A Lesson in Secrets (28 page)

“I’m sorry, Maisie, but not much is known about this disease. Sometimes it takes its time to have an effect and the patient seems to go from remission to a sort of attack. Sometimes they live full and productive lives without noticing anything more than tingling in the fingers, and some fatigue. Then there are the other cases where the decline is more rapid. I think Ursula is somewhere in the middle of those extremes. We’ve struggled to understand how it all goes wrong; how the brain’s messages get misdirected.”

“How can the family help her—are there any medications?”

“I can prescribe medicine for pain, should it come—and it develops mainly from being bed- or chair-bound for so long; sores and so on. Otherwise, I would say that she must live a very balanced life—no surprises, no shocks, a good diet. Unlike many of my fellow doctors who think milk is the source of all solutions, I would suggest a limited intake of those kinds of foods. But I will be speaking to colleagues in France later this year—they’ve done a lot of research on this type of sclerosis.”

Maisie nodded and thanked Dene. “Send me the bill, Andrew.”

He shook his head. “No account—she’s a dear lady and deserves to be helped, if help can be found.”

S
he visited Clarence Chen in Limehouse, and took tea with Jennifer Penhaligon at Somerville College, though they did not linger on the subject of her former student, Francesca Thomas. One by one, place by place, Maisie returned to the roots of her investigation, and watched, again, German citizens now living in London gathering at Cleveland Terrace for a meeting of the Ortsgruppe. She hoped Huntley and the men he advised would pay attention in time—though she was afraid time was slipping through their fingers while they looked elsewhere for threats to the realm.

Stratton met her at the café on Oxford Street where they had often lingered to discuss their shared cases. They had always described it as “more
caff
than café.” They sat down at a table close to the window, each with a cup of strong tea and a round of buttered toast and jam.

“I can’t believe you’ve decided to leave the police, Richard—so soon after moving to Special Branch.”

“I can hardly believe it myself, to tell you the truth. But MacFarlane is a difficult man to work with, and that brought other considerations to a head.”

“Your boy?”

“He was only three years old when his mother died, and the past few years have not been without problems—for both of us. My mother stepped in to help, and he goes to stay with his mother’s parents for a couple of weeks each summer, but time seems to be passing so quickly. I thought transferring to Special Branch from the Murder Squad might reduce the number of middle-of-the night calls, but it didn’t quite come off as planned—looking back, I cannot imagine why I thought it would. Wishful thinking, I suppose. And to be honest with you, the College of St. Francis sort of made up my mind for me.”

Maisie nodded, understanding. “He’ll be gone all too soon.”

Stratton nodded. “Yes. Another ten years and he’ll be eighteen. My wife always wanted him to have the opportunity to go to university if he wanted; she left some money to pay for his education. I suppose I don’t want to wave him off to university—or wherever it is he’ll go—and think, ‘I hardly know the boy.’ ”

“What will you do?”

“Don’t laugh—but I’ve got a job already, starting in January. Until then, I will have time on my hands to spend with my son—seeing him off to school, taking him fishing on Saturdays, football practice in the evenings, whatever I want.” He sighed and took a sip of the still scalding urn-brewed tea. “Before the war I had wanted to be a teacher, then after university I was more or less in uniform straightaway, and ended up in the military police—which of course led to Scotland Yard when the war was over. I’d been thinking about going into teaching for a long time, and I began applying for positions a few months ago now.”

“You kept that to yourself,” said Maisie.

“Can you imagine what MacFarlane would have said if he had known?”

Maisie laughed. “Yes—I’m afraid I can.”

Stratton went on. “I’ve been offered a position at a boys’ boarding school in Sussex, teaching mathematics and physics. There’s a cottage in the grounds that goes with the job, and a primary school nearby. My son will be able to attend the school where I teach when he turns eleven, and without fees. It works all around.”

“Will you miss the Yard?”

“Some of it, of course. But I have missed my boy so very much, and I want to spend more time with him.”

Maisie glanced out the window, at the melee of shoppers and people of commerce rushing back and forth, the taxi-cabs vying for road space with horses and carts, the buses and the noise. She turned her attention back to Richard Stratton. “You’ve done the best thing, Richard. I wish you well.”

“And I wish you well, too, Maisie.”

They held each other’s gaze longer than either had intended, then Maisie cleared her throat. “Well, this will never do. Time is marching on and I have work waiting for me. When do you leave the Yard?”

“At the end of the week.”

They made their way towards the door, then stood outside in the bustle of the street.

Maisie held out her hand, and as Richard Stratton took hers, he drew her towards him and kissed her cheek. She touched her face with her free hand. “Take care, Richard. I am sure our paths will cross again.”

Stratton smiled. “Yes, Maisie. Our paths will cross, of that I have no doubt.”

With that he raised his hat, and she turned to walk back towards Fitzroy Square. She looked over her shoulder once, but he was lost in the crowd. And as she made her way back to the office, she wondered, just for a moment, where, in time, she might see Richard Stratton.

M
aisie stood outside Wandsworth Prison and pulled her scarf up around her neck against the cold smog that lingered above the brick building. From the center, it spanned out into five wings, though it was only in “E Wing” that men were sent to the gallows. She thought that prisons were probably all designed to resemble medieval forts, and she wondered how it felt when the doors clanged behind the condemned once they crossed the threshold. Matthias Roth had been transferred to Wandsworth from Cambridge. He would leave only to stand trial, for which the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

Having passed through several corridors, each with clanking iron gates and guards who checked her papers, she was led to a room where Roth awaited her.

He stood when Maisie entered. “Miss Dobbs, how kind of you to come. I confess, I was surprised when I learned I was to have a visitor.”

She took account of Roth’s appearance. He wore plain overalls; his hair was shorter than it had been and could no longer flop into his eyes as if he were a boy. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, and his eyes seemed hollow.

“I thought you might like some books.” Maisie placed a parcel tied with string on the table. “They went through them at the desk; fortunately, none were of much interest to the guards.”

Roth reached forward, unpicked the string, and squinted at the titles. “Ah, a very good mix, Miss Dobbs, though I have to request my spectacles each time I wish to read. My niece brought me in a similar package last week—I must say, her taste differs from mine.”

Maisie smiled. “I won’t ask how you’re feeling, Dr. Roth. This isn’t the most convivial place, but if there’s anything you need, please send word. I have contacts . . . ”

“Yes, of course.” He rewrapped the books and sighed. “I wish I could turn back time, Miss Dobbs. I have had time—an irony, of course—to consider time itself, and those small, almost inconsequential decisions that lead to something terrible, that change the path of one’s life in a dreadful way. I have wondered why fate chose that particular moment for me to walk down to Greville’s office so that we could discuss timetabling of classes when the new building gets under way.” He began to ramble, as if still trying to make sense of his decision. “You see, it was clear that it would all be a bit chaotic if we didn’t have a plan in place, and Greville was quite absentminded at times—the running of the college wasn’t as interesting to him as the content of the classes, and understandably so. He was an avatar of hope, not a mere administrator.” He shook his head. “Had I not been there, I would not have heard the row. I would never have known the truth.” He looked up at the ceiling and bit his lip as tears welled up and ran down his cheeks.

Maisie said nothing, but reached out and placed her hand on his. He grasped hers in turn, as if for strength.

“I changed my whole life for Greville Liddicote. I saw men alter the course of their lives because they read his words—men died because they chose not to fight after reading his words.
His
words.” He shook his head. “I gave him my life savings, and I believed in every word he said, but . . . but they were not his words after all. In that second outside his office, I realized that . . . that we’d all been had. Duped. I’d been taken for the fool I was. This man whom I revered had been no more than a liar, a cheat, a charlatan. He was no better than a common thief. I felt as if my heart would beat from my chest. There was this . . . ” He pulled back his hand as if describing a funnel of emotion rising up through his body. “This . . . emergence of something I cannot describe. I opened the door and I went straight to him and I took his head in my hands, and I killed him.”

Maisie felt the ache of despair emanating from the man before her. She had heard the guilty speak of their crimes before, but she, too, wished she could turn back time, could stop Roth from walking along the corridor to Greville Liddicote’s office.

“They taught some of us man-to-man combat in the war, you know. I learned how to kill. But I never thought I would kill in such a way. When you go to war, you wield a rifle, but you hope you never have to look into the face of the man whose life you take. When I entered his room, Greville was sitting there, gazing at something—I believe it was a photograph—and the next moment, he was dead.” Roth stared into Maisie’s eyes. “Seven minutes later, I was back in my office, and I had hardly any recollection of what had happened. It was as if I had woken from a very bad dream and could claim back my real life. But I couldn’t. I had killed a man of peace—and at a time when there is so much to fear.”

“So much to fear?”

“You know. You were at the debate. You saw Robson Headley—and my niece. I was shocked. And in that moment of clarity, when Headley stood before us with his misguided rhetoric and his arm raised, I knew what Greville had seen and I had not. I fear our efforts to bring a more widespread peace through the mutual experience of learning will be like David pitted against Goliath.”

“But David prevailed,” said Maisie.

“A single man is not an army, and a mere catapult is no match for a cannonade—for guns, bombs, tanks. Sadly, in this case it is the small man who has a great army at his disposal, and he will come to power, of that I am sure—look again at Headley and Delphine. Imagine so many dispossessed people following blindly, with misguided hope in their hearts.”

Some moments passed. Maisie and Matthias Roth sat in silence with their thoughts. A guard entered and informed Maisie that her visit had come to an end. She turned to Roth. “You and Dr. Liddicote created a place where young people could learn the true meaning of peace. Your work will continue, of that you can be sure.”

He stood up and held out his hand. “Thank you, Miss Dobbs.”

She bade him good-bye and walked out of Wandsworth Prison and into the bright, low, autumn sunshine. She closed her eyes and held her face to the warmth, then went on her way.

Epilogue

T
he telephone entered Maisie’s dreams before the insistent ringing drew her to consciousness. She shook her head, heart in her mouth, and ran to the telephone; she always worried that a telephone call at nighttime meant that Frankie was ill.

“Hello, this is—”

“Miss!”

“Billy, whatever is the matter? Is everything all right?”

“Margaret Rose was born at midnight.”

“Oh, Billy—you’ve got a girl. How’s Doreen? Is the baby well?”

“Mother and daughter are in the best of health, though Doreen is a bit tired.”

Maisie looked at the clock. It was past two in the morning. “Where are you, Billy?”

“The hospital. Her doctor reckoned that, with her history—you know—and what she’d gone through last year, she shouldn’t have the baby at home. I had to pace the floor a bit before they came and found me and told me we had a girl, and then after a while they let me in to see them, but then they wanted me out a bit sharpish. I’ll go home now—Mum and the boys will want to know what’s coming home with Doreen—I reckon the boys will be pleased it’s another little sister.”

Maisie laughed. “I’m so happy, Billy. So very happy for you.”

“And you know the best thing, Miss?”

“I think you have the best thing, Billy.”

He laughed, and Maisie heard him yawn. “The best thing is that we’ll be bringing our little girl back to her new home—and it’ll be her really new home. And the other best thing is that I’ll treat myself to a taxi-cab back there without the driver refusing to take me because he’s scared he’ll be set upon; that’s how it was in Shoreditch.” He yawned again. “I’d better be off, Miss. See you on Monday.”

“Night, Billy.”

Maisie set the telephone down and made her way back to the bedroom. She snuggled down under the covers—the nights were becoming colder already.

“Who was that?” asked James, his voice thick with sleep as he put an arm around her.

“Billy. They’ve had a daughter. Margaret Rose.”

“Isn’t that the name of the King’s granddaughter?”

Maisie began to fall asleep again. “I believe she’s her father’s princess already.”

D
espite his courtship with Mrs. Bromley, her father still showed no interest in moving to The Dower House, and was perhaps even firmer in his intention to remain in the Groom’s Cottage. James cautioned her not to press him further, advising, “Time will bring him around, though it may be quite a while.”

In the meantime, Maisie was occupied with seeing Sandra well again, and as gently as she could, encouraging the young woman to look to the future once more. She went with her to visit Birkbeck College, a place where many students of more mature years were able to study in the evenings, so that they did not have to compromise a job to get on. Sandra enrolled and was to begin her classes in January of 1933. And it was due to Douglas Partridge that Ursula Thurlow was introduced to his publisher. It was a connection that eventually bore fruit, with a subsequent introduction to a publisher of children’s books, who thought her stories and illustrations excellent, and offered a contract to publish.

As she worked through to the end of term at the College of St. Francis, Maisie spent the time from Friday to Monday in London, keeping up with her business and spending time with James. And each Saturday morning they went to 15 Ebury Place so that James could monitor progress on the house that would become his home once again. The decision to pass the property on to James sooner rather than later had been made by Lord Julian, who realized that he and Lady Rowan would not be likely to open up the house for their use again. As the years advanced, it was clear that they were too ensconced at their home in the Kent countryside, and they thought living at the club might be getting rather tiresome for James. It was time for him to have a London home of his own; the Ebury Place mansion was an obvious choice.

It was close to the end of November on a clear but cold morning, when the air was crisp but the brim of a hat was welcome shade for the eyes, that James, while conducting his usual tour of the rooms, put his arm around Maisie and pulled her to him.

“It’s coming along so well, isn’t it?”

“I can hardly recognize it—it’s so much brighter,” said Maisie, looking around the large, empty front bedroom, currently in the process of being painted in the palest shade of sea green.

“Carter will be coming up close to Christmas, to begin bringing in new staff for me—they’ll be here in the New Year. It’s a bit like launching a ship, getting everyone on board ready for the passengers to embark on the journey of a lifetime.”

“It seems a bit like that, though I’ve only crossed the Channel a few times, and all but one of those journeys was during the war.”

“Then I will have to arrange a much more enjoyable voyage.” James kissed her forehead and held her to him. “Will you be my traveling companion, Maisie?”

Maisie swallowed deeply, feeling as if she had caught something in her throat. “We’re not talking about ships, are we, James?”

“No, not really.”

She nodded, framing her answer. “Then, can I come along just one step at a time? Perhaps when you have the tickets, I’ll be ready to jump aboard.”

Maisie could not miss his sigh, but was glad when he spoke again.

“And in the meantime, we’ll just enjoy whatever the day brings and be happy with that.”

She smiled and kissed him. “That suits me, James Compton. Now, perhaps you’d like to take me to lunch; I am quite famished.”

D
uring her final week at the college, Maisie set to the task of packing up her belongings. She had acquired a good many new books since she started teaching, and it seemed that after each visit to Chelstone, she brought a few more from Maurice’s library. As she looked through the folders of lesson plans, she considered all that had come to pass since September, when she had been followed by two men as she departed Chelstone. Much had been laid bare—a man’s duplicity, a young soldier’s question, another man’s stand for peace, and a mutiny of enemies. There had been lies and secrets and a children’s book that changed the course of so many lives, though it had seemed such an innocent story. She picked up her copy of
The Peaceful Little Warriors
and began to turn the pages. It was an easy read, as children’s books are, with larger print and bold illustrations designed to catch a young imagination. And the ending was as she expected it to be

. . . and they all lived happily ever after.

She wondered about
happily ever after
. Did it exist only in fairy tales, in stories for children? Or was there hope, really? Billy and Doreen had a new daughter, named after a princess; yet the pain of losing their dear Lizzie would never quite leave them. And Sandra was stepping forward into a life she had never imagined as a new bride, without the man she had loved so much. Frankie was, she knew, even friendlier with Mrs. Bromley, but the slowly fading photograph of her mother, now more than twenty years gone, would never, she was sure, lose its place on his mantelpiece. And there she was, Maisie Dobbs, a woman who was loved, again. Was it that she did not trust happily ever after, that she was deliberately indifferent to the possibility? Or was happily ever after another one of time’s secrets, waiting to be revealed on the journey? She smiled at the irony—the junior lecturer in philosophy struggling with a child’s fairy-tale ending. Yes, time would give up her secrets. She just had to wait.