A Lesson in Secrets (8 page)

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Blanche was a friend of Greville’s, wasn’t he?”

“They were acquainted.”

“Which means that Greville wrote long letters about philosophical matters and your Dr. Blanche indulged him; or perhaps it was the other way around.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Greville had a responsibility to ensure the financial viability of the college, and to that end he took his acquaintances quite seriously. I am sure your Dr. Blanche accommodated a request for a contribution to our cause.”

“And I assure you he did not.” Maisie steadied her breathing; she did not want to rush to Maurice’s defense and in doing so make a comment she would regret. “I have some knowledge of Dr. Blanche’s philanthropic expenditures—all of which are in favor of the clinics he founded. If he was in contact with Dr. Liddicote, it was due to their mutual intellectual interests.”

Roth sighed. “In any case, the police are treating his death as suspicious—that is their language, as I am sure you are aware—and they will be speaking to staff and students over the next few days. I daresay they have already interviewed you.”

“If they are to interview staff, then I will be included, of that you should have no doubt.” Maisie paused again when she realized that Roth’s eyes were filled with tears. “Are you all right, Dr. Roth?”

He nodded. “It has been a troubling night, Miss Dobbs, and a difficult morning thus far.”

“Dr. Roth, may I ask a question of you?”

He waved his hand, as if he had lost all energy. “I have been answering questions for half the night, so a few more won’t do any harm.” In his fatigued state, Roth’s accent had become increasingly guttural. Until that point his English pronunciation was almost regal—it was not commonly known that the royal family spoke their native language with more than a hint of Germanic inflection.

“How did you come to know Dr. Liddicote? You must have been acquainted when the college was in the early stages of planning.”

Roth removed his spectacles, folded them, and placed them on the desk in front of him. His movements seemed precise and measured. “Lack of sleep, Miss Dobbs.” He rubbed his eyes. “And I fear my vision is becoming quite inadequate for my purposes.” He sighed as he replaced the spectacles, blinking as if to refocus. “In 1916, when I was thirty-two years of age, I was an officer in the German army on the Western Front. It was not my choice to go to war; it had never been my desire to fight. But when I saw my students—fine young men, and not one of them a warrior—conscripted from their classes and sent to France to fight after barely six weeks of training, I could not see them go unless I, too, went forward to do my part. My rise through the ranks was as swift as it was for many of your young men—attrition begets opportunity, if one can call it that. Our leaders, such as they were, were all swept away by a tide of complete and utter stupidity—just a year before I joined the army, my students and I were welcoming our counterparts from France, Austria, Spain, Great Britain, and Sweden for a summer school in which we shared our knowledge and understanding of the great philosophers.” He coughed and removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes once more. “But in 1916, there I was, in this cold, ugly stench of war. We had just taken a ridge that had been greatly contested—just a small ridge, a few feet for a few thousand French, British, and German lives—and when we went into the trenches, the vision of those boys—boys whom we had killed, boys who looked so much like our boys—all but broke my heart. We moved and buried the bodies as reverently as we could, in the circumstances. I stopped alongside one of them; I had an urge to know more about him, to know who he was, if there was a letter from his mother or a photograph of his girl. Instead I was taken with a book in his pack. It was a children’s story by Greville Liddicote. All around me was the . . . the . . . sickness of war, and here in my hands was a children’s book. And I sat down in that mud and wept. Not one of my men stared at me, not one stopped what he was doing. They just went about their business, and as soon as I was able to conduct myself as an officer, I went about mine.”

Maisie nodded. “And after the war you sought out the author.”

“I went back to my teaching position and wrote to his publisher, who passed on the letter. Greville and I began a fruitful correspondence, and when he invited me to visit him, I came as soon as I could.” Roth blinked several times as if to prevent his emotions from becoming evident. “He was something of a hero to me, you see. Plans to open St. Francis were under way, and when he asked if I would join as his deputy—he felt he knew me well enough, and also considered it a ‘message’ to have a deputy who came from Germany, the former enemy—I was excited by the offer and jumped at the opportunity to join him. You see, Miss Dobbs, in 1916, shortly after taking that ridge—and keeping that bloodstained copy of Greville’s book—I was sent home to Germany with a wound that no one could prove was self-inflicted.” He sighed. “I am aware of the rumors that accompanied
The Peaceful Little Warriors
and why it was removed from circulation in Britain, but as far as I know, the only mutiny caused by Greville Liddicote’s book was mine.”

M
aisie had wanted to ask Matthias Roth about the intercollege debate, and why he and Liddicote had been at odds over the issue; however, it was clear that the man was barely in control of his emotions. Such moments were often difficult to gauge—should she take advantage of a person’s distress, using it as a moment to press him further? Or would she be better served by patience, by a level of consideration that would encourage the person to be more frank with her, more open, at another time? On this occasion, she decided upon the latter, though she had no doubt that MacFarlane would have expressed an opinion or two on her decision.

Part of her wanted to remain in Cambridge, though she knew she must go to London. As she made her way along the corridor towards Rosemary Linden’s office to inform her that she was leaving, she saw the secretary accompanying two visitors in the direction of the stairs; she suspected they were on their way to Matthias Roth’s office. One was a man of late middle age, with light-gray hair, a dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. His shoes were polished and he carried a black homburg. A younger man accompanied him, and such was the resemblance between the pair that Maisie assumed they were father and son, though the younger man was taller, and more suitably dressed for a summer’s day, wearing light-brown trousers and a cream linen jacket, an open shirt, and a white panama hat that he had not removed. Maisie waved good-bye to Miss Linden, and as they passed, the younger man took off his hat and smiled at Maisie. Her recollection was immediate—he was the man in whose company she had seen Delphine Lang in the park.

T
he day was fine for the drive back to London. As she navigated her way through the city of Cambridge, Maisie once again reflected upon her good fortune to have been educated in such a place. She remembered her first term at Girton, and the forays into town for tea with Priscilla, who always wanted to go from one shop to another and stay out past their curfew. Every time Maisie lingered to look up at another building with tall spires and noble buttresses, and stained-glass windows in rich hues, Priscilla would roll her eyes and say, “It’s only bricks and bloody mortar!” All about them, more and more young men were in uniform—so different from her return to complete her education after the war, when the distant laughter seemed to echo around those spires and along the Backs, where once a boy Priscilla was seeing had tipped a punt underneath overhanging willows, and they’d splashed onto the grass, drenched to the skin.

With Cambridge behind her, the journey was easy. Clouds scudding across the summer-blue sky threatened only the merest sprinkle of rain, so she stopped once to pull back the roof on the MG and stow her hat. As the road opened up, she considered the events that had unfolded since she had arrived at the College of St. Francis. She had often thought of the early stages of an investigation as something akin to working a tapestry; at times it was as if she were searching for loose threads so she could unpick the completed image to see what might lie underneath and how a certain play on light or color was achieved. As with a tapestry, some crimes proved to be true masterpieces of deception. And she knew from experience that when a life had been taken in the act of murder, there were few black and white places, only gray shadows in which the truth lingered—and truth sometimes held only a passing connection to fact.

Her thoughts came back to Billy and Sandra. Her first order of business, she thought, was to broach the subject of the house with Billy. Then there was Sandra, who had settled into Maisie’s flat and was a good and quiet guest. In time she would need to find other accommodations, but not before Maisie considered her strong enough; she had suffered a severe emotional blow, and it was important to give her the time she needed to get back on her feet. And there was something else—Maisie had seen a spark in Sandra, and it had burned brighter since her husband’s death. It was as if there was a determination to do something more with herself; in her work she took on more than was asked, and Maisie had noticed that she made several visits to the lending library each week. If she could help her get on in life, she would.

G
ood afternoon, Miss. How was your drive from Cambridge?” Sandra stood up when Maisie came into the room, closing the notebook she had been writing in as she welcomed her employer back to the office.

“Hello, Sandra. Where’s Billy today?”

Sandra blushed. “He is out seeing a Mrs. Clark—we received an inquiry letter from her yesterday, something to do with her son having left home and she didn’t know where he’d gone. Mr. Beale went along to see her—Belgrave Square—and he said he had a couple of other appointments and might not be back here today.”

“Oh dear, I wanted to see him—this is my only opportunity to speak to him before I go away again on Sunday evening.”

Sandra collected the teapot and cups from their place on top of the cabinet next to Billy’s desk. “He seemed a bit tired again, Miss, to tell you the truth.”

“I might drive over to Shoreditch this evening. I do hate to just drop in on the family, but I’m a bit concerned.”

“Right you are, Miss. I’ll get a cup of tea and we can look at what I’ve done this week, just so you know. And I’m in no rush to go to Mr. Partridge, as he’s out on an appointment with his publisher today.”

Maisie removed her gloves and hat, and took a seat at her desk. She opened the large drawer to her right and took out the papers she had been sent from the building firms regarding new properties for sale under what they described as “terms.” She picked up the telephone and dialed the number on a letter she had already made notes upon, checking the time on the mantelpiece clock as she did so. Three minutes later, she replaced the receiver, having made an appointment to see one of the finished houses on a street within “reasonable” walking distance of Eltham railway station—according to the Mr. Walsh she spoke to about the properties. The appointment was for eleven o’clock the following morning, an hour that would give Billy and Doreen plenty of time to catch the train out to Eltham, and for Billy in particular to gauge the journey, as well as the cost of the train fare. Now all she had to do was get them to agree to view the house, which she knew would be a difficult first step.

Sandra went over the business of the past four days, pulling out a ledger so Maisie could see the bills sent out and remittances received. Business was not bad at all. New clients, along with several commercial customers who paid a retainer for their services, had made the year a good one, thus far.

“I think it’s time to call it a day,” said Maisie.

“Right you are, Miss.” Sandra pulled the cover across the typewriter.

“I can give you a lift home, Sandra, unless you’ve other plans.”

“That’s all right. I’ve some shopping to do, so I’ll come home on the bus.”

Maisie smiled. “I’ll see you later, then, Sandra.”

She did not leave Fitzroy Square immediately, much as she wanted to go straight home. Instead, she waited until Sandra left the building, and watched her walk across the square. Maisie could not follow her employee—her MG was far too distinctive, and to do so would demonstrate a level of mistrust that should not exist between an employer and her staff. However, when she saw Sandra’s color rise as she said, “I’ve some shopping to do . . . ,” Maisie knew she had been told a lie. Maisie studied Sandra’s gait and, when she was out of sight, imitated the same walk for a few yards—the set of Sandra’s shoulders, her step narrower than usual. Maisie noticed that even her jaw seemed to be clenched as she walked. It had always intrigued her, how such a simple method could reveal so much. Sandra was afraid, but was forging on despite the sense of fear that enveloped her. It was as if she had set out to do something—something that challenged her—and she had resolved not to turn back. In that moment, Maisie wished she had suggested accompanying Sandra to the shops—and she wondered what shops, exactly, would be open for Sandra after the working day was done on a Friday afternoon.

T
he street where Billy lived was not as desperate as some, though in Shoreditch there were still families who had no running water, so that the women had to struggle along to the communal pump several times each day. Those who lived in the two-up-two-down terrace houses fought a never-ending battle against damp, soot, and rats. It was common for more than one family to live in each house, with little food on the table, and no shoes on the feet of children. A motor car was rarely seen on these streets, which, though not far from the wealth of the City of London, might as well have been a thousand miles distant. There was a poverty here that clung to the soul, as if it were the fetid ocher smog that lingered above the dark waters of the River Thames.

Though Billy’s mother had previously lived in a cottage along the same street, thanks to a bit of money put by after her husband died—money that was now gone—she had been living with the family for some time, sleeping in a room with the two boys and keeping an eye on Doreen during the day. She was a kindly woman whom Maisie had only once seen without a pinafore, and that was on the day little Lizzie Beale was laid to rest. Maisie had been glad that old Mrs. Beale was present when she called at the house, and that she remained in the kitchen—though at the sink, washing laundry—while Maisie put her idea to Billy and his wife as the three of them sat at the table. Maisie explained that she had a little money she wanted to invest in property, and had an idea that might help them all: she had seen details of a new house in Eltham that she wanted to put a down payment on; however, she would need to rent it out. She told them she’d already done her sums and the rent she would need to ask was—she believed—probably less than Billy was paying at the moment. Then she’d brought out a sheet describing the house, along with an artist’s impression, and pushed it across the table to Billy and Doreen.