A Lesson in Secrets (6 page)

“Come in, Miss Dobbs.” Linden waved Maisie into the room, with a brief suggestion of a smile as she closed the door behind her.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Dobbs. Please sit down.” Liddicote nodded towards the visitor’s seat.

When they were both seated, Liddicote leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment as if to banish the previous conversation. His face seemed flushed, and he placed a hand against his chest as if to settle his heart. Maisie was about to ask if he felt unwell, when he opened his eyes and gave a forced smile.

“How are you faring?”

“I think the first week has gone well so far.” Maisie offered no more, waiting for Liddicote’s lead.

“I’ve heard on the college grapevine that the response to your lessons is good, and other lecturers have noted your professionalism in your role. We are happy to have you here at St. Francis.”

“Thank you, Dr. Liddicote.”

“And in case you’re wondering, it’s customary for me to have a meeting such as this with new members of staff towards the end of their first and second weeks in particular.”

“Yes, of course. I understand.” She was relieved to see that that the conversation was calming Liddicote.

He paused, allowing silence to enter the space between them before speaking again.

“Tell me about the existence of God, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie was taken aback by the abrupt instruction, but countered her surprise with a question.

“In what context, Dr. Liddicote?”

He smiled. “Ah, not one to assume anything.” He paused again before continuing. “As a college where the concept of peace underpins so much of our curriculum, the nature of God is crucial to our dialogue. We have students of several faiths here; we have those who have seen much in their young lives, and who are inclined to question the existence of God—and of course it is a fundamental question in terms of philosophical discourse. Therefore, Miss Dobbs, speak to me of God. Does he exist?”

Maisie cleared her throat. “It was Saint Anselm of Canterbury who laid down the question, ‘Does God exist?’ He then gave the example of the artist who has a picture of the not-yet-executed masterpiece in his mind’s eye. Can the painting be said to be real because the painter can see it? Or is it only real when the masterpiece is finished for all to see? Anselm gave the argument for supporting the existence of God; however, the essence of his deliberation is in the question itself.”

“Another question, then, and one of particular resonance to your generation. If there is a God, then why does he allow war to continue?”

Maisie inspected her hands as she considered the question, then looked up as she framed a response. Liddicote was waiting for her to speak, his chin resting on his steepled hands.

“With this question,” said Maisie, “I sense that you have asked for an answer that reflects my personal experience of the world. I confess that during the war—and many times since—I have asked this same question, and to be frank, at times with many tears and a deep pain in my heart. But I have allowed the question to exist, to remain, because there is no answer to satisfy when one has lived through the tumult of war. On a simple level, one can only hope—can only trust—that if there is one single omnipotent God, then he knows what he is doing.” She stopped speaking.

Liddicote did not press her, knowing that she had more to say.

“I think, therefore . . . ,” Maisie went on, “that it is admissible to say that God exists, even if we have no rational means of proof. But if that is so, we must also assume that evil exists. As far as my teaching is concerned, I believe there to be a richness of debate when we discuss what is meant by good and evil, and how the philosophical dialogue is reflected in the human experience.”

Liddicote nodded. “Good answers, Miss Dobbs, and thoughtful. I anticipate joining one of your classes next week—I think perhaps on Wednesday afternoon, when you teach the more senior students.”

“I look forward to it, Dr. Liddicote.”

“One more thing, Miss Dobbs, then I will release you to the staff room, for it’s almost time for morning coffee.” He took out his pocket watch and checked the hour. “It has been suggested that we apply to join a debate among students from the Cambridge colleges, on the fragile nature of peace and our position regarding Germany, particularly in light of political developments in that country. Such a debate is bound to attract the attention of a broader audience—not least the press. Certain members of staff are in favor of accepting the invitation, some against. What side of the fence would you choose?” He cupped his hand around his ear and leaned forward, as if to ensure he caught every word of her reply.

“I would like to have more information on the two positions suggested for debate—Is one for a resumption of conflict? Is this a result of the Peace Conference and the mood in Germany as a result of the outcome of the conference? Or is the debate inspired by the limitations of the League of Nations? In principle, I am in favor of any benign argument that has as its purpose the discovery of a means to sustain peace—but I have some reservations regarding the debate’s genesis.”

“Good enough, good enough. Now then, I have another appointment on the hour.”

“Of course.” Maisie gathered her briefcase and papers and left the room. Francesca Thomas was waiting as Maisie emerged from Liddicote’s office. Her tailored costume of navy-blue jacket and matching skirt enhanced a natural elegance, and seemed to draw attention to her angular features, her wide eyes set off by high cheekbones. She greeted Maisie, and as she moved, the navy-blue-and-magenta silk scarf at her neck shifted and a faint scar was revealed on her neck. Either Dr. Thomas had undergone a serious surgical procedure, or she had been the victim of an attack. In either event, at some point in her life, a blade had penetrated her delicate skin in a most vulnerable area.

As Maisie continued along the corridor, Miss Linden emerged from her office with Delphine Lang, and sighed when she saw Francesca Thomas close the door behind her as she entered Greville Liddicote’s office.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait now—he’s going to be a while, I would say.” She nodded as Maisie passed, turning to the pale teaching assistant to suggest that she come back after morning coffee.

Touching her own neck as she walked up to the staff room, Maisie reflected on the fact that the school’s founder seemed particularly busy on that morning; now she had just enough time for a cup of coffee before her next class. Perhaps the warm, though barely palatable, liquid would temper the tingling sensation that seemed to have settled on the skin at her throat.

T
here were no bells rung to announce the end of a lesson; instead the clocks in corridors and classrooms were synchronized by the caretaker each morning. When she checked the time and brought the first class of the afternoon to an end, Maisie gathered her books and made her way to the staff room. As usual, she was one of the last to arrive; several students had remained to ask questions following the lesson, and she had gladly given of her time. Already she was planning to hold an informal conversation salon on one evening each week, when students could—she hoped—feel more at liberty to ask questions that they might not put to her during the formal lesson period. Now, as she walked towards the staff room, she relaxed, knowing that her teaching was finished for the day and she could use the final period after tea for marking essays.

The staff room was busy, though the line to be served tea and cake had diminished, and the lecturers now clustered in groups, some discussing classes, others talking about the end of the working week. Maisie joined Matthias Roth, who had just come into the room and was now in conversation with Dr. Alan Burnham, the topic being the World Peace Conference in Vienna, which had convened on September 4. Another group of lecturers was discussing the situation in Germany, where talks had broken down between the Chancellor and Adolf Hitler, who had garnered a significant number of votes and had demanded to be made Chancellor. The conversations buzzed around her, some of matters beyond the college, others in connection with the behavior of certain students and their performance.

Maisie was about to make a comment on the peace conference when she was distracted by Miss Linden’s entering the room, clearly in search of someone in particular. No one else seemed to have noticed the young woman, though Maisie sensed immediately that something was wrong. And at that moment she felt as if time itself stood still as she, too, took stock of the room—Matthias Roth expounding on the outcome of the conference; Alan Burnham nodding his head, poised to counter the argument. Delphine Lang was moving towards the window, and Francesca Thomas turned from her conversation with a teacher of world politics, Mr. Osbourne—who was discussing the recent Olympic Games in Los Angeles, where an Argentinian had won the marathon—to stare at Miss Linden. Then time righted itself as Greville Liddicote’s secretary moved towards Maisie, and motioned her to step aside.

“Would you come with me, please, Miss Dobbs? It’s urgent.”

“Of course.”

Maisie set down her cup and saucer, stepping away from Roth and Burnham, neither of whom seemed to take account of her departure.

“Is it Dr. Liddicote?” asked Maisie, as she kept pace with Rosemary Linden. Already she felt the weight of foreknowledge across her heart.

The young woman nodded but said nothing. Soon they came alongside Liddicote’s office. Linden took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and entered, turning the key again as Maisie stepped across the threshold.

It was clear to Maisie, even before she pressed the first two fingers of her right hand to his neck, where she should have felt the rhythm of Liddicote’s carotid artery, that he was dead.

Chapter Five

H
aving established that the young woman was in command of her emotions—as much as could be expected—Maisie instructed Miss Linden to return to her office and to continue as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. And if people asked, she should inform them that Dr. Liddicote had left the college for the day; she didn’t want a series of callers waiting on the settle in the corridor.

Maisie took the key and locked the door as Linden left the room. She checked Liddicote’s pulse once more, lifted his eyelids, and took note of the narrow threads of blood that had emerged from his mouth and nose. Pulling a clean handkerchief from her shoulder bag, she covered her fingers, picked up the telephone receiver, and asked Miss Linden for a line. She then dialed a number she had learned by heart.

“Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane, please. It’s Maisie Dobbs, and it’s urgent.”

The wait was short.

“Maisie, tell me the worst—if
you
say it’s urgent I know you’re not crying wolf!”

“Greville Liddicote has been murdered. I have secured the room where his body was discovered—his office—and thus far the only people who know are his secretary and myself. I have not questioned her, as I wanted to call you first.”

“That’s all we bloody need! Cause of death?”

“Liddicote’s neck has been broken. In my estimation, he’s been dead for less than an hour.”

“Silly question, but I have to ask—”

“No, it wasn’t an accident, Robbie, and it wasn’t natural causes. And more than that, I would say the murderer was a professional—few people can just break someone’s neck. This could be the work of an assassin.”

“I’ll have to inform Huntley, but expect me there by about half past five. I’ll bring Stratton—we could do with a former murder squad man on this one. We’ll alert the local constabulary, in our own good time—and don’t worry, when we arrive, we’ll go about it all very ‘softly-softly’ so as not to alarm the natives. I want that college going about its business, and I want you there as Miss Dobbs, intrepid teacher.”

“Robbie.”

“Yes.”

“The secretary came to me first. She could have gone to anyone in the staff room, but she came to me—I’m not sure, but my position here could be compromised.”

“Question her.”

“Just you and Stratton to start with, Robbie. I’ll find a way to bring in the pathologist and to exit with the body.”

“I’ll telephone Huntley now.”

Maisie began her examination of the room. The curtains were partially drawn against the late-afternoon sun, and on one side the drape of material flapped back and forth. She used the handkerchief to pull the French door back towards the frame, securing the lock and closing the curtains before going back to Liddicote’s desk. There were two neat piles of papers, one relating to proposed architectural alterations to the college, another concerning catering arrangements. A folder marked “Debate” was open. Maisie closed the file and placed it to the side to read before MacFarlane arrived.

She left the room, locked the door, and walked towards Miss Linden’s office.

“I am terribly sorry, Dr. Roth, but Dr. Liddicote has left the college for the day and I am not sure whether he intended to go directly home or not.” Rosemary Linden was pale and her voice trembled as she spoke to Roth.

“I was supposed to meet with him! How could he forget such a thing?”

Linden shrugged. “I’ll let him know you came—perhaps tomorrow morning?”

“The man is losing his mind!” said Roth, his voice raised, before stepping around Maisie without acknowledging her as he left the office.

Maisie waited until he was out of earshot before meeting the secretary’s eyes. The young woman was shaking. “Are you coping?”

“Yes, Miss Dobbs.”

“I can’t let you leave yet—the police are on their way and they’ll want to speak to you.”

Linden nodded. “I know.”

Maisie pulled up a chair until she was close enough to lower her voice so that she would not be heard through the glass panes and wooden wainscoting.

“I have to return to Dr. Liddicote’s room to await the police—someone should be with the body. Fortunately, in an hour or so many of the students and staff will have left; and the police will—I hope—appear like any other visitors to the college. Bring them to Dr. Liddicote’s office as soon as they arrive.” Maisie wondered if MacFarlane and Stratton could possibly be taken for ‘any other visitors to the college’; she could always tell a plainclothes policeman, even at a good number of paces distant.

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”

“Miss Linden,” whispered Maisie. “Why did you come straight to me, and not to another member of staff.”

The woman shrugged. “I see all the personal files, Miss Dobbs, so I know you’re the only one with any medical training in the whole college—we don’t have a matron here, though we summon the district nurse or the doctor if someone’s sent to the sick room.” She cleared her throat. “I knew you were the person I should tell; Dr. Liddicote wouldn’t have wanted any panic.”

Maisie nodded. “I’m sure he wouldn’t,” she said, then added, “Dr. Liddicote lived alone, didn’t he?”

“Yes, not a half mile away, it’s an easy enough walk.”

“Did he ever name a next of kin in any documents held here in your office?”

“I’ve already had a look, Miss Dobbs. He is not close to his children—his son lives in London—he’s a solicitor, something like that—and his daughter lives in Dorset.”

“Do you have their addresses?”

“I’ve written everything down for you.” She passed a folded sheet of paper to Maisie. “Was it a heart attack, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes—yes, I believe it was. In any case, a pathologist will be coming with the police. Can you suggest a good entrance and exit for the pathologist and his staff—they’ll have to remove Dr. Liddicote, though fortunately it will be dark by then.”

“Come with me, I’ll show you the best way.”

M
aisie regarded the body of Greville Liddicote. She had continued her search of the room, taking care not to disturb his belongings as she worked; but she knew that time was of the essence if the dead man was to relinquish his secrets. There was a collection of his own writings, including his children’s books, on the shelves to the right of the window, though the book that had caused so much trouble in 1916 was not among them. A stack of manuscript paper revealed that he was in the midst of writing a new book on the world since the war—a cursory sifting through the pages suggested the work might be deemed inflammatory by his peers.

A filing tray on the desk held more recent correspondence. Maisie read quickly, her eyes flashing across each line, searching for a word, a sentence that stood out. One letter was from the local council, with a series of questions regarding the proposed renovations and alterations to the buildings. Another letter came from Dunstan Headley, a benefactor of the college, querying an aspect of the plans he’d seen, and the costs. The letter was cordial, but Maisie detected an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, and a hint that the writer felt that more information should be forthcoming before he parted with his money. He also said that, while he supported the college and its mission to promote peace and understanding along with academic endeavor, he did not wish to deal with Liddicote’s deputy, Dr. Roth, in the future, given that he was German. “As much as I support peace, I have not yet come to terms with the death of my eldest son in the war, though I know he would not support my position with regard to our former enemy.”

Liddicote’s deputy?

Maisie shook her head. Of course, Greville Liddicote would have established a chain of succession for the college, and would have been required to do so by the Board of Governors and by those who contributed financially to the ongoing work and advancement of the college. She wondered why Brian Huntley had not mentioned this information during their first meeting. And she also wondered how long they could wait before informing Dr. Matthias Roth that he was now principal of the College of St. Francis.

She discovered various items of limited interest in the desk drawers: a selection of fountain pens, a packet of cigarettes—she had not taken Liddicote to be a smoker—and a double-hinged silver frame designed to accommodate three photographs of about three inches by five inches each. When opened, the frame revealed a posed studio photograph of two children seated together, a portrait of a woman—again, taken in a studio—and another of four children clustered around a woman whom Maisie took to be their mother. This last photograph had been taken outdoors and reminded Maisie of her own attempts at photography when she first purchased her camera. The children squinted against the sunlight, and the woman was shading her eyes. She could not tell whether it was the same woman who had been seated for the demure photograph by a professional or whether this was someone else. The children in the second photograph were not as well turned out, as if they had been playing a rough-and-tumble game in the garden; but that would be understandable—Maisie imagined a mother would fuss over her children prior to a studio photograph, keen to ensure that not a hair was out of place. But all the same, she wondered about the children in the second photograph.

Running a finger down a column of figures in an accounts ledger, Maisie could see that the college was well funded, not only by student fees but by the support of a number of prominent donors, some of them the parents of former students, others students who had no doubt seen their education at St. Francis as a pivotal point in their journey to greater things. Maisie was curious about a category of contributor known only by the name “The Readers,” who were listed by initials only, rather than full names.

A personal ledger revealed Liddicote’s immediate finances to be in good health, though on the first page the calling card of one Hubert Stone of the firm of Stone, Tupper and Pearce, Cambridge, indicated that a will might be in place, and that there were other investments that likely would be dispersed in the event of Liddicote’s death. She took the card and clipped it to a page of rough notes she had taken as her search progressed.

Then she sat back and studied Liddicote’s body. Maisie was no stranger to death, whether the body was newly deceased or already well into the process of becoming dust. She heard Maurice’s voice in her mind. “If we are afforded the time, Maisie, those moments of quiet in the company of the dead give the one who has passed an opportunity to tell of their passing—in their position, their belongings, and the obvious causes of death. Allow yourself that moment, if you can.”

Greville Liddicote was seated, not in his usual chair but in the chair set in front of the desk for visitors. It appeared that he had not been moved into that position but rather had taken the seat before being attacked from behind. Though the attack was not brutal—there were no other wounds; there was no sign of struggle—she suspected that death had come quickly, with a deft twist to break his neck. Yes, a very deft twist, by someone for whom such killing came with training, or experience.

Maisie stood up and moved to Liddicote’s side. His head was resting on his right hand, which was folded, with fingers pressed against his palm; the left was hanging at his side, almost as if he had fallen asleep after a long midday meal. She leaned forward and, using her forefinger, tried to ascertain whether there was anything clutched in his right hand. She felt a piece of paper, and though she knew she should wait for the pathologist, she moved the head—just a touch—to enable her fingertips to tease the paper from Liddicote’s grip. As if she were lifting the head of a sleeping child away from the side of a cradle, Maisie returned Liddicote’s head to the position in which she had discovered the body. Stepping aside, she turned on the desk lamp and inspected the paper, a crumpled photograph of a woman. As with the photograph of the four children and the woman outdoors, this was not a professional portrait, but a more informal study—taken, Maisie thought, outside, and possibly at the same time as the other photograph. Though the woman had shielded her eyes in the first photograph, the clothing seemed the same; the blouse had a wide shawl collar, and the woman wore a cummerbund-style belt around the waist of an almost ankle-length gored skirt.

The two children in the first frame of the studio photograph were likely Liddicote’s son and daughter, for they shared so many features—a slightly snub nose, large eyes, and wavy hair—but she wondered who this woman was, laughing into the sun, with one child on her hip and three others gathered around her skirts, squinting as the light played upon their fair, summer-kissed hair. If she had to guess, she would have taken the woman and her children to be the family of a farmer, and she wondered who they were to Greville Liddicote—she was sure that it was not his wife, and that the children were not his. He had gone to his death with this countrywoman’s image in his hand, held close to his heart. She wondered why he had taken hold of the photograph in the moments before he died.

R
osemary Linden blushed when Maisie answered her knock on the door.

“Your guests, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you, Miss Linden.” She nodded to Robert MacFarlane and Richard Stratton as they entered.

“Would the gentlemen like a pot of tea?” inquired the secretary.

“Got anything stronger, lass?” asked MacFarlane. Maisie and Stratton exchanged glances and smiled. MacFarlane had claimed his turf.

“Um, well—let me show you.” Taking care not to look in the direction of Liddicote’s body, Linden crossed the room and opened a cupboard set between two bookcases. She brought a bottle of malt whiskey and two crystal glasses to a table in the corner of the room and pushed aside a pile of books before placing the items on the table.

“Och, he was a man after my own heart, bless him.” MacFarlane looked at Maisie and grinned. “You’ll be having tea, I assume?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon—I didn’t think . . . ”

“A cup of tea would suit me well, Miss Linden—thank you.”

“Of course.”

“And, if you don’t mind, the gentlemen would like to speak to you as soon as they are finished here. I am sure they will have a driver escort you to your home afterwards.”