A Lesson in Secrets E-Book

Jacqueline Winspear

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Maisie Dobbs
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 511

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

In the summer of 1932, Maisie Dobbs's career takes an exciting new turn when she accepts an undercover assignment directed by Scotland Yard's Special Branch and the Secret Service. Posing as a junior lecturer, she is sent to a private college in Cambridge to monitor any activities, "not in the interests of His Majesty's Government."

Leseprobe

A LESSON IN SECRETS

A Maisie Dobbs novel

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR

For my brother,

JOHN JAMES WINSPEAR,

with much love and admiration.

If you reveal your secrets to the wind you should not blamethe wind for revealing them to the trees.

KAHLIL GIBRAN

He who gives up the smallest part of a secret has the rest no longer in his power.

JEAN PAUL RICHTER

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphPROLOGUEONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEENNINETEENEPILOGUEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSAbout the AuthorBy Jacqueline WinspearCopyright

PROLOGUE

Maisie Dobbs had been aware of the motor car following her for some time. She contemplated the vehicle, the way in which the driver remained far enough away to avoid detection – or so he thought – and yet close enough not to lose her. Occasionally another motor car would slip between them, but the driver of the black saloon would allow no more than one other car to narrow his view of her crimson MG 14/40. She had noticed the vehicle even before she left the village of Chelstone, but to be fair, almost without conscious thought, she was looking out for it. She had been followed – either on foot, on the underground railway, or by motor vehicle – for over a week now and was waiting for some move to be made by the occupants. This morning, though, as she drove back to London, her mood was not as settled as she might have liked, and the cause of her frustration – indeed, irritation – was not the men who followed her, but her father.

Maisie was now a woman with a good measure of financial independence, having inherited wealth in the form of a considerable property portfolio as well as investments and cash from her late mentor, Dr Maurice Blanche. To the outside observer, the windfall had not changed her character, or her attachment to her work; but those who knew her best could see that it had bestowed upon her a newfound confidence, along with a responsibility she felt to Blanche’s memory. Dust was settling on the events of his death, and as she moved through the grief of his passing to acceptance in the process of going through Blanche’s personal papers, Maisie wanted – possibly more than anything – to see her father retired, resting, and living at the Dower House. She had not been prepared for her plans to be at odds with his own, and this morning’s conversation, over tea at the kitchen table in the Groom’s Cottage, capped several months of similar exchanges.

‘Dad, you’ve worked hard all your life, you deserve something better. Come and live at the Dower House. Look, I’m away throughout the week in London, so it’s not as if we’ll get under each other’s feet. I don’t see how we could do that anyway – it’s a big enough house.’

‘Maisie, we’ve always rubbed along well together, you and me. We could be in this cottage and live well enough. You’re my own flesh and blood. But this is my home – Her Ladyship has always said as much, that this house is mine until the day I die. And I’m not ready to hang up my boots to sit in an armchair and wait for that day to come.’

Frankie Dobbs was now in his early seventies, and though he had suffered a debilitating fall several years earlier, he was in good health once again, if perhaps not quite as light on his feet. His role as head groom – a job that came with the tied cottage – now chiefly comprised advising Lady Rowan Compton on purchases to expand her string of racehorses, along with overseeing the stable of hunters at Chelstone, the Comptons’ country seat.

‘Well, what about not giving up work and just moving into the Dower House? Mrs Bromley will take care of you – she’s such a good cook, every bit as good as—’

Frankie set down his mug with a thump that made Maisie start. ‘I can do for myself, Maisie.’ He sighed. ‘Look, I’m happy for you, love, really I am. The old boy did well by you, and you deserve all that came to you. But I want to stay in my home, and I want to do my work, and I want to go on like I’ve been going on without any Mrs Bromley putting food on the table for me. Now then …’

Maisie stood up and walked to the kitchen sink. She rinsed her mug while looking out of the window and across the garden. ‘Dad, I hate to say this, but you’re being stubborn.’

‘Well then, all I can say is that you know where you get it from, don’t you?’

They had parted on good enough terms, with Frankie giving his usual warnings for her to mind how she drove that motor car, and Maisie reminding him to take care. But as she replayed the conversation in her mind – along with those other conversations that had come to nought – she felt her heels dig in when she looked at the vehicle on her tail. She was damned if she would put up with some amateur following her for much longer.

She wound down the window and gave a hand signal to indicate that she was pulling over to the side of the road, thus allowing an Austin Seven behind to pass, followed by the motor car that had been shadowing her for at least half an hour. As soon as they passed, she turned back onto the road again and began to drive as close to the vehicle in front as safety would allow.

‘Now you know I know. Let’s see what you do with it.’

She noted that there was no number plate on the black motor car, and no other distinguishing marks. Both driver and passenger were wearing hats, and as their silhouettes moved, she could see the passenger looking back every so often. When they turned left, she turned left, and when they turned right, she followed. Soon they were back on the main road again, travelling up River Hill towards Sevenoaks. At the top, the Royal Automobile Club had stationed two men with water cans, ready to help motorists having trouble with overheated vehicles. It was a long hill, and on a hot day in August, many a steaming motor car lurched and rumbled its way to the brow, with the driver as glad to see men from the RAC as a thirsty traveller might reach out towards an oasis in the desert. Allowing the black motor car to continue – she thought it was an Armstrong Siddeley – Maisie pulled in alongside the RAC van.

‘Having a bit of trouble, love?’

‘Not yet, but I thought I might get the water checked. It’s a hot day.’

The man glanced down to the radiator grille and nodded when he saw the distinctive blue-and-silver RAC badge on the front of the MG.

‘Right you are, Miss. Don’t want to risk burning up a nice little runner like this, do you?’

Maisie smiled while keeping an eye on the road. Soon the Armstrong Siddeley approached the hill again, this time from the opposite direction, and as it passed, both driver and passenger made a point of looking straight ahead. Police, thought Maisie, sure of her assessment. I’m being followed by the police.

‘She didn’t need much, but just as well you stopped,’ said the RAC man. ‘Can’t be too careful, not with this weather.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ She reached into her shoulder bag for her purse and took out a few coins. ‘I wonder, could you do me a favour? A black Armstrong Siddeley will presently be coming back up the hill; he’s probably turning around at this moment. Could you pull it over for me?’

The man frowned, then smiled as he took the coins and looked in the direction Maisie indicated. ‘Is this the one, coming along now?’

‘Yes, that’s it.’

Maisie thought the man looked quite the authority as he stepped forward into the middle of the road in his blue uniform and peaked cap. He held up his hand as if he were a guard at a border crossing. The Armstrong Siddeley came to a halt, and Maisie stepped forward and tapped on the window. After a second or two, the driver wound down the window and Maisie leant forward just enough to appear friendly, smiling as she affected a cut-glass aristocratic tone.

‘Gentlemen, how lovely of you to stop when you must be so terribly busy.’ Her smile broadened. ‘Would it be too boring of me to ask why you’ve been following me? I think it might save on petrol and your time to explain your actions, after all, it’s been over a week now, hasn’t it?’

The men exchanged glances, and the driver cleared his throat as he moved his hand towards his jacket pocket. Maisie reached forward and put her forefinger on his wrist. ‘Oh, please, don’t ruin a perfectly cordial conversation. Allow me.’

She reached into the man’s jacket, took out his wallet, and smiled again. ‘Can’t be too careful, can we?’ The man blushed as she opened the wallet and removed a warrant card. ‘Charles Wickham. Ah, I see. So you must be working for Robert MacFarlane. Oh dear, I think you’re going to get into horrible trouble when he finds out I’ve seen you.’ She tapped the wallet against the fingers of her left hand before offering it to its owner. ‘Tell you what. Inform Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane that I’ll be at the Yard this afternoon at – let me see – about three o’clock. He can tell me then what this is all about. All right?’

The driver nodded as he reclaimed his wallet. To her surprise, neither man had spoken, though there was little they could say. There would be plenty for them to talk about when they were summoned to explain themselves to Robert MacFarlane.

Maisie and the RAC man watched as the black motor car went on its way towards Sevenoaks and London.

‘Funny pair, them.’

‘They’ll be even funnier when their boss hears about this.’

Maisie waved to the man as she pulled out onto the road again. She was deep in thought for much of the time, to the extent that, when she reached the outskirts of the capital, she could barely remember passing landmarks along the way. Though she had kept the exchange light, she had cause for concern given that the men were reporting to Detective Chief Superintendent Robert MacFarlane of Special Branch. She had worked alongside him at the turn of the year on a case involving a man who had threatened death on a scale of some magnitude. At the close of the case, she hoped never to have to encounter such terror again. But now she suspected that MacFarlane had deliberately sent a pair of neophytes to follow her, and therefore subsequently expected her call. She shook her head. She was not in the mood for Robert MacFarlane’s games. After all, Maisie Dobbs was her father’s daughter, and any sort of manipulation did not sit well with her.

ONE

‘Morning, Miss. Bet that fresh country air did you good for a few days.’ Billy Beale, Maisie’s assistant, stood up when she entered their one-room office on the first floor of what had once been a grand mansion in Fitzroy Square. The room was neat, tidy, and businesslike, with two desks and a large table by the window at which Maisie and Billy would sit to discuss work in progress while poring over the case map.

‘You’re right, Billy. There’s nothing like a Saturday-to-Monday spent in the heart of the Weald of Kent – and I bet you’re looking forward to going down to Kent yourself, for the hop-picking. You’re leaving on Saturday morning, aren’t you?’

‘Bright and early on the Hopper’s Special. Truth is, we need to get away, and Doreen’s feeling the heat, what with carrying so big – you’d think she’s expecting twins, but the doctor reckons it’s only the one.’

Maisie laughed as she stepped towards her desk and began leafing through the post. ‘As long as the baby doesn’t get ahead of itself while you’re down there, I’m sure it will do you all a power of good.’

‘Nah, she’s not due until October, so we’ll be all right. Anyway, I’ll put the kettle on.’

Maisie shook her head. ‘Wait a moment – pull up a chair, Billy.’

‘Everything all right, Miss?’ Billy positioned a chair in front of Maisie’s desk and sat down.

Relaxing into her own chair, Maisie shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think it is.’ She sighed. ‘You remember last week, when we noticed a man on the other side of the square, the one who seemed to be watching the building?’

‘Shifty sort, if you ask me. Haven’t seen him since, though.’

‘Oh, he’s been there – along with a few others who’ve been following me.’

‘Following you, Miss? Why didn’t you say? I mean, you could have been—’

‘I didn’t say anything because I was waiting to see what happened, and I didn’t want them to know they’d been rumbled.’

‘But you could have been set upon. I don’t know what—’ Billy stopped himself.

‘You don’t know what James Compton would say? Well, he’s away in Canada for at least another month, so let’s not worry about what he would say.’ Maisie paused and seemed to look into the distance as she spoke. ‘The truth is, I didn’t feel threatened. I suspected they were gathering information, and I wanted to wait until they showed their hand, then base my next move on whatever that hand held.’

‘Lucky it wasn’t a knife.’

‘Billy.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss. I just worry, that’s all.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate your concern; however, I took matters into my own hands today and have discovered that – as far as I know – Special Branch is behind the subterfuge. I’m seeing MacFarlane at three.’ Maisie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘In fact, I should leave at about two o’clock. That’ll give us just enough time to go through our cases and discuss the week ahead. There’s a lot to be done before you go on holiday.’

Billy waited for a second or two before leaning forward. ‘Any luck with Mr Dobbs?’

Maisie shook her head. ‘He’s as stubborn as a mule and will not be moved, so I suppose I will have to wait.’

‘He likes his independence, that’s what it is. And it’s hard to take from your daughter, Miss, even though the Dower House is yours now. After all, it’s a father’s job to provide for his children.’

‘But I’m hardly a child, Billy. I’m thir—’

‘Doesn’t matter. You’re still his daughter. I’m sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn there, but I’m a father and I know. You’ll have a job to get him to move up to the Dower House, no two ways about it.’

‘I know,’ replied Maisie, with a sigh. ‘Anyway, let’s get on.’

Billy opened the notebook he had brought with him to Maisie’s desk. ‘You had a visitor this morning. On the doorstep when I got here, she was.’

‘Who?’

‘That Sandra. The tall girl who used to work at Ebury Place; the one who stayed with you for a while, just before she got married.’

‘Sandra? Sandra came here?’

‘Yes, and very unhappy she looked, I can tell you. I would say she was mourning, what with the black costume she was wearing, and her cheeks all sunken.’ Billy looked away. ‘Put me in mind of Doreen, after we lost our Lizzie.’

‘Did she say what she wanted?’

‘No, just to let you know she called, and that she’d come back again – sounded like she meant today.’

Maisie capped and uncapped her fountain pen several times as she wondered what might be the reason for Sandra’s visit. She looked up. ‘Billy, have a look in the card file. Her address is in there under her married name – Tapley. She and Eric live in a bed-sitting-room over the garage where he works. I won’t have time to go over today, but I’d like to have it on my desk, just in case.’

‘Right you are, Miss.’ He made a note and looked down at the clutch of papers in his hand. ‘Now, there’s the Rackman case. The old lady was on the dog and bone again, just before you walked in the door …’

They continued to talk about various cases in progress, passing files back and forth, and going through client notes one by one until two o’clock, when it was time for Maisie to leave for Scotland Yard. She collected her linen jacket and shoulder bag, but stopped before she reached the door.

‘Billy, if Sandra returns while I’m out, tell her she should come to the flat. I have a feeling I’ll be at the Yard for a while, so I probably won’t be home until about six-ish. Tell her to come then.’ She looked from Billy’s desk to her own. ‘I sometimes think we need a Sandra to help us out – she’s taken commercial courses, so she’s up on secretarial work. I don’t know about you, but I sometimes think we could do with a bit of help.’

As Maisie approached the main entrance to Scotland Yard’s ornate redbrick headquarters on Victoria Embankment, a young man wearing overpressed black trousers and a grey jacket with worn elbows came forward to greet her.

‘Miss Dobbs?’ He held out his hand. ‘DC Summers. Delighted to meet you. Come this way, please. Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane is waiting for you.’

‘Thank you, Detective Constable Summers.’

As Summers led Maisie along a labyrinth of corridors and up stairs, she considered informing her guide that she knew the route to MacFarlane’s fiefdom as if it were the back of her hand, so, given the heat of the day, there was no need to meander the hallways in an effort to confuse her sense of direction. Fortunately, they were soon standing outside a door bearing MacFarlane’s name. Summers knocked and was met with bellowing. ‘The bloody door’s open!’ He blushed when he looked at Maisie, who shook her head and observed, ‘Ah, he’s in a good mood. Lovely.’ She reached past the detective constable, pushed against the door, and walked into MacFarlane’s office.

‘Miss Dobbs. A pleasure.’ MacFarlane held out his hand to indicate that she should be seated on one of three armchairs clustered around a low table alongside the window.

‘Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Detective Chief Superintendent.’ She looked around the room. ‘I see you’ve made some changes here.’

‘A little more comfort for visiting dignitaries.’

‘And I’m a dignitary?’ Maisie hung her shoulder bag across the back of the chair as she sat down. She had found that it helped to appear relaxed in all communications with MacFarlane, who was given to flying off the handle at times, and whose wit could be cutting. He was a tall man, and upon first meeting him, Maisie thought he had the frame of a docker. In his mid-fifties now, the detective chief superintendent kept his thinning hair short and made no attempt to cover the scar where a stray bullet had caught him in the war. Apparently he had raised a fist to the enemy and sworn at them over the parapet for daring to put a hole in his tam-o’-shanter.

‘You’re dignified enough, Miss Dobbs.’

‘I shall take that as a compliment.’ She took a number of plain index cards and a red pencil from her document case as he opened the door and yelled into the corridor. ‘A pot of tea wouldn’t go amiss in here, or has the tea boat gone down in high tide on the bloody Thames?’

Maisie pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Despite herself, she liked MacFarlane, and she knew he had regard for her – and she rather hoped he might have plans to ask her to work with the Branch again. Such a role was not for the fainthearted, but there was an edge to it that challenged her. And she liked the idea of a new challenge. When she thought about it, her life had softened in the past couple of months, and she realised, while listening to MacFarlane bellow along the corridor, that she needed a sharp edge or two to keep her on her toes. Soft didn’t suit her.

‘There, that’s put a firework under a few rumps. Can’t abide that afternoon lull – shake them up a bit, that’s what I say.’ MacFarlane came back into the room and shut the door behind him before taking a seat opposite Maisie. He said nothing for a moment, and simply looked at her, as if taking her measure. She looked him in the eye without flinching, and without breaking the silence.

‘You miss the old boy?’

Maisie nodded. ‘Yes, I miss Maurice very much indeed.’

‘Hard shoes to fill in anyone’s book.’ He paused. ‘I remember when the man who brought me into the force passed on. Like losing a father it was.’ He sighed. ‘I started off on the beat in Glasgow, you know. I don’t mind admitting I’d been a bit of a tearaway before joining the force; it was a man by the name of Calum Guthrie who sorted me out and set me on the right path. I cried like a wee bairn when he died.’ A knock at the door interrupted MacFarlane’s reminiscence, and a young policeman entered with a tray. As he set the tray on the table, Maisie noted the fact that it was set for three.

‘Ah, so someone’s joining us. How delightful.’

MacFarlane nodded and glanced at the wooden schoolhouse clock above the door. ‘Any minute now. And as delightful as they come.’

‘So we’ve only a moment or two to chat before he or she gets here.’

‘He. And he’ll be here on the dot of three – you were early.’

‘I’ll pour.’ Maisie reached forward to pour tea for herself and MacFarlane. As she passed the cup to him, the clock struck the hour, and there was a sharp knock at the door.

MacFarlane stood as the door opened, and Maisie looked up to see a tall man, distinguished in a very English aristocratic way, enter the room. His dark-blue suit had the merest pinstripe, his white shirt still bore a faint scent of starch, and his shoes shone like a just-polished gun barrel. He wore a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, and his tie bore the insignia of the Household Cavalry. Their eyes met and Maisie stood up and held out her hand – she wanted to stand tall to greet this particular guest.

‘Mr Huntley. This is indeed a surprise.’

‘Miss Dobbs.’ He handed his mackintosh and hat to the constable, and shook her hand. ‘We had little time to speak at the funeral. Though expected, Maurice’s death came as a shock all the same.’

She nodded as a lump seemed to swell in her throat, preventing an appropriate reply.

Maisie had first met Brian Huntley in France two years earlier. She had travelled to a region of the country to look into the case of a missing wartime aviator, an investigation that had dovetailed with a personal assignment on behalf of her friend, Priscilla Partridge, née Evernden, who had asked her to help solve the lingering question of her brother’s death in the war. Maisie discovered that Peter Evernden had been assigned to the Intelligence Corps, and soon after, she realised she was being followed. In Paris she was apprehended by none other than Brian Huntley – a Secret Service agent who was reporting directly to Maurice Blanche. It was a case that revealed to Maisie the extent of her mentor’s involvement in matters connected with the defence of the realm; the fact that he had not trusted her with this information drove a wedge in their relationship. It was a fissure that was healed by the time Maurice passed away, and for that Maisie was ever grateful. Now it seemed that Brian Huntley was in an even more senior position, and he wanted to see her.

Maisie looked at the two men and took the initiative. ‘Gentlemen, shall we begin? Perhaps you can start by telling me why I have been followed for some ten days now.’

‘Robbie, perhaps you’d like to start,’ said Huntley.

It seemed to Maisie that Huntley had assumed a certain superiority in the conversation, with his chummy manner towards the detective chief superintendent. She felt ill at ease in Huntley’s company, but she remembered how he was well respected by Maurice, and such esteem would have been well earned.

MacFarlane turned towards Maisie. ‘Miss Dobbs, would you be so kind as to tell us when you first noted that you were being followed, and recount the instances since that initial realisation that you were under surveillance?’

Maisie looked from MacFarlane to Huntley. She nodded. Ah, so that was the game. She had been tested.

‘It was a week ago last Friday. I was in my office and when I looked out of the window, I noticed a man on the other side of the square. I am sure he thought that he was well hidden by foliage, but I noticed him immediately.’

‘What made you suspicious?’

‘His manner, his way of moving as he walked around the square. He appeared to be looking at the houses, much as one might appraise an area if one were looking to rent a flat. But his carriage revealed him to be a man of secrets – a slight roll of the shoulders inwards, definitely the mark of one who is protective of something; in this case it was his assignment.’

‘And then?’

‘I decided to test my theory, so I left the office to walk in the direction of Tottenham Court Road – it’s invariably busy and wider than most streets, and it has many shop windows in which to see a reflection.’ She looked at her inquisitors in turn. ‘In my estimation, Mr Huntley, Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane—’

‘Robbie, please. The title and the name form a veritable mouthful together, and we’ve only got so much time.’

‘Thank you – Robbie.’ She cleared her throat and went on. ‘In my estimation there were two men working together, and one woman, and they were using a method of surveillance that I have always thought of as something like a cat’s cradle, in the way that agents move to and fro, zigzagging across the road. Initially I was followed by the man I had already seen in Fitzroy Square; then a man walking in front of me stopped to look in a shop window. At that point a woman crossed from the opposite side of the road as the man behind walked past me, and she took his place. The man who had stopped then took up a position on the opposite side of the road again, and so it went on – one person stopped, and they all changed places. I entered Goodge Street station, bought a ticket, and went through the turnstile, but a group of students – I assume they were students – managed to get into the queue before the people following me. And yet all three were on the platform just seconds behind me, and before the students. I suspect their warrant cards had gained them immediate access to the platform.’ Maisie looked from Huntley to MacFarlane. ‘Am I right?’

Huntley gave no indication as to the accuracy of Maisie’s account. ‘And then?’

‘On that occasion I simply travelled on the underground for a while, visited a friend’s office, just to make it seem as if I had been on a genuine errand, and then returned to Fitzroy Square.’

‘Not exactly to Fitzroy Square, though,’ said MacFarlane.

‘No, I made a detour to Burlington Arcade. My document case was destroyed some months ago and I thought it was about time I bought another, so I went along to the arcade and purchased a new one. And of course, it was interesting, observing the way in which your agents arranged themselves in the arcade.’

‘And then?’

‘I made my way back to Tottenham Court Road, and before returning to the office I stopped in Heals and bought a—’ She held out a hand to Huntley. ‘Your turn.’

‘Sofa. You bought a sofa. Very nice, too.’

‘My flat is somewhat spartan; I felt it needed something a little more welcoming in the drawing room.’

‘Did you see the men again?’

‘Do you wish me to give you a complete list?’ She faced MacFarlane. ‘Robbie?’

‘A brief synopsis will do,’ interjected Huntley.

Maisie sighed. ‘The GPO van outside the block of flats where I live in Pimlico provided a cover for two men working on the connection to the flats. I do hope I don’t have to have my new telephone ripped out for fear that you are listening to every call.’

‘Go on.’ Huntley did not look up as he spoke but continued looking through a dossier that lay open on his knee.

‘I was followed to and from work, and down to my house on the edge of the Chelstone Manor estate last Friday. I’d finally had enough during the journey back to London this morning, which was when I intercepted them and gave a message to pass on to Det—to Robbie.’

Huntley looked up, smiling. ‘And as I said to Robbie here, I thought taking the driver’s wallet from his inside pocket was a little forward.’

Maisie did not return his smile. ‘I’m sure you did, Mr Huntley. I catch on fairly quickly. You should have remembered that you did not go undetected in France.’

‘Quite right. Very impressive.’

‘What’s this all about?’ asked MacFarlane.

Huntley ignored the question as he folded the dossier, placed it on the table, and leant back in his chair. ‘To get right to the point, Miss Dobbs, we have a job for you. This meeting is in absolute confidence, as I am sure you understand. I know I have no need to say that, but I am required to, and I am also required to ask you to sign documents to that effect at the end of this meeting.’

Maisie nodded.

‘Special Branch are involved given that this assignment pertains not only to matters of interest to my department, but to the problem of aliens entering Britain for purposes that might not be as described to authorities at the ports of entry – which as you know comes under the purview of Special Branch.’ Huntley opened the dossier and handed Maisie a clutch of papers, each stamped with Official:Top Secret. ‘You will see that this report details the activities of one Greville Liddicote.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Maisie. ‘Wasn’t he a Senior Fellow at Cambridge who made a good deal of money writing children’s books in his spare time? I seem to remember he upset the apple cart when he wrote a book which clearly expressed his position against the war, in 1916 or ’17.’

‘Same man,’ interjected MacFarlane.

Huntley continued. ‘He resigned his position at Cambridge in late 1917 – it’s generally thought he was asked to do so – and he went on to found a college, also in Cambridge, in 1920.’

Maisie nodded.

‘The book that got him into so much trouble was an embarrassment for His Majesty’s government,’ said Huntley. ‘It was a controversial story about a group of fatherless children who go to live in the woods, and who decide to journey to France to end the war.’

‘That doesn’t sound too inflammatory to me, though I haven’t read the book,’ said Maisie.

‘We managed to have most copies confiscated; however, there was an efficient underground acquisition of books by various pacifist organisations – the last decade, as you probably know, has seen a significant rise in the number of such groups. While it appears at first blush to be fairly harmless, the book was written in such a way as to undermine morale both on the home front, and indeed on the battlefield, should it have reached the hands of serving men. The plight of orphaned children will always tug at the heartstrings, so we circumvented the distribution to the extent that we could. We did not want the books reaching men in the ranks. Even those with limited literacy would be able to understand a children’s book.’

‘I understand,’ said Maisie. She did not care for Huntley’s tone regarding the ‘men in the ranks’, but made a mental note to see one or two booksellers who she thought might be able to acquire a copy of the offending book.

Huntley glanced at his notes again. ‘The College of St Francis was founded by Liddicote on the back of donations made to him by the wealthy parents of several young men who were killed in the war, and who were his students at Cambridge. It is housed in what was once a rather substantial grand house on the outskirts of the city – the property itself was a donation from the grandparent of one of those unfortunate young men – and Liddicote began to recruit students, who come from the seven corners of the world to better their proficiency in the English language and to study English and European literature and the moral sciences. It is no secret that an emphasis on the maintenance of peace in Europe underpins much of the teaching. I should add that proximity to the long-established hallowed halls of learning in Cambridge makes it an attractive proposition to those who wish to have an immersion in the culture of our nation – and as a bonus they can always say they were “educated in Cambridge”, without giving details.’

‘You were an Oxford man, weren’t you, Mr Huntley?’

‘Guilty, as charged.’

‘It was that slight acidity of the tongue when you spoke of Cambridge.’

‘Let it be said that neither of your good seats of learning could be as acid as the school of hard knocks where I come from,’ said MacFarlane.

‘Quite,’ said Huntley.

Maisie leant forward to pour more tea. ‘So, how can I help you?’

‘We – Special Branch and the office of which I am a representative – believe that the school and its activities are worthy of more detailed investigation, though we do not wish our enquiries to be transparent to Liddicote or the students. That’s where you come in, Miss Dobbs.’

‘How?’

‘An advertisement has been placed in The Times Educational Supplement.’ Huntley passed a newspaper cutting to Maisie. ‘Liddicote’s college is asking for a junior lecturer in philosophy. You clearly have the academic background to meet the demands of such a position – you graduated from Girton having studied the moral sciences – and you have the necessary training to be able to conduct an investigation.’

‘But there will be many, many applicants for this job.’

‘On a practical level, we are able to control the applications received at the college; of those reaching Liddicote’s desk, yours will be the only curriculum vitae to name Dr Maurice Blanche as a personal mentor, teacher, and employer. Maurice ensured that a keen eye was kept on the college, and choreographed a chance meeting with Liddicote that revealed shared interests. This was followed by a “friendship” based on quite entertaining correspondence between the two men.’

‘Yes, I remember a letter sent after the funeral, with condolences. I had forgotten until you mentioned it.’

‘Of course, a sad time.’

Maisie nodded. ‘So, if I am to work under cover of a false occupation, surely my name will give me away.’

Huntley shook his head. ‘No, not at all. Liddicote is not worldly, and a brief look at your recent history would suggest that you have left the life of a private enquiry agent behind. And though you have kept it fairly quiet, a little bit of digging would reveal the depth of your attachment to the scion of the family that once employed you – James Compton is himself a man of great wealth. There are those who assume that any woman involved with him could look forward to a life of comfort, without the need to risk life and limb. In addition, except in certain circumstances, we prefer our … representatives to use their own name. It will make your story that much more believable.’

Maisie stood up and walked to the window. ‘So, you effectively want me to leave my business for an indefinite period of time. I am to seek employment as a lecturer at a private college established and run by a man in whom you have an interest. And, in a nutshell, my brief is to – what?’

‘You must report back on any observed activities – by anyone – that are not in the interests of the Crown. Do you understand the implications of the assignment?’

Maisie nodded. Huntley and MacFarlane exchanged glances.

‘Do I have time to think about it?’

MacFarlane glanced at the clock above the door. ‘About three minutes.’

Maisie turned to look out of the window. Yes, life had become a little soft, and for a woman who had worked almost every day of her life, who had seen war, who had held the dying as she tried to staunch their wounds, that ease prickled against her skin. She remembered the letter Maurice had left for her, and one sentence in particular came to her as she looked down at the end-of-day traffic.

I have observed your work in recent years and it does not claim the full measure of your skill or intellect. In time there will be a new path for you to follow …

She rejoined the men, still seated in armchairs around the low table. ‘I fail to see how my suitability for this role was determined by my ability to detect the simple fact that I was being followed, but, that said – I’ll do it. You should know, however, that I do not work for His Majesty’s gratitude, honour that it is. I prefer my payment to be more tangible.’

‘Are you sure you’re not a Scot?’ MacFarlane smiled as Huntley passed a series of documents to Maisie, each one emblazoned with the same livid red stamp marking it as Official: Top Secret.

TWO

As she made her way back to Pimlico, Maisie began to doubt her decision to accept the assignment. At first she had imagined a task both intellectually stimulating and professionally challenging; but what if she were to become mired in the day-to-day tedium of an academic institution, looking for acts of – what? espionage? – that did not exist. But on the other hand, a joint proposal from MacFarlane and Huntley certainly seemed to merit her consideration. And Maurice would have wanted her to accept, of that she was sure.

She imagined sitting with him by the fireplace in his study at the Dower House. At first he would give the impression of leaving the decision up to her, yet as conversation progressed, he would show his hand. She was sure he would counsel her to broaden her horizons and accept a new challenge. So she would take on the persona of a spinster teacher, an educated woman on her own in the halls of academia – even if those halls were seen to be wanting by the standards of the more established Cambridge university community. In any case, it was too late to go back now, for she had signed official forms to the effect that she would not impart any aspect of her work to another, and that she would take anything she learnt – good or bad – to her grave. And even though she was well aware that as one of His Majesty’s subjects, the Official Secrets Act touched her whether she signed it or not, her signature was her promise as much as her spoken word.

Entering her flat, she glanced at her watch. It was six o’clock, just enough time to make a cursory check on the new telephone she’d had installed several weeks ago. Tomorrow she would ask Billy – who had once worked as a telephone engineer – to conduct a more thorough investigation. She understood the need for surveillance of even the most trusted person working on a case, but the thought of her private conversations being subject to the ears of a Secret Service minion made her shudder.

At half past six, the doorbell signalled the arrival of her visitor. Maisie guessed that Sandra would be grateful for supper, so had prepared a hot soup with vegetables and pig’s knuckle, and brought home a loaf of crusty bread, which she would serve with a rich slab of cheddar.

‘Sandra, how lovely to see you again,’ said Maisie, as she opened the door and stood back to allow the young woman to enter. ‘Come on in, you know the way.’

Sandra nodded, and gave a weak smile. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Dobbs. I know you’re really busy and—’

‘Never too busy for you, Sandra. Just hang your coat on the stand there.’

As the younger woman turned away to remove her coat, Maisie’s heart sank. Billy’s description of Sandra’s appearance was woefully inadequate. The poor girl’s black clothes seemed to hang on her, and her face was drawn and pale. Maisie knew the evening would not be an easy one – something serious had come to pass, and Sandra needed her help.

‘Sit down, Sandra – here, try out my new sofa. It’s really quite comfortable. The evening’s cool, yet it was so very close last night, wasn’t it? In any case, the gas fire’s on, and I’ve taken the liberty of preparing supper for us.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Miss Dobbs.’ Sandra smoothed her skirt and sat down on the edge of the new sofa. ‘I didn’t want you to go to any trouble.’

‘This was once your home, Sandra. I wanted it to be welcoming for you – and me, actually. I’ve only just returned to London following a few days in Kent. In fact, I only spend about four nights a week in town these days.’

‘Mr Beale said you were down there. I sometimes wish I’d gone with the staff when they closed up Ebury Place, instead of staying in London.’

‘Oh, but you had an excellent reason, Sandra – you were engaged to be married, and your husband-to-be had found a good job.’ Maisie held up the sherry bottle. ‘A small one? I’m going to have a glass before we sit down to eat.’

‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

Maisie poured two glasses of sherry, handed one to Sandra, and sat down on the armchair opposite the sofa. She lost no more time in getting to the point.

‘There’s something terribly wrong, Sandra. What is it, and how can I help you?’

As Sandra sipped the sherry, tears came to her eyes. She brushed them away and sat with both hands clutching the small glass.

‘I’m a widow, Miss Dobbs.’

‘Oh, Sandra, my dear girl.’ Maisie set her glass on the table and came to her side; and though she instinctively wanted to put her arm around the distraught woman’s shoulders, instead she remained close enough for Sandra to feel a caring presence, but not so close as to stifle her. Maisie calculated the poor girl was all but twenty-four years of age, if that.

‘What happened? I saw Eric only a few weeks ago, when I took my motor car into the garage for some repair work – it couldn’t have been more than a month past.’ Choked with sudden grief, Maisie could barely finish the sentence.

‘I buried him a fortnight ago. There was an accident at the garage. The man he worked for had a new customer with a few cars he wanted looked after – a well-to-do new customer, is all I can say – so he had Eric working all hours. Not that he was complaining, because we wanted to get into a flat on our own, instead of living in the loft above the garage, so we needed the overtime money. Even though it had been converted for living quarters, being up in that loft was still like living in a stable.’

‘How did the accident happen?’

‘Eric was tired, very tired. He said that if he didn’t finish the job on time, then his employer could easily find another bloke to replace him. They were both working hard, him and his boss, Reg Martin.’

‘Reg is a good man – diligent and honest. And Eric’s work was first class.’

‘Anyway, this customer kept coming in and going on, saying he wanted the motors in double-quick time. I’m not sure of the story, but as far as I know, he’d bought them cheap, about six of them to start with, from posh people not being able to keep up because they’d run short of money – so I suppose they sold the motor cars for whatever they could get. So after buying them up and getting them on the road looking nice and shiny, this man was selling them for more money somewhere else – he only wanted enough repairs done so money passed hands with no questions.’ She shrugged and wiped her eyes.

Maisie reached out and took Sandra’s hand, allowing the stricken young woman to continue.

‘It was all a funny business, really, but I know Reg was glad of the work – you can’t turn anything down these days.’

‘What happened to Eric, Sandra?’ asked Maisie.

She looked down, her eyes red-rimmed with tears. ‘They’d lifted the engine out of one of the motors, with a block and tackle, and Eric was leaning in under it. Then suddenly one of the chains went and the whole lot gave way. He didn’t go quick, either. I was coming down the road when I heard the screams, heard Reg shouting out for help. Someone came running and went for the ambulance. I knew there and then that it was Eric, so I ran as fast as I could, and …’ She shook her head as if to rid herself of the images in her head. ‘All I could do was hold his hand. I was just about able to reach in and … hold his hand. He bled to death.’ She leant into Maisie’s arms, and as Maisie rocked her until the keening subsided, she knew the image of Sandra’s young husband’s final moments would never leave her.

They were still for some time, before the younger woman sat up and apologised. ‘I’m sorry, Miss, I shouldn’t—’

‘Sandra, you’ve had a terrible shock. And you are grieving.’ Maisie thought quickly. She knew Sandra was in a difficult position. The loft accommodation came with Eric’s job, and Sandra had not worked – except for helping Reg with his bookkeeping – since her marriage; there were few opportunities for a married woman to find work.

‘What can I do, Sandra? How can I help you?’

Sandra sniffed, and took a final sip of her sherry. ‘I need a job, Miss, and I wondered if you knew of anyone who needed an office worker.’ She paused. ‘Well, anything really – cleaning, housekeeping. I’ll do anything, but I don’t want to waste the hours I put in at night school. I can do all sorts of secretarial work, you know, but I’ll turn my hand to anything, because—’ She paused again to take breath, as if the weight of her problems was pressing the air from her body. ‘Because I can’t stay in the loft, not any more. Reg wants another mechanic soon. That, and, well, as he says, it’s not right, a widow living on her own above a garage. He’s a good man, but, you know, I can see his point. He’s said I can stay for another week, and I just … I just don’t know what to do. I’ve been to most of the shops up and down Oxford Street and Regent Street, looking for work, and I’ve been applying for jobs, and—’

‘Shhhh, it’s all going to be all right, Sandra. Come on, let’s get some hot soup into you, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.’

Over supper, Maisie asked Sandra if she would like to come to work for her, on a part-time basis to begin with. She explained that over the past few months, the task of keeping good records and filing away reports and invoices had fallen by the wayside. She did not share details of her own change in circumstance, though she was sure that Sandra would soon grasp the situation. She explained that she needed a private secretary, someone who could be trusted with confidential matters concerning the business, and who would also support Billy in the day-to-day running of the office. In addition, Maisie said that she would speak to her friend’s husband; Douglas Partridge was a busy writer who was currently working on a new book and, due to the fact that he had lost an arm in the war – which hampered his progress – according to his wife, he could do with a secretary. Perhaps they could work out a plan where Sandra worked for Maisie in the mornings, and then went on to assist Mr Partridge in the afternoons. With two jobs, Sandra would have a reasonable income.

Maisie also extended an invitation for her to live at her flat, moving her belongings back into the small bedroom that Maisie referred to as the ‘box room’, which had been Sandra’s room for some weeks before she was married.

Sandra began weeping again. ‘I hope you don’t think I came here for you to do this for me, Miss Dobbs. I just thought, well, you know so many people, and you might hear of something.’

‘Don’t worry, Sandra, it’s all right, really it is. I am so very sad that your terrible misfortune brought you to me, however, I think I can help. I need some help in the office, and though I am sure you will get us sorted out very quickly, I also want to render our filing system easier to use. The files and notes go back many years, with a wealth of information that I draw upon to this day, so it is no small task. And fortunately, we have had more work coming in of late – just as Mr Beale is about to leave for Kent and the hop-picking.’

‘I’m sure I’ll do my best, Miss Dobbs.’

Maisie refilled Sandra’s soup bowl, and when she returned from the kitchen, she looked at Sandra directly. ‘And there’s one more thing, Sandra. Your confidence extends to my visitors here at the flat, and to any aspect of my life to which you are privy.’ She paused. ‘Though, having said that, I will be away for some weeks, starting at the end of the month. I’ll be back on occasion, and I’ll keep in touch. You will have a means to contact me; we’ll talk about all that when you begin work. Now, perhaps you’d like to move your belongings in on Saturday or Sunday – I’ll be in Kent and you’ll have some time to yourself. Come to the office on Monday at twelve – I don’t generally arrive until later on Mondays – and we’ll begin work. I should have more information on the other job by then.’

Sandra swallowed, as if to digest everything Maisie had said. Her flushed cheeks and rounded, tired shoulders revealed a profound sense of relief at having found work and a roof over her head.

‘Oh, Miss, that poor girl. I remember him – Eric. Nice bloke, wasn’t he? Didn’t he work at Ebury Place?’

‘Yes, he was a good lad. And if you remember, he came and mended the locks on the doors here, when we were broken into.’

‘Gaw, and you say the engine fell on him? Now, that’s what I call a freak accident, something like that. Not that you don’t hear about these things – look at that bloke who copped it when that horse bolted on Tottenham Court Road last week, frightened by one of those noisy lorries coming up alongside it. Mind you, this town’s not made for horses any more, is it? And that’s why you’ve got people like that Eric working in what used to be stables, and poor Sandra now being thrown out of her only home.’

Maisie nodded. She was used to Billy railing against the slightest injustice, and using those events to underline how much better life would be if he could only get his family away from the British Isles. Just a month previously, Maisie had commented on the surge in house building, in what people were increasingly referring to as ‘suburbs’. Streets of mock-Tudor houses boasting indoor bathrooms and ‘fitted’ kitchens, with enough room to raise a family and close enough to both city and country to enjoy fresh air and town life. The spirit of Metroland had spread from the north and west of London to the south and east, and Maisie believed she could help Billy and his family improve their living conditions sooner rather than later. Cheap down payments – just one pound – could be made, with additional payments until the property was ready for habitation. The houses seemed like a good investment – at the very least she could provide the down payment as some sort of bonus for Billy. The stumbling block proved to be her assistant’s pride.

‘I know it sounds all very nice, Miss, but you’ve done enough for us already. And to tell you the truth, Miss, this government has taken a lot from us blokes; in the war, and now in this slump. The very least the likes of me can do is put a roof over our families’ heads.’

Maisie had not pressed the point, but now wondered how it might be received if she were to invest in a house and rent it out – to Billy and his family. She would wait and broach the subject again, perhaps at a time when Billy was more open to accepting such an offer. When Billy and Doreen returned from Kent, they would doubtless be chagrined to be back in Shoreditch, with the added pressure of a baby soon to be born.

‘I’ve invited Sandra to stay at my flat again, which will help her get on her feet. And it will be a weight off my mind to know that someone is at home when I am away; at least the place will be inhabited.’ She paused for a moment. ‘And I have some good news for us.’

Billy looked up from his desk. ‘Oh – a new job come in?’

Maisie shook her head. ‘No, some help for us – she’s looking for a job, so I offered her the position of secretary. It’ll be part-time as she’ll also be working for Douglas Partridge. She can catch up with the filing, type up our invoices and reports properly, and generally keep us in some sort of order. When she’s here and clients come to the office, you won’t have to miss half the conversation because you’re bringing in the tea – Sandra will be able to take care of those … those … housekeeping details. Plus, when I’m away, it will be company for you, someone to talk to in the office and provide clerical support when you’re working on your cases.’

Billy shrugged. ‘I thought we were doing quite well here, just the two of us. And it’s only lately that the filing’s piled up. And where will she sit?’

Maisie thought a stronger, yet equally compassionate tack was needed. ‘This is a very spacious room, Billy. You could hold the Cup Final in here. We’ll keep the table by the window for the case maps, and for our discussions when we’re working on a case. We’ll reposition those filing cabinets and the card file against the two walls either side of the bay window. Your desk could be placed at an angle to the wall – very nice with a view to the square – and if I move my desk slightly more towards the fireplace we can fit another desk here – thus the first person to greet visitors will be Sandra.’

‘We’ll need a desk, Miss.’

‘Could you find a suitable desk for Sandra? Have it brought to the office “cash on delivery” and I will settle the bill when it arrives.’

‘Right you are, Miss.’

‘And I’ve another job for you.’

‘Yes, Miss?’

Maisie picked up the index card that Billy had left on her desk. ‘This is where Eric worked – you remember, they always looked after my motor car. Sandra and Eric lived over the garage. I want you to take the MG over there and ask them to check a possible oil leak. There is no oil leak – well, no more than usual – but you can get chatting to the owner. Ask him about the business – you know how to slide it into the conversation. He has a relatively new customer who’s been giving him a lot of work. Find out who it is. All I want is a name at this stage.’

‘Is this for Sandra?’

‘In a way.’ Maisie sighed and leant against the back of her chair. ‘I have a sense that, when she’s settled and the problem of where to live and how to earn money is solved, her thoughts will turn inwards, and she will begin to doubt that her husband’s death was an accident.’

‘And you want to have proof that it was, so that she can forget it?’

‘No.’ She chewed the inside of her lip for a second before continuing. ‘No, not exactly. Accidents happen, Billy. The people most likely to make mistakes are the ones who think they know, who consider themselves to be experts. But when she told me about how Eric died – let’s just say I had a sense of doubt. I might be completely wrong, and I hope I am; but there are times when a piqued curiosity cannot be ignored, and this is one of them.’

THREE

I