A Lesson In Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel Part 14

"I call it being spoiled. His family have indulged him, and I cannot see him changing overnight, though I would hope he has mellowed."

"Did he become involved in any particular political groups?"

"I can't think of anything off hand, though he did try to start something himself. It was a group that countered the stance of pacifists-there's quite a pacifist movement among students, you know-he was maintaining that an inability and unwillingness to take up arms, along with peaceful overtures towards our enemies, would lead to a disease of weakness. He would hold meetings outside, try to get other students to join him in challenging the man on the street to be part of the cause-and at a time when the man on the street is probably more interested in making a day's living. Pa.s.sionate? Yes. And misguided. And he isn't quite as bright as he thinks he is; quite a mediocre student, actually."

"You have been most forthcoming, Dr. Pet.i.t. I wonder if your fellow lecturers would share your opinion."

"Granted, I didn't like Headley, but I think he offended other members of staff, too-it was talked about, especially when he started holding meetings, trying to be a leader, talking about entering politics, and so on. He was giving off a lot of hot air-though I have to admit, when I learned his older brother was killed in the war, I wondered if that might account for his behavior. I daresay he was pandered to as a child, and is used to getting his own way. And of course he is quick to show temper."

"You said he was mediocre, but did he try, did he work hard?"

"He thought thought he worked hard and was surprised when his marks did not meet his expectations. I think he was easily distracted by his ambitions and things that would suddenly take his attention-starting a political interest group, for example, or campaigning for a member of Parliament he suddenly supported-so he found settling down to complete a piece of academic work quite difficult." he worked hard and was surprised when his marks did not meet his expectations. I think he was easily distracted by his ambitions and things that would suddenly take his attention-starting a political interest group, for example, or campaigning for a member of Parliament he suddenly supported-so he found settling down to complete a piece of academic work quite difficult."

"Did he have friends here?"

"People were drawn to him, then turned away. He wasn't above getting into a fistfight in support of his beliefs, or at least challenging another student physically."

"Really?" Maisie was trying to reconcile this picture of Robson Headley with the young man she had met, and whom she had seen being solicitous towards Delphine Lang.

"In fact, I saw him once, having a go at another chap after cla.s.ses. I don't know what he did exactly, but that lad was on the ground in a second-and he was a young man of some heft, not easily caught off guard. But Headley just whipped him up off his feet and was standing over him, calling him all sorts of names-and all due to some argument about the way in which the British defeated the Boers."

"Well, this is very interesting, Dr. Pet.i.t, I-"

"Personally, I put it down to the fact that he's spent a few years overseas-apparently his father had business in the Orient-something of that order, anyway-but he came back here to attend university. In my position, you don't always remember your students-too many of them-but some stand out, and as you've probably gathered, Headley was one of them. I recall thinking that it was as if he didn't really know how to communicate with people his own age and kind anymore. Of course, he looks very friendly, almost debonair, but he is a young man who has a fair bit of nasty bottled up inside him. Mind you, he'll be an energetic debater, if he can hold his temper-and perhaps he's grown up since I last saw him. What's the subject of the debate?"

"The t.i.tle might have been changed again in my absence, but it's to do with whether the emerging politics in Germany-national socialism-could be accepted here in Britain."

"Then just watch him. I could imagine him being quite a vehement supporter of the motion to accept something along the lines of Herr Hitler's n.a.z.i Party. They've garnered considerable support in Germany and they're very well organized in groups in other countries, to ensure that German citizens abroad are brought into the fold. Wouldn't surprise me if Headley isn't a Fascist-mind you, the corridors of power are littered with Fascist leanings; anything to save the upper cla.s.ses through disenfranchis.e.m.e.nt of the common man while allowing the common man to think you're on his side."

Maisie thanked Dr. Pet.i.t for his time. After leaving his office she referred to a rough map of the building scribbled by the administrative clerk, then made her way to the Strand. She would have liked to speak to another of Headley's tutors, as Pet.i.t had been so vociferous in his dislike of Headley-perhaps as pa.s.sionate as Headley himself; thus she cautioned herself not to take his summing-up as the last word regarding the young man's performance as a student. However, it gave her food for thought. Robson Headley and Delphine Lang might have more in common than time spent in the Orient and membership in the Ortsgruppe. She remembered the way in which Lang had deflected the cricket ball as if it were no more than an errant feather in her hand, and she paid attention to Dr. Pet.i.t's description of Headley taking down another student during an argument. She did not want to jump to conclusions, but it seemed they both possessed a certain level of control and strength; a physical self-possession that Clarence Chen would recognize.

Upon reaching the railway station in Cambridge, Maisie went straight to a telephone kiosk and placed a call to The Old Fenland Mill, the inn where she knew MacFarlane and Stratton had taken rooms. She left a message for MacFarlane, and said that she would meet them at seven o'clock in the private bar.

Now she was on her way to see Professor Arthur Henderson. Although he was retired, she had managed to find out his address from a porter at Trinity College-again, lies came easily when she was in search of more color to add to her picture of Greville Liddicote.

Professor Henderson answered the door of the Edwardian villa himself. He wore olive-green corduroy trousers, a pale-green shirt, a green polka-dot bow tie, and a dark-green knitted pullover. Although the professor's clothing seemed more suited to early autumn, Maisie felt over-warm and had taken off her jacket, which she now carried across one arm. She could feel perspiration on her forehead and she welcomed the cool interior of Henderson's study when he invited her in. She explained that she was looking into Greville Liddicote's work with a view to possibly writing an article about his children's books, and she thought he might be able to a.s.sist her in her research, seeing as he and Liddicote were colleagues as well as friends.

"Well, I don't know about friends friends, Miss Dobbs." A knock on the door distracted Henderson, who smiled as his housekeeper entered. "Ah, Mrs. Mills, would you be so kind as to bring two gla.s.ses of your delicious lemonade-thank you."

Maisie was relieved. A cold drink was just what she needed, with the Indian summer weather leaving her parched.

"Now, where was I?"

"You were saying that you didn't know whether Greville Liddicote was really a friend."

"Yes, yes, of course. But no, he wasn't what you would call a friend, though I was brutally honest with him, I must say."

"About his work?"

"Well, yes. You see, he would insist on publishing that d.a.m.n book, the one about the children going off to find their fathers in the war. I'm not saying it wasn't a good book-as children's books go, it was excellent, which rather surprised everyone, actually-but it caused so much trouble."

Maisie nodded, and was about to ask another question when there was another knock on the door and the housekeeper came in. She placed two tumblers of lemonade on the table in front of Henderson and Maisie. At the sight of the pale-yellow liquid, with a slice of lemon and a sprig of mint on top, Maisie felt her mouth water with antic.i.p.ation. She reached for a gla.s.s and took a sip "Oh, that really is lovely-definitely wakes you up," said Maisie, setting down her gla.s.s again.

"It's certainly a pick-me-up, and she won't divulge her recipe, either, much to the chagrin of many a caller on a hot day."

"Professor Henderson, regarding the book, why did it surprise you? I know you had read Dr. Liddicote's children's books in the past, so you must have been familiar with his storytelling."

"I was, very much so; I was always his first reader, followed by my grandchildren. But this one was different, in style, tone and-frankly-his ability. It was far more nuanced than anything he had written before; it had layers of meaning not demonstrated in previous books. It was the work of a true storyteller rather than a jobbing writer, which was what Greville was, really, before this one. He wrote to bring in a bit of extra money, and-again, to be frank-saw himself as another Grimm."

"There was some talk, I understand, regarding the origin of the book; it's suggested he might not have been the original writer."

Henderson sighed, fiddling with his bow tie before taking another sip of lemonade, setting the gla.s.s down once again and then clearing his throat to speak. "I would hate to comment on the provenanceof the book, and of one or two others that followed. But they were not like those he'd published before-or since. There were two more after the banned book, with similar ground covered though the stories were tempered. Then he published another book, must have been in about 1920, and it was just like his prewar books-very light, silly little stories. Those three that were written during the war-and which, overall, he did very well with financially, despite the first one being effectively banned-were gems in a rather run-of-the-mill body of work."

Maisie nodded again, and waited a moment before putting forward her next question. "And were the books-the three written during the war-so controversial that they would have led to his dismissal?"

"He tendered his resignation to follow other pursuits, one of which was to found a college to promote peace, as you know."

Maisie reached for her lemonade again, taking one or two sips before she pressed Henderson. "But do you think it might have come to it that Dr. Liddicote felt he had to leave, given that feelings were running high regarding his work?"

As Henderson looked down at his hands, the folds of skin on his face seemed to concertina into a soft place for his chin to rest. He sighed and looked up at Maisie. "If you're asking whether he was pushed or whether he fell, let us simply say that he fell, but there was a heavy hand at his back."

"Ah, I see."

"Indeed."

"And if-in confidence, I a.s.sure you-you had to make a considered guess regarding the three books at the heart of this controversy, would you say that they could have been written by someone else?"

Henderson sighed again. "How I hate the feeling of being cornered. Makes me feel a bit like I've been ambushed."

"I'm sorry, Professor Henderson. I beg your pardon, it was just that I wondered, in your opinion, whether-"

"The answer is yes yes, Miss Dobbs. Greville Liddicote had a very pedestrian writing style, whether we are talking about the task of composing an academic paper or the art of storytelling. Those books, especially the first, were not written by an author with a pedestrian style."

"I see. So Greville Liddicote did not leave his teaching position simply because of what he wrote, but because you did not believe he had written it."

"I think I've said more than enough, Miss Dobbs." Henderson reached for a bell on his desk. "More lemonade before you depart?"

Maisie declined, and Henderson accompanied her to the door, at which point she decided to press her luck. "You've been so generous with your time, Professor Henderson, I wonder if I might put just one more question to you?"

"Well, if it's not-"

"There's talk that Dr. Liddicote's book caused what amounted to a mutiny in the war, that the book went around the soldiers and the effect of the story caught on like fire in a tinderbox-I've heard they just put down their weapons and started walking off the battlefield. Do you know if there's any truth to the story? Certainly Dr. Roth was affected by reading the book while in the German trenches."

Henderson seemed tired as he answered; his voice had deepened, and he spoke slowly. "Miss Dobbs, no one will ever know about the subject of mutiny in a time of war-well, not for years, in any case. There will be rumor, conjecture, a word from an old soldier here or there, but those stories will be quashed, they will die a quiet death, and any official reports kept under lock and key, so it will be generations before any truths are known about such things. I am an old man now, but in my time I have seen all sorts of books taken from circulation on the instructions of 'official sources,' so I know what I'm talking about. There were rumors of a mutiny-there are some who maintain that it was just a few men here and there, and a few on the other side. And there are those who say they saw what happened-a full-scale mutiny involving hundreds of soldiers from both sides. All it took was for the book to be thrown into no-man's-land for a German soldier to find and the effects of the story multiplied. It is believed in some quarters that more than just one or two men were executed, and that there was something of a ma.s.sacre-all because men in uniform were touched by a story of innocents on the battlefield. I suppose, if there is a grain of truth in the stories, the book touched a nerve regarding the futility of the whole mess. But that is only my opinion. Of course, it makes one man shine out, in my opinion."

"And who is that?"

"Dunstan Headley. He lost his son in the melodrama, a son who read a book and lay down his gun. A good young man who was true to beliefs he came to hold while in the thick of war. Headley must have felt such anger towards Greville Liddicote, and then managed-through sheer will, I would imagine-to trans.m.u.te that fury into something quite worthwhile on behalf of his son, when he stepped forward to channel funds into the founding of Greville's peace school. That's what my colleagues and I called the College of St. Francis in the early days, 'Greville's Peace School.' He has gone to his grave with the last laugh-the student body is accomplished and the staff roster enviable. I hope his work can continue without him."

"Professor, I wonder if I might put one more question to you."

"I'll try to answer it."

"You seem to know something about the founding of the college-I wonder if you have any idea who 'the Readers' might be?"

"The Readers? Yes, of course. As soon as he realized that The Peaceful Little Warriors The Peaceful Little Warriors had had something of an effect on people, beyond being a book for children, Greville kept a list of people who had been in touch with him, with the intention of approaching them for donations to get his college going. Dunstan Headley is obviously a Reader; so are many people who read the book and who lost sons to the war. And there are former soldiers on the list, too, and various people who have since served on the faculty-in fact, Matthias Roth is a Reader, as far as I know. I seem to remember Greville telling me that he had made him deputy princ.i.p.al not least because he had put his life savings into the college, such was his belief in what the college stood for. And I confess, I suspect I am on the list-I made a small contribution after Greville resigned; I thought it was the least I could do. Mind you, you should remember, though the book was withdrawn from circulation, Greville kept a few copies for himself, which he was able to put onto the market at an inflated rate, and the subsequent escalation of his reputation rendered all his other books very successful indeed. He was a wealthy man, you know. And he was clever too-his desire to leave a legacy came from an unexpected quarter." had had something of an effect on people, beyond being a book for children, Greville kept a list of people who had been in touch with him, with the intention of approaching them for donations to get his college going. Dunstan Headley is obviously a Reader; so are many people who read the book and who lost sons to the war. And there are former soldiers on the list, too, and various people who have since served on the faculty-in fact, Matthias Roth is a Reader, as far as I know. I seem to remember Greville telling me that he had made him deputy princ.i.p.al not least because he had put his life savings into the college, such was his belief in what the college stood for. And I confess, I suspect I am on the list-I made a small contribution after Greville resigned; I thought it was the least I could do. Mind you, you should remember, though the book was withdrawn from circulation, Greville kept a few copies for himself, which he was able to put onto the market at an inflated rate, and the subsequent escalation of his reputation rendered all his other books very successful indeed. He was a wealthy man, you know. And he was clever too-his desire to leave a legacy came from an unexpected quarter."

"His books or the college?"

"Both. You see, that's what Greville wanted-a sort of fame, if truth be told. I think we've all come across people who want recognition on a broader scale than might otherwise be available to them. As a senior fellow at the university, I might have expected a level of acclaim, but that would be due to the very small pond in which I swim. Greville wanted something bigger, and the notoriety The Peaceful Little Warriors The Peaceful Little Warriors gave him presented a perfect opportunity. You see, prior to writing that book, I had never heard him voice any opinion regarding the worthiness-or otherwise-of the war. He had never claimed to be a pacifist, but the book, its reputation, and then his resignation from the university, gave him an impetus to find something new-and so the College of St. Francis was born. Greville Liddicote was reinvented, if you will, as a man of peace for the students of the world. And money flowed in from those who had been so pained by their losses, and who wanted to see something better come of it all." He sighed, as if breathless after speaking for so long. "And, Miss Dobbs, I have to say this-good for him, because ultimately I do not doubt his commitment to the maintenance of peace so actively championed by his work at the College of St. Francis." gave him presented a perfect opportunity. You see, prior to writing that book, I had never heard him voice any opinion regarding the worthiness-or otherwise-of the war. He had never claimed to be a pacifist, but the book, its reputation, and then his resignation from the university, gave him an impetus to find something new-and so the College of St. Francis was born. Greville Liddicote was reinvented, if you will, as a man of peace for the students of the world. And money flowed in from those who had been so pained by their losses, and who wanted to see something better come of it all." He sighed, as if breathless after speaking for so long. "And, Miss Dobbs, I have to say this-good for him, because ultimately I do not doubt his commitment to the maintenance of peace so actively championed by his work at the College of St. Francis."

At the door, Maisie slipped on her jacket, and, holding out her hand to the elderly man, decided to press her luck with a final question. "Professor Henderson, can you think of anyone who would want to see Greville Liddicote dead?"

"I suppose I could think of a few-though none who would ever do anything about it. I understand police inquiries are in progress, but I would venture to guess it is just a formality. I am sure he must have died from some natural cause or another."

The church clock was striking seven as she pa.s.sed on her way to meet the two policemen.

"What'll it be for you, Miss Dobbs?" asked MacFarlane, who had been about to raise a pint of beer to his lips in the private bar when she entered. He had commandeered the small bar for the evening.

"A half of cider would be lovely, thank you."

As soon she was seated at a table with the two men, MacFarlane spoke first. "Been busy, Maisie?"

"Yes, I have been fairly busy. Not only teaching, but I've had a few trips back and forth to London."

"Never thought I'd be looking forward to getting back myself, but I'm fed up to the gills with this place. I'm not one for your university types-b.l.o.o.d.y know-alls, every one of them, even the students, still wet behind the ears. Half of them can't even speak the language properly."

"They're unfamiliar with the language of a police investigation, and perhaps a little nervous-after all, they are guests in this country, and now they're being questioned as part of a murder inquiry."

"I think you've got a point there," said Stratton. "We're trying to take that into account. They're all very bright, actually."

"Most have already attended university in their own country," said Maisie. "Their work at the college represents additional academic endeavor intended to bolster their intellect and the number of opportunities that might come their way in the future. And of course, there is the small matter of spreading peace."

"Who have you been seeing?" asked MacFarlane, ignoring her comments.

"Academic staff at other universities, actually. A lecturer who taught Robson Headley, and another who knew Liddicote when he taught at the university here."

"Why Headley?"

"He's been attending meetings of the Ortsgruppe with Delphine Lang. They are a courting couple, as you know; however, it is quite a big step for a British man to attend one of those meetings; I am sure he was accepted on the weight of his liaison with Lang."

"Do you suspect him of anything?"

"First of all, I don't believe the Ortsgruppe are as innocent as you and Huntley might think-and if they are at present, they won't be for long. Second, both Headley and Lang have the ability and, I believe, the training, to kill a man instantly."

"Maisie, have you ever tried to kill someone by breaking their neck? I mean, it really is a job." Stratton seemed somewhat exasperated withher.

"Aye, la.s.s, it would be a job for a big, strong man," added MacFarlane.

"But not if a person were able to make an approach that was all but silent, and then move with speed and skill. And remember, Liddicote was likely hard of hearing."

"Apart from anything else," said Stratton, "they both have alibis."

"Stratton, would you mind getting me a whiskey?" MacFarlane winced and held his beer up to the light as if to consider its purity, then set the gla.s.s down. "This beer is not agreeing with me at all."

Stratton left the table and walked to the bar. MacFarlane turned to Maisie.

"You are keeping to your a.s.signed task for the dark ones, aren't you?"

"Is that what you call the Secret Service?" She smiled, then looked at Stratton waiting by the bar; he raised his hand to summon the landlord and Maisie turned back to MacFarlane. "As I've said before, the threads of investigation here are intertwined; however, I'm keeping to my end of things. Have you questioned Francesca Thomas?"

"The tall dark-haired woman, got a touch of the Greta Garbo about her?"

"I'm not sure that I would use that description," said Maisie, "but I suppose she's the only one in the college whom it would fit."

"We've spoken to her, and it seems she was teaching around the time of Liddicote's death, so we can rule her out." MacFarlane glanced in Stratton's direction. "I take it she's of interest to you."

"To some extent. She certainly seems to make frequent trips to London."

"There you are, sir. I bought a malt, not a blended." Stratton reached forward to place the tot gla.s.s of amber liquid in front of MacFarlane, who, in spite of his earlier claim, had made a good dent in his pint of beer.

"Good man, good man. Now then, will you join us for a spot of supper, Maisie? They do a very good fish-and-chips here."

Maisie agreed, and was soon enjoying a companionable meal with the two policemen, though their conversation was focused on the matter of Greville Liddicote's death.

Maisie was on the road to Ipswich early the following morning, with the intention of being at the door of the county offices as soon as they opened. The letter she had received on Monday had been written by a Mr. Smart, and within a short time of the door's being unlocked, she had found his office and was speaking to him about the contents of his letter, and what he had discovered about Rose Linden's family. The doc.u.ments he had gathered indicated that a family living in a small hamlet some two miles outside the town were related by marriage to Linden's nephew. The man shook his head and gave a deep sigh.

"What is it?" asked Maisie.

"The older nephew, David Thurlow, died in Wandsworth Prison."

Maisie leaned forward, to look at the register in front of Smart. "Have you any idea what he'd done to warrant incarceration?"

"Doesn't say here, but I can guess. During the war Wandsworth was used as a military prison. I reckon your man here was a conscientious objector. Some of them were given hard labor, but a lot ended up in Wandsworth, or Wormwood Scrubs; it all depended upon your tribunal, and how they felt about you and what you had to say for yourself. People look upon it a bit differently now, seeing as we know a lot more about what went on over there, and of course, all them peace organizations that have popped up in the last ten years. But during the war, you had to be brave to even say you were a pacifist-nigh on got yourself stoned in the street for not wanting to do your bit."

"Do you have an address for the family?"

"I poked around and found this." He handed a piece of paper to Maisie. "It's out in Knowsley, a bit off the beaten track-I looked it up for you, the directions are on the back. I think those cottages are tied to the farm, so one of the family must be a worker there. There's no Rosemary Linden listed, but they may know something, or I might be sending you on a wild-goose chase."

"I'll soon find out. Thank you very much for your help."

A light but warm rain that had dampened the drive to Ipswich had now lifted, leaving wisps of mist across flat fields of crops newly harvested. The road was narrow, and soon woodland on either side diminished the view, but offered shade from the bright sunshine breaking through. Once out of the canopy of trees, Maisie entered a hamlet of a few cottages, some thatched and all built in the mid-fifteenth century, with oak beams and roofs that were bowed in the middle. She slowed the car so that she barely rumbled through Knowsley, looking again at her directions. Soon she came to a cottage on the right and pulled up alongside a hedge that in May would be blooming with bright white syringa. She stepped out of the motor car and looked across the front garden. Someone had tied off the last of the summer flowers, though canes were still wrapped with multicolored late sweet peas. The hedge was high, so when the door opened and laughter could be heard, Maisie stepped back to watch without being seen. A young man-possibly in his early twenties and with the bearing of a farm laborer, carried an older woman outside. She laughed as he accidentally knocked her head against the doorjamb.

"Leave me with a mind, Adam, whatever you do!"

"Oh, sorry, Mum. Are you all right?"

"I'm well enough. But watch where you're going, would you? Now, If Alice and Amber just put the chair over there, then I'll tell you where to put my things."