He sighed, shook his head, and looked out of the window, before turning back to Maisie. "You knew knew that he had been murdered?" that he had been murdered?"

"I suspected the possibility."

He reached for a file on his desk. "I see you worked for a Dr. Maurice Blanche, as his personal a.s.sistant. That's how you know people from Scotland Yard, I a.s.sume."

"Yes, that's correct."

"Blanche was a friend of Greville's, wasn't he?"

"They were acquainted."

"Which means that Greville wrote long letters about philosophical matters and your Dr. Blanche indulged him; or perhaps it was the other way around."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Greville had a responsibility to ensure the financial viability of the college, and to that end he took his acquaintances quite seriously. I am sure your Dr. Blanche accommodated a request for a contribution to our cause."

"And I a.s.sure you he did not." Maisie steadied her breathing; she did not want to rush to Maurice's defense and in doing so make a comment she would regret. "I have some knowledge of Dr. Blanche's philanthropic expenditures-all of which are in favor of the clinics he founded. If he was in contact with Dr. Liddicote, it was due to their mutual intellectual interests."

Roth sighed. "In any case, the police are treating his death as suspicious-that is their language, as I am sure you are aware-and they will be speaking to staff and students over the next few days. I daresay they have already interviewed you."

"If they are to interview staff, then I will be included, of that you should have no doubt." Maisie paused again when she realized that Roth's eyes were filled with tears. "Are you all right, Dr. Roth?"

He nodded. "It has been a troubling night, Miss Dobbs, and a difficult morning thus far."

"Dr. Roth, may I ask a question of you?"

He waved his hand, as if he had lost all energy. "I have been answering questions for half the night, so a few more won't do any harm." In his fatigued state, Roth's accent had become increasingly guttural. Until that point his English p.r.o.nunciation was almost regal-it was not commonly known that the royal family spoke their native language with more than a hint of Germanic inflection.

"How did you come to know Dr. Liddicote? You must have been acquainted when the college was in the early stages of planning."

Roth removed his spectacles, folded them, and placed them on the desk in front of him. His movements seemed precise and measured. "Lack of sleep, Miss Dobbs." He rubbed his eyes. "And I fear my vision is becoming quite inadequate for my purposes." He sighed as he replaced the spectacles, blinking as if to refocus. "In 1916, when I was thirty-two years of age, I was an officer in the German army on the Western Front. It was not my choice to go to war; it had never been my desire to fight. But when I saw my students-fine young men, and not one of them a warrior-conscripted from their cla.s.ses and sent to France to fight after barely six weeks of training, I could not see them go unless I, too, went forward to do my part. My rise through the ranks was as swift as it was for many of your young men-attrition begets opportunity, if one can call it that. Our leaders, such as they were, were all swept away by a tide of complete and utter stupidity-just a year before I joined the army, my students and I were welcoming our counterparts from France, Austria, Spain, Great Britain, and Sweden for a summer school in which we shared our knowledge and understanding of the great philosophers." He coughed and removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes once more. "But in 1916, there I was, in this cold, ugly stench of war. We had just taken a ridge that had been greatly contested-just a small ridge, a few feet for a few thousand French, British, and German lives-and when we went into the trenches, the vision of those boys-boys whom we had killed, boys who looked so much like our boys-all but broke my heart. We moved and buried the bodies as reverently as we could, in the circ.u.mstances. I stopped alongside one of them; I had an urge to know more about him, to know who he was, if there was a letter from his mother or a photograph of his girl. Instead I was taken with a book in his pack. It was a children's story by Greville Liddicote. All around me was the ... the ... sickness of war, and here in my hands was a children's book. And I sat down in that mud and wept. Not one of my men stared at me, not one stopped what he was doing. They just went about their business, and as soon as I was able to conduct myself as an officer, I went about mine."

Maisie nodded. "And after the war you sought out the author."

"I went back to my teaching position and wrote to his publisher, who pa.s.sed on the letter. Greville and I began a fruitful correspondence, and when he invited me to visit him, I came as soon as I could." Roth blinked several times as if to prevent his emotions from becoming evident. "He was something of a hero to me, you see. Plans to open St. Francis were under way, and when he asked if I would join as his deputy-he felt he knew me well enough, and also considered it a 'message' to have a deputy who came from Germany, the former enemy-I was excited by the offer and jumped at the opportunity to join him. You see, Miss Dobbs, in 1916, shortly after taking that ridge-and keeping that bloodstained copy of Greville's book-I was sent home to Germany with a wound that no one could prove was self-inflicted." He sighed. "I am aware of the rumors that accompanied The Peaceful Little Warriors The Peaceful Little Warriors and why it was removed from circulation in Britain, but as far as I know, the only mutiny caused by Greville Liddicote's book was mine." and why it was removed from circulation in Britain, but as far as I know, the only mutiny caused by Greville Liddicote's book was mine."

Maisie had wanted to ask Matthias Roth about the intercollege debate, and why he and Liddicote had been at odds over the issue; however, it was clear that the man was barely in control of his emotions. Such moments were often difficult to gauge-should she take advantage of a person's distress, using it as a moment to press him further? Or would she be better served by patience, by a level of consideration that would encourage the person to be more frank with her, more open, at another time? On this occasion, she decided upon the latter, though she had no doubt that MacFarlane would have expressed an opinion or two on her decision.

Part of her wanted to remain in Cambridge, though she knew she must go to London. As she made her way along the corridor towards Rosemary Linden's office to inform her that she was leaving, she saw the secretary accompanying two visitors in the direction of the stairs; she suspected they were on their way to Matthias Roth's office. One was a man of late middle age, with light-gray hair, a dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. His shoes were polished and he carried a black homburg. A younger man accompanied him, and such was the resemblance between the pair that Maisie a.s.sumed they were father and son, though the younger man was taller, and more suitably dressed for a summer's day, wearing light-brown trousers and a cream linen jacket, an open shirt, and a white panama hat that he had not removed. Maisie waved good-bye to Miss Linden, and as they pa.s.sed, the younger man took off his hat and smiled at Maisie. Her recollection was immediate-he was the man in whose company she had seen Delphine Lang in the park.

The day was fine for the drive back to London. As she navigated her way through the city of Cambridge, Maisie once again reflected upon her good fortune to have been educated in such a place. She remembered her first term at Girton, and the forays into town for tea with Priscilla, who always wanted to go from one shop to another and stay out past their curfew. Every time Maisie lingered to look up at another building with tall spires and n.o.ble b.u.t.tresses, and stained-gla.s.s windows in rich hues, Priscilla would roll her eyes and say, "It's only bricks and b.l.o.o.d.y mortar!" All about them, more and more young men were in uniform-so different from her return to complete her education after the war, when the distant laughter seemed to echo around those spires and along the Backs, where once a boy Priscilla was seeing had tipped a punt underneath overhanging willows, and they'd splashed onto the gra.s.s, drenched to the skin.

With Cambridge behind her, the journey was easy. Clouds scudding across the summer-blue sky threatened only the merest sprinkle of rain, so she stopped once to pull back the roof on the MG and stow her hat. As the road opened up, she considered the events that had unfolded since she had arrived at the College of St. Francis. She had often thought of the early stages of an investigation as something akin to working a tapestry; at times it was as if she were searching for loose threads so she could unpick the completed image to see what might lie underneath and how a certain play on light or color was achieved. As with a tapestry, some crimes proved to be true masterpieces of deception. And she knew from experience that when a life had been taken in the act of murder, there were few black and white places, only gray shadows in which the truth lingered-and truth sometimes held only a pa.s.sing connection to fact.

Her thoughts came back to Billy and Sandra. Her first order of business, she thought, was to broach the subject of the house with Billy. Then there was Sandra, who had settled into Maisie's flat and was a good and quiet guest. In time she would need to find other accommodations, but not before Maisie considered her strong enough; she had suffered a severe emotional blow, and it was important to give her the time she needed to get back on her feet. And there was something else-Maisie had seen a spark in Sandra, and it had burned brighter since her husband's death. It was as if there was a determination to do something more with herself; in her work she took on more than was asked, and Maisie had noticed that she made several visits to the lending library each week. If she could help her get on in life, she would.

Good afternoon, Miss. How was your drive from Cambridge?" Sandra stood up when Maisie came into the room, closing the notebook she had been writing in as she welcomed her employer back to the office.

"h.e.l.lo, Sandra. Where's Billy today?"

Sandra blushed. "He is out seeing a Mrs. Clark-we received an inquiry letter from her yesterday, something to do with her son having left home and she didn't know where he'd gone. Mr. Beale went along to see her-Belgrave Square-and he said he had a couple of other appointments and might not be back here today."

"Oh dear, I wanted to see him-this is my only opportunity to speak to him before I go away again on Sunday evening."

Sandra collected the teapot and cups from their place on top of the cabinet next to Billy's desk. "He seemed a bit tired again, Miss, to tell you the truth."

"I might drive over to Sh.o.r.editch this evening. I do hate to just drop in on the family, but I'm a bit concerned."

"Right you are, Miss. I'll get a cup of tea and we can look at what I've done this week, just so you know. And I'm in no rush to go to Mr. Partridge, as he's out on an appointment with his publisher today."

Maisie removed her gloves and hat, and took a seat at her desk. She opened the large drawer to her right and took out the papers she had been sent from the building firms regarding new properties for sale under what they described as "terms." She picked up the telephone and dialed the number on a letter she had already made notes upon, checking the time on the mantelpiece clock as she did so. Three minutes later, she replaced the receiver, having made an appointment to see one of the finished houses on a street within "reasonable" walking distance of Eltham railway station-according to the Mr. Walsh she spoke to about the properties. The appointment was for eleven o'clock the following morning, an hour that would give Billy and Doreen plenty of time to catch the train out to Eltham, and for Billy in particular to gauge the journey, as well as the cost of the train fare. Now all she had to do was get them to agree to view the house, which she knew would be a difficult first step.

Sandra went over the business of the past four days, pulling out a ledger so Maisie could see the bills sent out and remittances received. Business was not bad at all. New clients, along with several commercial customers who paid a retainer for their services, had made the year a good one, thus far.

"I think it's time to call it a day," said Maisie.

"Right you are, Miss." Sandra pulled the cover across the typewriter.

"I can give you a lift home, Sandra, unless you've other plans."

"That's all right. I've some shopping to do, so I'll come home on the bus."

Maisie smiled. "I'll see you later, then, Sandra."

She did not leave Fitzroy Square immediately, much as she wanted to go straight home. Instead, she waited until Sandra left the building, and watched her walk across the square. Maisie could not follow her employee-her MG was far too distinctive, and to do so would demonstrate a level of mistrust that should not exist between an employer and her staff. However, when she saw Sandra's color rise as she said, "I've some shopping to do ... ," Maisie knew she had been told a lie. Maisie studied Sandra's gait and, when she was out of sight, imitated the same walk for a few yards-the set of Sandra's shoulders, her step narrower than usual. Maisie noticed that even her jaw seemed to be clenched as she walked. It had always intrigued her, how such a simple method could reveal so much. Sandra was afraid, but was forging on despite the sense of fear that enveloped her. It was as if she had set out to do something-something that challenged her-and she had resolved not to turn back. In that moment, Maisie wished she had suggested accompanying Sandra to the shops-and she wondered what shops, exactly, would be open for Sandra after the working day was done on a Friday afternoon.

The street where Billy lived was not as desperate as some, though in Sh.o.r.editch there were still families who had no running water, so that the women had to struggle along to the communal pump several times each day. Those who lived in the two-up-two-down terrace houses fought a never-ending battle against damp, soot, and rats. It was common for more than one family to live in each house, with little food on the table, and no shoes on the feet of children. A motor car was rarely seen on these streets, which, though not far from the wealth of the City of London, might as well have been a thousand miles distant. There was a poverty here that clung to the soul, as if it were the fetid ocher smog that lingered above the dark waters of the River Thames.

Though Billy's mother had previously lived in a cottage along the same street, thanks to a bit of money put by after her husband died-money that was now gone-she had been living with the family for some time, sleeping in a room with the two boys and keeping an eye on Doreen during the day. She was a kindly woman whom Maisie had only once seen without a pinafore, and that was on the day little Lizzie Beale was laid to rest. Maisie had been glad that old Mrs. Beale was present when she called at the house, and that she remained in the kitchen-though at the sink, washing laundry-while Maisie put her idea to Billy and his wife as the three of them sat at the table. Maisie explained that she had a little money she wanted to invest in property, and had an idea that might help them all: she had seen details of a new house in Eltham that she wanted to put a down payment on; however, she would need to rent it out. She told them she'd already done her sums and the rent she would need to ask was-she believed-probably less than Billy was paying at the moment. Then she'd brought out a sheet describing the house, along with an artist's impression, and pushed it across the table to Billy and Doreen.

"Oh, I don't know, Miss, it's all very nice, but-"

"Billy, it's got an indoor lav, look at this!" Doreen's growing excitement was evident in her voice.

"Hold on, love, what I'm trying to say is this, that-"

"And three bedrooms," added Doreen. "A garden for the boys. And I think we'd rather pay rent to Miss Dobbs than that rotten bloke who-"

Maisie interjected. "And if-when-you want to go to Canada, you won't be tied to the house. But if ... if you decide not to go, for any reason, we can talk about the arrangements again, because you'll have paid money into the house and I would like you to see a return on it. So, all things being equal, it's a plan that works for both of us-I can invest my money, and you can move with no concerns about a higher rent, or being tied. It's an easy ride into Charing Cross on the train, or there's the bus, according to the man I spoke to this afternoon."

"Miss, this is all very well, but-"

At once, and with soapsuds covering her hands and forearms, Billy's mother turned to the trio, focusing her attention on Billy.

"Here I am, doing a sinkful of bedclothes-for the second time today-that will go out on that line and be black as soot by the time they come in again; your boys have always got snotty noses, your wife is fit to pop, you're working yourself silly doing two jobs, and you've got the cheek to sit there and say, 'This is all very well.' I don't know where you've had your head, Billy Beale, but in case you hadn't noticed, it's not very well-not very well by a long chalk. Miss Dobbs has come here and made you an offer that even to my uneducated mind sounds like a dream come true, and you want to turn it down in case your Canada boat comes in. You've got a nerve, son." She turned away, muttering under her breath, her wet, reddened hands dragging a scrubbing brush back and forth across a sheet laid out on the draining board.

Billy shrugged; his face reddened. "I reckon we can look tomorrow." He turned to his wife. "You feel up to it, going down there on the train?"

"It's hardly Brighton, Billy-it's not that far." Doreen rubbed her swollen belly and turned to Maisie, her smile more open than it had been for months. "I want to see this house. And thank you, Miss Dobbs, for thinking of us-you know, before you went out and talked to anyone else, or put it up for rent in the paper."

Billy accompanied Maisie to the door. She turned to him before leaving.

"Two jobs, Billy?"

"I was going to talk to you about it, really I was."

"You can talk to me about it another time, Billy. In the meantime, get a good night's sleep and I'll meet you and Doreen-and your mum-at the building office in Eltham." She pressed a few coins into his hand. "And don't let Doreen walk any farther than she has to-here's a bit of bonus money for the taxi."

"What bonus money?"

"For listening to your mother."

A letter from James Compton was among those waiting for Maisie at the flat, and as she opened the envelope, she took care not to damage the Canadian stamp-Billy's sons might like it as a keepsake. In the letter James explained that he would be sailing for Southampton later than originally planned, and that it would be a couple of weeks before he arrived home. She read on, then slipped the letter back in the envelope to read again later. As she slid her fingernail under the edge of the stamp to peel it back, she noticed the franking was smudged, but not enough to hide the fact that the letter had been sent not from Toronto, but from London. letter from James Compton was among those waiting for Maisie at the flat, and as she opened the envelope, she took care not to damage the Canadian stamp-Billy's sons might like it as a keepsake. In the letter James explained that he would be sailing for Southampton later than originally planned, and that it would be a couple of weeks before he arrived home. She read on, then slipped the letter back in the envelope to read again later. As she slid her fingernail under the edge of the stamp to peel it back, she noticed the franking was smudged, but not enough to hide the fact that the letter had been sent not from Toronto, but from London.

Chapter Seven.

By Sat.u.r.day afternoon, Maisie had returned to the building company's office to sign the preliminary required letter of intent to purchase a house in Eltham with three bedrooms, one bathroom, one new-look "fitted" kitchen with an electric cooker, and French doors leading onto a small garden with a shed at the end of a narrow path. The front garden, the builder promised, would be finished with planted flower beds and a willow tree-in fact, on Willow Avenue, all the houses were to have front-garden willow trees as a "feature," according to the builder's pamphlet. The only drawback was the wait-the house would not be completed for another month, and with Doreen due to give birth at some point in October, Maisie hoped they would be situated in their new home in a timely fashion.

"And you're sure it will be all right to rent only until we go to Canada, Miss?" said Billy. They were lingering in what would become the back garden, while his mother and Doreen remained in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors that were yet to be painted and had no fittings. The family had been lost for words upon entering the house, and when they stepped into the drawing room, Doreen had walked across to the broad bow window, looked out at her boys running around at the front of the property, and burst into tears.

"Yes, I'm sure, Billy," replied Maisie. "This is a big step for both of us, but it's your home for as long as you want to live here."

Billy nodded and blushed, rubbing his hands together in a manner that revealed both his excitement and his nervousness. "This is good of you, Miss."

"You're a valuable employee, Billy, and if you're constantly worried about your family, that doesn't serve either of us. Anyway, it was time, and it's a good place for my nest egg, too."

Having settled the arrangements, Maisie could return to Cambridge, knowing that one concern was off her plate, for the moment. In the meantime, though, she just wanted to go back to the flat-to sit in the quiet of her own home, gather her thoughts, and make plans for her next move. True, she was not supposed to be directly involved in the search for Greville Liddicote's murderer, but she did not see how she could separate one investigation from the other-though she was sure that she, MacFarlane, and Stratton would, at some point, be falling over one another's feet in their quests to unearth the truth.

It was mid-afternoon when she arrived back at the block of flats in Pimlico, parking the MG close to the path that led from the street up to the front door. Her keys in hand, she made her way along the pavement, but at once felt a cold shiver across her neck. She had been wounded in the war when the casualty clearing station where she was working, close to the front, came under enemy fire. The resulting scar, which ran from her neck into her scalp, no longer ached as much as it once had; yet it came alive with her senses, and if it bothered her, she trusted that there was something to be bothered about.

A man was walking towards her, and she knew it was this pedestrian who had tweaked her senses. He seemed an ordinary man. His suit was neither new nor old; his shoes did not shine, though they were not dirty; and though he wore a clean shirt and a tie, the shirt was not as white as it could have been and the tie was of a color that was not quite black and not quite blue. His face was forgettable, and his hat looked as if it had been steamed over a boiling kettle many times to keep its shape. He was a man who would not be remembered by a pa.s.serby. As he approached Maisie he brought out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, opened the top, and without using his fingers, took one between his lips. He returned the packet of cigarettes to his pocket, then patted up and down his jacket as if searching for matches. He looked up at Maisie at the very point when they would have pa.s.sed each other, and removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth to speak.

"Trouble you for a light, Miss?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I do not smoke, though you might try the gentleman opposite."

"He doesn't look like a smoker to me."

"But sir, he has brown fingertips. Don't all smokers have that stain?"

He nodded, looking down at the pavement as he made to walk on. They had each spoken their lines in a prearranged script, one of several she'd been tasked to memorize following her meeting with Huntley. The man who had asked for a light was now satisfied that she was the person he was looking for.

"Around the corner. Black motor." The words were spoken without missing a beat. Then he was gone, pushing his hat back on his head as if it would help him find someone with a light for the cheap Woodbine he now held between two fingers.

Maisie stopped, then went back to the MG. She rummaged behind the front seat of the motor car as if she had forgotten something, locked the door again, and this time walked past the block of flats and aroundthe corner, where a black motor car was parked, with engine idling. The pa.s.senger door opened as she walked alongside and she stepped in.

"A delight to see you, Miss Dobbs." Brian Huntley turned to the driver and knocked on the gla.s.s part.i.tion. "Scenic tour, if you don't mind, Archie."

The driver, with his oversteamed hat back in place, pulled away from the curb and set off down the road. Huntley turned back to Maisie.

"Bring me up to date, Miss Dobbs. I've had a full report from Robbie about Liddicote's murder-a spanner in the works, as far as we're concerned, I must say-but I want to know what, if anything, you've observed thus far; and don't worry, I appreciate you've only been on the job a week."

Maisie gave Huntley an account of her first days at the college, then asked a question. "Why didn't anyone tell me about the rumor that Greville Liddicote's book caused a mutiny during the war?"

"Not important; the information wasn't required, and it is not exactly true that there was a mutiny-perhaps some rumbling in the ranks, which is why the book's sale was curtailed."

"Dare I ask who curtailed it?"

Huntley shook his head. "Cla.s.sified."

"I see." Maisie knew there was little point in pressing Huntley; this was not Scotland Yard, where she could wheedle a piece of information here, a nugget there. This was the Secret Service, and she knew that between walls there were more walls, and every door required a different key-a key held by someone, somewhere, she had never even heard of. And though her a.s.sociation with Huntley's department was still in its infancy, she was gaining an impression that with so many walls, so many doors, and key holders who were not aware of-let alone able to speak to-one another, details could lie undisturbed for years.

Huntley nodded as she spoke, and it occurred to her that he must have worked quite closely with Maurice, perhaps more so than she'd previously thought, for he had some of her mentor's distinctive gestures: the slight incline of his head as he listened, or the habit of closing his eyes when she spoke, as if to bring forth an image of a person or situation she was describing. It made her aware, for the first time, that she, too, had probably absorbed much more of Maurice than she had imagined. She knew she had a habit of leaning her head to one side-just a little-when she replied to a difficult question, or when a thought occurred to her that she had yet to give voice to. She wondered how much of himself Maurice had seen in her.

"Robbie has informed me that you will be playing little or no part in the investigation into Liddicote's death. However, I know you will find it difficult to draw back from the inquiry. Though your work is part of a joint investigation between Special Branch and ourselves, and I have asked you to effectively keep MacFarlane apprised of your progress, do remember that in the first instance, your allegiance is to my department-and if that means keeping an eye on Robbie MacFarlane and his men, then so be it."

"I can envisage some conflict-"

"Then deal with it in a manner that befits your role." Huntley turned to Maisie. "This may seem as if it is a light case-a college in Cambridge, a group of eccentric teachers with pacifist leanings-but there are troubling undercurrents in our inst.i.tutions of tertiary education. Students from abroad, the political leanings of the new generation, and among them a fascination with what is happening in Russia-put that together in a place of ideas, and you have a highly volatile cauldron on hot coals."

Maisie nodded. "Yes, that much is becoming evident. But what can you tell me about a debate among the Cambridge colleges?"

"That's what you are there to tell us, Miss Dobbs. Debates are a part of university life-you know that from your days at Girton. And an intercollegiate debate would be an event of some proportion, and could be of interest to us-dependent upon the subject to be debated."

"You should know that Greville Liddicote was against the idea of his college putting forward a team of students to enter a planned debate. And it was causing some friction with his deputy, Matthias Roth."

"Oh, yes, the German."

Maisie regarded Huntley for a second or two, then put another question to him. "Mr. Huntley, how much do you already know about the college? In my briefings, I was given to believe that your current information was limited, yet I feel as if I am giving you intelligence you already have to hand."

Huntley replied without pause. "We have the sketch, Miss Dobbs. Your job is to uncover the masterpiece, so to speak. We could only go so far; you had the background to secure an academic post and work from within. We believe something is going on at that college, and we want to know exactly what it is. If it is simply a cover for bringing refugees-albeit wealthy young refugees-into the country, then that is one thing; but we believe there is more there than meets the eye. Consider no information too small or insignificant to report."

At that point he opened the gla.s.s part.i.tion again. "You can double back now, Archie. Find a suitable point where Miss Dobbs can catch a bus to Pimlico."

The driver nodded.

"Well, thank you for the consideration, Mr. Huntley. At least you didn't ask me to walk the whole way." Despite the comment, Maisie smiled as she left Huntley, and made her way back to the flat.

Maisie spent Sunday preparing for the week ahead and hardly saw Sandra, who left after breakfast to visit her husband's grave, a weekly pilgrimage of devotion. Maisie left the flat before Sandra emerged from her room on Monday morning, and was grateful for another trouble-free drive on the LondonCambridge road, a route which followed the old coach road, and was marked by ancient milestones at intervals along the way.

Arriving at the college mid-morning, Maisie was informed that an important formal announcement was to be made at noon, when students and staff would gather in the a.s.sembly hall-formerly a ballroom in the days when the property was still a private residence. Matthias Roth was to inform the a.s.sembly of Greville Liddicote's pa.s.sing, though she imagined there would be no mention made as to cause of death. Maisie's first cla.s.s was not until after lunch, so she went directly to the staff room, where refreshments were being served. As she waited in line for coffee behind other members of staff-she was becoming accustomed to the bitter brew-she learned another snippet of news: Rosemary Linden had departed the college without notice, leaving only a list of tasks completed and instructions regarding the efficient execution of her duties. Her stated reason-in a brief note penned in her precise copperplate hand, according to staff-room gossip-was that she did not wish to work at the college without Dr. Liddicote at the helm.