The Consequences of Fear

Dedication
Dedicated with admiration and gratitude
to my wonderful editor
Jennifer Barth


Epigraph
“Fear makes us feel our humanity.”
—Benjamin Disraeli


Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jacqueline Winspear
Copyright
About the Publisher


Prologue
St. Ermin’s Hotel, Caxton Street, Westminster, Friday evening, October 3, 1941
“Right, son, this one’s going to that address in Leverstone Road—you go over Vauxhall Bridge and after a few lefts you’realmost there. Know where it is?” The porter pointed to the handwritten address on the envelope as he handed it across thedesk to the boy, who grasped it, ready to leave for his next destination.
“Reckon I know it,” said the boy, glancing at the address. “It’s on my way home.”
“Not so fast, young Freddie Hackett. You might have to leg it back here with a reply before you can run all the way to yourgaff. The bloke you give this to will let you know.” The porter glanced at the boy over half-moon glasses, pulled a fob watchfrom his waistcoat pocket and nodded as he checked the time. He regarded the boy again. “Now you mind how you go, laddie—thisrun’s a good couple of miles, so let’s hope he don’t have a return message. You’re quick on your pins all right, but thembloody Gerry bombers are at it again.”
“I’m like a cat, Mr. Larkin—I can see in the dark.” The boy grinned and held out his hand, wiggling his fingers.
“Don’t you worry—I wouldn’t forget this.” The porter reached into his pocket and brought out a shilling, then flicked it toward the boy. The boy caught it between two fingers, slipped the money into his jacket pocket, fastened a safety pin to keep the pocket closed, and pushed the envelope into his trouser band, covering it with his pullover. Then he was gone.
Poor little bugger, thought Larkin as he made his way back into the foyer. Poor little legs running all over the blimmin’ place.
“The runner get off all right?”
Larkin looked up as a large man in a well-cut pinstripe suit descended the sweeping staircase leading to the upper floorsof a grand building that seemed designed to give an impression of strength and yet genteel hospitality, as one might expectof a hotel with a series of upstairs rooms requisitioned by clandestine government services.
“Yes, sir, Mr. MacFarlane. He just left.”
MacFarlane ran a hand across hair that was fast balding, and nodded. “You don’t like it any more than I do, Larkin—sendingboys not old enough to shave off along the streets of London when bombs are falling.”
“Can’t say as I do, Mr. MacFarlane. But that one has got some speed to him, make no mistake. I reckon he could run a marathon,could young Freddie Hackett. The Air Raid Precautions bods who recruited him when they went round the schools, well, theysaid he was the fastest runner they’d seen—and with enough speed on him to go to the Olympics one day.”
“Good—we can all be there to watch him get his gold—and beat Hitler’s bloody Germans,” said MacFarlane.
“Not a chance. By the time this war is over and they get around to having an Olympics, I’d say his best will have passed himby—that’s if he comes out the other side, poor little bugger. He’s only twelve.”
“And he’s not the only one out there, Larkin. Not the only youngster doing war work.”
The porter nodded and tapped an evening newspaper he’d picked up from a nearby table. “Seen this? Turns out Hitler has saidthat the Germans have all but destroyed Russia and that they can beat all possible enemies no matter how much money they’vegot, even billions. What do you reckon to that, Mr. MacFarlane? Sticking his neck out a bit, don’t you think?”
MacFarlane raised his eyebrows as he answered in a low voice. “Probably trying to wave a red cape at the Yanks, is my guess.Trying to pull them in so he can say he’s knocking them into the next world.” He looked at his watch. “Right, I’m leaving.Got to see a man about a dog and then I’m off to Baker Street.”
Larkin smiled as MacFarlane turned and made his way toward the side entrance. Got to see a man about a dog. See a pint or two in the Cuillins of Skye more like, thought Larkin. He could just as easily have had his drink in the CaxtonBar at the hotel, but who could blame the bloke for wanting to get out to his favorite pub for a bit of a breather? Afterall, it wasn’t as if he had anyone at home, waiting for him. And he worked all hours, if Larkin’s ledger was anything to goby.
 
The boy raced across Vauxhall Bridge, looking up every few paces as he ran, feet light on the ground and not even breaking a sweat. He was the best and always had been. He’d won every race at school—the teacher told him he would smash the stopwatch wide open one day. He ran fast because the winner always got a sweet, and he really wanted that sweet the teacher held in his hand. He would have run to the moon for a bit of chocolate. Sometimes he saved it for Iris, his sister—a special treat for their lovely little Iris. But most of the time he couldn’t wait and would pop it in his mouth, ready to run again.
Two florins and a half-crown jangled in his pocket—he couldn’t hear the jangling on account of the bombers, but he could feelthe coins bumping against his hip. He slowed down toward the end of the bridge, looking left across the water in the directionof the East End. It was burning again and he could see fires south of the river, in Walworth and Bermondsey. And there wasthat sound the bombs made when they dropped, a sort of