A Lesson in Secrets (16 page)

Maisie straightened the pile of papers, then leaned back in the chair and rubbed her neck. The afternoon sun had moved across the land, and she thought she might walk around the garden before tea. She realized her throat was dry. There were other boxes to go through today, but for now she wanted to think about the girls and women who had worked in secret throughout the war. And she thought back to the conversation with Jennifer Penhaligon, and her comments about Francesca Thomas:

. . . First-class languages, excellent student—diligent, and thoughtful. Passionate, is how I would describe her . . . about the things she believed in . . . she came back to see me once after she’d left . . . she said she couldn’t really speak about her job—hush-hush, apparently. . . .

Maisie wondered what Francesca Thomas was passionate about now, and whether there was still much in her world that was
hush-hush.

Chapter Thirteen

M
aisie returned to Cambridge on Sunday afternoon. She wanted time to prepare for her lessons in the coming week, and welcomed the extra hours she would have in the morning, before her classes started. More urgently, she wanted to see if a letter from the Records Office in Ipswich had been delivered to her lodgings.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when she stood up from her writing desk and stretched her arms. Her back was sore from driving and sitting bent over papers, and now there was another line of investigation to follow. She wanted to know more about Robson Headley. How invested was he in Delphine Lang’s politics? Had he become interested in the Ortsgruppe simply because she was a member? Hans Wilhelm Thost was known to have links with Oxford, and it seemed there was a real attempt to spread the word regarding their leader’s political message. Among the aristocracy and landed gentry, there was support for, indeed a fascination with, the tenets of fascism. Maisie wondered if it was simply a new political game to play along the sidelines of government. Clearly Huntley already knew about the group’s activities throughout the British Isles, especially in London, yet his advisers were informing him that the group presented no cause for concern; on the contrary, the members were welcomed in certain quarters and asked to speak publicly of the rise of the Nazi Party in Germany, presenting their leader as one with a good deal of charisma. Maisie shook her head, recalling the frustrating conversation with Huntley. Yes, she would have to find out a little more about Robson Headley. And she wanted to speak to Matthias Roth again, to ask him why he countered Greville Liddicote’s decision to take an active part in the Cambridge debates.

The letter from Ipswich did not arrive until Monday morning. The clerk who responded to her questions about Rose Linden’s family invited her to return to the county offices, as he had some names that might be of interest to her. He indicated that there had been two nephews, though both were now dead. The name of the family was not Linden, however, but Thurlow, owing to Rose Linden’s sister’s marriage to John Thurlow. One son, also John, died in 1914, at Mons. The other, David, died early in 1915; no other details were listed. The clerk said he would give her more information when she came in.

Maisie borrowed her landlady’s bicycle again on Monday, arriving at the college at lunchtime. She set the bicycle in a rack at the side of the main building and made her way to the staff dining room, but was stopped on the way by Miss Hawthorne, who was as flustered as ever.

“Miss Dobbs, just a quick word to let you know that there’s a meeting of the college—all staff and students—in the assembly hall at two; everyone else knows, as the message went round at coffee, so I’m glad I caught you.”

Maisie thanked the woman, then continued on to the staff dining room. Lunch was not a formal affair at the College of St. Francis, usually a buffet with one hot dish and vegetables, and a sweet course. A coffee urn was placed at the end of the table, though Maisie would have loved a cup of the rich, dark coffee which Maurice had preferred, and which was still delivered to The Dower House from an importing company in Tunbridge Wells. She helped herself to baked cod and vegetables, and a glass of water, then walked across to the table where Francesca Thomas sat looking out at the gardens.

“May I join you, Dr. Thomas?”

Thomas pressed a half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray on the table, giving the fleeting smile that Maisie was becoming used to. “Of course—do sit down.” She waited until Maisie set her lunch down on the table. “You’ve heard that our esteemed leader will be speaking after lunch?”

“Yes, I was told when I arrived this morning. Do you know what it’s about?”

“Apparently, the college will be closing from Wednesday until next Monday. Those dreadful policemen—the Scot and the other one—have been making it rather difficult to continue teaching while they conduct their inquiries. So, staff will be expected to furnish classes with sufficient homework to last until next week, though I am sure our students will welcome the opportunity to enjoy the last of the summer.”

“Isn’t the memorial service for Dr. Liddicote on Sunday?”

“Yes, it is. And the debate team will continue to practice in the interim.”

Maisie looked for some sort of reaction, something that would reveal how Thomas felt about the debate. There was none, so she continued.

“I don’t think Dr. Liddicote liked the idea of the debate.”

“Did he tell you that?

Lifting a forkful of the milky cod, Maisie feigned indifference. “I was waiting outside his office and heard him talking about it. He seemed far from enthusiastic to me—but then, I didn’t know him as well as other members of staff.” She thought her words must sound as bland as the cod tasted.

“Greville Liddicote
hated
the idea of the debate, Miss Dobbs. He did
not
want our college to be involved.”

Maisie set down her knife and fork and reached for her glass of water. “Why do you think he didn’t want us to take part? He wanted the college to be taken seriously by the Cambridge academic establishment, and on the face of it, the debate offers the ideal opportunity. I’m a bit confused on that score.”

Francesca Thomas sat back and looked at Maisie. “Greville was no fool, Miss Dobbs. The topic is one that will bring out a lot of spectators—the debates usually draw a goodly number, in any case. But this is one that he didn’t want to take part in, did not want the college to be involved with, because he did not want to support any gathering where the name of our college would be allied with an issue he found controversial. The university is a powerful academic institution and can weather the storms of speculation—indeed, it thrives on having the cat among the pigeons. But this is a small college, a college dependent upon funds brought in from people—wealthy benefactors—who share our ethos. The party of Herr Adolf Hitler is not an ideal representative of peace and inclusion.”

“But surely our team’s performance will reflect what the College of St. Francis stands for.”

Thomas shook her head. “I do believe you are playing devil’s advocate with me, Miss Dobbs. If not, I can only say that you are pressing a naïve point of view. If anything negative is allied to our institution, then we stand to lose donations. This college will not survive without a healthy stream of money coming in.”

Maisie felt her color rise. “But isn’t Dunstan Headley one of the main funders? And his son is on the debating team.”

“Another huge error.”

“Because it smacks of nepotism?”

“No, Miss Dobbs.” Francesca Thomas stood up and collected the pile of books sitting alongside her place at the table. “Because Robson Headley is a Nazi, and while it may seem fashionable at the present time, I believe it will prove to demonstrate very, very poor judgment in years to come. And young Headley has his father wrapped around his little finger, even though he knows what’s going on, and does not like it at all. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d like to get a breath of fresh air before the assembly.”

Maisie pushed her plate away as Thomas left the room, and took a sip from her glass of water.

“Did one of Medusa’s snakes just have a snap at you?” Alan Burnham drew back a chair and sat down in front of Maisie. “Don’t let Francesca Thomas ruin your lunch, though given that tasteless cod, it seems to me there wasn’t much to ruin. Dr. Thomas is a forceful woman and can be strong when she’s voicing an opinion, but she’s one of the very best teachers here.”

“Thank you. She was simply explaining why she thought the debate was a poor idea, especially as Dr. Liddicote did not want it to go ahead.”

“Nonesense. Of course he did; otherwise why would Matthias continue? He would never sully Greville’s memory in such a way—they may have had the odd spat, but he was always the most faithful supporter of everything Greville stood for. No, Miss Dobbs, you’re mistaken. Greville Liddicote was very much in favor of the debate.”

“Was he in favor of Robson Headley taking part?”

Burnham shook his head. “He wouldn’t have known. That was Matthias. Dunstan Headley said his son wanted to join the college team, and given his connections to the college—Robson is charged with continuing Dunstan Headley’s philanthropy when his father is gone—his standing matters to our future. Matthias does not want to rock the boat, especially with the new building work starting soon.”

“I see, so—”

“And Robson is a harmless enough chap. He has a fine sense of his own intellectual ability—which is wanting, if you care for my opinion—but as I said, a harmless young man, if a bit full of himself.”

Maisie saw members of the faculty begin to move towards the door. “We’d better go down; the meeting is about to start.”

M
atthias Roth waited to take the podium until students and staff were seated. Maisie looked for MacFarlane and Stratton, and noticed that they were standing at the back of the room. Maisie caught Stratton’s eye and waved; he waved in return and, pointing to his watch and the door, signaled that they would talk to her after Roth had spoken. She nodded.

“I have brought the entire college together to announce that we will be closing for the rest of the week, though you are reminded that a memorial service for Dr. Greville Liddicote will be held at St. Mary’s on Sunday afternoon. I am sure you will all wish to attend.” He cleared his throat. “I have made the decision to suspend teaching not—as many of you might have hoped—to give our students and staff a well-earned holiday . . . ” There was some muffled laughter, and Roth smiled before continuing. “The days off will allow the police to bring their work to a close regarding any outstanding information in connection with Dr. Liddicote’s death. With everyone on their own personal timetable, it’s been rather difficult for inquiries to be completed; and I know that I, for one, would like to do all that I can to assist in the execution of police work so that we can get on with the job of being a college again, and our students continue with their studies. We have the legacy of Greville Liddicote to honor when we come back next week with the slate clean.” He paused. “Are there any questions?”

When no one spoke up, Roth invited MacFarlane to join him to go through the schedule of interviews that would take place over the next several days. Maisie turned again; Stratton nodded towards the door. She left her place and made her way into the corridor.

“What’s going on?” Maisie let the door close behind her.

“Robbie was about to flip his lid, so it had to come to this—he insisted upon it. Roth hadn’t wanted classes to be disturbed, so he asked us to work around the student timetables—and they’re all on some sort of individual curriculum, so it was hard to keep up with who had been interviewed and who hadn’t.” Stratton shook his head. “It’s not that we think a student here was Liddicote’s murderer, but we certainly want to know if anyone saw anything.”

“You’re still interviewing staff as well?”

“Yes, but your name has a big red tick alongside it—you’re off the hook.”

“Shame, I might have had a thing or two to talk about.”

“Do you?”

Maisie sighed. “Probably nothing you don’t already know about.” She looked at Stratton. “Do you know about the Ortsgruppe?”

Stratton nodded. “All reports have come back that it’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Miss Delphine Lang is a member, and she has taken her amour—Robson Headley—along to meetings.”

“Didn’t know that. I’ll tell MacFarlane, just in case he thinks it has a bearing on the case. Probably more in line with
your
investigation—not that I am completely privy to your remit.”

Maisie smiled. “Tell Robbie I asked after him. I’ll be in touch.”

“Where will you be over the next few days?”

Maisie stepped towards the entrance to the assembly hall, but was almost knocked off balance when the door opened to reveal Francesca Thomas leaving. She did not notice Maisie, continuing on her way at a brisk pace. Maisie saw Stratton’s eyes follow the woman as she strode purposefully away from them. He looked back at Maisie. “So, um, where was I—oh yes, where will you be . . . while the college is closed?’

She raised her finger to her lips. “Sorry, Richard, keeping it to myself, for now.”

H
aving walked as quickly along the corridor as Francesca Thomas had before her, Maisie tapped on the door of the college office and walked in.

“Miss Dobbs, what do you want?” Miss Hawthorne was standing over a desk bearing mounds of paper and a series of open manila folders. “Can’t you see my hands are full?”

“I have my students’ marked assignments here, and their homework for this week, along with readings they must complete before we return next Monday. I’d already prepared the sheets, and I thought they could get on with the work during the next few days while classes are suspended—I wouldn’t want them to fall behind.”

“Of course not. Here, I can post them in the students’ common room, and I will leave a note to the effect that work handed in last week can be collected here. Well, Miss Dobbs, I’m glad that someone is organized. I just had Dr. Thomas in here telling me she would be using the days to complete research for a paper, and that she would be leaving as soon as she could. Had me take dictation for a message to her students—the cheek of it! The sooner Miss Linden is replaced, the better. No wonder the young woman ran off like that—who wouldn’t want to vanish into thin air with all this to deal with?”

“Who indeed?” said Maisie. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Hawthorne. You know where my lodgings are, if you need to contact me.”

“It’s the police who’ll want to know.”

“Oh, I’ve already been interviewed.”

With that, Maisie ran to the bicycle rack and sped back to her lodgings, where she collected the MG and drove directly to Francesca Thomas’ flat. A taxi-cab had drawn up outside, and soon Thomas emerged from the front door and stepped into the vehicle, which moved slowly down the street, before accelerating as it merged onto the main road. Maisie followed, close enough to see where the motor car was going, but not so near as to be identified. The taxi-cab stopped at the railway station, where Thomas stepped out and made her way quickly to the ticket office.