“But Mr. Fielden does very well as her deputy, helping with managing, and all the rest of us work very hard to keep things running so smoothly,” Maisie said.
“Of course you do, and it’s very much to your credit. But I suspect Miss Matheson’s great ambition is causing all of you to wear yourselves out in her service. Under this new scheme, all your energies will be better allocated, and Miss Matheson will be better able to hone her considerable talents and produce fare that is more suitable to the times in which we’re now living. You see, Miss Musgrave, the world economy is now in a frightful state. People need comfort, and we must provide that.”
“But don’t they need good, well-rounded information, too?”
Deep disappointment crinkled Reith’s face.
“I would advise you against assuming too many of Miss Matheson’s qualities, my dear. You must understand I have to please people. The governors, you know, they’re always trying to keep us up to the mark. They worry, Miss Musgrave, and they charge me to keep them assured, and that’s a very heavy charge.”
His eyes were wistful, and she could see he meant every word. She wondered, though, what might happen if he allowed the BBC’s popularity to assure the governors instead.
“Besides which, Mr. Siepmann will bring a great deal to the department and allow Miss Matheson and you girls on her team to focus on the sort of Talks you like best. I know this sort of change is difficult to understand, dear, but trust me. You always said you did, you know.”
She looked into his piercing dark eyes. He was testing her, testing the memory of her gratitude.
“Of course I trust you, sir.”
And she did. There was something to be said for knowing exactly who he was and how he operated. What the rest of them needed to better master was how to work within that operation to achieve their ends. But it was an unending game, wherein they kept drawing near and he moved the goalposts.
“I rejoice to hear it, Miss Musgrave. Thank you.”
And thus was Maisie defeated.
“So that’s that, then.” Phyllida sighed, frowning around at the crowded Tup. “I suppose it was to be expected.”
“It shouldn’t have been, though.”
“All parties come to an end.”
“This is work.”
“It certainly will be. But we’re still here, and still fighting, aren’t we?”
“Damn right.”
“Onwards and upwards.” Phyllida tossed back her gin with the brio of a sailor.
“We’re still the modern women, aren’t we?” Maisie sought reassurance.
“We are. A force to be reckoned with. We’ll just have to make Siepmann sorry he ever wanted to be part of Talks.”
“Yes. And we’ll have to see what we can do about making Miss Matheson the next DG. After that I’m going to stand in the next election.”
“And I’m going to leapfrog Mr. Fielden and be director of Talks. With a regular column in the Listener, with my name on it.”
Several patrons frowned at the angry laughter of the two young women, who paid them no attention.
Maisie visited the Drama Department, on the pretense of asking about actors for broadcasting poems. It wasn’t hard to get Beanie alone. She perked up, smelling excitement.
“You told me ages ago that Simon’s family was in trouble. Have you heard anything further?”
Beanie nodded. “His father put a great deal of money into American investments. And as you know, there’s been a bit of a bother over there.”
“So the earl’s lost money?”
“It’s possibly quite desperate.” Beanie giggled. “And it’s said their cacao holdings in Trinidad are wobbly as well, but that might just be adding fat to the fire.”
“Which would make them frantic for any sort of good contract to keep the cacao flowing.”
“Begging for it, I’d think.” Beanie lit a cigarette and poked a (rather sharp) fingernail into Maisie’s shoulder. “Maisie, I’ve been involved in theater one way or another since I could toddle. I know the makings of a plot when I hear one.”
“Yes. I’m writing a play.”
“Most certainly you are. Do you know, it’s dreadfully funny, but I warrant I could help you a great deal if you were to actually trust me with the full story.”
Maisie looked into Beanie’s challenging green eyes. Not the full story, no. Especially when Phyllida knew nothing. But Beanie understood things about the waters Maisie was about to chart that even Hilda didn’t.
What would Hilda do? What would an investigative journalist do? Some sources had to be trusted, surely?
“It’s a bit . . . tricky,” Maisie began, faltering. “I don’t really know what . . . All right, to be honest, Beanie, it’s an enormous secret, and I don’t know if I can trust you to keep it quiet.”
Beanie’s eyes twinkled further. “Learning how to keep the right sort of secrets is the only way to survive a posh girls’ boarding school, Maisie.”
Maisie leaned closer to Beanie.
“Listen carefully . . .”
TWENTY