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

his watch. “Want to take a nice little ramble now—before your interviews? It’s been a long dayalready, Maisie, and I for one don’t like waking up early on a train and then having to race out here as if I’m fresh as adaisy. It’s a wonder I didn’t drop off into my haggis at lunchtime, so I thought we could both do with a bit of fresh airto get the blood going again.”

“Just a short walk then, Robbie—I want to go through my interview strategy one more time before we start.”

“Strategy?” MacFarlane shook his head. “Strategy. Now there’s a word. I wish there was a bit more strategy somewhere in this bloody war. Sometimes I think no one knows what they’re really doing and we’re all just winging it.” He sighed. “Anyway—come on. Twenty minutes of this country air, and we’ll be set up for what’s left of the day.” He began walking, and Maisie fell into step beside him. “One thing I’d like to know, Maisie—what was all that about, in the dining room? I saw you give the Frenchie major an old-fashioned look. I’ve seen you do that a few times over the years, hen—what’s on your mind?”

“His face is on my mind, Robbie.”

“Taken a fancy to him, have you, Maisie?”

Maisie stopped and looked up at her tall, heavy-set companion. “What on earth are you talking about? For goodness’ sake, Robbie—it’shis whole physiognomy.” She ran a finger down each side of her face. “If young Freddie Hackett, the messenger boy, had drawna picture of the perpetrator of the crime he witnessed, or taken a photograph, the image would have been a dead ringer forMajor Chaput. Right down to those lines on his face and that small white blemish under his right eye.” She shook her head.“Oh, and I had a quick look at his knuckles after we shook hands—he has healing abrasions that could be from using a knuckle-duster.”

MacFarlane seemed nonplussed, as if trying to picture the Frenchman, but then he began to laugh. “I’m going to put this ridiculousbehavior down to battle fatigue, Maisie. For a start there was no blemish that I could see—perhaps just a bit of slightlywhiter skin—and those lines are what Chaput’s mother and father bestowed upon him. Mind you, he does have a touch of VictorMature about him.”

“Robbie, you know very well that an almost exact description of a suspect is a rare thing—usually there’s something off somewhere,but not in this case. I can’t believe you’re ignoring me.”

MacFarlane stopped walking and raised his hand. “Stop right there. Stop. Maisie, this is not like you, and if you continue I will have you pulled off this round of recruitment testing. And I mean what I say. As soon as I heard about the boy’s claim, I spoke to Caldwell. I’ve had a word with Larkin too, and Freddie Hackett is a boy with a lot on his shoulders—and that’s in addition to the load he carries for us, running through the streets. Even a touch of fear can lead to seeing things, Maisie, especially for children. Oh, and according to Larkin, the only treat he gets is the odd hour on an occasional Saturday at the picture house when his dad is still in the pub—the boy loves the flicks, especially a good old scary picture.” He ran a hand across his balding head. “There has been no body found—apart from the bloke you saw dragged out of the drink—and there’s no proof it was the same fellow Hackett thinks he saw killed. That one probably met his end in a fight outside a pub somewhere. There’s no evidence of murder, even with you going back to where it was supposed to have happened and sniffing around with your Mr. Beale. There’s absolutely nothing to indicate a crime has taken place, and there’s nothing—nothing—anyone can do about it. In fact, the best anyone can do for Freddie Hackett is to give him an extra couple of bob for his mum when he comes trotting along with a message—which is what we all try to do.” He placed a hand on Maisie’s shoulder. “But I can’t have you imagining things that aren’t there, Maisie—not now, not when so much is at stake. I need you and that quick mind of yours on the job right here.”

“I believe the boy, Robbie—and I also have my doubts about Major Chaput. If it were not for the almost spot-on descrip—”

MacFarlane was quick with his interruption. “Then you’ve given me no choice. I’m sending you back. I can’t have you here sniffing around a senior representative of an allied intelligence section. I’m pulling you off the afternoon’s interviews, and you won’t be observing tomorrow’s testing. I’ll have a motor car here within the hour—you can go straight to Prestwick and from there to Biggin Hill and home. If there’s no flight going down, you’ll be put up in a local hotel until tomorrow morning. It will all be arranged as a matter of urgency, and I’ll explain your absence as having to do with an alternative assignment. Sounds better than a family matter, because we’ve all got family matters, haven’t we?”

Maisie shrugged. “Suits me, Robbie. I detest this work anyway.” She began to walk away, a sick feeling beginning to roll inher stomach. She knew she was acting as if she were a stubborn girl of fifteen.

“So much for doing your bit, eh?”

Maisie turned to MacFarlane. “Don’t you dare—you know better, Robbie MacFarlane. I’ve done my bit, as you well know. I didmy bit in France when I was seventeen.” She lifted her hair to reveal the fading scar at the back of her neck, and let itfall again. “And ever since the last war I’ve been doing my bit, every single day.” She held up her hands, fingers splayed,knuckles toward MacFarlane, streaks of thick white tissue still evident. “And those scars on the back of my hands are fromthe flames that seared my skin while I was