A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [36]
Following her next class, during which Maisie introduced a discussion on the response of philosophers through the ages to the uncertainty of life, she remained with her students to answer questions for a few moments, and when the last student had left the room, she gathered her books and notes, pushed them into her new briefcase, and made her way up to Dr. Matthias Roth’s office on the next floor. She knocked twice on the door and stepped in when his resonant baritone voice bellowed, “Come!”
“Ah, Miss Dobbs, thank you for coming.”
Roth was standing behind his desk, not sitting. He was a tall man of heavy build, and he had the carriage, Maisie thought, of a sergeant major. She could imagine him telling his students to sit up straight if they wanted to learn properly. A light tweed jacket hung over the back of his chair, and it appeared he had just arrived back in his office following a class, for the sleeves of his pale-blue shirt were rolled up and his fingers were dusted with chalk. She noticed that the skin on his hands was raw in places; she thought he might suffer from a skin ailment—perhaps psoriasis, which was known to be exacerbated by distress. He held his hand out towards the chair in front of his desk and began to roll down his sleeves as he spoke again.
“How are you settling in, Miss Dobbs?”
“Well, thank you. Both staff and students have made me very welcome.”
Roth pulled back his own chair and sat down. “I wanted to see you with regard to the death of my dear colleague, Dr. Liddicote.”
“Of course,” said Maisie. “Yesterday was a very sad day. I have not been at the college long, but I recognize the implications of his loss, not only on the staff and students, but on the future of the college.”
“Indeed. Though I would not worry about the future of the college, if I were you—we are sufficiently endowed to weather such a storm, and together with new students applying to study at the college, we anticipate going ahead with our renovation plans and expansion. Greville Liddicote’s work will continue.” He paused and rubbed his hand against his cheek. Maisie thought he seemed tired, as if he had not slept, and though he had a naturally ruddy complexion, the color in his cheeks appeared heightened against the blue-gray of the skin under his eyes, clearly visible under wire-rimmed spectacles with round lenses.
“The police came to my house yesterday evening and informed me that there were suspicious circumstances surrounding Greville’s death. I was asked many questions, and I wondered if you played a part in their charade.” Roth’s hair—which had been brushed back at the front and sides—had fallen down into his eyes when he looked down at a page of notes on the desk in front of him. He ran his fingers back through his hair as he looked at Maisie again, reminding her of a schoolboy in his teen years.
“Charade?” Maisie looked at Roth and decided to respond to his words in an equally direct manner. “In the circumstances, I thought the best person for them to speak to was you—you are, after all, Dr. Liddicote’s deputy, and it was crucial that you should know what had come to pass.”
“You called the police first, though.”
“Of course. Miss Linden came to find me, knowing I had been a nurse. She did not want to raise an alarm that might cause panic among staff or students. If you remember, you left the college soon after tea. Frankly, I did not think it was a cut-and-dried case of heart attack, so I immediately alerted Scotland Yard and I remained with the body.”
He sighed, shook his head, and looked out of the window, before turning back to Maisie. “You knew 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 assistant. That’s how you know people from Scotland Yard, I assume.”
“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