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

Freddie’sclass, they do composition, you know, telling a story. I remember having to do it when I was at school, and all I wrote aboutwas dogs—I told you, I should have been a country copper, bicycle and all that.”

Maisie detected a certain nervousness in Caldwell’s demeanor. He doesn’t want to tell me what he’s discovered, she thought. She leaned forward.

“Well, Freddie’s stories are all very vivid, according to the teacher, and amount to something horrible happening to a man with a scar on his face,” said Caldwell, his words hurried, as if he were in a race, trying to outrun the truth in his pronouncement. “Not all the time, mind you, but it turns out he’s quite the little storyteller and can weave a yarn about anything. The teacher usually gives the class the first sentence and then they write what they want. Apparently she started a story a couple of weeks ago, along the lines of ‘You’re walking along the road and a dog goes running by with a string of sausages in its mouth, and—’ She said Freddie even turned that opening into a story about a man with a scar on his face chasing the dog, and he ends up nabbed and put away, and the dog’s a hero!”

“So what you’re telling me is that Freddie could have been spinning a tale about seeing a man murdered by another man witha scar on his face.” Maisie sighed. “Which is all very well, but I have reason to believe there is sufficient evidence inhand to see at least some element of truth in Freddie’s claims. Let me tell you why.” Maisie went on to describe, again, theground where Freddie had seen the murder take place, about finding the wallet and the end of a French cigarette.

“Anything else, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie sighed. “Well, yes, there is. It’s to do with the house where Freddie had to deliver the envelope—and as you mightimagine, that is where I must zip my lips or have the full weight of the Official Secrets Act tied to my feet as I’m thrownfrom the ramparts of the Tower of London. Suffice it to say that there was enough there for me to have doubt.”

Caldwell leaned back in his chair again. “I’ll accept that.” He sighed. “It’s bloody scary out there for a lad like Freddie. Running the streets when bombs are falling. I don’t hold with mollycoddling children, but there’s the other extreme and that’s expecting too much of them. My two have to pull their weight—as I tell them, they’re big enough and ugly enough now and all grown up—but at night when it’s raining bombs and god knows what else, I want them down the bloody shelter with their mum.” Caldwell pushed back his chair and stood up, pressing his hands against the small of his back. “To be honest with you, I feel sorry for the lad—hard blimmin’ life, if you ask me. But given what I’ve heard, I’m advising you to let this whole thing drop. That’s what I’m doing. I’ve got to close the case.”

“There’s the question of a dead body and a boy who might be in danger because a killer knows he could likely identify him—andyou’re closing the case?”

“Miss Dobbs, what makes you think he’s in danger?”

“Apparently a man was asking for him at the school—and the caretaker has corroborated the story.”

“Probably the school board inspector, wondering why Freddie’s absent so much.”

“Caldwell—”

“All right, all right—I know you’re worried about the lad, Miss Dobbs. But as far as I’m concerned, this case is as cold asice and I don’t have the manpower for it. You’d be advised to let it go too—it’s not as if you’re being paid by Freddie Hackettto prove he had all his faculties about him, and was not scared witless running messages just to keep his dad in drink.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to continue. I believe Freddie—and I don’t like letting people down.”

“Oh, I believe him, Miss Dobbs—I do believe he thinks he saw something, just like a man fearful he’ll expire in the desert will see a blimmin’ great pond in the distance. There’sno accounting for what’s going on in that boy’s head.”

“Fair warning, Detective Chief Superintendent.” Maisie stood up, and though she was disappointed, she softened when she took account of Caldwell’s gray, tired pallor, and the deep purple circles under his eyes. “Thank you for taking me into your confidence—and for at least going to the school. I know how stretched you are here, and rest assured I appreciate your looking into the case.” Maisie stood up to leave. “I’ll keep you apprised of anything I can find out.”

“I’d be much obliged if you would, Miss Dobbs.” Caldwell seemed subdued in his response. He put the file to one side and pickedup another sheet of paper. “This might interest you too, while you’re about your investigation.”

“What is it?” Maisie reached for the paper.

“Information from the birth certificate of one Frederick Bartholomew Trantor.”

“Trantor?”

“His mother’s maiden name. I asked one of the new blokes to do a bit more digging on the matter—nice little job to see what he’s made of, seeing as his flat feet kept him out of the army and he ended up moved from uniform over to my doorstep. It’s surprising what he found out. Turns out Grace Trantor was a governess at one of those nice country homes—you know, the sort you were talking about, with dining rooms where they find a body or two. Well, at least they do in those cheap books people are taking down the shelters.” He gave a half-laugh. “Anyway, you know the story—all very predictable, I suppose. There’s a widower with two children who needs a nice young woman to care for the nippers because he’s been left alone. Governess falls in love with widower, one thing leads to another . . . and he no more wants to marry the lowly governess when she gets into trouble than