"Oh dear, family troubles and a wayward eye--more muddying of the waters. I wondered why there was no family at the assembly."
Stratton went on. "They were told about it, and according to Roth they've been informed about the memorial service, but we don't know if they'll come. The son is now in London, an architecture student, and the daughter is in Bath, with some relatives."
"Right then, this will never get the eggs cooked on this little case, will it?" MacFarlane's voice boomed behind them. "We can't be chatting all day, can we, children? Ricky? Maisie?"
Maisie saw Richard Stratton look away as MacFarlane approached. She knew that Stratton only ever used the name "Richard" when introducing himself by his Christian name. Any abbreviation without an invitation to do so represented a certain unwelcome familiarity, and Maisie could not imagine Richard Stratton saying to anyone, "Call me Ricky." She watched Stratton's expression as he turned back to answer a question put to him by MacFarlane. Ah, he doesn't like MacFarlane. He doesn't like him at all.
Maisie was in front of her second-year class, a larger group than usual, as apparently Francesca Thomas had to leave the college due to sickness--she was suffering from a very bad cold--and it was felt that her students would be best served by joining the junior lecturer's philosophy class. Maisie had written two words on the blackboard with a crisp new stick of chalk: Good and Evil. Soon the class was in full swing, and, following readings on the nature of the opposing forces, a vibrant discussion ensued in which the nature of those two elements within the human condition was debated. As the class drew to a close, Maisie set homework for the students, and asked whether there were any final questions. A student put up his hand.
"Yes, Daniel."
"Miss Dobbs, will you be helping the debate team prepare for the competition?" Daniel, from Sweden, spoke with only a slight accent, testament to several years spent in a British boarding school while his father traveled the world on business, accompanied by his mother.
"I don't believe so, although I know that several of our staff are very involved in the debate, under Dr. Roth's leadership. Why do you ask?"
Daniel shrugged as he gathered his books and made his way to the front of the class, while his fellow students began moving towards the door. "Our discussion today is so connected to the subject of the debate--good and evil; the Oswald Mosleys and Adolf Hitlers of this world--are they for the good or the bad? Are they misguided leaders or prophets? And what about the forces in Spain?"
Maisie nodded and smiled. "Good questions, Daniel--perhaps to ponder along with your homework. We might well discuss each of these men and their philosophies next time, so come prepared. Are you one of our debaters?"
"I'm a stand-in, in case someone is ill. I might have made it, but they had to make a place for someone who isn't technically a student here."
"Who's that?"
"The son of one of the board members. He wanted to debate but doesn't belong to a college--I think he's already been to university in London and now works for his father. He's been given an opportunity to stand for the college. Despite the fee my father is paying for my extended education here, it seems the governor's son trumps any skill I might offer."
"Oh, I see. Well, you never know, perhaps he'll go down with chicken pox--do you know his name?"
Daniel shook his head. "His father is that man Dunstan--I can't remember the surname. He's been here to the college, oh and--" He looked around as if he were about to reveal a secret. "I think he's sweet on Miss Lang. I've seen him with her, but I think they don't want anyone to know."
"Why do you think that?"
"Oh, I'm not sure. When I saw them they seemed as if they were on the lookout for people who might recognize them--which is silly, really. For a start, you can't really avoid looking at Miss Lang--she's so pretty." He laughed, waved, and hurried to catch up with his classmates.
Maisie scooped up the essays left for her, and pushed them into her briefcase along with her notes and two books she had brought to class. She knew she had to work fast. There were people she wanted to see, and only so much time in which to see them.
As she walked towards the office on the way to the staff room, Maisie was stopped by Miss Hawthorne, the bookkeeper. Miss Hawthorne, who usually came in on a part-time basis, was now at the college every day, helping with administration until a new secretary could be found. A temporary typist had been taken on, and though paperwork was kept in check, it was clear that Miss Hawthorne was having some trouble with her work--she seemed more than a little harried, and rather breathless, as she called out to Maisie.
"Miss Dobbs! A moment, please."
Maisie turned. "Hello, Miss Hawthorne--keeping your head above water?"
The woman sighed and shook her head, which seemed to have become even grayer overnight. "I'm choking on the water, if you must know." She held out a small sheet of paper towards Maisie. "Please be advised that I am not a runner of messages; however, a Mrs. Partridge telephoned, most insistent, and asked that I inform you immediately"--she pronounced the word immeejetly--"that she needs to speak to you as a matter of some urgency."
Maisie took the paper. "Oh dear. I wonder what's wrong."
"You'll have to walk down to the telephone box on the corner, you know. No staff telephone calls from the office." She looked at her watch. "You'll have time before the next period, if you go now."
Maisie did not reply, but turned and ran to the main door, across the driveway and down the street to the telephone box. Shaking, she pulled out a few coins and pressed them into the slot. Had something happened to one of the boys? What was so urgent that Priscilla had tracked her down at the college? The telephone rang just once before Priscilla answered.
"Priscilla, what on earth's the matter? Is everything all right?" She could feel her hands shaking.
"Thank heavens! I thought I would have to wait by this telephone for hours before you called back. And what are you doing at a college? Good Lord, have you lost your senses--a couple of terms at Girton was enough for me, but you are a glutton for punishment."
"Pris! For goodness sake, what's the matter?"
"Sandra is in police custody."
"She's what?"
"That hurt my ear. She's in police custody; Douglas is on his way to Vine Street police station, where we understand she's being held on suspicion of breaking and entering. We think she'll be moved to Holloway Prison, at some point."
"Breaking and entering?" Maisie put her hand to her head. "Breaking and entering? You are sure we are talking about the same young woman--Sandra? Breaking and entering? Holloway Prison?"
"I don't think I have ever heard you panic, Maisie--you're repeating yourself. Anyway, it wasn't one, but two properties, so young Sandra is in a fair bit of bother."
"Priscilla, I can't get away until Friday--can you and Douglas do what you can to get her out? I will deal with this when I get back."
"You should know that she broke into the offices of a William Walling. He's quite the businessman, top-notch city contacts, that sort of thing."
"What on earth would she . . . ?" Maisie's mind was racing now. "Where else did she break into?"
"The garage off the Marylebone Road where her husband worked. A policeman on the beat saw a light on in the back office--a window had been smashed and the door unlocked. Clearly the silly girl is no professional, despite working for you. Anyway, when she said she used to live there and had come back for some belongings, he let her off with a warning--she told him her husband had died at work, and the owner wanted her out in such a hurry, she'd left a few things behind. The policeman felt sorry for her, but at the same time, felt duty bound to report it, though she wasn't arrested. It couldn't have scared her much, because she moved on from there."
"Priscilla, do your best to get her home, to your house--and keep her there even if you have to tie her down. I'll be back on Friday--in fact, I might see if I can get another teacher to take my class, so that I can leave on Thursday evening. By t
he way, how did you find me?"
"I telephoned your Mr. Beale. I just told him he had to trust me in that I needed to be in touch with you soonest. So I wheedled it out of him that you were at this college. By the way, take what class?"
"Nothing, it's nothing."
"What are you doing, Maisie?"
"I'm teaching philosophy, Pris. And don't you dare say a word about it."
There was silence for a moment, then, "We'll get her out--and we'll provide bail if we have to. And, as you know, when I turn up and say a few choice words, they'll want all three of us out of their hair in seconds."
"Thank you, Pris--I really do appreciate it."
"I'll keep you posted--I take it the school isn't the best place to send a card or telegram?"
Maisie gave Priscilla the address of her lodging; there was no telephone on the premises. "And not a word to anyone about my being here; it's extremely secret."
"Mum's the word. And I suppose that's one thing that Sandra learned from you. She's clearly harboring a secret or two of her own; very nice girl, good at her work, well turned-out--but she's a common burglar. Very nice, I'm sure."
"Look after her."
"Don't worry--if Douglas is there, she's in the very best hands. He's pure gold." There was a click as Priscilla ended the call.
Maisie left the telephone kiosk and walked back to the college, her mind awash with speculation as to what Sandra had discovered that had led to the second attempt at burglary, never mind the first. And as she walked, Maisie thought, too, about Priscilla's description of her husband. It was not a lingering thought, but rather a question that seemed to pass by as she filtered her recent conversations with Sandra in her mind. He's pure gold. It always touched her when she saw Priscilla demonstrate her affection for her beloved husband, or when she spoke of him in a way that reflected the depth of her feelings. Maisie wondered, briefly, if it would come to pass that she might say such things about a man she had loved for years.
When Maisie arrived back at her lodging house that day--a day when so much had happened, it seemed--she was almost surprised to find it unchanged and quiet, the path bordered by flowers, and on the trees the first leaves beginning to turn. She opened the front door and stepped across the threshold, and was relieved to see two plain postcards in reply to letters she had sent just a couple of days previously. The cards were a useful means of communication for short messages, and were cheaper to post than a letter. The first was from Jennifer Penhaligon, suggesting that Maisie should come to see her on Friday morning, if that would be convenient. No, it isn't, really, thought Maisie, considering that she was already planning to miss a lesson in order to go back to London early. But the appointment with the person who had provided an academic reference for Francesca Thomas was an important one; she could not afford to miss the opportunity to learn more about the woman, who, to be frank, intrigued her.
The second card was from the office of Dunstan Headley, suggesting Wednesday afternoon at half past four. Maisie's sigh was one of relief--she could massage her timetable only so many times to account for absence, especially at such an early stage in her teaching appointment at the college. She would miss tea after her last lesson of the day and go straight to Headley's office. In the meantime, using college stationery she had procured from the office in a moment when it had been left unstaffed, Maisie wrote to the Registrar for Births, Marriages, and Deaths in Ipswich. She explained her dilemma--she wanted to contact a former member of staff who had left without receiving wages owed to her--and asked if he might be able to locate records pertaining to the family of Rose Linden, nee Gibson--or it might have been a name beginning with "Thur." She understood there was a sister, and possibly a nephew. Any help would be most appreciated. She also added her gratitude for the assistance already extended to her.
When she returned to the college, Maisie stopped alongside a noticeboard, situated just inside the main doors, that provided a forum for the many messages staff and students left for one another--a dance in the town, a literary salon, a meeting of the French Conversation and Appreciation Society, a warning about late homework. She had become used to casting her eyes across the many cards and scraps of paper, in case there was something of interest. A new card with bright-red lettering drew her attention, informing students that there would be an early evening practice session for the debaters, after the final class of the day. She made a note of the time and location.
The room was noisy as the debate team took their seats, with students who were not selected but would be substitutes in case of illness or absence, in the first row of the audience. Other students filled the seats, along with a few members of staff. Matthias Roth brought the students to order.
"The debate will be held in a hall that, though old, was made for debating. Expect your voices to carry, and expect to be able to hear almost every shuffle and sneeze in the hall. Your competitors will be familiar with their surroundings, but do not allow distractions to put you off your stride. Do you have any questions, ladies and gentlemen?" Matthias Roth looked back and forth across the twelve or so students before him. On the stage of the former ballroom, two tables had been set up at angles facing each other, clearly visible from the audience. Four students would sit at each table with an adjudicator at a lectern in the center.
"Dr. Burnham will moderate the first debate, so will teams one and two please take your seats?" He paused as chairs were scraped back and students made their way towards the stage. "Now we will see how well prepared you are."
Among the students in the first team, Maisie noticed Dunstan Headley's son taking his place. As he sat down, he looked up and grinned towards someone at the back of the room. Maisie turned and was not surprised to see him smiling at Delphine Lang, who waved in return; but instead of remaining in the hall, Lang turned and was leaving the room. As much as she wanted to view the proceedings, Maisie followed Lang out of the hall.
"Miss Lang! Miss Lang--do you have a moment?"
Delphine Lang turned to Maisie, then looked at her watch. "I have a language practice group at half past six."
"I only need a few moments, if you can spare the time." Maisie held out her hand towards double doors that led to the grounds. "Shall we go outside? The weather is really too good to miss."
Delphine Lang stepped out into the balmy early evening, with the heady fragrance of jasmine on the air. "I don't know how they get the jasmine to grow here, but it really is quite lovely," said Lang.
"Yes, it has a lovely sweetness, doesn't it?" said Maisie.
"What would you like to see me about, Miss Dobbs?" Delphine Lang continued walking, her voice firm but polite.
"I don't know if you are aware, but I was called to Dr. Liddicote's office following the discovery of his body by Miss Linden. I was a nurse once and she thought I might be able to help. I have some contacts at Scotland Yard--due to a previous job--so I called them to report the death. I believed they would have been summoned to the college at some point anyway, in the circumstances."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Lang had stopped walking and was facing Maisie, and it occurred to her, looking at the young woman, that, given her fragile beauty, she was probably seldom countered and rarely questioned as to why she might do this or that. Maisie suspected she had been a precocious, clever child, and might have been indulged by her parents. She seemed like a person to whom the word no was unfamiliar.
"I'm curious to know if you heard or saw anything of note when you went to see Dr. Liddicote that day. I know you were most insistent upon seeing him, so you came back several times to see if he was available--yet he was not free to see you, which must have been most frustrating. But your repeated attempts put you in the position of being in the corridor outside his office at different times during the day--I wondered if you saw anything unusual?"
Lang seemed to weigh Maisie's words, and began walking again. She took a cursory glance at her watch. "I saw nothing exceptional. You always expect to see p
eople waiting for Liddicote--he was a dreadful timekeeper and you never knew how long you might have to wait, and chances were that, when you did get in there, it was just before you had to rush off to a class."
"May I ask why you wanted to see him?'
Lang's blue eyes flashed at Maisie again. "I suppose it's not secret. I wanted to know if my contract would be renewed. If not, I would have to return to live with my parents, and I really don't want to go."
"You like it here at the college."
"It's better than doing nothing at my parents' house."
"Your father was based overseas with his job, I understand."
"All over the world. I was born in China, where I was quite the spectacle." She pointed to her blond hair. "And we lived in several different countries, but spent most of the time in China--my father is an expert on the country, the people."
"That must have been excit--"
At that moment, a cricket ball came flying through the air. In a snap Delphine Lang had reached out and deflected the ball from its trajectory. Without her intervention, it would have hit Maisie squarely on the head.
"Oh, my goodness!" Maisie gasped. "I didn't even see that until you reached out." She pressed her hand to her chest. "Where on earth did you learn to do that?"
Lang smiled. "Oh, it's nothing, really. I was just facing in the right direction to see it coming--you had your back to the ball."
"But to hit a cricket ball with your hand, and with such dexterity, such speed--that takes a bit of practice."