"And who is that?"
"Dunstan Headley. He lost his son in the melodrama, a son who read a book and lay down his gun. A good young man who was true to beliefs he came to hold while in the thick of war. Headley must have felt such anger towards Greville Liddicote, and then managed--through sheer will, I would imagine--to transmute that fury into something quite worthwhile on behalf of his son, when he stepped forward to channel funds into the founding of Greville's peace school. That's what my colleagues and I called the College of St. Francis in the early days, 'Greville's Peace School.' He has gone to his grave with the last laugh--the student body is accomplished and the staff roster enviable. I hope his work can continue without him."
"Professor, I wonder if I might put one more question to you."
"I'll try to answer it."
"You seem to know something about the founding of the college--I wonder if you have any idea who 'the Readers' might be?"
"The Readers? Yes, of course. As soon as he realized that The Peaceful Little Warriors had had something of an effect on people, beyond being a book for children, Greville kept a list of people who had been in touch with him, with the intention of approaching them for donations to get his college going. Dunstan Headley is obviously a Reader; so are many people who read the book and who lost sons to the war. And there are former soldiers on the list, too, and various people who have since served on the faculty--in fact, Matthias Roth is a Reader, as far as I know. I seem to remember Greville telling me that he had made him deputy principal not least because he had put his life savings into the college, such was his belief in what the college stood for. And I confess, I suspect I am on the list--I made a small contribution after Greville resigned; I thought it was the least I could do. Mind you, you should remember, though the book was withdrawn from circulation, Greville kept a few copies for himself, which he was able to put onto the market at an inflated rate, and the subsequent escalation of his reputation rendered all his other books very successful indeed. He was a wealthy man, you know. And he was clever too--his desire to leave a legacy came from an unexpected quarter."
"His books or the college?"
"Both. You see, that's what Greville wanted--a sort of fame, if truth be told. I think we've all come across people who want recognition on a broader scale than might otherwise be available to them. As a senior fellow at the university, I might have expected a level of acclaim, but that would be due to the very small pond in which I swim. Greville wanted something bigger, and the notoriety The Peaceful Little Warriors gave him presented a perfect opportunity. You see, prior to writing that book, I had never heard him voice any opinion regarding the worthiness--or otherwise--of the war. He had never claimed to be a pacifist, but the book, its reputation, and then his resignation from the university, gave him an impetus to find something new--and so the College of St. Francis was born. Greville Liddicote was reinvented, if you will, as a man of peace for the students of the world. And money flowed in from those who had been so pained by their losses, and who wanted to see something better come of it all." He sighed, as if breathless after speaking for so long. "And, Miss Dobbs, I have to say this--good for him, because ultimately I do not doubt his commitment to the maintenance of peace so actively championed by his work at the College of St. Francis."
At the door, Maisie slipped on her jacket, and, holding out her hand to the elderly man, decided to press her luck with a final question. "Professor Henderson, can you think of anyone who would want to see Greville Liddicote dead?"
"I suppose I could think of a few--though none who would ever do anything about it. I understand police inquiries are in progress, but I would venture to guess it is just a formality. I am sure he must have died from some natural cause or another."
The church clock was striking seven as she passed on her way to meet the two policemen.
"What'll it be for you, Miss Dobbs?" asked MacFarlane, who had been about to raise a pint of beer to his lips in the private bar when she entered. He had commandeered the small bar for the evening.
"A half of cider would be lovely, thank you."
As soon she was seated at a table with the two men, MacFarlane spoke first. "Been busy, Maisie?"
"Yes, I have been fairly busy. Not only teaching, but I've had a few trips back and forth to London."
"Never thought I'd be looking forward to getting back myself, but I'm fed up to the gills with this place. I'm not one for your university types--bloody know-alls, every one of them, even the students, still wet behind the ears. Half of them can't even speak the language properly."
"They're unfamiliar with the language of a police investigation, and perhaps a little nervous--after all, they are guests in this country, and now they're being questioned as part of a murder inquiry."
"I think you've got a point there," said Stratton. "We're trying to take that into account. They're all very bright, actually."
"Most have already attended university in their own country," said Maisie. "Their work at the college represents additional academic endeavor intended to bolster their intellect and the number of opportunities that might come their way in the future. And of course, there is the small matter of spreading peace."
"Who have you been seeing?" asked MacFarlane, ignoring her comments.
"Academic staff at other universities, actually. A lecturer who taught Robson Headley, and another who knew Liddicote when he taught at the university here."
"Why Headley?"
"He's been attending meetings of the Ortsgruppe with Delphine Lang. They are a courting couple, as you know; however, it is quite a big step for a British man to attend one of those meetings; I am sure he was accepted on the weight of his liaison with Lang."
"Do you suspect him of anything?"
"First of all, I don't believe the Ortsgruppe are as innocent as you and Huntley might think--and if they are at present, they won't be for long. Second, both Headley and Lang have the ability and, I believe, the training, to kill a man instantly."
"Maisie, have you ever tried to kill someone by breaking their neck? I mean, it really is a job." Stratton seemed somewhat exasperated with her.
"Aye, lass, it would be a job for a big, strong man," added MacFarlane.
"But not if a person were able to make an approach that was all but silent, and then move with speed and skill. And remember, Liddicote was likely hard of hearing."
"Apart from anything else," said Stratton, "they both have alibis."
"Stratton, would you mind getting me a whiskey?" MacFarlane winced and held his beer up to the light as if to consider its purity, then set the glass down. "This beer is not agreeing with me at all."
Stratton left the table and walked to the bar. MacFarlane turned to Maisie.
"You are keeping to your assigned task for the dark ones, aren't you?"
"Is that what you call the Secret Service?" She smiled, then looked at Stratton waiting by the bar; he raised his hand to summon the landlord and Maisie turned back to MacFarlane. "As I've said before, the threads of investigation here are intertwined; however, I'm keeping to my end of things. Have you questioned Francesca Thomas?"
"The tall dark-haired woman, got a touch of the Greta Garbo about her?"
"I'm not sure that I would use that description," said Maisie, "but I suppose she's the only one in the college whom it would fit."
"We've spoken to her, and it seems she was teaching around the time of Liddicote's death, so we can rule her out." MacFarlane glanced in Stratton's direction. "I take it she's of interest to you."
"To some extent. She certainly seems to make frequent trips to London."
"There you are, sir. I bought a malt, not a blended." Stratton reached forward to place the tot glass of amber liquid in front of MacFarlane, who, in spite of his earlier claim, had made a good dent in his pint of beer.
"Good man, good man. Now then, will you join us for a spot of supper, Maisie? They do a very good fish-and-chips here."
Maisie agreed, and was
soon enjoying a companionable meal with the two policemen, though their conversation was focused on the matter of Greville Liddicote's death.
Maisie was on the road to Ipswich early the following morning, with the intention of being at the door of the county offices as soon as they opened. The letter she had received on Monday had been written by a Mr. Smart, and within a short time of the door's being unlocked, she had found his office and was speaking to him about the contents of his letter, and what he had discovered about Rose Linden's family. The documents he had gathered indicated that a family living in a small hamlet some two miles outside the town were related by marriage to Linden's nephew. The man shook his head and gave a deep sigh.
"What is it?" asked Maisie.
"The older nephew, David Thurlow, died in Wandsworth Prison."
Maisie leaned forward, to look at the register in front of Smart. "Have you any idea what he'd done to warrant incarceration?"
"Doesn't say here, but I can guess. During the war Wandsworth was used as a military prison. I reckon your man here was a conscientious objector. Some of them were given hard labor, but a lot ended up in Wandsworth, or Wormwood Scrubs; it all depended upon your tribunal, and how they felt about you and what you had to say for yourself. People look upon it a bit differently now, seeing as we know a lot more about what went on over there, and of course, all them peace organizations that have popped up in the last ten years. But during the war, you had to be brave to even say you were a pacifist--nigh on got yourself stoned in the street for not wanting to do your bit."
"Do you have an address for the family?"
"I poked around and found this." He handed a piece of paper to Maisie. "It's out in Knowsley, a bit off the beaten track--I looked it up for you, the directions are on the back. I think those cottages are tied to the farm, so one of the family must be a worker there. There's no Rosemary Linden listed, but they may know something, or I might be sending you on a wild-goose chase."
"I'll soon find out. Thank you very much for your help."
A light but warm rain that had dampened the drive to Ipswich had now lifted, leaving wisps of mist across flat fields of crops newly harvested. The road was narrow, and soon woodland on either side diminished the view, but offered shade from the bright sunshine breaking through. Once out of the canopy of trees, Maisie entered a hamlet of a few cottages, some thatched and all built in the mid-fifteenth century, with oak beams and roofs that were bowed in the middle. She slowed the car so that she barely rumbled through Knowsley, looking again at her directions. Soon she came to a cottage on the right and pulled up alongside a hedge that in May would be blooming with bright white syringa. She stepped out of the motor car and looked across the front garden. Someone had tied off the last of the summer flowers, though canes were still wrapped with multicolored late sweet peas. The hedge was high, so when the door opened and laughter could be heard, Maisie stepped back to watch without being seen. A young man--possibly in his early twenties and with the bearing of a farm laborer, carried an older woman outside. She laughed as he accidentally knocked her head against the doorjamb.
"Leave me with a mind, Adam, whatever you do!"
"Oh, sorry, Mum. Are you all right?"
"I'm well enough. But watch where you're going, would you? Now, If Alice and Amber just put the chair over there, then I'll tell you where to put my things."
Two girls struggled to bring out a wheelchair and another, younger, lad carried a tray with books and writing paper; he had draped a blanket around his shoulder like a cape. When the mother was seated in her chair, the older girl took the blanket from the boy and wrapped it around the woman's knees, then placed the tray on her lap. The son who had carried her out returned to the house, and the second daughter, whom Maisie judged to be about nineteen or twenty, said she would bring a cup of tea for her mother. The younger boy was tasked with not forgetting to feed the rabbits, and the older daughter remained with her mother, kneeling at her feet as the woman breathed the sigh of one who is exhausted by even the slightest exertion. The mother put her arm around her daughter's shoulder and rested her head against hers. "I'm so glad you're home, Alice. You were gone a long time, and I missed you."
"But we needed the money."
"We certainly did, and now look at us--getting on our feet again. It's Alfie who worries me now, though. He's doing so well in school--he'll go to the university, if we can get the money."
Maisie stepped back. She closed her eyes and framed words of introduction. It would be a difficult conversation, so she wanted just a moment or two to compose herself, to hold her hand to her heart so that she might speak from that place. There was fragility in this household, a lingering sickness that each member of the family worked hard to counter each day--Maisie could see it in the way they had clustered around a much-adored mother. But, of more urgency, Maisie knew she had found Rosemary Linden, for she still knelt alongside her mother, and was held in her arms. And there had been a greater recognition, as the children--now grown--brought the chair, then the blankets and writing materials. Maisie could see in her mind's eye the photograph she had taken from the room in which Greville Liddicote had died. A woman surrounded by her children, the youngest on her outswung hip with the older ones close by, smiling into the camera. Except one, as Maisie now remembered. The eldest girl stood just behind her sister and brother, and she was frowning at the camera, or more likely at the man who was trying to capture that moment.
Chapter Fifteen
The woman and her daughter did not see Maisie at first. Her approach was partly hidden by the sweet peas, their multicolored pastel blooms bobbing in a warm breeze, while white cumulus clouds seemed to linger above, before moving on to cast a shadow across another garden. Soon she was close enough to offer a greeting, but wanted to do so in a manner that gave the daughter time to gather her thoughts.
"Hello there, Alice--at last I've found you!" Maisie smiled at the young woman she had known as Rosemary Linden, who now stood before her in a sensible brown cotton skirt and a white blouse with a lace-edged sailor collar. She wore sturdy lace-up shoes on her feet, and an apron over the skirt. She gasped when she first saw Maisie standing before her. Yet it seemed that Maisie's open smile had indeed helped Alice collect herself, for she smiled in return, and her reply was composed.
"Miss Dobbs--Maisie--how lovely to see you here." She turned to her mother, and though her color heightened the second she called Maisie by her Christian name, she was quick with a story to mask the truth. "Mother, I met Miss Maisie Dobbs while I was working in Cambridge; we were both members of a readers' club."
"Mrs. Thurlow, I am so pleased to meet you. I was in Ipswich seeing a friend, and I thought I would take a jaunt out here to see Alice. We quite miss her opinion on the latest books."
"Please, do call me Ursula. Any friend of my children is welcome to our house at any time--especially lovers of literature. One always has riches when one has a book to read." She turned to her daughter. "Alice, go and get Alfie to bring a couple of chairs out, so we can sit together, and tell Amber to bring another cup. Then I am sure you and Maisie have things to talk about."
Alice went into the cottage and soon the younger boy brought the chairs, one held in each hand, bumping the door frame as he came out.
"Careful, Alfie, I think I've already taken a chip or two out of that wood with my head this morning!"
The boy was on the cusp of manhood, with a fluff of beard almost ready for the razor, and a way of walking as if he had grown too fast for his limbs to take account of themselves. He set down chairs for both his sister and her guest, and informed his mother that Amber had put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea and Alice would be back out in a moment.
"If it weren't for my children, I don't know what I would do, Maisie." Ursula Thurlow's manner was inclusive and open, as if she had known Maisie for a long time.
"Alice only mentioned that you were dependent upon the wheelchair--she didn't really tell me about your condition.
Have you not found a doctor to help you at all?"
"The expense of going to the doctor has prevented me from seeing more than just one or two physicians, though there was a doctor in Ipswich who referred me to a colleague in Cambridge who was interested in my case for 'research' purposes. I went to see him once, but I didn't want to go again. It was exhausting, just getting there, and the symptoms did not seem to be deteriorating at any great rate--it has taken since 1917 for me to be so crippled, and at least I still have my mind and my hands, though they wobble at times." She paused, and sipped her tea. Alice joined them, bringing a tray with more tea and a cake. Amber followed and made as if to remain with them, but when she realized the subject of their conversation, she left to go back into the house, informing them that her older brother had gone back to the farm.
Ursula Thurlow reached out for her older daughter's hand, and continued with her story. "It all started with tingling in my fingers, and a sort of giddiness--the room would spin, then come back into place. I had young children then, so I could not allow it to hamper me. And I was alone; my husband had died, and I believed the shock of his death had likely set off the symptoms, and they would go in time. But they didn't." She reached out to touch the petals on one of the sweet peas. "Sometimes I can feel the soft touch of a flower, and sometimes I can't, which tells me that this hand might be the next to go."
Maisie nodded. "I know you only spent a short time with the consultant in Cambridge, but did he mention anything to do with myelin? There was some research a few years ago that won a Nobel award; it was to do with the way in which our nerves use something called myelin; lack of the substance leads to the sort of sclerosis that you describe." She looked at Alice, then at Ursula once again. "I should have mentioned--I was once a nurse, so these things interest me."