A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [22]
Maisie took the book from him and ran her hand across the cover.
“Rather startled me, to tell you the truth,” said Tinsley. “I had heard of Liddicote’s children’s books—indeed, we have several on our shelves—but this one is very hard to come by. I obtained it from an overseas dealer—quite a stroke of luck—that’s why it’s taken me a while since your inquiry; almost all copies were taken out of circulation.”
Maisie turned the pages, drawn to the stark illustrations depicting first a family receiving news of a father lost, then in the next chapter, a gathering of children. Another showed the children sailing for France, with the caption “Poor little mites—looking for their fathers.”
“Some of the pages are foxed, and there’s that damp smell—it will eventually abate if you leave the book where it can get some air, but I would caution you not to leave it exposed to the light. Don’t put it out on a table near the window, that sort of thing. I didn’t provide a new jacket, as I knew you would want to see the embossing, but I can certainly have the cover boards wrapped for you.”
“Not to worry, I can do that.”
“It’s an interesting book, considering the trouble it caused.”
Maisie looked up. “I’ve heard something about the ‘trouble,’ but I wonder what you’ve heard.”
Tinsley shrugged. “Well, as you know, copies were withdrawn from distribution under government order, and I understand that there was talk of the author being charged with sedition. It clearly didn’t come to that—I think everyone wanted the book’s reputation to be swept under the carpet. But there’s a rumor attached to the book—a couple, actually.”
“Go on.”
“The first is that Greville Liddicote was not the author. The second rumor is that this book was at the heart of a mutiny on the Western Front, in 1916 or ’17.”
“A mutiny?”
“It’s just talk—such things are covered up, everyone sworn to secrecy and that sort of thing. If mutinies happened, there will never be any public knowledge of them: well, certainly not in our lifetime.” He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I must be going. I left a note on the door that I would be back by one o’clock, and if I don’t dash now, I will be late. It’s not that I’m crushed by customers trying to get into my shop, but I don’t want to miss the one customer of the day who is waiting for me to return on time.”
Maisie looked across towards her new secretary. “Sandra, would you settle Mr. Tinsley’s bill from petty cash?”
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”
When the bookseller had left, Maisie sat down, unable to dismiss the urge to begin reading the book written by Greville Liddicote that had caused so much trouble.
“This envelope was delivered for you while you were talking to Mr. Tinsley.” Sandra passed a brown envelope towards Maisie.
“Ah, yes, I think this is what I’ve been waiting for. By the way, what time will Mr. Beale be back in the office?”
“He said by two—he’s had to go over to see someone in connection with the Richards case.”
“Good. You should pop out for something to eat, Sandra.”
“Thank you, Miss.” Sandra placed a brown cloth cover over her typewriter; gathered her hat, jacket, and gloves; and left the office. “I’ll see you in half an hour, then. Would you like me to bring you something, Miss?”
“No, not to worry—I’ll go out myself later; there’ll be something at the dairy that takes my fancy.” Maisie smiled at Sandra. “What time will you be leaving to go to the Partridges?”
“Not until later on today, but he wants me to stay on for a while this evening, if I can. He says he’s got a deadline.”
When Sandra had left the office, Maisie picked up the paper knife on her desk and slit open the large envelope. She’d already received similar communications, in plain envelopes at her request, from several building firms—Taylor Woodrow, George Wimpey, and John Laing among them. This letter, from a smaller company building