"My name is Maisie Dobbs, and I have come from a college in Cambridge in search of one of our employees. She left due to family matters without collecting her wages, so I thought I would bring them to her--but we don't have an address. Her name is Rosemary Linden, and I thought you might know of her."
"The man shook his head. "Don't know anyone of that name."
"Do you know the other Lindens in Ipswich?"
"There's my boy, Stephen, and his family. And my brother's widow, Rose. They didn't have children, so there's no Lindens on that side--in any case, she passed recently, about a month ago. We hadn't seen her for years anyway. And if there are other Lindens, they're not us."
"I see." Maisie paused. "So you wouldn't know a Rosemary Linden, about twenty-eight years of age?"
"No, no Rosemary Linden that I know of."
A voice came from the back of the house. "Cy-ril! Cyril, your dinner's getting cold."
The man began to close the door, but Maisie held out her hand. "Please wait. Let me write down my name and my address in Cambridge. I realize it would be most unlikely, but if you come across the name Rosemary Linden, would you be so kind as to send me a postcard? I would really appreciate it."
Maisie allowed the man so see the cash in her purse as she looked for a pencil. Though she did not offer money, the glimpse would--she hoped--suggest a monetary reward for information. She thanked him for his help, wished him a good evening, and went on her way. She could leave Stephen Linden and his family for now, though she wondered about the newly deceased Rose, who, according to Linden, had died about one month before. It was now getting on for seven o'clock, so she decided to catch a bus and walk along to Beet Street--and the small cottage that had been the home of Rose Linden.
The cottage and garden seemed to have been well tended, though the grass was high, the shrubs in need of pruning, and the weeds on the cusp of being out of control. Maisie unlatched the gate and began to walk around the house, following a path of stepping-stones that appeared to be homemade, with colorful shards of broken crockery set into the concrete. Deadheading roses as she went, Maisie was struck by the idea that the house might once have been built for a farmworker, and it reminded her of her father's cottage at Chelstone--it had a similar cat-slide roof, a gutter running into a water butt, and lead-paned windows. It was another old house built to be cool in summer and warm in winter, and, she thought, probably had an inglenook fireplace inside.
Reaching the back door, Maisie instinctively tried the handle. To her surprise, it turned, and though she had to push with some force against the door, it opened to allow entry into the cottage. She stood for some seconds to become accustomed to the dark interior. It seemed the home had hardly been touched since the day Rose Linden passed away. Feeling rather like Goldilocks in the three bears' house, Maisie began to walk around the kitchen, then the sitting room, stepping lightly so she made little sound. There were no immediate neighbors, and she had seen no one else on the street, but at the same time, she didn't want to give any passerby cause to raise the alarm that a common thief was on the loose in the home of a dead woman.
As she looked about her, Maisie sensed that Rose Linden had been a kindly soul, that she had lived in her house, worked in her garden, and accepted her lot with a certain ease. She had most likely lived the seasons of her life with no more and no fewer ups and downs than anyone else, and probably took the blows of sadness with the same equanimity as she received the gift of joy. And without doubt, Rose Linden had friends, if the photographs on top of the sideboard were any indication. She had won prizes for her roses at the local fete, had welcomed schoolchildren to her garden, and was not short of company. Maisie smiled as she considered each image, and hoped that Rose had lived a good life, and lived it well. She suspected that the woman was one who had mourned the lack of children, and in all likelihood had shed the tears of a barren wife. Maisie hoped she had died in peace.
Stepping with as light a foot as she could, Maisie set off up the stairs, and though dusk was approaching, she did not want to use the gas lamps, as the glow might attract unwanted attention.
In the main bedroom a lace counterpane covered a bed made for two. Underneath, a pink silk coverlet had been draped over the bed, which had been stripped of sheets. Maisie looked at the lace and pink silk together, and knew that Rose Linden had passed away in her own home, in this bed. She hoped that a loved one was there to hold her hand, and wondered why Cyril and his wife had not paid attention to the house and garden, for surely they would be the primary beneficiaries of her estate. To be sure, the house did not represent a lucrative bequest, but it was something in such times. Then again, the estate could have been left to someone else.
Maisie stepped into the second room, which was smaller, with low beams and whitewashed walls. A single bed was made up, as if ready for an expected visitor. A towel had been placed on the wooden stand alongside the window; and the pitcher inside the china bowl was still filled with water, though there was a greenish ring where some had evaporated in recent weeks. A cupboard close to the door was partially open, and when Maisie looked inside, she discovered it was filled with books. She began to read the titles on the spine of one book after another, then knelt down to better see those on the floor of the cupboard. As she lifted each book, Maisie knew that she was searching, that this was no idle curiosity; she recognized the sensation of expectation, the way her fingers tingled as she laid book after book aside, having checked the title, opened the pages, and read the inscription. Then she saw it. The cover was familiar to her now; the children looking up at the soldier and the crosses growing smaller in the distance. She ran her fingers over the embossed board, across the Celtic knot pressed into the dyed cloth, then with care opened the cover, and the first page. The inscription had been penned in a clear copperplate hand: To our darling Rose, with our love. Ursula. And with the same pen and ink, the writer had crossed out Greville Liddicote's name.
It was too late to return to Cyril Linden's home, so Maisie decided to wait until the following morning. It was to be an early call, so she would have to take the chance that her visit might be met with some degree of reticence. She also wanted to return to the records office before leaving Ipswich. If all went to plan she would arrive back at the college in the nick of time--not exactly the way in which a new member of staff should conduct herself during a period of probationary service; however, she was not behind in her work, as she would use the evening in the guesthouse to mark her students' essays and prepare for the following day's classes.
Though she had read Greville Liddicote's book, she took out her copy once more before going to bed.
Some of the children missed their mothers, but the leaders, Adam and Alice, marched on. "We're going to find our fathers!" they exclaimed. Then the children set off two by two, little soldiers on their way to stop a war.
"Where are you going?" asked the mayor, with a rope of shining gold coins around his neck, and a red cloak with an ermine collar drawn around his very big middle with a black leather belt.
"We're marching to find our fathers," said Peter.
A cheer went up and when the mayor turned around to see what had caused such a cacophony of noise, his cheeks became as red as his cloak. From another street a thousand more little children came running.
"We want to find our fathers!" shouted a French boy named Jean. "We want to march with you!"
"And we're coming too!" said Inge, the little German girl.
At exactly half past eight in the morning, Maisie knocked on the door of Cyril and Mary Linden's house on Saltwater Lane. It was early to call but she suspected the Lindens rose with the sun. Again she heard the barking dog admonished and the heavy clump of footsteps coming towards the door. Cyril Linden did not look pleased to find a visitor on his doorstep.
"Oh, you again."
Maisie smiled. "I am so sorry to bother you this early in the morning, but I have to catch a train in an hour and I really wanted to ask you another question or two more,
if that's all right."
The man sighed and shook his head. "I've just come home for my breakfast, so you'd better come in. I don't want it to spoil." He turned and led the way down a dark passageway towards the kitchen at the back of the house, which emitted an odor of fried bacon and eggs, and the musty dander of dog.
"Mary, this is Miss Dobbs--it was 'Dobbs,' wasn't it?"
Maisie nodded and held out her hand. Mary Linden wiped her damp fingers on her apron and took the proferred hand, smiling, and adding, "Pleased, I'm sure. Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Dobbs?"
"Oh, that would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Linden."
Linden pulled out a chair for Maisie, then sat down to finish his breakfast. A fox terrier banished to the garden outside barked and pawed at the door, while another, older, dog with a gray muzzle and glassy eyes lay on a clump of blankets in the corner, only raising her head once to acknowledge Maisie's entrance. She returned to her snoring.
"That dog can send them home when she likes," said Linden, scraping up egg with a wedge of fried bread. "Now then, what can we do for you?"
"I wanted to ask you about your sister-in-law, Rose Linden. You said she passed away about a month ago."
"Yes, as far as we know."
"As far as you know? Were you not close?"
"I was close enough to my brother, as a boy. But not to her."
"I take it your brother was older than you."
Linden nodded. "Ten years. And she was older than him, though you would never have known it. He passed years ago: his heart."
"Do you know her family?" asked Maisie.
"Don't really want to know them." Linden brushed off the question.
"Cyril, don't you speak ill of the dead. It's not right." Mary Linden had been pushing wet laundry through a wringer. She picked up a wicker basket filled with damp bed linen and opened the back door, whereupon the dog barked again and tried to get into the kitchen. "And you can get back out there, Midget. I've enough to put up with, without you at my feet." She closed the door behind her.
"May I ask why you wouldn't want to know Rose's family? I'm inquiring only because I am anxious to find Rosemary Linden and I think there might be some sort of connection."
He pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before reaching for a cup of strong brown tea. "They wouldn't be Lindens, though, would they? She took a good name, Linden, and there's no Rosemarys on our side."
Maisie nodded. "Do you know her maiden name?"
Cyril Linden sighed. "I can't say as I remember, to tell you the truth. But hold on a minute."
He pushed back his chair, opened the back door, quieted the barking dog, and shouted out to his wife. Maisie listened to the conversation as she sipped her tea.
"Mary--what was her name before she got married? Can't for the life of me remember."
"Rose?"
"Of course I mean Rose. Can you remember her name?"
"Lummy, I don't know." There was a pause. "Wasn't she a Thurber? Thur-something?"
"No, no, that was the sister's married name. I thought old Rose was a Gibson."
"She might've been, Cyril--I can't say as it sounds right to me, though."
Linden closed the door behind him, and took his seat once again. "Reckon it might have been either Gibson or Thur-something."
Maisie gathered her bag as if to leave, and asked another question. "It seems you didn't care for Rose very much, Mr. Linden."
He shook his head, and shrugged, "Well, what can you do? My brother was the educated one, a teacher, and he married an educated woman. Came from a funny family, she did; all books, all know-all's they were. They never had any children of their own, my brother and Rose, and if I was to say anything for them, then it would be that it's because of their help that our children got a good education and have managed to do well in life on the back of it. Pity the same couldn't be said of her sister's boy. They made sure he had a good education, too, but look what he did with his brains."
"What did he do?"
"Him? Good-for-nothing conchie, that's what he was. But the less said about that, the better. I don't want talk about a yellow belly in this house."
"What was--"
He scraped his chair back, stood up, and began walking towards the front door. "And seeing as he's got nothing to do with your Rosemary Linden, and we don't know her, anyway, I reckon you'd best get going--you'll miss your train otherwise."
Maisie bit her lip and smiled as she shook his hand at the door. "Thank you, Mr. Linden. You have been most kind."
He nodded and closed the door.
Maisie walked down the path, unlatched the front gate, and was about to continue on towards the station when she heard a whistle from the other side of the street. A black motor car had just come to a halt, and as she looked up, MacFarlane called out to her.
"Come on, get in and we'll give you a lift."
Maisie crossed the road and stepped into the black Invicta motor car, where MacFarlane and Stratton were already seated.
"I might have bloody well known." MacFarlane's words were accompanied by a rolling of his eyes. "So, we can't walk in there now, they'll probably set the dogs on us."
"There's only one you really have to worry about, Robbie. The other's old and gray."
MacFarlane turned to face Maisie. "Which is what I'll be if we don't get the territory sorted out."
"To be frank, I'm not sure it's possible. I'm not saying that defense of the realm is wrapped up with Liddicote's murder, but it might be."
"So, what have you got for us, Maisie?" Stratton leaned forward, entering the conversation. He seemed subdued. Not for the first time, she wondered if his transfer to Special Branch had lived up to his expectations.
She recounted the items of interest that she had uncovered during her visit to Ipswich, adding, "I'm interested in Rosemary Linden because of her position--she knew more about what was going on at the college than anyone else there, despite a role that some people looked down upon. I know some members of staff saw her as little more than the maid in the office, even though she was privy to most of the college's official correspondence, and to the records of all staff and students. And no sooner does Liddicote die than she leaves."
"It would be hard for a woman to wring a man's neck, Maisie," said MacFarlane.
"I'm not saying she murdered him, but I would like to speak to her all the same. I think there was a connection, somewhere, between Rosemary Linden and Greville Liddicote. I am not at all sure what it was, but I intend to find out. And before you ask--yes, I do think there's an outside chance that it might be connected to our national interests, especially considering the information she might have to hand; information that others might not dream she has. And if they do, we might not be the only ones looking for her." Maisie paused. "Have you discovered anything earth-shattering, gentlemen?"
MacFarlane rolled his eyes again. "Bloody boring, these education types."
"Careful, Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane, you're talking to one of them."
"Staid, but never boring, Maisie."
"Staid?"
Chapter Nine
MacFarlane and Stratton were returning to London later in the day, but escorted Maisie back to Cambridge, so she had plenty of time for some last-minute preparation before her first class. When they arrived, MacFarlane stopped to speak to the driver, while Maisie and Stratton walked on towards the main entrance.
"Richard, I wonder if I might ask you a quick question."
Stratton turned to face her. "Fire away--though I might not answer."
"We're all in the same boat here, aren't we?"
"No, we're not. But if I can help you, I will."
Maisie ignored the "no, we're not" and went on. "When Tom Sarron had completed his initial examination of Greville Liddicote's body, you called after him as he was leaving. I was just curious to know what you might have seen--if you can tell me."
Stratton looked
towards the Invicta, where MacFarlane was still conversing with the driver, then turned back to Maisie. "Robbie said that when you initially telephoned him about Liddicote's death, you thought he might have been killed by a professional, someone who knew exactly how to sever the spinal cord with one snap of the neck--instant death. I just wanted to ask him about it. Two things occurred to me. First, given the fact that Liddicote was a man--not a physically strong man, admittedly--I wondered if a woman could have done it. Second, I wanted to know in which direction the neck had been twisted, and whether a reflex--you're killing a person and you want it done quickly--would lead you to twist to the right or left, dependent upon which hand is your dominant hand. So, for example, would a right-handed person twist to the right, and a left-handed person twist to the left?"
"That sounds like a reasonable question."
"But it's awfully muddy." He sighed. "Most people write with their right hands; even those who began writing with their left hands have been taught at school that they should write with the right hand--if you'll excuse the pun, it's what's considered right. However, in the heat of the moment, even if a person who has been forced to use their right hand as the dominant hand, would they turn the head to the left if they were acting under a certain pressure? And even a trained killer is under pressure. By they way, I believe you were correct in your assumption, as it does seem as if the murderer in question was versed in this sort of attack."
"But the 'muddying' hardly helps us, does it?"
"And, of course, we could have a completely ambidextrous killer," added Stratton.
Maisie nodded. "Have you seen Liddicote's family yet? I know he lived alone, but didn't he have a couple of children?"
"Yes, and we're interviewing them over the next day or so--they've been informed of his death, of course. The son and daughter are in their mid-twenties and, as far as we know, didn't have much to do with their father. We understand he and his wife lived quite separate lives; she more or less left him when he lost his Cambridge appointment and became obsessed with founding the college, so she took the children back to Oxford, which is where they had met. Apparently she died in 1925, and the children chose to remain with her family--they didn't want to go back to their father." Stratton kicked at a stone as he spoke. "We've also discovered that our friend Liddicote was something of a philanderer when he was younger: had an eye for the ladies, especially young students, it seems."
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