A Lesson in Secrets (7 page)

“No, that’s all right, I’ve got my bicycle. I’ll be in my office, when you’re ready.” Linden turned and left the room.

“Poor wee mite, it’s not right when a young woman like that has to come across a murder.” MacFarlane shook his head as he moved towards Liddicote’s body and peered down into his face.

“She thinks it was a heart attack, and she’s kept her head—I dread to think what we would be dealing with now had she not had such a good measure of common sense.”

Stratton had said little beyond greeting Maisie and seemed uncomfortable in her presence, and yet it was clear he was pleased to see her. Since they first met, some three years earlier, Maisie had known that Stratton, who had shown himself to be a shy man in matters of a personal nature, was fond of her. He was a widower with a young son and a job that demanded work at all hours. And though their exchanges had sometimes become heated when their work brought them into contact with each other, he remained fond of her, and she was sure he had heard she was being courted by James Compton. It was now clear that he was embarrassed at having revealed his emotions in such an obvious manner.

After the pathologist arrived, Maisie took the opportunity to engage Stratton in conversation, though her attempt at rendering the atmosphere a little easier was not helped by MacFarlane.

“How’s your son—he must be, what, eight years old now?”

“Growing fast, eating me out of house and home. But he’s doing well at school, though I’ve thought about sending him to a boarding school—my hours, you see.”

Maisie shook her head. “No, don’t, try to keep him at home—your mother lends a hand, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, she’s a great help.”

“I was sent away after my mother died—admittedly, I was older, and it wasn’t for school—but I missed my father very much, especially having lost my mother.”

“You do know you’re speaking to a woman who’s affianced, don’t you?” MacFarlane interjected, having left the pathologist and his assistant for a moment.

“Take no notice, Richard, he’s having you on—I am not engaged.”

“It’s only a matter of time, according to my sources.”

“Wouldn’t your sources be better employed on police work?” Maisie threw the tease back at MacFarlane, though she was annoyed that he would try to embarrass both her and Stratton.

“And what if it was police work?” replied MacFarlane.

“Sir—” Stratton touched MacFarlane on the arm to let him know the pathologist had begun to put away his instruments and had instructed his assistants to prepare Greville Liddicote’s body for removal.

The pathologist, Tom Sarron, joined them. He was a tall man, thin, with a serious look about him that reminded Maisie of other scientists she had met in the course of her work. When he entered the office, he had taken off his jacket to reveal shirtsleeves already rolled up, and the white coat he donned was freshly laundered, still with creases where it had been starched and pressed. Sarron had moved around the body with reverence, and Maisie had heard him talk to Liddicote, even make a light joke, as if the dead man’s soul were still present and watching.

“Anything we don’t know?” asked MacFarlane.

Sarron shook his head. “Not really. The deceased seemed in fair condition for his age, but even a twenty-year-old pugilist with a strong neck musculature would have struggled to survive this sort of attack—sudden, immediate severing of spinal cord, severe damage to brain stem, with arterial and vascular damage.”

“Had to be a strong person.”

Again Sarron shook his head. “No, don’t assume strength. It’s the technique. If someone is swift, the attack unexpected, the angle just right, and the perpetrator knows exactly where to place their hands and how to do it—it’s not in the strength but in the execution.” He looked up and half-smiled. “Sorry about the pun. I always seem to do that.”

“Aye, you do. We’ll be calling you Sorry Sarron before long.” MacFarlane turned to Maisie and Stratton. “Any immediate questions, before I let this good man and his boys go on their merry way?”

They replied “No” in unison, though Maisie noticed that as the pathologist made ready to leave the room, Stratton stepped towards him. “Oh, just a minute, Tom—got a question for you.” She did not hear the question Stratton put to the pathologist, as MacFarlane chose that moment to ask her if she wouldn’t mind bringing Miss Linden in for a few moments.

A
ccording to Rosemary Linden, she had been working for Greville Liddicote as college secretary for almost two years, during which time she was responsible for matters of college administration, although a bookkeeper, Miss Hawthorne, came in weekly to work on the accounts.

“I know Dr. Liddicote saw Dr. Roth and Dr. Thomas earlier today—and of course I had a short meeting with him—but who else came to see him?” Maisie took care to appear relaxed, not least to set a certain tone for the interview, so MacFarlane did not trample ahead and intimidate the young woman.

“Several students, and Miss Lang.”

“Delphine Lang?” asked MacFarlane, casting his eyes down a list of names.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“When did these meetings take place?”

“I generally go to the post office just after lunch, which is when he has student meetings, and Miss Lang went in to see him—but she had wanted to see him in the morning, and when I came back from the post office, I saw her in the corridor and asked if she’d managed to pop in and see him, and she said that everything was all right, so I assume she went in after the students.” Linden looked from Maisie to MacFarlane. “If you’re trying to work out when he had the heart attack, it must have been about three-ish. I come back from doing the post at about a quarter past three, and by the time I went along to see him, it must have been, oh, half past three. I didn’t stay long, and just came out of the office straightaway to look for Miss Dobbs in the staff room.”

Maisie nodded. It had been roughly a quarter to four when Linden had arrived in the staff room.

“In these cases,” said MacFarlane, his voice grave, “we try to ascertain the reason for a heart attack, if some level of anguish or worry had caused the heart to spasm.” He did not look at Maisie, who wondered if Miss Linden would fall for his explanation. “Do you know of any concerns that might have brought on the heart attack? Or had Dr. Liddicote had any arguments with members of staff or the students here?”

Linden shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Which is to say—what? That he often had arguments or times of worry? Or there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he had any untoward concerns?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Linden looked from Maisie to MacFarlane, and again directed her response to Maisie. “He and Dr. Roth were often rowing about something or another, but that was just the way they were with each other. Dr. Roth is Dr. Liddicote’s right-hand man, and he’s also deputy principal. He has lots of new ideas and wants the college to be a bigger, more important, concern.”

“And Dr. Liddicote didn’t?”

“He did—and he didn’t. Dr. Roth once said the ship was no bigger than the captain at the helm—and he was ready for a bigger vessel.”

A few more questions were put to Linden, who, when asked, grudgingly agreed to bring the personal files for both teaching and nonacademic staff.

“They’re private and confidential, you know,” said Linden.

“We’re the police, lass, so di’nae worry y’self. And I’ll have one of my men accompany you home.”

“Please don’t, I am quite able—”

“It’s settled.” He turned in his chair to the plainclothes policeman standing at the door. “See this young lady gets home in one piece, Harris.”

Linden left the room and returned with Roth’s file. “When will the staff and students be told that Dr. Liddicote has passed away?”

“I daresay there will be an announcement tomorrow,” offered Maisie. “Mr. MacFarlane here will be informing Dr. Roth as soon as possible.”

As Linden left the room, MacFarlane looked at Maisie. “Stripping me of my hard-earned title now?”

“I didn’t want to scare the wits out of her—how often do senior officers from Special Branch get involved in heart attacks?”

A
fter the body was removed and Miss Linden had left the college, MacFarlane, Stratton, and Maisie planned to leave separately so as not to draw the attention of any students or staff remaining at the college. A police forensic specialist would remain for some time, combing the room—everything from fibers in the carpet to the leather on the desk and the dust on the shelves—to ensure that anything out of the ordinary was captured and logged. The room would be locked overnight, and a policeman would remain on duty—inside the room, so as not to attract attention.

Sitting opposite Maisie in the chair that Liddicote had occupied at the time of his death, MacFarlane sighed before speaking. “Maisie, I know this will not be welcome news, but you will not be involved directly in the search for Greville Liddicote’s murderer. Your position here is as a lecturer in phil-bloody-osophy—and what kind of worker is that supposed to turn out, I wonder?” He looked at Stratton, who had pulled up another chair, then turned back to Maisie. “Anyway, you are here on behalf of Huntley’s department in the first instance, and that position must not be open to doubt or be compromised in any way.”

“But—”

MacFarlane held up his hand. “Hold your horses, I’ve not come to the end of my soliloquy.” He sighed, then went on. “But, on the other hand, you are in the best position to find out what’s going on. Stratton will be in charge of finding the killer, so any leads you uncover that will help him will doubtless be gratefully received—so channel everything through him or me. We have a tricky one here, a crossing over of interests, and—”

“It’s a web, Detective Chief Superintendent. A web. The death of Liddicote could be inextricably linked to whatever else is going on here, and frankly, I’ve not even got my feet under the table yet—though I’ve already learned that the pacifism-promoting College of St. Francis is far from peaceful.”

“Your brief from Huntley was loose—I’ll be honest, I think they’ve got only a wee shadow of a clue that something’s amiss here, which is why they wanted someone like you to come in and rake over the coals to see if their suspicions were on target. On our part, as we said at first, there were suspicions based upon an influx of aliens entering the country bound for this college—and the two came together.”

“And what about the mutiny?” Maisie threw in the comment to see if MacFarlane knew about the reputation attached to Liddicote’s book.

“What mutiny? What are you talking about, lass?”

“Liddicote’s children’s book, the one published in 1916, was withdrawn from circulation—as we know—but were you aware that there was talk that it was implicated in a mutiny on the Western Front, later that year?”

“There were no mutinies on the Western Front.” MacFarlane stared at Maisie.

As Stratton cleared his throat and looked away, Maisie remembered that he had been with the military police in the war.
Ah, he knows
, she thought, and pressed her point. “I have heard it said that there was not just one but several occasions when men downed the tools of war and walked off the job.”

“The boys on the other side might have walked off—there was a fair bit of mutiny in the German trenches in 1917 and on towards the end; they were starving, most of them—but our boys never mutinied, not the soldiers of the Crown and her colonies.”

“I think, Detective Chief—”

“And
I
think there’s a piece of paper with your signature on it, vowing that you will keep the secrets of the Crown. So, continue with your work, find out if there is anything going on here that is not in the best interests of His Majesty’s government.”

Maisie stared at MacFarlane. “Of course.”

He sighed. “Now then, time for you to go back to your lodgings. It’s been a long day for you and you’ve a big job on your hands. Stratton and I will pay a visit to Dr. Roth this evening. Anything else we can do for you?”

“I’d like two of those files, please.” She stood up, went to the desk, and lifted two folders from the pile left by Rosemary Linden. She passed them to MacFarlane to view the names. “Here’s a card I found on Liddicote’s desk.” She unclipped the card she’d found earlier. “I think it’s his solicitor, and I didn’t want it to get lost. Perhaps tomorrow I could see Dr. Roth’s personal file for my business here; I appreciate you’ll need it this evening.”

It was only as she left the room that she remembered that she had walked to the college in the morning, but she had no intention of going back in to ask for a lift back to her lodging house. Her briefcase was quite heavy now as she walked along the corridor, at the end of which she stopped to thank the night watchman as he opened the heavy door for her to leave. She had intended to draw MacFarlane’s attention to the photographs she had taken from Liddicote’s office; she knew she should have informed him of their existence. But his harsh response to her final question had surprised her. She could not do the job for Huntley if she were effectively banned from seeking the person who had murdered the founder of the college she was investigating.

Tonight she would read through the files she had taken—those of Francesca Thomas and Delphine Lang. One thing had surprised her—or had it? Perhaps it had not taken her aback as much as she might have expected; but all the same, it was interesting to note that the file pertaining to Miss Rosemary Linden was not among those left for the detectives to mull over.

Chapter Six

I
n her room that evening, with the windows open and the fragrance of night-scented stock rising up from the garden below, Maisie curled her legs under her as she relaxed into the armchair. Her landlady had left a sandwich covered with an extra plate in the kitchen; and with a cup of tea set on a table alongside her, she flipped open Francesca Thomas’ personal file.

Thomas was now forty-one years of age, and, although born in Switzerland, she was educated at Oxford University and the Sorbonne, in Paris. There was no mention of her marital situation, so one could only assume she was a spinster. There was no notation as to where she had received her doctorate, only that her teaching career—which had begun in 1925—had taken her from France to Germany, then on to the College of St. Francis, where just a year earlier she had become the first woman to join the staff. According to the file, she had published papers on French literature as well as on subjects such as “The Philosopher and Modern Society.” Her two letters of reference had come from the Sorbonne and from Oxford, the latter provided by Professor Jennifer Penhaligon at Somerville College.

Maisie sighed. “Nothing much to pick at there,” she said aloud to the empty room, though she made a notation to contact Professor Penhaligon.

Setting the pages to one side, she flipped open the folder for Delphine Lang, who, it transpired, was twenty-six years of age. Following education at Roedean—
No surprise
, thought Maisie—Delphine Lang attended university in London, but in short order went on to Heidelberg to continue her education. Delphine probably didn’t need to work—there was a note in Liddicote’s hand to the effect that her father was a wealthy man—so the fact that she had sought out a profession was to her credit. Maisie was aware that her own generation of women had set an example to those who followed, and more women were choosing education and a job—with the former available only to those who could afford it.

Without doubt, Delphine Lang was well educated, and her references were “First Rate!” as Greville Liddicote had noted on the corner of her original inquiry letter. But her contract, which had begun in January, was for only one year and expired at the end of 1932—unless the contract was renewed, Delphine Lang would be out of a job in three months.

At that point, Maisie realized that she had not even been asked to sign a contract. She wondered if that might affect her position, now that Liddicote was no longer principal—after all, surely the British Secret Service could not force the college to keep her on? It was late when she put the folders aside and began to review her lesson for the next morning. Her teaching schedule ended after the first period on Friday morning, allowing her to return to London, if she wished—something she had planned to do at the end of each week.

It was past midnight when she made ready for bed, sitting first in quiet meditation for some moments, her legs crossed, her eyelids not quite touching, her breath slowing to still her mind. She had wondered about her relationship with James Compton, and, as it deepened and as time went on—if it went on for them—how he might respond to her claiming a quiet time in the late evening. Though he did not share her need for this period of silence, he knew Khan—Maurice’s friend who had taught Maisie that “seeing is not necessarily something that we do with our eyes alone”—and thus far he had taken care to allow her the moments in solitude each evening when they were together.

With her thoughts on James, she picked up the framed photograph she’d placed on her bedside table. The photograph had been taken during a summer visit to Priscilla’s country home. James—tall, fair, and of athletic build—was standing with his arms around Maisie, pulling her close to him. She smiled as she touched the image of him laughing; his wounding in the war had led to a deep depression, and he had eventually been sent to Canada by his parents, ostensibly to oversee the family’s business interests, but in truth to find the peace of mind he craved. Maisie had known James for many years, but it was only in the recent spring that they had grown closer, a development that proved something of a surprise for them both.

James had taken over as head of the Compton Corporation in London upon his father’s retirement at the beginning of the year, but it became clear that a visit to the Canadian office at some point in the summer would be necessary, so he had left at the end of July, with a return not expected before October. Maisie realized how much she missed James: missed the comfort of his arms around her, her hand in his. She missed the twin aspects of his character she enjoyed—an ability to accept whatever the day had to offer, along with a need for his own quiet interludes, when he rode out on one of his hunters across the lands of the Chelstone estate. She understood only too well that he had struggled to find such lightness in life. But as much as they both enjoyed being at Chelstone Manor, their visits were not without a certain awkwardness. Though an independent woman, Maisie did not want her father to know that when James Compton breakfasted at The Dower House it was because he had remained in her company since dinner. This had led to poor acting; James had commented to her on one occasion, “Maisie, I’m beginning to feel like a third-tier actor in an Oscar Wilde stage farce, pretending I’ve just walked in the door—as if I’d crossed the lawns in my dressing gown to say, ‘Good morning, Miss Dobbs, might I scrounge a bit of toast and egg?’ ” Imagining such a scene, Maisie found she could not stop laughing. And that was something else she liked about James Compton—they laughed together, with an awareness that there was between them a joy that neither had experienced since the war. Theirs was a laughter fueled not by pressure from others, nor by alcohol or the whims of a partying crowd, but by a certain optimism that, even in the midst of the difficult times in which they lived, they had grasped a sense of possibility before it slipped through their fingers.

Maisie replaced the photograph and, once in bed, opened the book Tinsley had brought to her office. He’d slipped a note inside the front cover, more information on the novel. She ran her fingers across the embossed cover once again and considered the picture of the young children surrounding a soldier, with the crosses in the background. It reminded Maisie of a woodcut, framed as it was by a trellis with ivy growing in and out of the diagonal lines, a Celtic knot at each corner. She began to read Tinsley’s note:

The Peaceful Little Warriors
by Greville Liddicote

A tale of orphaned children who go to live in the woods, taken care of by animals, birds, fairies, and wood nymphs. They decide to go to London to see their King, to try to stop the war. The King and his Council laugh, so the children march to the battlefields to stand between the great armies, where they lay their woodland flowers at the feet of the soldiers. The war is stopped when the solders set down their arms, and the children of the world come from their towns and villages to bring their fathers home again. Reminiscent of the story of The Pied Piper, but with children taking the adults away.

Miss Dobbs, you will see that the book is written very much in the Victorian tradition (there was a resurrection of fairy stories during the late Queen’s reign). In this tale, wood nymphs and fairies and “otherworldly” beings have been used to bring comfort to children, who in turn bring sense to the world. A traditional story, with an untraditional subject. It was very clever at the time, of course; the cover of the book is both familiar, and a gauntlet thrown down to the war’s supporters. For those who buy a book based on the cover alone, the picture could also have suggested a story supporting the war, much as those posters did (if you remember, the ones with women and children telling men to go to war?).

Yes, Maisie did remember, and at that moment was overcome by fatigue. She had read enough for one day.

T
he following morning, Maisie arrived at the college with only a couple of minutes to spare before the start of classes, but was intercepted by Miss Linden as she half-ran along the main corridor. “Miss Dobbs! Dr. Roth would like to see you in his office and wondered if you could meet him there after your class.”

“Of course. Please tell him I will come directly I’ve finished.” Maisie paused. “How are you this morning, Miss Linden?”

“Managing, all things considered. It’s strange not to have Dr. Liddicote here.” She pushed her hair back, and as she moved her hand, Maisie could see she was shaking.

“You had a lot to deal with yesterday, and I know being interviewed by the police can be difficult.”

Linden nodded. “It’s funny that they came all the way from London—I thought you would telephone the local police.”

Maisie shook her head, framing her response to forestall Linden’s curiosity. “I know that in some circumstances—when the cause of death is not immediately evident—the local police contact Scotland Yard. Something similar happened to me once, and I recalled that valuable time was lost in the to-ing and fro-ing between the police, and it was finally a job for Scotland Yard. I have met Mr. MacFarlane before”—Maisie once again did not use his full title, knowing recollection of the man himself could be intimidating enough. “So I thought he might be the best to contact, to save time. The cause of Dr. Liddicote’s death wasn’t immediately apparent, though we assumed at first that it was a heart attack.”

“I see,” said Linden. “Was he . . . was he murdered, Miss Dobbs?”

“I am not really at liberty to say, but there were some suspicious circumstances.”

The younger woman nodded and straightened her back. “Right. I’d better get on with my work.”

Linden continued along the corridor with a ledger under her arm. Maisie noticed she had left her office door unlocked, so with haste she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She returned the files for Francesca Thomas and Delphine Lang, and ran her fingers across the remaining folders looking for another name, though she knew that some were in MacFarlane’s possession. She pulled out the folder for Dr. Matthias Roth and discovered that it contained only a copy of the contract he’d signed when he first came to the college—which was before the doors had opened to students. The second file she searched for was not there, or perhaps had never existed, unless it was kept in Greville Liddicote’s office. She still could find no folder with Rosemary Linden’s name on it.

F
ollowing her next class, during which Maisie introduced a discussion on the response of philosophers through the ages to the uncertainty of life, she remained with her students to answer questions for a few moments, and when the last student had left the room, she gathered her books and notes, pushed them into her new briefcase, and made her way up to Dr. Matthias Roth’s office on the next floor. She knocked twice on the door and stepped in when his resonant baritone voice bellowed, “Come!”

“Ah, Miss Dobbs, thank you for coming.”

Roth was standing behind his desk, not sitting. He was a tall man of heavy build, and he had the carriage, Maisie thought, of a sergeant major. She could imagine him telling his students to sit up straight if they wanted to learn properly. A light tweed jacket hung over the back of his chair, and it appeared he had just arrived back in his office following a class, for the sleeves of his pale-blue shirt were rolled up and his fingers were dusted with chalk. She noticed that the skin on his hands was raw in places; she thought he might suffer from a skin ailment—perhaps psoriasis, which was known to be exacerbated by distress. He held his hand out towards the chair in front of his desk and began to roll down his sleeves as he spoke again.

“How are you settling in, Miss Dobbs?”

“Well, thank you. Both staff and students have made me very welcome.”

Roth pulled back his own chair and sat down. “I wanted to see you with regard to the death of my dear colleague, Dr. Liddicote.”

“Of course,” said Maisie. “Yesterday was a very sad day. I have not been at the college long, but I recognize the implications of his loss, not only on the staff and students, but on the future of the college.”

“Indeed. Though I would not worry about the future of the college, if I were you—we are sufficiently endowed to weather such a storm, and together with new students applying to study at the college, we anticipate going ahead with our renovation plans and expansion. Greville Liddicote’s work will continue.” He paused and rubbed his hand against his cheek. Maisie thought he seemed tired, as if he had not slept, and though he had a naturally ruddy complexion, the color in his cheeks appeared heightened against the blue-gray of the skin under his eyes, clearly visible under wire-rimmed spectacles with round lenses.

“The police came to my house yesterday evening and informed me that there were suspicious circumstances surrounding Greville’s death. I was asked many questions, and I wondered if you played a part in their charade.” Roth’s hair—which had been brushed back at the front and sides—had fallen down into his eyes when he looked down at a page of notes on the desk in front of him. He ran his fingers back through his hair as he looked at Maisie again, reminding her of a schoolboy in his teen years.

“Charade?” Maisie looked at Roth and decided to respond to his words in an equally direct manner. “In the circumstances, I thought the best person for them to speak to was you—you are, after all, Dr. Liddicote’s deputy, and it was crucial that you should know what had come to pass.”

“You called the police first, though.”

“Of course. Miss Linden came to find me, knowing I had been a nurse. She did not want to raise an alarm that might cause panic among staff or students. If you remember, you left the college soon after tea. Frankly, I did not think it was a cut-and-dried case of heart attack, so I immediately alerted Scotland Yard and I remained with the body.”

He sighed, shook his head, and looked out of the window, before turning back to Maisie. “You
knew
that he had been murdered?”

“I suspected the possibility.”

He reached for a file on his desk. “I see you worked for a Dr. Maurice Blanche, as his personal assistant. That’s how you know people from Scotland Yard, I assume.”