A Lesson in Secrets (11 page)

As she looked about her, Maisie sensed that Rose Linden had been a kindly soul, that she had lived in her house, worked in her garden, and accepted her lot with a certain ease. She had most likely lived the seasons of her life with no more and no fewer ups and downs than anyone else, and probably took the blows of sadness with the same equanimity as she received the gift of joy. And without doubt, Rose Linden had friends, if the photographs on top of the sideboard were any indication. She had won prizes for her roses at the local fete, had welcomed schoolchildren to her garden, and was not short of company. Maisie smiled as she considered each image, and hoped that Rose had lived a good life, and lived it well. She suspected that the woman was one who had mourned the lack of children, and in all likelihood had shed the tears of a barren wife. Maisie hoped she had died in peace.

Stepping with as light a foot as she could, Maisie set off up the stairs, and though dusk was approaching, she did not want to use the gas lamps, as the glow might attract unwanted attention.

In the main bedroom a lace counterpane covered a bed made for two. Underneath, a pink silk coverlet had been draped over the bed, which had been stripped of sheets. Maisie looked at the lace and pink silk together, and knew that Rose Linden had passed away in her own home, in this bed. She hoped that a loved one was there to hold her hand, and wondered why Cyril and his wife had not paid attention to the house and garden, for surely they would be the primary beneficiaries of her estate. To be sure, the house did not represent a lucrative bequest, but it was something in such times. Then again, the estate could have been left to someone else.

Maisie stepped into the second room, which was smaller, with low beams and whitewashed walls. A single bed was made up, as if ready for an expected visitor. A towel had been placed on the wooden stand alongside the window; and the pitcher inside the china bowl was still filled with water, though there was a greenish ring where some had evaporated in recent weeks. A cupboard close to the door was partially open, and when Maisie looked inside, she discovered it was filled with books. She began to read the titles on the spine of one book after another, then knelt down to better see those on the floor of the cupboard. As she lifted each book, Maisie knew that she was searching, that this was no idle curiosity; she recognized the sensation of expectation, the way her fingers tingled as she laid book after book aside, having checked the title, opened the pages, and read the inscription. Then she saw it. The cover was familiar to her now; the children looking up at the soldier and the crosses growing smaller in the distance. She ran her fingers over the embossed board, across the Celtic knot pressed into the dyed cloth, then with care opened the cover, and the first page. The inscription had been penned in a clear copperplate hand:
To our darling Rose, with our love. Ursula.
And with the same pen and ink, the writer had crossed out Greville Liddicote’s name.

I
t was too late to return to Cyril Linden’s home, so Maisie decided to wait until the following morning. It was to be an early call, so she would have to take the chance that her visit might be met with some degree of reticence. She also wanted to return to the records office before leaving Ipswich. If all went to plan she would arrive back at the college in the nick of time—not exactly the way in which a new member of staff should conduct herself during a period of probationary service; however, she was not behind in her work, as she would use the evening in the guesthouse to mark her students’ essays and prepare for the following day’s classes.

Though she had read Greville Liddicote’s book, she took out her copy once more before going to bed.

Some of the children missed their mothers, but the leaders, Adam and Alice, marched on. “We’re going to find our fathers!” they exclaimed. Then the children set off two by two, little soldiers on their way to stop a war.

“Where are you going?” asked the mayor, with a rope of shining gold coins around his neck, and a red cloak with an ermine collar drawn around his very big middle with a black leather belt.

“We’re marching to find our fathers,” said Peter.

A cheer went up and when the mayor turned around to see what had caused such a cacophony of noise, his cheeks became as red as his cloak. From another street a thousand more little children came running.

“We want to find our fathers!” shouted a French boy named Jean. “We want to march with you!”

“And we’re coming too!” said Inge, the little German girl.

A
t exactly half past eight in the morning, Maisie knocked on the door of Cyril and Mary Linden’s house on Saltwater Lane. It was early to call but she suspected the Lindens rose with the sun. Again she heard the barking dog admonished and the heavy clump of footsteps coming towards the door. Cyril Linden did not look pleased to find a visitor on his doorstep.

“Oh, you again.”

Maisie smiled. “I am so sorry to bother you this early in the morning, but I have to catch a train in an hour and I really wanted to ask you another question or two more, if that’s all right.”

The man sighed and shook his head. “I’ve just come home for my breakfast, so you’d better come in. I don’t want it to spoil.” He turned and led the way down a dark passageway towards the kitchen at the back of the house, which emitted an odor of fried bacon and eggs, and the musty dander of dog.

“Mary, this is Miss Dobbs—it was ‘Dobbs,’ wasn’t it?”

Maisie nodded and held out her hand. Mary Linden wiped her damp fingers on her apron and took the proferred hand, smiling, and adding, “Pleased, I’m sure. Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Dobbs?”

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Linden.”

Linden pulled out a chair for Maisie, then sat down to finish his breakfast. A fox terrier banished to the garden outside barked and pawed at the door, while another, older, dog with a gray muzzle and glassy eyes lay on a clump of blankets in the corner, only raising her head once to acknowledge Maisie’s entrance. She returned to her snoring.

“That dog can send them home when she likes,” said Linden, scraping up egg with a wedge of fried bread. “Now then, what can we do for you?”

“I wanted to ask you about your sister-in-law, Rose Linden. You said she passed away about a month ago.”

“Yes, as far as we know.”

“As far as you know? Were you not close?”

“I was close enough to my brother, as a boy. But not to her.”

“I take it your brother was older than you.”

Linden nodded. “Ten years. And she was older than him, though you would never have known it. He passed years ago: his heart.”

“Do you know her family?” asked Maisie.

“Don’t really want to know them.” Linden brushed off the question.

“Cyril, don’t you speak ill of the dead. It’s not right.” Mary Linden had been pushing wet laundry through a wringer. She picked up a wicker basket filled with damp bed linen and opened the back door, whereupon the dog barked again and tried to get into the kitchen. “And you can get back out there, Midget. I’ve enough to put up with, without you at my feet.” She closed the door behind her.

“May I ask why you wouldn’t want to know Rose’s family? I’m inquiring only because I am anxious to find Rosemary Linden and I think there might be some sort of connection.”

He pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before reaching for a cup of strong brown tea. “They wouldn’t be Lindens, though, would they? She took a good name, Linden, and there’s no Rosemarys on our side.”

Maisie nodded. “Do you know her maiden name?”

Cyril Linden sighed. “I can’t say as I remember, to tell you the truth. But hold on a minute.”

He pushed back his chair, opened the back door, quieted the barking dog, and shouted out to his wife. Maisie listened to the conversation as she sipped her tea.

“Mary—what was her name before she got married? Can’t for the life of me remember.”

“Rose?”

“Of
course
I mean Rose. Can you remember her name?”

“Lummy, I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Wasn’t she a Thurber? Thur-something?”

“No, no, that was the sister’s married name. I thought old Rose was a Gibson.”

“She might’ve been, Cyril—I can’t say as it sounds right to me, though.”

Linden closed the door behind him, and took his seat once again. “Reckon it might have been either Gibson or Thur-something.”

Maisie gathered her bag as if to leave, and asked another question. “It seems you didn’t care for Rose very much, Mr. Linden.”

He shook his head, and shrugged, “Well, what can you do? My brother was the educated one, a teacher, and he married an educated woman. Came from a funny family, she did; all books, all know-all’s they were. They never had any children of their own, my brother and Rose, and if I was to say anything for them, then it would be that it’s because of their help that our children got a good education and have managed to do well in life on the back of it. Pity the same couldn’t be said of her sister’s boy. They made sure he had a good education, too, but look what he did with his brains.”

“What did he do?”

“Him? Good-for-nothing conchie, that’s what he was. But the less said about that, the better. I don’t want talk about a yellow belly in this house.”

“What was—”

He scraped his chair back, stood up, and began walking towards the front door. “And seeing as he’s got nothing to do with your Rosemary Linden, and we don’t know her, anyway, I reckon you’d best get going—you’ll miss your train otherwise.”

Maisie bit her lip and smiled as she shook his hand at the door. “Thank you, Mr. Linden. You have been most kind.”

He nodded and closed the door.

Maisie walked down the path, unlatched the front gate, and was about to continue on towards the station when she heard a whistle from the other side of the street. A black motor car had just come to a halt, and as she looked up, MacFarlane called out to her.

“Come on, get in and we’ll give you a lift.”

Maisie crossed the road and stepped into the black Invicta motor car, where MacFarlane and Stratton were already seated.

“I might have bloody well known.” MacFarlane’s words were accompanied by a rolling of his eyes. “So, we can’t walk in there now, they’ll probably set the dogs on us.”

“There’s only one you really have to worry about, Robbie. The other’s old and gray.”

MacFarlane turned to face Maisie. “Which is what I’ll be if we don’t get the territory sorted out.”

“To be frank, I’m not sure it’s possible. I’m not saying that defense of the realm is wrapped up with Liddicote’s murder, but it might be.”

“So, what have you got for us, Maisie?” Stratton leaned forward, entering the conversation. He seemed subdued. Not for the first time, she wondered if his transfer to Special Branch had lived up to his expectations.

She recounted the items of interest that she had uncovered during her visit to Ipswich, adding, “I’m interested in Rosemary Linden because of her position—she knew more about what was going on at the college than anyone else there, despite a role that some people looked down upon. I know some members of staff saw her as little more than the maid in the office, even though she was privy to most of the college’s official correspondence, and to the records of all staff and students. And no sooner does Liddicote die than she leaves.”

“It would be hard for a woman to wring a man’s neck, Maisie,” said MacFarlane.

“I’m not saying she murdered him, but I would like to speak to her all the same. I think there was a connection, somewhere, between Rosemary Linden and Greville Liddicote. I am not at all sure what it was, but I intend to find out. And before you ask—yes, I do think there’s an outside chance that it might be connected to our national interests, especially considering the information she might have to hand; information that others might not dream she has. And if they do, we might not be the only ones looking for her.” Maisie paused. “Have you discovered anything earth-shattering, gentlemen?”

MacFarlane rolled his eyes again. “Bloody boring, these education types.”

“Careful, Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane, you’re talking to one of them.”

“Staid, but never boring, Maisie.”

“Staid?”

Chapter Nine

M
acFarlane and Stratton were returning to London later in the day, but escorted Maisie back to Cambridge, so she had plenty of time for some last-minute preparation before her first class. When they arrived, MacFarlane stopped to speak to the driver, while Maisie and Stratton walked on towards the main entrance.

“Richard, I wonder if I might ask you a quick question.”

Stratton turned to face her. “Fire away—though I might not answer.”

“We’re all in the same boat here, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not. But if I can help you, I will.”

Maisie ignored the “no, we’re not” and went on. “When Tom Sarron had completed his initial examination of Greville Liddicote’s body, you called after him as he was leaving. I was just curious to know what you might have seen—if you can tell me.”

Stratton looked towards the Invicta, where MacFarlane was still conversing with the driver, then turned back to Maisie. “Robbie said that when you initially telephoned him about Liddicote’s death, you thought he might have been killed by a professional, someone who knew exactly how to sever the spinal cord with one snap of the neck—instant death. I just wanted to ask him about it. Two things occurred to me. First, given the fact that Liddicote was a man—not a physically strong man, admittedly—I wondered if a woman could have done it. Second, I wanted to know in which direction the neck had been twisted, and whether a reflex—you’re killing a person and you want it done quickly—would lead you to twist to the right or left, dependent upon which hand is your dominant hand. So, for example, would a right-handed person twist to the right, and a left-handed person twist to the left?”

“That sounds like a reasonable question.”

“But it’s awfully muddy.” He sighed. “Most people write with their right hands; even those who began writing with their left hands have been taught at school that they should write with the right hand—if you’ll excuse the pun, it’s what’s considered right. However, in the heat of the moment, even if a person who has been forced to use their right hand as the dominant hand, would they turn the head to the left if they were acting under a certain pressure? And even a trained killer is under pressure. By they way, I believe you were correct in your assumption, as it does seem as if the murderer in question was versed in this sort of attack.”

“But the ‘muddying’ hardly helps us, does it?”

“And, of course, we could have a completely ambidextrous killer,” added Stratton.

Maisie nodded. “Have you seen Liddicote’s family yet? I know he lived alone, but didn’t he have a couple of children?”

“Yes, and we’re interviewing them over the next day or so—they’ve been informed of his death, of course. The son and daughter are in their mid-twenties and, as far as we know, didn’t have much to do with their father. We understand he and his wife lived quite separate lives; she more or less left him when he lost his Cambridge appointment and became obsessed with founding the college, so she took the children back to Oxford, which is where they had met. Apparently she died in 1925, and the children chose to remain with her family—they didn’t want to go back to their father.” Stratton kicked at a stone as he spoke. “We’ve also discovered that our friend Liddicote was something of a philanderer when he was younger: had an eye for the ladies, especially young students, it seems.”

“Oh dear, family troubles and a wayward eye—more muddying of the waters. I wondered why there was no family at the assembly.”

Stratton went on. “They were told about it, and according to Roth they’ve been informed about the memorial service, but we don’t know if they’ll come. The son is now in London, an architecture student, and the daughter is in Bath, with some relatives.”

“Right then, this will never get the eggs cooked on this little case, will it?” MacFarlane’s voice boomed behind them. “We can’t be chatting all day, can we, children? Ricky? Maisie?”

Maisie saw Richard Stratton look away as MacFarlane approached. She knew that Stratton only ever used the name “Richard” when introducing himself by his Christian name. Any abbreviation without an invitation to do so represented a certain unwelcome familiarity, and Maisie could not imagine Richard Stratton saying to anyone, “Call me Ricky.” She watched Stratton’s expression as he turned back to answer a question put to him by MacFarlane.
Ah, he doesn’t like MacFarlane. He doesn’t like him at all.

M
aisie was in front of her second-year class, a larger group than usual, as apparently Francesca Thomas had to leave the college due to sickness—she was suffering from a very bad cold—and it was felt that her students would be best served by joining the junior lecturer’s philosophy class. Maisie had written two words on the blackboard with a crisp new stick of chalk:
Good
and
Evil
. Soon the class was in full swing, and, following readings on the nature of the opposing forces, a vibrant discussion ensued in which the nature of those two elements within the human condition was debated. As the class drew to a close, Maisie set homework for the students, and asked whether there were any final questions. A student put up his hand.

“Yes, Daniel.”

“Miss Dobbs, will you be helping the debate team prepare for the competition?” Daniel, from Sweden, spoke with only a slight accent, testament to several years spent in a British boarding school while his father traveled the world on business, accompanied by his mother.

“I don’t believe so, although I know that several of our staff are very involved in the debate, under Dr. Roth’s leadership. Why do you ask?”

Daniel shrugged as he gathered his books and made his way to the front of the class, while his fellow students began moving towards the door. “Our discussion today is so connected to the subject of the debate—good and evil; the Oswald Mosleys and Adolf Hitlers of this world—are they for the good or the bad? Are they misguided leaders or prophets? And what about the forces in Spain?”

Maisie nodded and smiled. “Good questions, Daniel—perhaps to ponder along with your homework. We might well discuss each of these men and their philosophies next time, so come prepared. Are you one of our debaters?”

“I’m a stand-in, in case someone is ill. I might have made it, but they had to make a place for someone who isn’t technically a student here.”

“Who’s that?”

“The son of one of the board members. He wanted to debate but doesn’t belong to a college—I think he’s already been to university in London and now works for his father. He’s been given an opportunity to stand for the college. Despite the fee my father is paying for my extended education here, it seems the governor’s son trumps any skill I might offer.”

“Oh, I see. Well, you never know, perhaps he’ll go down with chicken pox—do you know his name?”

Daniel shook his head. “His father is that man Dunstan—I can’t remember the surname. He’s been here to the college, oh and—” He looked around as if he were about to reveal a secret. “I think he’s sweet on Miss Lang. I’ve seen him with her, but I think they don’t want anyone to know.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. When I saw them they seemed as if they were on the lookout for people who might recognize them—which is silly, really. For a start, you can’t really avoid looking at Miss Lang—she’s so pretty.” He laughed, waved, and hurried to catch up with his classmates.

Maisie scooped up the essays left for her, and pushed them into her briefcase along with her notes and two books she had brought to class. She knew she had to work fast. There were people she wanted to see, and only so much time in which to see them.

A
s she walked towards the office on the way to the staff room, Maisie was stopped by Miss Hawthorne, the bookkeeper. Miss Hawthorne, who usually came in on a part-time basis, was now at the college every day, helping with administration until a new secretary could be found. A temporary typist had been taken on, and though paperwork was kept in check, it was clear that Miss Hawthorne was having some trouble with her work—she seemed more than a little harried, and rather breathless, as she called out to Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs! A moment, please.”

Maisie turned. “Hello, Miss Hawthorne—keeping your head above water?”

The woman sighed and shook her head, which seemed to have become even grayer overnight. “I’m choking on the water, if you must know.” She held out a small sheet of paper towards Maisie. “Please be advised that I am not a runner of messages; however, a Mrs. Partridge telephoned, most insistent, and asked that I inform you immediately”—she pronounced the word
immeejetly
—“that she needs to speak to you as a matter of some urgency.”

Maisie took the paper. “Oh dear. I wonder what’s wrong.”

“You’ll have to walk down to the telephone box on the corner, you know. No staff telephone calls from the office.” She looked at her watch. “You’ll have time before the next period, if you go now.”

Maisie did not reply, but turned and ran to the main door, across the driveway and down the street to the telephone box. Shaking, she pulled out a few coins and pressed them into the slot.
Had something happened to one of the boys? What was so urgent that Priscilla had tracked her down at the college?
The telephone rang just once before Priscilla answered.

“Priscilla, what on earth’s the matter? Is everything all right?” She could feel her hands shaking.

“Thank heavens! I thought I would have to wait by this telephone for hours before you called back. And what are you doing at a college? Good Lord, have you lost your senses—a couple of terms at Girton was enough for me, but you are a glutton for punishment.”

“Pris! For goodness sake, what’s the matter?”

“Sandra is in police custody.”

“She’s
what
?”

“That hurt my ear. She’s in police custody; Douglas is on his way to Vine Street police station, where we understand she’s being held on suspicion of breaking and entering. We think she’ll be moved to Holloway Prison, at some point.”

“Breaking and entering?” Maisie put her hand to her head. “Breaking and entering? You are sure we are talking about the same young woman—Sandra? Breaking and entering? Holloway Prison?”

“I don’t think I have ever heard you panic, Maisie—you’re repeating yourself. Anyway, it wasn’t one, but two properties, so young Sandra is in a fair bit of bother.”

“Priscilla, I can’t get away until Friday—can you and Douglas do what you can to get her out? I will deal with this when I get back.”

“You should know that she broke into the offices of a William Walling. He’s quite the businessman, top-notch city contacts, that sort of thing.”

“What on earth would she . . . ?” Maisie’s mind was racing now. “Where else did she break into?”

“The garage off the Marylebone Road where her husband worked. A policeman on the beat saw a light on in the back office—a window had been smashed and the door unlocked. Clearly the silly girl is no professional, despite working for you. Anyway, when she said she used to live there and had come back for some belongings, he let her off with a warning—she told him her husband had died at work, and the owner wanted her out in such a hurry, she’d left a few things behind. The policeman felt sorry for her, but at the same time, felt duty bound to report it, though she wasn’t arrested. It couldn’t have scared her much, because she moved on from there.”

“Priscilla, do your best to get her home, to your house—and keep her there even if you have to tie her down. I’ll be back on Friday—in fact, I might see if I can get another teacher to take my class, so that I can leave on Thursday evening. By the way, how did you find me?”

“I telephoned your Mr. Beale. I just told him he had to trust me in that I needed to be in touch with you soonest. So I wheedled it out of him that you were at this college. By the way, take what class?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“What are you doing, Maisie?”

“I’m teaching philosophy, Pris. And don’t you dare say a word about it.”

There was silence for a moment, then, “We’ll get her out—and we’ll provide bail if we have to. And, as you know, when I turn up and say a few choice words, they’ll want all three of us out of their hair in seconds.”

“Thank you, Pris—I really do appreciate it.”

“I’ll keep you posted—I take it the school isn’t the best place to send a card or telegram?”

Maisie gave Priscilla the address of her lodging; there was no telephone on the premises. “And not a word to anyone about my being here; it’s extremely secret.”

“Mum’s the word. And I suppose that’s one thing that Sandra learned from you. She’s clearly harboring a secret or two of her own; very nice girl, good at her work, well turned-out—but she’s a common burglar. Very nice, I’m sure.”

“Look after her.”

“Don’t worry—if Douglas is there, she’s in the very best hands. He’s pure gold.” There was a click as Priscilla ended the call.

Maisie left the telephone kiosk and walked back to the college, her mind awash with speculation as to what Sandra had discovered that had led to the second attempt at burglary, never mind the first. And as she walked, Maisie thought, too, about Priscilla’s description of her husband. It was not a lingering thought, but rather a question that seemed to pass by as she filtered her recent conversations with Sandra in her mind.
He’s pure gold.
It always touched her when she saw Priscilla demonstrate her affection for her beloved husband, or when she spoke of him in a way that reflected the depth of her feelings. Maisie wondered, briefly, if it would come to pass that she might say such things about a man she had loved for years.

W
hen Maisie arrived back at her lodging house that day—a day when so much had happened, it seemed—she was almost surprised to find it unchanged and quiet, the path bordered by flowers, and on the trees the first leaves beginning to turn. She opened the front door and stepped across the threshold, and was relieved to see two plain postcards in reply to letters she had sent just a couple of days previously. The cards were a useful means of communication for short messages, and were cheaper to post than a letter. The first was from Jennifer Penhaligon, suggesting that Maisie should come to see her on Friday morning, if that would be convenient.
No, it isn’t, really
, thought Maisie, considering that she was already planning to miss a lesson in order to go back to London early. But the appointment with the person who had provided an academic reference for Francesca Thomas was an important one; she could not afford to miss the opportunity to learn more about the woman, who, to be frank, intrigued her.