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

to return to work on the railway or at the coach station, or with one of the many crews clearing what they could of broken buildings and piles of rubble from repeated bombings. The pub offered the opportunity for some camaraderie, a chat with others, and a chance to forget about war, if only for the time it took to down a pint. Maisie often wondered if she would ever remember walking along a street before it was bombed, and what it looked like without broken buildings looming out of the detritus of war like shattered teeth.

“Cream sherry?” asked MacFarlane.

“A small one, thank you,” replied Maisie.

MacFarlane returned with a large single-malt whisky for himself and a sherry for Maisie, placing the drinks on a low tablebetween the armchairs they had chosen for privacy, close to the window and well away from the door. There were only two otherpatrons on this side of the pub, and they were seated at the bar.

“What was the dead man’s name?” asked Maisie.

“Thierry Richard.” MacFarlane’s pronunciation of the deceased agent’s last name was flat; he said “Richard” as if it werean English Christian name.

“I think it’s pronounced ‘Rishard,’” said Maisie. “And was he about forty?”

MacFarlane nodded. “Maisie, you were never a star when it came to languages—we found that out when we were training you forthe Munich assignment, so you’re the last person to chime in on pronunciation. Anyway, Major Chaput is understandably veryupset—raging, would be a better word for it. Richard”—he pronounced the word correctly, with a slight pause as if to dareMaisie to fault him again—“Richard had been with the major since the last war. They were at Verdun together, and he was withhim later, in Syria, during the French mandate.”

“Really? So Thierry Richard would have been about twenty-five or twenty-six then, and the major—what? Probably not much older.Thirties?”

“Yes. The major is nothing if not loyal—and his men are loyal to him too. He hand-picked all of them, and we’re counting on them. Working alongside the French is vital for our success over there—they’re our linchpins with the local resistance people. We’re still building trust.”

Neither Maisie nor MacFarlane spoke for half a minute. Maisie was framing her next comment, though she knew there was no otherway to phrase what she had to say. “Look, Robbie—going back to what happened with Dr. Jamieson. It was clear to him—and he’sthe expert—that Richard was murdered, and as you know, I could not help but agree with him. That’s two Frenchmen killed withinten days, and there’s one common denominator.”

“My hands are tied, and I don’t suspect him anyway.”

“I can’t believe this. Every bone in my body is telling me the MacFarlane I knew before this war would have had that man atScotland Yard under caution right now. And you’re letting it go. Surely you’d concede that it’s more than possible that theman who received the delivery of an envelope from Freddie Hackett was Chaput.”

“I don’t know anything about the message, who it was from or where it was going—don’t imagine I know everything that goes on in every different intelligence section. A lot of envelopes are dispatched with only a number on the front anyway, and no name for the messenger to remember, and they are coded. But here’s what I know—children see monsters in the dark, Maisie. They get a bit scared, and the next thing you know, there’s a big hand waiting to grab their feet and drag them under the bed. There is no evidence to suggest Major Chaput had anything to do with killing another Frenchman, or anyone else for that matter. And even if I did want to question him, this is not the right time. We have a sensitive and very important alliance to protect, and that’s with the Free French here in London. We need them, and we need their people who are over in France—if all that falls away, then we might as well start stocking up on bratwurst.”

Maisie sighed in frustration. “This goes against everything I have ever believed about honoring the murdered dead; makingsure that if the deceased were looking down upon us, they would know that while their earthly form is being mutilated by thepathologist’s scalpel, someone else cares enough to find the killer and bring them to justice.” She paused. “But having saidthat, I see your point. I understand. Some things have to fall by the wayside during wartime. And on every level it seemsto me that there’s an abdication of respect for human life.” She lifted her sherry glass and took first one sip, and thenanother.

“I know that tone, Maisie,” said MacFarlane, picking up his glass and draining the contents in one deep swallow. He slappedthe empty glass down on the table with such force that the man and woman sitting at the bar turned around. “Sorry!” said MacFarlane.“Dodgy wrist—dropped my glass.” He laughed, though his smile evaporated when he turned back to Maisie. “That, hen, is thetone telling me you are going to be the dog that won’t let go of this particular bone. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I will drop the bone if you insist, Robbie.”

Another silence. MacFarlane rubbed his forehead, then looked up at Maisie. “I don’t insist because I expect you to do theright thing with regard to my position—let me remind you that I’m the one who carries the can if you cause trouble with ourFrench brethren. I know you’re trying to do your best for the Hackett lad, but at the same time I want to know if you discoveranything—anything. Make that immediately, not a day or two after the event. And leave ‘Rishard’ to me. You weren’t there. You didn’t witness a thing, and you only saw the body, not the place of death where he was found.I hope I can depend upon you to watch what you’re doing.”

“I will. Yes. You can count on me to be discreet, Robbie.”

“Aye, and I reckon I can also count on you to land me in a