A Lesson in Secrets (13 page)

“So you supported Liddicote because Martin thought so much of his book?”

“In a way, that’s how it started. I became disgusted with the war.” He picked up his pen and resumed tapping it on the desk as he leaned forward. “If I have any discord with my suppliers, with my commercial partners overseas—I talk to them. Even if I have to be on a ship for weeks, I will appear in person and I talk to them. I sort it all out—business is too valuable to lose, especially in this day and age. I was disgusted with my country, with my government—that they could do no better than go to war.” He shook his head. “Never thought I would say that, to tell you the truth. I’m too busy to be a political sort. But they let me down, let my boy down, and let the country down—and they’ve been doing it ever since.”

“So you helped Liddicote in Martin’s memory?”

“Yes, I did. After Martin died, I felt compelled to find this Liddicote man, and when I did I realized that he was a lot more interesting than I thought he would be. You see, I don’t really have much time for these college types in town, but Liddicote seemed to talk sense: bring young people together from nations across the globe, teach them and let them go back and spread the word, prove that we don’t have to be at war with each other. It was just like his book—send the children among the soldiers to stop the war. It was the sort of thing that Martin would have taken up. He was a sensitive boy—like his mother—and though I always wondered when he would sharpen up a bit, I came to realize how brave he was in sticking to his guns, in refusing to fight. Frankly, Miss Dobbs—I couldn’t have done it myself, and I know Robson wouldn’t; he’s too much like me.”

“You have been most candid, Mr. Headley. I confess—if I may in turn be candid—I wondered about your support of the college. You do not seem to be the sort of person who would usually become so involved in such an undertaking—if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Headley shook his head. “I don’t mind you saying so—I applaud honesty. And you’re right, I’m not the sort of person who would normally get involved in a college, but I looked at Greville Liddicote and I saw someone who could build a place where Martin’s . . . Martin’s . . . ” He seemed to grapple for words. “Where Martin’s character, yes, character, would be honored. And I have more money than I need, and Robson has been well provided for, so it’s as good a place as any to funnel some funds into.”

“And does Robson share your enthusiasm for the college?”

“He is in favor of his brother’s memory being honored in such a way.”

Maisie felt a coolness in his response, as if a breeze had blown across the conversation.

“I understand that your son will be joining the debating team at the college.”

“My son is an educated man—he attended King’s College in London—and I believe he misses that sort of intellectual argument.”

“Do you approve?”

“I neither approve nor disapprove.”

“I see.”

Headley, who had barely met Maisie’s eyes throughout the conversation, now looked up at her for a brief moment. “Your questions have deviated away from Greville’s memory, haven’t they, Miss Dobbs?”

“You talked about your son and the war, and I confess, I became taken with your story. I served in the war myself—I was a nurse.”

Headley nodded. “And now you are a lecturer at the college?”

“I gave up a place at Girton to enlist for nursing service, though I returned later.”

“Brave girl.”

“There were many.”

Headley looked at Maisie again, as if gauging whether to share a confidence. He sighed, then spoke as he looked away, fingering his papers again. “I don’t suppose you know much about Miss Delphine Lang, do you?”

“She’s a teaching assistant. I know her parents traveled considerably when she was younger—her father was a diplomat, Austrian, I believe. She spent some time in China.”

“Yes, as did Robson—well, Hong Kong. That’s how it started, with them seeing each other.”

“I take it you do not approve.”

“She’ll be gone soon, that’s all I care about.”

“Liddicote liked her, at first.”

“She came with a good education behind her, but he didn’t know about her activities, did he?”

“Activities?”

“She belongs to a group—they meet in London—they’re supporters of the German National Socialist Party. They’re all younger people, for the most part. Some at university in this country, some working in commerce, a journalist here and there. She travels down to these meetings regularly, and now Robson is going with her.”

“You told Liddicote about the group?”

“Yes, and he thought it was nothing to worry about—said that it was a good thing that they felt enough freedom in our country to be able to conduct the meetings.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Martin would have said the same thing, and I would like to have that sort of confidence in the situation, but I am afraid I do not. I paid attention to the outcome of Versailles, Miss Dobbs, and I felt grave errors had been made, errors that would lead to a deep resentment among the German people. I am a man of commerce, it is my job to assess the mood in the countries in which I do business—buying this, selling that—because I cannot afford to have local politics get in the way of what I set out to do. I do business in Germany, and I have been paying attention. I do not care for some of the rhetoric I have been hearing.”

“You think that Britain is vulnerable?”

“Not the ordinary people—the common man, as you philosophers might say. No, the common man is too busy trying to make ends meet, or to feed his children. In this country, for the most part, the people who are taken by politics of the German sort are those of some wealth, especially the younger set. I hate to say it, but people like Robson, who has been rather spoiled in his life, by his mother especially.”

“You asked Greville Liddicote not to renew Delphine Lang’s contract, so that she would have to return to her parents’ home in Austria.”

“It would make it more difficult for her to remain here, certainly. Robson is young, he would get over the liaison.”

“Are you sure about that?

“Martin wouldn’t have, but Robson—no, Robson will be taken with the next new attraction that comes along.” Headley looked at his watch as he spoke, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, dear, I really must call an end to our meeting, Miss Dobbs. Do you have any more questions?”

“Could you tell me more about the group that Delphine Lang belongs to?”

“It’s called an
Ortsgruppe.
” He spelled out the word, letter by letter for Maisie to note in her book. “They are local groups of Germans here in Britain, and they are all members of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei—the National Socialist German Workers Party. They’re doing nothing wrong, I suppose—and I daresay there are British people overseas who get together in groups to discuss this or that, drink copious amounts of tea together, and so on. I’m sure the authorities know about it.”

“Yes, I’m sure they do.” Maisie gathered her belongings. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Headley—may I call again, if I have some questions for you?”

“For your biography, you mean.” Headley looked at Maisie with just a trace of a smile.

“Yes, for the biography. I’d like to know more about Greville Liddicote’s books, if you have any knowledge you can impart.”

“I’ve read them all. His first children’s books were written before the war, but he really hit his stride with
The Peaceful Little Warriors.
There was a certain passion to it that was not there in his earlier stories. He published a couple more that were well up to that standard—they seemed to have more to them than simply a tale for children: an ethical dilemma, perhaps. Then there was a bit of a gap, and the standard went down again.”

“I see. Well, thank you, again, for seeing me. I appreciate it.”

Headley saw Maisie to the door. “They break ground on the new building soon. You’ll see the sign go up—it will actually be called ‘Martin Headley Hall.’ It will be a mix of dormitory residences and lecture rooms, and we expect to launch it with a public lecture on the nature of sustaining peace in this century—in Martin’s memory.”

As Maisie walked along the road in the direction of her lodgings, it seemed there were more young people on bicycles than pedestrians. She continued on through a series of narrower streets until she reached the Backs, an area that extended from Magdalene Street down to Silver Street, where the backs of the University’s most famous colleges met the River Cam. She stopped and took off her jacket, laying it down on the grass so she might sit and watch the water slip along. She was not alone—students were out punting, many with a lack of dexterity, and others were enjoying evening picnics in the fine weather. She laughed as two young men fell into the water while trying to impress a group of girls picnicking nearby, while another drifted along and brought his punt up on the bank close to the girls, taunting the waterlogged men as he went.

Maisie wondered about Dunstan Headley. She had been honest with him; she had found it hard to equate the man she had observed on a couple of occasions with the image she held of a benevolent businessman. He had used his resources to discover information that was new to her—about the groups of German immigrants meeting in British cities. She was sure that Huntley must know about this, but wondered if he knew about the connection to the college via Delphine Lang. Were there links with British Fascist supporters? Headley showed a certain astuteness in identifying Robson’s vulnerability to the influence of such groups, and she wondered whether all was well between father and son. Headley had skimmed over the subject, though he
had
brought it up, which was more than many would have done in his position—such would be the embarrassment. But he had not discussed it at length, either, and Maisie took into account the fact that she had met with him on the pretext of writing a biography of Greville Liddicote, and she had certainly pushed her questions beyond the boundary of the dead man’s life and work.

She wanted to know more about the Ortsgruppe, and she wanted to know whether Huntley was already aware of the meetings, and if so, why she wasn’t told. It occurred to her that, of the staff, already two—Delphine Lang and Francesca Thomas—seemed to be making their way into London with some regularity. Maisie closed her eyes, and though at the edge of her consciousness she was aware of the shouts of students splashing around at the edge of the river, the sounds receded as she meditated, focusing her thoughts on the many threads of information she now held. And reflecting upon what had come to pass since her first visit to the College of St. Francis, she remembered waiting in the staff library on the day of her interview: she had looked out the window across the grounds, and seen the young woman whom she now knew to be Delphine Lang in the embrace of Dr. Matthias Roth. It did not strike her as a romantic assignation, but rather as a daughter might be comforted by her father.

Chapter Eleven

M
aisie planned to drive to Oxford for her meeting at Somerville College, and from there she would go straight to London—hopefully to find Sandra released from police custody. Though the day was overcast, she drove with the roof drawn back and hoped it would not rain. Having left Cambridge early, she intended to stop at a telephone kiosk on the way so she could place a call to Brian Huntley; she also thought it would be a good idea to stop for a cup of tea, as she had departed her lodgings without breakfast, much to the consternation of her landlady.

Maisie spotted a telephone kiosk as she approached a crossroads. The kiosk looked as if it had just been cleaned by local GPO workers, but she still held the door ajar with her foot—such a small enclosed space always made her feel uncomfortable.

“Is the doctor there? I have an emergency and want to speak to the doctor.”

“Will the nurse do? We have a nurse available,” said the woman who answered.

“It’s a laceration on the palm of the hand, and I believe it may cause lockjaw. I have to speak to the doctor.”

“And your name is?”

“Dobbs. I am a patient.”

“Hold the line, please. I’ll see if the doctor’s in.”

She waited for a moment, then Huntley came on the line.

“Good morning, Maisie.”

“Yes. Good morning.” She was never quite sure whether she should call him “Brian” or “Mr. Huntley.” He had assumed a certain familiarity with her, and she knew that Maurice would have addressed him by his Christian name. She took a deep breath. “Brian, I wanted to ask you what you know about a group—well, ‘groups’ might be more in order—known as the Ortsgruppe. They’re essentially men and women from Germany or of German extraction—immigrants, workers here for a short time, that sort of thing—who have sworn some sort of allegiance to the NSDAP—the Nazi Party in Germany.”

“Yes, we know a bit about them, and I’ve asked for reports on their activities, but we’re not worried about them.”

“You’re not worried about them?”

“No. Chap called Hans Wilhelm Thost is the leader of the group in London—journalist, can’t see a problem with him at all. They’re all ardent followers of Adolf Hitler, but we only get truly worried when groups of this sort start doing things such as publishing literature critical of Britain and her Empire. There has been no evidence of seditious material from the group, and we have taken advice from the Home Office that any move by authorities to limit their activities would do more harm than good.”

“May I ask how?” Maisie felt the skin around her neck prickle.

“Our political and commercial relationship with Germany cannot be muddied at this point by anything that smacks of disregard for German citizens in our country.”

“I see.” Maisie ran the telephone cord through her fingers. “Delphine Lang, a teaching assistant at the college is, apparently, a member of the Ortsgruppe. She travels to their meetings in London, and brings her young man with her. He is British.”

“Probably nothing to worry about, to tell you the truth. MacFarlane’s men and Section 5 are keeping their eyes on our homegrown Fascists, but so far they don’t seem to be making too much hay—the conservatives won’t have much to do with them, and they seem a lot more of a threat than they really are.”

Maisie sighed. “So, you’re not really worried about these developments.”

“Not until I get a memorandum telling me I should be.” He paused. “You seem worried, though.”

“It occurred to me, Brian, that infiltration of our venerable seats of learning would be something that might be on the agenda for these groups—impressionable young people, perhaps, waiting for a cause to support. And I’ve been reading about the NSDAP; their rhetoric has become increasingly inflammatory, to say nothing of anti-Semitic. They have gained considerable ground in Germany, especially when most of the population feels it was not served well by the Peace Conference.”

“Good points, Maisie, but not quite your bailiwick. Find out what, if anything, is going on at the college. An association with the Ortsgruppe is certainly of interest, but as I said, we’ve been kept up to date, and they’ve done nothing to alarm us yet. All a bit run-of-the-mill, actually.” He paused. “I’m looking at your teaching timetable now—shouldn’t you have a class this morning,
Miss Dobbs
?”

Maisie was surprised that Huntley seemed to be making a joke, so she answered in kind. “I’m playing truant. I’ll telephone you again soon, Brian.”

“One thing, Maisie.”

“Yes?” She heard him shuffle papers, as if looking for something specific.

“There’s a meeting of the London Ortsgruppe this evening. An address in Cleveland Terrace. I’ll have the details delivered to your office—I take it you’ll be in London later today?”

“Yes.”

“And don’t worry about your secretary, Maisie. She’s been released from police custody, into the safekeeping of Mr. Douglas Partridge.”

“How—?”

“We really don’t want complications or unnecessary attention drawn to you or your activities. Do try to keep her thoughts on her work, whether that work is for you or Mr. Partridge. Good-bye for now.”

As Maisie had no opportunity to end the call with a “Good-bye” in return, she set down the receiver and stepped out of the telephone kiosk. She expected Brian Huntley to be keeping tabs on her, but was surprised at his knowledge of Sandra’s dilemma. She was relieved to hear that the young woman had been released from police custody, but also understood that such a release came with strings attached, and hoped that Sandra would abide by the restrictions of those strings. It seemed she had become blindly headstrong since her widowhood, and though Maisie knew she might have good reason, she was determined to sit down with her new employee and find out exactly what was on her mind. Only then could she help her.

The sun was shining again now; a gentle breeze had blown up and she hoped for a pleasant journey. It would be a good deal more enjoyable, she thought, if she did not feel a deep concern about the Ortsgruppe, and about Delphine Lang’s involvement in the organization. And she was becoming increasingly perturbed whenever her thoughts turned to Robson Headley, a willful young man who appeared to have been rather indulged by a father who had already lost a beloved first son. Maisie wondered, again, about Greville Liddicote’s book. Already she knew of two people who had been touched by the book—touched enough, each in his way, to lay down arms. One had lost his life, charged with desertion and shot at dawn; the other had risked the same outcome with a self-inflicted wound. One British, one German. How many more young men—and women—might have been moved to some action by Greville Liddicote’s simple tale of children who tried to stop a war? And having read the story, how many might have chosen not to fight, brave enough to step forward in conscientious objection to the war—and then borne the brutal consequences of that decision?

I
’ve asked for tea—I am sure you’d like a cup, having come all the way from Cambridge to see me.” Jennifer Penhaligon’s smile was warm, seemingly in contrast to movements that were quick and precise, and with a sharper tongue, might seem almost confrontational. She was of medium height, in her seventies, and the shine in her eyes seemed to indicate a still-sparkling intellect. Her silver-gray hair was cut in a fashionable short bob, and she wore a light linen skirt and blouse under her black gown. A gold wristwatch with a delicate safety chain slid down her wrist as she reached for Maisie’s letter; her only other jewelry was a pair of pearl earrings, and a wedding ring that seemed to have worked a groove into her finger. Her nails were short—Maisie had discovered that long nails were neither practical nor appropriate for a teacher using chalk on a blackboard—and skin that might once have been fair was marked by liver spots, indicating, Maisie thought, that Jennifer Penhaligon loved to garden when not at her desk.

“Thank you—I do believe I drink far too much tea, but another cup is always welcome.”

“Well, let’s get down to business—”

A young woman came in with a tea tray, and there was a hiatus in the conversation while she poured cups for the professor and Maisie. When she left the room, Penhaligon sipped from her cup of tea, set the cup down, clasped her hands in front of her, and looked at Maisie.

“As I was saying, let’s get down to business. You said in your letter that you were writing an account of the College of St. Francis, in memory of Greville Liddicote—and you intend to include some sort of biography on each of the senior staff.”

“Yes, I thought it would be an important addition to the history of the college.”

“And you’re interested in Francesca Thomas?”

“Yes, Dr. Thomas is one of our most admired staff members at the college.”

“I can imagine. I remember Miss Thomas very well indeed. First-class languages, excellent student—diligent, and thoughtful. Passionate, is how I would describe her.”

“In what way, would you say, was she passionate?”

“About the things she believed in. Of course, such ideals sound like empty words—freedom, for example, to think, to have a voice—but she had done her reading, her research, and she knew exactly what she meant when she backed up her ideals with solid thought and good, good writing. Very able, when it came to expressing herself on paper, which is not always the case with those who are born overseas and for whom English is not their first language. Mind you, had she not been so gifted, she would not have been accepted here at Somerville.”

“I see, and she was here for three years?”

“Yes, and went straight to London in 1914, to take up a job.”

“In London? I’m surprised.”

“Don’t be—with her exposure to languages and so on, she was ideal for her role.”

“What sort of work was it?”

“Something or other in the War Office, or one of the other services where they needed bright young women with linguistic abilities—I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth. She came back to see me once after she’d left, and she said she couldn’t really speak about her job—hush-hush, apparently. But if you remember, everything was hush-hush in the war. You would have thought there were German spies in every tea shop.”

“And you didn’t see her again until—when?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen her since that last visit. I had an idea she’d gone overseas—and you say she earned her doctorate somewhere in Europe? Doesn’t surprise me at all, you know, very bright girl, determined. Did she never marry?’

“I don’t know,” said Maisie. “I know she lives alone in Cambridge, so if she was married once, she isn’t now.”

“Yes, one doesn’t like to ask, but it’s easy to assume that a young husband or fiancé was lost—there are so many widows, aren’t there?” Jennifer Penhaligon cleared her throat. “Well, if you have no more questions, Miss Dobbs, I should be getting on.”

“Yes, of course. You’ve been most kind.” Maisie stood and held out her hand to Penhaligon. “Dr. Thomas was born in Switzerland, wasn’t she? I wonder if she went back there during the war—after all, it was a neutral country.”

“Possibly. I wish I knew. But Francesca was what I would call a real European—mind you, if you look back, I am sure we all have a bit of this and a bit of that. My grandmother came from the Netherlands, and another ancestor from Sweden, and we British all have something of our invaders, don’t we—some Norman here, a bit of Viking there, a spoonful of Saxon, perhaps.”

Maisie laughed. “Oh, yes, you’re absolutely right there!”

“But Francesca was rather careful, in terms of her name.”

“In what way?”

“Well, when war seemed imminent, she changed her name—it was originally Seifert, and she thought it sounded too Germanic, so she took ‘precautionary action,’ as she put it. The authorities obviously knew she was a British subject through her mother, but she took the name Thomas. Apparently it was her grandmother’s maiden name.”

“I see. Well, I think I might have done the same in the circumstances.”

“Yes, so might I. Fortunately, neither of us had to do anything of the sort. Now then, Miss Dobbs, do try to take a walk around our gardens before you leave—the Somerville gardens are known for their beauty, and they really are quite lovely at the moment.”

“Thank you, Professor Penhaligon. I’ll go for a walk around now.”

M
aisie’s stroll around the grounds was brief, but productive; she wanted to breathe in some fresh air before driving down to London, and it gave her time to think. So, Francesca Thomas had worked in something “hush-hush” during the war. Did she then return to Europe and her education? Certainly, with her background she could have continued her education in Switzerland, gaining a doctorate at a university there. Maisie wondered about her change of name. One could hardly be surprised at her wanting to take her grandmother’s name, and “Thomas” did sound so very English. She would make inquiries in any case.

It was early afternoon when Maisie parked outside the home in Holland Park where Priscilla lived with her husband and sons. The property had once been the home of Margaret Lynch—the mother of Simon Lynch, the young doctor whom Maisie had loved. With both her husband and her son now dead, Margaret had no need of the mansion, with its sweeping staircase and many rooms, so it had been leased to Priscilla and her husband, and had once more become a house filled with laughter. On Fridays, Douglas and Priscilla usually took the boys to Priscilla’s family estate in the country, but in the present circumstances, Maisie thought they would be staying in London.

“Maisie, thank goodness—you’re here.”

“Where’s Sandra?”

Priscilla closed the door as Maisie stepped into the entrance hall. “I really don’t know how to tell you this, but she’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“We don’t know. After we brought her home yesterday afternoon, I made sure she went straight to bed—she had been living in the most awful cell, terrible. I took her to the guest room, and came back with something light to eat—soft-boiled egg, a slice of toast, tea—but she wouldn’t take anything, just curled up on the bed and closed her eyes. Poor dear, she just wept. I remained with her for a while, and then thought it best to just leave her to sleep it off.”