A Lesson in Secrets (5 page)

Chapter Four

H
ow are you, Miss Dobbs?” inquired Sandra, when Maisie telephoned the office from Cambridge the following morning.

Maisie worried that Sandra’s cheery tone sounded forced but thought it best to answer in the same vein. “Very well, though I could have chosen a quieter hotel, I must say. The good news is that I have been offered the position—if Dr. Blanche were here, he would be thrilled.” Again, the subterfuge came with ease. “I’ll be back in London late this afternoon, after I’ve found somewhere to live while I’m here. Is everything all right? Did that new client, Mr. Trent, call again yesterday?”

“Yes, and Mr. Beale spoke to him.”

“Mr. Beale?”

“Well, as you know, he came back early from hop-picking. Mrs. Beale wasn’t feeling very well, so they returned on Saturday.”

“How is she now—do you know?”

“I think it’s just that it’s the last month. They say it’s the worst; all you want is for it to be over and done with. Not that I’d know anything about having babies.”

Maisie heard a catch in her voice and it struck her that, of course, she and Eric had expected to start a family; Sandra had probably hoped to have a child soon.

“Is Mr. Beale there?”

“No. I expect he’s got his hands full.”

“Yes, of course. Well, when he comes in, tell him I’ll be back later. Everything else all right?”

“There was a telephone call from Canada. It was very strange, the operator saying she had Mr. Compton on the line for Miss Dobbs, but it was as if she was talking through cardboard, and her voice kept coming and going.”

“Yes, that happens on those telephone calls.”

“Anyway, I told her you were out and she said ‘Thank you’ and went.”

“He doesn’t know there’s a telephone at home yet.”

Maisie was aware that she had referred to James Compton as “he”—and she knew it was because she did not want to use his title. As the son of a man who had several titles—but who preferred to be known simply as “Lord Julian Compton”—and a mother who laid claim to her own title, James had been bestowed the title “Viscount Compton,” a form of address that Maisie found both fussy and intimidating. Upon his father’s death he would inherit titles and lands, yet she knew that in certain circles—especially in commercial circles, and more particularly when on business in Canada—James was happy to introduce himself as “Mr. Compton,” even though those he met knew exactly who he was.

“Oh, speaking of the telephone at home, Mr. Beale came round to the flat to check the new line you’ve had put in. He knows some of the engineers who installed lines around the Pimlico area, so he was able to get into a junction box—or something like that—and check the lines from there.”

“Did he find anything untoward?”

“He said he wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but he thought you should be careful about what you say on the telephone. He had his mate with him, and they said it looked like someone had been working on that box who wasn’t a proper GPO engineer. It was clear enough to see, he said, because you don’t have a party line.”

“No, I wanted a private line to my flat—frankly, more for personal telephone calls. Anyway, point taken. I’ll speak to Billy about it when I see him.”

H
aving looked at three vacant rooms, Maisie paid a deposit to the landlady of a boarding house closer to the center of Cambridge, yet within easy reach of the College of St. Francis. Though she could now afford much more comfortable surroundings, she did not want to seem ostentatious. In any case, her room—the front bedroom in a double-fronted Edwardian villa with large bay windows and a staircase that swept up through the center of the house to the two floors above—was clean and comfortable. There was a double bed with a floral eiderdown and counterpane, an armchair with a slightly worn floral cover—which did not match the counterpane or the eiderdown—and a desk in the corner with an angle-poise lamp. She hoped it would help to throw light on whatever Huntley and MacFarlane suspected might be going on at St. Francis College that was “not in the interests of the Crown.”

Her lodgings secured with a deposit and one month’s rent, Maisie thought she would meander around Cambridge—a walk down memory lane to some of the places she’d enjoyed when she was a student at Girton College. Her early days there did not afford the opportunity to socialize much beyond the college, though Priscilla had certainly accepted every invitation that came her way and seemed to know a great number of people. So many of those young men, including Priscilla’s three brothers, had died in the war. Maisie walked along the Backs, watching a younger set larking around on punts. They were just boys, she thought.
All just boys.

She continued on her walk, looking in shopwindows and leafing through magazines in a newsagent’s, before deciding it was time to drive back to London. She remembered a shortcut between a row of houses, across a bridge, and then a park. It was as she set foot in the park that she noticed a young couple holding hands under a tree. They might not have attracted her attention at all had not Delphine Lang’s blond hair caught her eye. Maisie moved into the shadow of a tree to continue on her way—she did not want Lang to see her, as it was clear that this was an assignation Lang and her male friend were trying to keep secret by meeting in a park used, for the most part, by local people. She could not avoid, however, noticing that Delphine Lang was weeping and that her male friend had drawn her to him to soothe her.

I
t was on Maisie’s final day in the office before her departure for Cambridge that Geoffrey Tinsley came to Fitzroy Square.

“I thought I would come over with the book you asked me to acquire for you. I was lucky to find a copy, you know.” The bookseller—whom Maisie had first met at his bookshop on Charing Cross Road while working on a case at the end of the previous year—unwrapped a book with a burgundy cloth cover. There was no dust jacket, but the front was embossed with an illustration of three children standing together, looking up at a soldier. Behind the soldier were rows of crosses diminishing in size to suggest a battlefield cemetery.

Maisie took the book from him and ran her hand across the cover.

“Rather startled me, to tell you the truth,” said Tinsley. “I had heard of Liddicote’s children’s books—indeed, we have several on our shelves—but this one is very hard to come by. I obtained it from an overseas dealer—quite a stroke of luck—that’s why it’s taken me a while since your inquiry; almost all copies were taken out of circulation.”

Maisie turned the pages, drawn to the stark illustrations depicting first a family receiving news of a father lost, then in the next chapter, a gathering of children. Another showed the children sailing for France, with the caption “Poor little mites—looking for their fathers.”

“Some of the pages are foxed, and there’s that damp smell—it will eventually abate if you leave the book where it can get some air, but I would caution you not to leave it exposed to the light. Don’t put it out on a table near the window, that sort of thing. I didn’t provide a new jacket, as I knew you would want to see the embossing, but I can certainly have the cover boards wrapped for you.”

“Not to worry, I can do that.”

“It’s an interesting book, considering the trouble it caused.”

Maisie looked up. “I’ve heard something about the ‘trouble,’ but I wonder what you’ve heard.”

Tinsley shrugged. “Well, as you know, copies were withdrawn from distribution under government order, and I understand that there was talk of the author being charged with sedition. It clearly didn’t come to that—I think everyone wanted the book’s reputation to be swept under the carpet. But there’s a rumor attached to the book—a couple, actually.”

“Go on.”

“The first is that Greville Liddicote was not the author. The second rumor is that this book was at the heart of a mutiny on the Western Front, in 1916 or ’17.”

“A mutiny?”

“It’s just talk—such things are covered up, everyone sworn to secrecy and that sort of thing. If mutinies happened, there will never be any public knowledge of them: well, certainly not in our lifetime.” He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I must be going. I left a note on the door that I would be back by one o’clock, and if I don’t dash now, I will be late. It’s not that I’m crushed by customers trying to get into my shop, but I don’t want to miss the one customer of the day who is waiting for me to return on time.”

Maisie looked across towards her new secretary. “Sandra, would you settle Mr. Tinsley’s bill from petty cash?”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”

When the bookseller had left, Maisie sat down, unable to dismiss the urge to begin reading the book written by Greville Liddicote that had caused so much trouble.

“This envelope was delivered for you while you were talking to Mr. Tinsley.” Sandra passed a brown envelope towards Maisie.

“Ah, yes, I think this is what I’ve been waiting for. By the way, what time will Mr. Beale be back in the office?”

“He said by two—he’s had to go over to see someone in connection with the Richards case.”

“Good. You should pop out for something to eat, Sandra.”

“Thank you, Miss.” Sandra placed a brown cloth cover over her typewriter; gathered her hat, jacket, and gloves; and left the office. “I’ll see you in half an hour, then. Would you like me to bring you something, Miss?”

“No, not to worry—I’ll go out myself later; there’ll be something at the dairy that takes my fancy.” Maisie smiled at Sandra. “What time will you be leaving to go to the Partridges?”

“Not until later on today, but he wants me to stay on for a while this evening, if I can. He says he’s got a deadline.”

When Sandra had left the office, Maisie picked up the paper knife on her desk and slit open the large envelope. She’d already received similar communications, in plain envelopes at her request, from several building firms—Taylor Woodrow, George Wimpey, and John Laing among them. This letter, from a smaller company building new houses in the Borough of Woolwich, “
within easy commuting distance of the City
,” opened with thanks for her inquiry and stated that the “show home” on an estate of new family houses in which she had expressed interest—Tudor-style semidetached properties complete with indoor plumbing and gardens front and back—was now ready for viewing. It went on to add that Eltham was a wonderful town for family life, offering the Eltham Park Lido and numerous parks. Just one pound down and twenty-five pounds at completion of contracts would secure a home for “today’s family.” A personal note added that her specific question regarding a greater deposit to reduce mortgage repayments had been noted, and on a separate sheet she could peruse the figures, which made home ownership a possibility “
for almost any modern family.
”

“And that’s a downright lie!” said Maisie aloud to herself, as she thought of the many men she saw on the streets each day, walking from factory to factory, from the docks to the building sites—men wearing out shoe leather looking for work. But there was only one family she had in mind for a new house, a family about to add one more mouth to feed, a family with a father too proud to accept “other people’s charity.” She had been the recipient of great generosity when her mentor, Dr. Maurice Blanche, died; in his will he had left her almost his entire estate. She was now in a position to help her assistant. But until she had worked out how she might open the discussion with Billy once again, she would have to keep her plans to herself.

S
ettling into her new lodgings and college life came more easily than Maisie expected. Her preparations served her well, and at the end of the first week—during which time she had taught three classes each day, and had been able to reintroduce herself to other members of staff during morning coffee and afternoon tea in the staff room—she was summoned to a meeting with Greville Liddicote. When she arrived at his secretary’s office, she could hear Rosemary Linden speaking on the telephone, so she stepped back to wait in the corridor. Sound echoed from the office, which had frosted glass windows atop dark wood wainscoting facing the corridor.

“I am terribly sorry, Professor Larkin, but Dr. Liddicote couldn’t meet with you this morning after all.” There was a pause. “Yes, I know it’s urgent, and I have conveyed your message that you wish to see him at his earliest convenience . . . Yes . . . yes, indeed, sir, I will most certainly . . . of course . . . Dr. Liddicote is completely aware of the urgency of the sit—Thank you, I’ll tell him.”

The call having ended, Maisie waited a moment, then knocked on the office door.

“Ah, yes, Miss Dobbs,” said Rosemary Linden. “Dr. Liddicote is in conference at the moment, so you’ll have to wait outside—he’ll be finished soon, I daresay, and it’s the best place to wait to avoid someone else weaseling in before you. Everyone seems to think that what they have to say is urgent today.” The previously dour secretary seemed to have softened somewhat, now that Maisie was a member of staff. Though she wasn’t what might be termed “pally,” she appeared more inclined to greet Maisie with a “Good morning” and a smile.

There was a plain, dark oak settle with needlepoint cushions outside Liddicote’s office, and Maisie waited here for his meeting to end. She took four exercise books from her new leather briefcase and began to read through essays submitted by the morning class, but became distracted when the mumble of voices from Liddicote’s office became louder and more urgent. She could not make out the cause of the argument, only the harsh tones as two men argued.

“You’re a fool, Roth, if you think that—”

“Dr. Liddicote, far be it from me to say this, but it is you who are the fool.”

As the voices were raised, Miss Linden emerged from her office and walked briskly to Liddicote’s door, knocked, and stepped just inside the room. Maisie kept her eyes on her work.

“Miss Dobbs is waiting for you, Dr. Liddicote.”

“Yes, of course. Roth, do not do anything until I have considered this further.”

Maisie heard a sound that she thought was Roth snapping his heels as he emerged from the room, ignoring Maisie as he walked along the corridor and out into the grounds. It took no special observation skills to see that Roth held within him both anger and disappointment, for there were tears in his eyes.