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

“It’s a terrible thing to have seen, Freddie.” She paused, adding, “Well, an interesting find anyway. You never know, whoeverremoved the victim might have taken the contents of the wallet and thrown it over there. People’s personal belongings arescattered everywhere after a bombing, so anyone finding it wouldn’t have given it a second thought.”

The driver of the taxicab sounded the horn and leaned out of the window.

“Oi—you gonna be ’ere all day, love? You’re tallying a nice little bill, you know.”

“Just one more stop, sir,” called Maisie in reply, turning to Billy. “Here’s what I’d like you to do. Could you go with Freddieto the school, let them know he’s been a sterling example of a young man doing his duty and reporting a crime and that heshould have no punishment for the morning’s absence?”

“Right you are—it’ll be my pleasure.”

“I’ll see you back at the office later.” Turning to Freddie Hackett, she gave the boy her full attention. “And you, young man, are very brave, and you’ve shown great fortitude. I want you to keep in touch with us—you know where to find Mr. Beale and we know where to find you.” She paused, looking into his eyes, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Freddie, you seem skilled at remaining safe, but I want you to be vigilant—be even more aware of your surroundings wherever you go. In fact”—Maisie reached into her shoulder bag for her purse, and picked out a shilling’s worth of pennies—“I’d like you to stop at a telephone kiosk and place a call to Mr. Beale after school each afternoon for the next few days. He’ll give you two numbers in case there’s no answer at the first. Do you know how to use the telephone?” The boy shook his head. “All right, we can sort that out,” continued Maisie. “Mr. Beale will find a kiosk on the way to the school, and he’ll show you what to do and how to speak to the operator. Is that all right?”

Freddie nodded.

Maisie took a silver coin from the purse. “And here’s a florin to give to your mum.”

The boy’s eyes widened as he looked up at Maisie. “Yes, miss. Thank you very much, miss.” Freddie reached for the money andput it in his sock.

Maisie inclined her head. “Why do you put the money in your sock, Freddie?”

“So it’s safe, for my mum.” He looked away from Maisie, then down at the reddish-brown stain on the ground. “My dad gets myrunning money, and if he’s there when I come home, he goes through my pockets to make sure I’ve given it all up.” The boyfaltered for a moment, as if searching for the words in his mind. “And then he goes down the pub.”

Maisie nodded, and felt her throat catch. She looked at her assistant. “All right, Billy—be on your way. I’ll see you later.”

She watched the man and boy walk together, Billy ruffling the lad’s hair as they made their way along the street, then waving and calling out “Afternoon, mate” while touching his cap to acknowledge the costermonger who passed them with his barrow. The boy looked up at Billy and smiled, leaning in a little closer as Billy’s arm rested on his shoulder. Maisie sighed and returned to the taxi, stopping to give the driver another address before climbing aboard. She wanted to see the house where the alleged murderer had accepted a message from the boy runner.

Once again, she asked the taxicab driver to remain on the street to wait for her. She was already late for MacFarlane, butshe expected to be in time for the two interviews she was to conduct later. The driver would have to cool his heels just alittle longer.

“I hope you’ve got a few bob on you, miss, because this little jaunt won’t come cheap.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Maisie, looking down at her notebook. “You can stop just down there.”

“Not a lot of life around here, is there? I reckon them houses will be condemned, if they’re not already. It’s a wonder theyhaven’t gone up in smoke before now—though likely as not there’s no gas, because the supply would have been shut off.”

Maisie looked up at the three-story Victorian house as the cabbie pulled alongside. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, rememberingthat in Freddie’s recounting of the meeting, when he met the man he thought was a “foreigner,” he had described him carryingan oil lamp.

She stepped from the cab and walked toward the house, up three steps to the front door, then lifted the blackened brass knocker. There was no answer to either the first or a second knock, so she applied pressure to the door. It moved just a little, allowing her to push it open and step into the passage, revealing a house that was familiar in design. Thousands of houses built in the mid- to late 1800s were constructed to more or less the same specifications, give or take a room or two. The entrance passage—and it was never referred to as a “hall” because only the upper classes had an entrance hall, whereas the lower classes referred to the same, albeit smaller entrance as a “passage”—had a parlor to the right, sometimes followed by a dining room, and at the end of the passage was a kitchen and scullery. Larger houses might have a cellar accessible via a door under the staircase—which was directly ahead as she entered—but this house had only an under-stairs cupboard. She anticipated two rooms above, and then another narrower staircase leading to an attic room. The WC would be outside, either at the bottom of the backyard or just to the left of the door that led from the kitchen to the yard—and it was a yard, a limited space with flagstones, which could never be called a garden.

While the house seemed to have all its walls, she noticed large cracks across the ceiling and fallen masonry along the passage.She