A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [43]
“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. “Classified.”
“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 association 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 institutions 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