“Where are we?” asked Robert MacFarlane.
“She’s alive,” said the woman, her voice low. “But she believes she was shopped—someone gave away the radio operator’s location and she was with her, having just disbanded with the rest of the group following a less than successful sabotage attempt on a train carrying men and ordnance. It’s clear the Gestapo knew where to find them; it wasn’t just the skills of a clever Nazi boy in a van with equipment locating her signal.” She turned her head toward the operator, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to steady her. The young woman scribbled something on a piece of paper, which she handed to the man.
“Apparently our agent sustained a flesh wound, and she’s been hiding out in the forest—well, we assume that’s what it is,” said the man. “She said she’s missed the big bad wolf and she’s on her way to grandmother’s house, whatever that means.” He turned to the woman. “Did I miss something—is grandmother’s house code for a safe house?”
“Oh dear—,” said Maisie. All four people in the room now focused on her as she turned to MacFarlane. “It’s as I feared, Robbie. Grandmother’s house isn’t a code—she’s going to try to reach her grandmother’s residence. It’s in the country, a chateau. Very grand. But it’s currently home to a few Gestapo officers, as I said. And she’s well aware of that fact.”
No one spoke, yet the young woman kept her attention on the signal coming through. She wrote more notes, and handed them to the man.
“The injury is manageable, as far as we know. She’s been seen by a local midwife who cleaned the wound, so her arm has at least been bandaged. She’s going alone on foot and will not be using safe houses—because nowhere is safe. And she’s taken one of her pills.”
“What pills?” asked Maisie.
“Benzedrine,” said MacFarlane. “We can’t have tired, injured agents making life-and-death decisions, so they’re given a supply of Benzedrine to perk them up when they’re exhausted. It wasn’t necessary for you to know this.” He turned to the young woman. “Who’s operating the radio at the other end?”
“Jeanette, my partner,” replied the young woman. “The agent located her, but she’s signed off—we were on too long anyway, so they’re on the move, then they’ll split up and the agent will proceed alone.” She removed her headset and set it down, before taking a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her brow. Putting on her cap, she stood up. “Will there be anything else?”
“No—good work, Fredericks. Very good work,” said the woman. “You can go now.”
The man unlocked the door, allowing the woman to leave.
“Hold the door, we’re leaving,” said MacFarlane, then turned to the woman. “Do we have absolute confirmation that Jones is dead?”
The woman nodded. “Yes.”
“Then we’ll inform next of kin.”
“Right you are. If we could meet when you’re finished, Robbie?” said the woman.
MacFarlane nodded, and then led Maisie back to the small, cramped, airless office.
“What do you think she’ll do?” he asked, reaching into a drawer. He drew out two glasses and a bottle of single-malt whisky. “Sometimes the moment calls for an eighteen-year-old single malt.” He poured the amber liquid into the glasses, slid one toward Maisie and lifted his own glass to his lips. Emptying the glass in one swallow, he slammed it onto the table. “Bastards! Nazi bastards!” He poured again.
Maisie reached for her glass and took a mouthful, the burn at the back of her throat almost painful, but soothing all the same.
“What will she do, Maisie? When she gets there?”
Maisie took another sip, which seemed to counter the burn. “Benzedrine, Robbie?”
“Yes, Maisie—that’s what we prescribe to keep them alive when they’re half dead. The other one is to deliver them from the hell of Nazi torture. Now again, what will she do when she reaches Grannie’s house?”
“I was at the chateau a long time ago, Robbie, but I know there are several secret routes to get into the house—they were used during the Revolution as a means of escape—and there are rooms that no one would ever find because they have disguised entrances. When she reaches the house, she’ll lay low in the stables or a barn until the officers have left for the day, and then she’ll use one of the tunnels—there’s one that leads from the stables.”
“And then? Will she use the escape line?”
Maisie considered the question for a moment. “There’s also a very strong chance she’ll remain with her grandmother—she worries about her, and she may be tempted to join the local resistance, right under the noses of the Gestapo.”
“Until the Abwehr find out about her, and it will be fast. Any story she cooks up will not pass muster with the German intelligence service. We’ve got to get her back.”
‘She may be willful, Robbie—but she’s usually measured with it, and she’s nobody’s fool.”
“And neither am I. The ‘usually’ worries me. I’ll give her a couple of days, and then she’s on her own. And though I don’t know the inner workings of the escape line, I don’t want her putting our boys at risk. She should look at what happened to her mother in the last war—shot by the Germans. And her father gave his life for our country.” He was silent.
Maisie finished her malt whisky. She knew what was coming next.
“Elinor Jones’ next of kin.” It was not a question posed by MacFarlane, but a statement, lobbed across the desk.
“Her next of kin amounts to Priscilla. Her parents are dead, and she listed Priscilla in her last will and testament. The Partridge home is her home, even though the boys are grown now.”
“You’ll deal with it?”
“Yes.”
“And what will you say?”
“A tragic accident in a lorry at an army barracks in the west country. The burial has already taken place, with only her commanding officer and the chaplain present as well as the pallbearers. It was conducted at a military cemetery in accordance with the deceased’s wishes, because she did not want her family to go through the burden of seeing the actual lowering of her coffin into the ground. However, a memorial service will be left in the hands of Priscilla and the family, again per the deceased’s wishes.”
“I knew I could leave it up to you.”
“And I hate every bloody minute of it, Robbie.” Maisie met MacFarlane’s gaze and did not turn away, then she stood up to leave.
“Before you go—”
“Yes?”
“How’s the boy runner?”
“Safe and well, as you know.”
“Good—” It seemed for a second as if MacFarlane was going to add something about Freddie Hackett and her inquiry, but then he left the comment hanging in the air. “There’s a driver waiting to take you back to the flat, Maisie—probably just as well Bright’s off duty now, she can be a bit of a chatterbox, that one, and you’ll want to go home in peace. I’ll see you out.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Sorry about supper. Couldn’t lay my hands on anything here.”
Maisie held her emotions in check all the way home to her flat, until she watched the young woman driver pull away from the curb and drive off into the dark night. It was not too cool outside, and earlier intermittent showers had abated, though it was late by the time she entered the house, claimed her glass of wine and walked into the walled garden of her ground-floor flat, making sure the blackout curtain fell back into place as she closed the French door behind her. Still with her coat on, Maisie slumped down into one of the wicker chairs. Setting her glass on the table, she leaned forward, rested her head in her hands, and wept. She wept for Elinor and for Pascale. She wept for Priscilla and her scars; she shed tears for Priscilla’s sons and for her own daughter, Anna. And as she grieved, she realized that she had never trusted the world to keep herself or those she loved safe. From the moment of her mother’s death, she had known that terror could be around the next corner at any moment. Had there ever been a time when she felt the
clutch of fear in her gut loosen its grip, so that she could have faith in the future? Even now—even now that she had Mark Scott in her life, and a child she would move mountains to keep safe—she knew fate could fool you. Fate could play out the line and allow you to feel at ease, and then yank you back with anything from a sickening illness to an accident or a war and bombers in the skies above. Or a love lost. And now she had to try to deceive her best friend into thinking a young woman who had become part of her family had died behind the wheel of an army vehicle, instead of slipping a cyanide pill into her mouth so she would never reveal the names of her fellow agents and the means by which they intended to sabotage every move the enemy made.
And what of the enemy? As her sobs subsided, she wondered who was with her country and who was against it. Freddie Hackett knew who was against him, and he knew who he feared—yet in taking on his case, she had crossed paths with a powerful French agent, and she didn’t know to what extent he represented a danger to the boy, or to herself. Maisie had to keep Freddie safe—and the only way to do that was to keep digging in her search for the truth.
The headquarters of the Free French was guarded and surrounded by sandbags and barbed wire—as were so many buildings across the city. However, she could stand and watch for a while from a short distance without anyone noticing as she took account of comings and goings before she made her move. On occasion a motor car would pull alongside the door and a man or woman would emerge and enter the building, or a vehicle would arrive and someone would be escorted out. She knew who she was looking for—a certain Major André Chaput.
Maisie had left the flat that morning determined to find out more about the man whose murder the Hackett boy had witnessed. MacFarlane might have considered him a nameless thug pulled out of the Thames, but he had an identity and he had a job. Was he an honorable man, an innocent victim? Or might his murder have been a violent settling of accounts? She was ready to poke the wasps’ nest with a stick and watch them buzz around in a frenzy. Yes, she might get stung, but she was prepared to take the risk—to a point.
She had been keeping vigil for about half an hour when she saw a man in the distance to the right who appeared to have the same bearing, the same gait as the major. Hoping for an advantageous moment, she walked to the left, then crossed the road at what she believed was the optimum point, and began to make her way back in the direction of the French Free headquarters. She pulled a piece of paper from her bag and scribbled a few words, then folded it, holding on to the square note while she returned the pencil to her bag. Looking around as if searching for an address, she all but walked straight into Chaput.
“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry,” said Maisie, looking up at Chaput. “I was not paying attention, sir, I—oh, my goodness, it’s Major Chaput, isn’t it?”
The Frenchman gave a short bow, and as he returned to his full height, Maisie’s gaze was drawn to the ridges of skin extending from the outer corners of his high cheekbones and alongside his face.
“I’m sorry, madame—I do not believe we’ve met,” he said.
“Yes, of course—you’re right. I’m sorry—you looked familiar.”
Chaput smiled. “I should correct myself—we are not supposed to have met, are we?”
“Again, you’re right. Forgive me.” She held up the piece of paper. “I was rather preoccupied. I’m on my way to an appointment nearby and was checking the address.”
“May I help you?”
“No, not to worry—it would be rather embarrassing if a Frenchman had to direct a native Londoner, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed, madame. Now, if you would excuse me—” Chaput raised his hat and continued on his way.
Had she lost her chance? No—she was not ready to confront him—yet she had achieved one thing: confirmation in broad daylight that the man had those deep vertical ridges on either side of his face, and a paler patch of skin under the right eye.
She checked her watch. It was time to see Freddie Hackett again—this time at his new school.
Children were in the playground as Maisie came alongside the school. There were not many outside during the dinner break, but she spotted Freddie and another boy of about the same age taking it in turns to kick a ball back and forth against Victorian cast iron railings resembling a series of spears facing the sky. The boys seemed bored, kicking the ball in a desultory fashion, as if it were the only game they could think to play. She walked along until she reached the railings and called out to Freddie. He waved, said something to his friend, and kicked the ball back to him before joining Maisie.
“ ’Lo, Miss Dobbs,” said Hackett.
“Hello, Freddie. Everything all right? Are you liking your new school?”
“Well—it’s still school, but it’s all right.” He shrugged, but then gave a wide smile. “But my mum, Iris and me, we really like the flat. I can’t believe I’ve got my own room! Thank you very much, Miss Dobbs.”
“I’m glad.” Maisie glanced across to the teacher monitoring children in the playground and saw her consult her watch. “Look, we’ve only got a minute, but I wanted to ask you about the night you saw the two men fighting. How did you manage to see the lines on that man’s face? Where was the light coming from? It’s to help the police draw up their notes—you’re not in any trouble.”
“Have you got him, miss?”
“We’re following him, Freddie. So don’t you worry—you’re perfectly safe.”
“I can’t remember about the light and any direction, miss. It was very bright everywhere, on account of the moon. There wasn’t much in the way of clouds. And as I said before, I was close enough, but they couldn’t see me. I saw them though. And I saw those lines, or whatever they were. I thought they were scars, like I told you before.”
Maisie smiled. “That’s all I needed, Freddie.” She reached into her bag for her purse and took out a shilling. “There you are—every little bit helps, doesn’t it? Are you working after school?”
Freddie took the shilling. “Thank you, Miss Dobbs.” He put the coin in his pocket. “I’ve to go over to Baker Street, but I don’t know if there’s any messages for me to run with until I get there. They let me go home if I have to wait more than an hour.”
“Use some of your money to get the bus over there, Freddie. It’s a long way from here, so don’t wear yourself out.”
“Oh, I like running, miss. I like how my legs feel. All sort of tingly. Running’s what I’m good at. Everyone says so. When the war’s over, I’m going to the Olympics. Then when I’m too old to run, I’m going to teach other boys how to do it. My old PT teacher said I could be anything I wanted to be.” The boy looked down and kicked his foot against the wall. “He was training me, but then he went off with the evacuees.”
Maisie looked through the railings as if she were peering at Freddie through prison bars—though any railings were rare now, so many had been ripped out to send to the factories making war’s hardware: aircraft, tanks and munitions. “You know, Freddie—I think you stand every chance of going to the Olympics.”
Chapter 13
Maisie knew that as soon as she arrived at Chelstone railway station, her first task would be to go to Priscilla’s cottage so she could get the conversation she dreaded over and done with. Only then could she set her mind to anything else. She would be unable to give any other matter her full attention until she had broken news of Elinor’s death to the family who loved her.
Experience had taught Maisie that drawing back from the work of facing up to tragedy could cripple a person from within. She knew only too well that any reticence to look grief in the eye might cause emotions to atrophy, as if the heart had been drained of an ability to feel even the most searing pain. Hadn’t she done the same thing, years ago, when she could not face the truth of what had happened to her first love, Simon, during the last war? The casualty clearing station where they were working came under attack, wounding them both, though Simon had sustained an injury to the brain from which h
e would never recover. Maisie had put off seeing him time and again, until months of fearful avoidance had become years and she was unable to take the first step in the direction of a man so changed by war. No, she was determined to see Priscilla as soon as possible, or she would drag her feet and too many days would elapse, and then MacFarlane would take up the task.
It was fortuitous that Douglas, Priscilla’s husband, was working at the cottage for a few days. He would anchor his family as news of Elinor’s death brought a dark cloud down upon them. Douglas, like his son, Tim, had lost an arm in the midst of conflict. It was an affliction that had become a joke in the family, after Tim recovered from his amputation. Yet Douglas had proven time and again that he had the ability to hold his family tight and close, that the act of encircling them during a time of deep sorrow had everything to do with inner and not physical strength.
“Maisie! My goodness, I thought I wouldn’t see you until Saturday—you usually go straight home from the train and bury yourself away with Anna! Come on, let’s have a . . . let’s have a cup of tea.” Priscilla chattered on, almost as if she had an innate awareness of something terrible closing in, and only constant conversation on her part would stave off the monster. “You almost caught me there—I was going to say, ‘Let’s have a gin and tonic,’ and then I looked at the time—far too early for a drink. Mind you, I always maintain that the sun must be over the yardarm somewhere in the world, eh? Now then—”
“Pris—Pris, we must talk. Come along—let’s go into the sitting room. Is Douglas here?”
“Is it Tom? Is that why you’ve got that look on your face? What is it? I’ve got Tim and Tarquin accounted for, and Douglas has popped along the road to post a letter, but I don’t know about Tom.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 18