A Lesson in Secrets (21 page)

Maisie sighed. She wondered how the power of such a worthy conviction could lead to so much desolation, so much pain. And Greville Liddicote had died with a photograph of Ursula Thurlow in his hand.

“Do you think Liddicote loved your mother?”

At first Alice seemed angered—a dull chill seemed reflected in her eyes—but she said nothing, composing her thoughts before speaking again. “I was a child, Maisie, though I confess, I have asked myself the same question time and again, and I have come to the conclusion that he was a confused—and rather selfish—man who chose the easier option.” She picked at the grass again, then brushed off her hands and looked at Maisie. “Here’s what I think. I believe he was enchanted by my mother, and I believe he loved her, in his way. She did not love him—she loved my father too much—but she was grateful, and I think she was probably scared. I have tried to imagine how she must have felt, having lost the love of her life, the man who shared everything she believed in. I think she would have married Liddicote, had he asked—for the security, if nothing else. But he did not ask, and having worked for him, I can imagine why. He was an ambitious man, and I think he probably saw how marriage to the widow of a conscientious objector—and remember, he didn’t really lean towards pacifism until the success of
The Peaceful Little Warriors
—might stand between him and the recognition he craved. She was a liability.” She paused and caught her breath. “And I think he probably regretted his decision for the rest of his life, though he was not the sort of man who would have taken action to make amends.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Maisie. “So you waited until your brothers and sister were mature enough to care for your mother, and you left to seek work with Greville Liddicote. And he didn’t recognize you?”

“I would be amazed if he ever even really noticed me.”

“I would be amazed if he didn’t, to tell you the truth.”

Alice shrugged.

“Did you think you could kill him?”

“I had anger enough, but when it came to it, there was no will in my heart. My parents had done a good job. I was a child on a mission to avenge a wrong, almost like in a fairy tale, but I don’t know what I thought I could do. I don’t know at all. I imagined hitting him over the head with a poker, or a vase, or putting poison in his tea.” She laughed, then tears came again. “How stupid of me. But I earned money to send back to my family, and I came home once a month or so; if I was in service, they might not have seen me quite as much.” She picked at some grass alongside the sleeve of Maisie’s jacket. “And someone else did it, anyway. I think that, if I discovered anything, it was that Greville Liddicote was a very lonely man. I believe I almost felt sorry for him. All that passion for peace, and he was alone.”

Maisie allowed the silence to linger once again, and instead listened to the wheeling seagulls above, whose cry she suspected was a warning that stormy weather was moving in from the sea.

“Do you know who might have murdered Liddicote? From your words it’s clear you know that he did not die from a heart attack.”

Alice pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “There were people in and out all day, but I think he might have had one visitor who was not originally on his list of appointments, though I did not see him arrive.”

“Who was that?”

“Well, Dunstan Headley telephoned to ask if Dr. Liddicote was in his office that day.” She looked away, as if gauging how fast the clouds were moving, and seemed distracted as she continued speaking. “I said he was, and would he like me to make an appointment. He said no, that wasn’t necessary, but he might send his son around with a message, or he might come himself. Then he told me not to worry, that he realized Dr. Liddicote was busy—and he hung up the telephone without saying good-bye. I still don’t know if he came or he didn’t—and I wasn’t in my office much that day; I seemed to be running all over the place with messages.”

Maisie felt the first large drops of rain splatter across her face and arms. She stood up, and looked at the dark clouds lumbering towards them. “Come on, we’d better be off, and at a clip—look at those clouds!”

As they walked back towards the house, Maisie asked another question, though she knew she would doubtless have more later. It was clear that, as Rosemary Linden, the woman who strode alongside her had seen a lot more than she might have imagined while working as Greville Liddicote’s secretary.

“Alice, what do you think of Dr. Thomas?”

“Ah, the woman with the best-cut costumes in the college!” She smiled, and looked at Maisie. They had both broken into a run as the sky lit up with lightning. Alice began to count. “One, two, three, four—” The clap of thunder followed, loud enough, Maisie thought, to crack the heavens. “Oh dear,” said Alice, “It’s less than a mile behind us. Come on!”

As they ran into the house through the back door, Alice called out to her sister to ensure all their mother’s belongings had been brought in. Ursula Thurlow was now sitting in an armchair in the low-beamed kitchen, and a kettle had been put on to boil. Maisie was thankful she had not pulled down the MG’s cloth roof for the drive, for the motor car would have been drenched by now.

“There are warm towels hanging up there, Alice. Make sure you and Maisie dry your hair properly. We don’t want you catching a cold this time of year, or you’ll never shake it.”

They each took a towel to their wet hair and rubbed the rain away.

“Now you’ll have to stay a while, Miss Dobbs. You can’t be driving along our lanes in that little motor of yours.”

“Thank you, I would love to stay. In fact, I wanted to talk to you, Ursula, on two matters, actually. I have a very dear friend—Andrew Dene—he’s an orthopedic surgeon of some note and works closely with neurologists, given his standing and the nature of his specialty. I know he would be more than happy to see you. It would not cost a penny. I could arrange for you to go to London, it would be my pleasure.” Before Ursula could reply, Maisie added, “I know it would take valuable energy, but we could make it a family affair, a trip to London for you and your children, perhaps a few days away to remember.”

The chair-bound woman looked at Maisie with her open face and wide deep brown eyes. “What is it that you do, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie smiled. She had half-expected the question. “I am a teacher, Ursula. And I also work for the government. That is all I can say, and that is between us. Now, perhaps I can ask my second question.”

“You might as well.”

“I’d love to read more of your work—may I?”

When the storm had passed and taken with it the humidity of the previous week, Maisie left the Thurlows’ cottage home. Alice accompanied her to the MG, though she had to answer several questions from Alfie, who had been hanging around, waiting to look inside the motor car. She thanked Alice for being so honest with her, for answering her questions, and they made a pact that each would keep the details of their conversation a secret between them, for she guessed it was now clear to Alice Thurlow that Maisie was not simply the junior lecturer in philosophy.

“Before I go, Alice, I want to remind you about the question I asked, just as the rain came.”

“Oh, yes, about Dr. Thomas. You were asking what I thought of her.”

“That’s right.”

“She’s a dark horse, and I wonder if she doesn’t have a life in London that none of us are aware of—she might be a dancer or something.”

“What makes you say that?”

“As soon as she leaves the college on a Friday, she goes straight to London, generally on the four-o’clock train. She sometimes misses a week here and there.”

“How do you know?”

“By paying attention, Maisie. If you pay attention, everyone has something they want to hide, even if it’s going shopping in London.”

Maisie laughed. “You’re a very dark horse yourself, Rosemary Linden. And that reminds me—the police are aware that your personal file is missing. If it contains anything to inspire them to come to find this house, I’ll allow you to remove it, but I’d like to take it back with me. Now go and tell your brother to hurry up, and I’ll take him for a spin up to the crossroads.”

W
ith Rosemary Linden’s personal file in her briefcase, Maisie dropped Alfie at the crossroads. She noticed a telephone kiosk on the corner, so she took the opportunity to place a call to Billy. She gazed out across fields of golden barley swaying in the breeze as she listened to his account of his work since they last spoke.

“I think I’m getting a bit closer, Miss. Reg Martin wasn’t there, but there was a new mechanic, taken on to replace Eric Tapley. I asked him when Reg would be back, but he said he’d gone off with a customer, that William Walling. I tried to get friendly with him, but he was being a bit careful, because he’d not long had the job. Mind you, he did say that he’d known Reg for a while, and that he wasn’t as easygoing as he used to be. He put it down to the shock of Eric’s accident, but Reg keeps telling him to check everything he works on: the tools, the block and tackle—everything.”

“Have you found out anything about this man, Walling?”

“He’s in the shipping business, and he’s apparently buying motor cars to send somewhere else. Mind you, if you asked five different people what he did, you’d get a different answer every time. I don’t know, it all sounds fishy to me. He could be getting them cars checked so that they can be used on jobs where they don’t want anything going wrong. Nothing like trying to get away from a jeweler you’ve just robbed and the motor won’t start.”

Maisie didn’t say anything for a moment. She had wanted Billy to take this case on his own, to build his confidence in his work. “Billy, do you have a sense about it? If you had to guess, what do you think is happening?”

Billy wasted no time. “Someone is leaning on Reg, and it’s this man, Walling, the same one whose office young Sandra broke into. I reckon she put two and two together somewhere, and though she might’ve come up with the wrong number, I don’t think she was entirely out of order. I reckon Reg is being squeezed, and there’s a lot of it going on—remember, the villains over in the East End were quite happy about it when Alfie Mantle was put away; it opened up a lot of opportunities if you were running a racket. If I had to guess, I reckon that Reg was threatened, told that something would happen to his premises if he didn’t toe the line in a certain way, and the accident with Eric was a warning that they meant business. Now, I don’t know that he was meant to die—probably they did something to the block and tackle so that someone was hurt, but it didn’t come off like that.”

“I think you’re right. And about Sandra, have you found out any more about where she might be?”

“I’ve gone to all sorts of places, Miss. She mentioned that she used the lending library down Charing Cross Road, so I went there, and I dropped in at a couple of places she’d mentioned—that caff down on Oxford Street, the one you sometimes go to. No one’d seen her at all.”

“Right, we can’t take any more chances. Here’s what I want you to do—telephone Scotland Yard and speak to Detective Inspector Caldwell, and—”

“Aw, gawd, not him.”

“He’s improved, Billy. If you remember, he was quite accommodating last time we had to work with him. As I said, now he’s out from under Stratton’s shadow, he’s much better to work with. Tell him everything—and tell him I believe Sandra was on to something, and that there was a murder committed. But tell him he must find Sandra first. Be careful about how you tell him of our suspicions about Walling—the last thing we need is him throwing his weight around; I think he’s had a quiet few months, so he’ll probably jump on the opportunity to go after someone important.”

“Right you are, I’ll do it now.”

“Good. And if you haven’t done so already, telephone Mr. Carter at Chelstone Manor—tell him you’re calling for me—and ask if any of the staff who knew Sandra have any idea where she might be. I didn’t ask before, because I know she lost touch, and of course I think there’s only one or two who knew her left working there—the domestic staff don’t seem to be staying on as long as they used to once upon a time.”

“Will do, Miss. When will I hear from you again?”

“Tomorrow morning. Before I go, how’s Doreen?”

“Aching back, aching feet, aching head, fed up, bored, and wanting the baby to be born. Last weeks are always like that, according to the womenfolk.”

“Look after her, Billy—no need to stay later than you have to at the office.”

“I’ll telephone Caldwell now.”

“And I’m off to find MacFarlane and Stratton.”

“Rather you than me.”

Chapter Sixteen

A
h, Miss Dobbs, glad I’ve caught you.” Miss Hawthorne puffed into the office where Maisie was standing alongside the bank of pigeonholes, most of them bulging with papers from students as well as mail from outside the college. “Yes, your students seem a keen lot, don’t they? Looks like they’ve all been timely with their homework. Anyway, I digress—Dr. Roth said to send you along to his office if you came into the college today. He wants to talk to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, something about the debate, I think. Mind you, the only things anyone seems to be talking about at the moment are the debate and Dr. Liddicote’s death. Not a lot of joy there, eh?”

“I’ll go along to his office now.”

“Right you are. That’s one thing I can tick off my list of things to remember.”

Maisie could see the cleaners had been at work while the students were absent. Fragrant lavender polish had brought the oak floors and wainscoting along the corridors to a looking-glass shine, and she was careful not to slip as she made her way straight to Matthias Roth’s office. She knocked, and entered when she heard his booming voice call out, “Come!”

“Dr. Roth. Miss Hawthorne said you wanted to speak to me.”

“Yes, indeed, do sit down.”

As he held out his hand to indicate that she should be seated, he removed his round spectacles and tapped his teeth with them, then, as was his habit, flicked back hair that had fallen forward and almost obscured his vision. Maisie realized that, apart from an intense regard for Liddicote—though they had crossed swords when it came to the debate—she had not garnered a sense of the man, other than observing his youthful mannerisms: the flicking back of an overlong lock of hair, and the way he walked along the corridors with a heel-to-toe bounce to his step.

“Miss Dobbs.” He paused, as if to frame his words with care. “Miss Dobbs, I have been looking through staff files over the past few days.” He put on his spectacles again.

“Are you dissatisfied with my work?”

“No, not at all, not at all. Quite the contrary. Your students have come along well, and you are a popular teacher. You have taken part in extracurricular activities and have become part of our community here in a short time.” He rubbed his chin. “Miss Dobbs, I realize you are acquainted with the two detectives through your former work, and that you telephoned them immediately Dr. Liddicote’s body was discovered. I have since read through your file, and I have to inquire as to whether you are here at the college in your professional capacity—you were the principal in a successful inquiry agency.” Another pause. “Are you working with the police to get to the bottom of Greville Liddicote’s death?”

Maisie shook her head. “No.” Technically it was the truth. She had been told that she had her own brief, and that MacFarlane was in charge of the murder investigation. “I know the chief superintendent, but I am not working for him with regard to his inquiries here.”

“I see. But you’re interested in Greville Liddicote, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” Maisie did not need to feign an honest interest in her subject. “What he did in building this college, bringing his dream to fruition, is inspiring. I have read some of his work, specifically his children’s books, so the whole story is quite compelling—a man who is cast out of Cambridge University, given the controversial nature of his work, which may or may not have caused men to mutiny on the Western Front. The ‘peace’ college he has envisioned grows with the help of parents of men who went to war but who later read his book and were persuaded to lay down arms.” She sighed. “If nothing else, Greville Liddicote could sell an idea; however, he drew back from support of the debate, which one would think represents a certain pinnacle of achievement—not to mention acceptance by the university establishment when they extended an invitation for a young college to present a team at an annual debate that always draws the attention of the press.” She looked at Roth, her line of questioning clearly unsettling him. “Why do you think he was against the idea, Dr. Roth? And, more to the point, why have you maintained that he supported it as much as you—and please do not deny my assertion; I was outside the door of his office and heard the argument.”

“He was wrong to want to decline the invitation.”

“Why?”

“Because the debate will be the making of the college. We wouldn’t be the first college to gladly relinquish our independence when asked to join the university—and inclusion in the debate, as well as other collaborations, promises a move in the right direction. Greville allowed his fears to overwhelm him.”

“What fears?” Maisie was leaning forward now, her body relaxed just enough to suggest empathy for Roth’s position.

“The subject matter is controversial, because it raises the question as to whether Germany’s Nazi Party should receive our support when it comes to power—as it surely will. On the one hand, the university’s colleges can better weather the storms that might come from supporting such a motion, if that is the outcome of the debate. On the other, Greville was concerned about the effect the debate might have on our very diverse student community. We all get along very well, but he thought it would drive a wedge between the cultures represented here. If you are familiar with Herr Hitler’s book,
Mein Kampf
, you will know that he has a particularly vociferous position when it comes to what he describes as ‘the Jewish peril.’ Greville was concerned that the debate might be offensive to our students who are Jewish.”

“Those fears seem grounded to me, Dr. Roth,” said Maisie.

“But we must not draw back, especially if our team is on the side of peace, of reconciliation, of going forward with an olive branch.”

Maisie sat back in the chair again, wondering how to couch her words. “You have Robson Headley on the team, and—”

“Miss Dobbs, you are a junior member of staff, and if you have not realized this already, I will tell you. The college depends upon the support of those who believe in our mission here, especially in terms of moneys with which to build for the future. We have to prepare for challenges to our curriculum. Many of our students, though graduates in their own countries, are still young and impressionable—they have come here, or been sent by parents, in the belief that they will play a part in maintaining what is a fragile peace, much like a stone thrown into the lake sends out ripples, only we hope those ripples become waves.” He cleared his throat, removed the spectacles a second time, and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief, replacing the spectacles as he continued. “Robson Headley expressed a desire to be part of the team, and will lead our students in their debates. I concede that he may be the indulged son of a wealthy man, but his father is a man who has in turn indulged us and never questioned how his money is spent in this college, urging only that we continue our work.”

Maisie bit her lip. Did Roth know of Headley’s connection to the Ortsgruppe? If she told him, he might deduce not only that she was making inquiries, but that they were quite separate from the police investigation led by MacFarlane. Should she ask about Delphine Lang? She was not sure how to proceed and retain the integrity of her work, but she knew she had to take the conversation further.

“Are you aware that Mr. Headley is involved romantically with Miss Lang?”

Roth raised an eyebrow. “I am. However, they seem to have conducted their liaison away from the college premises, so I am not concerned unduly. I might if it comes to a sticky end, as these things often do.”

“Are you concerned that Headley might put some pressure on you to reinstate Miss Lang’s contract, so that his son is not upset by her departure?”

Roth smiled and shook his head. “Not at all, Miss Dobbs. In confidence—and I must insist that you keep this knowledge under your hat—Miss Lang is leaving the college because Mr. Dunstan Headley did
not
want her contract renewed. It is the only time he has ever stepped forward with a request, which was put to Greville before he died. Of course, he agreed.”

“Do you know the reason for his request?”

“He did not like her. Personally, I believe he did not care for the fact that she is Austrian by birth, but I am sure you understand the implications of my observation; it could render my own position here somewhat tenuous, though I believe I have enjoyed a cordial relationship with Mr. Headley thus far. Miss Lang has been very upset, and I can understand why.”

Maisie nodded. She came back to another subject, one that continued to nip at her heels since she began the investigation. “Dr. Roth, we’ve talked about Dr. Liddicote’s book inciting men to mutiny in France, and I wondered if you’d had any more . . . recollections. I have become interested in his work, and when I speak to others about it—I know a few booksellers, for example—there are always mutterings about a mutiny.”

Roth sighed. “I will tell you this, and then let that be the end of it.” He scraped his chair back across the polished wood floor, stood up, and began to pace, his arms folded across his chest. As he spoke, he looked up occasionally to meet Maisie’s eyes with his own. “Greville Liddicote’s book caused a massive mutiny—however, it was not limited to the British line. As you may know, in places, the distance between the German and British front lines was mere yards. There was often some sort of fraternization across the lines, though when battle commenced it was terrible, terrible. But there was a knowledge that we were all in it at the behest of our betters, so sometimes a word went back and forth, a ‘Guten Morgen’ or a ‘Mornin’, all.’ The book was read by soldiers, and even those who could not read knew the story. Then a copy of the book made its way across, and one day someone attached a note saying that it was about time the fathers went home to their children. Of course, many young men did not have children, but it was as if they suddenly envisioned the children they might have if the war were over. So the few soldiers who walked away from the war were just the beginning; it turned into a mutiny on both sides, and at once that few yards of no-man’s-land became a great distance as troops drew back. I was one of those soldiers, Miss Dobbs, though my wound saved me from the fate of execution. In truth, very few were executed, on either side—there were too many to lose—but Dunstan Headley’s son lost his life. So, we were all joined, you see, by this event, which was initiated by one very brave man with a pen and paper. Such men do not come along very often, Miss Dobbs, and they are the true heroes. Greville Liddicote was my hero.” He stopped in front of her. “Your government and my government will never admit this happened. It will be held secret, and if revealed, it will be long after you and I are gone from this world. So, it would be as well if what I have said remains between us, held within the walls of this room.”

Maisie promised discretion on her part, but she had another question. “Dunstan Headley is a remarkable man, to have managed to forgive Dr. Liddicote for the story that effectively killed his son—don’t you think?”

Roth shrugged. “I’m not sure that he ever really forgave him. I think he has had to work hard at rising above his grief to contribute in such a way. And he knew, I am sure, that Dr. Liddicote struggled with his responsibility.”

“Are you saying he disliked Dr. Liddicote?”

“Oh, I am sure that in the deep recesses of his soul he hated him.”

They were both silent for a moment. Then Maisie spoke again. “And you don’t think Robson Headley might be a risk, given that he is something of a headstrong young man?”

Roth smiled and shook his head. “Miss Dobbs, I really cannot see—”

“He is a Nazi, Dr. Roth. Robson Headley and Delphine Lang are members of a group that supports the National Socialist Party in Germany. That may seem rather innocuous at the present time, but I believe—”

“And how do you know this?” Roth’s cheeks were now flushed with color.

“I happened to overhear them talking.”

He regained his composure and appeared to brush off the news. “Well, it will make for an interesting debate, I am sure. Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Dobbs. I would imagine you are using your free time this week to plan your tutorials for the coming weeks. I expect to join one of your classes next week.”

“Thank you, Dr. Roth. I look forward to it.”

“And remember, Miss Dobbs, I have asked you not to reveal any aspect of our conversation to anyone. Even your friends at Scotland Yard.”

W
alking back to her lodgings, Maisie found she could hardly remain focused on one element of her work, without another coming to the fore. She wanted to talk to Billy, so she waited by the telephone kiosk while an elderly man shouted into the receiver at whoever it was he had called. Instead of pressing in more coins to extend the call and then pressing button A, the man shoved the coins home and then thumped the button, followed by a clout to the side of the coin box, as if an assault on the inner workings of telephony would yield more minutes for his money. Eventually he ended the call, whereupon he replaced the receiver, took out his handkerchief, and gave his nose a good blow before leaving the kiosk.

“All yours,” he said to Maisie, as he held the door open for her to enter.

She kept the door ajar with her foot to allow fresh air to circulate, pulled her own handkerchief from her shoulder bag, and wiped the receiver from top to bottom. It was still sticky from the man’s heated grasp. She dialed the number and waited, pressing button A as soon as the telephone was answered on the other end.

“Miss?”

“Billy, so glad I’ve caught you—but you’re at the office late.”

“I thought you’d be on the dog and bone to me soon, and I wanted to be here. I’ll leave soon enough. I don’t like to be too late, on account of Doreen being so close to her time.”

“Yes, you should get home as soon as we’ve finished. Not long now before you’ll be in that house in Eltham.”

“Can’t wait, to tell you the truth. Anyway, I’ve spoken to Caldwell.”

“How was he?”

“Not bad, bit of an edge to him, but he softened up when he realized I was calling because we needed help, and that there might be a case in it for him—he’s still on the lookout to make his mark.”