"I'll keep an eye on your motor if you want to run in--"
"Oh, I'm sure she should have been here by now. Thank you! I'll be off now."
And with that, Maisie stepped on the accelerator pedal, anxious to catch up with the taxi-cab carrying the woman she believed to be Thomas.
"Blast! Where are you?"
People were crossing the road, and traffic seemed to be converging on the station from all directions. "Blast!" she said again, striking the steering wheel with her hand. Then the crowd parted for a horse and cart to come through, and she realized that the taxi-cab had stopped not far in front of her. A coster had tipped his barrow and was hurrying to load up the fallen fruit and vegetables. Some people stopped to help, for traffic was snarling up, and Maisie saw the cabbie lean out and shake his fist at the coster.
"You shouldn't be on the bleeding road with that old nag."
"Don't you call this 'orse a nag, you and that filthy thing you're driving there. Scum of the earth on the streets, you are."
The taxi driver was about to get out, when Maisie saw the silhouette of the passenger inside lean forward, as if to caution him. In time, the horse and cart moved on, the coster shaking his fist back at the cabbie, and traffic began to snake along once more. Maisie's doubts about following the right taxi-cab and whether indeed the passenger was Francesca Thomas were laid to rest when the journey took them closer to Belgravia. They soon approached Eaton Square, at the same point at which the driver she was with before had lost her quarry. Now she realized why. The taxi-cab's route was circuitous, along smaller parallel streets and cutting back and forth. With traffic easing as they moved into the smaller streets, Maisie maintained her distance, but kept the black vehicle in sight as it doubled back to Eaton Place. The driver stopped, and Maisie pulled over in the shade of a tree. Francesca Thomas alighted from the taxi-cab, paid the fare, then walked along the street and entered one of the grand mansions. Maisie watched and waited for the taxi-cab to be on his way again before slipping the MG into gear and parking on the other side of the square. Pulling her cloche hat down close to her eyes, she walked back to the mansion Francesca Thomas had entered. She looked up at the building, then back and forth along the street, and at that point a man wearing a black suit, white shirt, and bowler hat, and carrying an umbrella, walked towards her. When he was just a couple of steps away, Maisie smiled in his direction.
"Excuse me, sir--may I trouble you for a moment? Do you know this area?"
The man nodded. "Yes. I work here."
"You work here?" Maisie had detected a slight accent.
"Yes, many of the buildings along here are leased; this is the Belgian Embassy--though of course we haven't quite taken over the whole square."
"I see." Maisie looked up at the building again.
"Can I help you, or did you simply want to know who resided in the square?"
"Oh, no. No, I wanted to know how to get to Victoria station."
The man proceeded to give precise directions to Victoria, and then, with a doffing of his bowler hat, went on his way. With a final look at the building--and an overwhelming sense that she was a fly in a spider's web--Maisie turned to walk away.
"Miss Dobbs!"
Francesca Thomas was standing between the two columns that flanked the mansion's entrance. A man was standing behind her, as if to protect the building and its occupants.
"Dr. Thomas." Maisie pushed up her cloche a little so their eyes could meet, and approached the woman whom she had followed from Liverpool Street station.
Francesca Thomas smiled. It was a wry smile, as if she had seen the funny side of a quip that no one else had quite picked up on. "Since you've made such a determined effort to follow me, I think the least we can do is to offer some sort of refreshment. Would you care to join me?"
Maisie nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Thomas. That's very kind of you."
She led Maisie past the threshold, nodding to the man at the door, who stepped out to look up and down the street before closing the door behind him. They continued across the expansive hallway, up the wide staircase, then along a corridor and into a small room. As they walked along, Maisie noticed that the interior of the mansion bore few comforts. It was, without doubt, a place of work, with plain cream paint and no decoration but for portraits of Albert I, King of the Belgians, and his wife, Elisabeth of Bavaria.
"This is the office I use when I am here." Francesca Thomas held out her hand to one of the beige damask-covered armchairs set in front of a fireplace masked by a needlepoint screen for the summer--the only color in a room that was as plain as the hall, staircase, and corridor. Maisie thought the office might be more welcoming in winter, with a fire in the grate.
"It seems I have been rather careless, that you have managed to find me here."
"You had no need to come to the door, Dr. Thomas. I may have discovered that the embassy is a frequent destination for your sorties into London, but I confess, I did not quite know what to do with that knowledge--not yet, anyway."
"But you have an idea of what I am doing here, don't you?"
Maisie took off her hat and ran a hand through her hair. "I know this much, that you worked for the British Secret Service during the war. I know that you left after a time, and you did not surface in England again until you applied for the job at the College of St. Francis."
Thomas nodded slowly. "And why are you at the college, Miss Dobbs? Oh, and do credit me with some sense--please do not tell me it's for the love of teaching philosophy."
Maisie regarded the woman seated before her. She was at ease, confident. Her dress was stylish, yet simple--a tailored black skirt and jacket, a white blouse. She was a striking woman, and Maisie could see that she was also one who would brook no subterfuge and would recognize a lie if she heard it.
"I have found that I really do like teaching--but I came to the college to identify any activities not in the interests of the British government."
"Don't forget the Crown. You have to look out for the Crown, you know."
"Yes, of course, not in the interests of the Crown." Maisie maintained eye contact with her interrogator. "And you? In whose interests are you at the college?"
"Belgium. Among others, of course. Our country suffered occupation in the war and we do not want it to happen again, if we can possibly help it. I have been charged with keeping an eye on developments in this country with regard to our former enemies."
"Developments in this country?"
"Let's not start by being naive, Miss Dobbs, unless you really are without a clue as to what is happening here. You are aware of the Ortsgruppe, for example, and its London meetings at Cleveland Terrace."
"I saw you there, too, Dr. Thomas. Only you were dressed as a man."
"What gave me away, if I may ask?"
"Your cigarette; the way you held it and discarded the remains after barely smoking half."
"You're an observant one, after all. I'll give you that." She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped, as if she wanted to let Maisie in on a tightly held secret. "The infiltration of universities and other such institutions is only one stream of the threat. Your aristocracy, members of your government, indeed, the heir to your throne--they are all quite taken with this man Adolf Hitler. But we know better, we--"
"Dr. Thomas, why do you say we? I was informed at the college that you were of Anglo-Swiss parentage."
"My maternal grandmother was Belgian. I adored her, and I was close to my family there." She sighed. "I am willing to brief you on my involvement in the security of my country; however, I must have your word that you will not divulge any detail--not a single crumb of information--of what you will hear to another. Even Brian Huntley."
Maisie looked into the woman's eyes, her surprise upon hearing Huntley's name masked by an outer calm. And at that moment she saw a shadow of deep sorrow and remembered a conversation with Maurice about the old proverb "Eyes are the windows to the soul." She thought, now, that if it were
indeed so, then Francesca Thomas had chosen this time to slip the lock on her past and allow memories to escape. Instinct told her that what had come to pass in this woman's earlier years would chill her to the bone
"You have my word."
As you know, I worked for the Secret Intelligence Service here in London. There were many departments that fell under the auspices of the broader security organization, and I worked in several different ones. I don't know if this will surprise you, but many, many women worked for the Secret Service--tens of thousands in London alone."
"I was not aware that such numbers were involved."
"The men were off fighting; and if they weren't, and they happened to be able-bodied, they were under suspicion anyway. Of course there were some rather tedious jobs there--intercepting mail from overseas, breaking codes, and so on; but at the same time, women were working on matters of great significance." Thomas paused. "The interesting thing is that one wasn't heavily interrogated prior to being offered a job. They were more interested in where you were educated, who your father was, and what you could do for them. In any case, as time went on, and more and more intelligence was coming through about the situation in Belgium, I realized I wanted to be with my family there. I wanted to save them." She gave a half-laugh and looked away for a few seconds before continuing. "There were intelligence groups working all over the Low Countries and northern France, and I thought I would make a good soldier--I was young, I speak several languages fluently, and I was filled with a desire to do more than sit at a desk and go through letters that might be coded."
"How did you get to Belgium?"
"By parting with some money--a good deal of money, actually. I resigned my position and was smuggled into the country and to my grandmother's house. I speak both Dutch and French Flemish, so I could easily blend into the community. And it didn't take me long to make contact with a group of what you might call resistance agents. Then in 1917 I joined a somewhat new organization called La Dame Blanche--The White Lady. It was a highly structured movement--we were organized along military lines--and we were financed by the British government."
Maisie nodded. She remembered seeing a folder labeled "La Dame Blanche" inside a box in the cellar of The Dower House. She had assumed it was something to do with Maurice's family.
"You might be interested to know that women of all ages were part of La Dame Blanche--our leaders were aware that the men could all be captured, rounded up, so there was a plan in place for the work to continue if that happened."
"What did you do?"
"As soldiers--for that is what we were, what we considered ourselves to be--we were responsible for almost every kind of intelligence work, up to and including assassination, if that was what the job required." She leaned forward again. "You must understand, Miss Dobbs, many of our number also held down jobs; they were teachers, doctors, farmworkers, shop assistants. Children as young as eight or nine, and elders in their eighties all played a part. Intelligence was filtered via British contacts, or through the Netherlands in particular." She paused, picking a speck of lint from her cuff with perfectly manicured nails. "Our agents hardly slept--they reported on troop movements, they committed acts of sabotage, and they consorted with the enemy, if they had to. They gave their lives so thousands could be spared."
Maisie nodded, waiting for the words to come with which to frame a question or make a comment. "Such bravery is often forgotten when peace is restored and lives and communities are rebuilt."
"Those who gave their lives are never forgotten, though. We have, both of us, experienced death in wartime, Miss Dobbs, and I am determined to do all I can to see that it does not happen again. The shadow of The White Lady lingers, ready to be reconstituted and put into service if necessary. My job, at the moment, is to coordinate intelligence from our people around Europe regarding the activities of various groups who threaten a fragile peace--and, of course, I am a lecturer at the College of St. Francis, which is certainly an interesting place to be at the moment."
"You were at the debate last night."
"Yes, and what a debacle for Matthias! Poor Matthias--he wants so much to be an instrument of peace, to live by the Prayer of St. Francis, but he is somewhat misguided when it comes to the motivations of certain people."
"Robson Headley?"
She shook her head. "Headstrong Headley and his lover, the very spoiled Miss Lang."
"You think they're dangerous?"
"They are dangerous with their rhetoric, and they are dangerous in who they know and consort with--which is why they came to my attention. But you must realize, Miss Dobbs, that the college was of interest to me not because of some of the people within the establishment, but due to its placement. It's a good viewing platform for a town of many colleges, and, through academic affiliations, has also given me access to other such places around the country."
"Do you have any idea who murdered Greville Liddicote?"
"I know he wasn't universally liked, though he tried his best--and he did very well, in fact, if you look at the college--to overcome past mistakes." She leaned back in her chair. "Liddicote was a man of contradictions. He was not in favor of the war--we discussed this on several occasions--and he thought there should have been a more concerted effort on the part of our government to bring an end to the conflict; it was so bloody pointless. And at the same time, he was an expert on medieval literature, and he wrote his children's books. He was drawn to some artistically inclined people who are quite well known, Miss Dobbs, and he wanted recognition. So even though his motivations were true enough, that desire led him to make more than a few errors of judgment--and ultimately, he lied."
"Who do you think hated him?"
"His secretary, for a start. Miss Rosemary Linden--though we both know that's not her real name. She would have liked to see him dead."
"Anyone else?"
"Dunstan Headley--but then Dunstan Headley doesn't care for many people, especially women. In fact, Headley is something of a woman-hater."
"A woman-hater?"
"Yes. He hates the idea of women in any position of responsibility. He is so filled with hatred and anger over the death of his eldest son, he doesn't know how to live with himself. He blamed his first wife for his son enlisting in the army--don't believe what you might have heard about her dying; she left him for an army officer when their son was young. Apparently the boy joined the army to make his mother proud, something of that order. It was his second wife who committed the sin of dying on him, hence the complete indulgence you see in Robson. He hates Delphine Lang, given her Austrian parentage; I would like to be a fly on the wall in the Headley household today."
"Yes, he seemed about to explode at the debate yesterday."
"And he'll definitely explode if he discovers that she was only offered the job in the first place because she's Roth's niece--his sister's daughter. Roth can't be happy about having to send her home to her parents, and I bet he's none too pleased about Robson Headley, either."
Maisie nodded. "Oh, of course! That explains Roth's affection for Lang."
Thomas inclined her head to acknowledge the piece of information clicking into the puzzle for Maisie. She said nothing for a while, then went on. "You've found Miss Linden, I take it?"
"Caring for her rather ill mother, along with her brothers and sister."
"You may wish to talk to her again. The last time I saw her before Greville was murdered, she was conversing at great length with Dunstan Headley, in the grounds, along the meditation walk."
Thomas requested sandwiches and glasses of water to be brought to her office, and over this simple lunch they talked about the clouds that seemed to be forming over Germany, clouds that appeared to have been observed with some indifference by those in power. When coffee was brought to the room, Maisie sipped from her cup and felt she knew Thomas well enough to ask a personal question.
"Were you ever married, Dr. Thomas?"
The woman smiled. "Yes, I was. I was marrie
d to one of my fellow agents, a very brave young man. His name was Dietger. I loved him dearly, but love in the midst of war is always more urgent, more undiluted by the ordinary responsibilities of marriage which most couples encounter. I was widowed when he was captured by the German army."
"I am so sorry."
She rubbed her upper arms, as if cold. "It is something we all lived with. He gave his life and it made me an even more determined fighter." She untied the scarf at her neck to reveal the scar Maisie had seen when she first came to the college. "I sought my revenge, and won--but I have this to show for my trouble. I found out who was responsible for my husband's death, and I lured him to his end. I killed him with my bare hands, and almost lost my life in return. I buried him with the strength I had left, and I went back to work."
Maisie realized that the woman before her would continue to seek her revenge; what she had seen and done in the war had all but hollowed her heart. It was evident that Francesca Thomas would not hesitate to kill again to save the countrymen she considered her people.
You will remember that all that we have discussed must be very tightly held," said Thomas, as Maisie departed in the late afternoon.
"I gave you my word."
"Good." She smiled, and whispered, "You know, the propaganda men would have everyone believe that women agents were little more than Mata Haris who gave their bodies for information. Now you know we gave our hearts--and we worked as hard and took as many chances as our men."
Maisie walked back to her motor car, having pulled down her cloche again. She had just unlocked the MG, when, as if on cue, a black vehicle pulled up alongside. The driver stepped out and opened the back door with haste.
"Miss Dobbs--step in, please."
Maisie locked the MG, then took a seat in the motor car, next to Brian Huntley.
"Having me followed, Mr. Huntley?"
"A fortuitous sighting as I was leaving a colleague's office."
"Of course it was. I was looking forward to seeing you this evening--does this mean that I won't have the pleasure of supper with you, Mr. Huntley?"