Maisie pushed her plate away as Thomas left the room, and took a sip from her glass of water.
"Did one of Medusa's snakes just have a snap at you?" Alan Burnham drew back a chair and sat down in front of Maisie. "Don't let Francesca Thomas ruin your lunch, though given that tasteless cod, it seems to me there wasn't much to ruin. Dr. Thomas is a forceful woman and can be strong when she's voicing an opinion, but she's one of the very best teachers here."
"Thank you. She was simply explaining why she thought the debate was a poor idea, especially as Dr. Liddicote did not want it to go ahead."
"Nonesense. Of course he did; otherwise why would Matthias continue? He would never sully Greville's memory in such a way--they may have had the odd spat, but he was always the most faithful supporter of everything Greville stood for. No, Miss Dobbs, you're mistaken. Greville Liddicote was very much in favor of the debate."
"Was he in favor of Robson Headley taking part?"
Burnham shook his head. "He wouldn't have known. That was Matthias. Dunstan Headley said his son wanted to join the college team, and given his connections to the college--Robson is charged with continuing Dunstan Headley's philanthropy when his father is gone--his standing matters to our future. Matthias does not want to rock the boat, especially with the new building work starting soon."
"I see, so--"
"And Robson is a harmless enough chap. He has a fine sense of his own intellectual ability--which is wanting, if you care for my opinion--but as I said, a harmless young man, if a bit full of himself."
Maisie saw members of the faculty begin to move towards the door. "We'd better go down; the meeting is about to start."
Matthias Roth waited to take the podium until students and staff were seated. Maisie looked for MacFarlane and Stratton, and noticed that they were standing at the back of the room. Maisie caught Stratton's eye and waved; he waved in return and, pointing to his watch and the door, signaled that they would talk to her after Roth had spoken. She nodded.
"I have brought the entire college together to announce that we will be closing for the rest of the week, though you are reminded that a memorial service for Dr. Greville Liddicote will be held at St. Mary's on Sunday afternoon. I am sure you will all wish to attend." He cleared his throat. "I have made the decision to suspend teaching not--as many of you might have hoped--to give our students and staff a well-earned holiday . . . " There was some muffled laughter, and Roth smiled before continuing. "The days off will allow the police to bring their work to a close regarding any outstanding information in connection with Dr. Liddicote's death. With everyone on their own personal timetable, it's been rather difficult for inquiries to be completed; and I know that I, for one, would like to do all that I can to assist in the execution of police work so that we can get on with the job of being a college again, and our students continue with their studies. We have the legacy of Greville Liddicote to honor when we come back next week with the slate clean." He paused. "Are there any questions?"
When no one spoke up, Roth invited MacFarlane to join him to go through the schedule of interviews that would take place over the next several days. Maisie turned again; Stratton nodded towards the door. She left her place and made her way into the corridor.
"What's going on?" Maisie let the door close behind her.
"Robbie was about to flip his lid, so it had to come to this--he insisted upon it. Roth hadn't wanted classes to be disturbed, so he asked us to work around the student timetables--and they're all on some sort of individual curriculum, so it was hard to keep up with who had been interviewed and who hadn't." Stratton shook his head. "It's not that we think a student here was Liddicote's murderer, but we certainly want to know if anyone saw anything."
"You're still interviewing staff as well?"
"Yes, but your name has a big red tick alongside it--you're off the hook."
"Shame, I might have had a thing or two to talk about."
"Do you?"
Maisie sighed. "Probably nothing you don't already know about." She looked at Stratton. "Do you know about the Ortsgruppe?"
Stratton nodded. "All reports have come back that it's really nothing to worry about."
"Miss Delphine Lang is a member, and she has taken her amour--Robson Headley--along to meetings."
"Didn't know that. I'll tell MacFarlane, just in case he thinks it has a bearing on the case. Probably more in line with your investigation--not that I am completely privy to your remit."
Maisie smiled. "Tell Robbie I asked after him. I'll be in touch."
"Where will you be over the next few days?"
Maisie stepped towards the entrance to the assembly hall, but was almost knocked off balance when the door opened to reveal Francesca Thomas leaving. She did not notice Maisie, continuing on her way at a brisk pace. Maisie saw Stratton's eyes follow the woman as she strode purposefully away from them. He looked back at Maisie. "So, um, where was I--oh yes, where will you be . . . while the college is closed?'
She raised her finger to her lips. "Sorry, Richard, keeping it to myself, for now."
Having walked as quickly along the corridor as Francesca Thomas had before her, Maisie tapped on the door of the college office and walked in.
"Miss Dobbs, what do you want?" Miss Hawthorne was standing over a desk bearing mounds of paper and a series of open manila folders. "Can't you see my hands are full?"
"I have my students' marked assignments here, and their homework for this week, along with readings they must complete before we return next Monday. I'd already prepared the sheets, and I thought they could get on with the work during the next few days while classes are suspended--I wouldn't want them to fall behind."
"Of course not. Here, I can post them in the students' common room, and I will leave a note to the effect that work handed in last week can be collected here. Well, Miss Dobbs, I'm glad that someone is organized. I just had Dr. Thomas in here telling me she would be using the days to complete research for a paper, and that she would be leaving as soon as she could. Had me take dictation for a message to her students--the cheek of it! The sooner Miss Linden is replaced, the better. No wonder the young woman ran off like that--who wouldn't want to vanish into thin air with all this to deal with?"
"Who indeed?" said Maisie. "I'll see you soon, Miss Hawthorne. You know where my lodgings are, if you need to contact me."
"It's the police who'll want to know."
"Oh, I've already been interviewed."
With that, Maisie ran to the bicycle rack and sped back to her lodgings, where she collected the MG and drove directly to Francesca Thomas' flat. A taxi-cab had drawn up outside, and soon Thomas emerged from the front door and stepped into the vehicle, which moved slowly down the street, before accelerating as it merged onto the main road. Maisie followed, close enough to see where the motor car was going, but not so near as to be identified. The taxi-cab stopped at the railway station, where Thomas stepped out and made her way quickly to the ticket office.
"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 sid
e, 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."
A Lesson in Secrets Page 19
