Maisie laughed, feeling lightheaded as the truth seeped into her. She was bending to the reality of her feelings for Mark Scott and in that moment could do nothing more than offer words that echoed her lover’s. “Come home soon, Mark. Come home safe and soon.”
“What is it, Maisie? What’s going on? Something’s wrong—I can hear it in your voice.”
“I’m—I’m just a bit weary, I suppose. It’s been a long day. I have a difficult case in progress and I feel as if I’m on a boat sailing into a headwind. Two steps forward, then I stumble back.” She laughed. “And I’m not even getting paid for it!”
“You’ve faced the headwinds before.”
“I know, but this time . . . this time there’s a young boy involved and I fear it will be hard to get to the truth of the matter. He’s not a . . . well, I suppose there’s a shadow of doubt over him.”
“Maisie, if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that when you follow your best instincts, you’re on the right track. So do that. The gusts coming at you are only you doubting yourself.” He paused for a second. “See, I know you, Maisie Dobbs—contrary to what you might think.”
Maisie nodded, as if Mark Scott were in the room with her and could see her every move. She wondered whether this might be the right time to acknowledge how unsettled they had been, at times snappy, so busy that they often failed to understand each other—or just didn’t make the effort. It had crossed her mind several times that they wanted the same things in life, but not at the same time. She decided to say nothing, considering it best to keep the peace, and not burden either of them with her fears that their affair was sometimes like a heart beating out of rhythm, and therefore at risk of failing. “Yes, of course—you’re right. Use my best instincts.”
Their conversation moved on to other matters, as Maisie told Scott about Anna and her despair at losing her beloved Emma, that she had been so upset she did not want to ride in the gymkhana. Mark described Washington in October, and told Maisie that he never thought he would miss London, but there was much to do when he returned with new orders. They both accepted that he couldn’t discuss his work at the embassy, any more than Maisie could reveal anything more about her cases.
“I’ve got to go now, Maisie. I waited until the small hours to call you and now it’s time for this old bear to get some shut-eye before a meeting with the president tomorrow morning. It might be okay for him to have gray sacks under the eyes, but I have to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
Maisie laughed. “Take care, Mark. And I’ll see you soon.”
“You can bet on it, Maisie Dobbs.”
Maisie waited, wondering if there would be more before the line clicked and the conversation was terminated. The long, lonely tone of the disconnected call echoed in her ears and she at once felt bereft, for the spoken declaration she so wanted to hear had not come. And she had forgotten to thank him for the necklace.
Maisie returned the telephone receiver to its cradle and began to take off her light woolen jacket, touching the diamond with her fingertips as she removed her silk scarf. She ran her fingers through her hair as if to release the tight band of tension around her head. Throwing the jacket across the back of an armchair, she set her shoulder bag on the desk and made her way toward the kitchen. She filled the kettle and set it on the smallest gas ring, then lit the flame with a match from a box she kept on the shelf above the stove. While waiting for the water to boil, Maisie stepped back into the sitting room, then to the dining room and each of the two bedrooms, drawing blackout curtains as she moved through her home.
“I feel as if I’m shutting myself inside a cave,” she said aloud. Opening the refrigerator—she was still getting used to the sound of what Mark Scott referred to as “the icebox,” even though it had been installed over a year earlier—she saw two bottles of Guinness and a bottle of wine. She turned around, extinguished the gas flame underneath the kettle, removed the bottle of chilled white wine and opened it, pouring herself a glass. Once again she began to walk through her flat, taking note of a book set on the small table alongside the armchair that Scott favored. In her bedroom, she opened the wardrobe and ran her fingers along the sleeves of two crisp white shirts with labels indicating that they came from a shop in America called Brooks Brothers. A pair of Scott’s polished black shoes had been left alongside the wall, the name inside the shoes revealing that they had been made by hand according to the customer’s specifications. There was something about the shirts, their shape and the residue of Scott’s cologne, that made her want to hold them close, as if to do so would ensure that something precious would never slip through her fingers. She often did the same thing in the smaller bedroom where she kept a change of clothes for Anna, for the rare occasion when Maisie brought her to London, a special treat she loved. When Anna had left again, usually with Frankie and Brenda, Maisie would sometimes return to the empty flat and bury her head in her child’s clothing, and once she fell asleep clutching one of Anna’s soft toys. How she ached to return to Chelstone each week, running for the train and counting the minutes before she could hold her daughter in her arms—just as she rushed back to the flat when she knew her lover would be there.
Returning to the kitchen, she realized that Mark Scott had taken up residence in her life and in her heart, and she wanted him to remain there.
The telephone began ringing again; instinct informed Maisie that it would be MacFarlane calling. It seemed that even the Bakelite telephone was under his orders and appeared to emit a more forceful ring when he was on the line, as if to say, “For heaven’s sake answer this telephone right now because he’s beating me.” She picked up the receiver.
“Robbie—how are you?”
“I’m not even going to ask how you knew it was me.”
“It’s the way the telephone rings. I always know when it’s you. Why are you calling? I’m starving and I’ve not had a bite to eat all day.”
“I’ll have something for you when you get here, lass,” said MacFarlane.
“But—”
“Bright should be outside your door at any minute. Just get in the motor car and she’ll have you here before you know it. Bring that glass of wine in your hand if you like.”
“How did you know—”
“I can always hear a telltale sip—it’s as far as my intuition stretches, but it works every time. Anything else I accomplish in a day is due to solid, old-fashioned detection—or perhaps you’ve forgotten what that is? Now then, get in the motor car, Maisie.”
“Robbie—what’s happened?”
“Can’t say until you get here.”
“Is it serious?”
“I don’t drag my people out of the comfort of their own homes when they’ve been racing round London all day, their feet are sore and they miss their Yank—though heaven knows why—unless it’s bloody well serious.”
Chapter 12
Maisie’s journey was through darkened streets, yet Corporal Bright maneuvered the vehicle with ease. Only searchlights beaming up across the sky offered any kind of direction, but the ATS driver made her way to Baker Street as if flaming torches marked the route. Maisie had grown used to Bright, and noticed that instead of her usual effervescent demeanor, the young woman was silent. She knows, thought Maisie. She knows why I’m being summoned.
“I think you might have an idea why I’m being called in to see Mr. MacFarlane,” said Maisie. Almost as soon as she had uttered the words, she knew it was wrong of her to do so. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I inquired.”
“It’s all right, Miss Dobbs. I probably look as if I know something, but I don’t—I’m too far down the ladder, just the driver.” She was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Mind you, if it’s honesty you want, here’s what I know about life. When my mum wasn’t feeling well and her stomach kept going dickey, she went to the doctor. The doctor sent her for tests. Two days later she gets a postcard to go in straightaway. That’s when we knew it was bad.
We didn’t have a telephone, so they had to send the postcard. Mind you, it came that afternoon. You know when something’s urgent, don’t you? So when people get telephone calls from the likes of Mr. MacFarlane and he drags me in just as I’m going off a shift I started at five in the morning and he tells me to pick up someone important, I know I can’t complain about the job, because it’s obvious to me that they’re not being brought in so MacFarlane can tell them they’ve got the all-clear, if you know what I mean.”
Maisie sighed. “Thank you for your candor, Corporal Bright.”
“You knew it was serious anyway, didn’t you, Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes. I knew.”
“And I know what goes on in that office. I’m not silly, and it doesn’t take the brains of an archbishop, does it? I have to drive the men and women who are going over to France to their departure point. I take them to whichever house they’re staying at while they wait for the weather or the moon or whatever it is, and then later if I’m the driver on duty, I take them to the airfield.” She paused. “It’s a wonder old Mac hasn’t sent me over there—he will if they lose any more, I bet.”
“You have to be fluent in French, Corporal Bright.”
“I am. Mum was French—she died when I was sixteen. Stomach cancer—so no, she never got the all-clear when she was called back to the hospital. Dad met her in the last war, fell in love, and then after the Armistice he brought her over here. By which time, I might add, yours truly was a bun in the oven!”
Maisie laughed. “You’re right—with that information, I’m surprised MacFarlane hasn’t recruited you.”
“He told me he would never forgive himself if anything happened to me and he had to break the news to my dad, and then he said”—she began to mimic MacFarlane’s accent—“More to the point, Charlie Bright, you’re a bit too quick with your wit. It’s wits about you we need, not the kind of wit that’s your stock-in-trade. You’d be a liability, lass. A liability if I sent you over there.’” Bright reverted to her own accent. “To be honest, I think he’s right. And I wouldn’t want to go anyway—I see quite enough from here, thank you very much!”
“Well, you’ve got MacFarlane down pat, Corporal.”
Bright laughed. “Dad says I’m a parrot. Got me into a lot of plays at school—and a lot of trouble too!” She slowed the car and pulled into the curb. “Here we are, Miss Dobbs. Just a sec—I’ll come round.”
Corporal Bright opened the passenger door, allowing Maisie to step out of the motor car. “I daresay Mr. Mac will be coming out of that door any time now . . . and there he is, waiting for you.”
“I don’t like that look,” whispered Maisie to herself, seeing MacFarlane outside the door, then louder, “Thank you, Corporal Bright. Excellent driving, as usual.”
Bright saluted and closed the door at the same time as MacFarlane approached.
“Well done, Bright. You’re off duty now. I’ll get another driver to take Miss Dobbs home.” He reached for Maisie’s arm. “Come on, Maisie. Haven’t got all night.”
“What’s going on?”
“In a minute.”
MacFarlane escorted Maisie past the porter’s desk toward a staircase she knew would take them into the bowels of the building. Opening a door into a small office, he held out his hand for Maisie to enter first, then followed, locking the door behind him. It was warm in the windowless room; she began to feel a hint of claustrophobia.
“Sit down, lass,” said MacFarlane.
Maisie took a seat. MacFarlane eased into the chair on the opposite side of a desk with only one file on top—no other documents or papers were visible. It looked like a room that was only used in certain circumstances. She knew rooms like this. Anyone who had ever worked in a hospital knew this room. It was the room where death was announced.
“Is it Pascale?”
He shook his head while opening the folder. “Elinor Jones was captured by the Gestapo and is now believed to have been tortured before her death, which took place in France. As far as we know, she was not transferred to Ravensbrück—the concentration camp where the Nazis send women like Miss Jones. We know at least one other agent who was taken there, but in this case not Miss Jones. We hope to receive intelligence confirmation that, while she may have experienced some terror that I don’t even want to think about, she had an opportunity to ingest her L-pill. At least we bloody well hope she did.”
Maisie drew breath to speak.
“Let me finish first, Maisie,” said MacFarlane, without looking up. She suspected he was not reading a report, nor was he referring to it, but kept his head down because he could not meet her eyes. He continued, “Um . . . right, where was I? Yes—fortunately, her partner, the lass who receives transmissions from Jones, recognized the fist change immediately a new message came in, so we knew she must have been captured. We believe it was a German radio operator who was using her equipment and trying to get his hands on information that would put a raft of agents in danger. You see, Miss Jones had the bright idea of teaching a few words of Welsh to her partner while they were training, so they used them at the beginning and end of each transmission. The Germans might know some of our colorful street vocabulary to fool us, but they don’t know Welsh!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve given her partner compassionate leave for a few days; she’s in one of our safe houses.”
Maisie could wait no longer, feeling as if she might scream at any moment. Only it would not be a scream, it would be an explosion from her heart and it would bring down the roof, pulverizing the walls and shattering glass windows on the way. “I shouldn’t have let her go. I should have put my foot down.”
“It wasn’t up to you, Maisie. You interview these people for us, you give your qualified opinion of their state of mind before they leave, but do not for a moment think that you are the last word—because you’re not. You are just a cog in a wheel. We’re all just cogs in the wheels of war.”
“So, who gives the last word, Robbie? Who does that? Who do I speak to about Elinor?”
“So you can do what?” Now his eyes met hers, shocking her with their clarity and resolve. “You made an assessment and you were bang on right about her. But she was not captured because she made a mistake. She was caught out because she didn’t stand a chance. The Germans have ever more sophisticated detection equipment, and they are fast. We have boffins doing their best, and by golly they are good, what with the inventions they come up with, yet we still can’t keep up with them. But the Germans—best engineers in the world when it comes to wireless transmission and signal detection. Those boys are born with antennae coming out of their ears and coils of wire running through their veins, Maisie.” He paused. “Thank god our code-breakers are better than theirs. Anyway, I’m not finished.”
Maisie felt chilled, as if any remaining air in the room had become colder. “Pascale! Where is she? What’s happened to her, Robbie?”
“We know it was close—the whole unit was at risk from the start. As far as we know she’s on the run. We hoped it would be toward the border—there are safe houses on the way. The other option would be for her to lay low and then we’ll get her out on a Lysander as soon as she makes contact and it’s safe. We’re awaiting confirmation as to her whereabouts, who’s keeping her under their wing, and then we’ll know the best way to bring her home. That’s where you come in—trying to predict what she would do.”
Maisie did not pause to reflect. “She would make an attempt to go home.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said MacFarlane.
“No, it’s not, Robbie. England is not her home.” Once again she met his gaze. “Her home is her grandmother’s chateau, and at the moment it is also home to senior Gestapo officers.”
“God help us.”
“It’s in the notes, Robbie—or perhaps you were all so captivated by that clipped English accent and her perfect French, which as you know she speaks along with several other languages. It’s a gift she has. And I’m sure you know
that Chantal—her grandmother—has been running an escape line for RAF pilots from her cellar.”
MacFarlane looked at his watch. “We’re expecting to hear from one of our agents any minute now—which is why I wanted to get you in here sooner rather than later, so you can give us your opinion, and if there is contact with Miss Evernden, keep her on the straight and narrow. She’s got a lot of her aunt in her.”
“Robbie—” Maisie caught her breath. The news about Elinor seemed to have diminished her ability to draw air into her lungs. She had known Elinor since meeting her in Biarritz, when she was the young nanny to Priscilla’s boys. “I’m sorry—just give me a second.”
MacFarlane reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick white cotton handkerchief. “It’s clean,” he said, passing it to Maisie.
Maisie took the handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. She cleared her throat, composing herself. “Robbie, Pascale has all Priscilla’s bravery, all her forthrightness, and she’s a lot like her aunt, but she’s also tempered. She’s not quite so hotheaded. In fact, being too cool in a situation was something I commented upon in my notes—the middle ground can be a very safe place, whereas being brittle—and she can be brittle—renders you breakable.”
MacFarlane nodded. Maisie had never known him not to have a quick retort. He glanced at his watch again, and pushed back his chair. “Come on, Maisie. Time to see what the radio operators are up to out there.”
MacFarlane led Maisie along a corridor into another room, larger, with desks and radio equipment, and the tapping of Morse code coming from a unit in the corner, operated by a young woman with hair that had been drawn back into a smooth roll tracing the nape of her neck. Beads of perspiration had formed on her brow, and she was frowning as she leaned closer to the equipment. A man and a woman were standing behind her, peering over her shoulder. They both looked up as Maisie entered with MacFarlane, and nodded in their direction.
The Consequences of Fear Page 17