The woman shrugged. "Myelin? It sounds familiar, Miss Dobbs, but I have ceased to pay attention. Much as I would like to think that one day someone will say, 'Take up your bed and walk,' I have come to realize that, each day, I have only that day. I live for the present, Miss Dobbs, and the joy I can leach out of every moment with my children, in my garden, with my books and in my writing." She reached out towards Alice, pulling her close so that she might kiss her forehead.
"I think you are perfectly right to live each day as you choose, Ursula. I can understand how wearing endless visits to the doctor can be."
"It was bad enough when Alice chose to go to work with the family in Cambridge, but she's back now. It was a few years in which I would love to have seen more of her, but she insisted upon working to bring more money into the household." The woman seemed to tire. "I think I might just sit in the sun here while you two young women go off for a chat." She paused and looked up at Maisie, who was now standing. "I am sure we will speak again before you leave, Maisie. May I ask what it is you do, for you are a working woman, that much is clear to me, though you are no longer a nurse."
"No, I am no longer a nurse. I am a teacher, and I have another job as well, though that is more difficult to describe."
The woman smiled, and then closed her eyes, her hands resting on the tray with her books and writing materials.
"Let's walk down to the stream," offered Alice Thurlow.
The two women walked for a while without speaking, then Maisie took the lead. "Tell me why you lied, Alice. Tell me why you have lived a lie while working for Greville Liddicote."
"I didn't kill him."
"I know. But you wanted to, didn't you?"
Alice laughed. It was a short laugh. "I don't know how I thought I would harm him, though I wanted to see him as deeply wounded as he left my family--and we were already in so much pain, every one of us, especially mother."
"Would you tell me what happened?"
"My mother could tell you what happened before my father was taken away. I was not a child, but probably not quite old enough to see anything but the black and white of it all." She sighed. "Sometimes, it makes me so tired, so exhausted, just thinking back over those years."
"Let's sit over here, on this bank."
Maisie took off her jacket and laid it on the ground. She sat down on one side, patting the remaining fabric for Alice to sit next to her. "There, that works very well."
"It won't do your jacket any good, though, will it, Miss Dobbs?"
"Maisie. Please continue to call me Maisie. Now, tell me about your father."
Tears came into the young woman's eyes, tears that she brushed away with the back of her hand.
"They were very happy, my parents. Very much in love. But if I was to look back on it, I think they were very idealistic. I didn't realize how different we all were until I started seeing my friends' parents, who seemed so ordinary. My parents were always involved in something, and even before the war they had become quite vocal about their support of peace among nations. My father went to a peace march in 1912, and we all went along, too. If one of us couldn't walk, then they carried us." Alice stopped speaking. She pinched at the grass, pulling up small clumps and throwing them aside. "My parents truly believed in what they saw as an increasingly aggressive tone in government. To tell you the truth, we--my brother and I--picked up the argument, the discussion we heard around the table, and took it to school, which made us stand out a bit. So, later, Mother started teaching us at home. And she told stories. Both Mother and Father told stories for us, and they said that if you could teach children about peace, there would be no more wars. We were taught never to fight, never to raise a hand towards another, and to turn the other cheek. I think that was especially hard for Adam, because he was such a big lad for his age--every boy in school wanted to pick on him for a fight, but he just walked away. I think we were all relieved when we came home for school, and my mother had quite a row with the school board man."
"I'm sure she did," offered Maisie. "What happened to your father, in the war?"
"He protested against conscription, and he registered as a conscientious objector." She swallowed, and rivulets of tears ran down either side of her face. "My father was a very, very clever man, Miss Dobbs. He had been a teacher, and a writer of political essays, all of which were published. He was firm in his resolve, and he could argue his point with clarity and without resorting to rancor or sarcasm; he didn't need to be disrespectful. Even though I was young, I remember that listening to him argue a point was like watching a concert pianist dance his fingers across the keyboard, or a ballerina execute her steps to perfection. The men at his hearing clearly despised him. I am sure he angered them simply by the way he expressed himself--he was quite imperturbable. So instead of being sent to do hard labor, such was the vehemence--and, I think, the sense--of his argument, that he was sent to Wandsworth Prison, which had a terrible reputation. And we had no means of support in the family. We were living in a cottage close to the school where he taught at the time, and after his hearing, my mother was given notice to leave. She was very worried, so for a short time we went to live with my father's aunt."
"Rose Linden."
The drying tears had left water marks across Alice Thurlow's skin, and her eyes were red-rimmed. "Oh, yes, of course, that's how you found us. Rose was so kind, and so was her husband, though they ended up losing the regard of her husband's family. We were like the unclean, you see--the family of a conchie. My mother told me she would have to get us away as soon as she could, as it wasn't fair on Aunt Rose."
Maisie allowed a silence to descend before asking another question. "How did Greville Liddicote come into your lives?"
"My mother had a book--actually she had a couple of books--that she and my father had written together. They had a way of working that really seemed to be fruitful for them, and they took so much joy in the process. They would talk about a story idea, then my father would set to and write the first draft, after which he would give the pages to my mother; then she would go through them and write the story again--and she'd paint little pictures with her watercolors along the way. Then when my father was sent to prison, she wrote a story for us--it was called The Peaceful Little Warriors. We loved that story, and she illustrated it." She sighed. "We needed money, so Mother thought she would try to get them published. She was naive, Maisie. She asked her friends, one of whom vaguely knew Greville Liddicote, and that he had written some children's books. So she wrote to him and enclosed one chapter of the first book. He came to visit and began paying attention to my mother. She was a striking woman, Maisie. Though she can barely move now, you should have seen her before this wicked disease claimed her."
"What did your aunt and uncle think of him, calling on a married woman?"
"Liddicote was circumspect, and soon he helped us out--well, it seemed as if he was helping us out. Mother was about to give birth to Alfie, and I think, even though she was pregnant, he seemed to be drawn to her like a moth to a light--even in the worst of times, she had such laughter about her. He found us a cottage to live in, and he offered to purchase the manuscripts--five pounds each for three, which was a fortune to my mother. She was so grateful. He had already paid the rent for several months--he stayed at the house as often as he liked--and the extra money would help out even more. And, to be fair, we needed that sort of support, especially after my father was murdered."
"Murdered?"
"Yes, he was murdered, Miss Dobbs, though the men who took his life will never stand trial, for they were protected by the war and their position. We heard the truth a few years later, when one of his fellow prisoners came to visit and told us what he understood had happened. The conscientious objectors were treated as if they were the worst of common criminals. If thirsty, they were made to drink their own urine. If hungry, they were starved. If they cried, they were kicked. A man who stands up for what he believes in instead of fighting for what someone else believe
s in is a threat--people cannot bear someone who has that sort of strength and fortitude."
Alice Thurlow's passionate description of her father took Maisie by surprise. The woman beside her bore little resemblance to the Rosemary Linden who had diligently gone about her duties at the College of St. Francis.
"And I take it that Greville Liddicote published not only The Peaceful Little Warriors, but the two other books written by your parents--and all under his own name. He took all the royalties for himself--and the renown--leaving your family with only enough to pay the rent, if you were lucky."
"Yes. And he never came back again after the first book was published. In truth, I don't think it was out of spite, but embarrassment. He was probably afraid that someone would find out and he would lose everything, so he didn't even send a penny more. My mother made an attempt to press her claim after she'd realized what had happened, but due to her beliefs, she didn't exactly fight for what was hers--and no one really wanted to listen, anyway. You see, Greville Liddicote had left my mother with a reputation--she was the wife of a conchie who had been kept by another man. But she was pressed to that point by a country that saw a true conscientious objection to the war as reason to cast a family aside with no support. It would have been so easy for my father to take the King's shilling, to offer to drive ambulances, for example. But if he was to be true to his beliefs--and the values my mother held with him--he could not support men killing each other in any way. How might that have seemed to his children? Especially when he and Ursula believed that the future of a peaceful world lay with those who were not yet grown."
Maisie sighed. She wondered how the power of such a worthy conviction could lead to so much desolation, so much pain. And Greville Liddicote had died with a photograph of Ursula Thurlow in his hand.
"Do you think Liddicote loved your mother?"
At first Alice seemed angered--a dull chill seemed reflected in her eyes--but she said nothing, composing her thoughts before speaking again. "I was a child, Maisie, though I confess, I have asked myself the same question time and again, and I have come to the conclusion that he was a confused--and rather selfish--man who chose the easier option." She picked at the grass again, then brushed off her hands and looked at Maisie. "Here's what I think. I believe he was enchanted by my mother, and I believe he loved her, in his way. She did not love him--she loved my father too much--but she was grateful, and I think she was probably scared. I have tried to imagine how she must have felt, having lost the love of her life, the man who shared everything she believed in. I think she would have married Liddicote, had he asked--for the security, if nothing else. But he did not ask, and having worked for him, I can imagine why. He was an ambitious man, and I think he probably saw how marriage to the widow of a conscientious objector--and remember, he didn't really lean towards pacifism until the success of The Peaceful Little Warriors--might stand between him and the recognition he craved. She was a liability." She paused and caught her breath. "And I think he probably regretted his decision for the rest of his life, though he was not the sort of man who would have taken action to make amends."
"Yes, I can see that," said Maisie. "So you waited until your brothers and sister were mature enough to care for your mother, and you left to seek work with Greville Liddicote. And he didn't recognize you?"
"I would be amazed if he ever even really noticed me."
"I would be amazed if he didn't, to tell you the truth."
Alice shrugged.
"Did you think you could kill him?"
"I had anger enough, but when it came to it, there was no will in my heart. My parents had done a good job. I was a child on a mission to avenge a wrong, almost like in a fairy tale, but I don't know what I thought I could do. I don't know at all. I imagined hitting him over the head with a poker, or a vase, or putting poison in his tea." She laughed, then tears came again. "How stupid of me. But I earned money to send back to my family, and I came home once a month or so; if I was in service, they might not have seen me quite as much." She picked at some grass alongside the sleeve of Maisie's jacket. "And someone else did it, anyway. I think that, if I discovered anything, it was that Greville Liddicote was a very lonely man. I believe I almost felt sorry for him. All that passion for peace, and he was alone."
Maisie allowed the silence to linger once again, and instead listened to the wheeling seagulls above, whose cry she suspected was a warning that stormy weather was moving in from the sea.
"Do you know who might have murdered Liddicote? From your words it's clear you know that he did not die from a heart attack."
Alice pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. "There were people in and out all day, but I think he might have had one visitor who was not originally on his list of appointments, though I did not see him arrive."
"Who was that?"
"Well, Dunstan Headley telephoned to ask if Dr. Liddicote was in his office that day." She looked away, as if gauging how fast the clouds were moving, and seemed distracted as she continued speaking. "I said he was, and would he like me to make an appointment. He said no, that wasn't necessary, but he might send his son around with a message, or he might come himself. Then he told me not to worry, that he realized Dr. Liddicote was busy--and he hung up the telephone without saying good-bye. I still don't know if he came or he didn't--and I wasn't in my office much that day; I seemed to be running all over the place with messages."
Maisie felt the first large drops of rain splatter across her face and arms. She stood up, and looked at the dark clouds lumbering towards them. "Come on, we'd better be off, and at a clip--look at those clouds!"
As they walked back towards the house, Maisie asked another question, though she knew she would doubtless have more later. It was clear that, as Rosemary Linden, the woman who strode alongside her had seen a lot more than she might have imagined while working as Greville Liddicote's secretary.
"Alice, what do you think of Dr. Thomas?"
"Ah, the woman with the best-cut costumes in the college!" She smiled, and looked at Maisie. They had both broken into a run as the sky lit up with lightning. Alice began to count. "One, two, three, four--" The clap of thunder followed, loud enough, Maisie thought, to crack the heavens. "Oh dear," said Alice, "It's less than a mile behind us. Come on!"
As they ran into the house through the back door, Alice called out to her sister to ensure all their mother's belongings had been brought in. Ursula Thurlow was now sitting in an armchair in the low-beamed kitchen, and a kettle had been put on to boil. Maisie was thankful she had not pulled down the MG's cloth roof for the drive, for the motor car would have been drenched by now.
"There are warm towels hanging up there, Alice. Make sure you and Maisie dry your hair properly. We don't want you catching a cold this time of year, or you'll never shake it."
They each took a towel to their wet hair and rubbed the rain away.
"Now you'll have to stay a while, Miss Dobbs. You can't be driving along our lanes in that little motor of yours."
"Thank you, I would love to stay. In fact, I wanted to talk to you, Ursula, on two matters, actually. I have a very dear friend--Andrew Dene--he's an orthopedic surgeon of some note and works closely with neurologists, given his standing and the nature of his specialty. I know he would be more than happy to see you. It would not cost a penny. I could arrange for you to go to London, it would be my pleasure." Before Ursula could reply, Maisie added, "I know it would take valuable energy, but we could make it a family affair, a trip to London for you and your children, perhaps a few days away to remember."
The chair-bound woman looked at Maisie with her open face and wide deep brown eyes. "What is it that you do, Miss Dobbs?"
Maisie smiled. She had half-expected the question. "I am a teacher, Ursula. And I also work for the government. That is all I can say, and that is between us. Now, perhaps I can ask my second question."
"You might as well."
"I'd love to read more of your work--may I
?"
When the storm had passed and taken with it the humidity of the previous week, Maisie left the Thurlows' cottage home. Alice accompanied her to the MG, though she had to answer several questions from Alfie, who had been hanging around, waiting to look inside the motor car. She thanked Alice for being so honest with her, for answering her questions, and they made a pact that each would keep the details of their conversation a secret between them, for she guessed it was now clear to Alice Thurlow that Maisie was not simply the junior lecturer in philosophy.
"Before I go, Alice, I want to remind you about the question I asked, just as the rain came."
"Oh, yes, about Dr. Thomas. You were asking what I thought of her."
"That's right."
"She's a dark horse, and I wonder if she doesn't have a life in London that none of us are aware of--she might be a dancer or something."
"What makes you say that?"
"As soon as she leaves the college on a Friday, she goes straight to London, generally on the four-o'clock train. She sometimes misses a week here and there."
"How do you know?"
"By paying attention, Maisie. If you pay attention, everyone has something they want to hide, even if it's going shopping in London."
Maisie laughed. "You're a very dark horse yourself, Rosemary Linden. And that reminds me--the police are aware that your personal file is missing. If it contains anything to inspire them to come to find this house, I'll allow you to remove it, but I'd like to take it back with me. Now go and tell your brother to hurry up, and I'll take him for a spin up to the crossroads."
With Rosemary Linden's personal file in her briefcase, Maisie dropped Alfie at the crossroads. She noticed a telephone kiosk on the corner, so she took the opportunity to place a call to Billy. She gazed out across fields of golden barley swaying in the breeze as she listened to his account of his work since they last spoke.