Free A Lesson in Secrets by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

of the last to arrive; several students had remained to ask questions following the lesson, and she had gladly given of her time. Already she was planning to hold an informal conversation salon on one evening each week, when students could—she hoped—feel more at liberty to ask questions that they might not put to her during the formal lesson period. Now, as she walked towards the staff room, she relaxed, knowing that her teaching was finished for the day and she could use the final period after tea for marking essays.
    The staff room was busy, though the line to be served tea and cake had diminished, and the lecturers now clustered in groups, some discussing classes, others talking about the end of the working week. Maisie joined Matthias Roth, who had just come into the room and was now in conversation with Dr. Alan Burnham, the topic being the World Peace Conference in Vienna, which had convened on September 4. Another group of lecturers was discussing the situation in Germany, where talks had broken down between the Chancellor and Adolf Hitler, who had garnered a significant number of votes and had demanded to be made Chancellor. The conversations buzzed around her, some of matters beyond the college, others in connection with the behavior of certain students and their performance.
    Maisie was about to make a comment on the peace conference when she was distracted by Miss Linden’s entering the room, clearly in search of someone in particular. No one else seemed to have noticed the young woman, though Maisie sensed immediately that something was wrong. And at that moment she felt as if time itself stood still as she, too, took stock of the room—Matthias Roth expounding on the outcome of the conference; Alan Burnham nodding his head, poised to counter the argument. Delphine Lang was moving towards the window, and Francesca Thomas turned from her conversation with a teacher of world politics, Mr. Osbourne—who was discussing the recent Olympic Games in Los Angeles, where an Argentinian had won the marathon—to stare at Miss Linden. Then time righted itself as Greville Liddicote’s secretary moved towards Maisie, and motioned her to step aside.
    “Would you come with me, please, Miss Dobbs? It’s urgent.”
    “Of course.”
    Maisie set down her cup and saucer, stepping away from Roth and Burnham, neither of whom seemed to take account of her departure.
    “Is it Dr. Liddicote?” asked Maisie, as she kept pace with Rosemary Linden. Already she felt the weight of foreknowledge across her heart.
    The young woman nodded but said nothing. Soon they came alongside Liddicote’s office. Linden took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and entered, turning the key again as Maisie stepped across the threshold.
    It was clear to Maisie, even before she pressed the first two fingers of her right hand to his neck, where she should have felt the rhythm of Liddicote’s carotid artery, that he was dead.

Chapter Five
    H aving established that the young woman was in command of her emotions—as much as could be expected—Maisie instructed Miss Linden to return to her office and to continue as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. And if people asked, she should inform them that Dr. Liddicote had left the college for the day; she didn’t want a series of callers waiting on the settle in the corridor.
    Maisie took the key and locked the door as Linden left the room. She checked Liddicote’s pulse once more, lifted his eyelids, and took note of the narrow threads of blood that had emerged from his mouth and nose. Pulling a clean handkerchief from her shoulder bag, she covered her fingers, picked up the telephone receiver, and asked Miss Linden for a line. She then dialed a number she had learned by heart.
    “Detective Chief Superintendent MacFarlane, please. It’s Maisie Dobbs, and it’s urgent.”
    The wait was short.
    “Maisie, tell me the worst—if you say it’s urgent I know you’re not crying