A Lesson in Secrets

by Jacqueline Winspear

  "The man is losing his mind!" said Roth, his voice raised, before stepping around Maisie without acknowledging her as he left the office.

  Maisie waited until he was out of earshot before meeting the secretary's eyes. The young woman was shaking. "Are you coping?"

  "Yes, Miss Dobbs."

  "I can't let you leave yet--the police are on their way and they'll want to speak to you."

  Linden nodded. "I know."

  Maisie pulled up a chair until she was close enough to lower her voice so that she would not be heard through the glass panes and wooden wainscoting.

  "I have to return to Dr. Liddicote's room to await the police--someone should be with the body. Fortunately, in an hour or so many of the students and staff will have left; and the police will--I hope--appear like any other visitors to the college. Bring them to Dr. Liddicote's office as soon as they arrive." Maisie wondered if MacFarlane and Stratton could possibly be taken for 'any other visitors to the college'; she could always tell a plainclothes policeman, even at a good number of paces distant.

  "Right you are, Miss Dobbs."

  "Miss Linden," whispered Maisie. "Why did you come straight to me, and not to another member of staff."

  The woman shrugged. "I see all the personal files, Miss Dobbs, so I know you're the only one with any medical training in the whole college--we don't have a matron here, though we summon the district nurse or the doctor if someone's sent to the sick room." She cleared her throat. "I knew you were the person I should tell; Dr. Liddicote wouldn't have wanted any panic."

  Maisie nodded. "I'm sure he wouldn't," she said, then added, "Dr. Liddicote lived alone, didn't he?"

  "Yes, not a half mile away, it's an easy enough walk."

  "Did he ever name a next of kin in any documents held here in your office?"

  "I've already had a look, Miss Dobbs. He is not close to his children--his son lives in London--he's a solicitor, something like that--and his daughter lives in Dorset."

  "Do you have their addresses?"

  "I've written everything down for you." She passed a folded sheet of paper to Maisie. "Was it a heart attack, Miss Dobbs?"

  "Yes--yes, I believe it was. In any case, a pathologist will be coming with the police. Can you suggest a good entrance and exit for the pathologist and his staff--they'll have to remove Dr. Liddicote, though fortunately it will be dark by then."

  "Come with me, I'll show you the best way."

  Maisie regarded the body of Greville Liddicote. She had continued her search of the room, taking care not to disturb his belongings as she worked; but she knew that time was of the essence if the dead man was to relinquish his secrets. There was a collection of his own writings, including his children's books, on the shelves to the right of the window, though the book that had caused so much trouble in 1916 was not among them. A stack of manuscript paper revealed that he was in the midst of writing a new book on the world since the war--a cursory sifting through the pages suggested the work might be deemed inflammatory by his peers.

  A filing tray on the desk held more recent correspondence. Maisie read quickly, her eyes flashing across each line, searching for a word, a sentence that stood out. One letter was from the local council, with a series of questions regarding the proposed renovations and alterations to the buildings. Another letter came from Dunstan Headley, a benefactor of the college, querying an aspect of the plans he'd seen, and the costs. The letter was cordial, but Maisie detected an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, and a hint that the writer felt that more information should be forthcoming before he parted with his money. He also said that, while he supported the college and its mission to promote peace and understanding along with academic endeavor, he did not wish to deal with Liddicote's deputy, Dr. Roth, in the future, given that he was German. "As much as I support peace, I have not yet come to terms with the death of my eldest son in the war, though I know he would not support my position with regard to our former enemy."

  Liddicote's deputy?

  Maisie shook her head. Of course, Greville Liddicote would have established a chain of succession for the college, and would have been required to do so by the Board of Governors and by those who contributed financially to the ongoing work and advancement of the college. She wondered why Brian Huntley had not mentioned this information during their first meeting. And she also wondered how long they could wait before informing Dr. Matthias Roth that he was now principal of the College of St. Francis.

  She discovered various items of limited interest in the desk drawers: a selection of fountain pens, a packet of cigarettes--she had not taken Liddicote to be a smoker--and a double-hinged silver frame designed to accommodate three photographs of about three inches by five inches each. When opened, the frame revealed a posed studio photograph of two children seated together, a portrait of a woman--again, taken in a studio--and another of four children clustered around a woman whom Maisie took to be their mother. This last photograph had been taken outdoors and reminded Maisie of her own attempts at photography when she first purchased her camera. The children squinted against the sunlight, and the woman was shading her eyes. She could not tell whether it was the same woman who had been seated for the demure photograph by a professional or whether this was someone else. The children in the second photograph were not as well turned out, as if they had been playing a rough-and-tumble game in the garden; but that would be understandable--Maisie imagined a mother would fuss over her children prior to a studio photograph, keen to ensure that not a hair was out of place. But all the same, she wondered about the children in the second photograph.

  Running a finger down a column of figures in an accounts ledger, Maisie could see that the college was well funded, not only by student fees but by the support of a number of prominent donors, some of them the parents of former students, others students who had no doubt seen their education at St. Francis as a pivotal point in their journey to greater things. Maisie was curious about a category of contributor known only by the name "The Readers," who were listed by initials only, rather than full names.

  A personal ledger revealed Liddicote's immediate finances to be in good health, though on the first page the calling card of one Hubert Stone of the firm of Stone, Tupper and Pearce, Cambridge, indicated that a will might be in place, and that there were other investments that likely would be dispersed in the event of Liddicote's death. She took the card and clipped it to a page of rough notes she had taken as her search progressed.

  Then she sat back and studied Liddicote's body. Maisie was no stranger to death, whether the body was newly deceased or already well into the process of becoming dust. She heard Maurice's voice in her mind. "If we are afforded the time, Maisie, those moments of quiet in the company of the dead give the one who has passed an opportunity to tell of their passing--in their position, their belongings, and the obvious causes of death. Allow yourself that moment, if you can."

  Greville Liddicote was seated, not in his usual chair but in the chair set in front of the desk for visitors. It appeared that he had not been moved into that position but rather had taken the seat before being attacked from behind. Though the attack was not brutal--there were no other wounds; there was no sign of struggle--she suspected that death had come quickly, with a deft twist to break his neck. Yes, a very deft twist, by someone for whom such killing came with training, or experience.

  Maisie stood up and moved to Liddicote's side. His head was resting on his right hand, which was folded, with fingers pressed against his palm; the left was hanging at his side, almost as if he had fallen asleep after a long midday meal. She leaned forward and, using her forefinger, tried to ascertain whether there was anything clutched in his right hand. She felt a piece of paper, and though she knew she should wait for the pathologist, she moved the head--just a touch--to enable her fingertips to tease the paper from Liddicote's grip. As if she were lifting the head of a sleeping child away from the side of a cradle, Maisie returned Liddicote's head to the position in which
she had discovered the body. Stepping aside, she turned on the desk lamp and inspected the paper, a crumpled photograph of a woman. As with the photograph of the four children and the woman outdoors, this was not a professional portrait, but a more informal study--taken, Maisie thought, outside, and possibly at the same time as the other photograph. Though the woman had shielded her eyes in the first photograph, the clothing seemed the same; the blouse had a wide shawl collar, and the woman wore a cummerbund-style belt around the waist of an almost ankle-length gored skirt.

  The two children in the first frame of the studio photograph were likely Liddicote's son and daughter, for they shared so many features--a slightly snub nose, large eyes, and wavy hair--but she wondered who this woman was, laughing into the sun, with one child on her hip and three others gathered around her skirts, squinting as the light played upon their fair, summer-kissed hair. If she had to guess, she would have taken the woman and her children to be the family of a farmer, and she wondered who they were to Greville Liddicote--she was sure that it was not his wife, and that the children were not his. He had gone to his death with this countrywoman's image in his hand, held close to his heart. She wondered why he had taken hold of the photograph in the moments before he died.

  Rosemary Linden blushed when Maisie answered her knock on the door.

  "Your guests, Miss Dobbs."

  "Thank you, Miss Linden." She nodded to Robert MacFarlane and Richard Stratton as they entered.

  "Would the gentlemen like a pot of tea?" inquired the secretary.

  "Got anything stronger, lass?" asked MacFarlane. Maisie and Stratton exchanged glances and smiled. MacFarlane had claimed his turf.

  "Um, well--let me show you." Taking care not to look in the direction of Liddicote's body, Linden crossed the room and opened a cupboard set between two bookcases. She brought a bottle of malt whiskey and two crystal glasses to a table in the corner of the room and pushed aside a pile of books before placing the items on the table.

  "Och, he was a man after my own heart, bless him." MacFarlane looked at Maisie and grinned. "You'll be having tea, I assume?"

  "Oh, I beg your pardon--I didn't think . . . "

  "A cup of tea would suit me well, Miss Linden--thank you."

  "Of course."

  "And, if you don't mind, the gentlemen would like to speak to you as soon as they are finished here. I am sure they will have a driver escort you to your home afterwards."

  "No, that's all right, I've got my bicycle. I'll be in my office, when you're ready." Linden turned and left the room.

  "Poor wee mite, it's not right when a young woman like that has to come across a murder." MacFarlane shook his head as he moved towards Liddicote's body and peered down into his face.

  "She thinks it was a heart attack, and she's kept her head--I dread to think what we would be dealing with now had she not had such a good measure of common sense."

  Stratton had said little beyond greeting Maisie and seemed uncomfortable in her presence, and yet it was clear he was pleased to see her. Since they first met, some three years earlier, Maisie had known that Stratton, who had shown himself to be a shy man in matters of a personal nature, was fond of her. He was a widower with a young son and a job that demanded work at all hours. And though their exchanges had sometimes become heated when their work brought them into contact with each other, he remained fond of her, and she was sure he had heard she was being courted by James Compton. It was now clear that he was embarrassed at having revealed his emotions in such an obvious manner.

  After the pathologist arrived, Maisie took the opportunity to engage Stratton in conversation, though her attempt at rendering the atmosphere a little easier was not helped by MacFarlane.

  "How's your son--he must be, what, eight years old now?"

  "Growing fast, eating me out of house and home. But he's doing well at school, though I've thought about sending him to a boarding school--my hours, you see."

  Maisie shook her head. "No, don't, try to keep him at home--your mother lends a hand, doesn't she?"

  "Yes, she's a great help."

  "I was sent away after my mother died--admittedly, I was older, and it wasn't for school--but I missed my father very much, especially having lost my mother."

  "You do know you're speaking to a woman who's affianced, don't you?" MacFarlane interjected, having left the pathologist and his assistant for a moment.

  "Take no notice, Richard, he's having you on--I am not engaged."

  "It's only a matter of time, according to my sources."

  "Wouldn't your sources be better employed on police work?" Maisie threw the tease back at MacFarlane, though she was annoyed that he would try to embarrass both her and Stratton.

  "And what if it was police work?" replied MacFarlane.

  "Sir--" Stratton touched MacFarlane on the arm to let him know the pathologist had begun to put away his instruments and had instructed his assistants to prepare Greville Liddicote's body for removal.

  The pathologist, Tom Sarron, joined them. He was a tall man, thin, with a serious look about him that reminded Maisie of other scientists she had met in the course of her work. When he entered the office, he had taken off his jacket to reveal shirtsleeves already rolled up, and the white coat he donned was freshly laundered, still with creases where it had been starched and pressed. Sarron had moved around the body with reverence, and Maisie had heard him talk to Liddicote, even make a light joke, as if the dead man's soul were still present and watching.

  "Anything we don't know?" asked MacFarlane.

  Sarron shook his head. "Not really. The deceased seemed in fair condition for his age, but even a twenty-year-old pugilist with a strong neck musculature would have struggled to survive this sort of attack--sudden, immediate severing of spinal cord, severe damage to brain stem, with arterial and vascular damage."

  "Had to be a strong person."

  Again Sarron shook his head. "No, don't assume strength. It's the technique. If someone is swift, the attack unexpected, the angle just right, and the perpetrator knows exactly where to place their hands and how to do it--it's not in the strength but in the execution." He looked up and half-smiled. "Sorry about the pun. I always seem to do that."

  "Aye, you do. We'll be calling you Sorry Sarron before long." MacFarlane turned to Maisie and Stratton. "Any immediate questions, before I let this good man and his boys go on their merry way?"

  They replied "No" in unison, though Maisie noticed that as the pathologist made ready to leave the room, Stratton stepped towards him. "Oh, just a minute, Tom--got a question for you." She did not hear the question Stratton put to the pathologist, as MacFarlane chose that moment to ask her if she wouldn't mind bringing Miss Linden in for a few moments.

  According to Rosemary Linden, she had been working for Greville Liddicote as college secretary for almost two years, during which time she was responsible for matters of college administration, although a bookkeeper, Miss Hawthorne, came in weekly to work on the accounts.

  "I know Dr. Liddicote saw Dr. Roth and Dr. Thomas earlier today--and of course I had a short meeting with him--but who else came to see him?" Maisie took care to appear relaxed, not least to set a certain tone for the interview, so MacFarlane did not trample ahead and intimidate the young woman.

  "Several students, and Miss Lang."

  "Delphine Lang?" asked MacFarlane, casting his eyes down a list of names.

  "Yes, that's right."

  "When did these meetings take place?"

  "I generally go to the post office just after lunch, which is when he has student meetings, and Miss Lang went in to see him--but she had wanted to see him in the morning, and when I came back from the post office, I saw her in the corridor and asked if she'd managed to pop in and see him, and she said that everything was all right, so I assume she went in after the students." Linden looked from Maisie to MacFarlane. "If you're trying to work out when he had the heart attack, it must have been about three-ish. I come back from doing the post a
t about a quarter past three, and by the time I went along to see him, it must have been, oh, half past three. I didn't stay long, and just came out of the office straightaway to look for Miss Dobbs in the staff room."

  Maisie nodded. It had been roughly a quarter to four when Linden had arrived in the staff room.

  "In these cases," said MacFarlane, his voice grave, "we try to ascertain the reason for a heart attack, if some level of anguish or worry had caused the heart to spasm." He did not look at Maisie, who wondered if Miss Linden would fall for his explanation. "Do you know of any concerns that might have brought on the heart attack? Or had Dr. Liddicote had any arguments with members of staff or the students here?"

  Linden shook her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

  "Which is to say--what? That he often had arguments or times of worry? Or there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he had any untoward concerns?"

  "Nothing out of the ordinary." Linden looked from Maisie to MacFarlane, and again directed her response to Maisie. "He and Dr. Roth were often rowing about something or another, but that was just the way they were with each other. Dr. Roth is Dr. Liddicote's right-hand man, and he's also deputy principal. He has lots of new ideas and wants the college to be a bigger, more important, concern."

  "And Dr. Liddicote didn't?"

  "He did--and he didn't. Dr. Roth once said the ship was no bigger than the captain at the helm--and he was ready for a bigger vessel."

  A few more questions were put to Linden, who, when asked, grudgingly agreed to bring the personal files for both teaching and nonacademic staff.

  "They're private and confidential, you know," said Linden.

  "We're the police, lass, so di'nae worry y'self. And I'll have one of my men accompany you home."

  "Please don't, I am quite able--"

  "It's settled." He turned in his chair to the plainclothes policeman standing at the door. "See this young lady gets home in one piece, Harris."

  Linden left the room and returned with Roth's file. "When will the staff and students be told that Dr. Liddicote has passed away?"