A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [74]
Her flat was quiet, with the windows closed against a stale air that sometimes wafted up from the river on a warm day. Usually Maisie might not have noticed—it was, after all, something she had grown up with, and though not pleasant, did not disturb her unduly, though she did not want to invite it into her home. She set down her bags, placing the post she had collected onto the hall table before going to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She walked back to the box room—Sandra’s room. It was empty. The bed was made. Clothing and personal effects had been removed, but an envelope with her name had been left upon the counterpane.
Dear Miss Dobbs,
By the time you find this letter you will have discovered that I am not as reliable as you thought. I have left Mr. and Mrs. Partridge because I didn’t think it was right. They have three young boys and it is not fair on them to have a criminal under their roof.
I am sorry for embarrassing you and sorry for letting you down, especially with you being so kind to me. But I am not sorry for what I did. I had no choice. I won’t say any more, but I thought it best to leave your flat. I don’t want to be bringing shame upon you, Miss Dobbs. You’ve been so generous already, it wouldn’t be right at all.
Don’t worry about me. I will be all right. I am quite determined to know what happened to Eric, and why he was killed. I am his wife, and I vowed to be his helpmeet in sickness and in health. I know I must look out for him in death, too. It was not an accident, Miss Dobbs. I’m sure of it.
Yours sincerely,
Sandra
Mrs. Sandra Tapley
Maisie turned over the page, then turned it back again. It had been typed with care; not one error, not one misplaced letter typed over. She had signed her name with a flourish—her handwriting seemed larger, stronger, as if she had a purpose from which she would not draw back. There was something about the typeface that seemed familiar to Maisie, but it wasn’t from the new typewriter at the office in Fitzroy Square. She walked back into the hallway, where she picked up the post from the small table and took it into the kitchen. With a cup of tea in hand, she sat down to go through her letters. Michael Klein, her solicitor, confirmed that he was progressing with conveyancing in connection with the purchase of a semidetached house in Eltham and would have contracts for her to sign within another week. As he had advised her, a mortgage might not be in her best interests at the present time, so he had taken the liberty of arranging for funds to be placed in an account pending contract exchange, so that the house could be purchased in its entirety. She nodded to herself; in matters of finance, Maisie had learned in a short time to trust Klein’s advice. In a letter Maurice had written: “I am not a person who has ever had a talent for economics, and though I am not one to make terrible errors either, I have found it best to leave matters of finance to Michael. He will rarely make a move without consulting you, and he will listen if your desires run counter to his advice, but at the same time, Maisie, he knows more than you or I—and I have a feeling that you do not have a kinship with the finer points of mathematics and finance any more than I.” Maisie had laughed when she first read those words—she was more than happy to leave management of the estate to Michael Klein, though she was learning more each time they met.
There was a letter from the building company, confirming conversations with Klein’s office, and informing her that the house would be ready for her to take possession in one month. I hope the baby can wait, thought Maisie. The next was a letter