A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [60]
Chapter Ten
Maisie picked some fresh and fragrant late-blooming roses from her landlady’s garden, wrapped them in newspaper, and set off towards the address she had for the teacher’s flat in town. She had learned that Dr. Thomas was expected back at the college the following day, and wanted to ask if she would be so kind as to take her students on Friday morning, to make up for Maisie’s accommodating her class. She did not use the MG—she didn’t want staff or students to see her driving around in a sporty motor car if she could possibly help it. Instead she borrowed her landlady’s bicycle with its large wicker basket on the front, which was perfect for carrying flowers or groceries.
The flat was in a row of Georgian houses built next to the pavement, with no front gardens, though flower-filled boxes brought the windows to life, and lent the granite a less forbidding aspect. Slowing down to look at door numbers, she finally arrived at the correct address, stepped off the bicycle, and pushed down the stand. The front door was ajar, so Maisie walked in and was looking at the list of residents when the landlady came out of her room on the ground floor.
“Can I help you, madam?’
Maisie turned to look at the woman, who had her hair in curling pins, a pinafore over a gray day dress, and soft slippers on her feet. She smiled. “I’m looking for Francesca Thomas.”
“Dr. Thomas isn’t here today, probably not until tonight.”
“Oh—I thought she was ill.”
“She didn’t look too bad when I last saw her, but you never know, eh? What with all these students mixing with each other and getting up to Lord knows what, you could catch anything.”
“Do you know where she might be? I wanted to speak to her—and I have some roses for her.”
“I’ll take them, if you like. Put them in a bit of water—lovely roses, aren’t they? I love the scent of a cabbage rose.”
Maisie reframed her question. “Has she gone to her choir practice, do you think?”
The woman shook her head. “Choir? No, wrong time of year. She was only with the choir at Christmas. I reckon she might’ve gone down to London. She goes every now and again.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, but I just sort of know. You can tell by the time she gets back—about twenty minutes after the last London train arrives, so that’s what I reckon. I believe she has friends there.”
“Does she?”
“Yes, a big black motor car came up here to pick her up one day. She was waiting on the doorstep for it, and off she went. I wondered what it was, on account of my window looking out onto the street—cast quite the shadow as it drew up, it did. You don’t see motors like that around here, so I thought it must’ve come from London. And the driver spoke with an accent, and I thought perhaps it might be someone from Switzerland, her being from there, you know.”
“I see, well—please give her the flowers, if you don’t mind.”
When she returned to her lodgings, Maisie went to her room and removed all books and papers from the desk. She pulled a length of plain wallpaper from her suitcase and drew it across the desk, using brass drawing pins to secure the paper to the wood, pressing the pins to the underside of the desk so as not to incur the wrath of her landlady. With colored pens taken from her briefcase, she stood at the table so that she could look directly down upon her work. She wrote “The College of St. Francis” in the center of the paper and circled her words, followed by the names of all members of staff and some of the students encircled in different colors. Greville Liddicote, Francesca Thomas, Matthias Roth, Delphine Lang . . . everyone