A Lesson in Secrets (22 page)

“Ah, so he isn’t as busy as he’d like to be.”

“And I think you were right, he wants to be as well known and regarded as Stratton.”

“Well, I reckon Stratton might be having second thoughts about his move. In any case, what did he say?”

“He’s going to sniff around, but he said something interesting before he even started. Apparently, this bloke who Reg has been doing that work for, the one whose office Sandra broke into, has been kept under surveillance by the watchful eye of the CID for a while—the fraud boys and the flying squad up until now. But word’s gone around at the Yard, mainly because he’s got a finger in so many pies, all cooked up by these supposedly clean businesses of his.”

“Why are they keeping an eye on him?”

“Because he’s been moving in on other manors, and there’s been some—what did Caldwell call it? Something official-sounding, like ‘villain on villain aggravation.’ ”

“I see, but that doesn’t explain what Sandra might have found out about him, except that he might have been trying to make a point with Reg, and it went wrong when Eric was killed. Or perhaps it went right.”

“There’s a bit more than that to it all. Apparently, his mother is Spanish, name of Mendoza, which accounts for the fact that he had a touch of the Rudolph Valentino about him when he was younger. He’s got family over there in Spain. I’ve been talking to a few people, and there’s word on the street that he’s putting the screws on his runners to do more business, and he’s asking more for protection, that sort of thing. They say he’s sending money over there, for something or another.”

“Have you told Caldwell?”

“I’ve told him everything I know, and in return, he’s got people out looking for our Sandra.”

“Do you know how he’s doing it?”

“Well, he’s got informers, friends, if you like, among the ladies of the night, and—”

“Oh, I don’t think Sandra would—”

“You don’t know what someone might do who was desperate, Miss. Especially a young woman who can’t feel anything anymore. But that’s not it. It’s a case of scratching each other’s backs—they look out for someone wanted by the police, or they hear of something, and then they get left alone for a while, no moving on or that sort of thing. And I’ve been asking around the hostels, but nothing yet.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Caldwell listened to everything I had to say, Miss. He said that there’s no smoke without a fire, and that he’ll look into matters at Reg Martin’s garage and have a word with Reg himself. To be honest, Miss, I saw Reg and he don’t half look pale, not the man he was. He told me that, if he could, he would pack it in and go back to working on coaches and carts, but there was no business in it now, what with the number of motors on the road and everyone saying there won’t be any horses left in London in ten years’ time.”

“I wish she’d just get in touch with us. I wish she would come out of hiding.”

“On another matter, Miss.”

“What’s that, Billy?”

“That secretary woman at the Compton Corporation telephoned—Miss Robinson; she said to tell you that you should come over to pick up some mail that’s been sent from Canada for you. She said you’re expected.”

“That’s a funny way of putting it.” Maisie sighed. “Oh well, I’ll drop by on Friday. I can’t leave Cambridge until the debate is over.”

“The what?”

“Debate. It’s part of a series of debates with the Cambridge colleges that the College of St. Francis has been asked to join. Our team will be on the spot tomorrow. Then I’ll come down on Friday.”

“Right you are, Miss. I’ll keep in touch. Don’t mind me telling you, I wouldn’t be surprised if our family weren’t bigger by one sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, I hoped the baby would wait until you were in the new house.”

“I doubt if it will wait when it comes—after all, it’s our fourth.”

Maisie heard the words catch as Billy spoke. Their third child had been Lizzie, now buried in the local churchyard.

“Take care of Doreen, Billy. I’ll be in touch.”

A
s Maisie left the telephone kiosk, a black motor car drew up alongside her, the door swung open, and Stratton stepped out.

“You were looking for us?”

“Oh, yes. I’m glad you stopped.”

Maisie seated herself in the back, next to MacFarlane. Stratton pulled down a seat opposite them and tapped on the window for the driver to continue on.

“The sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the Empire, so we thought we’d drop in for a swift one at the local—join us?”

Maisie smiled at MacFarlane. “Thank you for asking, but I really must be getting back to my lodgings.”

“Making progress?”

“Putting the pieces into place. You?”

“No, not really. Can’t seem to get any purchase on the mountain of interviews and who saw this and who saw that. You would have thought the whole college was comatose while Greville Liddicote was murdered.”

“Colleges can be fairly soporific places in the afternoons—and I am being absolutely serious. Whoever walked in with the intention of taking Liddicote’s life chose the right time. Classes were in progress, the secretary was out and about in the building somewhere, and a sort of daze comes over the place, no matter how hard one tries to chivvy students along in their work.”

“That much is obvious,” Stratton interjected, looking at Maisie. “Have you discovered anything that might help us?”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I have, I think. Both Delphine Lang and Robson Headley were familiar with Chinese methods of martial art. I know I should have mentioned this before, but I discovered that they have both spent time in the Orient: Lang in China when her father was assigned a position there, and Headley when his father chose to situate the family in Hong Kong after the war. His company had a lot of business there, so when Dunstan wanted to try to put the older son’s death behind them, that’s where he took his wife and son.”

“Would you consider them suspects?” asked Stratton.

“At this point I wouldn’t rule them out.”

“Anyone else?” MacFarlane asked; then he leaned forward and tapped on the window. They had arrived at the pub where the detective chief superintendent would have his “swift one.”

“Not yet, but perhaps by Saturday I might have a name or two for you.” Maisie noticed that MacFarlane had not admonished her again for looking into the issue of Liddicote’s death.

“You don’t want to give us an inkling—or is this something else you’re going to keep to yourself?” Stratton raised his eyebrows as he asked the question.

“I don’t want to implicate someone who might be far from a murderer.”

MacFarlane instructed the driver to take Maisie to her lodgings, where she went straight to her room and spread the case map across the desk. She drew a line between several names, jotted in another, and stood back to consider her work. She noted information she had gleaned from the young woman known as Rosemary Linden, and added a line under Francesca Thomas’ name. Tomorrow she would attend the debate, and on Friday she would drive to London. A conversation with Miss Hawthorne revealed that Dr. Thomas had mentioned arriving in London at mid-morning to conduct research for her paper at the British Library. Knowing that the best liars often disguise their tales with an element of truth, Maisie planned to be outside Liverpool Street station by mid-morning at the latest. And this time she was determined not to lose her.

M
aisie left her landlady’s bicycle tethered to a tree some yards from the Cambridge Union, then stood to watch the audience of students and academic staff file into the venue for the first debate. She noticed a couple of men she thought to be journalists, and then saw a deep-maroon motor car draw up outside.

Dunstan Headley emerged from the vehicle, followed by his son and Matthias Roth. Some of the onlookers were craning their heads to see who the important guests might be, and as Maisie scanned the line of people, she saw Delphine Lang, alone, waiting along with everyone else.

A contingent of supporters from the College of St. Francis waved their green scarves in the air, and soon Maisie caught sight of Francesca Thomas. She was not queuing with the students but had drawn back as if to watch the opening salvo of a battle. She was smoking a cigarette, and when she was ready to enter the building, she threw it to the ground to extinguish the smoldering tobacco. Maisie smiled as she watched her deftly flick the half-smoked cigarette to the ground.

Offering apologies to those already seated, Maisie squeezed into a place close to the end of one of the long red-leather seats, some rows back from the benches where the debating teams were situated. She had a fair view of the lectern, and, in her estimation, the debate teams seemed as comfortable as they could be while anticipating victory for their college. The hall was full; other debates would soon be under way at other university locations, but in the draw the College of St. Francis had been fortunate in being selected to present its case in the home of debate at the University of Cambridge.

Soon the Union’s president stood to introduce the teams and the motion, and invited the first speaker from the College of St. Francis to the lectern. Maisie was surprised to see that it was one of her students, and she leaned forward to better hear his arguments for the adoption of a national socialism in Britain, based upon the tenets of the National Socialist Party in Germany. She thought his reasoning, while somewhat idealistic, showed a good deal of preparation, and he presented his points in a manner that was succinct and accessible to an audience comprising quite a few people from outside the many colleges in the city. And she would have been disappointed if he had not demonstrated such idealism, for he was yet to reach twenty-one; youth without optimism, without a strong sense of the possible, would represent a very sad state of affairs. As she listened, she realized how much she had invested in her work at the college—on behalf of her students, and in the service of His Majesty’s government. She was enjoying the former more than she might have imagined, despite the distractions of her remit.

The young man spent some twenty minutes making his argument, and ended with a statement that brought with it a round of enthusiastic applause. “National Socialism is the way. There is no other political philosophy that will deliver us from the social stranglehold of our system of lords and serfs, and there is no other party that would protect our shores, while bringing prosperity and security to those of Anglo-Saxon stock.” He bowed to the audience, some of whom were on their feet before being called to order.

The student representing the opposition took his turn at the lectern, and proceeded to press the beliefs his team represented, that National Socialism was fascism by any other name, with a sole purpose to undermine British life as it had been lived for centuries. Again the student spoke for twenty minutes, and seemed distracted as he pushed his spectacles back up towards the bridge of his nose, then fiddled with them as they slipped down again. He thumped the lectern at one point, and looked directly at the next speaker, Robson Headley, who seemed relaxed as he lounged with one leg crossed over the other, an elbow resting along the crest of the leather-backed bench. Maisie was surprised to notice that Delphine Lang had managed to sit behind Headley. Dunstan Headley was at the end of the same row, and did not seem pleased—he was glaring at Lang.

Robson Headley was invited to the lectern to give a closing argument on behalf of his team. He stood as if he had all the time in the world, and moved to the place vacated by the opposition’s first representative. He opened a paper that Maisie supposed he might refer to, and at that moment she felt a tremor of foreboding. She looked into his eyes and saw a flash of something she could not have put into words. Was it a look of resolve, of vehemence, of blind adherence to his beliefs? Was it defiance? She sensed that he was not about to give a speech with a view to winning the debate with honor, but instead had stepped up with an intention to set the hall afire with his rhetoric—and she hoped that she was wrong. It was as if that foreboding had leached under her skin and into her bones, because as Headley began to speak, she felt fear grip her heart.

While he repeated many of the main arguments that his fellow team member had put forward, there was a passion to his words that both attracted and repelled the audience over the course of his allotted twenty minutes. As he spoke, repeatedly hitting his fist against the lectern with every point made, Maisie saw people sitting on the edge of their seats, leaning forward over the balcony; many appeared intimidated, glancing at exits, as if ready to run. Robson Headley thumped the lectern again.

“My argument, gentlemen, is that our country deserves nothing less than national socialism, and that if we had the opportunity we would be well served by a man such as Herr Adolf Hitler standing for our nation as our leader.” He paused, his eyes roaming up to the balcony, and then to the gallery behind him. “I can make no more forthright statement on behalf of the motion than the following.” He stood to one side, snapped his heels, and raised his right hand in a straight-armed salute. “Heil Hitler!”

Maisie put her head in her hands, but looked up again when a female voice echoed Robson Headley. “Heil Hitler!” Delphine Lang stood to attention. And Dunstan Headley stared at his son with a deep disdain, and then at Lang with a hatred so fierce that Maisie thought Lang must feel as if she had been burned. The elder Headley turned and left the hall, which had erupted in a mixture of boos and cheers. Maisie looked along the row of seats to Matthias Roth, who sat motionless. She could see he was in a state of shock. And then he, too, left the hall, though in his eyes there was not hatred, but tears of deep sorrow.

Maisie left her seat and walked to the exit, turning once to look upon Robson Headley as he swaggered back to his seat. She did not care if the motion was carried or not, whether the opposing team’s second speaker made a good argument or failed to carry the day. She had already seen much that she thought was not in the interests of the country she had served in a war still too easily remembered.