A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [57]
“Priscilla, do your best to get her home, to your house—and keep her there even if you have to tie her down. I’ll be back on Friday—in fact, I might see if I can get another teacher to take my class, so that I can leave on Thursday evening. By the way, how did you find me?”
“I telephoned your Mr. Beale. I just told him he had to trust me in that I needed to be in touch with you soonest. So I wheedled it out of him that you were at this college. By the way, take what class?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing.”
“What are you doing, Maisie?”
“I’m teaching philosophy, Pris. And don’t you dare say a word about it.”
There was silence for a moment, then, “We’ll get her out—and we’ll provide bail if we have to. And, as you know, when I turn up and say a few choice words, they’ll want all three of us out of their hair in seconds.”
“Thank you, Pris—I really do appreciate it.”
“I’ll keep you posted—I take it the school isn’t the best place to send a card or telegram?”
Maisie gave Priscilla the address of her lodging; there was no telephone on the premises. “And not a word to anyone about my being here; it’s extremely secret.”
“Mum’s the word. And I suppose that’s one thing that Sandra learned from you. She’s clearly harboring a secret or two of her own; very nice girl, good at her work, well turned-out—but she’s a common burglar. Very nice, I’m sure.”
“Look after her.”
“Don’t worry—if Douglas is there, she’s in the very best hands. He’s pure gold.” There was a click as Priscilla ended the call.
Maisie left the telephone kiosk and walked back to the college, her mind awash with speculation as to what Sandra had discovered that had led to the second attempt at burglary, never mind the first. And as she walked, Maisie thought, too, about Priscilla’s description of her husband. It was not a lingering thought, but rather a question that seemed to pass by as she filtered her recent conversations with Sandra in her mind. He’s pure gold. It always touched her when she saw Priscilla demonstrate her affection for her beloved husband, or when she spoke of him in a way that reflected the depth of her feelings. Maisie wondered, briefly, if it would come to pass that she might say such things about a man she had loved for years.
When Maisie arrived back at her lodging house that day—a day when so much had happened, it seemed—she was almost surprised to find it unchanged and quiet, the path bordered by flowers, and on the trees the first leaves beginning to turn. She opened the front door and stepped across the threshold, and was relieved to see two plain postcards in reply to letters she had sent just a couple of days previously. The cards were a useful means of communication for short messages, and were cheaper to post than a letter. The first was from Jennifer Penhaligon, suggesting that Maisie should come to see her on Friday morning, if that would be convenient. No, it isn’t, really, thought Maisie, considering that she was already planning to miss a lesson in order to go back to London early. But the appointment with the person who had provided an academic reference for Francesca Thomas was an important one; she could not afford to miss the opportunity to learn more about the woman, who, to be frank, intrigued her.
The second card was from the office of Dunstan Headley, suggesting Wednesday afternoon at half past four. Maisie’s sigh was one of relief—she could massage her timetable only so many times to account for absence, especially at such an early