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

had assumed he’d killed Hunter—according to Towner’s statement, Hunter’s breathing was so shallow, she had required a mirror to assess whether she was alive. Yes, he meant to take Gabriella Hunter’s life, but was it for what she knew, or because he was startled by her entering the study while he was going through her papers? One thing was clear to Maisie: the interloper had assumed or had been briefed to the effect that because she was a writer, the information he wanted was written down somewhere. If only she knew what it was.

Stepping over the small table alongside Hunter’s Art Deco armchair, Maisie proceeded to the desk. Papers were strewn messilyacross the top; others were on the floor. Maisie replaced the papers into a neat stack, studying each page quickly beforeadding it to the pile. She moved on to the bookcase, her attention drawn first to a series of books bearing Hunter’s nameon the spine. Maisie opened every book, ran her finger along the binding and checked the endpapers, and then turned everysingle page, scanning for a letter, a document, an underlined paragraph, anything that might offer a motivation for the attack.

She was becoming frustrated with the task when Billy entered the study.

“Miss—poor Mrs. Towner is looking awfully tired. I’ve thought about her going to an hotel, but I don’t think it’s a goodidea. She definitely shouldn’t be alone, and we know that at night the hotels just make everyone go down to the cellars assoon as the air raid siren goes off, and she could do without that worry. I reckon she should go to someone who knows herand she knows them.”

“Of course, yes, you’re right. I want to have another word with her, and then let’s see if we can make some alternative arrangements.”

Returning to the dining room, Maisie once again took a seat alongside the housekeeper at the table.

“I should get on and clean up that mess in Miss Hunter’s study, Miss Dobbs.” Mrs. Towner began to push back her chair. “Idon’t want her coming home to see her beloved books in that terrible state.”

“No, please don’t worry about that,” said Maisie. “Miss Hunter will be in hospital for a little while, so you’ve plenty oftime. First of all, do you have someone—a relative, perhaps—with whom you might be able to stay for a few nights? I thinkit would be a good idea if you weren’t here at the house. You’ve suffered a terrible shock, and it’s best if you recuperatein another location.”

Mrs. Towner looked down at her hands. “I can’t say that I get on very well with my family. I’ve a sister in Peckham, but . . .well, she was never the right sort, if you know what I mean. My nephew comes around—he lives in Bromley with his wife. It’sa bit far, I would think.” She looked up at Billy. “He’s not been called up because he’s in a reserved profession—an engineerdoing quite important war work.” Her tone was almost apologetic.

“We’re not checking up on him, so you don’t have to worry about that,” said Billy. “And it’s not too far, because my houseis in Eltham, though my wife and daughter are in the country now, but I was planning to go over there later to keep an eyeon the place. I’ll escort you to Bromley first. If your nephew has a telephone number, I’ll get on the blower to him.”

Mrs. Towner reached into her handbag, which had remained on her lap throughout as if for security, and brought out an addressbook. She opened it and passed it to Billy, pointing to an entry.

“I’ll give him a bell now,” said Billy.

As Billy left the room, Maisie drew her attention back to Towner. “When I saw Miss Hunter at the hospital, she mentioned a book to me. She specified that it was one she had written herself, and the way she said it, I thought she was trying to tell me something, that there was a clue in the book—some indication of what was at the heart of the attack. I’ve checked each one and I can’t find anything in her books; no notes or a letter.” She paused as tears filled Towner’s eyes again. “Do you have any idea what she might have been referring to?”

Towner retrieved the handkerchief from her sleeve once more and dabbed her eyes. She nodded. “I think it must have been hernew book. It’s not published yet. On literature following the Great War—it’s all about books and essays published in the immediateaftermath and of course the Peace Conference, and she told me she’s put in some autobiographical notes too. Her words, notmine. She’s normally very difficult about getting a manuscript to her publisher—she prevaricates, reads it over and againand makes changes and she types all the corrections herself. Miss Hunter will type a whole page again if a comma is out ofplace. Usually the publisher has to send his assistant around to the house every single day when the book is due, and MissHunter can get very annoyed about it. They have to drag it out of her.”

“And where is that manuscript now?” asked Maisie.

“That’s the funny thing. She only finished her third draft a couple of weeks ago, and because I knew the deadline was coming up, I thought, ‘Here we go again—I’ve got to watch that poor girl leave the house with tears in her eyes every day for a month before Miss Hunter relinquishes the manuscript.’ But instead she telephoned her publisher first thing this morning and told him to send the girl to pick up the manuscript because it was finished. It was so early he came over here himself, and she just gave it to him in brown paper tied with string and said she had to get back to work. Sent him packing at eight in the morning. Didn’t even give me time to offer him a cup of tea, and usually she’ll sit there for ages chatting with him, discussing