A Lesson in Secrets

  Tears welled up in her eyes, tears she brushed aside with the back of her hand while picking at a needle of splintered wood along the edge of the desk with the fingers of the other. She imagined Sandra, hurt and alone, channeling anger at losing Eric into discovering the true circumstances of his death. Oh, how she wished she could wave her hand and dispel the dark stone of doubt, of unknowing, that had enveloped Sandra. She had nothing to lose, thought Maisie. And she knew that, though Sandra had shed tears, though she had come to Maisie for help, and though she had established a soothing routine to her days and seemed to be recovering, in her deepest soul the widow had a sense that there was no more to lose, so any risk was worth her quest for truth. Sandra was in a sort of limbo, where a past with meaning and promise was gone, and the future as yet held nothing she truly wanted. It was a feeling that demanded to be controlled; otherwise it would wreak havoc in the soul, a sense of angry pointlessness. Hadn't that been why Maisie herself leaned on her work to bring a meaning that would ground her days? Her relationship with James, the intimacy of connection, was a spark that caught fire--could it all be gone, now that she doubted him? Priscilla was right--and wrong. Yes, she controlled her feelings, keeping the dragon at bay with a carefully self-chaperoned life, a protected heart. But Priscilla made letting go sound like a simple task, as easy as a yacht slipping away from the harbor with the wind in its sails. Yet there was always a rock upon which to run aground, and Maisie knew it was her habit to keep a keen eye out for the rocks. And what was the smudged London postmark if not a rock scraping her bow?

  Maisie pushed the folders she had intended to work on back into her briefcase, put on her linen jacket once more, along with her light felt hat of pale ivory with a matching band, and left the office, locking the door on her way out. She remembered Eric replacing the lock for her after her office had been broken into, remembered the way in which Sandra had brought her then fiance to the office, knowing he could help, knowing that no job would be beyond him. They had made a good and happy match, Eric and Sandra, already walking together as if they were meant to grow old entwined in each other's thoughts, knowing all there was to be known about each other. Where are you, Sandra? If we do not find you soon, I will have to call the police. And as she started the MG and pulled away from Warren Street on her way back to the flat in Pimlico, Maisie asked another question, aloud, as she drove. "And where are you, James Compton?"

  Her flat was quiet, with the windows closed against a stale air that sometimes wafted up from the river on a warm day. Usually Maisie might not have noticed--it was, after all, something she had grown up with, and though not pleasant, did not disturb her unduly, though she did not want to invite it into her home. She set down her bags, placing the post she had collected onto the hall table before going to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She walked back to the box room--Sandra's room. It was empty. The bed was made. Clothing and personal effects had been removed, but an envelope with her name had been left upon the counterpane.

  Dear Miss Dobbs,

  By the time you find this letter you will have discovered that I am not as reliable as you thought. I have left Mr. and Mrs. Partridge because I didn't think it was right. They have three young boys and it is not fair on them to have a criminal under their roof.

  I am sorry for embarrassing you and sorry for letting you down, especially with you being so kind to me. But I am not sorry for what I did. I had no choice. I won't say any more, but I thought it best to leave your flat. I don't want to be bringing shame upon you, Miss Dobbs. You've been so generous already, it wouldn't be right at all.

  Don't worry about me. I will be all right. I am quite determined to know what happened to Eric, and why he was killed. I am his wife, and I vowed to be his helpmeet in sickness and in health. I know I must look out for him in death, too. It was not an accident, Miss Dobbs. I'm sure of it.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sandra

  Mrs. Sandra Tapley

  Maisie turned over the page, then turned it back again. It had been typed with care; not one error, not one misplaced letter typed over. She had signed her name with a flourish--her handwriting seemed larger, stronger, as if she had a purpose from which she would not draw back. There was something about the typeface that seemed familiar to Maisie, but it wasn't from the new typewriter at the office in Fitzroy Square. She walked back into the hallway, where she picked up the post from the small table and took it into the kitchen. With a cup of tea in hand, she sat down to go through her letters. Michael Klein, her solicitor, confirmed that he was progressing with conveyancing in connection with the purchase of a semidetached house in Eltham and would have contracts for her to sign within another week. As he had advised her, a mortgage might not be in her best interests at the present time, so he had taken the liberty of arranging for funds to be placed in an account pending contract exchange, so that the house could be purchased in its entirety. She nodded to herself; in matters of finance, Maisie had learned in a short time to trust Klein's advice. In a letter Maurice had written: "I am not a person who has ever had a talent for economics, and though I am not one to make terrible errors either, I have found it best to leave matters of finance to Michael. He will rarely make a move without consulting you, and he will listen if your desires run counter to his advice, but at the same time, Maisie, he knows more than you or I--and I have a feeling that you do not have a kinship with the finer points of mathematics and finance any more than I." Maisie had laughed when she first read those words--she was more than happy to leave management of the estate to Michael Klein, though she was learning more each time they met.

  There was a letter from the building company, confirming conversations with Klein's office, and informing her that the house would be ready for her to take possession in one month. I hope the baby can wait, thought Maisie. The next was a letter from James. Usually, she would have torn open the envelope, anxious to read his news, but this time she looked carefully at the postmark, again smudged across the Canadian stamp. Was it London? It was barely legible. She went to her bedroom and gathered other letters from Canada that she kept in a cabinet alongside her bed; she laid them out on the dining room table along with the newest letter and inspected the postmarks. She could not be sure; if James were duping her, if James were duping her--she could barely think it without the tear across her heart growing--there would definitely be something amiss in the letters. She took up the new letter, tore open the envelope, and unfurled the pages. James wrote in a deliberate hand, the pen pressed so deeply onto the page you could detect where the two halves of the nib had separated by a hair's width. The ink was indigo black, and the fountain pen had required refilling halfway through.

  He spoke of missing her, of completing his work, and of how much he looked forward to being home in England. "I never thought I would say that, Maisie. Canada has always been the place that lifted me. I felt free of so much weight whenever I came back here and dreaded returning to London, even Chelstone. But now I ache to be home, ache to hold you in my arms again, darling Maisie." She caught her breath. Tears filled her eyes again. How she despised herself, how she wished she did not doubt him so; it was her fault, she knew. In truth, what had he done to cause her to have such feelings? She looked at the postmark again, then went back to the letter. "I think some letters might have gone astray, so in case you have not received one or two along the way, I have also sent a letter for you in the bag that is sent to our office--it was shipped last week. There's something else for you there, though you will have to collect it from our office. You can telephone Miss Robinson, my secretary. She'll have it for you when you come in, though she must know when to expect you."

  Something was amiss. No, no, she would not let imagination run wild. Surely she was dealing with enough subterfuge at the moment.

  She woke with a start at six o'clock, her head sore from resting on the table in front of her, her hand, cramped, still holding James' most recent letter. She wiped moisture from her mouth and rubbed
her eyes. The meeting. She would be late. Scrambling to her feet, she gathered the letters, and returned them to the cabinet alongside her bed. In her bathroom, she splashed water on her face, brushed her hair, patted some powered rouge on her cheeks and ran lipstick across her top lip before pressing her lips together and checking her appearance in the looking glass above the sink. She opened the window, felt the air outside, and pulled a heavier black linen jacket from the wardrobe, then removed her cream shoes in favor of a black leather pair. The cream skirt and blouse would do. Whenever Maisie dressed, it was hard not to hear Priscilla's voice in her head. Her friend could have been a couturier's mannequin; she spent a good deal on her stylish clothes, and always had an opinion on whatever Maisie was wearing. "Ivory and black, Maisie? Tell me, do you really have that much of an aversion to color? For heaven's sake--you're not a nurse anymore! And what happened to that red dress?" She grabbed a red silk scarf from a drawer and tied it around her neck. Oh dear, I look like a bus conductress, thought Maisie. But she would be late, so she banished the voice of her fashion-plate friend from her head and left the flat. All being well, she would be at the address in Cleveland Terrace in time to observe the comings and goings of members of the Ortsgruppe.

  She drove past the address and parked along the street. The Georgian terrace comprised flats with shops below, with the entrance to the flats a doorway between two of the shop fronts. There were some pedestrians on the street, but Maisie did not want to be conspicuous; she moved the motor car closer to the building, so she could remain in the MG to observe the comings and goings of Ortsgruppe members. Men and women began to arrive, though the latter were far outnumbered by the former. A taxi-cab pulled up outside the address and Robson Headley alighted from the vehicle. He held out a hand to Delphine Lang as she stepped out. Headley paid the driver, and they turned towards the doorway. Lang looked around her, as did Headley, and at once Maisie hoped they did not spot her distinctive MG, though given the care she'd taken to avoid using it in Cambridge, they might not recognize it as hers in any case. As they walked forward, Lang dropped a book she was carrying and Headley bent down to retrieve it for her. Maisie watched as he handed her the book, the way he smiled, placed an arm around her shoulder, and escorted her into the building. They must have been among the last to arrive; Maisie cast her glance along and across the street. It was then that she noticed a man on the other side of the road. He was slender and wore a suit that despite being well tailored seemed to hang just a little. A broad-brimmed hat was pulled down in such a way as to obscure the face. The man waited for a while, then took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one with a match, and looked up to the first-floor window, where silhouettes of those gathered could be seen in the diminishing light. Maisie continued to watch as the man then turned and began to walk along the street. There was something in that walk, something that intrigued her--the way the man moved, how he continued to draw on the cigarette. She felt sure she had seen him before, and as she slipped the MG into gear and moved away from the curb, it occurred to her that she knew exactly who it was, though the thought would seem quite absurd if she chose to share it with Huntley or MacFarlane.

  Maisie rose as early as she could to drive down to Chelstone. She thought it might be time to press her father again regarding a move up to The Dower House, and at the same time there were several boxes of Maurice's notes that she wanted to read through.

  Maurice might be gone now, his counsel not immediately available, but he had left boxes of papers and journals for her, all clearly marked, all cataloged. It was as if his voice were still with her, guiding her, leaving something of his knowledge, his wisdom, in every word, on every page. How she had drawn upon those words in the early days following his death. It was as if she couldn't quite let go, even though she had held his hand as he passed and had mourned his loss in a way that she had not mourned since her mother died. Admittedly, the fledgling relationship with James Compton had done much to gentle her heart, though sometimes she felt as if there would never be an end to the sorrow of losing Maurice.

  As always, driving seemed to clear her mind. There was something in the rhythm of changing gear, slowing for corners, accelerating on the straight, that seemed to help her sort through the many concerns that vied for attention when she was working on a case, especially when personal matters also claimed her attention. It was as if her mind comprised a flight of birds swooping and wheeling across the sky--an observation here, an aha there, a question, an answer, a clue, a surprise; they never collided, but wove a web all the same--but driving gathered her thoughts into formation, and set a course. And as she continued on her way, turning onto the Chelstone road just before Tonbridge, the smell of freshly picked hops in the air, the reek of sulfur from the oasthouses as they dried the county's most famous crop, Maisie knew that if only certain pieces in the puzzle could be found, a coherent picture would emerge from the images before her. Hopefully there would be a letter from the Ipswich County Records Office next week. There were still Greville Liddicote's former colleagues at the university to see, if she could gain an interview with any of them. And several more questions had come to mind, questions that would demand time and footwork--MacFarlane would be impressed; he liked footwork. She wondered how MacFarlane and Stratton were getting on. It was as if MacFarlane had put her at arm's length now, not wanting their paths to cross too much. She made a note to ensure they spoke on Monday.

  And then there was Stratton--Stratton who had burned a torch for Maisie at one point, who had shown interest again when she parted from Andrew Dene, but who now seemed subdued in her company since it was known she was walking out with James Compton. MacFarlane had seen Stratton looking at Maisie and had known of his hidden affection. As far as Maisie could see, MacFarlane exploited that knowledge, with a comment here, a prod there. He was not an unkind man, but he was not above using another person as a source of fun--as Maisie knew only too well. "Staid, indeed," she said aloud.

  Parking outside the Groom's Cottage, Maisie was surprised when her father did not immediately appear at the door. Though she had not telephoned in advance--she had thought to surprise him--Frankie was always there at the door when she arrived, as if he had one ear to the wind, waiting to hear the crunch of the MG's tires on the graveled lane that extended from the main driveway to his cottage. There was no sound of a bark from Jook, his dog, so she wondered if he was at the stables. She went to open the door, and was surprised to find that she felt as if she should knock. But this is my father's house, she thought. Instead she walked around the house, towards the back door. The sound of laughter caught her ears even before she came alongside the kitchen window. She stopped. There was her father's throaty laugh, the laugh she remembered from her childhood. Has it been so long? Surely he has laughed like that since Mum died. It was the laugh she'd heard as a girl, after he'd told a story of something that had happened at the market. She could see him now, sitting at the kitchen table at the little house in Lambeth, she and her mother listening, waiting for the next tale. "What do you think of that, my Maisie, what do you think of that one?" And he would tickle her ribs, then lean across and pull her mother to him. "My girls, my girls . . . " And he would laugh and laugh, a man who loved and was loved in return by wife and daughter both. How much it had changed their lives when her mother died. Was that when the dragon first raised his head and was subdued, controlled so that he could not cause havoc? Maisie felt she might weep when the hearty laugh echoed from the kitchen again.

  "And you should have seen that horse take off with him, Brenda, I tell you, he fair launched himself around that track, took the stable boy right across the road. Well, I'd never seen the like of it. Bill Webber, the trainer, he just walked up to that horse when he was done--munching away in a field while the jockey tried to get himself out of the hedge--he took that bridle and I swear, he got that horse by the end of the nose and looked as if he would twist it off. 'Do that again, my lad, and it's the glue factory for you,' he said. And I saw him
wait there like that, him and the horse, standing there, looking at each other, until the horse dropped its head. Old Bill let go, and rubbed the horse's neck. Followed him all the way back like a pup, did that stallion. And the jockey was still stuck in the hedge." He laughed again.

  "More tea, Frank?"

  Maisie felt her eyes widen. Mrs. Bromley. Her housekeeper. Brenda? She stepped back to the gate, unsure of what to do, then shrugged. She'd come down from London to visit her father, a drive of almost an hour and a half. This was no time to turn back. She coughed twice, then again for good measure as she approached the back door. She cleared her throat again before reaching for the handle. I cannot believe I am doing this, she thought. As she was about to turn the handle, the door opened. Her father stood in front of her, his cheeks bearing a faint pink blush.

  "Maisie, what a surprise--a lovely surprise, mind."

  "It was a good morning for a drive, so I thought I'd come down--where's Jook?"

  "Oh, sleeping under the table. Mrs. Bromley's here--she came with some leftovers for Jook, and then--well, come on in, love."

  Mrs. Bromley was clearing the table when Maisie entered. It seemed to Maisie that color was heightened all around when Mrs. Bromley turned to greet her--after all, Maisie was now her employer.

  "Miss Dobbs, I thought I'd bring down a spot of cottage pie for Mr. Dobbs--I made it fresh this morning, and it was too much for one. I really didn't expect you today."