The Consequences of Fear by Jacqueline Winspear (speed reading book txt) 📕

“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, lonelytone of the disconnected call echoed in her ears and she at once felt bereft, for the spoken declaration she so wanted tohear 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 withher fingertips as she removed her silk scarf. She ran her fingers through her hair as if to release the tight band of tensionaround her head. Throwing the jacket across the back of an armchair, she set her shoulder bag on the desk and made her waytoward the kitchen. She filled the kettle and set it on the smallest gas ring, then lit the flame with a match from a boxshe kept on the shelf above the stove. While waiting for the water to boil, Maisie stepped back into the sitting room, thento 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 wantedhim to remain there.

The telephone began ringing again; instinct informed Maisie that it would be MacFarlane calling. It seemed that even the Bakelitetelephone was under his orders and appeared to emit a more forceful ring when he was on the line, as if to say, “For heaven’ssake 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 accomplishin 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 aresore 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 beamingup across the sky offered any kind of direction, but the ATS driver made her way to Baker Street as if flaming torches markedthe route. Maisie had grown used to Bright, and noticed that instead of her usual effervescent demeanor, the young woman wassilent. 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 utteredthe 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