By Jacqueline Winspear
Operating with the British mystery provider on an undercover challenge, Maisie Dobbs is shipped to Hitler’s Germany during this exciting story of probability and intrigue—the 12th novel in Jacqueline Winspear’s long island occasions bestselling “series that turns out to recuperate with each one entry” (Wall highway Journal).
It’s early 1938, and Maisie Dobbs is again in England. On a great but cold morning, as she walks in the direction of Fitzroy Square—a position of many memories—she is intercepted by way of Brian Huntley and Robert MacFarlane of the key provider. The German govt has agreed to unencumber a British topic from criminal, yet provided that he's passed over to a loved one. as the man’s spouse is bedridden and his daughter has been killed in an twist of fate, the key carrier desires Maisie—who bears a extraordinary resemblance to the daughter—to retrieve the guy from Dachau, at the outskirts of Munich.
The British executive isn't really by myself in its curiosity in Maisie’s trip plans. Her nemesis—the guy she holds chargeable for her husband’s death—has discovered of her trip, and is usually determined for her help.
Traveling into the center of Nazi Germany, Maisie encounters unforeseen dangers—and reveals herself wondering no matter if it’s time to come back to the paintings she enjoyed. however the mystery carrier could have different principles.
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Additional info for Journey to Munich (Maisie Dobbs, Book 12)
The maid opened the attic window and had a lengthy exchange with a man down below, in the road. He had come for the doctor; he had a letter. Shivering, Nastasie climbed down the stairs and ﬁrst undid the lock, then drew the bolts. Leaving his horse, the man quickly followed the maid and came into the room behind her. He wore a woollen cap with grey pompoms, and from inside it he took a letter wrapped in a piece of rag; this he handed gingerly to Charles, who propped himself up on the pillow to read it.
She was forever consulting lawyers, or the magistrate, remembering when an account was due and negotiating an extension; at home she ironed, sewed, laundered, kept an eye on the workmen and paid their wages, while Monsieur never worried his head about a thing, engulfed in a surly drowsiness from which he roused himself only to mutter some nasty remark, as he sat all day long by the ﬁre, smoking and spitting into the ashes. When she had a child, he had to be sent out to a wet-nurse. Once home again with his parents, the lad was pampered like a prince.
All of a sudden he heard something hit the wall; the shutter had been folded back, the latch was still vibrating. Next morning he was at the farm by nine. Emma blushed when he came in, although she tried to cover her embarrassment with a little laugh. Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring.