A Lesson in Secrets

  "Sadly, it does. But I am sure you can spare some time now to assure me that you haven't done or said anything that might run counter to your signing of the Official Secrets Act."

  "Absolutely not."

  "Good."

  "Any news, Miss Dobbs?"

  Maisie recounted the events of the previous evening, and Robson Headley's display of support for a regime that had not come to power in Germany but seemed to be stoking a fierce mood among the people, which, she thought, was of grave concern.

  "Are you sure it's not just youthful support for something new? Young people are wont to see the world in black and white, and to be taken with revolutionary ideas."

  "He is almost twenty-five years old! He is not just out of short trousers, and knows very well what he is doing. Men younger than he were laying down their lives in the war--and I am sure they saw a good deal of gray amid the black and white--" Maisie stopped herself, concerned that she had spoken out of turn.

  "Point very well taken, Miss Dobbs. You have done exactly as I asked." He ruffled through some papers as the motor car swung around Buckingham Palace. "Have you observed any activities that might give rise to suspicion that there is Bolshevik activity at the college, or any other college in Cambridge?"

  "I have seen nothing to suggest there is a 'red menace' at the College of St. Francis--yet. However, in my opinion your department must be on the alert and not simply focus your concern on one strand of political belief. I realize the Communist threat is uppermost in the minds of the Secret Service, but you cannot rule out fascism as the greater threat to peace in the short term." She turned to face Huntley. "You see, I believe the two go together. There will be those who see the likes of Robson Headley--and, further up the scale, of Adolf Hitler and Oswald Mosley--and they will be angered or scared by their rhetoric, so they will look to support what they believe to be the opposite, which is communism. And I'm not only talking about the young and impressionable, though they are the subject of our investigation at the moment."

  "I see. Well, you've made your point in no uncertain terms, Miss Dobbs." He cleared his throat. "I realize MacFarlane and Stratton are still engaged in the investigation into Greville Liddicote's death, and of course you were instructed not to become involved, but I know you a little better, I think--do you know who murdered Liddicote?"

  Maisie looked at Huntley. "Ah, now that is a good question. I need to uncover some sort of proof, but I do believe I have a good idea of who took Liddicote's life. However, there are others who are equally culpable."

  "In what way?"

  "I don't think I can tell you that, Mr. Huntley. Not without compromising the very promise I have made to you."

  "Well said, Miss Dobbs. Very well said."

  The black motor car came to a halt alongside Maisie's crimson MG. She opened the door and exited before the driver could assist her.

  "Be in touch, Miss Dobbs." The vehicle pulled away before Maisie could respond.

  She hoped Billy was still at the office; her next stop was Fitzroy Square. It was time to find out if there was news of the search for Sandra.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Has Caldwell come up with anything?" Maisie had taken off her hat and now sat at her desk, with Billy seated opposite her as she leafed through messages and unopened post. "What did he say this morning when you spoke to him?"

  "Turns out this bloke that Sandra was on to is a right one--just like you said. He's reeled him in, along with Reg Martin, though apparently Reg is as scared as they come. It was protection, as I said--and it went wrong. That poor girl."

  "But does anyone have any idea where she is? She must be terrified--that's if Walling hasn't had her picked up somewhere and silenced." She pushed the pile of paper to one side.

  "Miss, you don't think--"

  "I know, I'm not being very rational, am I? I'm terribly worried about her; I hope she's just gone to ground somewhere--but where?"

  They were silent for a while. Maisie was concerned with all there was to be accomplished in just a short time. Tomorrow she would return to Ipswich, and afterward--dependent upon the outcome of her business in Knowsley--straight back to Cambridge to find MacFarlane and Stratton.

  "And there was another telephone call from that Miss Robinson at the Compton Corporation again."

  Maisie looked up. "Oh yes, I'm to collect a letter. It seems using a bag that goes back and forth to their offices in Toronto is now the best way for me to receive mail from James. I was supposed to get in touch with her at the beginning of the week, wasn't I? But I just didn't have the time--and I so wanted to pick up the letter. I wonder why they couldn't have simply had it brought over by messenger?"

  "Might have a nice little present in it, eh? That aside, she wants to know when you can go over and pick it up."

  "Does she, now?" Maisie stood up. "I'm just going along the corridor to splash some cold water on my face--would you mind giving her a telephone call, Billy? Tell her I will be over before half past six, if that's all right."

  "She did sound a bit anxious, as if it were burning a hole in the desk."

  Maisie laughed. "It might well be doing just that!"

  She returned to the office ten minutes later to be informed by Billy that she was expected at the Compton Corporation, where Miss Robinson was awaiting her arrival. She looked at the clock. "I'd better be off, then. I don't want to be late for the very efficient Miss Robinson, do I?"

  Despite her recent doubts, Maisie realized that she had been missing James more than ever over the past few days. When he was at home with her, there was no echoing silence in the flat, and their excursions at the week's end--to Chelstone, or to Pricilla's country house--seemed to be filled with a heady blend of deep conversation and laughter. Yes, she looked forward to his homecoming.

  Miss Robinson, I'm sorry to keep you waiting," said Maisie as she entered the secretary's fiefdom, a spacious anteroom to James' office. Since taking over the running of the Compton Corporation, James had embarked upon a program of modernization at the offices, and had started with his own. The walls had recently been painted in a creamy white, and the mahogany furniture was of a modern design, with smooth corners and chrome fittings. The decor reminded Maisie of a ship; she thought it might have seemed impersonal had it not been for the bouquet of flowers in a vase on the secretary's desk, and a large tapestry of geometric shapes mounted on the wall behind.

  "I had trouble parking, what with one thing and another," added Maisie. "You must be dying to get home at this time on a Friday."

  The woman smiled, but there was something in her expression that caused Maisie to wonder if all was well.

  "Is everything all right? I mean, I am terribly sorry if you were meant to be somewhere. After all--I could have waited, and--"

  Miss Robinson picked up the telephone as if to place a call that could not wait. She held out her hand towards the door that led to James' office.

  "If you'd like to go in, Miss Dobbs, your letter is on the table."

  "Are you sure?" asked Maisie. "I mean, I don't want to just charge into the office."

  "No, it's perfectly all right. On you go." She waved in a way that made Maisie feel as if she were a schoolgirl who had just been dismissed by the headmistress.

  Maisie placed her hand on the large chrome door handle, and as she pressed her weight against the door, she looked back at Miss Robinson, who was watching her, smiling. She waved her hand again. Maisie nodded and walked in.

  Her shock at seeing James Compton coming towards her with his arms open almost caused her to faint. The table before her was covered with packages.

  "James! James Compton, you rogue!" She was soon in his embrace. "You have been here all the time!"

  James kissed her, but soon she pushed back from him to speak. "You sent that letter from here!" She laughed, knowing that once upon a time she would have been devastated by such a trick. "Why didn't you tell me you were home? What are you up to? Apart from committing a crime in the eyes
of the post office, that is."

  "A crime?" James laughed as he spoke. "What crime?"

  "You forged a postmark--that's a prison sentence. How did you pull that one off?"

  "Oh, that was easy--I just had Miss Robinson talk nicely to a man at the post office, asking him to smudge a stamp to disguise the franking, and had the letter delivered by hand."

  "But why? Couldn't you just have let me know you were in London?"

  "Ah, it was all part of my grand plan--as much as I wanted to call you the minute I disembarked at Southampton, I was trying to keep a secret, and I made sure anyone who knew I was here in London had sworn on their life not to let the cat out of the bag."

  "What cat? Oh, this doesn't make sense, James."

  "It will when you see your surprise."

  "I think this is all a surprise. Anything more would constitute a shock." She allowed herself to be embraced again. "And what about those?" She nodded towards the packages.

  "Just a few things I thought you'd like, Maisie. Don't worry, nothing extravagant; a few bits and pieces to bring a smile to your face." He looked at his watch. "There was something else I wanted to show you, but I think it will have to wait until tomorrow morning now--too dark outside."

  "This sounds very suspicious."

  "Just a surprise. Now then, shall we load these up in the back of your motor car? We'll stop somewhere for supper, then deliver them to your flat. Do you still have the guest you wrote about?"

  "No, I don't, and I'm worried about her--oh, James, so much has happened since you left."

  "And I suppose you can't tell me the half of it." He gathered up the parcels, handing several smaller ones to Maisie to carry.

  "I can tell you more about Sandra, but not about my other job."

  "Other job?"

  "I shouldn't have said that much. It's an official secret."

  James wanted to linger over a long breakfast the following morning, but Maisie knew she had to leave for Ipswich at around midday if she was to pay another visit to Alice Thurlow.

  "Can't we just sit here on your comfortable sofa, drink our tea, and enjoy the morning? I haven't even had so much as an egg yet, and you've only opened one or two of your presents."

  "Imagine what a surprise it will be when I come home--I can ration them out. In any case, I thought you were anxious to show me something."

  "Absolutely. I'll just be a tick. We'll be off by nine and I will let you go to your urgent appointment if you promise to come straight back afterward."

  Maisie shook her head, then reached out to touch James' arm. "I can't return immediately, but I'll be back at the end of the week. I have a contract I'm committed to, and to leave now would not be wise."

  James held his hand to his heart and gave an exaggerated sigh. Then he smiled and nodded towards the door. "All right, let's go."

  When they reached the edge of Belgravia, James pulled over and stopped the motor car.

  "Now, you have a choice," said James.

  "What sort of choice? You're being very strange, you know."

  "You can either close your eyes and cover them with your hands--or if you can't keep them closed, I'll have to blindfold you."

  "James, you do realize how very edgy this makes me feel, don't you?"

  "You only need to keep them closed for a little while, then my secret can be revealed."

  "All right--but no blindfold. And I promise I won't look." Maisie held her hands to her eyes as they set off again.

  A few moments later, the motor car came to a standstill and Maisie breathed in the air around her. There was a faint loamy smell of fallen leaves, and a light rain on flagstones. There were just a few motor cars and not far away she could hear a horse and cart.

  "Oh dear. Oh, it can't be. James, I know the smells here, I know, it's--"

  "All right, you can look now."

  "Ebury Place!" Maisie all but shouted. "Oh goodness, what are we doing here? Why did you--?"

  And at that point, he turned her around to face number 15 Ebury Place, the house where she had come to work as a young girl, where she had struggled to study despite her duties as a domestic servant. The house had been mothballed when Lady Rowan announced that she did not want to come to London anymore. Sheets covered the furniture, and the property appeared deserted--the last time Maisie drove past, she thought how lonely the house had looked, when it had once been so full of life. And now the mansion was half-shrouded in scaffolding and heavy canvas sheets, and a builder's van was parked outside. A man wearing white overalls and cleaning his hands on a cloth walked towards them.

  "Good morning, sir."

  "Mr. Judge, I thought we'd come and have a look at your progress. How's the job going? Did you have any luck with that door frame?"

  "Yes, we did--took two men to pull it out, but we've solved the problem, and now we're going great guns."

  James turned to Maisie. "Mind where you step now."

  The foreman led the way across the entrance hall and Maisie looked up at the sweeping staircase which led to the first floor. Scaffolding had been erected to enable men to reach the high ceilings and windows; it seemed the mansion was receiving complete refurbishment.

  "When do you think the job will be finished?" James asked the foreman.

  "You should be able to move in by Christmas, all being well."

  "Well done. Tell your men there will be a bonus for them if the work is completed by December twenty-third."

  "I'll do that, sir, and I hope I'm not jeopardizing that bonus when I tell you the men are pretty determined to get the job done anyway."

  Maisie and James exchanged glances, and James smiled. "What do you mean, Mr. Judge? Is everything all right?"

  The man shrugged and reddened. "It's not the sort of thing that would bother me, but some of the lads are a bit uneasy, what with the fact that you've got some haunting going on here."

  James laughed, yet Maisie moved closer to the foreman. "What makes you think this house is haunted?"

  "The noises. Creaking floorboards and all that. And things have gone missing. Ronnie said he could've sworn he had his sandwich box with him when he came in the other morning. He went back out to the van, came back in again, and what do you know--gone!"

  James stepped forward. "Oh, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. I lived in this house almost all my life, and I assure you, if a ghost had crossed paths with my mother, I know who would have been given a fright--and it wouldn't have been Lady Rowan Compton!"

  "Tell me, Mr. Judge, have you been up to the old servants' quarters yet?" asked Maisie. "The attic rooms? There's a back staircase leading up there and a disguised door on every landing."

  "No, we won't get to that part of the house for at least another couple of weeks, and no one's been up there."

  At once Maisie was stepping quickly across the dust sheets, and then along the hallway until she reached a place where she pulled back another dust sheet and opened the door that many a visitor would not have noticed was there.

  "Maisie, where are you going? Maisie! Maisie, have you lost your senses?"

  She could hear James' footsteps behind her, but now she was on the back stairs. Oh, how often she had gone up and down these stairs as a girl, a coal scuttle in hand, stopping on each floor to light the fires in the family's reception rooms. As she made her way up, it was as if she were on a stairway to the past, but now she had only one thing in mind. She was in pursuit of a ghost.

  Almost out of breath by the time she reached the attic floors, she stopped at the room she had once shared with a girl named Enid. She stood outside the door, caught her breath, and knocked with a light hand. She stepped with care across the threshold. To the right was a dressing table, on top of which was the typewriter that had once been placed in the library for the use of guests visiting the mansion--of course, that's why the typeface on her letter from Sandra had seemed so familiar. She moved into the room and sat on the first of two cast-iron beds, reaching out to touch the young wom
an curled on her side with her eyes open, her cheeks red with the feverishness of so many shed tears.

  "It's all right, Sandra. I've got you, you poor love. I've got you." Maisie leaned over and put her arms around the bony frame of Sandra Tapley. "I should have known you would come here. This was your home when you met Eric; it was where you fell in love. I should have known." She waited a while as the sobs ebbed, rubbing Sandra's back as if she were settling a baby for the night. "It's over, Sandra. The police have got him--the man responsible for Eric's death is in custody. You won't be getting into trouble. There, there, it's all done now."

  And as she looked back towards the door, Maisie saw James Compton standing in the doorway.

  "I can't leave her alone at the flat, James," whispered Maisie. "We must take her to Priscilla's. Could you . . ."

  "Yes, I'll find a taxi--and I'll let Priscilla and Douglas know--the telephone's been reconnected downstairs. It's Sandra, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Tell them we've found Sandra."

  Maisie did not trouble Sandra with questions. She could see that the young woman was beyond exhaustion, physically and emotionally, and that her spirit had been battered as if it were a ship in a storm. Now, in the guest room at Priscilla's house, she helped Sandra into the bed and pulled up the sheets and counterpane, cocooning her so that she might sleep. She waited a moment, then tiptoed away, closing the door behind her. Priscilla was waiting for her on the landing.

  "Maisie, you will stay for lunch, won't you? Sandra isn't the only one who looks as if she needs a rest--look at you, I bet you've been rushing about all over the place."

  "I've been busy, Pris. And I have to leave for Ipswich very soon."

  "Ipswich? Ips-bloody-wich! What are you going there for, and leaving that lovely man behind?"

  Maisie put her finger to her mouth. "Shhhh. You'll wake Sandra."

  They walked towards the staircase, but lingered there, still speaking in lowered voices.

  "I tell you, Maisie, you'll lose him if you carry on like this. I mean, it's all very well to be working, if that's what you want to do, but for heaven's sake--that man adores you, and I know you feel the same way; you can't fool me, you know. Can't you stay just one day?"