The Consequences of Fear by Jacqueline Winspear (the best electronic book reader TXT) 📗

everyday things. Steeringthe ship forward. They discussed her father’s arthritic knee, the fact that Lord Julian was defying all attempts by the grimreaper to claim him, Anna’s progress at school, her squealing laugh when she was happy, and Brenda’s opinions, which seemto be gaining strength every day—though Maisie did not mention the morning’s conversation with her stepmother. Mark Scottenjoyed talking about life at Chelstone, about Maisie’s family, about Priscilla, her husband and boys, to the extent thatMaisie sometimes thought that he felt a certain comfort, a sense of belonging, in claiming her family for his own.

The lightness of conversation lulled her, as if she were at the edge of a lake and each subject was a dragonfly skimming across the water on a warm summer’s day. She knew without a shadow of doubt that she was in love with Mark Scott. But the past had taught her that war was never a good time for love, though Gabriella Hunter’s words echoed in her mind. The war will be over one day, Maisie—what you do now will pave the way for how you will live in peace.

Chapter 4

Maisie did not go straight to the office the following morning, but instead made her way to Scotland Yard, where she askedto see Detective Chief Superintendent Caldwell. Having waited in a drafty corridor for fifteen minutes, she was informed thathe could spare her a minute or two of his time.

“I know the way—you’ve got your hands full here,” said Maisie to a relieved police constable, who had a line of people waitingfor attention.

Caldwell was standing outside his private domain as she approached, walking through an outer office where two detectives wereat work. “I take it this is not a social call, Miss Dobbs—I just hope you’re not about to land more work onto my overflowingplate.” He held out his hand for her to enter the room. “Take a pew—just throw those files on the floor, I won’t get to themfor a week anyway.”

Maisie regarded the man before her—stocky, his perspiring brow furrowed and his hands ink-stained. He seemed flustered and tired at the same time, his tie askew and an unshaven shadow around his chin. The office was small, with a desk at one end underneath a high window that offered little natural light. There was just enough space for Caldwell to squeeze around the desk to take his seat. Several drawers on the two filing cabinets had not been closed—or perhaps they were jammed open—so the door into the office offered only sufficient room for a person to shuffle in sideways while holding their breath. There were piles of papers on the floor and visitor chair as well as the desk. Caldwell’s jacket, hanging on the door, partially obscured the glass that would allow him a view into the outer office, if the door were closed.

“I can come another time,” said Maisie.

Caldwell grinned. “Blimey, I must look rough if you’re offering to walk out of here before having your two penn’orth of mybusy day.” He leaned on the desk, rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Want a cuppa? I can get one of the blokes to bring us somestewed tea and even find the odd biscuit of suspicious vintage, if you like.”

“I’ll take the tea, not the biscuit,” said Maisie.

“Thank the Lord for that—an excuse to get something wet and warm down me.”

Caldwell stood up, kicked a wastebasket to the side and walked to the door. He called out to a younger man in the corridor,“Oi! Watling. Two teas, splash of milk,” and turned back to Maisie. “No bloody good asking for sugar anymore, is it?”

Maisie laughed. “I was going to give it up anyway.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” Caldwell took his seat again.

A young constable entered holding two mugs of tea in one hand, and a plate with four plain biscuits in the other.

“Blimey, biscuits! Fresh-looking biscuits! And on a plate!” said Caldwell, clearing a space on the desk. “You’ll be the commissionerin a few months if you go on like that, Watling.”

The constable put down the mugs along with the plate of biscuits, and blushed. “Anything else, sir?”

“No, off you go, lad. Close the door behind you.”

With the door closed, Maisie reached for a mug of tea and changed her mind about the biscuit.

“Young Watling’s safe from call-up,” said Caldwell, taking up the other mug. “Turned down by the services on account of being color-blind. Normally we might have done the same, but we need all the help we can get.” He took two biscuits, pausing to dunk one into his mug of tea and popping it into his mouth before it disintegrated. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “Now then, let’s get down to business. What do you want? Is it something to do with that runner seeing things in the blackout?”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, it’s to do with the runner, but I don’t think he was seeing things. I believe he witnessed a murder,though there is no body.”

“Tricky one, that. No body.” Caldwell took a deep breath and dunked his second biscuit, eating it with the same speed as hehad the first. He coughed, thumped his chest, and took a generous sip of tea. “I tell you, this job is nothing but a recipefor terminal heartburn.” He paused. “Look, we are scrambling here at the Yard. I know you’ve probably heard this from otherquarters, and probably even me, but all that nonsense about Londoners all pulling together and crime going down is just that—nonsense.There’s a black market to deal with, crime through the roof, looting, and suddenly human life isn’t worth what it was. AndI haven’t got enough men to sort it out because they’re all in the army now—or the air force, or navy. So when I send someoneto look for a body and they can’t find one—even though the Germans are making mincemeat out of us—I have to assume there wasno bloody body in the first place.”

“I think there was, Superintendent