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

call me to blether on about agents in France, and not on a Sunday when good people are singing hymnsin a blacked-out church.”

“I want your help, Robbie. I’d like a photograph of Major Chaput—I’m sure you have one in a file somewhere. I need it. AndI want to know if he’s been taken to see the body pulled from the Thames, on the off chance that he could identify the deceased.”

“What the hell are you thinking, Maisie? Are you still trying to help that daydreaming boy? Who, I might add, has failed toturn up to run a few messages for us.”

There were times when Maisie wanted to scream at Robbie MacFarlane, and those moments became more urgent—and therefore morevolatile for Maisie—when MacFarlane seemed at his most obtuse.

“Here’s what’s been troubling me, Robbie. First of all, yes, this is conjecture, but I have a boy who seems to have witnessed a murder—and don’t interrupt me; I’m coming back to that. Then he delivers a message, and there’s a good chance it went to our Major Chaput, who was nowhere in the abandoned building when I proceeded to the same address. As you know the house was empty—of everything. Now, the message came from the department, and if it was you, it was therefore all above board, because you are liaising with a Free French intelligence officer. Fine. But Freddie believes he saw our Major Chaput kill another human being. The deceased vanishes in short order, and the next thing we know a body is being pulled from the Thames. It would never have been found had it not been for the retrieval of a Spitfire from the river.”

“That body could have been anyone’s. And according to pathology reports, there were signs that a goodly amount of alcoholhad been consumed.”

“The pathologist believes he was French, and I think I’d go with his observation. So, I am formally requesting that you takesteps to ensure Chaput is instructed to view the body. I’d like to know if he can identify the man—and I want the facts. Notjust your idea of the truth.” Maisie felt herself becoming terse.

“Maisie,” said MacFarlane, his voice softer than usual. “I know you care for the safety of that boy and his family, but Imust point out that it’s not for you to give me orders, lass. Look, you’ve had a rough few days—breaking the news of a deathis difficult, and god knows I’ve done it enough times. But you’ve got to drop this whole rigmarole with young Hackett. Andit’s not as if anyone is paying you for this one. Even though you’ve got a few bob tucked away, you should be taking on casesthat bring in a bit of revenue, not ones that wear you down for nothing in return.”

“I’ll worry about the money, Robbie—and that’s a fine red herring to throw around. In the meantime, Freddie Hackett is closeto a breakdown, so if I have anything to do with it, he’s not going to be running messages for anyone. But I really must havethat photograph—surely you can at least do that for me, if only to dispense with this case once and for all so I can tellFreddie and his mother that I believe him but we don’t know who he saw on that night. I must do this for Freddie. And I wantto know, if at all possible, the identity of the man dragged up from the Thames. There may be a link to that dead man in Scotland—ordid you think I’d forgotten about him?”

“That has nothing to do with you.”

“Is that why you brought me in on the postmortem and then whisked me away? I believe you know very well that they could be connected, Robbie, and if so, you have a murderer in your midst. How can we keep the Free French even remotely settled here, balanced between hating us and joining us in our quest to fight the Nazis, if they’re killing each other on our soil? I know I’ve signed a good deal of my working life over to you for the duration, but I can find a way out.”

“I think you’ve been looking for a way out since that wee girl came into your life, haven’t you, Maisie? You want to be withyour child, but you can’t give up your work, and there you are, falling over yourself to hold it all in your arms.”

Maisie felt herself bristle. MacFarlane had a way of needling her, of seeing a situation in black and white—or pretendingto. “My personal life is none of your business, Robbie, though I’ll admit you always seem to know too much about it. Now,will you help me out? A photograph of Chaput?”

“Yes. My office, tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock be all right for you?”

“Thank you. And what about finding out if Chaput can identify the man from the river?”

There was silence on the line, followed by a sigh.

“Robbie?”

“He’s already done it. The dead man is one Charles d’Anjou, though seeing as it sounds more like a cheap wine, it’s probablynot his real name. But whoever he is, Chaput confirmed that he had been one of his men, and that he was also a drinker anda liability.”

“Don’t tell me he killed him for being a drinker?”

“Bit sarcastic for you, Maisie.” MacFarlane gave a half laugh. “An alcoholic is always a liability, but it’ll get you kickedoff a job, not knifed by your boss. Chaput didn’t kill him.”

“So he says.” Even to Maisie, her reply sounded childish.

“I believe him. Someone murdered the man, and Chaput has admitted that he wasn’t sorry to see him gone.”

“And the man in Scotland?”

“My bailiwick, Maisie—not yours.”

“What if they’re tied together in some way?”

“They’re not.”

Maisie sighed. “Robbie—”

“Look, Maisie, here’s what you should do—and far be it from me to give advice to someone like yourself, plus I am sick todeath of repeating myself on this one, but why don’t you look after young Freddie and his family as much as you want, butdrop this investigation. As far as