"And you didn't see her again until--when?"
"Oh, I haven't seen her since that last visit. I had an idea she'd gone overseas--and you say she earned her doctorate somewhere in Europe? Doesn't surprise me at all, you know, very bright girl, determined. Did she never marry?'
"I don't know," said Maisie. "I know she lives alone in Cambridge, so if she was married once, she isn't now."
"Yes, one doesn't like to ask, but it's easy to assume that a young husband or fiance was lost--there are so many widows, aren't there?" Jennifer Penhaligon cleared her throat. "Well, if you have no more questions, Miss Dobbs, I should be getting on."
"Yes, of course. You've been most kind." Maisie stood and held out her hand to Penhaligon. "Dr. Thomas was born in Switzerland, wasn't she? I wonder if she went back there during the war--after all, it was a neutral country."
"Possibly. I wish I knew. But Francesca was what I would call a real European--mind you, if you look back, I am sure we all have a bit of this and a bit of that. My grandmother came from the Netherlands, and another ancestor from Sweden, and we British all have something of our invaders, don't we--some Norman here, a bit of Viking there, a spoonful of Saxon, perhaps."
Maisie laughed. "Oh, yes, you're absolutely right there!"
"But Francesca was rather careful, in terms of her name."
"In what way?"
"Well, when war seemed imminent, she changed her name--it was originally Seifert, and she thought it sounded too Germanic, so she took 'precautionary action,' as she put it. The authorities obviously knew she was a British subject through her mother, but she took the name Thomas. Apparently it was her grandmother's maiden name."
"I see. Well, I think I might have done the same in the circumstances."
"Yes, so might I. Fortunately, neither of us had to do anything of the sort. Now then, Miss Dobbs, do try to take a walk around our gardens before you leave--the Somerville gardens are known for their beauty, and they really are quite lovely at the moment."
"Thank you, Professor Penhaligon. I'll go for a walk around now."
Maisie's stroll around the grounds was brief, but productive; she wanted to breathe in some fresh air before driving down to London, and it gave her time to think. So, Francesca Thomas had worked in something "hush-hush" during the war. Did she then return to Europe and her education? Certainly, with her background she could have continued her education in Switzerland, gaining a doctorate at a university there. Maisie wondered about her change of name. One could hardly be surprised at her wanting to take her grandmother's name, and "Thomas" did sound so very English. She would make inquiries in any case.
It was early afternoon when Maisie parked outside the home in Holland Park where Priscilla lived with her husband and sons. The property had once been the home of Margaret Lynch--the mother of Simon Lynch, the young doctor whom Maisie had loved. With both her husband and her son now dead, Margaret had no need of the mansion, with its sweeping staircase and many rooms, so it had been leased to Priscilla and her husband, and had once more become a house filled with laughter. On Fridays, Douglas and Priscilla usually took the boys to Priscilla's family estate in the country, but in the present circumstances, Maisie thought they would be staying in London.
"Maisie, thank goodness--you're here."
"Where's Sandra?"
Priscilla closed the door as Maisie stepped into the entrance hall. "I really don't know how to tell you this, but she's gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"We don't know. After we brought her home yesterday afternoon, I made sure she went straight to bed--she had been living in the most awful cell, terrible. I took her to the guest room, and came back with something light to eat--soft-boiled egg, a slice of toast, tea--but she wouldn't take anything, just curled up on the bed and closed her eyes. Poor dear, she just wept. I remained with her for a while, and then thought it best to just leave her to sleep it off."
"When did you know she'd gone?"
"This morning. I asked Mrs. Hawkins to go in with some tea and toast--didn't want to push food down her if she didn't want it. They'd tried that while she was in custody. When she wouldn't eat--and I am sure it was from nerves, rather than being bloody-minded--they sent in a woman to literally shove the food down her throat, which of course she just brought up again." Priscilla paused, and shook her head. "I thought I would have the devil's own job in getting her out of there, you know. When I arrived at the police station, Douglas was going back and forth with the policeman in charge, when another policeman came out and said that she could be released. His exact words were, 'Voices from on high have spoken,' as if a pointed finger had plunged through the ceiling and a deep voice had said, 'Thou shalt let Sandra go!' So, we didn't ask questions; just bundled her into the motor car and whisked her home--with strict instruction to the effect that she must remain in either our custody or yours. So this is a fine state of affairs."
"It's not your fault, Priscilla--who would have believed that you might need to chain her to the bed?"
"Let's have a cup of coffee and talk about what we'll do next."
"We'll have the coffee, but finding Sandra is my job--I'm not entirely sure it's completely safe for anyone else."
Priscilla led Maisie to the kitchen, where the cook seemed surprised when the two women walked in and Priscilla went straight to a coffeepot set on the stove. "I'm making coffee, Mrs. Hawkins, not tea. And I need it very French and very, very strong."
The cook shook her head and turned away to continue preparing vegetables.
Priscilla winked at Maisie and said aloud, "Mrs. Hawkins is convinced that I will take the lining off my stomach with the way I make coffee--aren't you, Mrs. Hawkins?"
"Not my business to say, Mrs. Partridge."
Priscilla made two large cups of strong coffee with frothy hot milk, and they went through to the drawing room.
"There, put your feet up while we talk."
"I really must get going, Priscilla, but I needed this--I haven't stopped all morning."
"And you could do without this little spanner in the works."
"I'm not sure it's little." She sipped her coffee, shook her head, and sighed. "Sandra was never like this. When she was at Ebury Place, she was such a diligent girl, very sympathetic to the needs of others. She did things in the way they should be done--you would never imagine her breaking into a building, even in the most pressing circumstances."
"But the circumstances are probably beyond pressing. She's like a good many women, Maisie; they toe the line very well until someone they love--a child, a spouse--is threatened or harmed, and then you see a completely different side to them. Had that not been so, then this country would never have come through the war. Wars are fought by men, Maisie--but the winning is down to women who are prepared to break windows for their own." She paused. "You've got that distant look in your eyes--you're miles away, aren't you?"
"Just wondering where she might have gone. I doubt she would go to family--no, she wouldn't want them to see her in such a state. Do you know if she had any money?"
Priscilla flushed. "Well, Douglas paid her just before she got herself into this situation, and I confess that when she came out, I tucked a few pounds into her pocket, just in case."
"Then she could stay at a hotel, a boarding house; she would be safe for quite a while, because I also paid her last time I was in London, and, knowing Sandra, she has savings; as I said, she's a diligent girl."
"Would she have gone to her in-laws?"
"That's a thought. I'll get Billy onto it. And I'll go back to the flat, to see if she has left her belongings in her room."
"What if the police want to know where she is?"
"I doubt they'll be contacting you. She's free with no strings--except the ones attaching her to you and me. But having said that, I may contact them--I know someone who I think might help out without the balloon going up."
They sat in silence for a moment. "They don't want Sandra's actions to get in
the way of your work, do they?"
"I really can't talk about it, Pris. You know that."
"And the thing is, I have no idea who 'they' are, but you are working on something hush-hush, aren't you?"
Maisie smiled. It was the second time in one day she'd heard the term. "I'm always working on something I have to keep quiet about; it's the nature of my work. My clients come to me for that very reason--they have a secret and they don't want anyone to know. So if I go chatting about it, the game's up--you know rumors spread like wildfire on a hot and windy day."
"Since I discovered how Peter died, I've always equated working in intelligence as being a bit of a risky business."
Maisie smiled and touched Priscilla on the arm at the mention of her brother. She sipped the last of her coffee. "I'd better get going, Pris. I have to see Billy as soon as possible. If Sandra had gone to the trouble to break into the premises of her husband's employer, and then summon the courage to do the same at the office of a man she didn't know, you can be assured she acted with good reason."
"Take care, Maisie, with this Cambridge business."
"It's perfectly all right, I promise you would not believe how very safe I am. It's a college; it's slow, quiet, and deliberate."
"And a man was murdered there--I saw it in the newspaper, about the College of St. Francis. That's where you are, isn't it?"
"Oh dear--I promise you, I am safe. The college is not half as exciting as the press might have you believe. If you were there, you would be snoozing in the corner within minutes."
"I'll take your word for it."
Maisie and Priscilla held each other for two or three seconds; then Maisie left, calling out to her friend as she walked down the front steps. "Keep me informed--let me know if she turns up, or if you happen to have an idea of where she might have gone."
Maisie parked the MG in Fitzroy Street, turned off the engine, and sighed. Thoughts of Sandra extinguished all other concerns from her mind. Where is she? Is she safe? She closed her eyes. Not for the first time, the plight of the wounded animal came to mind. She knew that instinct would always take the wounded creature to its lair. But where was Sandra's lair? As far as she knew, Sandra had left home at the age of twelve, when she was sent to work in service. Her father and mother both worked on the land, and with four daughters and no sons, there was little more they could do for the girls beyond school age, so they were sent to work in service. Like many young girls before her, Sandra had come to London alone, to knock on doors until someone offered her a job. Fortunately, she had not wandered far when she turned up at the door of 15 Ebury Place. She hardly knew her parents now, and had traveled down to Dorset only once or twice a year to visit them. Sandra had done well; considering it important to "better herself," she had gone to the lending library once a week to collect three or four books that she would read when the day's work was done, and before the light was turned out for the night. She had grown from a quiet but diligent girl into a young woman who, through hard work, intended to make life better for herself--and Maisie knew that for Sandra, life took on a sunnier hue when she became attached to Eric, who also worked for the Compton family before leaving their employ to become a full-time mechanic. How could anyone have known it was a job that was to kill him, and leave Sandra a widow at twenty-four? Where has she gone?
Billy looked up from his work when Maisie walked into the office.
"Afternoon, Miss."
"Billy, how are you?"
"Not so bad. Had a nice drive down?"
"The road was fairly clear, and it's a fine day, so I made good time." Maisie set her briefcase on her desk and looped the handle of her shoulder bag over the back of her chair. She looked at the stack of papers on Sandra's desk awaiting her attention.
Billy nodded towards the desk. "I don't know where she's got to, I'm sure. I don't know if I should tell you this, but she's missed a morning or two this week."
"I know."
Billy blushed.
Maisie drew up a chair to sit in front of his desk.
Billy shifted in his chair and nodded. "Miss, I've got to admit, I've been a bit worried, you know, in case you didn't need me here, what with Sandra having done those commercial courses."
"I didn't take you on to type letters, Billy."
He shrugged. "But I was thinking that since I've been working for you, you've had to get me out of trouble a few times, and look at Sandra, she's no trouble at all."
"She's in dreadful trouble, Billy. She's become a case, and I want you to take it on, for now. Let me explain."
Maisie recounted the events of the past week, from Priscilla's telephone call to Sandra's release, and her subsequent flight from the home of Douglas and Priscilla Partridge, into whose care she had been entrusted.
"She broke into the garage, then into this other bloke's offices in the City?"
Maisie nodded.
"I had a feeling she was on to something. I don't know what she might've found in our files over there, but she was looking for something that had nothing to do with her work, and that's a fact."
"We're in possession of a very comprehensive history of many of the most notorious crimes in London and the Home Counties, and we've records that name some very powerful people in Westminster, in the City, and--as it happens--what could be termed, the 'underworld.' Even if they haven't been directly implicated in a case, you can bet that anyone of importance is in those files somewhere, even if it's only a name on a card."
"Blimey." Billy shook his head. "She's got some nerve, that Sandra, I'll say that for her."
"The stronger the emotions, the more they will lead people to carry a burden well beyond their weight--you know that. She's as grief-stricken as anyone I have ever seen, and she's been rolling a rock up a hill."
"I feel bad, Miss." Billy picked at the rough skin along the edge of his thumb. "I thought her being suspicious was all to do with her feelings, that it would pass with time."
"I know. But it's no good looking back--there's work to be done, Billy. First of all, see if you can find out where her in-laws live. Visit the house, keep an eye on it, see who comes and goes--you know the drill. I don't want you to question them, because I don't want them worried--I daresay they are still burdened by the death of their son. I believe they live near Whitstable. Here's Eric's full name--shouldn't be too difficult to find them. You could even go over to the garage, find out if Reg Martin knows where they live. And while you're there, just talk to the man, see what he has to say about what happened. I don't want you to scare him--in fact, you can tell him you're there on my behalf, that I want to visit Eric's parents to pay my respects. Don't let him know that Sandra has been released, or that we have no idea where she is."
Billy nodded, scribbled in his notebook, and reached for his jacket. "I'll go over there now. Anything else, Miss?"
"Yes, find out all you can about a man called William Walling."
Billy frowned. "That rings a bell." He draped his jacket across the desk and went to the card file, where he pulled out a drawer. "Too bloody tidy, that's the trouble . . . oh, here it is." He brought the card to Maisie. "I knew where to find it because I came in one day and Sandra was going through the cards. She left the card sticking up so she knew where to go back to, then went to put the kettle on, so I had a quick look at what she was doing."
Maisie took the card. "This is an old card. Maurice's handwriting . . . always a challenge to the eye--oh dear."
"Uh-oh, I don't like the sound of that."
"Of course. This goes back over twenty years now. It's just a record of the fact that, when Maurice opened his first clinic in the east end, Walling sent an employee to ask if the premises needed looking after--protection, if you will. Maurice declined, but thereafter ensured that the clinic became a useful tea-stop for the policeman on the beat, so it went around that there was a 'presence' there, even at night, with the clinic open around the clock." She tapped the card against her hand. "This could be another of our more
devious brethren, Billy, so find out all you can about him. I should add that he's now a respected businessman."
"Aren't they all when they want to be? Seems that the big boys like Walling, and that Alfie Mantle--you remember, who was put away a few months ago--all dress like lords and mix in the right places, so you've got your city gents and your politicians hobnobbing with these men who're right villains." Billy looked at Maisie. "What will we do if we can't find her? I mean, she's out there, a woman alone, and with that dark cloud over her--she could do anything."
Maisie looked at Billy, and saw in his eyes an empathy for Sandra--his own losses were still so close to the surface.
"I'll call the police."
"But won't that make things worse for her?"
"I think Detective Inspector Caldwell owes me a favor or two, don't you?"
"You reckon he'll agree to look for her, then?"
"He will when I tell him that there's a chance Eric was murdered." She pushed back her chair, and walked back to her desk. "Sandra has been in the abyss, but she's no fool. Find out what happened, Billy. Uncover enough for me to go to Caldwell with. This is your case. Make sure you do right by Sandra."
Chapter Twelve
With Billy gone, the office was silent, the square quiet on a Friday afternoon. At once, Maisie felt a fatigue set into her bones, as if there were no marrow, no fuel for what had to be done next. True enough, she had been intent upon her work, trying to be a good teacher to her students. She had been balancing the demands of her assignment for Huntley and MacFarlane with deep concerns about Sandra; and in the back of her mind there was still a certain worry regarding her father's well-being, and on top of that, a nagging thought--it had begun as if it were a scratch on the skin, a minor irritation, but was now a deep discomfort--a sense that James Compton might not be true to her. It was a question she tried to banish, but at the same time, it was as if a few threads had loosened in the fabric of her heart and now a tear was creeping across, in the way that a crack might appear at the edge of a crystal glass, and spread until at once the glass shatters in a thousand pieces. Might she become as bereft as Sandra again--a woman who had rebuilt her heart, only to see it broken once more?