A Lesson in Secrets (26 page)

“What did you think he might do?”

“I thought he might withdraw his money from the college. I thought he would have nothing to do with Liddicote ever again, so the college would fail—and then where would the famous, world-renowned author be? No college, no job, no reputation. No nothing.”

“What happened when you told him?”

“He was so angry, I thought the top of his head would just explode. He was furious, but the part that really must have caught in his craw was the fact that Liddicote had taken a woman’s work to bolster his reputation and his coffers, and Martin Headley paid the price and was labeled a mutineer and a coward. And the cause of all this was a woman who wanted to excuse her coward husband’s absence in a story—well, that’s how he must have seen my father.”

“Then?”

She shrugged. “He went flying off, his coat flapping, with those bits of gray hair at the side of his head spiraling up in the air with the breeze. He went into Liddicote’s office through the French doors—they were open—and I suppose that’s when . . . well, that’s when he killed Liddicote.”

Maisie nodded. “And how do you feel about that?”

Alice turned her head to look out of the window at her family; Ursula was seated on her chair, her sketchbook in hand, watercolors on a small table at her side. The younger siblings were working in the garden, and her older brother was engaged in repairing a part of the fence. She looked back at Maisie.

“I went to the college wanting to kill Greville Liddicote and I found I couldn’t do such a thing—it was a stupid, childish idea. But I burned with hatred for him, if you can understand that. So, am I sorry? No, I can’t say I am, entirely. But I am sorry about what came to pass in another way, Miss Dobbs.” She stopped talking as the words caught in her throat.

“Go on, Alice.” Maisie set down her cup.

“My father would have been so very disappointed in me. He would have been . . . so sad. He was a pacifist, you see. He did not care for killing. We hardly ever had meat on the table, not simply because there was rarely enough money, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of animals being killed. He died because he did not believe that one person should take the life of another, so I am haunted by what I did. I might not have done whatever Dunstan Headley had to do to kill Dr. Liddicote, but I am just as much to blame. As I said, part of me thinks, ‘Good riddance, you deserved it all.’ And the other thinks, ‘Oh, poor man.’ ”

O
n the road back to Cambridge, Maisie wondered whether MacFarlane and Stratton were still at the Old Fenland Mill, or whether they had returned to Scotland Yard. For his part, Stratton hated being apart from his son. She hoped they had decided to remain in Cambridge until at least next week, for she wanted to see them both on a matter of some urgency.

Chapter Nineteen

A
ccording to the landlord at the Old Fenland Mill, the gentlemen had returned to London, but were expected back in Cambridge on Monday—they had asked for their rooms to be held for another week. Maisie thanked the man and was about to leave when the aroma of cooking coming from the kitchen caught her senses; she decided to take supper at the inn and gather her thoughts. Having ordered a half-pint of cider and a plate of beef pie and potatoes, she took her drink over to a seat by the window, which was ajar. As she settled herself, she heard her name called.

“Miss Dobbs! Miss Dobbs! Would you care to join us?”

Maisie looked up in the direction of the voice, and saw her student Daniel, with a group from her second-year class. They raised their glasses in her direction, so she took up her drink and joined them, leaving her jacket on her chair so she could return to her seat to eat supper when it was served.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen—I won’t squeal on you, but I know that at least one of your number shouldn’t be in this hostelry. College rules are stricter than the laws of the land when it comes to pubs.” Maisie smiled as she seated herself on the chair Daniel had pulled up for her.

“We know you won’t tell, Miss Dobbs. And we’re doing nothing to give the college a bad name,” offered Daniel, raising his glass to his lips.

“Have you all made the most of your days off?” Maisie smiled again to let them know she was teasing—just a little. “I’ll be checking my pigeonhole tomorrow morning before the memorial service, and I do believe I should see a number of completed essays waiting for my attention.”

One of the students reddened, while another claimed he worked better at the last moment, so although his essay had not been delivered, it would be there in the morning. Maisie raised an eyebrow at the young man. “On a Sunday morning? When I know very well there’s a dance at the hall along the road this evening—I’m surprised you’re not there already.”

“Just a quick one before we go, Miss Dobbs,” said Daniel.

The others laughed, then went quiet. It appeared they did not know quite what to say with one of their teachers in their midst. It was Daniel, again, who broke the silence.

“Do you think the police will be at the college much longer, Miss Dobbs? They seem to have been there a long time, and done a lot of questioning.”

Maisie cleared her throat, knowing she had been put on the spot. “A sudden heart attack always leaves questions, especially when it’s someone who is well known, so a lingering inquiry isn’t unusual. And I understand the policemen concerned have other business in the city.”

The students looked at each other, while another, Frederick Sanger, voiced his opinion. “They’re probably trying to find out who upset old Liddy so much that his heart just gave out.”

“Well, they don’t have to go far for that, do they, Freddie?” said Daniel. “We all know who was upset, and who did the upsetting.”

Maisie sipped her cider, not wanting to appear too interested. She set down her glass. “Oh dear, being a lecturer means I am never privy to the real goings on that you students see—come on, put a poor teacher out of her misery and tell me who you’re talking about.” She turned to Daniel. “What’s all this about people upsetting each other? The College of St. Francis is supposed to be about peace.”

“And it is!” Another student, Rebecca Inglesson, looked at Daniel, then Frederick. “
We’re
all having a wonderful time being peaceful together.”

Maisie laughed, now wondering whether the comment that had piqued her interest was made in jest, or whether there was substance to it. “I take it that no one is really upset, then?”

Daniel reached for his beer and took another sip. “Oh no, there was a huge upset on the day Liddy died, wasn’t there, Fred?” He looked back at Maisie. “We were walking along the corridor, you know, towards Liddy’s office, when we saw the puppy dog coming bounding along from the opposite direction.”

“Puppy dog?” asked Maisie.

“Now you’ve done it, Danny,” said Rebecca, who had not touched her drink since Maisie had questioned the wisdom of one or two of their number being in the pub.

Daniel turned to Maisie. “You know who I mean, Miss Dobbs.” He pulled a clump of his swept-back hair over his forehead and took a pair of spectacles from the nose of another student and put them on, executing what Maisie thought a very good impression. “Puppy dog bounding to see the adored master.”

Maisie nodded. “Oh, yes, of course—don’t let any other member of staff see you do that or you will be hauled over the coals.”

“Oh, Dr. Thomas is much better than I when it comes to mimicking the puppy dog—not a lot of love lost there!”

She raised an eyebrow again, then made another attempt at pressing Daniel to continue his story. “So, what happened when you met in the corridor?”

He shook his head. “Oh, we didn’t meet, but we saw him listening at the door. He seemed very agitated, you know, flushed and angry—I really don’t think he even saw us, he was so upset. He might have been alarmed because of the shouting—it’s not what you want to hear at the college, is it? Not very peaceful, eh? Even I could hear it, and I was a few steps away—and that door is pretty heavy, but there was someone inside shouting about Ursula someone-or-other, and ‘fraud’ this and ‘fake’ that and—here’s the bit that I thought was a bit thick, ‘killer by any other name—and just for the money!’ Our puppy dog must have heard everything before the shouting stopped. Then he entered Dr. Liddicote’s room without knocking. Of course, we just went on our way, but from what I know about the time of Liddy’s heart attack, that was what must have done it. Funny, we didn’t see anyone come out, you know, before our pup went in with teeth bared.” Daniel pretended to growl, to much mirth among the students, then turned to Maisie. “I say, Miss Dobbs, I do hope I haven’t gone too far there—I’m terribly sorry if I offended you.”

Maisie smiled, though she found the expression difficult to maintain. “Not at all—I pushed you to tell.” At that point, the landlord called out to her, and she stood up to leave the group; the young men also stood as a matter of courtesy. “Now, you must all have a very good time at your dance—and, Rebecca, try to stick to something lighter than ale. I expect I’ll see you all at the service tomorrow.”

The students nodded in agreement, and made ready to leave the inn. Maisie settled back into her place in the seat by the window. She checked the clock behind the bar, picked up her plate, and approached the bar.

“Something wrong, Miss?”

“Oh, no, it looks lovely. Look, I have to nip out for a moment—could you put a plate over this and keep it warm for me? I’ll be back in about ten minutes. I have to make an urgent telephone call.”

“Right you are, Miss. We’ll put some fresh gravy on it as well—and I’ll make sure you get the same seat by the window.”

Maisie thanked the landlord and hurried out of the inn and along the street to the telephone kiosk. She hoped MacFarlane was in situ—she had heard along the grapevine that the detective had several lady friends and was often not to be found at his home. She dialed the number for Scotland Yard and was put through to MacFarlane’s department.

“He’s not here, Miss Dobbs, but I know where to find him.”

“Don’t tell me, The Cuillins of Skye.”

“Well, I shouldn’t really say, but—”

“It’s his favorite watering hole; I know that much about him. They have a telephone there—do you have the number, or do I have to waste time finding it out?”

“That’s all right, Miss—here it is.”

Maisie jotted down the number, thanked the policeman, and placed a call to the pub where MacFarlane spent many an hour after the working day—which was always long for the detective chief superintendent. After a wait of several moments while the landlord went off to find MacFarlane, she soon heard his voice booming in the background, instructing his drinking partners to put their hands in their hole-ridden pockets and get another round in.

“MacFarlane! And it had better be good.”

“Good evening, Robbie.”

“What have you got for me, lass?”

“Greville Liddicote’s murderer.”

M
acFarlane and Stratton arrived by motor car before dawn the following morning. Maisie had made a special request for a private breakfast for three in the dining room before the other lodgers came down. The landlady had begun to complain, but was of a cheerier disposition when Maisie mentioned the fee she would pay for the trouble of providing for her colleagues.

“At least you don’t try to sneak men home with you of a night, that’s all I can say.”

MacFarlane asked Maisie to recount her findings that had led to their conversation the night before. “The lads had finished off a couple of rounds before I took my seat again after that telephone call from you!” added MacFarlane, before Maisie repeated the account for Stratton. The three remained in the room for some time, with MacFarlane and Stratton going back to their notes taken during the investigation, and once again consulting the pathologist’s report on Greville Liddicote’s postmortem.

“Do you have any doubt, Maisie?” asked Stratton.

“I sometimes think there’s always room for doubt. I had almost made up my mind in another direction.”

“You shouldn’t have been making up your mind either way, Maisie—you have another job to do.”

“And I’m doing it—I just happened to come across more than any of us bargained for.”

Stratton shook his head. “We thought we’d interviewed everyone, yet we missed your student Daniel and a couple of others. For goodness sake, why didn’t that Miss Hawthorne tell us that some of the students had gone off to London for a day or two?”

“In her defense, they sneaked off—they should have informed the office of their intentions; it’s a college rule, and they are not children but responsible adults. They’re supposed to register when they are in and out and when they are away from Cambridge, in case of emergencies.”

“They’re being brought here for further questioning—I don’t want to alert anyone over at the college before I’m ready.” MacFarlane sighed. “What time does the memorial service start?”

“After Sunday services, so around noon, with a procession leaving the college for the church—Dr. Roth thought it would be an appropriate honor to go to the service en masse, hand in hand, in memory of Liddicote’s dearest wish that the peoples of the world are never put asunder again.”

“Well, there’s going to be some asundering this afternoon.”

“When will you make the arrest?” asked Maisie.

“I hate these religious meetings, really I do.” MacFarlane wiped his plate with the remaining wedge of fried bread. “We’ll wait until everyone has left the church afterward, and then make our move.”

Maisie nodded.

“But you won’t be there, Maisie,” he added.

“What do you mean, I—”

MacFarlane looked at Stratton. “Would you see if that dear lady wouldn’t mind making up a plate for our good man behind the wheel out there—I’ll bet he’s so hungry he could shake hands with his backbone.” Stratton looked from his superior to Maisie, and left the room. As soon as he heard the door close, MacFarlane continued. “Orders from Huntley. Directly the service is over you will return to London. He wants to see you.”

“But—”

“But,
no
. You’re playing a different game, Maisie. This is not your arrest, though we couldn’t have done it without you. You’re working for the funnies now, and once you’ve worked for them, they’ll be keeping tabs on you. They want you out of the way while we do our job, then you come back to the college tomorrow afternoon clean as a whistle, though as far as I can see, you’ve done as much as you can here.”

“I think so—though there is a term to finish.”

MacFarlane threw his table napkin down, pushed back his chair, and stood up. “You’ve done a good job, lass. I know how you must feel, but this is police work. Now, eat up that breakfast, or you’ll waste away.”

M
atthias Roth led the procession of staff and students to the church, with one of the students carrying the college flag high enough for all around to see. In rich color and intricate embroidery, Saint Francis of Assisi was depicted with the face of a cherub and a bright halo above his head. His long, brown robe appeared on the flag as if made of silk, and he was surrounded by woodland animals, with a white dove at rest on his outstretched hand. Underneath the image of the saint for whom the college was named, the words
Make me an instrument of peace
had been woven into the fabric.

Roth was flanked by Alan Burnham and Dunstan Headley, and behind them walked Robson Headley along with other benefactors, followed by college staff. Francesca Thomas was as elegant as ever in a black dress with a matching jacket and black heeled shoes, while Delphine Lang, in a black dress of fine gauzy fabric over silk, seemed almost ethereal with her fair hair drawn back in a chignon. Maisie joined the other staff members and students, and as they filed into the church, at the back she saw the Thurlow family seated in a pew, with Ursula alongside in her wheelchair. She smiled at Maisie and nodded, while Alice sat stone-faced.

Dunstan Headley eulogized Greville Liddicote, and spoke of his deep abiding love of humanity: the love that inspired him to write a simple children’s book that touched the hearts of soldiers on both sides of war’s divide. Then Matthias Roth stepped forward to read the Prayer of St. Francis. Maisie looked around the congregation as words from the prayer filtered through.

. . . grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand;

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned . . .

She was aware of some movement towards the back of the church and turned to see that MacFarlane had arrived alone. He did not seek out a place to be seated, but stood with his head bowed and his hands clasping the hat he had removed upon entering the church.