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

bombings began. First a cottage was found for Priscilla and Douglas and their boys, and later anotherwas found in the area for Sandra, her husband, and their toddler son Martin. Sandra had expressed a wish to continue keepinginvoices and accounts up-to-date, which was a godsend, as neither Maisie nor Billy relished getting to grips with administrativematters, and she also found work with Douglas, for whom she had once typed manuscripts. Then Billy decided that, with hissons both in the services, his wife and daughter would be much safer in the country, so it was not long before Maisie’s fatherand stepmother were giving up their bungalow for the Beales to live in, while they moved full-time into the Dower House, becominga constant in the life of their new granddaughter.

Yes, Maisie was happy to have drawn everyone she cared about around her. All the moves had seemed to slot into place—thoughdanger was still ever-present. No one was safe, even amid the fields, forests, orchards and hop gardens of Kent. But lifehad to go on.

Now the late night had caught up with Maisie and the morning was escaping her. Scotland Yard was her first destination. She had received a postcard message from Caldwell yesterday, to the effect that he had tried to reach her by telephone, and that he wanted to talk to her. Sometimes it was better to see Caldwell in person; like MacFarlane, he had a tendency to end a telephone call with no warning, leaving her listening to the long tone of disconnection just as she was about to ask another question—and sometimes that question was the most important of her queries. Fortunately the desk sergeant recognized her as soon as she arrived at Scotland Yard, and waved her on with the words “He’s in his office—you can go on up.”

Maisie tapped on the open door. “One of these days I’ll have to rescue you from underneath a pile of papers, Detective ChiefSuperintendent.”

Caldwell looked up from a file from which papers fanned across the desk, and shook his head. “Afternoon, Miss Dobbs. It wouldn’tbe so bad if I had a bit more fresh air in here.” He pointed to the visitor chair with the barrel of his fountain pen. “Shovethose bits and pieces onto the floor and take a seat. I just want to sign off on this warrant here and—” The sentence wasleft unfinished as he returned to his task.

Maisie gathered the clutch of papers on the chair and placed them on the floor.

“There we go,” continued Caldwell, closing a folder. “That’s one job out of the way.” He put his hand to the side of his mouthas if it were a loudhailer and called out, “Anyone out there? Someone come and get this warrant and—” He lowered his voice.“Oh, right, there you are, Collins. Run this over to the commissioner for me. Time being of the essence and all that.”

“Right you are, sir,” said the detective constable, taking the folder from Caldwell and leaving the office, banging his shoulder on an open filing cabinet drawer as he went.

“Did you want to see me about the Hacketts?” Maisie had known Caldwell since he was a detective sergeant, and though theydid not get on well at first, over time they had each won the other’s respect, a quality enhanced by being direct.

Caldwell sighed, shaking his head while looking for another file and pulling it toward him. “I’ll get to them. It’s aboutyour French deep-river diver.”

“Have you found out any more about him?”

“First of all, let’s be fair—we don’t actually know he’s French, do we?” said Caldwell. “All right, the pathologist made abit of a guess there and it looks likely, given everything you’ve said, but we don’t really know. And I have plenty I do know about to be getting on with—but I was wondering if you had anything more you could push across my desk.”

Maisie shook her head. “I would have been here before now, if I had. And if we’re talking about who knows what, we also bothknow you wouldn’t have called me unless there were more to discuss—and my guess is you have something important to tell me.”

Caldwell leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Maisie could see the man was exhausted.

“It’s at times like this, Miss Dobbs, I sometimes think I should have upped sticks long ago and taken myself, the wife andour nippers down to the country so I could be on a rural beat and only have to worry about the odd sheep snatcher or blokesnicking copper roofing from churches.”

Maisie laughed. “We both know there’s all manner of untoward goings-on at those big country houses, don’t we? You would’vebeen sniffing out murderers in dusty old drawing rooms.”

“Ha! So the penny dreadfuls would have us believe, eh, Miss Dobbs?” He shook his head. “Anyway, here’s what’s bothering me. I made a few inquiries myself about this here conundrum we’ve found ourselves sinking into—I talked to a few people here and there, and what I’m really interested in is the witness to the crime.”

“Freddie Hackett?” Maisie frowned, any hint of humor now draining from the conversation. “What’s he done?”

Caldwell shook his head. “I don’t think he’s done anything, as such.” His tone was uncharacteristically gentle. “But I wasin the area, so I went over to the school and had a word with his teacher—nice woman, Miss . . . Miss . . .” He referred tohis notes. “Sorry, seeing a lot of people lately—her name’s Miss Pritchard. Also had a word with a Miss Arnold, the art teacher.Anyway, she said something that made me think. The father’s a bit of a toe-rag, not a nice bloke at all, and I reckon we bothknow that. Seems he might have brought home more of the last war than he should have, and he kept it inside him—though hewouldn’t be the first.” He shook his head. “He’s not quite all there—got a temper on him.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. This is not to do with Hackett senior—well, not directly. What I found out was that every week in