To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(96)
“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?”
“He was here in England with a job of work to do for his country—for the Fatherland. And I’m under no illusions as to why he’s giving us his sob story. He’s giving us his poor boy background to try to soften us up before we dig deeper with the really important interrogation. And he wants to avoid the gallows. As if we haven’t had enough trouble with Nazi sympathizers in our own upper classes—and even higher than that!” MacFarlane turned a page of notes. “He was targeting you as a means to gain an introduction to the Compton family, and—he hoped—to receive an invitation to the Chelstone Manor estate. I suppose he wanted to look at a life that had eluded him by a whisker of fate.” Another page turned, and then MacFarlane raised his eyes from the report to look directly at Maisie. “And needless to say, you are not to inform your father-in-law that his nephew—or the man who says he is Rupert Compton’s offspring—is languishing in no less a place than the Tower of London.”
Maisie nodded. “Of course I won’t say anything, though Julian is very well connected—I am sure he’ll know in time. He might even know already.” She paused. “Now, you can do something for me. I just saw two young women, both with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry—one of them was previously my friend Priscilla’s nanny. She still has a room at their house. What’s she doing here?”
“You know better—”
“I do,” interrupted Maisie. “But it’s a fair trade of information, is it not?”
“At the moment, she’s probably just doing clerical work.”
“And in the future?”
MacFarlane seemed to waver. He pushed back his chair and walked across to the window, looking down at the street below, then shaking his head. He turned back to Maisie, but did not take his seat. “It’s a fresh idea from our new prime minister—though you could say he’s not that new, having just had a baptism by fire in the exalted position. The young lady to whom you refer is one of the women we’ve earmarked as having special skills.” He took his seat once more, and turned to his notes, waiting for the penny to drop.
“Seeing as I doubt you’re interested in her quite amazing proven ability to silence three rambunctious boys,” said Maisie, “then I suppose you can only be interested in her fluency in French—especially colloquial French—and her familiarity with French culture. What’s going on, Robbie?”
“Something we were going to speak to you about, in time, Maisie. This new plan from our higher-ups. Not that I hold with it completely, but I see the value in it—especially now.”
“My French isn’t good enough for whatever you have in mind.”
“Of course it isn’t—we had enough trouble with you and German. Languages are not exactly your abiding strength, are they, Maisie? And you won’t leave that little evacuee girl—I know that now. September isn’t it, that you’ve got your hearing?” He raised his eyebrows in a conspiratorial fashion. “Anyway, where was I? Yes—as I was going to say, you may not be the most fluent speaker of French, but you know character, Maisie, and for what we have in mind—someone who can judge whether a man or woman has the very long list of qualities we’ll need—you’re the someone we think could be very valuable in this department.” He paused. “And there’s always the promise of such joyous repartee whenever you and I work together, isn’t there? Anyway, all in good time, all in good time. Can’t say any more now. But it might be what you’re looking for—in a few months, perhaps next year. A way to do your bit without your life being in danger while you’re careening around in an ambulance—yes, I know all about you and your friend putting your best foot forward.” He gathered up the papers in front of him. “Right, that’s enough of that. I’ve thanked you for serving your country and bringing an enemy agent to our attention, and I have given you more information than I should have about our aforesaid spy. Now you have to get on and we’ll both forget we saw each other this afternoon.”