worry about it.’ She paused. ‘Where does your father work? Near home?’
‘He works when he gets work. He couldn’t join the army, even the Territorials, on account of his wounds from the last war. He’s got a war pension.’
‘That won’t amount to much,’ said Billy.
‘I don’t want anyone going round there to see my dad, miss. Please don’t turn up at our gaff or anywhere looking for him – and don’t you, Mr Beale. I’ve got to consider my mum and Iris.’
‘Don’t worry, Freddie,’ said Maisie. ‘We won’t be going to see your dad, but I will be popping into Scotland Yard a bit later on, to have a word with a detective I know, and he’ll ask for more information, just in case he wants to talk to you. But I’ll make sure he doesn’t go off to see your mum and dad without you knowing.’
The boy seemed relieved as he stood up. ‘I’d better go now.’
‘Right you are, son. Let’s be on our way.’ Billy pushed back his chair and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder as he turned to Maisie. ‘We’ll go and get a taxicab while you lock up, miss.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘This is it,’ said the boy.
Maisie tapped on the glass, instructing the taxicab driver to stop. Freddie Hackett clambered out of the cab, followed by Billy, who held out his hand to Maisie.
‘Watch them puddles, miss – there was a shower or two last night,’ said Billy.
Maisie turned to the driver. ‘Would you mind waiting here, please? We’ll only be a few minutes.’
She paused to look at the bomb sites around them, where a few remaining houses stood like solitary teeth. Mounds of rubble were piled along the side of the street and between homes, enabling the thoroughfare to remain open for horse-drawn carts and other vehicular traffic – a sign that life was carrying on in a city under siege.
‘Over here, miss,’ said Billy, who had found a long, thin piece of discarded iron and was poking away at granulated cement several inches thick that was covering the pavement. Freddie Hackett knelt at his feet.
Maisie joined them. ‘It didn’t take you long to find it, Billy – the victim was definitely a “bleeder”, wasn’t he?’
‘All I can say is, the copper who came out with young Freddie here couldn’t see to the end of his nose.’ Billy stopped moving the sand around and rested on his haunches next to Freddie Hackett. ‘Look at this. Big old puddle of blood. I don’t know where the constable’s head was, but it wasn’t on the job.’
He stood up and continued to prod with the iron rod, revealing more of the dark brown stain that was expanding as he cleared away sand and dust.
‘There’s no doubt that someone made sure this was well disguised with cement dust,’ said Maisie. She leant over and touched the stain, then stood up and looked around her. She began to walk backward and forward, peering down while expanding the breadth of ground covered.
‘What’s she doing?’ asked Freddie.
‘It’s what they call a “grid search”, son – instead of just wandering around looking for something when you don’t know what you’re looking for, you sort of mark out a grid in your mind so you don’t miss anything within a certain distance to and from a central point – this here is the central point.’
‘Sort of like geometry at school.’
‘Yeah, son, sort of like that. But then you look for something that just doesn’t seem right, something that stands out or is a bit odd, as if it doesn’t belong.’
Maisie continued her search until she had walked every inch of a twenty-foot square around Billy and the messenger boy, which entailed negotiating a good deal of rubble. She looked up towards the bombed-out buildings and piles of masonry and squinted, standing for a few minutes before beginning to make her way back, adhering to the grid she had just walked while still concentrating on the ground. Then she stopped, and reached down.
‘What is it, miss?’ asked Billy. Freddie stepped towards Maisie, but Billy stopped him. ‘Hang on, mate – we don’t want to disturb anything.’
Maisie felt for the small drawstring cloth bag in her pocket, and drew out a pair of tweezers. She leant forward with the tool and picked up half a cigarette.
‘Looks like someone’s old smoke to me – and I don’t know who’d have a mind to throw away half a ciggie. It’s hard enough getting them on the black market,’ said Billy.
Maisie nodded. ‘And that’s exactly what this is – a half-smoked cigarette.’ She drew her attention to the boy. ‘Freddie, was the murderer smoking?’
The boy closed his eyes tight, furrowing his brow so that at once he seemed like an old man in a youth’s body. He nodded and opened his eyes. ‘I was just remembering – and I reckon he was smoking when him and the other bloke started having a barney, and then he flung his smoke down before he started on him.’
Maisie turned to Billy. ‘It’s a French cigarette.’
‘Blimey.’
‘And there’s something over there, on that pile of rubble – do you think you can reach it for me, Billy?’
‘Right you are,’ said Billy, walking to the edge of the pavement, where mounds of broken bricks, cement and the remains of what were once homes had been shovelled away from the road.
‘Can you see it?’ Maisie watched as her assistant scanned the area she’d indicated.
Billy smiled. ‘Got it, miss – it’s a wallet.’ He stepped down and handed the old, worn wallet to Maisie.
As she suspected, there was nothing inside; no identification, no money, no photographs. She closed the wallet and brushed sand away from the back and front.
‘There it is,’ said Maisie.
‘What?’ said Freddie Hackett.
‘It’s a bit damp, but you can see the words “Fabriqué en France” embossed into the leather on the back. It was made in France.’ She took a handkerchief from her bag and wrapped it around the wallet, along with the somewhat soggy half-smoked cigarette. ‘Of course, it could have been bought in London or anywhere else, but it’s an interesting discovery. I would imagine that either it dropped from the victim’s jacket in the struggle or was thrown there. Did you see the men on that pile of rubble at any point, Freddie?’
Freddie shrugged. ‘They were all over the place, going for each other, so they could’ve stumbled up there.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I was so scared, Miss Dobbs, I saw arms and legs everywhere. Then there was the knife …’
‘It’s a terrible thing to have seen, Freddie.’ She paused, adding, ‘Well, an interesting find anyway. You never know, whoever removed the victim might have taken the contents of the wallet and thrown it over there. People’s personal belongings are scattered everywhere after a bombing, so anyone finding it wouldn’t have given it a second thought.’
The driver of the taxicab sounded the horn and leant out of the window.
‘Oi – you gonna be ’ere all day, love? You’re tallying a nice little bill, you know.’
‘Just one more stop, sir,’ called Maisie in reply, turning to Billy. ‘Here’s what I’d like you to do. Could you go with Freddie to the school, let them know he’s been a sterling example of a young man doing his duty and reporting a crime and that he should have no punishment for the morning’s absence?’
‘Right you are – it’ll be my pleasure.’
‘I’ll see you back at the office later.’ Turning to Freddie Hackett, she gave the boy her full attention. ‘And you, young man, are very brave, and you’ve shown great fortitude. I want you to keep in touch with us – you know where to find Mr Beale and we know where to find you.’ She paused, looking into his eyes, and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Freddie, you seem skilled at remaining safe, but I want you to be vigilant – be even more aware of your surroundings wherever you go. In fact’ – Maisie reached into her shoulder bag for her purse, and picked out a shilling’s worth of pennies – ‘I’d like you to stop at a telephone kiosk and place a call to Mr Beale after school each afternoon for the next few days. He’ll give you two numbers in case there’s no answer at the first. Do you know how to use the telephone?’ The boy shook his head. ‘All right, we can sort that out,’ continued Maisie. ‘Mr Beale will find a kiosk on the way to the school, and he’ll show you what to do and how to speak to the operator. Is that all right?’
Freddie nodded.
Maisie took a silver coin from the purse. ‘And here’s a florin to give to your mum.’
The boy’s eyes widened as he looked up at Maisie. ‘Yes, miss. Thank you very much, miss.’ Freddie reached for the money and put it in his sock.
Maisie inclined her head. ‘Why do you put the money in your sock, Freddie?’
‘So it’s safe, for my mum.’ He looked away from Maisie, then down at the reddish-brown stain on the ground. ‘My dad gets my running money, and if he’s there when I come home, he goes through my pockets to make sure I’ve given it all up.’ The boy faltered for a moment, as if searching for the words in his mind. ‘And then he goes down the pub.’
Maisie nodded, and felt her throat catch. She looked at her assistant. ‘All right, Billy – be on your way. I’ll see you later.’
She watched the man and boy walk together, Billy ruffling the lad’s hair as they made their way along the street, then waving and calling out ‘Afternoon, mate’ while touching his cap to acknowledge the costermonger who passed them with his barrow. The boy looked up at Billy and smiled, leaning in a little closer as Billy’s arm rested on his shoulder. Maisie sighed and returned to the taxi, stopping to give the driver another address before climbing aboard. She wanted to see the house where the alleged murderer had accepted a message from the boy runner.
Once again, she asked the taxicab driver to remain on the street to wait for her. She was already late for MacFarlane, but she expected to be in time for the two interviews she was to conduct later. The driver would have to cool his heels just a little longer.
‘I hope you’ve got a few bob on you, miss, because this little jaunt won’t come cheap.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Maisie, looking down at her notebook. ‘You can stop just down there.’
‘Not a lot of life around here, is there? I reckon them houses will be condemned, if they’re not already. It’s a wonder they haven’t gone up in smoke before now – though likely as not there’s no gas, because the supply would have been shut off.’
Maisie looked up at the three-storey Victorian house as the cabbie pulled alongside. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said, remembering that in Freddie’s recounting of the meeting, when he met the man he thought was a ‘foreigner’, he had described him carrying an oil lamp.
She stepped from the cab and walked towards the house, up three steps to the front door, then lifted the blackened brass knocker. There was no answer to either the first or a second knock, so she applied pressure to the door. It moved just a little, allowing her to push it open and step into the passage, revealing a house that was familiar in design. Thousands of houses built in the mid-to-late 1800s were constructed to more or less the same specifications, give or take a room or two. The entrance passage – and it was never referred to as a ‘hall’ because only the upper classes had an entrance hall, whereas the lower classes referred to the same, albeit smaller entrance as a ‘passage’ – had a parlour to the right, sometimes followed by a dining room, and at the end of the passage was a kitchen and scullery. Larger houses might have a cellar accessible via a door under the staircase – which was directly ahead as she entered – but this house had only an understairs cupboard. She anticipated two rooms above, and then another narrower staircase leading to an attic room. The WC would be outside, either at the bottom of the backyard or just to the left of the door that led from the kitchen to the yard – and it was a yard, a limited space with flagstones, which could never be called a garden.
While the house seemed to have all its walls, she noticed large cracks across the ceiling and fallen masonry along the passage. She turned the key on a wall-mounted gas lamp; there was no tell-tale hissing, so the supply had indeed been cut off. She moved into the parlour. There was nothing of note to be found. And that, she knew, was a find in itself. The grate had been cleaned of ash, and the floor had been swept. There was nothing in the house to suggest a family had been here and then left in a hurry. Blackout curtains were drawn back. Blackout curtains. Hadn’t Freddie Hackett said the man pulled him in quickly because he didn’t want to get a mouthful from the air raid patrol, because light was visible through the open door? She looked at the long, wide crack across the ceiling and walked around the perimeter of the room once before stepping into the passage. Treading with care across fallen masonry, Maisie again focused her attention on the ceiling above, then the floor beneath her feet. If she were not mistaken, the collapse of part of the ceiling was recent – perhaps last night – and had fallen onto a swept floor.
There was nothing in the small dining room or the kitchen. No crockery left behind – not even broken china. The shelves were empty, and though she could see marks on the floor left by a freestanding kitchen cabinet, she suspected it had left the house with the family who lived there before bombs drove them away. She imagined them leaving with their belongings on a hand cart, and wondered where on earth they might be – housing in London and other bombed cities was becoming hard to find.
She made her way upstairs. Beds and wardrobes had been abandoned in the upper rooms, which did not surprise Maisie. If a family were moving into smaller accommodation, some furniture had to be left behind. There were no sheets, yet on one bed a counterpane remained. She pressed down on the mattress as if she were in a furniture store, testing it for firmness.
‘I feel like Goldilocks,’ she whispered, looking around her at the water-stained walls and even more cracks across the ceiling.
