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

She entered the courtyard by a side gate and looked around at the sad dwellings, at doors with paint peeling away and smoke-stained windows. Laundry had been hung on lines across cracked and broken flagstones where even weeds struggled to grow. Maisie could hear women talking, peppering their washhouse conversation with the odd chuckle, the sound of fabric being pushed across corrugated wooden boards as if in defiance of their lot. It seemed a futile task, as layer upon layer of dust settled across every home in London, continuing to fall long after each night’s bombing raids. The women pegged out clean laundry on the washing line, only to bring in clothing and bed linens that could do with another wash.

As she reached the door, Maisie read a note nailed to the frame.

For Hackett, knock three times. For Dunley, knock four times.

There were holes where a door knocker had once been screwed into place—doubtless it had been torn off and sold for scrap.She rapped on the door with her knuckles.

There was no answer, so she knocked again.

“Just coming!” The voice came from within, and Maisie heard someone running down the staircase, which she knew was locatedjust inside the door.

The door opened just as a second voice came from the downstairs dwelling.

“Is that for me, Gracie? I thought I heard four knocks.”

“No, Mrs. Dunley—it was three. Someone for us.”

“Could have sworn I heard four. Is it the police again, after your old man?”

“No, Mrs. Dunley. I’ve got to go, Mrs. Dunley.”

The woman at the door turned to Maisie. She was about Maisie’s height, with hair drawn back in a topknot scarf, and wore apinafore over a gray dress that was clean and pressed but had seen better days. Her blue eyes seemed to reflect the dress,making them appear to change hue as light shafted in through the open door, and she had a warm smile—though neither of thoseattributes could mask the attention a bruise on her cheek would attract.

“May I help you?” she asked, holding a hand to her cheek.

“Mrs. Hackett?” Maisie didn’t wait for confirmation—Freddie Hackett was his mother’s son. “I wonder if you could spare a fewminutes of your time for me—it’s about Freddie.”

The woman gasped, her hand still on her cheek. “Oh, you’re not from the school board, are you? Has he been playing truant?I mean, he’s a good lad, but you know he does important work—he was chosen to run messages, you know.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hackett—I’m not from the school board, and I know your Freddie is a good lad. I’d like to ask you afew questions because he came to me for help after he’d witnessed something that happened on Friday evening while he was runninga message.” Maisie took her professional calling card from her pocket and handed it to the woman. “I knew him before, becausehe delivered messages to me on a couple of occasions.”

The woman nodded, but the frown remained. She studied the card, stepped aside and held the door open. “We’re up the stairs,”she said, closing the door and leading the way.

A dustpan and broom with worn bristles were leaning against the wall at the top of the staircase, and Maisie could see thatMrs. Hackett was a woman who tried to keep her home as clean as she could, even if that home comprised just the two upperrooms of accommodation that had never seen better days. She led the way into the small, damp back room that was both the kitchenand living area. Maisie assumed the other room was a bedroom—and she knew that compared to the accommodation that some hadto settle for, this was considered more than adequate. Whole families were now living in one room, as the continued bombingdestroyed more and more housing stock.

Freddie’s mother pulled out a chair from the table and, as if she needed to explain her living circumstances, began to speak. “We’re lucky to have this place, you know. We were bombed out of the last house—well, it was only two rooms, a bit bigger than this, I admit. Then we heard of this one through someone I met when I took my youngest to church one Sunday, and as I can give Mrs. Dunley a bit of help now and again when she needs it, we got this place—and a home is a home, however it comes. The children have to bed down on the floor, but you know, kiddies will sleep anywhere, won’t they?” She stopped speaking and rested her hand against her face again. “Would you like a cup of tea? I have to go out again soon—my other cleaning job, across the water—but I’ve time for a quick cup, then I’ll nip down and check on Mrs. Dunley before I go off to work.”

“If you’re brewing up, I’ll join you.” Maisie had learned years ago that a slight change in her diction to suit the momentwas often all she needed to relax the person she had come to question. She didn’t have to sound like a local, just meet themhalfway, so without realizing it they felt as if she were a friend and not a stranger. But Freddie Hackett’s mother soundedas if she, too, had modified her locution to match that of her neighbors.

“Right then.” Mrs. Hackett smiled, only taking her hand from her face when she turned away from Maisie. The kettle was alreadycoming to the boil on the gas ring atop a small stove.

“Mrs. Hackett, I’m sure you know that Freddie witnessed a man being attacked—it was while he was out running a message.”

“I do, and I told him to go to the police—but they weren’t interested. Said they had enough on their plates without runningaround after a lad with a big imagination. Apparently they checked the area and found nothing—so now they think my Freddieis either soft in the head or a liar. And I know for the fact that my boy is neither. He’s a good