Leaving Everything Most Loved (16 page)

“I won't keep you any longer, Reverend Griffith. I would like to ask you one question, though—what kind of shot are you?”

“Sadly, Miss Dobbs, I am an excellent shot. I have no idea where the talent came from, for I do not practice in any way, but I always hit my target spot-on—and even with a Webley. Pity the same could not be said for my sermons.”

Maisie smiled and held out her hand, wondering whether to ask just one more question, one she felt would nip at her if she didn't.

“I'll leave you in peace then. And best of luck with your sermon.” As she shook his hand, she noticed that his clerical collar seemed just a little askew. “I must ask, however—how on earth did you know that Usha Pramal was killed with a Webley?”

“After the boys discovered her body, I thought it would be wise to have the entire club in here, to talk about matters of life and death—perhaps try to circumvent the nightmares that would inevitably follow finding the body, and the tales that would be told time and again among the lads. I encouraged them to talk about it, about what they had seen and so on, and one of them mentioned that it was probably a Webley. I don't know where he got the information, but he seemed knowledgeable. I suspected he had overheard the police.”

“Which one was it?”

Griffith stared out at the garden as if he regretted the ungoverned comment, then turned to Maisie. “I'm sorry, but I really don't remember.”

Chapter Thirteen

M
aisie thought she might be able to take a guess at the name of the boy who had identified the gun that killed Usha Pramal and Maya Patel. And it wasn't one of the local boys she had in mind. Instead of making her way back to Fitzroy Square, she stopped at a telephone kiosk and placed a call to the office to inform Sandra that she would not be in until after lunch, as she had changed her plans and was going directly to Scotland Yard.

“Oh, just as well you telephoned, Miss Dobbs. Detective Inspector Caldwell called this morning, with some news. Apparently, that lad—the one who found the body of Maya Patel—has absconded. They couldn't hold him anyway because he hadn't done anything, but as you know, he was in new lodgings. Now he's gone.”

“Just as I was going over to get permission to see him.”

“He's important, isn't he?”

“And not only because he found Maya Patel. I'm very anxious to see him.”

“Miss,” said Sandra, “I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I think it might be an idea to go into Miss Patel's room again. I don't think she was killed because she was an Indian woman, though it might seem like that. I reckon she knew who the killer was—and that was why she wanted to talk to you.”

Maisie nodded, pushing the door of the telephone kiosk ajar—she always felt trapped in such small places. “Yes, you're right, Sandra. Here's an idea: Leave as soon as you can and take the Underground to the Elephant and Castle Station. I'll collect you and then we'll go back to Addington Square and see if we can view Maya Patel's room together—another pair of eyes might see something I've missed. What do you think?”

“Just one moment, Miss. Would you hold the line?”

Maisie frowned. Why did Sandra want her to hold the line? Her question was soon answered.

“ 'Lo, Miss.”

“Billy! Billy, what are you doing at work? You should be at home, digging your garden or playing with your boys.”

“I had to come into the City this morning. But what I thought was that if you want, I could look for that boy—the one who found Miss Patel. I've got a few hours to spare, so I could ask some questions, have a sniff around.”

“The police have already done that, Billy—and I think you should go home.”

“I'm a bit bored, Miss. And it's only one afternoon, ain't it?”

Maisie sighed. “Billy, I have to put my foot down. I am concerned for your health and I want you to get well. I know you want to help and I know you have a good idea, but you must go home.”

“All right. I'll go home and dig the garden.”

“It'll do you good. Now, I must speak to Sandra again.”

As the receiver was passed between the two, Maisie heard Billy mutter something and Sandra giggled.

“I'll see you at the station, Sandra. Make sure you have a bite to eat before we leave, won't you?”

“Oh, Billy brought in some sandwiches, and we're just finishing them with a cup of tea before he goes off again.”

“Right you are. Half an hour.”

Maisie smiled, a brief smile, as if Sandra could see her. But she didn't feel very much like smiling. She felt like a child who was being instructed by her teacher to sit on her hands to stop her fidgeting, and she knew she was fidgeting because she wanted to stop whatever was going on between Billy and Sandra—which might be nothing, of course. On the other hand, it could be something. And she had no right in the world to interfere.

B
uilt in 1890, the Elephant and Castle Station was a grand Arts and Crafts–style structure designed by Leslie Green, who had been the architect of so many London Underground stations. Sandra emerged from the terra-cotta and white building and ran towards Maisie's MG, taking her place in the passenger seat. They were soon on their way along Walworth Road towards Addington Square.

“I hope there's someone home when we get there,” said Sandra. “Those remaining Indian women are all somewhere else now, aren't they?”

“It's a chance we have to take, though Mrs. Paige doesn't look like someone who goes out visiting much, unless it's to church, or to a women's meeting.” Maisie paused as she changed gear to turn a corner. “And speaking of women's meetings, how are you getting on with your society?”

“Once a week, Miss Dobbs. We're working hard to get equal pensions for women. And next week we're going to a lecture by Ellen Wilkinson.”

“Red Ellen? She lost her parliamentary seat a couple of years ago, didn't she?”

“Oh, she'll be back. I'm positive about it. Anyway, I'm looking forward to hearing what she has to say.”

“That'll be something to remember, Sandra—she's a firebrand. I like her.”

Maisie could see that Sandra was a little more relaxed in the MG now, more used to being in a motor car.

“I bet it was nice to see Billy again today. The office is probably quite quiet when I'm not there,” said Maisie.

“Oh, there's always a lot to get on with, and as soon as we're back I've to go over to Mr. Partridge—luckily, he's seeing his publisher again today, so he doesn't need me until about three.”

“I'll drop you at his office, if you like.” Maisie paused again. “Do you think Billy looked well?”

“I thought he looked better, Miss. Not completely well. But better.”

“It's probably lovely for the family to be together a bit more. I bet Doreen is grateful to have him at home.” Maisie felt the clumsiness in her words.

Sandra looked out of the passenger window. “Hmmm.”

“Do you not think so, Sandra?”

“It's not for me to say.”

“Not for you to say what? Come on, you can tell me what's on your mind.”

Sandra turned to face Maisie, who was keeping her eyes on the road. “I think she's a weak woman. I know all about them losing their little girl, and no one can tell someone how to get over that sort of thing, but I know what it's like to lose someone, too—and so do you, Miss. But you don't drag everyone else down with you, not to my mind. And that's what she's doing to Billy. I think she should pull her socks up.”

Maisie cleared her throat, now wishing she'd kept a lid on this particular Pandora's box. “Sandra, I think you have a point, but at the same time, I have worked with people who have psychiatric illnesses, and it's not always as clear cut as that. You and I have been fortunate, we have been able—to a point—to get on with things. We know that you throw your line out to a rock somewhere, and pull yourself through the oncoming tide to the next landing place. Someone suffering as Doreen has doesn't have the strength to do that, so she can only thrash around in the current, trying to get to the rock.”

“But she's taking Billy down. If you look at it like that, Miss, she's got her hands around his neck and she's pulling him down while he's swimming for both of them—and look at him.” Sandra folded her hands in her lap, her color heightened by the strength of her words.

“Sandra,” said Maisie. “Perhaps you've become a little too close to Billy—to his problems—so you can see only what's happening to him, rather than how they are coping as a couple. They've had some very difficult times, but they will come through it, if given the chance. He could not leave Doreen, ever. He's too good a person. So they will make their way together. And soon, I believe, things will get much better for them. It's hard for people to leave everything they love, you know, and Billy loves his family very, very much.”

Maisie slowed the MG, and parked by the side of the road, knowing Sandra's eyes had filled with tears.

“Oh, Miss . . .” Sandra began to weep almost as soon as Maisie put her arms around her. “I've made a fool of myself, making up to a married man, and me a widow. I thought I was doing well, you know, I thought I was getting over it all, what with my college and these new friends I've made. But I realized—” She choked as she took a handkerchief from Maisie. “I realized I was becoming a different person. If Eric was here, he wouldn't know me. He would wonder who I was. And I do miss him. I miss us coming home to each other, being there, and then knowing, when he went down to work in the morning, that we would come home to each other again. Now I have all this coming and going, and learning, and working, and it's all very well, but there's no being with someone at the end of the day. Someone to talk to, to have your tea with, to go out to the picture house with or to walk out with. There's all the others, but not the one. And having that one is special. That's what I think.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “And when my Eric died, when I heard him calling and I ran down the street to hold his hand as he was bleeding to death, I knew it wasn't the pain in his body that was hurting most. No, it was because he was leaving me and he was trying to hold on to me. I know he really loved me. He really did.”

“I know, Sandra. You were made for each other, anyone could see that. But think of it like this, that he is never far, in your heart. I know those words are thin, but you have been such an honor to his memory, and he loved you so much he wouldn't want you to turn back. You can't, Sandra. Just think of how proud he would be, how much he would love you for everything you're doing—even going to see Red Ellen.”

Sandra laughed through her tears. “Oh yes, we'd have a giggle about that, a right bellyacher.”

“And let's let Doreen and Billy get through this together, just the two of them, if we can.”

Maisie slipped the idling motor car into gear again, and pulled out into traffic.

“You're a fine one to talk, Miss. The reason Billy came up to town was because he'd been asked to see someone at the Compton Corporation, in the City. They've offered him a job. Not starting yet, apparently, but in November, when they've had some work done on the offices and some other sorting out. It's to do with office security, from people using the telephones to keeping an eye on who comes in and out. They said it's a new position, and he'd come highly recommended.”

“Did he say he'd take the job?”

Sandra nodded. “He said he'd hate to leave you, leave the business—he thinks a lot of you, Miss, says that without you, he'd be nothing—but on the other hand, it's regular hours, no evenings, no Saturday afternoons or Sundays. He said Doreen would like it.”

“I confess, I recommended him for a position, but I didn't know the fine details. I'm sure he'll tell me all about it. It'll be a good job for him—and you'll see, everything will calm down in the family, once they have a regular routine.”

“Leave in the morning, and come home to the ones you love at night,” added Sandra as they parked outside the Paiges' house in Addington Square. “It's what keeps people going, that.”

M
rs. Paige sighed when she saw it was Maisie at the door.

“I really don't know what I can do for you, Miss Dobbs. This business has cast a dreadful pall on Mr. Paige and me, and we were only trying to do good—and now these terrible deaths have started our neighbors talking, and I don't know what it's all coming to.”

“I know, Mrs. Paige. It must be very difficult for you. But may we come in? This is my assistant, Mrs. Tapley—she sometimes comes with me to see people, if that's all right with you.”

“You might as well come into the parlor.”

Mrs. Paige led the way into the small room, and they were soon seated.

“I'm interested in Miss Maya Patel, and wanted to ask some more questions. You've said that they were very friendly, she and Miss Pramal, but I was wondering if you ever noticed anything, well, amiss, in the friendship.” Mrs. Paige seemed confused, the creases between her eyebrows deepening as she listened, so Maisie continued. “For example, you told me that Miss Pramal was a very ebullient person, always smiling, one for whom each day was a reason to smile. Was Miss Patel the same, and if not, what do you think she thought of Miss Pramal?”

“I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Paige. She cleared her throat and began to gather the fabric of her dress into a concertina at her knee—making tiny pleats with her busy fingers, then pressing the material flat and gathering it again. “I will say this—and I might have mentioned it before—but I think Maya Patel was in thrall to Miss Pramal. It was as if she were some sort of handmaiden, that's what I thought when I saw them walk down the road together, to church, say. I think they knew a lot about each other—just like most women, they talked, and they must have spoken about personal matters. They become quite close, our ladies here. I can only imagine that the ones the police have put up in other lodgings must want to come back, because this is their home, isn't it?”

Maisie thought that while the house wasn't exactly like home, it was likely something of a comforting refuge for women who had been cast out by their employers.