"You're dignified enough, Miss Dobbs."
"I shall take that as a compliment." She took a number of plain index cards and a red pencil from her document case as he opened the door and yelled into the corridor. "A pot of tea wouldn't go amiss in here, or has the tea boat gone down in high tide on the bloody Thames?"
Maisie pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Despite herself, she liked MacFarlane, and she knew he had regard for her--and she rather hoped he might have plans to ask her to work with the Branch again. Such a role was not for the fainthearted, but there was an edge to it that challenged her. And she liked the idea of a new challenge. When she thought about it, her life had softened in the past couple of months, and she realized, while listening to MacFarlane bellow along the corridor, that she needed a sharp edge or two to keep her on her toes. Soft didn't suit her.
"There, that's put a firework under a few rumps. Can't abide that afternoon lull--shake them up a bit, that's what I say." MacFarlane came back into the room and shut the door behind him before taking a seat opposite Maisie. He said nothing for a moment, and simply looked at her, as if taking her measure. She looked him in the eye without flinching, and without breaking the silence.
"You miss the old boy?"
Maisie nodded. "Yes, I miss Maurice very much indeed."
"Hard shoes to fill in anyone's book." He paused. "I remember when the man who brought me into the force passed on. Like losing a father it was." He sighed. "I started off on the beat in Glasgow, you know. I don't mind admitting I'd been a bit of a tearaway before joining the force; it was a man by the name of Calum Guthrie who sorted me out and set me on the right path. I wept like a wee bairn when he died." A knock at the door interrupted MacFarlane's reminiscence, and a young policeman entered with a tray. As he set the tray on the table, Maisie noted the fact that it was set for three.
"Ah, so someone's joining us. How delightful."
MacFarlane nodded and glanced at the wooden schoolhouse clock above the door. "Any minute now. And as delightful as they come."
"So we've only a moment or two to chat before he or she gets here."
"He. And he'll be here on the dot of three--you were early."
"I'll pour." Maisie reached forward to pour tea for herself and MacFarlane. As she passed the cup to him, the clock struck the hour, and there was sharp knock at the door.
MacFarlane stood as the door opened, and Maisie looked up to see a tall man, distinguished in a very English aristocratic way, enter the room. His dark-blue suit had the merest pinstripe, his white shirt still bore a faint scent of starch, and his shoes shone like a just-polished gun barrel. He wore a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, and his tie bore the insignia of the Household Cavalry. Their eyes met and Maisie stood up and held out her hand--she wanted to stand tall to greet this particular guest.
"Mr. Huntley. This is indeed a surprise."
"Miss Dobbs." He handed his mackintosh and hat to the constable, and shook her hand. "We had little time to speak at the funeral. Though expected, Maurice's death came as a shock all the same."
She nodded as a lump seemed to swell in her throat, preventing an appropriate reply.
Maisie had first met Brian Huntley in France two years earlier. She had traveled to a region in the country to look into the case of a missing wartime aviator, an investigation that had dovetailed with a personal assignment on behalf of her friend Priscilla Partridge, nee Evernden, who had asked her to help solve the lingering question of her brother's death in the war. Maisie discovered that Peter Evernden had been assigned to the intelligence corps, and soon after, she realized she was being followed. In Paris she was apprehended by none other than Brian Huntley--a Secret Service agent who was reporting directly to Maurice Blanche. It was a case that revealed to Maisie the extent of her mentor's involvement in matters connected with the defense of the realm; the fact that he had not trusted her with this information drove a wedge in their relationship. It was a fissure that was healed by the time Maurice passed away, and for that Maisie was ever grateful. Now it seemed that Brian Huntley was in an even more senior position, and he wanted to see her.
Maisie looked at the two men and took the initiative. "Gentlemen, shall we begin? Perhaps you can start by telling me why I have been followed for some ten days now."
"Robbie, perhaps you'd like to start," said Huntley.
It seemed to Maisie that Huntley had assumed a certain superiority in the conversation, with his chummy manner towards the detective chief superintendent. She felt ill at ease in Huntley's company, but she remembered how he was well respected by Maurice, and such esteem would have been well earned.
MacFarlane turned towards Maisie. "Miss Dobbs, would you be so kind as to tell us when you first noted that you were being followed, and recount the instances since that initial realization that you were under surveillance?'
Maisie looked from MacFarlane to Huntley. She nodded. Ah, so that was the game. She had been tested.
"It was a week ago last Friday. I was in my office and when I looked out of the window, I noticed a man on the other side of the square. I am sure he thought that he was well hidden by foliage, but I noticed him immediately."
"What made you suspicious?"
"His manner, his way of moving as he walked around the square. He appeared to be looking at the houses, much as one might appraise an area if one were looking to rent a flat. But his carriage revealed him to be a man of secrets--a slight roll of the shoulders inward definitely the mark of one who is protective of something; in this case it was his assignment."
"And then?"
"I decided to test my theory, so I left the office to walk in the direction of Tottenham Court Road--it's invariably busy and wider than most streets, and it has many shop windows in which to see a reflection." She looked at her inquisitors in turn. "In my estimation, Mr. Huntley, Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane--"
"Robbie, please. The title and the name form a veritable mouthful together, and we've only got so much time."
"Thank you--Robbie." She cleared her throat and went on. "In my estimation there were two men working together, and one woman, and they were using a method of surveillance that I have always thought of as something like a cat's cradle, in the way that agents move to and fro, zigzagging across the road. Initially I was followed by the man I had already seen in Fitzroy Square; then a man walking in front of me stopped to look in a shopwindow. At that point a woman crossed from the opposite side of the road as the man behind walked past me, and she took his place. The man who had stopped then took up a position on the opposite side of the road again, and so it went on--one person stopped, and they all changed places. I entered Goodge Street station, bought a ticket, and went through the turnstile, but a group of students--I assume they were students--managed to get into the queue before the people following me. And yet all three were on the platform just seconds behind me, and before the students. I suspect their warrant cards had gained them immediate access to the platform." Maisie looked from Huntley to MacFarlane. "Am I right?"
Huntley gave no indication as to the accuracy of Maisie's account. "And then?"
"On that occasion I simply traveled on the underground for a while, visited a friend's office, just to make it seem as if I had been on a genuine errand, and then returned to Fitzroy Square."
"Not exactly to Fitzroy Square, though," said MacFarlane.
"No, I made a detour to Burlington Arcade. My document case was destroyed some months ago and I thought it was about time I bought another, so I went along to the arcade and purchased a new one. And of course, it was interesting, observing the way in which your agents arranged themselves in the arcade."
"And then?"
"I made my way back to Tottenham Court Road, and before returning to the office I stopped in Heals and bought a--" She held out a hand to Huntley. "Your turn."
"Sofa. You bought a sofa. Very nice, too."
"My flat is somewhat spartan; I felt
it needed something a little more welcoming in the drawing room."
"Did you see the men again?"
"Do you wish me to give you a complete list?" She faced MacFarlane. "Robbie?"
"A brief synopsis will do," interjected Huntley.
Maisie sighed. "The GPO van outside the block of flats where I live in Pimlico provided a cover for two men working on the connection to the flats. I do hope I don't have to have my new telephone ripped out for fear that you are listening to every call."
"Go on." Huntley did not look up as he spoke but continued looking through a dossier that lay open on his knee.
"I was followed to and from work, and down to my house on the Chelstone Manor estate last Friday. I'd finally had enough during the journey back to London this morning, which was when I intercepted two men and gave a message to pass on to Det--to Robbie."
Huntley looked up, smiling. "And as I said to Robbie here, I thought taking the driver's wallet from the poor man's inside pocket was a little forward."
Maisie did not return his smile. "I'm sure you did, Mr. Huntley. I catch on fairly quickly. You should have remembered that you did not go undetected in France."
"Quite right. Very impressive."
"What's this all about?" asked MacFarlane.
Huntley ignored the question as he folded the dossier, placed it on the table, and leaned back in his chair. "To get right to the point, Miss Dobbs, we have a job for you. This meeting is in absolute confidence, as I am sure you understand. I know I have no need to say that, but I am required to, and I am also required to ask you to sign documents to that effect at the end of this meeting."
Maisie nodded.
"Special Branch is involved, given that this assignment pertains not only to matters of interest to my department, but to the problem of aliens entering Britain for purposes that might not be as described to authorities at the ports of entry--which as you know comes under the purview of Special Branch." Huntley opened the dossier and handed Maisie a clutch of papers, each stamped with Official: Top Secret. "You will see that this report details the activities of one Greville Liddicote."
"I've heard of him," said Maisie. "Wasn't he a Senior Fellow at Cambridge who made a good deal of money writing children's books in his spare time? I seem to remember he upset the applecart when he wrote a book which clearly expressed his position against the war, in 1916 or '17."
"Same man," interjected MacFarlane.
Huntley continued. "He resigned his position at Cambridge in late 1917--it's generally thought he was asked to do so--and he went on to found a college, also in Cambridge, in 1920."
Maisie nodded.
"The book that got him into so much trouble was an embarrassment for His Majesty's government," said Huntley. "It was a controversial story about a group of fatherless children who go to live in the woods, and who decide to journey to France to end the war."
"That doesn't sound too inflammatory to me, though I haven't read the book," said Maisie.
"We managed to have most copies confiscated; however, there was an efficient underground acquisition of books by various pacifist organizations--the last decade, as you probably know, has seen a significant rise in the number of such groups. While it appears at first blush to be fairly harmless, the book was written in such a way as to undermine morale both on the home front and indeed on the battlefield, should it have reached the hands of serving men. The plight of orphaned children will always tug at the heartstrings, so we circumvented the distribution to the extent that we could. We did not want the books reaching men in the ranks. Even those with limited literacy would be able to understand a children's book."
"I understand," said Maisie. She did not care for Huntley's tone regarding the "men in the ranks," but made a mental note to see one or two booksellers who she thought might be able to acquire a copy of the offending book.
Huntley glanced at his notes again. "The College of St. Francis was founded by Liddicote on the back of donations made to him by the wealthy parents of several young men who were killed in the war, and who were his students at Cambridge. It is housed in what was once a rather substantial grand house on the outskirts of the city--the property itself was a donation from the grandparent of one of those unfortunate young men--and Liddicote began to recruit students, who come from the seven corners of the world to better their proficiency in the English language and to study English and European literature and the moral sciences. It is no secret that an emphasis on the maintenance of peace in Europe underpins much of the teaching. I should add that proximity to the long-established hallowed halls of learning in Cambridge makes it an attractive proposition to those who wish to have an immersion in the culture of our nation--and as a bonus they can always say they were 'educated in Cambridge,' without giving details."
"You were an Oxford man, weren't you, Mr. Huntley?"
"Guilty, as charged."
"It was that slight acidity of the tongue when you spoke of Cambridge."
"Let it be said that neither of your good seats of learning could be as acid as the school of hard knocks where I come from," said MacFarlane.
"Quite," said Huntley.
Maisie leaned forward to pour more tea. "So, how can I help you?"
"We--Special Branch and the office of which I am a representative--believe that the school and its activities are worthy of more detailed investigation, though we do not wish our inquiries to be transparent to Liddicote or the students. That's where you come in, Miss Dobbs."
"How?"
"An advertisement has been placed in The Times Educational Supplement." Huntley passed a newspaper cutting to Maisie. "Liddicote's college is asking for a junior lecturer in philosophy. You clearly have the academic background to meet the demands of such a position--you graduated from Girton having studied the moral sciences--and you have the necessary training to be able to conduct an investigation."
"But there will be many, many applicants for this job."
"On a practical level, we are able to control the applications received at the college; of those reaching Liddicote's desk, yours will be the only curriculum vitae to name Dr. Maurice Blanche as a personal mentor, teacher, and employer. Maurice ensured that a keen eye was kept on the college, and choreographed a chance meeting with Liddicote that revealed shared interests. This was followed by a 'friendship' based on quite entertaining correspondence between the two men."
"Yes, I remember a letter sent after the funeral, with condolences. I had forgotten until you mentioned it."
"Of course, a sad time."
Maisie nodded. "So, if I am to work under cover of a false occupation, surely my name will give me away."
Huntley shook his head. "No, not at all. Liddicote is not worldly beyond his academic affiliations, and a brief look at your recent history would suggest that you have left the life of a private inquiry agent behind. And though you have kept it fairly quiet, a little bit of digging would reveal the depth of your attachment to the scion of the family that once employed you--James Compton is himself a man of great wealth. There are those who assume that any woman involved with a man such as Compton could look forward to a life of comfort, without the need to risk life and limb. In addition, except in certain circumstances, we prefer our . . . representatives to use their own name. It will make your story that much more believable."
Maisie stood up and walked to the window. "So, you effectively want me to leave my business for an indefinite period of time. I am to seek employment as a lecturer at a private college established and run by a man in whom you have an interest. And, in a nutshell, my brief is to--what?"
"You must report back on any observed actvities--by anyone--that are not in the interests of the Crown. Do you understand the implications of the assignment?"
Maisie nodded. Huntley and MacFarlane exchanged glances.
"Do I have time to think about it?"
MacFarlane glanced at the clock above the door. "About three minutes."
Maisie turned to l
ook out of the window. Yes, life had become a little soft, and for a woman who had worked almost every day of her life, who had seen war, who had held the dying as she tried to stanch their wounds, that ease prickled against her skin. She remembered the letter Maurice had left for her, and one sentence in particular came to her as she looked down at the end-of-day traffic.
I have observed your work in recent years and it does not claim the full measure of your skill or intellect. In time there will be a new path for you to follow. . . .
She rejoined the men, still seated in armchairs around the low table. "I fail to see how my suitability for this role was determined by my ability to detect the simple fact that I was being followed, but, that said--I'll do it. You should know, however, that I do not work for His Majesty's gratitude, honor that it is. I prefer my payment to be more tangible."
"Are you sure you're not a Scot?" MacFarlane smiled as Huntley passed a series of documents to Maisie, each one emblazoned with the same livid red stamp marking it as Official: Top Secret.
Chapter Two
As she made her way back to Pimlico, Maisie began to doubt her decision to accept the assignment. At first she had imagined a task both intellectually stimulating and professionally challenging; but what if she were to become mired in the day-to-day tedium of an academic institution, looking for acts--of what? espionage?--that did not exist. But on the other hand, a joint proposal from MacFarlane and Huntley certainly seemed to merit her consideration. And Maurice would have wanted her to accept, of that she was sure.
A Lesson in Secrets Page 2