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

“You look lovely. I would be the first to tell you if you looked dreadful—and you don’t. Yes, I can see a bit of the scarif you move a certain way. But consider those boys in Mr. McIndoe’s wards at the hospital.”

“Heavens, yes. I should shut up and remember every single one of them every day, with their scorched faces and hands. I cannotimagine the terror of coming down in an aircraft ablaze—I was only stuck in a burning house. I don’t know how I’ve the cheekto moan when I saw those wounded young men every day in the Victoria Hospital.”

“And your sons are men now—they can deal with whatever is thrown at them. You’ve done a good job there, Pris—and Pascale islike you. She’s competent and brave. Do not fear for her, Priscilla—it would be the last thing she wants or needs.” Maisielooked up at the clock. “Oh dear, I must dash—look, I’ll come over for supper this evening, if you like.”

“I’ll have Cook rustle something up—she’s been keeping the house as if we were there all the time, and she’s managed to getsome groceries in. Seven o’clock?”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“A mortuary.” She waved as she walked away.

MacFarlane was already in the mortuary’s examination room with the pathologist when Maisie arrived; he nodded by way of agreeting as she entered. Duncan Jamieson was inspecting the deceased’s body with a large magnifying glass and did not lookup. Maisie placed her jacket and hat on a hook alongside a table, upon which she set her bag. She took a white laboratorycoat from another hook, and a white mask from a pile on the desk. Proceeding to the sink, she scrubbed her hands and selecteda pair of clean, disinfected rubber gloves pegged to a line above the taps.

“Apologies for the late arrival, gentlemen. Trains were delayed coming into Charing Cross.”

Jamieson looked up and smiled. “Hello, Maisie. We’ve only just started, so you haven’t missed anything.”

MacFarlane caught Maisie’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She turned away and looked down at the body, that of a man of aboutforty years of age, with dark hair and an olive complexion.

“I can see the bruising around the face,” said Maisie. “And on the torso—it’s very bad there. What did you find at the backof the head, Dr. Jamieson?” She hoped he noticed the more formal address.

“What you might expect to find on a man who died as a result of a fall from a craggy mountainside in Scotland.” With glovedhands he lifted the dead man’s head and turned it to the side. “Easy turn even with rigor mortis, due to the broken neck.”

Maisie leaned in to inspect the crushed underside of the skull. “His neck was also broken?”

“Yes.”

She turned to MacFarlane. “Robbie—where exactly did this happen?”

“You know where we were last week? Well, if you stand at that point and look across to the crag with a drop down onto thepath—we assume he fell from that high point, probably climbed up onto the crag while trying to get his bearings.”

Maisie met Jamieson’s eyes.

“Robbie,” said Jamieson. “We both know that this man died when his neck was broken, and then he fell.”

“No, we don’t both know that, Duncan.” MacFarlane’s tone was terse. “He could have twisted his neck as his head hit the sideof the crag on the way down.”

“For what it’s worth, I agree with Dr. Jamieson,” Maisie said. “You can see from here that the way the neck was broken, ifthat’s what indeed happened, then this crushing of the skull would have happened on the other side of his head as he fell.And look at the bruises on his body—all on the right side, in line with the skull injury. The broken neck is telling a differentstory.”

“I can confirm it when I get inside the neck,” said Jamieson. He shifted his attention to Maisie. “Would you like to assist?”

“She can’t. Sorry,” MacFarlane interjected before she could respond. “Change of plan for Miss Dobbs—and the only neck I wantto see open is on a bottle. Miss Dobbs’ time is spoken for this afternoon. Report on my desk by five, Duncan?”

“I’ll have it dispatched over to you,” said Jamieson. “Thank you, M—Miss Dobbs.”

“Dr. Jamieson.”

Once outside the mortuary, having deposited aprons, masks and gloves in a bin by the door, both Maisie and MacFarlane took deep breaths before either spoke.

“Phew, fresh air!” said MacFarlane. “I can’t stand the dance that happens when a living, breathing person goes from humanbeing to corpse to cadaver. I’m all right until I see the likes of Jamieson brandishing a bloody scalpel, and especially overthe head. Not thrilled about the abdomen either. You medical people are like a load of ghouls.”

“None of us find it easy, Robbie. But it’s necessary work because we are either trying to save the living or discover howthe dead met their end. And I don’t like how this one met his end.” She stopped walking and looked up at the man she had knownfor years. “We know he was murdered, don’t we? There’s no way we can quickstep around that one, and at this point Jamieson’sreport is a formality—I doubt you’ll even open it.”

“Not beating about the bush, so I’ll say you could be right on all points—there is that chance. But some things have to bekept under wraps.” MacFarlane pulled back his cuff and consulted his watch. “I could do with a drink in a quiet corner, andthere’s an hour to go before last orders, so let’s chat in a more convivial atmosphere.”

At the Cuillins of Skye, MacFarlane’s favorite public house—only the sign was evident, as the building was partially clad in sandbags—he pushed open the door to the slightly more comfortable saloon bar, which had several armchairs and a settee covered in matching green-and-red tartan fabric. The public bar, by comparison, was a noisier place, with sawdust on the floor and a lunchtime crowd that would soon disperse