“What about you?”
“I’m taking a week to myself too—perhaps more. I’ve work to do to bring the case to a proper close, but I don’t need to go into the office. And I’ve to see Robbie MacFarlane this afternoon, then I’m going down to Chelstone. Sandra knows not to come in, so that’s all right. We could all do with some time away.”
Billy looked at Maisie, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the morning sunshine. “What’s going on, miss?”
“Nothing more than me deciding that we could all do with a little holiday.”
“Right then.” Billy sighed. “I’m off home.” He patted the pocket where he kept his notebook. “Got everything I need here, so I’ll keep them security cases ticking over, and I’ll spend that time with my family. Bobby’s off to his air force engineering college soon, and there won’t be many more opportunities for us all to be together. Thank you, miss.”
Maisie watched as Billy walked away, a spring in his step compensating for a war-wound limp. She turned to walk toward Whitehall.
She had no fixed appointment with Robbie MacFarlane, but throughout the meeting with Inspector Caldwell at Scotland Yard, she was thinking of the report she had made the previous evening, and was curious to know the outcome. MacFarlane would be back in his office by the time she arrived.
Entering the building, she was about to approach a security guard when two young women came down the long flight of stairs to her right. The sound of their footfall and voices distracted Maisie, mainly because they were conversing in French.
“Elinor?”
The woman who had been the nanny to Priscilla’s sons only just managed to disguise her shock at seeing Maisie.
“Hello, Miss Dobbs.” She held out her hand, turning to her friend. “This is my former employer’s neighbor, Miss Dobbs.”
The friend, who was dressed in the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, as was Elinor, turned to Maisie and smiled. “How do you do—I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“And you,” said Maisie. She was about to comment on how surprised she was that their paths should cross here, when Elinor stemmed any further conversation.
“We’re in rather a hurry, Miss Dobbs,” said Elinor. “Do give my best to Mrs. Partridge.”
Maisie watched the women leave, then brought her attention to the security guard and stated her business. The guard turned to the telephone at his station, and picked up the receiver. Half a minute later he called out to Maisie, who had begun pacing back and forth along the tiled floor.
“Mr. MacFarlane says you know the way—he’s ready to see you in his office.”
Maisie made her way along the labyrinthine corridors until she saw MacFarlane waiting for her in the corridor outside his office. He waved as she approached, and held open the door for her.
“Sit yourself down, lass,” said MacFarlane. He was a tall, heavyset man, indeed, Maisie always thought he appeared less than comfortable seated at a desk. His bulk was more suited to movement, or a much more forgiving chair than those found in government buildings. MacFarlane cleared his throat, as if preparing his deep Scottish burr for oratory. “Following his arrest early this morning—the early bird catches the worm, as the saying goes—we’ve been interviewing your Mr. Walter Miles for several hours now, and look at this pile of notes I’ve amassed already.” He tapped a thick sheaf of papers on the desk. “We might run out of paper with this case, and that’s not an exaggeration. What with shipping affected by the war, even the daily newspapers are worried about supplies.” He cleared his throat. “As you suspected, the blooming clematis was not a clematis after all—well, it was, but it was a very good fake. Its true purpose was as an aerial to connect wireless transmissions. Very nicely tucked away too. Frankly, we knew there was someone in the area up to funny business with a set, but we couldn’t locate him. His English is perfect, but he’s a German citizen, true name of Walter Maier—so he wasn’t far off with his invented identity. Always best to stick to a name you know, if you’re an agent. And he was also a lecturer at the university—so that bit was right. He was a botanist originally, but more recently he taught physics and had been doing so for a year. Took the place of another physicist who is now working for the government—one of those boffins we’ve got tucked away out in the country.”
“I see,” said Maisie.
“Not sure if you do quite yet—because there’s more.”
“Go on.”
“It seems our Walter had a chip on his shoulder, and you were a way he could get rid of it.”
“Me? Now you’ve lost me, Robbie.”
“It’s like this. Your upper classes—of which I could say you are one, though we both know your roots run deep the other way—but as I was saying, your upper classes, until fairly recently, were used to embarking on a very expensive round of traveling known as the Grand Tour, when they reached a certain age, of course. Off they went around the castles and estates of Europe on something of an aristocratic pub crawl. Bavaria, Rome, Florence, Paris—all very nice if you’ve got the wherewithal.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together.
“What are you getting at?”
“Turns out that Walter was born out of wedlock, though his mother married eventually, but to a man without the funds his true father would have had to spoil him. I tell you, that Walter is holding nothing back now—the man is throwing his whole life story at us.” MacFarlane cleared his throat. “But if his beloved mother had been a satisfactory match for his sire, then his name would have been Compton.”
“No. I can’t believe it. Not . . . not Lord Julian?”
“Don’t be daft, lass—even I know your father-in-law is too much of a gentleman to get himself into that sort of pickle. Mind you, his brother was less than careful with regard to the family’s reputation, and on this tour went about sowing his wild oats.”
“His brother? His brother died over forty-five years ago or thereabouts. I don’t know much about him—in fact, I can’t remember anyone even mentioning him to me before I was married.” Maisie was thoughtful. “But now I remember James telling me his late uncle was something of a dilettante. Lady Rowan apparently could not abide him. His name was Rupert—and he died in a hunting accident, in Bavaria.”
“Ah, but Rupert the spare—the one the old lord and lady had just in case the heir, Julian, died—had impregnated a little fraulein at some point on that very excursion, as far as we can establish.”
Maisie looked out of the window, then back at MacFarlane. “So Walter Miles—Walter Maier—is really my late husband’s cousin.”
“And with a hefty chip on his shoulder. He was targeting you, Maisie.”
“He seemed a kind man, though I always thought something was a bit off. Yet you say he was focused on me?”