A Lesson In Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel Part 12

With Billy gone, the office was silent, the square quiet on a Friday afternoon. At once, Maisie felt a fatigue set into her bones, as if there were no marrow, no fuel for what had to be done next. True enough, she had been intent upon her work, trying to be a good teacher to her students. She had been balancing the demands of her a.s.signment for Huntley and MacFarlane with deep concerns about Sandra; and in the back of her mind there was still a certain worry regarding her father's well-being, and on top of that, anagging thought-it had begun as if it were a scratch on the skin, a minor irritation, but was now a deep discomfort-a sense that James Compton might not be true to her. It was a question she tried to banish, but at the same time, it was as if a few threads had loosened in the fabric of her heart and now a tear was creeping across, in the way that a crack might appear at the edge of a crystal gla.s.s, and spread until at once the gla.s.s shatters in a thousand pieces. Might she become as bereft as Sandra again-a woman who had rebuilt her heart, only to see it broken once more?

Tears welled up in her eyes, tears she brushed aside with the back of her hand while picking at a needle of splintered wood along the edge of the desk with the fingers of the other. She imagined Sandra, hurt and alone, channeling anger at losing Eric into discovering the true circ.u.mstances of his death. Oh, how she wished she could wave her hand and dispel the dark stone of doubt, of unknowing, that had enveloped Sandra. She had nothing to lose, She had nothing to lose, thought Maisie. And she knew that, though Sandra had shed tears, though she had come to Maisie for help, and though she had established a soothing routine to her days and seemed to be recovering, in her deepest soul the widow had a sense that there was no more to lose, so any risk was worth her quest for truth. Sandra was in a sort of limbo, where a past with meaning and promise was gone, and the future as yet held nothing she truly wanted. It was a feeling that demanded to be controlled; otherwise it would wreak havoc in the soul, a sense of angry pointlessness. Hadn't that been why Maisie herself leaned on her work to bring a meaning that would ground her days? Her relations.h.i.+p with James, the intimacy of connection, was a spark that caught fire-could it all be gone, now that she doubted him? Priscilla was right-and wrong. Yes, she controlled her feelings, keeping the dragon at bay with a carefully self-chaperoned life, a protected heart. But Priscilla made letting go sound like a simple task, as easy as a yacht slipping away from the harbor with the wind in its sails. Yet there was always a rock upon which to run aground, and Maisie knew it was her habit to keep a keen eye out for the rocks. And what was the smudged London postmark if not a rock sc.r.a.ping her bow? thought Maisie. And she knew that, though Sandra had shed tears, though she had come to Maisie for help, and though she had established a soothing routine to her days and seemed to be recovering, in her deepest soul the widow had a sense that there was no more to lose, so any risk was worth her quest for truth. Sandra was in a sort of limbo, where a past with meaning and promise was gone, and the future as yet held nothing she truly wanted. It was a feeling that demanded to be controlled; otherwise it would wreak havoc in the soul, a sense of angry pointlessness. Hadn't that been why Maisie herself leaned on her work to bring a meaning that would ground her days? Her relations.h.i.+p with James, the intimacy of connection, was a spark that caught fire-could it all be gone, now that she doubted him? Priscilla was right-and wrong. Yes, she controlled her feelings, keeping the dragon at bay with a carefully self-chaperoned life, a protected heart. But Priscilla made letting go sound like a simple task, as easy as a yacht slipping away from the harbor with the wind in its sails. Yet there was always a rock upon which to run aground, and Maisie knew it was her habit to keep a keen eye out for the rocks. And what was the smudged London postmark if not a rock sc.r.a.ping her bow?

Maisie pushed the folders she had intended to work on back into her briefcase, put on her linen jacket once more, along with her light felt hat of pale ivory with a matching band, and left the office, locking the door on her way out. She remembered Eric replacing the lock for her after her office had been broken into, remembered the way in which Sandra had brought her then fiance to the office, knowing he could help, knowing that no job would be beyond him. They had made a good and happy match, Eric and Sandra, already walking together as if they were meant to grow old entwined in each other's thoughts, knowing all there was to be known about each other. Where are you, Sandra? If we do not find you soon, I will have to call the police. Where are you, Sandra? If we do not find you soon, I will have to call the police. And as she started the MG and pulled away from Warren Street on her way back to the flat in Pimlico, Maisie asked another question, aloud, as she drove. And as she started the MG and pulled away from Warren Street on her way back to the flat in Pimlico, Maisie asked another question, aloud, as she drove. "And where are you, James Compton?" "And where are you, James Compton?"

Her flat was quiet, with the windows closed against a stale air that sometimes wafted up from the river on a warm day. Usually Maisie might not have noticed-it was, after all, something she had grown up with, and though not pleasant, did not disturb her unduly, though she did not want to invite it into her home. She set down her bags, placing the post she had collected onto the hall table before going to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She walked back to the box room-Sandra's room. It was empty. The bed was made. Clothing and personal effects had been removed, but an envelope with her name had been left upon the counterpane.

Dear Miss Dobbs,By the time you find this letter you will have discovered that I am not as reliable as you thought. I have left Mr. and Mrs. Partridge because I didn't think it was right. They have three young boys and it is not fair on them to have a criminal under their roof.I am sorry for embarra.s.sing you and sorry for letting you down, especially with you being so kind to me. But I am not sorry for what I did. I had no choice. I won't say any more, but I thought it best to leave your flat. I don't want to be bringing shame upon you, Miss Dobbs. You've been so generous already, it wouldn't be right at all.Don't worry about me. I will be all right. I am quite determined to know what happened to Eric, and why he was killed. I am his wife, and I vowed to be his helpmeet in sickness and in health. I know I must look out for him in death, too. It was not an accident, Miss Dobbs. I'm sure of it.Yours sincerely,SandraMrs. Sandra Tapley Maisie turned over the page, then turned it back again. It had been typed with care; not one error, not one misplaced letter typed over. She had signed her name with a flourish-her handwriting seemed larger, stronger, as if she had a purpose from which she would not draw back. There was something about the typeface that seemed familiar to Maisie, but it wasn't from the new typewriter at the office in Fitzroy Square. She walked back into the hallway, where she picked up the post from the small table and took it into the kitchen. With a cup of tea in hand, she sat down to go through her letters. Michael Klein, her solicitor, confirmed that he was progressing with conveyancing in connection with the purchase of a semidetached house in Eltham and would have contracts for her to sign within another week. As he had advised her, a mortgage might not be in her best interests at the present time, so he had taken the liberty of arranging for funds to be placed in an account pending contract exchange, so that the house could be purchased in its entirety. She nodded to herself; in matters of finance, Maisie had learned in a short time to trust Klein's advice. In a letter Maurice had written: "I am not a person who has ever had a talent for economics, and though I am not one to make terrible errors either, I have found it best to leave matters of finance to Michael. He will rarely make a move without consulting you, and he will listen if your desires run counter to his advice, but at the same time, Maisie, he knows more than you or I-and I have a feeling that you do not have a kins.h.i.+p with the finer points of mathematics and finance any more than I." "I am not a person who has ever had a talent for economics, and though I am not one to make terrible errors either, I have found it best to leave matters of finance to Michael. He will rarely make a move without consulting you, and he will listen if your desires run counter to his advice, but at the same time, Maisie, he knows more than you or I-and I have a feeling that you do not have a kins.h.i.+p with the finer points of mathematics and finance any more than I." Maisie had laughed when she first read those words-she was more than happy to leave management of the estate to Michael Klein, though she was learning more each time they met Maisie had laughed when she first read those words-she was more than happy to leave management of the estate to Michael Klein, though she was learning more each time they met.

There was a letter from the building company, confirming conversations with Klein's office, and informing her that the house would be ready for her to take possession in one month. I hope the baby can wait, I hope the baby can wait, thought Maisie. The next was a letter from James. Usually, she would have torn open the envelope, anxious to read his news, but this time she looked carefully at the postmark, again smudged across the Canadian stamp. Was it London? It was barely legible. She went to her bedroom and gathered other letters from Canada that she kept in a cabinet alongside her bed; she laid them out on the dining room table along with the newest letter and inspected the postmarks. She could not be sure; if James were duping her, thought Maisie. The next was a letter from James. Usually, she would have torn open the envelope, anxious to read his news, but this time she looked carefully at the postmark, again smudged across the Canadian stamp. Was it London? It was barely legible. She went to her bedroom and gathered other letters from Canada that she kept in a cabinet alongside her bed; she laid them out on the dining room table along with the newest letter and inspected the postmarks. She could not be sure; if James were duping her, if James were duping her if James were duping her-she could barely think it without the tear across her heart growing-there would definitely be something amiss in the letters. She took up the new letter, tore open the envelope, and unfurled the pages. James wrote in a deliberate hand, the pen pressed so deeply onto the page you could detect where the two halves of the nib had separated by a hair's width. The ink was indigo black, and the fountain pen had required refilling halfway through.

He spoke of missing her, of completing his work, and of how much he looked forward to being home in England. "I never thought I would say that, Maisie. Canada has always been the place that lifted me. I felt free of so much weight whenever I came back here and dreaded returning to London, even Chelstone. But now I ache to be home, ache to hold you in my arms again, darling Maisie." "I never thought I would say that, Maisie. Canada has always been the place that lifted me. I felt free of so much weight whenever I came back here and dreaded returning to London, even Chelstone. But now I ache to be home, ache to hold you in my arms again, darling Maisie." She caught her breath. Tears filled her eyes again. How she despised herself, how she wished she did not doubt him so; it was her fault, she knew. In truth, what had he done to cause her to have such feelings? She looked at the postmark again, then went back to the letter. She caught her breath. Tears filled her eyes again. How she despised herself, how she wished she did not doubt him so; it was her fault, she knew. In truth, what had he done to cause her to have such feelings? She looked at the postmark again, then went back to the letter. "I think some letters might have gone astray, so in case you have not received one or two along the way, I have also sent a letter for you in the bag that is sent to our office-it was s.h.i.+pped last week. There's something else for you there, though you will have to collect it from our office. You can telephone Miss Robinson, my secretary. She'll have it for you when you come in, though she must know when to expect you." "I think some letters might have gone astray, so in case you have not received one or two along the way, I have also sent a letter for you in the bag that is sent to our office-it was s.h.i.+pped last week. There's something else for you there, though you will have to collect it from our office. You can telephone Miss Robinson, my secretary. She'll have it for you when you come in, though she must know when to expect you."

Something was amiss. No, no, she would not let imagination run wild. Surely she was dealing with enough subterfuge at the moment.

She woke with a start at six o'clock, her head sore from resting on the table in front of her, her hand, cramped, still holding James' most recent letter. She wiped moisture from her mouth and rubbed her eyes. The meeting. She would be late. Scrambling to her feet, she gathered the letters, and returned them to the cabinet alongside her bed. In her bathroom, she splashed water on her face, brushed her hair, patted some powered rouge on her cheeks and ran lipstick across her top lip before pressing her lips together and checking her appearance in the looking gla.s.s above the sink. She opened the window, felt the air outside, and pulled a heavier black linen jacket from the wardrobe, then removed her cream shoes in favor of a black leather pair. The cream skirt and blouse would do. Whenever Maisie dressed, it was hard not to hear Priscilla's voice in her head. Her friend could have been a couturier's mannequin; she spent a good deal on her stylish clothes, and always had an opinion on whatever Maisie was wearing. "Ivory and black, Maisie? Tell me, do you really have that much of an aversion to color? For heaven's sake-you're not a nurse anymore! And what happened to that red dress?" "Ivory and black, Maisie? Tell me, do you really have that much of an aversion to color? For heaven's sake-you're not a nurse anymore! And what happened to that red dress?" She grabbed a red silk scarf from a drawer and tied it around her neck. She grabbed a red silk scarf from a drawer and tied it around her neck. Oh dear, I look like a bus conductress Oh dear, I look like a bus conductress, thought Maisie. But she would be late, so she banished the voice of her fas.h.i.+on-plate friend from her head and left the flat. All being well, she would be at the address in Cleveland Terrace in time to observe the comings and goings of members of the Ortsgruppe.

She drove past the address and parked along the street. The Georgian terrace comprised flats with shops below, with the entrance to the flats a doorway between two of the shop fronts. There were some pedestrians on the street, but Maisie did not want to be conspicuous; she moved the motor car closer to the building, so she could remain in the MG to observe the comings and goings of Ortsgruppe members. Men and women began to arrive, though the latter were far outnumbered by the former. A taxi-cab pulled up outside the address and Robson Headley alighted from the vehicle. He held out a hand to Delphine Lang as she stepped out. Headley paid the driver, and they turned towards the doorway. Lang looked around her, as did Headley, and at once Maisie hoped they did not spot her distinctive MG, though given the care she'd taken to avoid using it in Cambridge, they might not recognize it as hers in any case. As they walked forward, Lang dropped a book she was carrying and Headley bent down to retrieve it for her. Maisie watched as he handed her the book, the way he smiled, placed an arm around her shoulder, and escorted her into the building. They must have been among the last to arrive; Maisie cast her glance along and across the street. It was then that she noticed a man on the other side of the road. He was slender and wore a suit that despite being well tailored seemed to hang just a little. A broad-brimmed hat was pulled down in such a way as to obscure the face. The man waited for a while, then took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one with a match, and looked up to the first-floor window, where silhouettes of those gathered could be seen in the diminis.h.i.+ng light. Maisie continued to watch as the man then turned and began to walk along the street. There was something in that walk, something that intrigued her-the way the man moved, how he continued to draw on the cigarette. She felt sure she had seen him before, and as she slipped the MG into gear and moved away from the curb, it occurred to her that she knew exactly who it was, though the thought would seem quite absurd if she chose to share it with Huntley or MacFarlane.

Maisie rose as early as she could to drive down to Chelstone. She thought it might be time to press her father again regarding a move up to The Dower House, and at the same time there were several boxes of Maurice's notes that she wanted to read through.

Maurice might be gone now, his counsel not immediately available, but he had left boxes of papers and journals for her, all clearly marked, all cataloged. It was as if his voice were still with her, guiding her, leaving something of his knowledge, his wisdom, in every word, on every page. How she had drawn upon those words in the early days following his death. It was as if she couldn't quite let go, even though she had held his hand as he pa.s.sed and had mourned his loss in a way that she had not mourned since her mother died. Admittedly, the fledgling relations.h.i.+p with James Compton had done much to gentle her heart, though sometimes she felt as if there would never be an end to the sorrow of losing Maurice.

As always, driving seemed to clear her mind. There was something in the rhythm of changing gear, slowing for corners, accelerating on the straight, that seemed to help her sort through the many concerns that vied for attention when she was working on a case, especially when personal matters also claimed her attention. It was as if her mind comprised a flight of birds swooping and wheeling across the sky-an observation here, an aha there, a question, an answer, a clue, a surprise; they never collided, but wove a web all the same-but driving gathered her thoughts into formation, and set a course. And as she continued on her way, turning onto the Chelstone road just before Tonbridge, the smell of freshly picked hops in the air, the reek of sulfur from the oasthouses as they dried the county's most famous crop, Maisie knew that if only certain pieces in the puzzle could be found, a coherent picture would emerge from the images before her. Hopefully there would be a letter from the Ipswich County Records Office next week. There were still Greville Liddicote's former colleagues at the university to see, if she could gain an interview with any of them. And several more questions had come to mind, questions that would demand time and footwork-MacFarlane would be impressed; he liked footwork. She wondered how MacFarlane and Stratton were getting on. It was as if MacFarlane had put her at arm's length now, not wanting their paths to cross too much. She made a note to ensure they spoke on Monday.

And then there was Stratton-Stratton who had burned a torch for Maisie at one point, who had shown interest again when she parted from Andrew Dene, but who now seemed subdued in her company since it was known she was walking out with James Compton. MacFarlane had seen Stratton looking at Maisie and had known of his hidden affection. As far as Maisie could see, MacFarlane exploited that knowledge, with a comment here, a prod there. He was not an unkind man, but he was not above using another person as a source of fun-as Maisie knew only too well. "Staid, indeed," "Staid, indeed," she said aloud. she said aloud.

Parking outside the Groom's Cottage, Maisie was surprised when her father did not immediately appear at the door. Though she had not telephoned in advance-she had thought to surprise him-Frankie was always there at the door when she arrived, as if he had one ear to the wind, waiting to hear the crunch of the MG's tires on the graveled lane that extended from the main driveway to his cottage. There was no sound of a bark from Jook, his dog, so she wondered if he was at the stables. She went to open the door, and was surprised to find that she felt as if she should knock. But this is my father's house, But this is my father's house, she thought. Instead she walked around the house, towards the back door. The sound of laughter caught her ears even before she came alongside the kitchen window. She stopped. There was her father's throaty laugh, the laugh she remembered from her childhood. she thought. Instead she walked around the house, towards the back door. The sound of laughter caught her ears even before she came alongside the kitchen window. She stopped. There was her father's throaty laugh, the laugh she remembered from her childhood. Has it been so long? Surely he has laughed like that since Mum died. Has it been so long? Surely he has laughed like that since Mum died. It was the laugh she'd heard as a girl, after he'd told a story of something that had happened at the market. She could see him now, sitting at the kitchen table at the little house in Lambeth, she and her mother listening, waiting for the next tale It was the laugh she'd heard as a girl, after he'd told a story of something that had happened at the market. She could see him now, sitting at the kitchen table at the little house in Lambeth, she and her mother listening, waiting for the next tale. "What do you think of that, my Maisie, what do you think of that one?" And he would tickle her ribs, then lean across and pull her mother to him. And he would tickle her ribs, then lean across and pull her mother to him. "My girls, my girls ... " "My girls, my girls ... " And he would laugh and laugh, a man who loved and was loved in return by wife and daughter both. How much it had changed their lives when her mother died. Was that when the dragon first raised his head and was subdued, controlled so that he could not cause havoc? Maisie felt she might weep when the hearty laugh echoed from the kitchen again. And he would laugh and laugh, a man who loved and was loved in return by wife and daughter both. How much it had changed their lives when her mother died. Was that when the dragon first raised his head and was subdued, controlled so that he could not cause havoc? Maisie felt she might weep when the hearty laugh echoed from the kitchen again.

"And you should have seen that horse take off with him, Brenda, I tell you, he fair launched himself around that track, took the stable boy right across the road. Well, I'd never seen the like of it. Bill Webber, the trainer, he just walked up to that horse when he was done-munching away in a field while the jockey tried to get himself out of the hedge-he took that bridle and I swear, he got that horse by the end of the nose and looked as if he would twist it off. 'Do that again, my lad, and it's the glue factory for you,' he said. And I saw him wait there like that, him and the horse, standing there, looking at each other, until the horse dropped its head. Old Bill let go, and rubbed the horse's neck. Followed him all the way back like a pup, did that stallion. And the jockey was still stuck in the hedge." He laughed again.

"More tea, Frank?"

Maisie felt her eyes widen. Mrs. Bromley. Mrs. Bromley. Her housekeeper. Her housekeeper. Brenda? Brenda? She stepped back to the gate, unsure of what to do, then shrugged. She'd come down from London to visit her father, a drive of almost an hour and a half. This was no time to turn back. She coughed twice, then again for good measure as she approached the back door. She cleared her throat again before reaching for the handle. She stepped back to the gate, unsure of what to do, then shrugged. She'd come down from London to visit her father, a drive of almost an hour and a half. This was no time to turn back. She coughed twice, then again for good measure as she approached the back door. She cleared her throat again before reaching for the handle. I cannot believe I am doing this, I cannot believe I am doing this, she thought. As she was about to turn the handle, the door opened. Her father stood in front of her, his cheeks bearing a faint pink blush. she thought. As she was about to turn the handle, the door opened. Her father stood in front of her, his cheeks bearing a faint pink blush.

"Maisie, what a surprise-a lovely surprise, mind."

"It was a good morning for a drive, so I thought I'd come down-where's Jook?"

"Oh, sleeping under the table. Mrs. Bromley's here-she came with some leftovers for Jook, and then-well, come on in, love."

Mrs. Bromley was clearing the table when Maisie entered. It seemed to Maisie that color was heightened all around when Mrs. Bromley turned to greet her-after all, Maisie was now her employer.

"Miss Dobbs, I thought I'd bring down a spot of cottage pie for Mr. Dobbs-I made it fresh this morning, and it was too much for one. I really didn't expect you today."

"I should have telephoned, I'm sorry." Maisie smiled, anxious to bring a sense of calm to what was obviously a very pleasant lunch-until she arrived. She reached down and ruffled Jook's ear; the dog had emerged from slumber to greet her. "Well, if there's any left, I wouldn't mind some myself-though if it puts me to sleep like Jook, I will be out for the count for the rest of the day."

"Here you are, love." Frankie pulled out a chair. "Bren-Mrs. Bromley made a fair old pie there, and even though I came back for more, there's plenty for another helping or two."

Mrs. Bromley put a plate of cottage pie and vegetables in front of Maisie, while Frankie poured tea from a large brown teapot.

"I suppose I'd better be off now-" Mrs. Bromley untied her ap.r.o.n and reached for her basket.

"Oh, no, don't go-I'm sure you've already got a pudding ready, Mrs. Bromley, I know you too well. My father will not wish to miss a sweet. Come on, sit down."

Frankie poured again, fresh cups of tea for himself and Mrs. Bromley, while the housekeeper placed a bowl with a slice of apple pie with custard in front of Frankie, and the same in the place where she had been sitting before Maisie arrived.

"This is lovely, Mrs. Bromley, just what the doctor ordered."

"You look a bit drawn, love," Frankie spoke up, as he often did when he was worried about his daughter.

"Oh, busy, Dad. Busy. Driving a lot, too." Maisie pushed another piece of pie onto her fork. "Did you tell Mrs. Bromley about the time you caught the stable boy from another trainer putting something in your horse's feed?"

"Oh, that was a fine to-do. It was the third race of the day at Newmarket ... " Frankie leaned forward, and as Maisie tucked into the pie, she smiled, watching him look from her back to Mrs. Bromley as he told the story of a day's racing when he was a stable lad at Newmarket in the years before he'd met her mother, before he'd become a costermonger, and before the much-wanted child had been born. And as he spoke, Maisie felt a tear in her heart-one she had become so very used to accommodating-begin to mend again, as the glue of her father's intermittent laughter sealed the jagged edges of unspoken grief.

Later, Maisie returned to The Dower House, excusing herself while Mrs. Bromley a.s.sured her that she would be up at the house as soon as she'd finished with Frankie's kitchen. She'd asked if Frankie might be joining her for supper, to which Maisie replied that of course he would-in fact, why didn't they take supper together, all three of them, in the kitchen? In truth, she was still trying to get used to being at The Dower House, and was now quite thrown when she considered the unusual nature of her domestic arrangements. She had often spent the day at the house, only to return to her father's cottage in the evening, except when James was at home.

She had, eventually, arranged for the large bedroom at the back of the house to be redecorated in a color that reminded her of smooth b.u.t.termilk, and had pale-yellow curtains made to add light to the room. She and Mrs. Bromley had moved the furniture around, though they had summoned a couple of the gardeners from Chelstone Manor to help with the bed and an armoire of some girth that had been brought from Maurice's house in Paris several years before. The housekeeper had made a skirt of the same yellow silk as the curtains, to surround the dressing table, and soon the room was rendered more feminine, without resorting to frippery.

Now Maisie lay down on her bed for a few minutes' rest before going down to the library, where many of the boxes containing Maurice's papers had been consigned. There were still more boxes in the cellar.

In all, The Dower House had four upper rooms: three bedrooms on the first floor, then another large attic room on the second floor. Maurice had chosen the large bedroom at the back of the house to be his own, as it overlooked the land he had come to love. There was another room of equal dimensions at the front of the house, and smaller rooms along the shorter sides of the house; one of those rooms had been converted to a s.p.a.cious bathroom some years before, at the same time as part of the large bedroom had been sectioned off to form an en-suite bathroom for the Dowager Lady Jane Compton, when she was an invalid. When Maisie lived at the house as a girl, she had been a.s.signed the smaller bedroom to the side of the house, so that she could attend to the Dowager-Lord Julian's mother-if she called in the night. Now, lying on her bed for a few moments, Maisie could hardly believe that such a house was hers; it was a thought she pushed to the back of her mind, for when she considered all that she now owned, she became overwhelmed. She had learned to take each day as it came. Though her wealth was considerable, she knew that Maurice had intended her to be a responsible steward of that wealth, so already she had begun to consider the financial arrangements Maurice had made to support the less fortunate, not only through his clinics in impoverished areas, but in providing educational opportunity for young people with talent who might otherwise languish, caught within the boundary of a life with limitations.

"This will never do," said Maisie to herself as she swung her legs off the bed. She slipped on her shoes and went downstairs to the library, where she switched on the light above a mound of boxes she had left there on her last visit. With her head inclined to one side, she perused the outside label on each box until she finally came to the one she wanted to start with: London, 19141916. London, 19141916.

Maisie had known Maurice since she was thirteen years of age, and for some nine years, until his retirement in early 1929, she had been his a.s.sistant. She was well aware of his connections before, throughout, and following the war; however, it was during work on a case that had taken her to Paris in 1930 that she realized how deep and broad his reach into matters of security among the Allies had been. Maurice had received commendations and medals from Belgium, France, and Britain for services rendered, and she knew his influence extended from the Secret Service to the army's Intelligence Corps. He had contacts in Naval Intelligence, and was called upon to advise on the recruitment of agents working in clandestine roles overseas. And he had been involved in liaising with the brave civilians involved in underground resistance to the enemy occupiers in France and Belgium. He had also spent some time in the Netherlands, and she had been aware of the important role that the Dutch had played in intelligence during the war. But little of this had ever been discussed between them, and it was only now that many of his secrets were being offered up. She could never have read through the many papers except as she now approached the task-either on a "need-to-know" basis, or on a quiet Sunday afternoon, when the stillness inside the house seemed to bring him into sharper focus in her mind's eye. It gave her a sense that she only had to call and he would be there with her, advising her, prompting her, or bringing insight and clarity to a case that had become more opaque as facts, clues, and suppositions clouded the way ahead.

She opened the box, lifted a good handful of papers onto the desk, and began to read, thinking that if there were ever a market for a review of intelligence in the early years of the war, she would have enough background material to write a worthwhile tome. Page after page cataloged meetings, interviews with prospective employees-many of whom, Maisie thought, would have gone on to become agents working on behalf of His Majesty's government. Then a few sentences took her attention.

To Whitehall again, this time to see Giles Sheffield. I was taken aback to see so many young women working in the offices, and at all levels of seniority. Girl Guides have been brought in to run messages-apparently the Boy Scouts had been tried out but were found wanting when they put play before work. In walking about the building I came upon a room where the Guides awaited the summons to take a message here or there. Some were called upon to go across London, and all had to swear to the greatest levels of secrecy, for they were in possession of the addresses of every secure building used in the array of intelligence services during a time of war. In the waiting room, the girls read or diligently completed their homework. There was no idle chatter, but a clearheaded willingness to wait until called upon, then to execute their duties as befits the uniform of a Girl Guide.

Maisie went on to the next paragraph, where Maurice remained on the subject.

Women and girls are employed in all aspects of intelligence. In observing their work I am convinced they are the most loyal of workers. Not for them a long lunch at Simpsons, or drinks at their club. They remain at their posts until the job is done and it is clear they understand the gravity of their responsibility, from the most lowly girl at a typewriter to the woman who is charged with breaking a code. Increasing numbers of women are being brought into the service, in particular as more men are required to bear arms on the battlefield. However, I have concerns, which I have voiced in my capacity as an adviser on the temperament and character required for intelligence work, though the concern is not directly in connection with the traits necessary to be a holder of secrets, or the ability to withhold the truth of one's origins when a.s.signed a duty that requires one to live under the enemy's nose. There has traditionally been a tendency for the recruitment of agents and intelligence staff to be done at random; there is little investigation into the background of a person; indeed, it seems to me that the club a man belongs to has more bearing upon his employment in the service than other, more significant, traits.I have suggested that there should be deeper investigation into the origins of a person, and therein will be found something of their sensibilities and loyalties. Does the fact that a young woman has a German great-grandmother have bearing on her work? It might. The women and girls recruited are loyal and hardworking, but we cannot rule out the risk of enemy approaches towards an impressionable young person-man or woman. I have also advised that there should be a comprehensive record of the skills of those who work in the service, women in particular. I have discovered a tendency among the men to a.s.sume that a woman knows only that which she has revealed in her interview; however, I have pointed out that a man might tell everything, recount every success and any skill, but a woman will not necessarily share her worth. A brief conversation with one young woman revealed that she was fluent in several languages, given her education overseas. Her supervisor was surprised, as were the men who interviewed her for her clerical position. Now she has been placed in a department where her linguistic ability can be put to better use. My prediction is that the Secret Service will be built upon the work of these women and girls-they should be taken on with great care and deep attention to the many abilities they bring to our remit.

Maisie straightened the pile of papers, then leaned back in the chair and rubbed her neck. The afternoon sun had moved across the land, and she thought she might walk around the garden before tea. She realized her throat was dry. There were other boxes to go through today, but for now she wanted to think about the girls and women who had worked in secret throughout the war. And she thought back to the conversation with Jennifer Penhaligon, and her comments about Francesca Thomas: ... First-cla.s.s languages, excellent student-diligent, and thoughtful. Pa.s.sionate, is how I would describe her ... about the things she believed in ... she came back to see me once after she'd left ... she said she couldn't really speak about her job-hush-hush, apparently....

Maisie wondered what Francesca Thomas was pa.s.sionate about now, and whether there was still much in her world that was hush-hush. hush-hush.

Chapter Thirteen.

Maisie returned to Cambridge on Sunday afternoon. She wanted time to prepare for her lessons in the coming week, and welcomed the extra hours she would have in the morning, before her cla.s.ses started. More urgently, she wanted to see if a letter from the Records Office in Ipswich had been delivered to her lodgings.

It was nine o'clock in the evening when she stood up from her writing desk and stretched her arms. Her back was sore from driving and sitting bent over papers, and now there was another line of investigation to follow. She wanted to know more about Robson Headley. How invested was he in Delphine Lang's politics? Had he become interested in the Ortsgruppe simply because she was a member? Hans Wilhelm Thost was known to have links with Oxford, and it seemed there was a real attempt to spread the word regarding their leader's political message. Among the aristocracy and landed gentry, there was support for, indeed a fascination with, the tenets of fascism. Maisie wondered if it was simply a new political game to play along the sidelines of government. Clearly Huntley already knew about the group's activities throughout the British Isles, especially in London, yet his advisers were informing him that the group presented no cause for concern; on the contrary, the members were welcomed in certain quarters and asked to speak publicly of the rise of the n.a.z.i Party in Germany, presenting their leader as one with a good deal of charisma. Maisie shook her head, recalling the frustrating conversation with Huntley. Yes, she would have to find out a little more about Robson Headley. And she wanted to speak to Matthias Roth again, to ask him why he countered Greville Liddicote's decision to take an active part in the Cambridge debates.

The letter from Ipswich did not arrive until Monday morning. The clerk who responded to her questions about Rose Linden's family invited her to return to the county offices, as he had some names that might be of interest to her. He indicated that there had been two nephews, though both were now dead. The name of the family was not Linden, however, but Thurlow, owing to Rose Linden's sister's marriage to John Thurlow. One son, also John, died in 1914, at Mons. The other, David, died early in 1915; no other details were listed. The clerk said he would give her more information when she came in.

Maisie borrowed her landlady's bicycle again on Monday, arriving at the college at lunchtime. She set the bicycle in a rack at the side of the main building and made her way to the staff dining room, but was stopped on the way by Miss Hawthorne, who was as fl.u.s.tered as ever.

"Miss Dobbs, just a quick word to let you know that there's a meeting of the college-all staff and students-in the a.s.sembly hall at two; everyone else knows, as the message went round at coffee, so I'm glad I caught you."

Maisie thanked the woman, then continued on to the staff dining room. Lunch was not a formal affair at the College of St. Francis, usually a buffet with one hot dish and vegetables, and a sweet course. A coffee urn was placed at the end of the table, though Maisie would have loved a cup of the rich, dark coffee which Maurice had preferred, and which was still delivered to The Dower House from an importing company in Tunbridge Wells. She helped herself to baked cod and vegetables, and a gla.s.s of water, then walked across to the table where Francesca Thomas sat looking out at the gardens.

"May I join you, Dr. Thomas?"

Thomas pressed a half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray on the table, giving the fleeting smile that Maisie was becoming used to. "Of course-do sit down." She waited until Maisie set her lunch down on the table. "You've heard that our esteemed leader will be speaking after lunch?"

"Yes, I was told when I arrived this morning. Do you know what it's about?"

"Apparently, the college will be closing from Wednesday until next Monday. Those dreadful policemen-the Scot and the other one-have been making it rather difficult to continue teaching while they conduct their inquiries. So, staff will be expected to furnish cla.s.ses with sufficient homework to last until next week, though I am sure our students will welcome the opportunity to enjoy the last of the summer."

"Isn't the memorial service for Dr. Liddicote on Sunday?"

"Yes, it is. And the debate team will continue to practice in the interim."

Maisie looked for some sort of reaction, something that would reveal how Thomas felt about the debate. There was none, so she continued.

"I don't think Dr. Liddicote liked the idea of the debate."

"Did he tell you that?

Lifting a forkful of the milky cod, Maisie feigned indifference. "I was waiting outside his office and heard him talking about it. He seemed far from enthusiastic to me-but then, I didn't know him as well as other members of staff." She thought her words must sound as bland as the cod tasted.

"Greville Liddicote hated hated the idea of the debate, Miss Dobbs. He did the idea of the debate, Miss Dobbs. He did not not want our college to be involved." want our college to be involved."

Maisie set down her knife and fork and reached for her gla.s.s of water. "Why do you think he didn't want us to take part? He wanted the college to be taken seriously by the Cambridge academic establishment, and on the face of it, the debate offers the ideal opportunity. I'm a bit confused on that score."

Francesca Thomas sat back and looked at Maisie. "Greville was no fool, Miss Dobbs. The topic is one that will bring out a lot of spectators-the debates usually draw a goodly number, in any case. But this is one that he didn't want to take part in, did not want the college to be involved with, because he did not want to support any gathering where the name of our college would be allied with an issue he found controversial. The university is a powerful academic inst.i.tution and can weather the storms of speculation-indeed, it thrives on having the cat among the pigeons. But this is a small college, a college dependent upon funds brought in from people-wealthy benefactors-who share our ethos. The party of Herr Adolf Hitler is not an ideal representative of peace and inclusion."

"But surely our team's performance will reflect what the College of St. Francis stands for."

Thomas shook her head. "I do believe you are playing devil's advocate with me, Miss Dobbs. If not, I can only say that you are pressing a naive point of view. If anything negative is allied to our inst.i.tution, then we stand to lose donations. This college will not survive without a healthy stream of money coming in."

Maisie felt her color rise. "But isn't Dunstan Headley one of the main funders? And his son is on the debating team."

"Another huge error."

"Because it smacks of nepotism?"

"No, Miss Dobbs." Francesca Thomas stood up and collected the pile of books sitting alongside her place at the table. "Because Robson Headley is a n.a.z.i, and while it may seem fas.h.i.+onable at the present time, I believe it will prove to demonstrate very, very poor judgment in years to come. And young Headley has his father wrapped around his little finger, even though he knows what's going on, and does not like it at all. Now, if you will excuse me, I'd like to get a breath of fresh air before the a.s.sembly."

Maisie pushed her plate away as Thomas left the room, and took a sip from her gla.s.s of water.

"Did one of Medusa's snakes just have a snap at you?" Alan Burnham drew back a chair and sat down in front of Maisie. "Don't let Francesca Thomas ruin your lunch, though given that tasteless cod, it seems to me there wasn't much to ruin. Dr. Thomas is a forceful woman and can be strong when she's voicing an opinion, but she's one of the very best teachers here."

"Thank you. She was simply explaining why she thought the debate was a poor idea, especially as Dr. Liddicote did not want it to go ahead."

"Nonesense. Of course he did; otherwise why would Matthias continue? He would never sully Greville's memory in such a way-they may have had the odd spat, but he was always the most faithful supporter of everything Greville stood for. No, Miss Dobbs, you're mistaken. Greville Liddicote was very much in favor of the debate."

"Was he in favor of Robson Headley taking part?"

Burnham shook his head. "He wouldn't have known. That was Matthias. Dunstan Headley said his son wanted to join the college team, and given his connections to the college-Robson is charged with continuing Dunstan Headley's philanthropy when his father is gone-his standing matters to our future. Matthias does not want to rock the boat, especially with the new building work starting soon."

"I see, so-"

"And Robson is a harmless enough chap. He has a fine sense of his own intellectual ability-which is wanting, if you care for my opinion-but as I said, a harmless young man, if a bit full of himself."

Maisie saw members of the faculty begin to move towards the door. "We'd better go down; the meeting is about to start."

Matthias Roth waited to take the podium until students and staff were seated. Maisie looked for MacFarlane and Stratton, and noticed that they were standing at the back of the room. Maisie caught Stratton's eye and waved; he waved in return and, pointing to his watch and the door, signaled that they would talk to her after Roth had spoken. She nodded.

"I have brought the entire college together to announce that we will be closing for the rest of the week, though you are reminded that a memorial service for Dr. Greville Liddicote will be held at St. Mary's on Sunday afternoon. I am sure you will all wish to attend." He cleared his throat. "I have made the decision to suspend teaching not-as many of you might have hoped-to give our students and staff a well-earned holiday ... " There was some m.u.f.fled laughter, and Roth smiled before continuing. "The days off will allow the police to bring their work to a close regarding any outstanding information in connection with Dr. Liddicote's death. With everyone on their own personal timetable, it's been rather difficult for inquiries to be completed; and I know that I, for one, would like to do all that I can to a.s.sist in the execution of police work so that we can get on with the job of being a college again, and our students continue with their studies. We have the legacy of Greville Liddicote to honor when we come back next week with the slate clean." He paused. "Are there any questions?"

When no one spoke up, Roth invited MacFarlane to join him to go through the schedule of interviews that would take place over the next several days. Maisie turned again; Stratton nodded towards the door. She left her place and made her way into the corridor.

"What's going on?" Maisie let the door close behind her.

"Robbie was about to flip his lid, so it had to come to this-he insisted upon it. Roth hadn't wanted cla.s.ses to be disturbed, so he asked us to work around the student timetables-and they're all on some sort of individual curriculum, so it was hard to keep up with who had been interviewed and who hadn't." Stratton shook his head. "It's not that we think a student here was Liddicote's murderer, but we certainly want to know if anyone saw anything."

"You're still interviewing staff as well?"

"Yes, but your name has a big red tick alongside it-you're off the hook."

"Shame, I might have had a thing or two to talk about."

"Do you?"

Maisie sighed. "Probably nothing you don't already know about." She looked at Stratton. "Do you know about the Ortsgruppe?"

Stratton nodded. "All reports have come back that it's really nothing to worry about."

"Miss Delphine Lang is a member, and she has taken her amour-Robson Headley-along to meetings."

"Didn't know that. I'll tell MacFarlane, just in case he thinks it has a bearing on the case. Probably more in line with your your investigation-not that I am completely privy to your remit." investigation-not that I am completely privy to your remit."

Maisie smiled. "Tell Robbie I asked after him. I'll be in touch."

"Where will you be over the next few days?"

Maisie stepped towards the entrance to the a.s.sembly hall, but was almost knocked off balance when the door opened to reveal Francesca Thomas leaving. She did not notice Maisie, continuing on her way at a brisk pace. Maisie saw Stratton's eyes follow the woman as she strode purposefully away from them. He looked back at Maisie. "So, um, where was I-oh yes, where will you be ... while the college is closed?'