. . . where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy . . .
Maisie did not return to London immediately, as instructed by MacFarlane. Instead, she telephoned Huntley at the number he had given her during their meeting at Scotland Yard. After engaging in another scripted conversation she had been charged with learning by heart--about the weather and a fictional Mrs. Smith's ill health--she was put through to the man who expected her report.
"I thought I would remain here to take my classes this week and come back to London on Friday. The students are all a bit shaky after losing Liddicote and now Roth, and I feel I can be of service to them. Alan Burnham has taken over as principal, so I am sure things will soon be on an even keel, but nevertheless, I wanted to stay."
"Right you are, Miss Dobbs. In any case, despite the fact that our friends at Scotland Yard have found their man, your work continues; I wanted a report in the wake of the arrest."
"We'll see what happens. The debate may well have caused feathers to be ruffled--I have an idea that Dunstan Headley might have his son removed from the influence of Delphine Lang, though I would say that wherever that young man goes, he will fall under the spell of someone who has a way with words. He's looking for an anchor, and political groups offer that sense of belonging, don't they?"
"But we're really not too worried about the Nazis, as I said--though I know you disagree."
Maisie shook her head. "I know why you wanted me here, Mr. Huntley, and what I have to say bears repeating. Young people are always looking for that something new, aren't they? They are seeking passion in all quarters, and they are ripe for infiltration--and bearing in mind that many of those young people in a place such as Cambridge, or a college like St. Francis, are related to powerful men, powerful families, they present both our future and our vulnerability."
"We can't afford that vulnerability."
"I know. But the College of St. Francis is not our Achilles' heel."
Huntley sighed. "I expect to see you at my office on Friday afternoon. Usual precautions, Miss Dobbs."
"Of course."
There was a click on the line as Huntley ended the call, and a single dial tone issued from the receiver that was not quite like the tone one would normally hear; then it changed, and Maisie replaced the receiver. As usual, her conversation with Brian Huntley had been scrambled.
Maisie made one more telephone call before leaving the kiosk. It was to James Compton, at his club.
"I'll be back in London on Friday, James. I think I might get away early--there's a lecturer who owes me a favor, so I might get her to take my classes."
"I wish I knew what was going on--all this business about teaching in Cambridge. It makes me feel quite unintelligent."
Maisie laughed. "Oh, that's how I feel when I stand up in front of my class of very acute students." She paused. "Have you spoken to Priscilla?"
"Yes--and do not worry, Sandra is still with her, and some fellow from Scotland Yard--Caldwell is his name--has been to see her. Priscilla said he was actually very kind, very gentle with Sandra, who is looking much better."
"Any other news?"
"Priscilla had a message from Caldwell for you. He said to tell you it's just a bit of gossip, but thought you'd like to know."
"I don't believe it--Caldwell wants to share gossip with me?"
James laughed. "I wish I knew more about these men you fraternize with at Scotland Yard. Anyway, he said that someone called Stratton had resigned. He's left the Yard--apparently left the police entirely. Caldwell said you'd worked with him on several occasions and would like to know."
"Stratton has left?"
"That's all I know--can't comment any more than that."
"Well, that is a turnup for the books."
James laughed. "And I have a message from Billy that came via Miss Robinson--just in case I spoke to you, he said, which made me laugh--the message is that your father telephoned."
"Oh dear."
"Is he all right, Maisie? I hope he hasn't been ill."
Maisie smiled. "No, as far as I know he's not ill, but he might be lovesick."
"I beg your pardon?"
"James, though he tried to keep it from me, I have discovered my father is courting."
James began to laugh again, and at once Maisie could not help herself--the tension of the previous days broke and she laughed along with him.
With another six weeks of teaching before her, Maisie began her final accounting while still employed at the college, though she had asked to be released from her contract as soon as another junior lecturer in philosophy could be found. With Alan Burnham as principal, Dr. Francesca Thomas had been promoted to become deputy principal, and it was during a meeting at her office in Eaton Square on an autumn afternoon, with the sun now low in the sky and the first signs of a clinging winter smog beginning to envelop the city, that Maisie asked her how long she thought she might be at the College of St. Francis.
"It's a good place for me, Maisie. I am a respected lecturer in a position of some responsibility, and I enjoy the work--though the naivete of some of my students rather worries me. I wonder about them, what might happen to them when another war comes, if it comes. But as I said, I am well placed. And of course, given my position, I find myself invited to the drawing rooms of some very interesting people--and anyone interesting to me will be interesting to those I consider an enemy of my country."
Maisie nodded.
Thomas looked at Maisie, her stare direct, her question equally so. "And you, Maisie? I know who you have been working for over the past few months, and I know exactly what you do--whether reporting to dear Brian Huntley or your clients. But what will you do when you have completed your reports for Huntley?"
"Then it's back to my business--which is growing, I might add."
Thomas smiled. "They won't let you go, you know. And we will meet again, Maisie." She paused. "Let me tell you something that Greville said to me, during one of those 'how are your classes progressing' conversations in his office. He said that in his estimation we do not pay enough attention to the past, and that one of his fears was that in 1914 we had become a reflection of history when we embarked upon what could be considered another European Thirty Years' War. He wanted to do his part to nip that progression in the bud. It's an interesting theory, don't you think? We both understand that the war of words, of economics, and of underhand activity goes on. The front line is still there, though the trenches look a little different."
Maisie felt a chill go through her, and touched the place on her neck, the constant reminder of the wounds of that past war, so long ago now, but remembered at times as if it were yesterday.
The Thurlow family had moved into the property left to Ursula by Rose Linden. The sons had constructed a wooden ramp to allow their mother's chair to be wheeled in and out with ease, and the family seemed to have already made the house their home, and had brought the garden back to its former glory. At Maisie's request, Andrew Dene saw Ursula at his new clinic in Harley Street, and thereafter arranged a series of tests to discover whether anything could be done about her condition. He spoke to Maisie before taking the news to Ursula's family.
"I'm sorry, Maisie, but not much is known about this disease. Sometimes it takes its time to have an effect and the patient seems to go from remission to a sort of attack. Sometimes they live full and productive lives without noticing anything more than tingling in the fingers, and some fatigue. Then there are the other cases where the decline is more rapid. I think Ursula is somewhere in the middle of those extremes. We've struggled to understand how it all goes wrong; how the brain's messages get misdirected."
"How can the family help her--are there any medications?"
"I can prescribe medicine for pain, should it come--and it develops mainly from being bed- or chair-bound for so long; sores and so on. Otherwise, I would say that she must live a very balanced life--no surprises, no shocks, a good diet. Unlike many of my f
ellow doctors who think milk is the source of all solutions, I would suggest a limited intake of those kinds of foods. But I will be speaking to colleagues in France later this year--they've done a lot of research on this type of sclerosis."
Maisie nodded and thanked Dene. "Send me the bill, Andrew."
He shook his head. "No account--she's a dear lady and deserves to be helped, if help can be found."
She visited Clarence Chen in Limehouse, and took tea with Jennifer Penhaligon at Somerville College, though they did not linger on the subject of her former student, Francesca Thomas. One by one, place by place, Maisie returned to the roots of her investigation, and watched, again, German citizens now living in London gathering at Cleveland Terrace for a meeting of the Ortsgruppe. She hoped Huntley and the men he advised would pay attention in time--though she was afraid time was slipping through their fingers while they looked elsewhere for threats to the realm.
Stratton met her at the cafe on Oxford Street where they had often lingered to discuss their shared cases. They had always described it as "more caff than cafe." They sat down at a table close to the window, each with a cup of strong tea and a round of buttered toast and jam.
"I can't believe you've decided to leave the police, Richard--so soon after moving to Special Branch."
"I can hardly believe it myself, to tell you the truth. But MacFarlane is a difficult man to work with, and that brought other considerations to a head."
"Your boy?"
"He was only three years old when his mother died, and the past few years have not been without problems--for both of us. My mother stepped in to help, and he goes to stay with his mother's parents for a couple of weeks each summer, but time seems to be passing so quickly. I thought transferring to Special Branch from the Murder Squad might reduce the number of middle-of-the night calls, but it didn't quite come off as planned--looking back, I cannot imagine why I thought it would. Wishful thinking, I suppose. And to be honest with you, the College of St. Francis sort of made up my mind for me."
Maisie nodded, understanding. "He'll be gone all too soon."
Stratton nodded. "Yes. Another ten years and he'll be eighteen. My wife always wanted him to have the opportunity to go to university if he wanted; she left some money to pay for his education. I suppose I don't want to wave him off to university--or wherever it is he'll go--and think, 'I hardly know the boy.' "
"What will you do?"
"Don't laugh--but I've got a job already, starting in January. Until then, I will have time on my hands to spend with my son--seeing him off to school, taking him fishing on Saturdays, football practice in the evenings, whatever I want." He sighed and took a sip of the still scalding urn-brewed tea. "Before the war I had wanted to be a teacher, then after university I was more or less in uniform straightaway, and ended up in the military police--which of course led to Scotland Yard when the war was over. I'd been thinking about going into teaching for a long time, and I began applying for positions a few months ago now."
"You kept that to yourself," said Maisie.
"Can you imagine what MacFarlane would have said if he had known?"
Maisie laughed. "Yes--I'm afraid I can."
Stratton went on. "I've been offered a position at a boys' boarding school in Sussex, teaching mathematics and physics. There's a cottage in the grounds that goes with the job, and a primary school nearby. My son will be able to attend the school where I teach when he turns eleven, and without fees. It works all around."
"Will you miss the Yard?"
"Some of it, of course. But I have missed my boy so very much, and I want to spend more time with him."
Maisie glanced out the window, at the melee of shoppers and people of commerce rushing back and forth, the taxi-cabs vying for road space with horses and carts, the buses and the noise. She turned her attention back to Richard Stratton. "You've done the best thing, Richard. I wish you well."
"And I wish you well, too, Maisie."
They held each other's gaze longer than either had intended, then Maisie cleared her throat. "Well, this will never do. Time is marching on and I have work waiting for me. When do you leave the Yard?"
"At the end of the week."
They made their way towards the door, then stood outside in the bustle of the street.
Maisie held out her hand, and as Richard Stratton took hers, he drew her towards him and kissed her cheek. She touched her face with her free hand. "Take care, Richard. I am sure our paths will cross again."
Stratton smiled. "Yes, Maisie. Our paths will cross, of that I have no doubt."
With that he raised his hat, and she turned to walk back towards Fitzroy Square. She looked over her shoulder once, but he was lost in the crowd. And as she made her way back to the office, she wondered, just for a moment, where, in time, she might see Richard Stratton.
Maisie stood outside Wandsworth Prison and pulled her scarf up around her neck against the cold smog that lingered above the brick building. From the center, it spanned out into five wings, though it was only in "E Wing" that men were sent to the gallows. She thought that prisons were probably all designed to resemble medieval forts, and she wondered how it felt when the doors clanged behind the condemned once they crossed the threshold. Matthias Roth had been transferred to Wandsworth from Cambridge. He would leave only to stand trial, for which the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
Having passed through several corridors, each with clanking iron gates and guards who checked her papers, she was led to a room where Roth awaited her.
He stood when Maisie entered. "Miss Dobbs, how kind of you to come. I confess, I was surprised when I learned I was to have a visitor."
She took account of Roth's appearance. He wore plain overalls; his hair was shorter than it had been and could no longer flop into his eyes as if he were a boy. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, and his eyes seemed hollow.
"I thought you might like some books." Maisie placed a parcel tied with string on the table. "They went through them at the desk; fortunately, none were of much interest to the guards."
Roth reached forward, unpicked the string, and squinted at the titles. "Ah, a very good mix, Miss Dobbs, though I have to request my spectacles each time I wish to read. My niece brought me in a similar package last week--I must say, her taste differs from mine."
Maisie smiled. "I won't ask how you're feeling, Dr. Roth. This isn't the most convivial place, but if there's anything you need, please send word. I have contacts . . . "
"Yes, of course." He rewrapped the books and sighed. "I wish I could turn back time, Miss Dobbs. I have had time--an irony, of course--to consider time itself, and those small, almost inconsequential decisions that lead to something terrible, that change the path of one's life in a dreadful way. I have wondered why fate chose that particular moment for me to walk down to Greville's office so that we could discuss timetabling of classes when the new building gets under way." He began to ramble, as if still trying to make sense of his decision. "You see, it was clear that it would all be a bit chaotic if we didn't have a plan in place, and Greville was quite absentminded at times--the running of the college wasn't as interesting to him as the content of the classes, and understandably so. He was an avatar of hope, not a mere administrator." He shook his head. "Had I not been there, I would not have heard the row. I would never have known the truth." He looked up at the ceiling and bit his lip as tears welled up and ran down his cheeks.
Maisie said nothing, but reached out and placed her hand on his. He grasped hers in turn, as if for strength.
"I changed my whole life for Greville Liddicote. I saw men alter the course of their lives because they read his words--men died because they chose not to fight after reading his words. His words." He shook his head. "I gave him my life savings, and I believed in every word he said, but . . . but they were not his words after all. In that second outside his office, I realized that . . . that we'd all been had. Duped. I'd been taken for the fool I was. This man whom I re
vered had been no more than a liar, a cheat, a charlatan. He was no better than a common thief. I felt as if my heart would beat from my chest. There was this . . . " He pulled back his hand as if describing a funnel of emotion rising up through his body. "This . . . emergence of something I cannot describe. I opened the door and I went straight to him and I took his head in my hands, and I killed him."
Maisie felt the ache of despair emanating from the man before her. She had heard the guilty speak of their crimes before, but she, too, wished she could turn back time, could stop Roth from walking along the corridor to Greville Liddicote's office.
"They taught some of us man-to-man combat in the war, you know. I learned how to kill. But I never thought I would kill in such a way. When you go to war, you wield a rifle, but you hope you never have to look into the face of the man whose life you take. When I entered his room, Greville was sitting there, gazing at something--I believe it was a photograph--and the next moment, he was dead." Roth stared into Maisie's eyes. "Seven minutes later, I was back in my office, and I had hardly any recollection of what had happened. It was as if I had woken from a very bad dream and could claim back my real life. But I couldn't. I had killed a man of peace--and at a time when there is so much to fear."
"So much to fear?"
"You know. You were at the debate. You saw Robson Headley--and my niece. I was shocked. And in that moment of clarity, when Headley stood before us with his misguided rhetoric and his arm raised, I knew what Greville had seen and I had not. I fear our efforts to bring a more widespread peace through the mutual experience of learning will be like David pitted against Goliath."
"But David prevailed," said Maisie.
"A single man is not an army, and a mere catapult is no match for a cannonade--for guns, bombs, tanks. Sadly, in this case it is the small man who has a great army at his disposal, and he will come to power, of that I am sure--look again at Headley and Delphine. Imagine so many dispossessed people following blindly, with misguided hope in their hearts."
A Lesson in Secrets Page 29
