“Would you? Here’s the number.” Maisie gave the number, replaced the telephone receiver and picked it up again as soon as it began to ring.
Elspeth Masters’s voice was filled with concern. “Right, what’s troubling you, Maisie? I can hear urgency in your voice.”
“It’s about a child. I really would love your advice,” said Maisie. She went on to describe Freddie Hackett witnessing a murder, and his home circumstances, together with the news she had learned earlier from Caldwell.
“Hmmm.” Maisie imagined Masters twitching her lips from side to side, something she would do when considering a problem. “Hmmm. Well, you’ve come to the right place, but I don’t know that my colleagues can do the right thing for your Freddie.” She paused. Maisie waited, knowing Masters was considering all options and the best advice to offer. “Right, here’s what I would suggest,” said Masters. “As you know, one of our doctors—William Moodie—pioneered child psychiatry here, though you may remember Dr. Dawson, who started the children’s clinic. Moodie went on to open the London Child Guidance Clinic—unfortunately, they had to move out to Oxford when war was declared. I’ve worked with both of those men, so I have some knowledge to impart. Now, the problem I see is that Freddie isn’t suffering any of the symptoms our doctors are used to observing—he’s not having seizures, he doesn’t have obvious nervous tics, digestive problems or aberrant behaviors such as biting, hitting, screaming, hair-pulling, that sort of thing. And we don’t want him to be weighed and measured before anyone even speaks to him—plus these stories of his are not troubling to the extent that the school has seen fit to refer him to the clinic. The schools are being vigilant at the moment, especially with some children returning quite upset from evacuation. So, no, we don’t want to put him through that. We just require some indication of his level of what I would call ‘psychological wounding.’”
“According to his mother, he is scratching his arms, sometimes until they bleed, so that’s one thing. Otherwise, how do we do make an assessment regarding his psychological wounding?” asked Maisie. “What do you think? Will you see him?”
“Children are so different in their response to the world around them. Yes, I can identify certain traits—and when I bring out my collection of trinkets from Africa, that can always get the young mind off the fact that I’m a doctor. But I think you would be better served by someone really up on the latest research with regard to what goes on in a child’s mind—and your Freddie is an interesting case.”
“Why do you say that, Elsbeth?”
“Because he’s had to take on the work of an adult—he’s a little man, Maisie. A troubled little man, and I feel so desperately sorry for him.”
Maisie thought she heard a catch in the psychiatrist’s voice.
“Now then, I don’t want that boy to be intimidated by being brought to a hospital, but I think it would be good to get an initial assessment, so I’m going to ask Alice Langley to get in touch with you.”
“Is she a doctor?”
“No, but she’s one of the best nurses I’ve ever worked with. Alice was a sister here in the child guidance clinic and she worked alongside Moodie and also Dr. Rosalie Lucas, and as you know, here at the Maudsley, nurses have been at the forefront of testing patients and drawing up psychiatric assessments. She’s up on all the latest research, and is a wonder with children—no spring chicken, I might add, and for the past few months she’s been at home with her daughter’s two youngsters because they are now in her care. I daresay she will be back to work soon, even if it’s only for one morning shift—we need her—but she wanted to get the children settled. The eldest has just started school and the neighbor will look after the younger one.”
“What happened to her daughter?”
“She was killed in a daylight bombing raid, while the children were being looked after by the neighbor. Poor girl was just walking along the street, having waited in line for ages for a loaf of bread. Then barely two days later, Alice’s son-in-law was killed when his ship was torpedoed, and as far as Alice knows he had not at that point received word of his wife’s death, which I think is an absolute mercy. Alice’s husband is an air raid warden, so she is on tenterhooks every night until he comes home. He wanted her to go to the country with the children, but she won’t leave him at this point. I think she might go to Oxford though, as she is a gem and they could use her at the clinic. It’s such a terrible position for the family to be in. You know, I once asked Alice how she manages, because she’s remained this very gentle soul, not hardened by hatred or a desire for some sort of revenge. And you know what she said to me? ‘Hatred, revenge—they’re just as bad as trying to protect yourself from more hurt—they can make you brittle inside. And if you’re brittle, you break. One way or another, you break.’”
Maisie was silent. The words were echoing in her mind.
“Anyway, I’ll have a word with Alice,” said Masters. “I think probably the best idea is for her to go to Freddie’s home, or to meet the boy at a neutral place.” Maisie could hear a tapping sound, and imagined Masters striking her pen on her wooden desk in rhythm as she spoke. “In the circumstances, I think Alice should see Freddie without the mother present, as it’s obvious he envisions himself as a protector, so to get an accurate impression, we would want him to be in a place without even a loving influence at his shoulder. Expect Alice to be in touch with you first, but if you don’t hear, do give her a telephone call—miraculously she has a telephone at the house, largely on account of her husband’s work. Don’t send a postcard though—the eldest grandchild is a precocious five-year-old and could probably read every word and understand it!”
Maisie took a pencil and notebook from her shoulder bag and noted the number as Masters recited it. “Was Alice’s daughter a nurse too?” she asked as she replaced the pen and notebook in her bag.
“No, she was a doctor, actually. Only working part-time since the children came, but hospitals need all hands on deck, so she put on her white coat and went back in. I’d take on a qualified person for a couple of hours a day, if they can manage it.” Maisie held the receiver away from her ear as Masters’ throaty laugh filled the line. “So how about it, Maisie? You have the training!”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid not—another time I’ll tell you about what happened to me last year when I was a volunteer ambulance driver—it means I’m probably not your best bet.” Maisie was aware of the change in her voice as she framed her final question. “Elsbeth, what do you think about Freddie? Do you think he could have imagined seeing a man with a scar?”
The tapping of pen against wood began again. Maisie thought it sounded as if cogs were turning in the doctor’s brain. “I think he might well have imagined seeing a man with a scar—but it doesn’t mean he didn’t see a murder, does it, Maisie?” Masters asked. “Now then, I’ve just looked at the time and I have a patient waiting. Do call me again, Maisie—better still, come over to have a natter when I’m not so fraught. And please let me know how it goes with the boy.”
Chapter 11
“Maisie, I cannot tell you how good it is to have company yet again. I feel as if I have received manna from heaven. Now, tell me what this visit is all about before I expire waiting.” Gabriella Hunter gave Maisie a wide smile as they settled into the deep, shell-like chairs in her study. “And I’m glad you came—I don’t get the good cakes every day, you know, despite appearances to the contrary.”
There was a pause in conversation as Mrs. Towner brought in a tray with tea and cakes. As the housekeeper left the study, closing the door behind her without a sound, Maisie poured tea, and handed a cup to Hunter before sitting down with her own cup of tea. “The French in England, I suppose that’s it,” said Maisie. “And here’s why.” She explained that she wanted to know more about the Free French currently in London—any information would be helpful. “Gabriella, I haven’t forgotten that you once worked with Maurice in Paris—that you were, let us say . . . let us say ‘involved’ in
intelligence work during the last war. You may seem to most like a very accomplished expert on early French literature, but I know you have many skills up your sleeve.”
“Ha! There are residents around this square, the sort with handshakes like wet fish in your fingers, who would be horrified to learn that I have killed the enemy with my bare hands.” Hunter laughed. “I should probably let them in on that little snippet of my history just before I present a paper when they’re working themselves up to take down my theories along with my good name. It might give them second thoughts!” She became serious. “So, what is it exactly that you want to know? There’s more at stake than a passing interest on your part?”
Maisie stood up and placed her now empty cup and saucer on the tray. “Character. Motivation. What drives people who have seen the enemy march into their country and along their city streets? People who have lost their homes, seen their neighbors dragged away. Many French citizens escaped across the Channel to England—and of course there’s the man named de Gaulle in London too. They have sanctuary here, yet there is also animosity toward the British—they are working with us, and they seem to be working against us at the same time. It’s to do with a case, so I want to know who they are—not specifically down to a name, though one or two of those would be handy—but who they are inside.” She placed her hand on her chest, and took her seat again.
Hunter nodded. Maisie could feel a change in her demeanor, as if a cloud of melancholy had enveloped her.
“Strangely, the book I have just finished writing touches upon this very thing. Mind you, it’s not going to leave me until I’ve read and reread my manuscript a thousand times—a nasty habit of mine that infuriates my publisher.” She sighed, then continued. “Maisie, paramount, above everything, is this word: honor. Honor is in the heart and mind of every citizen of France, from the aristocracy to the most lowly man or woman. It is at the very center of Liberté, Egalité and Fraternité, our moral code—whether we stick to it or not. Honor is a word that strikes a chord with so many peoples, but it’s different for the French.” She glanced out of the window as she paused for a moment, then brought her attention back to Maisie. “So, that’s the first thing—a thread that runs through the heart of every French man and woman.”
“And what else?” Maisie was anxious for Hunter to continue.
“We can be defiant. Our defiance becomes very strong indeed when we are scared, when we are threatened, when the stakes are high and against us at every turn—and we take defeat very, very poorly.” She became thoughtful once more. “Yes, I know the British are the same—and by god, there is resilience here in our country. But the French are a very interesting people—I am sure you know that British airmen would prefer to be shot down in occupied France rather than Vichy. I was told by a friend, one who knows about these things, that an airman will do his best to bring down his burning aircraft in the occupied area; he knows our people will help him because it’s one in the eye for the Germans, who they hate. But in Vichy, Petain has shown a distinct paucity of integrity, a lack of respect for what France stands for; hence the Vichy authorities would hand over that same airman to the Nazis; a gift, if you will, to curry favor. Their dearth of fidelity to what France stands for means that Petain might as well be an out-and-out traitor—and if there is one thing the French hate, it’s a traitor, though I concede he may be acting because he fears the Nazis and is intimidated by their power, but that’s no excuse in my book.”
Maisie said nothing for a few moments, allowing Hunter’s words to settle inside her, words she would take out later and examine, along with the cache of information she had gathered since leaving her house this morning. There was a passion in the woman’s summation of the situation in France, a passion that had escalated with every word as she responded to the question. However, Maisie had to know more. She came to her feet again and took the cup and saucer from Hunter’s hands.
“Another cup?”
“Oh, yes please, dear—and I’m sorry. I rather went on, didn’t I?”
“Not at all—your opinion is of great value to me, and if you don’t mind, I’ve a few more questions.” Maisie poured more tea and handed the cup and saucer back to Hunter before taking her seat once more. Even in her choice of china, Gabriella seemed avant-garde—the matching Clarice Cliff teapot, cups and saucers, sugar bowl and jug decorated in striking shades of orange, blue, red and green marked the woman as an individualist.
“It’s extraordinary—that you remember exactly how I like my tea. First a little milk, then the tea, and then just a little hot water on top.”
Maisie laughed. “Some things you never forget, Gabriella. You didn’t have a housekeeper when Maurice first brought me here, so I always made tea while you two were catching up with your news, and then when I brought in the tray and poured for us all, you would discuss some subject or other and I was expected to contribute to the conversation.”
“I know—cruel, weren’t we? I always thought he expected too much of you.”
Maisie shook her head. “Perhaps, but it never harmed me, and what he did was show me the road ahead and give me the tools to make the journey.” She looked down at her hands, trying not to be swept back on a wave of nostalgia. Bringing her attention back to Hunter, Maisie continued her questioning. “Tell me about de Gaulle.”
Hunter gave a slight shake of her head. “The man is in a difficult position. He is not in France, so it appears to the French that he has left them behind to become victims of the Nazis. Yet on the other hand, they know he is over here, and there are a good number who believe he is doing all he can to help France from a safe place. Think of his speech last year, on the eighteenth of June. Parts still ring in my ears—and there are words we will all remember, we who love France. Every aspect of his speech was calibrated for the moment, but his call to arms was spoken with passion. ‘I call upon all Frenchmen who want to remain free to listen to my voice and follow me.’”
There was another pause in the conversation before Hunter continued.
“I suppose I get quite taken with emotion at times, when I think of the war. The troubling element in all of this is a collective fear among the French that de Gaulle is collaborating with the British, that he is Churchill’s poodle, a tool of Britain. And we in Britain look quite vulnerable to the French, don’t we? They are convinced that Hitler will march in at any moment and fly the swastika over Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament, so they anticipate that de Gaulle will then become Hitler’s puppet. Thus de Gaulle has to step with care, demonstrating to his countrymen that he has the upper hand over Churchill. He therefore appears haughty, arrogant and dismissive, and at the same time he has to show an element of gratitude for his life and his ability to be a leader for France despite being in exile—when across the Channel there are citizens who speak of Petain’s heroism during the last war and trust him implicitly. I must confess that I believe Petain has sold his soul to the devil who resides in Germany, and he’s a man who should not be trusted by anyone, least of all Britain.”
“What about the many men and women Britain is sending to France? I’m sure you know about our people who are risking their lives for the French.”
“Indeed I do, but let’s be clear—they are risking their lives to keep the Nazis in France and not over here. So from the perspective of the Free French, any resistance has to be seen to be French in origin and under French leadership. They want French heroes to be the driving force for the secret incursions into France by Britain’s agents.”
Maisie nodded, thoughtful. “And what if there was discord among the French agents here?”
Hunter put her cup and saucer onto the table at her side, balancing it upon a pile of books. “Unless that discord is rooted in petty arguments, Maisie, then you must attribute any discord to my first response—and that is honor. Personal or collective honor. Seek out the dishonorable, and you will find what you are looking for.”
The women spoke a little longer before Ma
isie could see that Hunter seemed tired. She stood up to take her leave, kissed the older woman on both cheeks, and promised to visit again soon. It was as she reached the door that Gabriella Hunter called out to her.
“Maisie—one thing. A grudge can be held for a long time, can span generations, particularly for the French. And sadly, the desire to protect honor is not put aside in a time of war; indeed, the threat of death makes it only more urgent.” She paused. “I believe you will require more from me sooner than you might think. I know I’m getting on, but once a spy, always a spy, and I still have contacts, you know.”
As she reached the front door of her ground-floor flat, Maisie could hear the telephone ringing inside. Fumbling with the key in shaking hands, she unlocked the door and ran into the flat, slamming the door behind her and racing toward the telephone.
“Yes, hello—,” she said, lifting the receiver to her ear, fearful she had missed the call she had not even realized she was waiting for until she heard the ringing from outside. “Yes, are you there?”
“Miss Maisie Dobbs?”
“Yes—” Maisie heard the sound of two operators talking.
“Connecting you now,” said the British operator.
“Putting you through, caller,” said an American voice, followed by a clicking sound.
“Mark?”
“Maisie?”
“Oh, I hoped it was you.”
There was silence on the line.
“Mark—”
“Well, well, well—what happened to that stiff upper lip?” Mark Scott laughed. “That’s a first—you sound pleased to hear my voice.”
Maisie felt tears prick her eyes. If you’re brittle, you break. “Mark—I’ve . . . I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Maisie. I’ve missed you, and I’ve missed Anna, and I’ve even missed Brenda giving me the evil eye every time she sees me. I miss the bombs, the weak tea—no, check that, I don’t miss any tea—but I miss London. And I’ll be home soon. I’ll be leaving DC in a day or two, or maybe three, and coming back, so chill a bottle of wine for me. Better still, don’t be shy about putting a beer in the icebox.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 16