With the College of St. Francis already in session, students walking to and from their cla.s.ses now filled the previously empty corridors. Maisie could see where the house had been altered here and there to accommodate the needs of a learning inst.i.tution, but thought it still seemed to bear the mark of an intimidating family home designed to be cool in the summer and warm in winter. Sandstone walls were adorned with tapestries, landscapes of the local countryside, and portraits of the masters of knowledge-she suspected the latter had been commissioned especially for the school, as they all appeared to be of the same recent vintage. Maisie took the opportunity to ask a few questions that she had not put to Liddicote.

"Where do the students live, Miss Linden?"

"Those in their first year here live in the dorms over in the east wing. We are a small college, but there are about fifty new students each year-they study at St. Francis for between one and three years."

"So, I take it that after the first year they move into lodgings."

"We have a roster of landladies who meet our standards at boarding houses around the city."

"That must be difficult, when one considers the great number of students here in Cambridge."

Linden led the way up a broad staircase with a grand banister that curved from top to bottom; at both ends the wood had been carved into a globe cradled in two hands. "Our students have a good reputation among the landladies, we administer all rents, and we pay well, so accommodation problems are rarely encountered." She took out a set of keys as they came alongside a door adjacent to the library. "Here we are. Please make yourself comfortable while I find Drs. Thomas and Roth."

The young woman closed the door behind her before Maisie could thank her. Had she not already known something of the property's history, Maisie might have thought the architecture was Elizabethan. Dark wood panels flanked the walls, with a square diamond-paned bay window looking out onto the grounds. A wooden table was situated in the center of the room and could easily have done justice to a medieval banquet, though the leather blotter at each place marked it as a table where the school's business was discussed. Armchairs were cl.u.s.tered around the edge of the room, and above the fireplace the crest of the original occupants of the house continued to be displayed. The crest lent an air of gravity and, from the point of view of the college governors, no doubt, underscored a longevity that such a young educational inst.i.tution could not yet boast.

As she settled on a window seat cushioned with needlepoint pillows, she looked out at the lawns, where a man-wearing brown trousers and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches-and a young blond woman were walking along another path that led into woodland. From the manner in which she used her hands to express herself, together with the way she kept turning to her companion, as if for rea.s.surance, Maisie judged the woman to be in her early twenties. The man was older. Maisie watched as he moved alongside the woman; his stance seemed to imply some level of intimacy-perhaps a father visiting his daughter. He placed a hand on the woman's shoulder at one point and they turned towards each other. As Maisie watched, both the man and the woman looked around as someone whom she could not yet see approached; they stood apart, with the man lifting his chin slightly in greeting, while the woman began to turn away, half-opening a book-Maisie thought it an attempt to suggest that the page in question was the topic of conversation, a hurried movement born of momentary panic. Maisie leaned forward in time to see Miss Linden approach the man. They spoke for just a moment, then the man bade a hasty farewell to the young woman and followed Liddicote's secretary. It came as no surprise when, ten minutes later, Miss Linden returned to the meeting room with the man, Dr. Matthias Roth, and informed them that Dr. Francesca Thomas would join them shortly.

"Miss Dobbs," said Roth, with just a trace of a German accent. "Welcome to our own League of Nations. The neutral Swiss will be here as soon as she's finished her tutorial."

Maisie Dobbs. What have you got for me-you've been a bit quiet, I thought you might have gone off to the Riviera with your friends from Biarritz, or wherever it is." The fact that MacFarlane had deliberately p.r.o.nounced it "Beer-itz" was not lost on Maisie.

Maisie opened the door of the telephone kiosk just enough to allow fresh air to circulate. "My Beer- Beer-itz friends are back in London now; their boys are back in school. But you knew that anyway, didn't you, Robbie?"

The detective laughed. "Too-chay!' His pause was brief. "Got the job yet?"

"Waiting to hear. I've just had my interviews and the powers that be have sent me off for a walk while they put their heads together. This is the way it's done in colleges-they see all the candidates on one day, then they meet and discuss and the final decision is made. My sense is that Liddicote goes through the motions of including other members of staff in his deliberations, but when it comes down to it the decision is his alone."

"Anything out of the ordinary?"

"He gets on his secretary's nerves, but that could be part of his role as the absentminded professor-when he wants to play it. He's a very acute man-despite being genuinely hard of hearing, I think-his stock-in-trade seems to be pressing the unexpected question."

"Anything you know that I don't know about him?"

"Not yet." Maisie coiled the telephone cord around her fingers.

"Who else did you meet?"

"Dr. Roth. He lectures in philosophy and German literature in translation-and in some quarters that's seen as just one subject, not two. And Dr. Francesca Thomas. Roth said she was Swiss, but there is no trace of an accent; she speaks as if she attended Roedean."

"Have you met anyone else?"

"No."

"We already had a staff list, so we know about Roth and Thomas-and as far as we know, there's nothing to concern us about either one. But we'll have another look at Roth, just in case. What did you think of them?"

"Both very approachable," said Maisie, reflecting upon their meeting. "It was more conversational than an interview for a job at the school. Neither of them seemed out to question my shortcomings, or test me in any way, though obviously they asked about my credentials and queried my experience. Without doubt, Thomas is a highly educated woman; she had nothing to prove. Roth was confident-possibly an overconfident teacher-but pleasant." She looked at the clock on the outside of a nearby shop. "I should be getting back."

"Right you are. Telephone when you know the lay of the land," said MacFarlane, by way of good-bye.

As Maisie walked along the corridor on her way to the office, she took the liberty of checking the waiting room to see if the other candidates were still on the premises and was hopeful when it appeared they had left. She informed Miss Linden of her return; the secretary said little before escorting her directly to Greville Liddicote's office.

"Miss Dobbs," said Liddicote, taking her hand in both his own. "Welcome to St. Francis. You've been selected to join us as junior lecturer in philosophy. You are still here, so I take it that you intend to accept our offer."

"Yes, indeed, I'm delighted."

"Come now, the staff are waiting to be introduced."

Miss Linden was offering gla.s.ses of sherry to the staff when Greville Liddicote brought Maisie into the library meeting room. Rapping his knuckles against the wooden table, Liddicote brought the twelve or so gathered to order-Maisie noticed that she was one of only three women, and was surprised there were not more, given the number of women who had entered the teaching profession since the war. Among the staff were a professor of English and American literature visiting from a college in Ohio, and a Swedish lecturer in Greek literature and English fairy tales, as well as Matthias Roth and Francesca Thomas. To her surprise, the young blond woman was introduced as Delphine Lang, a teaching a.s.sistant who had recently graduated from the University of Heidelberg, though in Maisie's estimation she spoke English with a Home Counties accent that could cut gla.s.s as easily as the voice of Dr. Francesca Thomas. And as the welcoming reception went on into the early evening, Maisie noticed Roth making his way towards Delphine Lang, and when she turned to continue her conversation with Francesca Thomas, it was evident that Thomas was following the pair with deep interest.

Chapter Four.

How are you, Miss Dobbs?" inquired Sandra, when Maisie telephoned the office from Cambridge the following morning.

Maisie worried that Sandra's cheery tone sounded forced but thought it best to answer in the same vein. "Very well, though I could have chosen a quieter hotel, I must say. The good news is that I have been offered the position-if Dr. Blanche were here, he would be thrilled." Again, the subterfuge came with ease. "I'll be back in London late this afternoon, after I've found somewhere to live while I'm here. Is everything all right? Did that new client, Mr. Trent, call again yesterday?"

"Yes, and Mr. Beale spoke to him."

"Mr. Beale?"

"Well, as you know, he came back early from hop-picking. Mrs. Beale wasn't feeling very well, so they returned on Sat.u.r.day."

"How is she now-do you know?"

"I think it's just that it's the last month. They say it's the worst; all you want is for it to be over and done with. Not that I'd know anything about having babies."

Maisie heard a catch in her voice and it struck her that, of course, she and Eric had expected to start a family; Sandra had probably hoped to have a child soon.

"Is Mr. Beale there?"

"No. I expect he's got his hands full."

"Yes, of course. Well, when he comes in, tell him I'll be back later. Everything else all right?"

"There was a telephone call from Canada. It was very strange, the operator saying she had Mr. Compton on the line for Miss Dobbs, but it was as if she was talking through cardboard, and her voice kept coming and going."

"Yes, that happens on those telephone calls."

"Anyway, I told her you were out and she said 'Thank you' and went."

"He doesn't know there's a telephone at home yet."

Maisie was aware that she had referred to James Compton as "he"-and she knew it was because she did not want to use his t.i.tle. As the son of a man who had several t.i.tles-but who preferred to be known simply as "Lord Julian Compton"-and a mother who laid claim to her own t.i.tle, James had been bestowed the t.i.tle "Viscount Compton," a form of address that Maisie found both fussy and intimidating. Upon his father's death he would inherit t.i.tles and lands, yet she knew that in certain circles-especially in commercial circles, and more particularly when on business in Canada-James was happy to introduce himself as "Mr. Compton," even though those he met knew exactly who he was.

"Oh, speaking of the telephone at home, Mr. Beale came round to the flat to check the new line you've had put in. He knows some of the engineers who installed lines around the Pimlico area, so he was able to get into a junction box-or something like that-and check the lines from there."

"Did he find anything untoward?"

"He said he wasn't one hundred percent sure, but he thought you should be careful about what you say on the telephone. He had his mate with him, and they said it looked like someone had been working on that box who wasn't a proper GPO engineer. It was clear enough to see, he said, because you don't have a party line."

"No, I wanted a private line to my flat-frankly, more for personal telephone calls. Anyway, point taken. I'll speak to Billy about it when I see him."

Having looked at three vacant rooms, Maisie paid a deposit to the landlady of a boarding house closer to the center of Cambridge, yet within easy reach of the College of St. Francis. Though she could now afford much more comfortable surroundings, she did not want to seem ostentatious. In any case, her room-the front bedroom in a double-fronted Edwardian villa with large bay windows and a staircase that swept up through the center of the house to the two floors above-was clean and comfortable. There was a double bed with a floral eiderdown and counterpane, an armchair with a slightly worn floral cover-which did not match the counterpane or the eiderdown-and a desk in the corner with an angle-poise lamp. She hoped it would help to throw light on whatever Huntley and MacFarlane suspected might be going on at St. Francis College that was "not in the interests of the Crown."

Her lodgings secured with a deposit and one month's rent, Maisie thought she would meander around Cambridge-a walk down memory lane to some of the places she'd enjoyed when she was a student at Girton College. Her early days there did not afford the opportunity to socialize much beyond the college, though Priscilla had certainly accepted every invitation that came her way and seemed to know a great number of people. So many of those young men, including Priscilla's three brothers, had died in the war. Maisie walked along the Backs, watching a younger set larking around on punts. They were just boys, she thought. All just boys. All just boys.

She continued on her walk, looking in shopwindows and leafing through magazines in a newsagent's, before deciding it was time to drive back to London. She remembered a shortcut between a row of houses, across a bridge, and then a park. It was as she set foot in the park that she noticed a young couple holding hands under a tree. They might not have attracted her attention at all had not Delphine Lang's blond hair caught her eye. Maisie moved into the shadow of a tree to continue on her way-she did not want Lang to see her, as it was clear that this was an a.s.signation Lang and her male friend were trying to keep secret by meeting in a park used, for the most part, by local people. She could not avoid, however, noticing that Delphine Lang was weeping and that her male friend had drawn her to him to soothe her.

It was on Maisie's final day in the office before her departure for Cambridge that Geoffrey Tinsley came to Fitzroy Square.

"I thought I would come over with the book you asked me to acquire for you. I was lucky to find a copy, you know." The bookseller-whom Maisie had first met at his bookshop on Charing Cross Road while working on a case at the end of the previous year-unwrapped a book with a burgundy cloth cover. There was no dust jacket, but the front was embossed with an ill.u.s.tration of three children standing together, looking up at a soldier. Behind the soldier were rows of crosses diminishing in size to suggest a battlefield cemetery.

Maisie took the book from him and ran her hand across the cover.

"Rather startled me, to tell you the truth," said Tinsley. "I had heard of Liddicote's children's books-indeed, we have several on our shelves-but this one is very hard to come by. I obtained it from an overseas dealer-quite a stroke of luck-that's why it's taken me a while since your inquiry; almost all copies were taken out of circulation."

Maisie turned the pages, drawn to the stark ill.u.s.trations depicting first a family receiving news of a father lost, then in the next chapter, a gathering of children. Another showed the children sailing for France, with the caption "Poor little mites-looking for their fathers."

"Some of the pages are foxed, and there's that damp smell-it will eventually abate if you leave the book where it can get some air, but I would caution you not to leave it exposed to the light. Don't put it out on a table near the window, that sort of thing. I didn't provide a new jacket, as I knew you would want to see the embossing, but I can certainly have the cover boards wrapped for you."

"Not to worry, I can do that."

"It's an interesting book, considering the trouble it caused."

Maisie looked up. "I've heard something about the 'trouble,' but I wonder what you've heard."

Tinsley shrugged. "Well, as you know, copies were withdrawn from distribution under government order, and I understand that there was talk of the author being charged with sedition. It clearly didn't come to that-I think everyone wanted the book's reputation to be swept under the carpet. But there's a rumor attached to the book-a couple, actually."

"Go on."

"The first is that Greville Liddicote was not the author. The second rumor is that this book was at the heart of a mutiny on the Western Front, in 1916 or '17."

"A mutiny?"

"It's just talk-such things are covered up, everyone sworn to secrecy and that sort of thing. If mutinies happened, there will never be any public knowledge of them: well, certainly not in our lifetime." He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I must be going. I left a note on the door that I would be back by one o'clock, and if I don't dash now, I will be late. It's not that I'm crushed by customers trying to get into my shop, but I don't want to miss the one customer of the day who is waiting for me to return on time."

Maisie looked across towards her new secretary. "Sandra, would you settle Mr. Tinsley's bill from petty cash?"

"Right you are, Miss Dobbs."

When the bookseller had left, Maisie sat down, unable to dismiss the urge to begin reading the book written by Greville Liddicote that had caused so much trouble.

"This envelope was delivered for you while you were talking to Mr. Tinsley." Sandra pa.s.sed a brown envelope towards Maisie.

"Ah, yes, I think this is what I've been waiting for. By the way, what time will Mr. Beale be back in the office?"

"He said by two-he's had to go over to see someone in connection with the Richards case."

"Good. You should pop out for something to eat, Sandra."

"Thank you, Miss." Sandra placed a brown cloth cover over her typewriter; gathered her hat, jacket, and gloves; and left the office. "I'll see you in half an hour, then. Would you like me to bring you something, Miss?"

"No, not to worry-I'll go out myself later; there'll be something at the dairy that takes my fancy." Maisie smiled at Sandra. "What time will you be leaving to go to the Partridges?"

"Not until later on today, but he wants me to stay on for a while this evening, if I can. He says he's got a deadline."

When Sandra had left the office, Maisie picked up the paper knife on her desk and slit open the large envelope. She'd already received similar communications, in plain envelopes at her request, from several building firms-Taylor Woodrow, George Wimpey, and John Laing among them. This letter, from a smaller company building new houses in the Borough of Woolwich, "within easy commuting distance of the City," opened with thanks for her inquiry and stated that the "show home" on an estate of new family houses in which she had expressed interest-Tudor-style semidetached properties complete with indoor plumbing and gardens front and back-was now ready for viewing. It went on to add that Eltham was a wonderful town for family life, offering the Eltham Park Lido and numerous parks. Just one pound down and twenty-five pounds at completion of contracts would secure a home for "today's family." A personal note added that her specific question regarding a greater deposit to reduce mortgage repayments had been noted, and on a separate sheet she could peruse the figures, which made home ownership a possibility "for almost any modern family."

"And that's a downright lie!" said Maisie aloud to herself, as she thought of the many men she saw on the streets each day, walking from factory to factory, from the docks to the building sites-men wearing out shoe leather looking for work. But there was only one family she had in mind for a new house, a family about to add one more mouth to feed, a family with a father too proud to accept "other people's charity." She had been the recipient of great generosity when her mentor, Dr. Maurice Blanche, died; in his will he had left her almost his entire estate. She was now in a position to help her a.s.sistant. But until she had worked out how she might open the discussion with Billy once again, she would have to keep her plans to herself.

Settling into her new lodgings and college life came more easily than Maisie expected. Her preparations served her well, and at the end of the first week-during which time she had taught three cla.s.ses each day, and had been able to reintroduce herself to other members of staff during morning coffee and afternoon tea in the staff room-she was summoned to a meeting with Greville Liddicote. When she arrived at his secretary's office, she could hear Rosemary Linden speaking on the telephone, so she stepped back to wait in the corridor. Sound echoed from the office, which had frosted gla.s.s windows atop dark wood wainscoting facing the corridor.

"I am terribly sorry, Professor Larkin, but Dr. Liddicote couldn't meet with you this morning after all." There was a pause. "Yes, I know it's urgent, and I have conveyed your message that you wish to see him at his earliest convenience ... Yes ... yes, indeed, sir, I will most certainly... of course ... Dr. Liddicote is completely aware of the urgency of the sit-Thank you, I'll tell him."

The call having ended, Maisie waited a moment, then knocked on the office door.

"Ah, yes, Miss Dobbs," said Rosemary Linden. "Dr. Liddicote is in conference at the moment, so you'll have to wait outside-he'll be finished soon, I daresay, and it's the best place to wait to avoid someone else weaseling in before you. Everyone seems to think that what they have to say is urgent today." The previously dour secretary seemed to have softened somewhat, now that Maisie was a member of staff. Though she wasn't what might be termed "pally," she appeared more inclined to greet Maisie with a "Good morning" and a smile.

There was a plain, dark oak settle with needlepoint cushions outside Liddicote's office, and Maisie waited here for his meeting to end. She took four exercise books from her new leather briefcase and began to read through essays submitted by the morning cla.s.s, but became distracted when the mumble of voices from Liddicote's office became louder and more urgent. She could not make out the cause of the argument, only the harsh tones as two men argued.

"You're a fool, Roth, if you think that-"

"Dr. Liddicote, far be it from me to say this, but it is you who are the fool."

As the voices were raised, Miss Linden emerged from her office and walked briskly to Liddicote's door, knocked, and stepped just inside the room. Maisie kept her eyes on her work.

"Miss Dobbs is waiting for you, Dr. Liddicote."

"Yes, of course. Roth, do not do anything until I have considered this further."

Maisie heard a sound that she thought was Roth snapping his heels as he emerged from the room, ignoring Maisie as he walked along the corridor and out into the grounds. It took no special observation skills to see that Roth held within him both anger and disappointment, for there were tears in his eyes.

"Come in, Miss Dobbs." Linden waved Maisie into the room, with a brief suggestion of a smile as she closed the door behind her.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Dobbs. Please sit down." Liddicote nodded towards the visitor's seat.

When they were both seated, Liddicote leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment as if to banish the previous conversation. His face seemed flushed, and he placed a hand against his chest as if to settle his heart. Maisie was about to ask if he felt unwell, when he opened his eyes and gave a forced smile.

"How are you faring?"

"I think the first week has gone well so far." Maisie offered no more, waiting for Liddicote's lead.

"I've heard on the college grapevine that the response to your lessons is good, and other lecturers have noted your professionalism in your role. We are happy to have you here at St. Francis."