A Lesson in Secrets (27 page)

The vicar led the congregation in the Lord’s Prayer, and, following another hymn and a blessing for the deceased and those who mourned him, the service came to an end. Maisie filed out slowly among the column of the people who had admired, hated, loved, respected, and doubted Greville Liddicote, and though she did not stop to speak to MacFarlane, she acknowledged him with a brief nod, which was met in kind. Once outside, she stopped to greet the Thurlows, then walked across to the yew tree that stood sentinel over the lych-gate. She lingered there under the deep evergreen canopy, and watched those who had paid their respects leave the church and go on their way. Soon there were only a few stragglers, at which point two policemen in uniform and one plainclothesman approached the church. MacFarlane emerged with his hand holding Matthias Roth’s arm in a firm grasp, and as soon as they were beyond the church door, the policemen approached and Roth was handcuffed. It was obvious he was weeping as he was escorted to a police vehicle and helped aboard. MacFarlane gave instructions to a policeman before turning to beckon another motor car, which drew up alongside the lych-gate. Maisie stepped back so that he did not see her; once he had departed, she stepped into the churchyard. The sun moved behind a cloud, and at once she was chilled by the events of the day.

“Miss Dobbs!”

Daniel was on the other side of the lych-gate, astride his bicycle.

“Miss Dobbs—did you see that? I think the police have just arrested Dr. Roth.”

Maisie made her way along the flagstones, securing the gate once she had stepped through onto the pavement.

“Yes, it seems so.”

“What do you think it’s about—perhaps he murdered old Liddy.”

Maisie gave a half-smile. “I really couldn’t say, Daniel.”

“But what if he did, why do you think he’d do such a thing?”

Maisie could see the concern in the young man’s countenance; he was filled with questions.

“Remember your myths. Go back to the legends, and perhaps those great philosophers we’ve been studying. See what they have to say about the despair that assails a man when he discovers his hero has feet of clay. And see if there is comfort for the man who learns that the words of one he has worshipped—words that inspired men to make a stand that would lead to their deaths—were not his, but stolen from another. Greville Liddicote was Dr. Roth’s hero. But he was just a man, not a god beyond doubt, and I believe Dr. Roth wanted him to be something more.”

“I—I think I understand, Miss Dobbs.” The student looked down at the bicycle clips on his trouser legs. “Might I ask if what I said to you yesterday had anything to do with Dr. Roth’s arrest? The policemen came to see me early this morning to ask questions.”

Maisie shook her head. “No, it wasn’t anything you said.” It was another lie, and Maisie wondered again at her ability to speak untruths without a telltale catch to her voice, or color rising to her cheeks. “I would imagine the policemen simply realized there were some outstanding interviews and they wanted to get them completed before the service. That your observations proved to be useful is, really, nothing you should concern yourself with. You could not have lied, after all.”

“I think I might have, if I thought my words would send Dr. Roth to the gallows.”

Maisie sighed. “I’d better be off, Daniel. I have to be on my way.”

“See you tomorrow afternoon, Miss Dobbs—oh, and I left my assignment for you in the office.”

Maisie walked back to the college, which was Sunday quiet; many of the congregants had returned to their lodgings for a late lunch, and those remaining were in their rooms. A funeral could dampen the enthusiasm of even the most exuberant student. Miss Hawthorne was in the office, trying to catch up, and they both commented on the lovely send-off given to Greville Liddicote by the staff and students of the college he’d loved. Maisie collected student homework from her pigeonhole, then walked out to her motor car, which she had left parked on the road a short distance from the entrance to the college. She placed her burden of books and papers on the passenger seat next to her, then left the MG and made her way back to the college and out to the grounds until she reached the path of St. Francis. She began the meditative walk, her thoughts on Matthias Roth and the twist of fate that led him to take the life of a man he admired so much that he had changed the course of his own life.

On the day Dunstan Headley had marched through the French doors into Greville Liddicote’s office, Roth was still struggling to persuade Liddicote to agree to the debate. He could not understand Liddicote’s stance; they had both worked hard to underscore the integrity of the college so that the institution would be accepted as equal by the established colleges of the university. The debate represented the pinnacle of success Roth had worked towards, and would bring students together from so many countries—something he had set out to do since the war, when the book written by Liddicote had infused him with a desire to change the world of death he saw about him. He had gone to Liddicote’s office at a fateful moment and overheard the heated argument between Headley and Liddicote. Roth understood, upon listening to the none-too-quiet voice of Dunstan Headley, that Liddicote had taken the work of another—and done so for reasons of vanity and greed. Roth was beside himself with disappointment and grief—as Maisie had said to Daniel, his hero had revealed himself to have feet of clay. As soon as he heard Dunstan Headley depart by the open French doors, he entered the room and took leave of his temper.

Maisie suspected that as Dunstan Headley left his office, Liddicote had taken the photograph of Ursula Thurlow in his hand. With his thoughts on the woman who had given him so much, whom he had betrayed—and most likely, whom he had loved—Liddicote was overpowered by Roth; he was, after all, hard of hearing and likely unaware his assailant had entered. Roth had simply taken Liddicote’s head in his hands and twisted his neck, killing him in an instant. Then he had left the room and began weaving a web of lies when he returned again, after the body had been discovered, to ask the college secretary known as Rosemary Linden whether Dr. Liddicote could see him. Maisie wondered if, at that point, Roth had not quite believed he had taken Liddicote’s life, and simply wanted to see if it had all been a waking nightmare. She shook her head as it occurred to her that, if they were in France, the case of Matthias Roth would be tried as a
crime passionnel
—a crime of passion.

She realized that she had stopped walking. It was dusk, but as she turned to leave, she looked down at the words carved on a stone placed adjacent to the path. Kneeling, she ran her fingers across each letter, until she could read aloud the lines:

. . . where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy . . .

M
aisie did not return to London immediately, as instructed by MacFarlane. Instead, she telephoned Huntley at the number he had given her during their meeting at Scotland Yard. After engaging in another scripted conversation she had been charged with learning by heart—about the weather and a fictional Mrs. Smith’s ill health—she was put through to the man who expected her report.

“I thought I would remain here to take my classes this week and come back to London on Friday. The students are all a bit shaky after losing Liddicote and now Roth, and I feel I can be of service to them. Alan Burnham has taken over as principal, so I am sure things will soon be on an even keel, but nevertheless, I wanted to stay.”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs. In any case, despite the fact that our friends at Scotland Yard have found their man, your work continues; I wanted a report in the wake of the arrest.”

“We’ll see what happens. The debate may well have caused feathers to be ruffled—I have an idea that Dunstan Headley might have his son removed from the influence of Delphine Lang, though I would say that wherever that young man goes, he will fall under the spell of someone who has a way with words. He’s looking for an anchor, and political groups offer that sense of belonging, don’t they?”

“But we’re really not too worried about the Nazis, as I said—though I know you disagree.”

Maisie shook her head. “I know why you wanted me here, Mr. Huntley, and what I have to say bears repeating. Young people are always looking for that something new, aren’t they? They are seeking passion in all quarters, and they are ripe for infiltration—and bearing in mind that many of those young people in a place such as Cambridge, or a college like St. Francis, are related to powerful men, powerful families, they present both our future and our vulnerability.”

“We can’t afford that vulnerability.”

“I know. But the College of St. Francis is not our Achilles’ heel.”

Huntley sighed. “I expect to see you at my office on Friday afternoon. Usual precautions, Miss Dobbs.”

“Of course.”

There was a click on the line as Huntley ended the call, and a single dial tone issued from the receiver that was not quite like the tone one would normally hear; then it changed, and Maisie replaced the receiver. As usual, her conversation with Brian Huntley had been scrambled.

Maisie made one more telephone call before leaving the kiosk. It was to James Compton, at his club.

“I’ll be back in London on Friday, James. I think I might get away early—there’s a lecturer who owes me a favor, so I might get her to take my classes.”

“I wish I knew what was going on—all this business about teaching in Cambridge. It makes me feel quite unintelligent.”

Maisie laughed. “Oh, that’s how I feel when I stand up in front of my class of very acute students.” She paused. “Have you spoken to Priscilla?”

“Yes—and do not worry, Sandra is still with her, and some fellow from Scotland Yard—Caldwell is his name—has been to see her. Priscilla said he was actually very kind, very gentle with Sandra, who is looking much better.”

“Any other news?”

“Priscilla had a message from Caldwell for you. He said to tell you it’s just a bit of gossip, but thought you’d like to know.”

“I don’t believe it—Caldwell wants to share gossip with me?”

James laughed. “I wish I knew more about these men you fraternize with at Scotland Yard. Anyway, he said that someone called Stratton had resigned. He’s left the Yard—apparently left the police entirely. Caldwell said you’d worked with him on several occasions and would like to know.”

“Stratton has left?”

“That’s all I know—can’t comment any more than that.”

“Well, that is a turnup for the books.”

James laughed. “And I have a message from Billy that came via Miss Robinson—just in case I spoke to you, he said, which made me laugh—the message is that your father telephoned.”

“Oh dear.”

“Is he all right, Maisie? I hope he hasn’t been ill.”

Maisie smiled. “No, as far as I know he’s not ill, but he might be lovesick.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“James, though he tried to keep it from me, I have discovered my father is courting.”

James began to laugh again, and at once Maisie could not help herself—the tension of the previous days broke and she laughed along with him.

W
ith another six weeks of teaching before her, Maisie began her final accounting while still employed at the college, though she had asked to be released from her contract as soon as another junior lecturer in philosophy could be found. With Alan Burnham as principal, Dr. Francesca Thomas had been promoted to become deputy principal, and it was during a meeting at her office in Eaton Square on an autumn afternoon, with the sun now low in the sky and the first signs of a clinging winter smog beginning to envelop the city, that Maisie asked her how long she thought she might be at the College of St. Francis.

“It’s a good place for me, Maisie. I am a respected lecturer in a position of some responsibility, and I enjoy the work—though the naïveté of some of my students rather worries me. I wonder about them, what might happen to them when another war comes, if it comes. But as I said, I am well placed. And of course, given my position, I find myself invited to the drawing rooms of some very interesting people—and anyone interesting to me will be interesting to those I consider an enemy of my country.”

Maisie nodded.

Thomas looked at Maisie, her stare direct, her question equally so. “And you, Maisie? I know who you have been working for over the past few months, and I know exactly what you do—whether reporting to dear Brian Huntley or your clients. But what will you do when you have completed your reports for Huntley?”

“Then it’s back to my business—which is growing, I might add.”

Thomas smiled. “They won’t let you go, you know. And we will meet again, Maisie.” She paused. “Let me tell you something that Greville said to me, during one of those ‘how are your classes progressing’ conversations in his office. He said that in his estimation we do not pay enough attention to the past, and that one of his fears was that in 1914 we had become a reflection of history when we embarked upon what could be considered another European Thirty Years’ War. He wanted to do his part to nip that progression in the bud. It’s an interesting theory, don’t you think? We both understand that the war of words, of economics, and of underhand activity goes on. The front line is still there, though the trenches look a little different.”

Maisie felt a chill go through her, and touched the place on her neck, the constant reminder of the wounds of that past war, so long ago now, but remembered at times as if it were yesterday.

T
he Thurlow family had moved into the property left to Ursula by Rose Linden. The sons had constructed a wooden ramp to allow their mother’s chair to be wheeled in and out with ease, and the family seemed to have already made the house their home, and had brought the garden back to its former glory. At Maisie’s request, Andrew Dene saw Ursula at his new clinic in Harley Street, and thereafter arranged a series of tests to discover whether anything could be done about her condition. He spoke to Maisie before taking the news to Ursula’s family.