A Lesson in Secrets (10 page)

T
here was already a buzz of conversation among the gathered students when they entered, and Maisie was surprised to see how many were there. The student body was larger than she had imagined. They were seated in rows according to the number of years spent at the school. The first-year students were in the front, followed by second and third years, with a few students at the back who were engaged in research studies following tertiary education elsewhere. Many of the students had already completed formal education in other countries, though there were also a good number of British students in the hall. The staff members were assigned seats along the side of the main audience. On the stage at the front of the assembly hall, seats had been allocated for the Board of Governors, along with the principal and deputy principal. The event was formal; thus those to be seated on the stage would not enter until the audience of students and staff was settled. At twelve noon a bell rang from beyond the hall—Maisie thought it might have been the first bell she had heard at the college—and the busy chatter subsided to a mumble, then to silence.

The double doors at the back of the hall opened, and Matthias Roth led a procession of ten governors and one other teacher—Maisie recognized him as Dr. Alan Burnham, a teacher of classics who, although born in London, had spent his childhood in Greece. To Maisie’s surprise, MacFarlane and Stratton walked along, side by side, at the end of the line, and she wondered why MacFarlane had chosen to be part of such a public display.

With the procession seated, Matthias Roth stepped towards the lectern and in his booming baritone addressed the school.

“You will have heard, by now, of the passing of our dear founder and principal, Dr. Greville Liddicote.” He stopped speaking to allow time for the collective gasp and whispers of dismay to run through the gathering, the sound reminding Maisie of waves drawn to the beach. “The College of St. Francis was the result of his imagination and hard work—he dared to believe that we could create a world of peace, of harmony, and he was not afraid to step forward to set us on a path that would lead to such a world. Every student in this room, every member of staff, every governor is here because of Greville Liddicote. Today we mourn his loss.” Roth paused, cleared his throat, and continued. “We will give thanks for his life in a service at St. Mary’s Church—details will be posted on the main notice board. Dr. Liddicote will not be laid to rest for some time—I will explain later—but that does not prevent us from giving thanks for his life, his wisdom, and his accomplishments, particularly in the realm of medieval literature and in stories that enchanted children—and adults—the world over. Whatever your religious persuasion, we know that you will come to St. Mary’s—Greville Liddicote was a Christian, though he never pressed his beliefs, nor ever discredited those of another. With that in mind, we must do what is right when we remember him. Before I ask the chairman of the Board of Governors to speak, I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that the events surrounding Greville Liddicote’s death are . . . questionable. So that we might come to know the reason for his passing, I have requested the assistance of two members of the police, whom you will see on the premises over the next week or so. I ask that you give them your full support and attention; that, if asked, you answer their questions truthfully and with respect for Dr. Liddicote, and that you endeavor to recall any events that might help them in their inquiries.” He turned to MacFarlane and Stratton, his hand extended, palm up, to ask them to stand. “Detective Chief Superintendent Robert MacFarlane and Detective Chief Inspector Richard Stratton are here to help us so that we might discover the reason for our beloved founder’s untimely passing.”

Maisie cast her gaze along the line of teachers on both sides of the hall. One or two teachers had nodded off, despite the gravity of the meeting; others were listening intently, their interest roused when the presence of detectives was announced. Francesca Thomas was sitting with arms folded, that same half-smile on her face as she watched Matthias Roth speak.

When MacFarlane and Stratton were seated again, Roth invited the chairman of the Board of Governors to speak. The elderly man, a noted local businessman who introduced himself as a supporter of trade between nations and an ardent pacifist, repeated much of Roth’s speech in his summation of Greville Liddicote’s work. He followed his reminiscences of Liddicote’s life with the announcement that Dr. Matthias Roth had been appointed principal, and that Dr. Alan Burnham, “a classicist without equal,” would be his deputy. Matthias Roth was invited to the lectern again, and gave an account of what was to come, now that Greville Liddicote was dead.

“As I have already said,” continued Roth, “we are all here—staff and students alike—because Greville Liddicote wanted to see a more peaceful world. But he knew that such a world would not come without dialogue, and that for us all to agree, there would be times when we would disagree, and that in the effort to find a common ground upon which to walk forward together there must be compromise and acceptance of one another, with an emphasis on those elements that bind us rather than set us apart.” Roth stopped speaking for a moment, and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he lifted his spectacles and pressed the cloth to his eyes. When he continued speaking, his voice cracked, though he forged on, his eyes shining, his words clear. “To that end, and in our dear founder’s memory, I am happy to tell you that the College of St. Francis will be taking part in the forthcoming debate between the Cambridge colleges. It was what Greville Liddicote would have wanted—he told me himself that our students must play an important part in such an event. It has just been confirmed that the subject of our first debate is the political climate in Germany—‘Could the Tenets of Herr Adolf Hitler’s National Socialist Party Be Adopted in Britain?’ ” He paused as a current of conversation swept through the hall, then cleared his throat and began to speak again, silencing the audience as he went on. “More than a debate, this is our opportunity to inform, to shine, to tell the academic world here in Cambridge that we at St. Francis are an international force of youth to be reckoned with. The debate will draw a ‘town and gown’ audience, and it is expected that various unions will be represented among the spectators.” He looked at the assembly in silence for a moment, his eyes casting back and forth as if looking at every single person seated before him. Once more his voice caught as he began to speak, and again he recovered, and ended with a power and resolve that ignited the students. “Our commitment to the beliefs of our founder will underpin our arguments; we will not fail him.”

Maisie watched as the gathering broke into applause, and though several of the governors appeared stony-faced, others were beaming with a delight that matched Matthias Roth’s. It seemed as if the reason for the assembly had been forgotten. The staff were turning to each other, some showing signs of concern, others shrugging shoulders. It was clear to Maisie that there was a certain knowledge that Greville Liddicote, far from being a supporter of the debate, was against having the college take part. She looked towards Francesca Thomas. The woman sat immobile as the students alongside her were caught up in the applause; she was staring at Roth with a mixture of disbelief and—Maisie could see it now—something akin to hatred. The ever-elegant woman gathered her belongings and left the hall, the rubber-edged double doors swinging back and forth in her wake.

A
t teatime Matthias Roth came to the staff room with MacFarlane and Stratton to announce that the visitors would be interviewing all members of staff. He had drawn up a schedule of appointments, posted on the noticeboard, based upon each person’s teaching timetable and tutorial commitments; interviews would begin immediately and would take place in the faculty library.

“The first interviewee will be Miss Lang.” All gathered looked around the room, expecting Delphine Lang to step forward, secretly glad that they would not be first. “Is Miss Lang here?”

“Dr. Roth, I believe she went home with a nasty summer cold—she left after the assembly,” offered the American member of staff.

Roth shrugged. “This is where we begin to wish Miss Linden were still with us—at least I would know who is in college and who is not.” He peered at the schedule, then more deliberately at Maisie. “In that case, Miss Dobbs, I believe you’re next.”

Maisie took up her briefcase and the pile of student essays that she was by now getting used to having under her arm, and left the room. She made her way along the corridor and up the grand staircase to the landing where the library was situated. She knocked on the door and walked in.

Both MacFarlane and Stratton looked up when Maisie entered, then looked down again at the sheet of paper bearing the staff roster.

“No, I’m not Miss Delphine Lang, she’s supposedly at home with a cold. So I’m the first—fire away! Oh, and I’m supposed to be at the front of my classroom, ready to teach, by two o’clock, so we’d better hurry.”

MacFarlane did not miss a beat. “What did you think of the dog and pony show in the assembly hall?”

Maisie shook her head. “Well, you make a lovely couple, though I think some flowers would have brought out your finer points, gentlemen.”

“Very funny, Maisie, very funny indeed. What a charade that was, but we were playing their game.” MacFarlane pushed her file to one side.

“We thought it would be a good idea, seeing as there are so many to interview,” added Stratton. “Bring it out into the open, rather than having a lot of speculation about who we are, seeing as we’re going to be on the premises a fair bit.”

Maisie nodded. “Do you need to interview me?”

“I can talk to you anytime,” said MacFarlane. “Rushing off somewhere later?”

Maisie looked around at the grandfather clock in the corner. “I have one lesson starting in about ten minutes, after which I am not teaching until late morning tomorrow. I have to leave Cambridge, possibly overnight.”

“Going anywhere interesting?”

“I won’t know until I get there—but I’ll be in touch if I uncover any deeply held secrets.”

Chapter Eight

M
aisie enjoyed the lesson that followed. Knowing the students would be abuzz with speculation about the morning’s assembly, she decided to put her prepared lesson to one side and discuss the issue of death and what the great philosophers had to say on the subject of passing from one world to the next, if indeed that is what they believed.

She took the liberty of ending the lesson early and, with homework assigned, and the previous week’s work discussed—“A deeper reading of the assigned texts might have resulted in better marks,” observed Maisie—she hurriedly gathered her belongings and made her way to the station.

Finding a person when there was only a vague starting point was, she thought, rather like finding a pin on a lawn—there was the occasional glint of possibility when light hit the subject, but that flash often did not last long enough for the pin to be found. If she was able to catch the next train to Ipswich, she would arrive in plenty of time to visit the records office; her starting point would be the town hall, to see if records listed anyone in the region by the name of Linden.

She arrived at the station with just minutes to spare, purchased a ticket, and hurried to the platform to await the train. Soon the train approached, rumbling towards the long platform, steam chuffing out sideways as the locomotive slowed alongside the waiting travelers. Maisie climbed aboard and settled in a seat next to the window. With a whistle and a flag held high, the guard waved to the driver; steam punched the air again and the train began to move. It was as Maisie’s carriage began to move away from the station that she saw Francesca Thomas step forward to await the next train. She was opening her handbag to put away her ticket, so she did not look up while the train was passing. Maisie craned her neck to look back at Thomas and saw the woman check the time, and then begin to pace the platform. It was the only sign that she might be holding some tension, for her face was devoid of expression or emotion. Maisie recalled that the next train from the platform was bound for London’s Liverpool Street station, and she thought about her most recent conversation with Francesca Thomas, during which the older woman maintained that she seldom ventured out of Cambridge.

Though Thomas dominated Maisie’s thoughts as the train went on its way, the side-to-side motion of the carriages soon lulled her into a half-sleep. She had hardly slept since the previous Friday; there had been so much to accomplish, so much to consider, with events at the college inviting intense speculation. But in truth, one thing had kept her from sleeping more than any other: the letter from James. She could not work out how a letter with a Canadian stamp had been franked in London. Admittedly, the postmark was smudged, and it was difficult to read—but no, she was certain it was London, though she had already been informed by James that there was, indeed, a London in Ontario . . .
would you believe it, Maisie?
She considered James and realized she had been doing her best not to think about him since accepting the assignment with MacFarlane and Huntley—to no avail. What might he say if he knew she was working for the Secret Service? Possibly he would be concerned that the job might be more dangerous than that of a private inquiry agent, though to her it seemed as if the risk were minimized with her current assignment. Maisie and James had become closer as the year progressed, so close that she knew there was already speculation as to what might come next. Priscilla had cornered her on the subject during an unexpected visit to her flat.

“I know that when I don’t see much of you, it’s because you don’t want to talk about something, and I would lay money on that something being James. Come on, what is it?”

“Nothing. I like James. We enjoy each other’s company.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—it’s me you’re talking to, not your prudish old aunt!”

Maisie shrugged. “I just don’t know where it’s all going—I mean, I loved Simon dearly, but there was no destination to the journey, if you know what I mean. And now I don’t know about James. In some ways I would like to think there was something in the distance, a place to land. On the other hand, I’m satisfied just going along as we are.”

Priscilla shook her head, pressed a cigarette into the long holder she favored, held a lighter to the end until it smoldered, and leaned back on Maisie’s new sofa, snapping the lighter shut as if to punctuate the conversation. “This is very comfortable, by the way—it softens the room.” She inhaled, blew a smoke ring, and regarded Maisie. “Sometimes, you flummox me, Maisie, really you do. Of course there has to be a destination—of one sort or another, and if I were you I’d go for the known road.”

“Known road?”

“Marry the man! Of course, you can keep ambling, as long as you both understand the pros and cons, the whys and wherefores. You have your house and this flat, and you could live in sin quite merrily. But that’s not you, Maisie. And for all the wild ways of my youth, it wasn’t me, either. I wanted to know where I stood. I knew I needed a specific garden with a fence around it in which to grow. And I have flourished—haven’t I? Admit it.”

“Marriage agrees with you, Pris.”

“I have a fine spouse, my three toads—who of course are in the doghouse again, but I love them for it. And I have a good life, which is nothing to be sniffed at.”

“But I don’t know if it’s me, that sort of life. And for a start, James hasn’t asked.”

“Probably too bloody scared to ask, if you want my opinion.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, a man asks a woman to marry him when he’s pretty sure she’ll say yes. Getting a
no
isn’t exactly an edifying experience, is it?”

Maisie looked out of the window. “Well, anyway . . . ”

“I know that
well anyway
.” Priscilla mimicked Maisie’s voice. “It’s the phrase that says, ‘I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ Well,
anyway
, Maisie—I do! Now then, the question is, do you want to marry him, regardless of whether he has asked you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What, exactly, don’t you know?”

“Whether I could relinquish my work. Frankly, I don’t think I could.”

“Oh, I hate all this old-fashioned twaddle, you know, that a woman has to do this or that when she’s married.” She turned to Maisie. “Strike out, for heaven’s sake! After all, dear old Maurice left you with more than simply his estate. His greatest bequest was a good deal of freedom, don’t you think? You now have the wherewithal to please yourself, and to hell with what anyone thinks.” She paused. “You’ve got to snap out of it, Maisie—being concerned about what others think of you. It’s a bit late now, anyway, to be worrying about that sort of thing, what with your business and the fact that James is a very frequent visitor to your flat.” She inhaled from the cigarette holder, as if for effect. “I bet his shaving mug is a fixture in your bathroom, for a start. But of course, the real question is more fundamental, isn’t it, my friend? The real question is, do you truly love the man?”

Maisie snapped awake as the whistle blew to signal arrival in Ipswich, the county town of Suffolk. The afternoon was sunny and warm as she walked towards the address she had been given for the records office. She knew that a county records office was sometimes lacking in information, and that parish records often held more of the sort of detail she was looking for. But parish records were all very well if you knew in which parish to start your search—otherwise it could be a time-consuming exercise, with no joy at the end.

The clerk assisting her was a man who looked to be in his fifties, and who gave the impression of knowing a great many people in the county.

“Linden . . . Linden. Rosemary, you say? Not a great number of Lindens about, to my knowledge. Approximately twenty-eight years of age? Well, if her birth was registered, then we should know about it, though do bear in mind that not all parents—especially those in agricultural areas—are given to taking the time to register a child. Often there’s the wait to see if the child lives past its first month, then if it does, they might then register the birth—that’s if they can lose a day’s pay to come into town. Anyway, let me see if I can find anything.”

Maisie waited for some time, watching the late-afternoon sun waft across the room, highlighting dust motes and flies that buzzed back and forth from window to window.

“Here’s a few Lindens for you, but no Rosemary, I’m afraid.” He held out a piece of paper. “You’ll see we’ve got a Cyril and his wife, Mary; a Stephen and Julia and four children; a Rupert and Jane, plus two, and an Emily—elderly, widowed. There were also three deceaseds: James Christopher—eight months; Margaret, spinster; and Rose, another widow.”

“Do you have addresses?”

“I have last-knowns, though they can change, what with people being out of work, short of money to pay the rent; people have to move to find a decent day’s wage, and there’s the old people who’re having to depend on charity.”

Maisie nodded and thanked the man, looking at the clock on the wall as she departed the office. It was now half past four. If she could secure a room in a guesthouse, she would stay overnight and return to the college the following morning, in time for her class at eleven o’clock. And if she could at least see one or two of the people on her list, she could come back to Ipswich again towards the end of the week to investigate further. It meant she might not be able to return to London on Friday, so she’d have to review the week with Billy and Sandra in a telephone call. Maisie sighed. She had hoped to spend some more time with Sandra—she was worried about her. And she had left her with some pamphlets on evening classes at Birkbeck College—in the hope that her interest might be sufficiently piqued to consider extending her education, which Maisie thought could help her find a way through her grief. She had been planning to ask Sandra what she thought of the idea. And she also wanted to find out if Billy had made any headway in the search for more information on Eric’s death.

The Lavender Inn was snuggled along a side street within ten minutes’ walking distance of the station, which suited Maisie well; fortunately, there was a vacancy. She left a small bag with the few personal belongings she had traveled with in her room and set off to find the first address, which was in the town—in fact, all of the addresses, bar one, were within a reasonable distance by foot or bus. Walking past buildings through which an architectural history of the town could be traced—from the beamed wattle-and-daub hall-houses of medieval times to the Gothic redbrick Cornhill building and Victorian terraces—she eventually found the home she was looking for in Saltwater Lane. As she knocked on the door, a dog barked from deep within the small terrace house and was reprimanded for causing a noise. Footsteps moved closer towards the door, which opened to reveal a heavyset man with a handlebar mustache and oiled hair parted in the center. His eyes seemed larger than they might have been, due to the thick spectacles on his nose. He held a newspaper in his hand and looked at Maisie over the glasses in order to focus on her face.

“Mr. Linden?”

“Who wants him?”

“My name is Maisie Dobbs, and I have come from a college in Cambridge in search of one of our employees. She left due to family matters without collecting her wages, so I thought I would bring them to her—but we don’t have an address. Her name is Rosemary Linden, and I thought you might know of her.”

“The man shook his head. “Don’t know anyone of that name.”

“Do you know the other Lindens in Ipswich?”

“There’s my boy, Stephen, and his family. And my brother’s widow, Rose. They didn’t have children, so there’s no Lindens on that side—in any case, she passed recently, about a month ago. We hadn’t seen her for years anyway. And if there are other Lindens, they’re not us.”

“I see.” Maisie paused. “So you wouldn’t know a Rosemary Linden, about twenty-eight years of age?”

“No, no Rosemary Linden that I know of.”

A voice came from the back of the house. “Cy-ril! Cyril, your dinner’s getting cold.”

The man began to close the door, but Maisie held out her hand. “Please wait. Let me write down my name and my address in Cambridge. I realize it would be most unlikely, but if you come across the name Rosemary Linden, would you be so kind as to send me a postcard? I would really appreciate it.”

Maisie allowed the man so see the cash in her purse as she looked for a pencil. Though she did not offer money, the glimpse would—she hoped—suggest a monetary reward for information. She thanked him for his help, wished him a good evening, and went on her way. She could leave Stephen Linden and his family for now, though she wondered about the newly deceased Rose, who, according to Linden, had died about one month before. It was now getting on for seven o’clock, so she decided to catch a bus and walk along to Beet Street—and the small cottage that had been the home of Rose Linden.

The cottage and garden seemed to have been well tended, though the grass was high, the shrubs in need of pruning, and the weeds on the cusp of being out of control. Maisie unlatched the gate and began to walk around the house, following a path of stepping-stones that appeared to be homemade, with colorful shards of broken crockery set into the concrete. Deadheading roses as she went, Maisie was struck by the idea that the house might once have been built for a farmworker, and it reminded her of her father’s cottage at Chelstone—it had a similar cat-slide roof, a gutter running into a water butt, and lead-paned windows. It was another old house built to be cool in summer and warm in winter, and, she thought, probably had an inglenook fireplace inside.

Reaching the back door, Maisie instinctively tried the handle. To her surprise, it turned, and though she had to push with some force against the door, it opened to allow entry into the cottage. She stood for some seconds to become accustomed to the dark interior. It seemed the home had hardly been touched since the day Rose Linden passed away. Feeling rather like Goldilocks in the three bears’ house, Maisie began to walk around the kitchen, then the sitting room, stepping lightly so she made little sound. There were no immediate neighbors, and she had seen no one else on the street, but at the same time, she didn’t want to give any passerby cause to raise the alarm that a common thief was on the loose in the home of a dead woman.