A Lesson in Secrets (2 page)

Huntley gave no indication as to the accuracy of Maisie’s account. “And then?”

“On that occasion I simply traveled on the underground for a while, visited a friend’s office, just to make it seem as if I had been on a genuine errand, and then returned to Fitzroy Square.”

“Not exactly to Fitzroy Square, though,” said MacFarlane.

“No, I made a detour to Burlington Arcade. My document case was destroyed some months ago and I thought it was about time I bought another, so I went along to the arcade and purchased a new one. And of course, it was interesting, observing the way in which your agents arranged themselves in the arcade.”

“And then?”

“I made my way back to Tottenham Court Road, and before returning to the office I stopped in Heals and bought a—” She held out a hand to Huntley. “Your turn.”

“Sofa. You bought a sofa. Very nice, too.”

“My flat is somewhat spartan; I felt it needed something a little more welcoming in the drawing room.”

“Did you see the men again?”

“Do you wish me to give you a complete list?” She faced MacFarlane. “
Robbie?
”

“A brief synopsis will do,” interjected Huntley.

Maisie sighed. “The GPO van outside the block of flats where I live in Pimlico provided a cover for two men working on the connection to the flats. I do hope I don’t have to have my new telephone ripped out for fear that you are listening to every call.”

“Go on.” Huntley did not look up as he spoke but continued looking through a dossier that lay open on his knee.

“I was followed to and from work, and down to my house on the Chelstone Manor estate last Friday. I’d finally had enough during the journey back to London this morning, which was when I intercepted two men and gave a message to pass on to Det—to Robbie.”

Huntley looked up, smiling. “And as I said to Robbie here, I thought taking the driver’s wallet from the poor man’s inside pocket was a little forward.”

Maisie did not return his smile. “I’m sure you did, Mr. Huntley. I catch on fairly quickly. You should have remembered that you did not go undetected in France.”

“Quite right. Very impressive.”

“What’s this all about?” asked MacFarlane.

Huntley ignored the question as he folded the dossier, placed it on the table, and leaned back in his chair. “To get right to the point, Miss Dobbs, we have a job for you. This meeting is in absolute confidence, as I am sure you understand. I know I have no need to say that, but I am required to, and I am also required to ask you to sign documents to that effect at the end of this meeting.”

Maisie nodded.

“Special Branch is involved, given that this assignment pertains not only to matters of interest to my department, but to the problem of aliens entering Britain for purposes that might not be as described to authorities at the ports of entry—which as you know comes under the purview of Special Branch.” Huntley opened the dossier and handed Maisie a clutch of papers, each stamped with
Official: Top Secret.
“You will see that this report details the activities of one Greville Liddicote.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Maisie. “Wasn’t he a Senior Fellow at Cambridge who made a good deal of money writing children’s books in his spare time? I seem to remember he upset the applecart when he wrote a book which clearly expressed his position against the war, in 1916 or ’17.”

“Same man,” interjected MacFarlane.

Huntley continued. “He resigned his position at Cambridge in late 1917—it’s generally thought he was asked to do so—and he went on to found a college, also in Cambridge, in 1920.”

Maisie nodded.

“The book that got him into so much trouble was an embarrassment for His Majesty’s government,” said Huntley. “It was a controversial story about a group of fatherless children who go to live in the woods, and who decide to journey to France to end the war.”

“That doesn’t sound too inflammatory to me, though I haven’t read the book,” said Maisie.

“We managed to have most copies confiscated; however, there was an efficient underground acquisition of books by various pacifist organizations—the last decade, as you probably know, has seen a significant rise in the number of such groups. While it appears at first blush to be fairly harmless, the book was written in such a way as to undermine morale both on the home front and indeed on the battlefield, should it have reached the hands of serving men. The plight of orphaned children will always tug at the heartstrings, so we circumvented the distribution to the extent that we could. We did not want the books reaching men in the ranks. Even those with limited literacy would be able to understand a children’s book.”

“I understand,” said Maisie. She did not care for Huntley’s tone regarding the “men in the ranks,” but made a mental note to see one or two booksellers who she thought might be able to acquire a copy of the offending book.

Huntley glanced at his notes again. “The College of St. Francis was founded by Liddicote on the back of donations made to him by the wealthy parents of several young men who were killed in the war, and who were his students at Cambridge. It is housed in what was once a rather substantial grand house on the outskirts of the city—the property itself was a donation from the grandparent of one of those unfortunate young men—and Liddicote began to recruit students, who come from the seven corners of the world to better their proficiency in the English language and to study English and European literature and the moral sciences. It is no secret that an emphasis on the maintenance of peace in Europe underpins much of the teaching. I should add that proximity to the long-established hallowed halls of learning in Cambridge makes it an attractive proposition to those who wish to have an immersion in the culture of our nation—and as a bonus they can always say they were ‘educated in Cambridge,’ without giving details.”

“You were an Oxford man, weren’t you, Mr. Huntley?”

“Guilty, as charged.”

“It was that slight acidity of the tongue when you spoke of Cambridge.”

“Let it be said that neither of your good seats of learning could be as acid as the school of hard knocks where I come from,” said MacFarlane.

“Quite,” said Huntley.

Maisie leaned forward to pour more tea. “So, how can I help you?”

“We—Special Branch and the office of which I am a representative—believe that the school and its activities are worthy of more detailed investigation, though we do not wish our inquiries to be transparent to Liddicote or the students. That’s where you come in, Miss Dobbs.”

“How?”

“An advertisement has been placed in
The Times Educational Supplement
.” Huntley passed a newspaper cutting to Maisie. “Liddicote’s college is asking for a junior lecturer in philosophy. You clearly have the academic background to meet the demands of such a position—you graduated from Girton having studied the moral sciences—and you have the necessary training to be able to conduct an investigation.”

“But there will be many, many applicants for this job.”

“On a practical level, we are able to control the applications received at the college; of those reaching Liddicote’s desk, yours will be the only curriculum vitae to name Dr. Maurice Blanche as a personal mentor, teacher, and employer. Maurice ensured that a keen eye was kept on the college, and choreographed a chance meeting with Liddicote that revealed shared interests. This was followed by a ‘friendship’ based on quite entertaining correspondence between the two men.”

“Yes, I remember a letter sent after the funeral, with condolences. I had forgotten until you mentioned it.”

“Of course, a sad time.”

Maisie nodded. “So, if I am to work under cover of a false occupation, surely my name will give me away.”

Huntley shook his head. “No, not at all. Liddicote is not worldly beyond his academic affiliations, and a brief look at your recent history would suggest that you have left the life of a private inquiry agent behind. And though you have kept it fairly quiet, a little bit of digging would reveal the depth of your attachment to the scion of the family that once employed you—James Compton is himself a man of great wealth. There are those who assume that any woman involved with a man such as Compton could look forward to a life of comfort, without the need to risk life and limb. In addition, except in certain circumstances, we prefer our . . .
representatives
to use their own name. It will make your story that much more believable.”

Maisie stood up and walked to the window. “So, you effectively want me to leave my business for an indefinite period of time. I am to seek employment as a lecturer at a private college established and run by a man in whom you have an interest. And, in a nutshell, my brief is to—what?”

“You must report back on any observed actvities—by anyone—that are not in the interests of the Crown. Do you understand the implications of the assignment?”

Maisie nodded. Huntley and MacFarlane exchanged glances.

“Do I have time to think about it?”

MacFarlane glanced at the clock above the door. “About three minutes.”

Maisie turned to look out of the window. Yes, life had become a little soft, and for a woman who had worked almost every day of her life, who had seen war, who had held the dying as she tried to stanch their wounds, that ease prickled against her skin. She remembered the letter Maurice had left for her, and one sentence in particular came to her as she looked down at the end-of-day traffic.

I have observed your work in recent years and it does not claim the full measure of your skill or intellect. In time there will be a new path for you to follow. . . .

She rejoined the men, still seated in armchairs around the low table. “I fail to see how my suitability for this role was determined by my ability to detect the simple fact that I was being followed, but, that said—I’ll do it. You should know, however, that I do not work for His Majesty’s gratitude, honor that it is. I prefer my payment to be more tangible.”

“Are you sure you’re not a Scot?” MacFarlane smiled as Huntley passed a series of documents to Maisie, each one emblazoned with the same livid red stamp marking it as
Official: Top Secret
.

Chapter Two

A
s she made her way back to Pimlico, Maisie began to doubt her decision to accept the assignment. At first she had imagined a task both intellectually stimulating and professionally challenging; but what if she were to become mired in the day-to-day tedium of an academic institution, looking for acts—of what? espionage?—that did not exist. But on the other hand, a joint proposal from MacFarlane and Huntley certainly seemed to merit her consideration. And Maurice would have wanted her to accept, of that she was sure.

She imagined sitting with him by the fireplace in his study at The Dower House. At first he would give the impression of leaving the decision up to her, yet as conversation progressed, he would show his hand. She was sure he would counsel her to broaden her horizons and accept a new challenge. So she would take on the persona of a spinster teacher, an educated woman on her own in the halls of academia—even if those halls were seen to be wanting by the standards of the more established Cambridge university community. In any case, it was too late to go back now, for she had signed official forms to the effect that she would not impart any aspect of her work to another, and that she would take anything she learned—good or bad—to her grave. And even though she was well aware that as one of His Majesty’s subjects, she would be touched by the Official Secrets Act whether she signed it or not, her signature was her promise as much as her spoken word.

Entering her flat, she glanced at her watch. It was half past five, just enough time to make a cursory check on the new telephone she’d had installed several weeks ago. Tomorrow she would ask Billy—who had once worked as a telephone engineer—to conduct a more thorough investigation. She understood the need for surveillance of even the most trusted person working on a case, but the thought of her private conversations being subject to the ears of a Secret Service minion made her shudder.

At half past six, the doorbell signaled the arrival of her visitor. Maisie guessed that Sandra would be grateful for supper, so had prepared a hot soup with vegetables and pig’s knuckle, and brought home a loaf of crusty bread, which she would serve with a rich slab of cheddar.

“Sandra, how lovely to see you again,” said Maisie, as she opened the door and stood back to allow the young woman to enter. “Come on in, you know the way.”

Sandra nodded, and gave a weak smile. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Dobbs. I know you’re really busy and—”

“Never too busy for you, Sandra. Just hang your coat on the stand there.”

As the younger woman turned away to remove her coat, Maisie’s heart sank. Billy’s description of Sandra’s appearance was woefully inadequate. The poor girl’s black clothes seemed to hang on her, and her face was drawn and pale. Maisie knew the evening would not be an easy one—something serious had come to pass, and Sandra needed her help.

“Sit down, Sandra—here, try out my new sofa. It’s really quite comfortable. The evening’s cool, and it was so very close last night, wasn’t it? In any case, the gas fire’s on, and I’ve taken the liberty of preparing supper for us.”

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Dobbs.” Sandra smoothed her skirt and sat down on the edge of the new sofa. “I didn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“This was once your home, Sandra. I wanted it to be welcoming for you—and me, actually. I’ve only just returned to London following a few days in Kent. In fact, I only spend about four nights a week in town these days.”

“Mr. Beale said you were down there. I sometimes wish I’d gone with the staff when they closed up Ebury Place, instead of staying in London.”

“Oh, but you had an excellent reason, Sandra—you were engaged to be married, and your husband-to-be had found a good job.” Maisie held up the sherry bottle. “A small one? I’m going to have a glass before we sit down to eat.”

“That would be very nice, thank you.”

Maisie poured two glasses of sherry, handed one to Sandra, and sat down on the armchair opposite the sofa. She lost no more time in getting to the point.

“There’s something terribly wrong, Sandra. What is it, and how can I help you?”

As Sandra sipped the sherry, tears came to her eyes. She brushed them away and sat with both hands clutching the small glass.

“I’m a widow, Miss Dobbs.”

“Oh, Sandra, my dear girl.” Maisie set her glass on the table and came to her side; and though she instinctively wanted to put her arm around the distraught woman’s shoulders, instead she remained close enough for Sandra to feel a caring presence, but not so close as to stifle her. Maisie calculated the poor girl was only twenty-four years of age, if that.

“What happened? I saw Eric only a few weeks ago, when I took my motor car into the garage for some repair work—it couldn’t have been more than a month past.” Choked with sudden grief, Maisie could barely finish the sentence.

“I buried him a fortnight ago. There was an accident at the garage. The man he worked for had a new customer with a few cars he wanted looked after—a well-to-do new customer, is all I can say—so he had Eric working all hours. Not that he was complaining, because we wanted to get into a flat on our own, instead of living in the loft above the garage, so we needed the overtime money. Even though it had been converted for living quarters, being up in that loft was still like living in a stable.”

“How did the accident happen?”

“Eric was tired, very tired. He said that if he didn’t finish the job on time, then his employer could easily find another bloke to replace him. They were both working hard, him and his boss, Reg Martin.”

“Reg is a good man—diligent and honest. And Eric’s work was first class.”

“Anyway, this customer kept coming in and going on, saying he wanted the motors in double-quick time. I’m not sure of the story, but as far as I know, he’d bought them cheap, about six of them to start with, from posh people not being able to keep up because they’d run short of money—I suppose they sold the motor cars for whatever they could get. So after buying them up and getting them on the road looking nice and shiny, this man was selling them for more money somewhere else—he only wanted enough repairs done so money passed hands with no questions.” She shrugged and wiped her eyes.

Maisie reached out and took Sandra’s hand, allowing the stricken young woman to continue.

“It was all a funny business, really, but I know Reg was glad of the work—you can’t turn anything down these days.”

“What happened to Eric, Sandra?” asked Maisie.

She looked down, her eyes red-rimmed with tears. “They’d lifted the engine out of one of the motors, with a block and tackle, and Eric was leaning in under it. Then suddenly one of the chains went and the whole lot gave way. He didn’t go quick, either. I was coming down the road when I heard the screams, heard Reg shouting out for help. Someone came running and went for the ambulance. I knew there and then that it was Eric, so I ran as fast as I could, and . . . ” She shook her head as if to rid herself of the images in her head. “All I could do was hold his hand. I was just about able to reach in and . . . hold his hand. He bled to death.” She leaned into Maisie’s arms, and as Maisie rocked her until the keening subsided, she knew the image of Sandra’s young husband’s final moments would never leave her.

They sat for some time, before the younger woman sat up and apologized. “I’m sorry, Miss, I shouldn’t—”

“Sandra, you’ve had a terrible shock. And you are grieving.” Maisie thought quickly. She knew Sandra was in a difficult position. The loft accommodation came with Eric’s job, and Sandra had not worked—except for helping Reg with his bookkeeping—since her marriage; there were few opportunities for a married woman to find work.

“What can I do, Sandra? How can I help you?”

Sandra sniffed, and took a final sip of her sherry. “I need a job, Miss, and I wondered if you knew of anyone who needed an office worker.” She paused. “Well, anything really—cleaning, housekeeping. I’ll do anything, but I don’t want to waste the hours I put in at night school. I can do all sorts of secretarial work, you know, but I’ll turn my hand to anything, because—” She paused again to take breath, as if the weight of her problems was pressing the air from her body. “Because I can’t stay in the loft, not anymore. Reg wants another mechanic soon. That, and, well, as he says, it’s not right, a widow living on her own above a garage. He’s a good man, but, you know, I can see his point. He’s said I can stay for another week, and I just . . . I just don’t know what to do. I’ve been to most of the shops up and down Oxford Street and Regent Street, looking for work, and I’ve been applying for jobs, and—”

“Shhhh, it’s all going to be all right, Sandra. Come on, let’s get some hot soup into you, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

Over supper, Maisie asked Sandra if she would like to come to work for her, on a part-time basis to begin with. She explained that over the past few months, the task of keeping good records and filing away reports and invoices had fallen by the wayside. She did not share details of her own change in circumstance, though she was sure that Sandra would soon grasp the situation. She explained that she needed a private secretary, someone who could be trusted with confidential matters concerning the business, and who would also support Billy in the day-to-day running of the office. In addition, Maisie said that she would speak to her friend’s husband; Douglas Partridge was a busy writer who was currently working on a new book and, due to the fact that he had lost an arm in the war—a loss that hampered his progress—according to his wife, he could do with a secretary. Perhaps they could work out a plan where Sandra worked for Maisie in the mornings, and then went on to assist Mr. Partridge in the afternoons. With two jobs, Sandra would have a reasonable income.

Maisie also extended an invitation for Sandra to live at her flat, moving her belongings back into the small bedroom that Maisie referred to as the “box room,” which had been Sandra’s room for some weeks before she was married.

Sandra began weeping again. “I hope you don’t think I came here for you to do this for me, Miss Dobbs. I just thought, well, you know so many people, and you might hear of something.”

“Don’t worry, Sandra, it’s all right, really it is. I am so very sad that your terrible misfortune brought you to me; however, I think I can help. I need some assistance in the office, and though I am sure you will get us sorted out very quickly, I also want to render our filing system easier to use. The files and notes go back many years, with a wealth of information that I draw upon to this day, so it is no small task. And fortunately, we have had more work coming in of late—just as Mr. Beale is about to leave for Kent and the hop-picking.”

“I’m sure I’ll do my best, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie refilled Sandra’s soup bowl, and when she returned from the kitchen, she looked at Sandra directly. “And there’s one more thing, Sandra. Your confidence extends to my visitors here at the flat, and to any aspect of my life to which you are privy.” She paused. “Though, having said that, I will be away for some weeks, starting at the end of the month. I’ll be back on occasion, and I’ll keep in touch. You will have a means to contact me; we’ll talk about all that when you begin work. Now, perhaps you’d like to move your belongings in on Saturday or Sunday—I’ll be in Kent and you’ll have some time to yourself. Come to the office on Monday at twelve—I don’t generally arrive until later on Mondays—and we’ll begin work. I should have more information on the other job by then.”

Sandra swallowed, as if to digest everything Maisie had said. Her flushed cheeks and rounded, tired shoulders revealed a profound sense of relief at having found work and a roof over her head.

O
h, Miss, that poor girl. I remember him—Eric. Nice bloke, wasn’t he? Didn’t he work at Ebury Place?”

“Yes, he was a good lad. And if you remember, he came and mended the locks on the doors here, when we were broken into.”

“Gaw, and you say the engine fell on him? Now, that’s what I call a freak accident, something like that. Not that you don’t hear about these things—look at that bloke who copped it when that horse bolted on Tottenham Court Road last week, frightened by one of those noisy lorries coming up alongside it. Mind you, this town’s not made for horses anymore, is it? And that’s why you’ve got people like that Eric working in what used to be stables, and poor Sandra now being thrown out of her only home.”

Maisie nodded. She was used to Billy railing against the slightest injustice, and using those events to underline how much better life would be if he could only get his family away from the British Isles. Just a month previously, Maisie had commented on the surge in house building, in what people were increasingly referring to as “suburbs,” streets of mock-Tudor houses boasting indoor bathrooms and “fitted” kitchens, with enough room to raise a family and close enough to both city and country to enjoy fresh air and town life. The spirit of Metro-land
had spread from the north and west of London to the south and east, and Maisie believed she could help Billy and his family improve their living conditions sooner rather than later. Cheap down payments—just one pound—could be made, with additional payments until the property was ready for habitation. The houses seemed like a good investment—at the very least she could provide the down payment as some sort of bonus for Billy. The stumbling block proved to be her assistant’s pride.

“I know it sounds all very nice, Miss, but you’ve done enough for us already. And to tell you the truth, Miss, this government has taken a lot from us blokes; in the war, and now in this slump. The very least the likes of me can do is put a roof over our families’ heads.”

Maisie had not pressed the point, but now wondered how it might be received if she were to invest in a house and rent it out—to Billy and his family. She would wait and broach the subject again, perhaps at a time when Billy was more open to accepting such an offer. When Billy and Doreen returned from Kent, they would doubtless be chagrined to be back in Shoreditch, with the added pressure of a baby soon to be born.