A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [90]
Now she was on her way to see Professor Arthur Henderson. Although he was retired, she had managed to find out his address from a porter at Trinity College—again, lies came easily when she was in search of more color to add to her picture of Greville Liddicote.
Professor Henderson answered the door of the Edwardian villa himself. He wore olive-green corduroy trousers, a pale-green shirt, a green polka-dot bow tie, and a dark-green knitted pullover. Although the professor’s clothing seemed more suited to early autumn, Maisie felt over-warm and had taken off her jacket, which she now carried across one arm. She could feel perspiration on her forehead and she welcomed the cool interior of Henderson’s study when he invited her in. She explained that she was looking into Greville Liddicote’s work with a view to possibly writing an article about his children’s books, and she thought he might be able to assist her in her research, seeing as he and Liddicote were colleagues as well as friends.
“Well, I don’t know about friends, Miss Dobbs.” A knock on the door distracted Henderson, who smiled as his housekeeper entered. “Ah, Mrs. Mills, would you be so kind as to bring two glasses of your delicious lemonade—thank you.”
Maisie was relieved. A cold drink was just what she needed, with the Indian summer weather leaving her parched.
“Now, where was I?”
“You were saying that you didn’t know whether Greville Liddicote was really a friend.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But no, he wasn’t what you would call a friend, though I was brutally honest with him, I must say.”
“About his work?”
“Well, yes. You see, he would insist on publishing that damn book, the one about the children going off to find their fathers in the war. I’m not saying it wasn’t a good book—as children’s books go, it was excellent, which rather surprised everyone, actually—but it caused so much trouble.”
Maisie nodded, and was about to ask another question when there was another knock on the door and the housekeeper came in. She placed two tumblers of lemonade on the table in front of Henderson and Maisie. At the sight of the pale-yellow liquid, with a slice of lemon and a sprig of mint on top, Maisie felt her mouth water with anticipation. She reached for a glass and took a sip
“Oh, that really is lovely—definitely wakes you up,” said Maisie, setting down her glass again.
“It’s certainly a pick-me-up, and she won’t divulge her recipe, either, much to the chagrin of many a caller on a hot day.”
“Professor Henderson, regarding the book, why did it surprise you? I know you had read Dr. Liddicote’s children’s books in the past, so you must have been familiar with his storytelling.”
“I was, very much so; I was always his first reader, followed by my grandchildren. But this one was different, in style, tone and—frankly—his ability. It was far more nuanced than anything he had written before; it had layers of meaning not demonstrated in previous books. It was the work of a true storyteller rather than a jobbing writer, which was what Greville was, really, before this one. He wrote to bring in a bit of extra money, and—again, to be frank—saw himself as another Grimm.”
“There was some talk, I understand, regarding the origin of the book; it’s suggested he might not have been the original writer.”
Henderson sighed, fiddling with his bow tie before taking another sip of lemonade, setting the glass down once again and then clearing his throat to speak. “I would hate to comment on the provenance of the book, and of one or two others that followed. But they were not like those he’d published before—or since. There were two more after the banned book, with similar ground covered though the stories were tempered. Then he published another book, must have been in about 1920, and it was just like his prewar books—very light, silly little stories. Those three that were written during the war—and which, overall, he did very well