A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [111]
“Yes, many of the buildings along here are leased; this is the Belgian Embassy—though of course we haven’t quite taken over the whole square.”
“I see.” Maisie looked up at the building again.
“Can I help you, or did you simply want to know who resided in the square?”
“Oh, no. No, I wanted to know how to get to Victoria station.”
The man proceeded to give precise directions to Victoria, and then, with a doffing of his bowler hat, went on his way. With a final look at the building—and an overwhelming sense that she was a fly in a spider’s web—Maisie turned to walk away.
“Miss Dobbs!”
Francesca Thomas was standing between the two columns that flanked the mansion’s entrance. A man was standing behind her, as if to protect the building and its occupants.
“Dr. Thomas.” Maisie pushed up her cloche a little so their eyes could meet, and approached the woman whom she had followed from Liverpool Street station.
Francesca Thomas smiled. It was a wry smile, as if she had seen the funny side of a quip that no one else had quite picked up on. “Since you’ve made such a determined effort to follow me, I think the least we can do is to offer some sort of refreshment. Would you care to join me?”
Maisie nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Thomas. That’s very kind of you.”
She led Maisie past the threshold, nodding to the man at the door, who stepped out to look up and down the street before closing the door behind him. They continued across the expansive hallway, up the wide staircase, then along a corridor and into a small room. As they walked along, Maisie noticed that the interior of the mansion bore few comforts. It was, without doubt, a place of work, with plain cream paint and no decoration but for portraits of Albert I, King of the Belgians, and his wife, Elisabeth of Bavaria.
“This is the office I use when I am here.” Francesca Thomas held out her hand to one of the beige damask-covered armchairs set in front of a fireplace masked by a needlepoint screen for the summer—the only color in a room that was as plain as the hall, staircase, and corridor. Maisie thought the office might be more welcoming in winter, with a fire in the grate.
“It seems I have been rather careless, that you have managed to find me here.”
“You had no need to come to the door, Dr. Thomas. I may have discovered that the embassy is a frequent destination for your sorties into London, but I confess, I did not quite know what to do with that knowledge—not yet, anyway.”
“But you have an idea of what I am doing here, don’t you?”
Maisie took off her hat and ran a hand through her hair. “I know this much, that you worked for the British Secret Service during the war. I know that you left after a time, and you did not surface in England again until you applied for the job at the College of St. Francis.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “And why are you at the college, Miss Dobbs? Oh, and do credit me with some sense—please do not tell me it’s for the love of teaching philosophy.”
Maisie regarded the woman seated before her. She was at ease, confident. Her dress was stylish, yet simple—a tailored black skirt and jacket, a white blouse. She was a striking woman, and Maisie could see that she was also one who would brook no subterfuge and would recognize a lie if she heard it.
“I have found that I really do like teaching—but I came to the college to identify any activities not in the interests of the British government.”
“Don’t forget the Crown. You have to look out for the Crown, you know.”
“Yes, of course, not in the interests of the Crown.” Maisie maintained eye contact with her interrogator. “And you? In whose interests are you at the college?”
“Belgium. Among others, of course. Our country suffered occupation in the war and we do not want it to happen again, if we can possibly help it. I have been charged with keeping an eye on developments in this country with regard to our former enemies.”
“Developments in this country?”
“Let’s not start by being naïve, Miss Dobbs, unless you really are without a clue as to what is happening here. You