A Lesson in Secrets (24 page)

“How did you get to Belgium?”

“By parting with some money—a good deal of money, actually. I resigned my position and was smuggled into the country and to my grandmother’s house. I speak both Dutch and French Flemish, so I could easily blend into the community. And it didn’t take me long to make contact with a group of what you might call resistance agents. Then in 1917 I joined a somewhat new organization called La Dame Blanche—The White Lady. It was a highly structured movement—we were organized along military lines—and we were financed by the British government.”

Maisie nodded. She remembered seeing a folder labeled “La Dame Blanche” inside a box in the cellar of The Dower House. She had assumed it was something to do with Maurice’s family.

“You might be interested to know that women of all ages were part of La Dame Blanche—our leaders were aware that the men could all be captured, rounded up, so there was a plan in place for the work to continue if that happened.”

“What did you do?”

“As soldiers—for that is what we were, what we considered ourselves to be—we were responsible for almost every kind of intelligence work, up to and including assassination, if that was what the job required.” She leaned forward again. “You must understand, Miss Dobbs, many of our number also held down jobs; they were teachers, doctors, farmworkers, shop assistants. Children as young as eight or nine, and elders in their eighties all played a part. Intelligence was filtered via British contacts, or through the Netherlands in particular.” She paused, picking a speck of lint from her cuff with perfectly manicured nails. “Our agents hardly slept—they reported on troop movements, they committed acts of sabotage, and they consorted with the enemy, if they had to. They gave their lives so thousands could be spared.”

Maisie nodded, waiting for the words to come with which to frame a question or make a comment. “Such bravery is often forgotten when peace is restored and lives and communities are rebuilt.”

“Those who gave their lives are never forgotten, though. We have, both of us, experienced death in wartime, Miss Dobbs, and I am determined to do all I can to see that it does not happen again. The shadow of The White Lady lingers, ready to be reconstituted and put into service if necessary. My job, at the moment, is to coordinate intelligence from our people around Europe regarding the activities of various groups who threaten a fragile peace—and, of course, I am a lecturer at the College of St. Francis, which is certainly an interesting place to be at the moment.”

“You were at the debate last night.”

“Yes, and what a debacle for Matthias! Poor Matthias—he wants so much to be an instrument of peace, to live by the Prayer of St. Francis, but he is somewhat misguided when it comes to the motivations of certain people.”

“Robson Headley?”

She shook her head. “Headstrong Headley and his lover, the very spoiled Miss Lang.”

“You think they’re dangerous?”

“They are dangerous with their rhetoric, and they are dangerous in who they know and consort with—which is why they came to my attention. But you must realize, Miss Dobbs, that the college was of interest to me not because of some of the people within the establishment, but due to its placement. It’s a good viewing platform for a town of many colleges, and, through academic affiliations, has also given me access to other such places around the country.”

“Do you have any idea who murdered Greville Liddicote?”

“I know he wasn’t universally liked, though he tried his best—and he did very well, in fact, if you look at the college—to overcome past mistakes.” She leaned back in her chair. “Liddicote was a man of contradictions. He was not in favor of the war—we discussed this on several occasions—and he thought there should have been a more concerted effort on the part of our government to bring an end to the conflict; it was so bloody pointless. And at the same time, he was an expert on medieval literature, and he wrote his children’s books. He was drawn to some artistically inclined people who are quite well known, Miss Dobbs, and he wanted recognition. So even though his motivations were true enough, that desire led him to make more than a few errors of judgment—and ultimately, he lied.”

“Who do you think hated him?”

“His secretary, for a start. Miss Rosemary Linden—though we both know that’s not her real name. She would have liked to see him dead.”

“Anyone else?”

“Dunstan Headley—but then Dunstan Headley doesn’t care for many people, especially women. In fact, Headley is something of a woman-hater.”

“A woman-hater?”

“Yes. He hates the idea of women in any position of responsibility. He is so filled with hatred and anger over the death of his eldest son, he doesn’t know how to live with himself. He blamed his first wife for his son enlisting in the army—don’t believe what you might have heard about her dying; she left him for an army officer when their son was young. Apparently the boy joined the army to make his mother proud, something of that order. It was his second wife who committed the sin of dying on him, hence the complete indulgence you see in Robson. He hates Delphine Lang, given her Austrian parentage; I would like to be a fly on the wall in the Headley household today.”

“Yes, he seemed about to explode at the debate yesterday.”

“And he’ll definitely explode if he discovers that she was only offered the job in the first place because she’s Roth’s niece—his sister’s daughter. Roth can’t be happy about having to send her home to her parents, and I bet he’s none too pleased about Robson Headley, either.”

Maisie nodded. “Oh, of course! That explains Roth’s affection for Lang.”

Thomas inclined her head to acknowledge the piece of information clicking into the puzzle for Maisie. She said nothing for a while, then went on. “You’ve found Miss Linden, I take it?”

“Caring for her rather ill mother, along with her brothers and sister.”

“You may wish to talk to her again. The last time I saw her before Greville was murdered, she was conversing at great length with Dunstan Headley, in the grounds, along the meditation walk.”

Thomas requested sandwiches and glasses of water to be brought to her office, and over this simple lunch they talked about the clouds that seemed to be forming over Germany, clouds that appeared to have been observed with some indifference by those in power. When coffee was brought to the room, Maisie sipped from her cup and felt she knew Thomas well enough to ask a personal question.

“Were you ever married, Dr. Thomas?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, I was. I was married to one of my fellow agents, a very brave young man. His name was Dietger. I loved him dearly, but love in the midst of war is always more urgent, more undiluted by the ordinary responsibilities of marriage which most couples encounter. I was widowed when he was captured by the German army.”

“I am so sorry.”

She rubbed her upper arms, as if cold. “It is something we all lived with. He gave his life and it made me an even more determined fighter.” She untied the scarf at her neck to reveal the scar Maisie had seen when she first came to the college. “I sought my revenge, and won—but I have this to show for my trouble. I found out who was responsible for my husband’s death, and I lured him to his end. I killed him with my bare hands, and almost lost my life in return. I buried him with the strength I had left, and I went back to work.”

Maisie realized that the woman before her would continue to seek her revenge; what she had seen and done in the war had all but hollowed her heart. It was evident that Francesca Thomas would not hesitate to kill again to save the countrymen she considered her people.

Y
ou will remember that all that we have discussed must be very tightly held,” said Thomas, as Maisie departed in the late afternoon.

“I gave you my word.”

“Good.” She smiled, and whispered, “You know, the propaganda men would have everyone believe that women agents were little more than Mata Haris who gave their bodies for information. Now you know we gave our hearts—and we worked as hard and took as many chances as our men.”

Maisie walked back to her motor car, having pulled down her cloche again. She had just unlocked the MG, when, as if on cue, a black vehicle pulled up alongside. The driver stepped out and opened the back door with haste.

“Miss Dobbs—step in, please.”

Maisie locked the MG, then took a seat in the motor car, next to Brian Huntley.

“Having me followed, Mr. Huntley?”

“A fortuitous sighting as I was leaving a colleague’s office.”

“Of course it was. I was looking forward to seeing you this evening—does this mean that I won’t have the pleasure of supper with you, Mr. Huntley?”

“Sadly, it does. But I am sure you can spare some time now to assure me that you haven’t done or said anything that might run counter to your signing of the Official Secrets Act.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good.”

“Any news, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie recounted the events of the previous evening, and Robson Headley’s display of support for a regime that had not come to power in Germany but seemed to be stoking a fierce mood among the people, which, she thought, was of grave concern.

“Are you sure it’s not just youthful support for something new? Young people are wont to see the world in black and white, and to be taken with revolutionary ideas.”

“He is almost twenty-five years old! He is not just out of short trousers, and knows very well what he is doing. Men younger than he were laying down their lives in the war—and I am sure they saw a good deal of gray amid the black and white—” Maisie stopped herself, concerned that she had spoken out of turn.

“Point very well taken, Miss Dobbs. You have done exactly as I asked.” He ruffled through some papers as the motor car swung around Buckingham Palace. “Have you observed any activities that might give rise to suspicion that there is Bolshevik activity at the college, or any other college in Cambridge?”

“I have seen nothing to suggest there is a ‘red menace’ at the College of St. Francis—yet. However, in my opinion your department must be on the alert and not simply focus your concern on one strand of political belief. I realize the Communist threat is uppermost in the minds of the Secret Service, but you cannot rule out fascism as the greater threat to peace in the short term.” She turned to face Huntley. “You see, I believe the two go together. There will be those who see the likes of Robson Headley—and, further up the scale, of Adolf Hitler and Oswald Mosley—and they will be angered or scared by their rhetoric, so they will look to support what they believe to be the opposite, which is communism. And I’m not only talking about the young and impressionable, though they are the subject of our investigation at the moment.”

“I see. Well, you’ve made your point in no uncertain terms, Miss Dobbs.” He cleared his throat. “I realize MacFarlane and Stratton are still engaged in the investigation into Greville Liddicote’s death, and of course you were instructed not to become involved, but I know you a little better, I think—do you know who murdered Liddicote?”

Maisie looked at Huntley. “Ah, now that is a good question. I need to uncover some sort of proof, but I do believe I have a good idea of who took Liddicote’s life. However, there are others who are equally culpable.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t think I can tell you that, Mr. Huntley. Not without compromising the very promise I have made to you.”

“Well said, Miss Dobbs. Very well said.”

The black motor car came to a halt alongside Maisie’s crimson MG. She opened the door and exited before the driver could assist her.

“Be in touch, Miss Dobbs.” The vehicle pulled away before Maisie could respond.

She hoped Billy was still at the office; her next stop was Fitzroy Square. It was time to find out if there was news of the search for Sandra.

Chapter Eighteen

H
as Caldwell come up with anything?” Maisie had taken off her hat and now sat at her desk, with Billy seated opposite her as she leafed through messages and unopened post. “What did he say this morning when you spoke to him?”

“Turns out this bloke that Sandra was on to is a right one—just like you said. He’s reeled him in, along with Reg Martin, though apparently Reg is as scared as they come. It was protection, as I said—and it went wrong. That poor girl.”

“But does anyone have any idea where she is? She must be terrified—that’s if Walling hasn’t had her picked up somewhere and silenced.” She pushed the pile of paper to one side.

“Miss, you don’t think—”

“I know, I’m not being very rational, am I? I’m terribly worried about her; I hope she’s just gone to ground somewhere—but where?”

They were silent for a while. Maisie was concerned with all there was to be accomplished in just a short time. Tomorrow she would return to Ipswich, and afterward—dependent upon the outcome of her business in Knowsley—straight back to Cambridge to find MacFarlane and Stratton.

“And there was another telephone call from that Miss Robinson at the Compton Corporation again.”

Maisie looked up. “Oh yes, I’m to collect a letter. It seems using a bag that goes back and forth to their offices in Toronto is now the best way for me to receive mail from James. I was supposed to get in touch with her at the beginning of the week, wasn’t I? But I just didn’t have the time—and I so wanted to pick up the letter. I wonder why they couldn’t have simply had it brought over by messenger?”

“Might have a nice little present in it, eh? That aside, she wants to know when you can go over and pick it up.”

“Does she, now?” Maisie stood up. “I’m just going along the corridor to splash some cold water on my face—would you mind giving her a telephone call, Billy? Tell her I will be over before half past six, if that’s all right.”

“She did sound a bit anxious, as if it were burning a hole in the desk.”

Maisie laughed. “It might well be doing just that!”

She returned to the office ten minutes later to be informed by Billy that she was expected at the Compton Corporation, where Miss Robinson was awaiting her arrival. She looked at the clock. “I’d better be off, then. I don’t want to be late for the very efficient Miss Robinson, do I?”

Despite her recent doubts, Maisie realized that she had been missing James more than ever over the past few days. When he was at home with her, there was no echoing silence in the flat, and their excursions at the week’s end—to Chelstone, or to Pricilla’s country house—seemed to be filled with a heady blend of deep conversation and laughter. Yes, she looked forward to his homecoming.

M
iss Robinson, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” said Maisie as she entered the secretary’s fiefdom, a spacious anteroom to James’ office. Since taking over the running of the Compton Corporation, James had embarked upon a program of modernization at the offices, and had started with his own. The walls had recently been painted in a creamy white, and the mahogany furniture was of a modern design, with smooth corners and chrome fittings. The decor reminded Maisie of a ship; she thought it might have seemed impersonal had it not been for the bouquet of flowers in a vase on the secretary’s desk, and a large tapestry of geometric shapes mounted on the wall behind.

“I had trouble parking, what with one thing and another,” added Maisie. “You must be dying to get home at this time on a Friday.”

The woman smiled, but there was something in her expression that caused Maisie to wonder if all was well.

“Is everything all right? I mean, I am terribly sorry if you were meant to be somewhere. After all—I could have waited, and—”

Miss Robinson picked up the telephone as if to place a call that could not wait. She held out her hand towards the door that led to James’ office.

“If you’d like to go in, Miss Dobbs, your letter is on the table.”

“Are you sure?” asked Maisie. “I mean, I don’t want to just charge into the office.”

“No, it’s perfectly all right. On you go.” She waved in a way that made Maisie feel as if she were a schoolgirl who had just been dismissed by the headmistress.

Maisie placed her hand on the large chrome door handle, and as she pressed her weight against the door, she looked back at Miss Robinson, who was watching her, smiling. She waved her hand again. Maisie nodded and walked in.

Her shock at seeing James Compton coming towards her with his arms open almost caused her to faint. The table before her was covered with packages.

“James! James Compton, you rogue!” She was soon in his embrace. “You have been here all the time!”

James kissed her, but soon she pushed back from him to speak. “You sent that letter from here!” She laughed, knowing that once upon a time she would have been devastated by such a trick. “Why didn’t you tell me you were home? What are you up to? Apart from committing a crime in the eyes of the post office, that is.”

“A crime?” James laughed as he spoke. “What crime?”

“You forged a postmark—that’s a prison sentence. How did you pull that one off?”

“Oh, that was easy—I just had Miss Robinson talk nicely to a man at the post office, asking him to smudge a stamp to disguise the franking, and had the letter delivered by hand.”

“But why? Couldn’t you just have let me know you were in London?”

“Ah, it was all part of my grand plan—as much as I wanted to call you the minute I disembarked at Southampton, I was trying to keep a secret, and I made sure anyone who knew I was here in London had sworn on their life not to let the cat out of the bag.”

“What cat? Oh, this doesn’t make sense, James.”

“It will when you see your surprise.”

“I think this is all a surprise. Anything more would constitute a shock.” She allowed herself to be embraced again. “And what about those?” She nodded towards the packages.

“Just a few things I thought you’d like, Maisie. Don’t worry, nothing extravagant; a few bits and pieces to bring a smile to your face.” He looked at his watch. “There was something else I wanted to show you, but I think it will have to wait until tomorrow morning now—too dark outside.”

“This sounds very suspicious.”

“Just a surprise. Now then, shall we load these up in the back of your motor car? We’ll stop somewhere for supper, then deliver them to your flat. Do you still have the guest you wrote about?”

“No, I don’t, and I’m worried about her—oh, James, so much has happened since you left.”

“And I suppose you can’t tell me the half of it.” He gathered up the parcels, handing several smaller ones to Maisie to carry.

“I can tell you more about Sandra, but not about my other job.”

“Other job?”

“I shouldn’t have said that much. It’s an official secret.”

J
ames wanted to linger over a long breakfast the following morning, but Maisie knew she had to leave for Ipswich at around midday if she was to pay another visit to Alice Thurlow.

“Can’t we just sit here on your comfortable sofa, drink our tea, and enjoy the morning? I haven’t even had so much as an egg yet, and you’ve only opened one or two of your presents.”

“Imagine what a surprise it will be when I come home—I can ration them out. In any case, I thought you were anxious to show me something.”

“Absolutely. I’ll just be a tick. We’ll be off by nine and I will let you go to your urgent appointment if you promise to come straight back afterward.”

Maisie shook her head, then reached out to touch James’ arm. “I can’t return immediately, but I’ll be back at the end of the week. I have a contract I’m committed to, and to leave now would not be wise.”

James held his hand to his heart and gave an exaggerated sigh. Then he smiled and nodded towards the door. “All right, let’s go.”

W
hen they reached the edge of Belgravia, James pulled over and stopped the motor car.

“Now, you have a choice,” said James.

“What sort of choice? You’re being very strange, you know.”

“You can either close your eyes and cover them with your hands—or if you can’t keep them closed, I’ll have to blindfold you.”

“James, you do realize how very edgy this makes me feel, don’t you?”

“You only need to keep them closed for a little while, then my secret can be revealed.”

“All right—but no blindfold. And I promise I won’t look.” Maisie held her hands to her eyes as they set off again.

A few moments later, the motor car came to a standstill and Maisie breathed in the air around her. There was a faint loamy smell of fallen leaves, and a light rain on flagstones. There were just a few motor cars and not far away she could hear a horse and cart.

“Oh dear. Oh, it can’t be. James, I know the smells here, I know, it’s—”

“All right, you can look now.”

“Ebury Place!” Maisie all but shouted. “Oh goodness, what are we doing here? Why did you—?”

And at that point, he turned her around to face number 15 Ebury Place, the house where she had come to work as a young girl, where she had struggled to study despite her duties as a domestic servant. The house had been mothballed when Lady Rowan announced that she did not want to come to London anymore. Sheets covered the furniture, and the property appeared deserted—the last time Maisie drove past, she thought how lonely the house had looked, when it had once been so full of life. And now the mansion was half-shrouded in scaffolding and heavy canvas sheets, and a builder’s van was parked outside. A man wearing white overalls and cleaning his hands on a cloth walked towards them.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Mr. Judge, I thought we’d come and have a look at your progress. How’s the job going? Did you have any luck with that door frame?”

“Yes, we did—took two men to pull it out, but we’ve solved the problem, and now we’re going great guns.”

James turned to Maisie. “Mind where you step now.”

The foreman led the way across the entrance hall and Maisie looked up at the sweeping staircase which led to the first floor. Scaffolding had been erected to enable men to reach the high ceilings and windows; it seemed the mansion was receiving complete refurbishment.

“When do you think the job will be finished?” James asked the foreman.

“You should be able to move in by Christmas, all being well.”

“Well done. Tell your men there will be a bonus for them if the work is completed by December twenty-third.”

“I’ll do that, sir, and I hope I’m not jeopardizing that bonus when I tell you the men are pretty determined to get the job done anyway.”

Maisie and James exchanged glances, and James smiled. “What do you mean, Mr. Judge? Is everything all right?”

The man shrugged and reddened. “It’s not the sort of thing that would bother me, but some of the lads are a bit uneasy, what with the fact that you’ve got some haunting going on here.”

James laughed, yet Maisie moved closer to the foreman. “What makes you think this house is haunted?”

“The noises. Creaking floorboards and all that. And things have gone missing. Ronnie said he could’ve sworn he had his sandwich box with him when he came in the other morning. He went back out to the van, came back in again, and what do you know—gone!”

James stepped forward. “Oh, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. I lived in this house almost all my life, and I assure you, if a ghost had crossed paths with my mother, I know who would have been given a fright—and it wouldn’t have been Lady Rowan Compton!”

“Tell me, Mr. Judge, have you been up to the old servants’ quarters yet?” asked Maisie. “The attic rooms? There’s a back staircase leading up there and a disguised door on every landing.”

“No, we won’t get to that part of the house for at least another couple of weeks, and no one’s been up there.”

At once Maisie was stepping quickly across the dust sheets, and then along the hallway until she reached a place where she pulled back another dust sheet and opened the door that many a visitor would not have noticed was there.

“Maisie, where are you going? Maisie! Maisie, have you lost your senses?”

She could hear James’ footsteps behind her, but now she was on the back stairs. Oh, how often she had gone up and down these stairs as a girl, a coal scuttle in hand, stopping on each floor to light the fires in the family’s reception rooms. As she made her way up, it was as if she were on a stairway to the past, but now she had only one thing in mind. She was in pursuit of a ghost.

Almost out of breath by the time she reached the attic floors, she stopped at the room she had once shared with a girl named Enid. She stood outside the door, caught her breath, and knocked with a light hand. She stepped with care across the threshold. To the right was a dressing table, on top of which was the typewriter that had once been placed in the library for the use of guests visiting the mansion—of course, that’s why the typeface on her letter from Sandra had seemed so familiar. She moved into the room and sat on the first of two cast-iron beds, reaching out to touch the young woman curled on her side with her eyes open, her cheeks red with the feverishness of so many shed tears.

“It’s all right, Sandra. I’ve got you, you poor love. I’ve got you.” Maisie leaned over and put her arms around the bony frame of Sandra Tapley. “I should have known you would come here. This was your home when you met Eric; it was where you fell in love. I should have known.” She waited a while as the sobs ebbed, rubbing Sandra’s back as if she were settling a baby for the night. “It’s over, Sandra. The police have got him—the man responsible for Eric’s death is in custody. You won’t be getting into trouble. There, there, it’s all done now.”

And as she looked back towards the door, Maisie saw James Compton standing in the doorway.

“I can’t leave her alone at the flat, James,” whispered Maisie. “We must take her to Priscilla’s. Could you . . .”

“Yes, I’ll find a taxi—and I’ll let Priscilla and Douglas know—the telephone’s been reconnected downstairs. It’s Sandra, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Tell them we’ve found Sandra.”

M
aisie did not trouble Sandra with questions. She could see that the young woman was beyond exhaustion, physically and emotionally, and that her spirit had been battered as if it were a ship in a storm. Now, in the guest room at Priscilla’s house, she helped Sandra into the bed and pulled up the sheets and counterpane, cocooning her so that she might sleep. She waited a moment, then tiptoed away, closing the door behind her. Priscilla was waiting for her on the landing.