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

“Here he is, miss,” said Billy, opening the door and holding out his hand as if he were the master of ceremonies introducingthe next act at a music hall. “The best runner in all of London.”

Freddie Hackett blushed and took a step forward. He was only a few inches shorter than Maisie; as a man he would stand just shy of six feet tall, she thought. He wore trousers that might once have been his father’s, for they were baggy and held up with a leather belt. His collarless shirt was clean enough, and over it he wore a knitted pullover in a Fair Isle pattern, which Maisie thought must have been uncomfortable, given the weather. He shook hands with Maisie, wiped his left hand across his forehead, and nodded as if deference were natural for him. As he returned her smile his pale blue, almost gray eyes reflected the light, changing his countenance in a way that made him appear so very young.

“I’m glad to see you again, Freddie—but I’m very concerned about what it appears you have witnessed. Come on, come over hereand tell us all about it.” She tapped the back of the chair to the left, not wanting to put Freddie between his interlocutors.“It’s such a lovely day, and I like to see out over the square after having to put up with the blackout before the sun’s evendown for the night.”

Freddie nodded, and took his seat. Billy sat next to him, and Maisie took the third chair.

“Now then, Freddie, it seems you had a terrible shock. I know you’ve told the story to Mr. Beale here, but I would be obligedif you’d tell it again so I can get a clear picture of what happened to you. Sometimes people hear things differently, sowe want to make sure we have all the right information to help us decide what to do next.”

The boy nodded, cleared his throat and began recounting the events of the night he saw a man murdered. He described the manto whom he had delivered the envelope, running his fingers from his cheeks to his mouth and under his right eye as he recountedwhat he had seen as the door opened and he looked up at a face that he was sure he had seen not twenty minutes earlier—andhis belief that the man before him was indeed the killer.

“And the thing is,” he added, having described returning to the spot where the crime took place, and not finding a body, “the thing is that I’ve thought about it all a lot, and I reckon that the bloke what did it is not English. And he had a knuckle-duster as well as that knife he used to do in the other bloke.”

“Can you describe what it was about the man that made you think he was a foreigner?”

Freddie nodded and cleared his throat again. Billy pushed back his chair and moved toward a filing cabinet by the desk occasionallyused by Sandra, who came in to deal with office administration.

“Carry on, son,” said Billy. “I’m just getting you a cream soda to wet your whistle.”

“I’d like one too, while you’re up,” said Maisie, returning her attention to the boy. “So he was a foreigner.”

The boy nodded again. “It was the way he said certain words, though he sounded right posh. I’ve had to deliver to the Frenchiesbefore, and I reckon he was French.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Maisie. She knew the boy was a runner for the various secret services, and would likely have beentasked with delivering messages to the Free French, who had their own intelligence sources. They were not happy with the factthat the British were landing agents in France.

Billy handed the boy a bottle of cream soda and another to Maisie.

“What about the knuckle-duster, son?” asked Billy.

The boy lifted his hand. “If you wear one of those, it leaves marks right across there.” He ran a finger from the oppositehand across his knuckles. “You can always tell when a bloke’s had one of them on.”

Maisie leaned forward and with a soft touch swept the boy’s fringe away from his eyes. It was a mother’s touch, gentle, andas the boy looked at her, his gray-blue eyes filled with tears.

“And how would you know that, Freddie?” she asked.

He looked down as if to study his worn hobnail boots, then looked up again.

“Seen it on my dad’s hands.” He caught his breath and looked beyond the window, focusing on the autumnal canopy of trees shadingthe square. “Felt it too,” he whispered, taking a deep breath as he turned back to Maisie and Billy. “So’s my mum. But hekeeps his hands to himself on nights I bring home the money. If I miss school to work, it upsets my mum, but it stops himgoing for her when I earn a few shillings, so it’s worth it. I can always read a book while I’m waiting to run a message.Mum likes to know I’m reading.” He looked down at the bottle of cream soda, lifted it to his mouth and drained the contents.

“I’ll take that, son,” said Billy, reaching for the empty bottle and handing him his own bottle. “You’ve got a thirst on you,so have this one—I’ve not touched a drop.”

“Is your school near the place where you saw the man killed, Freddie?” asked Maisie.

“Not far.” Freddie Hackett began to sip from the fresh bottle of soda.

“I have to go to another appointment when we’ve finished, however it won’t take long for Mr. Beale and I to accompany youto the spot so we know where it is, and then I’ll have to get on my way. After that he’s going to take you straight roundto the school, and he’ll square things with your teacher, so don’t worry about it.” She paused. “Where does your father work?Near home?”

“He works when he gets work. He couldn’t join the army, even the Territorials, on account of his wounds from the