A Lesson in Secrets (19 page)

“Well, if it’s not—”

“There’s talk that Dr. Liddicote’s book caused what amounted to a mutiny in the war, that the book went around the soldiers and the effect of the story caught on like fire in a tinderbox—I’ve heard they just put down their weapons and started walking off the battlefield. Do you know if there’s any truth to the story? Certainly Dr. Roth was affected by reading the book while in the German trenches.”

Henderson seemed tired as he answered; his voice had deepened, and he spoke slowly. “Miss Dobbs, no one will ever know about the subject of mutiny in a time of war—well, not for years, in any case. There will be rumor, conjecture, a word from an old soldier here or there, but those stories will be quashed, they will die a quiet death, and any official reports kept under lock and key, so it will be generations before any truths are known about such things. I am an old man now, but in my time I have seen all sorts of books taken from circulation on the instructions of ‘official sources,’ so I know what I’m talking about. There were rumors of a mutiny—there are some who maintain that it was just a few men here and there, and a few on the other side. And there are those who say they saw what happened—a full-scale mutiny involving hundreds of soldiers from both sides. All it took was for the book to be thrown into no-man’s-land for a German soldier to find and the effects of the story multiplied. It is believed in some quarters that more than just one or two men were executed, and that there was something of a massacre—all because men in uniform were touched by a story of innocents on the battlefield. I suppose, if there is a grain of truth in the stories, the book touched a nerve regarding the futility of the whole mess. But that is only my opinion. Of course, it makes one man shine out, in my opinion.”

“And who is that?”

“Dunstan Headley. He lost his son in the melodrama, a son who read a book and lay down his gun. A good young man who was true to beliefs he came to hold while in the thick of war. Headley must have felt such anger towards Greville Liddicote, and then managed—through sheer will, I would imagine—to transmute that fury into something quite worthwhile on behalf of his son, when he stepped forward to channel funds into the founding of Greville’s peace school. That’s what my colleagues and I called the College of St. Francis in the early days, ‘Greville’s Peace School.’ He has gone to his grave with the last laugh—the student body is accomplished and the staff roster enviable. I hope his work can continue without him.”

“Professor, I wonder if I might put one more question to you.”

“I’ll try to answer it.”

“You seem to know something about the founding of the college—I wonder if you have any idea who ‘the Readers’ might be?”

“The Readers? Yes, of course. As soon as he realized that
The Peaceful Little Warriors
had had something of an effect on people, beyond being a book for children, Greville kept a list of people who had been in touch with him, with the intention of approaching them for donations to get his college going. Dunstan Headley is obviously a Reader; so are many people who read the book and who lost sons to the war. And there are former soldiers on the list, too, and various people who have since served on the faculty—in fact, Matthias Roth is a Reader, as far as I know. I seem to remember Greville telling me that he had made him deputy principal not least because he had put his life savings into the college, such was his belief in what the college stood for. And I confess, I suspect I am on the list—I made a small contribution after Greville resigned; I thought it was the least I could do. Mind you, you should remember, though the book was withdrawn from circulation, Greville kept a few copies for himself, which he was able to put onto the market at an inflated rate, and the subsequent escalation of his reputation rendered all his other books very successful indeed. He was a wealthy man, you know. And he was clever too—his desire to leave a legacy came from an unexpected quarter.”

“His books or the college?”

“Both. You see, that’s what Greville wanted—a sort of fame, if truth be told. I think we’ve all come across people who want recognition on a broader scale than might otherwise be available to them. As a senior fellow at the university, I might have expected a level of acclaim, but that would be due to the very small pond in which I swim. Greville wanted something bigger, and the notoriety
The Peaceful Little Warriors
gave him presented a perfect opportunity. You see, prior to writing that book, I had never heard him voice any opinion regarding the worthiness—or otherwise—of the war. He had never claimed to be a pacifist, but the book, its reputation, and then his resignation from the university, gave him an impetus to find something new—and so the College of St. Francis was born. Greville Liddicote was reinvented, if you will, as a man of peace for the students of the world. And money flowed in from those who had been so pained by their losses, and who wanted to see something better come of it all.” He sighed, as if breathless after speaking for so long. “And, Miss Dobbs, I have to say this—good for him, because ultimately I do not doubt his commitment to the maintenance of peace so actively championed by his work at the College of St. Francis.”

At the door, Maisie slipped on her jacket, and, holding out her hand to the elderly man, decided to press her luck with a final question. “Professor Henderson, can you think of anyone who would want to see Greville Liddicote dead?”

“I suppose I could think of a few—though none who would ever do anything about it. I understand police inquiries are in progress, but I would venture to guess it is just a formality. I am sure he must have died from some natural cause or another.”

T
he church clock was striking seven as she passed on her way to meet the two policemen.

“What’ll it be for you, Miss Dobbs?” asked MacFarlane, who had been about to raise a pint of beer to his lips in the private bar when she entered. He had commandeered the small bar for the evening.

“A half of cider would be lovely, thank you.”

As soon she was seated at a table with the two men, MacFarlane spoke first. “Been busy, Maisie?”

“Yes, I have been fairly busy. Not only teaching, but I’ve had a few trips back and forth to London.”

“Never thought I’d be looking forward to getting back myself, but I’m fed up to the gills with this place. I’m not one for your university types—bloody know-alls, every one of them, even the students, still wet behind the ears. Half of them can’t even speak the language properly.”

“They’re unfamiliar with the language of a police investigation, and perhaps a little nervous—after all, they are guests in this country, and now they’re being questioned as part of a murder inquiry.”

“I think you’ve got a point there,” said Stratton. “We’re trying to take that into account. They’re all very bright, actually.”

“Most have already attended university in their own country,” said Maisie. “Their work at the college represents additional academic endeavor intended to bolster their intellect and the number of opportunities that might come their way in the future. And of course, there is the small matter of spreading peace.”

“Who have you been seeing?” asked MacFarlane, ignoring her comments.

“Academic staff at other universities, actually. A lecturer who taught Robson Headley, and another who knew Liddicote when he taught at the university here.”

“Why Headley?”

“He’s been attending meetings of the Ortsgruppe with Delphine Lang. They are a courting couple, as you know; however, it is quite a big step for a British man to attend one of those meetings; I am sure he was accepted on the weight of his liaison with Lang.”

“Do you suspect him of anything?”

“First of all, I don’t believe the Ortsgruppe are as innocent as you and Huntley might think—and if they are at present, they won’t be for long. Second, both Headley and Lang have the ability and, I believe, the training, to kill a man instantly.”

“Maisie, have you ever tried to kill someone by breaking their neck? I mean, it really is a job.” Stratton seemed somewhat exasperated with her.

“Aye, lass, it would be a job for a big, strong man,” added MacFarlane.

“But not if a person were able to make an approach that was all but silent, and then move with speed and skill. And remember, Liddicote was likely hard of hearing.”

“Apart from anything else,” said Stratton, “they both have alibis.”

“Stratton, would you mind getting me a whiskey?” MacFarlane winced and held his beer up to the light as if to consider its purity, then set the glass down. “This beer is not agreeing with me at all.”

Stratton left the table and walked to the bar. MacFarlane turned to Maisie.

“You are keeping to your assigned task for the dark ones, aren’t you?”

“Is that what you call the Secret Service?” She smiled, then looked at Stratton waiting by the bar; he raised his hand to summon the landlord and Maisie turned back to MacFarlane. “As I’ve said before, the threads of investigation here are intertwined; however, I’m keeping to my end of things. Have you questioned Francesca Thomas?”

“The tall dark-haired woman, got a touch of the Greta Garbo about her?”

“I’m not sure that I would use that description,” said Maisie, “but I suppose she’s the only one in the college whom it would fit.”

“We’ve spoken to her, and it seems she was teaching around the time of Liddicote’s death, so we can rule her out.” MacFarlane glanced in Stratton’s direction. “I take it she’s of interest to you.”

“To some extent. She certainly seems to make frequent trips to London.”

“There you are, sir. I bought a malt, not a blended.” Stratton reached forward to place the tot glass of amber liquid in front of MacFarlane, who, in spite of his earlier claim, had made a good dent in his pint of beer.

“Good man, good man. Now then, will you join us for a spot of supper, Maisie? They do a very good fish-and-chips here.”

Maisie agreed, and was soon enjoying a companionable meal with the two policemen, though their conversation was focused on the matter of Greville Liddicote’s death.

M
aisie was on the road to Ipswich early the following morning, with the intention of being at the door of the county offices as soon as they opened. The letter she had received on Monday had been written by a Mr. Smart, and within a short time of the door’s being unlocked, she had found his office and was speaking to him about the contents of his letter, and what he had discovered about Rose Linden’s family. The documents he had gathered indicated that a family living in a small hamlet some two miles outside the town were related by marriage to Linden’s nephew. The man shook his head and gave a deep sigh.

“What is it?” asked Maisie.

“The older nephew, David Thurlow, died in Wandsworth Prison.”

Maisie leaned forward, to look at the register in front of Smart. “Have you any idea what he’d done to warrant incarceration?”

“Doesn’t say here, but I can guess. During the war Wandsworth was used as a military prison. I reckon your man here was a conscientious objector. Some of them were given hard labor, but a lot ended up in Wandsworth, or Wormwood Scrubs; it all depended upon your tribunal, and how they felt about you and what you had to say for yourself. People look upon it a bit differently now, seeing as we know a lot more about what went on over there, and of course, all them peace organizations that have popped up in the last ten years. But during the war, you had to be brave to even say you were a pacifist—nigh on got yourself stoned in the street for not wanting to do your bit.”

“Do you have an address for the family?”

“I poked around and found this.” He handed a piece of paper to Maisie. “It’s out in Knowsley, a bit off the beaten track—I looked it up for you, the directions are on the back. I think those cottages are tied to the farm, so one of the family must be a worker there. There’s no Rosemary Linden listed, but they may know something, or I might be sending you on a wild-goose chase.”

“I’ll soon find out. Thank you very much for your help.”

A light but warm rain that had dampened the drive to Ipswich had now lifted, leaving wisps of mist across flat fields of crops newly harvested. The road was narrow, and soon woodland on either side diminished the view, but offered shade from the bright sunshine breaking through. Once out of the canopy of trees, Maisie entered a hamlet of a few cottages, some thatched and all built in the mid-fifteenth century, with oak beams and roofs that were bowed in the middle. She slowed the car so that she barely rumbled through Knowsley, looking again at her directions. Soon she came to a cottage on the right and pulled up alongside a hedge that in May would be blooming with bright white syringa. She stepped out of the motor car and looked across the front garden. Someone had tied off the last of the summer flowers, though canes were still wrapped with multicolored late sweet peas. The hedge was high, so when the door opened and laughter could be heard, Maisie stepped back to watch without being seen. A young man—possibly in his early twenties and with the bearing of a farm laborer, carried an older woman outside. She laughed as he accidentally knocked her head against the doorjamb.

“Leave me with a mind, Adam, whatever you do!”

“Oh, sorry, Mum. Are you all right?”

“I’m well enough. But watch where you’re going, would you? Now, If Alice and Amber just put the chair over there, then I’ll tell you where to put my things.”

Two girls struggled to bring out a wheelchair and another, younger, lad carried a tray with books and writing paper; he had draped a blanket around his shoulder like a cape. When the mother was seated in her chair, the older girl took the blanket from the boy and wrapped it around the woman’s knees, then placed the tray on her lap. The son who had carried her out returned to the house, and the second daughter, whom Maisie judged to be about nineteen or twenty, said she would bring a cup of tea for her mother. The younger boy was tasked with not forgetting to feed the rabbits, and the older daughter remained with her mother, kneeling at her feet as the woman breathed the sigh of one who is exhausted by even the slightest exertion. The mother put her arm around her daughter’s shoulder and rested her head against hers. “I’m so glad you’re home, Alice. You were gone a long time, and I missed you.”