The Consequences of Fear Jacqueline Winspear (i can read book club .txt) 📖

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, orto meet the boy at a neutral place.” Maisie could hear a tapping sound, and imagined Masters striking her pen on her woodendesk in rhythm as she spoke. “In the circumstances, I think Alice should see Freddie without the mother present, as it’s obvioushe envisions himself as a protector, so to get an accurate impression, we would want him to be in a place without even a lovinginfluence at his shoulder. Expect Alice to be in touch with you first, but if you don’t hear, do give her a telephone call—miraculouslyshe has a telephone at the house, largely on account of her husband’s work. Don’t send a postcard though—the eldest grandchildis 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, soshe 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 manageit.” Maisie held the receiver away from her ear as Masters’ throaty laugh filled the line. “So how about it, Maisie? You havethe 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—itmeans 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 thinkhe might well have imagined seeing a man with a scar—but it doesn’t mean he didn’t see a murder, does it, Maisie?” Mastersasked. “Now then, I’ve just looked at the time and I have a patient waiting. Do call me again, Maisie—better still, come overto 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 intothe 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 appearancesto 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 owncup of tea. “The French in England, I suppose that’s it,” said Maisie. “And here’s why.” She explained that she wanted toknow more about the Free French currently in London—any information would be helpful. “Gabriella, I haven’t forgotten thatyou once worked with Maurice in Paris—that you were, let us say . . . let us say ‘involved’ in intelligence work during thelast war. You may seem to most like a very accomplished expert on early French literature, but I know you have many skillsup 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 seenthe enemy march into their country and along their city streets? People who have lost their homes, seen their neighbors draggedaway. 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 workingagainst 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, thoughone or two of those would be handy—but who they are inside.” She placed her hand on her chest, and