A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [65]
“You asked Greville Liddicote not to renew Delphine Lang’s contract, so that she would have to return to her parents’ home in Austria.”
“It would make it more difficult for her to remain here, certainly. Robson is young, he would get over the liaison.”
“Are you sure about that?
“Martin wouldn’t have, but Robson—no, Robson will be taken with the next new attraction that comes along.” Headley looked at his watch as he spoke, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, dear, I really must call an end to our meeting, Miss Dobbs. Do you have any more questions?”
“Could you tell me more about the group that Delphine Lang belongs to?”
“It’s called an Ortsgruppe.” He spelled out the word, letter by letter for Maisie to note in her book. “They are local groups of Germans here in Britain, and they are all members of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei—the National Socialist German Workers Party. They’re doing nothing wrong, I suppose—and I daresay there are British people overseas who get together in groups to discuss this or that, drink copious amounts of tea together, and so on. I’m sure the authorities know about it.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do.” Maisie gathered her belongings. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Headley—may I call again, if I have some questions for you?”
“For your biography, you mean.” Headley looked at Maisie with just a trace of a smile.
“Yes, for the biography. I’d like to know more about Greville Liddicote’s books, if you have any knowledge you can impart.”
“I’ve read them all. His first children’s books were written before the war, but he really hit his stride with The Peaceful Little Warriors. There was a certain passion to it that was not there in his earlier stories. He published a couple more that were well up to that standard—they seemed to have more to them than simply a tale for children: an ethical dilemma, perhaps. Then there was a bit of a gap, and the standard went down again.”
“I see. Well, thank you, again, for seeing me. I appreciate it.”
Headley saw Maisie to the door. “They break ground on the new building soon. You’ll see the sign go up—it will actually be called ‘Martin Headley Hall.’ It will be a mix of dormitory residences and lecture rooms, and we expect to launch it with a public lecture on the nature of sustaining peace in this century—in Martin’s memory.”
As Maisie walked along the road in the direction of her lodgings, it seemed there were more young people on bicycles than pedestrians. She continued on through a series of narrower streets until she reached the Backs, an area that extended from Magdalene Street down to Silver Street, where the backs of the University’s most famous colleges met the River Cam. She stopped and took off her jacket, laying it down on the grass so she might sit and watch the water slip along. She was not alone—students were out punting, many with a lack of dexterity, and others were enjoying evening picnics in the fine weather. She laughed as two young men fell into the water while trying to impress a group of girls picnicking nearby, while another drifted along and brought his punt up on the bank close to the girls, taunting the waterlogged men as he went.
Maisie wondered about Dunstan Headley. She had been honest with him; she had found it hard to equate the man she had observed on a couple of occasions with the image she held of a benevolent businessman. He had used his resources to discover information that was new to her—about the groups of German immigrants meeting in British cities. She was sure that Huntley must know about this, but wondered if he knew about the connection to the college via Delphine Lang. Were there links with British Fascist supporters? Headley showed a certain astuteness in identifying Robson’s vulnerability to the influence of such groups, and she