A Lesson in Secrets (17 page)

“Damn!” said Maisie to herself. She pulled the MG around and parked on the street, then ran back to the station. Thomas had been in a hurry, so the train she expected to catch would be coming in soon.

“Where’s the next train going?” Maisie asked the clerk.

“Where to?”

“Just the next train, anywhere.”

The man looked at her as if she were half mad.

“It’s about my husband,” she added, leaving the reason hanging.

“Oh, right you are, see what you mean. You’ll be looking at the London train, leaves in two minutes.”

“Return, third class.” Maisie set down the money, and ran towards the platform, though she stepped into the shadows as the train pulled in, belching steam and punching out specks of soot.

In the distance, she saw Francesca Thomas step into a first-class compartment, so Maisie joined the travelers in the nearest third-class carriage. She would have to make sure she was first off the train when it arrived in London. The train rocked from side to side, lulling some of the passengers to sleep. Maisie picked up a newspaper discarded by a departing passenger; it was just what she needed to shield her face, should Thomas decide to leave her seat to walk along the narrow corridor in search of the WC. It was getting on for five o’clock when they arrived in London.

Maisie stepped off the train and walked towards the ticket collector. She kept to the side of the stream of passengers, looking out for Thomas. She soon caught sight of her, walking with a purposeful stride. Maisie remained several yards behind, and followed Thomas outside, where she hailed a taxi-cab. Maisie signaled a driver and boarded another taxi-cab.

“Could you follow that taxi-cab, please? The lady dropped her purse, and she was walking so quickly, I couldn’t catch up with her—and what with the noise, she didn’t hear me when I called.”

“You’re a right Samaritan, that you are, Miss. Not to worry, I’ll make sure you get off at the same place.”

Maisie soon realized the taxi-cab in front of them was traveling in the direction of Belgravia—she knew it well from her days living at the Comptons’ Ebury Place mansion. With traffic increasing as London’s workers rushed home, the taxi-cab carrying Francesca Thomas vanished from sight.

“Sorry, love, I reckon I lost them. From the turn he took, it looks like he went around that side of Eaton Square.”

“Oh dear.”

“She’s probably a foreigner, anyway.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, a fair bit of the street there is taken up with the Belgian Embassy. Consulate, or whatever they call it. It’s all foreigners. Mind you, I’d rather have the Belgians than some of ’em, eh?”

“Could you drive around the square for me?”

“Just in case you see her? Right you are.”

The driver brought the motor car to a crawl as Maisie studied the buildings around the square. Francesca Thomas might have gone into any one of the mansions; she could have a friend with a flat there—indeed, she could have a lover. Perhaps that’s why there was something that Maisie doubted about her; she was a striking woman, the sort who rarely seemed to marry, but also never wanted for male company, though they give the impression of having little time for the rituals of courtship. Thomas was not a woman who one thought might want to be married, or indeed one who was wrapped up in an affair of the heart, though she did seem to be a woman of controlled passions. Maisie wondered about the phrase—it had just slipped into her mind.
Controlled passions.

“Look, I don’t mind taking your money, but if you like, I’ll run you back to the station—you can give the purse to the railway police.”

“Very good idea—thank you.” She sighed and leaned back in the taxi-cab.
What a waste of time.
A wild-goose chase when the last thing she needed was to run around chasing her tail like a demented dog. She couldn’t face going back to Cambridge at that moment, so she leaned forward and tapped on the window.

“Yes, Miss?”

“Could you take me to Limehouse?”

“Limehouse, Miss? With that purse on you, to say nothing of your own belongings and my takings?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be safe enough. I can go to the station later, but I need to see someone in Limehouse—and perhaps you’d be so kind as to wait for me?”

“If you don’t mind paying, I’ll wait for ten minutes.”

“Right you are. I’ll tell you where to go when we reach Limehouse Causeway.”

Following another stop-start journey, Maisie directed the driver to an address she had remembered from a visit almost twenty years earlier.

“I won’t be long—and don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it looks; I thought a taxi-cab driver would know that half the myths about Limehouse and Chinese slave traders are just that.”

“Never mind the bleedin’ myths, hurry up and do your business or whatever it is you’re doing, and I’ll be waiting here.”

To be sure, Limehouse was a slum, a dark maze of streets and alleys overhung with a listless moldering smog that seemed to lift only slightly in spring and summer. Soon coal fires would seed the yellow pea-soupers that tested the navigation skills of any sailor emerging from one of the bars or opium dens, many of which were suffering the economic depression as much as West End shops. Maisie looked up at the double-fronted warehouse-like building facing the street and knocked at the wooden door. There was a hatch in the door, embellished with the owner’s chop. Within a moment, the hatch was slipped back with a snap, and a pair of dark almond-shaped eyes gazed out at Maisie.

“I’m here to see Mr. Clarence. He may not remember me, but tell him my name is Maisie Dobbs, and that I am a friend of Dr. Maurice Blanche.”

The hatch was closed, and within three or four minutes the door opened and Maisie was led along a dimly lit passageway, and from there to another door. The young Chinese man who had been sent to accompany her was dressed in a well-made suit with a clean white shirt; his jet-black hair was combed back from a wide forehead. He bowed to Maisie, and opened the door. She had not heard a summons to enter, but walked in to greet the man she had come to see.

The spacious room was lined with bookshelves, and at one end, a man of average height stepped from behind a desk. About sixty years of age, he was slender of build and his movements were precise, measured. He wore an expensive suit—Maisie could tell by the cut and fabric—and his shoes shone. His black hair was threaded with gray, and his pallor and features revealed him to be Anglo-Chinese. His name was Clarence Chen.

“Mr. Clarence. How kind of you to see me.”

Chen approached Maisie, clasped her hand, and bowed.

“I was most grieved to hear of Dr. Blanche’s death. You have my condolences.”

Maisie nodded. “Thank you. I miss him very much.”

“Of course. He was your teacher, wasn’t he? Therefore he cannot be replaced. But he left you the legacy of his lessons.”

“Do you remember me, Mr. Clarence? It was a long time ago.”

“Of course—please sit down, Miss Dobbs.” He invited her to sit at the desk. A woman dressed in a cheongsam stepped from the shadows and poured tea. She bowed, then left. Chen went on. “Maurice brought you to see me—you must have been only fourteen, fifteen. He wanted you to be introduced to
wushu.
To the ways of defending the body from attack.”

“It was a brief introduction—I was simply a spectator.”

“You can always come back to learn more—I have a good teacher here.” His accent was such that, if blindfolded, a stranger might think him the son of a well-to-do English merchant, or a banker.

Maisie thanked Chen for the invitation, but came back to the business at hand. “I wonder if you could help me, Mr. Clarence?” Maurice had introduced Chen as “Mr. Clarence,” the name by which he was known throughout Limehouse and Pennyfields. She used the name now to honor their first meeting. “I want to know if a person knowledgeable in
wushu,
in the martial arts, could use his . . . his
skills
to break a person’s neck. I know that with sleight of hand much damage can be caused to the human body, but would twisting the head to break the neck be something that a
wushu
expert might do? And if a woman were a
wushu
master, would she have the strength to kill a man in this way?”

“The Chinese methods of combat use
chi
, the flow of energy within the body, in a way that provides great strength without effort. If a mouse were a
wushu
master, he could kill by taking a man’s head in his tiny paws and breaking his neck. The practice of
wushu
affords the student stealth, gives him cunning, a way of moving that expends only the energy required to move from one foot to another. It also provides mental acuity; and a cleared mind can accomplish anything—and leave anything in its wake.”

“Do you know of many women who have learned to kill in this way?”

Chen looked at the table and smiled. “You are a modern young woman, yet you ask if a woman can learn
wushu
? Of course she can—but do you mean a Chinese woman, or one of your kind?”

“A white woman.”

Chen shrugged. “She could study
wushu
, and could excel. But where would she learn? Even you would not come to Limehouse as many times as would be required to learn from a master.”

“True. But what if the woman were brought up in China?”

“Ah, then anything is possible. It depends upon the amount her father might pay. In fact, he would be a wise man to do such a thing; after all, a woman is never protected unless she can protect herself. And the principal purpose of any martial art is defense.”

Maisie gathered her bag, and stood; Chen came to his feet at the same time.

“Thank you, Mr. Clarence. I have been told by experts that a woman could not kill a grown man by twisting his neck.”

Chen nodded. “I would ask, Miss Dobbs, what gave the woman the
chi
, the force within, to murder a man in such a way. Anyone can learn to kill, but it takes a certain tipping of the scales to stir the fire inside that ignites heat in the hands. Did the killer leave in a state of calm?”

“There was little disturbance.”

He nodded. “There are other explanations, other means of committing the act of murder than by snapping the neck. But if it is a woman, and the circumstances are as you describe, then she might well have used a form of
wushu
to defend herself. I assume that is what you came to hear.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clarence.”

Clarence Chen bowed deeply, then turned and walked to his desk. The man who had escorted her to the room returned to her side and signaled for her to follow him.

“Blimey, I nearly left,” said the taxi-cab driver, as she stepped into his motor car. “I thought you were never going to come out of there.”

“I was perfectly safe.”

“I’ve heard about him, the fellow what lives in there. Chen, ain’t it? They reckon he’s a right one—bit of both, ain’t he? Mother was English, they say, came from some sort of missionary family, and was only young when she had him. I’ve heard she came back from over there with the boy when her husband died.”

“That’s true.”

“I heard no one wanted to know her, so the poor woman had to make her way alone, and did a good job of it, all things considered. And then when the son was old enough, he went off and looked for his own kind—well, he found ’em in this swill pit, didn’t he? And they say he’s got the opium dens, the smuggling, running all sorts of rackets with the lascars, and the Chinese and Japanese sailors what come through here—and done up like two penn’orth of hambone, enough to do business in Mayfair, if you please.” He shook his head. “Nice young lady like you, going in there—I’m surprised you came out again—mind you, you’ll probably tell me that half those stories about him are like them myths you were talking about, eh? Can’t see a half-caste getting on in there, when all’s said and done.”

Maisie looked out at the grim spectacle of Limehouse Causeway. “Oh, all the stories about Mr. Clarence Chen are true; every word. His mother was a friend of a very dear friend of mine. Could you take me to Pimlico now, please?”

B
efore leaving Pimlico the next morning, Maisie placed a telephone call to Billy at the office.

“Have you been in touch with Sandra’s in-laws?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Tapley. I never saw two people look so ill with losing someone, really I haven’t. Not since just after the war, when I went to see some of the families of my mates who were killed over there. Anyway, I thought I’d take a chance and ask them if they’d seen Sandra, and they said not since the funeral. They were right worried about her, you know. Said they’d told her she was welcome to live with them in Whitstable until she got herself sorted out, but she said no. They said she was like a wraith at the funeral, couldn’t put two words together that sounded right.”

“What about her parents?”

“They live out a bit, well, her father does—mother died a few years ago, according to what I’ve found out. Father lives in Essex now—apparently that’s where he’d come from as a boy—so I thought I’d go on the train tomorrow, see if she’s there. Mind you, I don’t want to cause trouble, so I thought I’d just look around, see if I can spot her coming and going.”

“And remember Reg, who Eric worked for. See what he has to say for himself—lean a bit harder on him.”

“Right you are. Leave it to me, Miss.”

“Thank you, Billy. Oh, and by the way—you can tell Doreen that the house will be ready to move in soon, about three weeks, all being well.”

“Oh, that is good news. You just let me know what I have to pay, and when.”

“Don’t worry about that, Billy. They have some sort of special contractual offer at the moment—I didn’t want to tell you until I sorted it out, but there’s nothing for you to pay for six months.”

The line was quiet. “You sure, Miss?”

“Perfectly. Came as a surprise to me, so I’m very pleased all around.”

Maisie ended the call and left for the station. She wondered how she had become so much more adept at telling lies since she signed the Official Secrets Act. But then, secrets and lies always went together.