Leaving Everything Most Loved (23 page)

“And you don't know why she left?”

“You've already asked us that question, Miss Dobbs.” Paige glared as he spoke.

“I know. Sometimes the memory is jogged when it's asked again at a different time,” she responded. “Do you know of a man named Arthur Payton?”

Man and wife looked at each other. Paige frowned while Mrs. Paige seemed to ask a silent question, her mouth formed in a perfect
O
.

Maisie asked again. “Does Captain Arthur Payton mean anything to you?”

Paige scratched his head while his wife looked at Maisie, her face blank.

“I think it rings a bell, but I couldn't say why,” said Paige, at once seeming more mellow than he had just a few minutes earlier, as if something was dawning upon him, an elusive memory that he was not able to pin down, no matter how hard he tried.

“Not to worry,” said Maisie. “But it might come to you later, when you are going about your business and doing something completely different. Perhaps, if that is so, you would send word to my office,” said Maisie. “I believe I gave you my card, but just in case you've mislaid it, here's another. Keep it here on the sideboard, then you'll be able to find it.”

Paige watched as Maisie set the plain card with her name, office address, and telephone number on the mahogany sideboard. Though kept polished to a shine, the furniture had not seen a duster of late; Maisie suspected Mrs. Paige was missing the presence of Indian women to tend to the cleaning and upkeep of her house.

“I think that's all now. Thank you for seeing me again, Mr. Paige, Mrs. Paige.” She smiled, moving towards the door, which Paige stepped back to open.

“Will there be more visits to intrigue our neighbors, Miss Dobbs?” said Paige.

“I hope not. But you never can tell when a murder is being investigated,” answered Maisie.

She turned to the couple as she reached the front door, to bid them good-bye.

“Will you be going to see the Reverend Griffith?” asked Paige.

“Oh, yes,” said Maisie. “I'm going to see him right now.”

The couple stood back as she took her leave. She walked along the street towards the junction where she would turn in the direction of Griffith's house, and as she glanced back, she saw Mrs. Paige looking up and down the road and across the square, making sure that no one had seen Maisie leaving the house. Maisie smiled, for even at a distance, she could see lace curtains twitching back and forth as neighbors took note of what was going on at the house where two murdered women had lived.

M
aisie moved her motor car to another street, though when she parked it was still the only vehicle in sight. She decided to go over to the common ground where she had discovered the belongings of whoever was camped out under the low trees.

There were no children bounding around in the long grass now, no big golden dog, and no sounds of squeals and laughter. Only the muffled sounds of traffic on the canal and, more distant, the Thames—“the water,” as it was known to those who lived south of the navigation—challenged an otherwise quiet day. Maisie stopped at the edge of the land, alongside the gate. Though this was the working edge of one of the busiest cities in the world, she could smell the country, as if she were in Kent at harvesttime. She stepped out along one of the many paths beaten across the common, towards the cluster of trees.

It seemed as if someone was still sleeping rough under the low boughs. The grass was pressed down, and behind a tree trunk Maisie saw a couple of empty tins of rice pudding—as acceptable cold as it was heated, thus an easy choice of quick, though not hearty, sustenance. A dappled afternoon light filtered through the trees, and after walking around the area, Maisie took off her jacket, laid it on the smooth grass, and sat down. She thought that if she lay back she might fall asleep, comforted by a lazy Indian summer breeze brushing against her skin. But she remained sitting, arms around her knees. She closed her eyes and stilled her mind—a mind that she knew was racing ahead. Was she making the same mistake as the police? Was she rushing from person to person, trying to tie up loose ends so she could move on to the next thing sooner? She sat in silence and allowed her thoughts to skim across her mind, as if they were splashes against stones in the waters of her conscience. She considered every step she had taken—including sending Billy home. It was the right thing to do, though she had underestimated the fact that she felt as if something important was missing every day as she worked. Maurice had once questioned her choice of Billy as an assistant, suggesting that his intellect wasn't up to the job. But Maisie stuck to her guns, knowing that it was Billy's heart that would stand him in good stead, and his great loyalty towards her. That loyalty had almost cost him his life, and he had suffered while trying to continue his work for her. She sighed, opening her eyes and picking at a blade of grass. But now he was moving on—and for that, this new job, she was relieved and grateful. And Sandra had proved to be more than able—more than she had ever imagined the young woman would be. The anger of widowhood had inspired her, giving her energy to propel her from her station in life to greater levels of accomplishment. What could stop her now, except the limits of her imagination?

Usha Pramal seemed to have an imagination without limits, and the determination to achieve her dreams. But the vision of establishing a school for poor girls at home in India had been brought to an abrupt end by a single bullet from a gun fired by someone with a perfect eye for their target. Had Usha known her killer? Maisie closed her eyes again and brought to mind the woman she had never met: colorful in her fine silk sari, confident in her manner and walk. She imagined her walking along the street, cutting down towards the canal, a humid summer's day reminding her of home. But why was she walking towards the canal? Why would she leave the street where she was seen earlier in the day—according to Caldwell's notes—and make her way to a canal where barges lumbered back and forth from the river, and through the canal's dark waters? Was there something about the path that eased her heart, perhaps? Or was she meeting someone?

Maisie sighed, though her eyes remained closed. She thought of those she had met during the investigation, and others she knew only by association, dependent as she was on a picture built by question after question. She imagined Robert Martin, Jesmond Martin's missing son, to be typical of his age—perhaps somewhat lanky, possibly in the transition from a childhood during which he hung on his father's every word to now questioning each comment, question, or instruction. In the short years between boyhood and growing the beard of maturity, had he argued with his father to the extent that he would leave his beloved mother? Had he struck out on his own to prove his worth? She imagined his hair longer now, and if he was living rough—and she strongly suspected that Martin Robertson was indeed Robert Martin—he would be ill-kempt and tired. He might even be afraid. For his part, Jesmond Martin had wanted to find his son and paid good money to see him brought home. Yet he appeared to be a man adrift from any emotion—had his love for a wife who was sick taken a toll on his relationship with his son? Had they argued about the boy's mother—perhaps when Usha Pramal had helped the woman and was thrown from the house for her trouble? Was Jesmond Martin so prejudiced that he could not accept Usha's healing ministrations, when the nurse herself said that Mrs. Martin was feeling so much better? She wondered if Mrs. Martin's crippling headaches and the necessity of being confined to her room had, for some reason, brought a measure of peace to the household? In which case, perhaps Usha Pramal had stumbled upon evidence that Mrs. Martin's headaches were caused deliberately—which might in turn have placed her at risk.

Now Maisie tried to clear her mind of the thoughts that began to cascade before her—random connections, more questions about Maya Patel, about Pramal, the loving brother, at home in India when his sister was murdered. She considered the Singhs—an unusual couple, yet so ordinary in their everyday life. They could have been the proprietors of any corner shop across Britain, but instead of weighing biscuits or sweets, flour or currants, Mrs. Singh was spooning turmeric and cardamom into small indigo paper bags for women who wore silks and who knew how to heal with spices and herbs blended by stone pressed to stone.

But her thoughts always came back to Usha Pramal, and the fact that, to a person, she had been described as unusual in some way, whether by her own or those outside her culture. And she had been loved, that much was clear. With this consideration, Maisie leaned her head on her knees. Would it be a leap to believe that Usha Pramal was killed by someone who loved her too much? And who would want to kill an extraordinary person who touched the lives of others with such gentleness? Who would find such beauty of spirit a threat—and take the life of a daughter of heaven?

Maisie remained in the shade offered by the branches for a while longer. She meditated for some minutes, becoming more aware of the residue of emotion left by whoever had chosen this place for refuge—for it felt like a refuge. And wasn't a place of refuge usually sought by someone who had lost something of value—perhaps a way of life, a house, a home, a lover, or simply part of themselves? Refuge. The word spun webs in her mind. She knew she would come back to that sense of a safe place in which to curl and, perhaps, escape from the world. There was sadness here, too. A suggestion of pain that went beyond the body into the heart and soul of a person, and again she pressed her hand to her chest, lest the lingering despair impress itself into her being. It was time to leave. Time to go across the common and back to the street. It was time to see the Reverend Griffith.

As she looked back at the trees, the breeze seemed to catch upon itself and the air became sharper and quicker and blew across the hay-like grass, shimmering gold in the afternoon light. She thought that, in time, those trees would become a place where children would fear to tread, that in their youthful imaginings, it would be the forbidden center of the common. Didn't children always sense evil before their elders? How many pulled back while a mother or father said, “Don't be frightened, there's nothing to scare you here.” Perhaps Usha Pramal held a fear of the canal, but she pressed on anyway. And had she felt as Maisie felt in that moment, when she stepped out from under the trees and began her walk towards the gate and the road? It was the overwhelming sense that she was not alone and was being watched.

Chapter Eighteen

T
here was no answer to her knock when Maisie called at the home of the Reverend Griffith. She waited on the doorstep, knocked again, and listened. No sound issued from the house, though she remembered that the main rooms in Griffith's garden flat were at the back of the building. Nevertheless, it appeared that no one was home. She could not try a back door, as the front entrance was the only means of access to the house and garden. Why, then, did she have a pressing feeling that she was still being watched and that someone was at home. She knocked one more time, and when there was again no answer, she began to walk away towards her motor car. As she walked, she remembered the children and their dog, and the girl saying her mother could always see what they were up to from the top of the house. Perhaps it was this recollection that caused her to turn and look once again at Griffith's somewhat shabby terrace home in time to catch a glimpse of movement on the roof. Could it have been a pigeon flapping its wings in upward flight? She shielded her eyes with her hand against the low light of late afternoon. At once she was tempted to wave, just to see if acknowledgment came in return. She waved, but did not wait for the gesture to be reciprocated. It was enough to know that if she were indeed being watched, the person keeping tabs on her knew she was aware of their presence. They would meet soon enough.

T
he office was quiet when she returned, though a tidy pile of papers had been left by Sandra. On top was a note with messages and information regarding each item of correspondence. She'd ended the communication by adding that she would be in the office early in the morning, as she wanted to discuss something with Maisie. “If that would be convenient,” she'd added.

There was a brief report on her visit to the other houses where Usha Pramal had been employed, with the conclusion that there was nothing out of the ordinary observed by the women, who she thought had hardly ever seen Usha anyway. The Indian woman had come to the houses, gone about her work, and left. Next came a note to the effect that Mr. Pramal had telephoned from a kiosk, and had had just enough time to inform her that he would pay a visit to the office of Miss Maisie Dobbs the following morning. Sandra had taken the liberty of suggesting ten o'clock. Maisie nodded her head in silent approval of the appointment. And another man had walked to his nearest telephone kiosk that afternoon, possibly at some point before Maisie left Camberwell to return to the West End. Mr. Paige had left a message that he had some information for Maisie, and would place another call to her office the following morning.

Not long before Maisie decided to leave for home, but prior to departing the office, she looked up the location of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. In truth, it was easier to think and talk about leaving England than it was to take the first step. But with the address in Leadenhall Street scribbled on a piece of paper, it seemed as if her imaginings could become the reality she craved. After all, plans and dreams were just words and images in the mind until she did something concrete.

S
he arrived back at 15 Ebury Place before James, and following a hot bath took the opportunity to sit in her rooms in silence. An uncomfortable feeling of anticipation was rising up within her. She knew that this was due in part to the case and an overriding sense—increasing as the hours passed—that she was close to identifying the killer of the two Indian women. But there was something else, too. Over the course of the days spent at Chelstone, following the news that Frankie Dobbs and Mrs. Bromley were to be married, James—who had at first been enthusiastic about the match—seemed more distant. Maisie knew the news had unsettled him, and that the status quo they had achieved in a union outside the bounds of marriage was proving, to a greater degree, to be inadequate for him. James, as she knew only too well, was a man who wanted more from her. And they both accepted that, despite their ages—she was now thirty-six years of age, James almost thirty-nine—Maisie was far from ready to take that particular leap. But was it a case of readiness? Or simply that the idea of marriage did not suit her? She rested her head in her hands, running her fingers through her hair.

James was a good man, of that she was in no doubt. She loved him as much as she could—she believed—love anyone. She knew that the past year had rocked her foundation; as time went on, the good fortune bestowed upon her by Maurice's will had not made the ground beneath her feet seem any more firm; on the contrary, she discovered that the responsibility had made her question who she was. In her plans to travel, was she hoping to find her essential self hidden in the unknown as if it were buried treasure? And when she came home, would she be ready, at last, to embrace the life she had come to know with James?

These thoughts led her once again to John Otterburn, and the case that had caused her to question the integrity of her moral compass, to lose her true north, which was a belief that all would be well and good if she acted with compassion and a sense of the right thing to do. She felt as if she had been David against Otterburn's Goliath, but holding no sling and stone with which to slay the giant—yet at the same time, this particular behemoth was intent upon protecting Britain and her people; he saw himself as the answer to a prayer not yet spoken by the common man. Therefore, she had come to the conclusion that she could no longer continue to put herself forward as a woman of good conduct in her business, when she had been complicit—in her estimation—in keeping secret the role played by John Otterburn in what amounted to murder, even though her voice had been a small one.

Could she blame James for agreeing to ally himself with Otterburn and become part of his plans? James loved his country, had fought for his country, and would lay down his life to protect the land he cherished. He was a man of good intentions, of integrity, and for that she had utmost respect, and yes, love.

It was in the midst of these considerations that James returned home. Soon there was a knock on the door adjoining their rooms. Maisie had pulled her armchair close to the window and was looking out.

“Maisie. We're both home at a reasonable hour—that makes a change.” He came to her side, kneeling down before her. “What's wrong, my love? You seem so very sad.”

Maisie wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, nothing, James. Just thinking about nothing in particular. Probably my father, really.”

“You're not losing him, Maisie—he's getting married, though I think that's enough to inspire thoughts of the past and of your mother, perhaps. You and your father have only had each other for so long.” He smiled, holding her hand. “Well, and you've got me, I suppose.”

She nodded. “Yes, you're right—it's probably down to too much excitement these past few days.”

“And you're looking very tired, my love. Perhaps we should go away for a Friday to Monday, somewhere different—what about Paris?” said James.

“I have an important case on, you know. I can't just swan off, not yet.”

They were quiet for some moments, when James spoke again. “Look, there's something I want to say to you, but there never seems to be the right time. I find I dither back and forth.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes. I know.”

“It's this, Maisie. We agreed to just go along as if all was well, as if we both found our life here suitable, acceptable. But I have realized, time and again, that I don't find things at all agreeable.” James continued without further pause; Maisie looked at him, though she did not speak to counter his words. “So, here's what I've been thinking,” he said, looking down at her hand nestled in his. “I have made no secret of the fact that I want to marry you, to have and to hold you for the rest of both our lives. I want to make a life with you, and even hope for children. That is the measure of my intentions. Now, I know you want to go abroad, to follow in Maurice's footsteps—and even to find part of him again. I understand all that, Maisie—in fact, I think I understand more than you might give me credit for. And you have every right to do as you wish. I know very well that you are searching for answers to questions I cannot help you with. So be it. But I want you to know that I need an answer to my proposal of marriage: yes or no.” James held up a hand as Maisie's eyes widened. “Not yet though. You have a plan, as yet not fully formed—that much is clear—and I will be on my way to Canada soon after your father's marriage. I suppose we will be going our separate ways at the same time.” He sighed, and took another deep breath before going on—it was clear he had a planned monologue and wanted to say every word. “Six months, Maisie. I want your answer in six months. By the end of March. We'll write to each other, of that I am sure, and you will know where I am as I will know where to find you—let us agree that much. Send me a telegram, or a message by carrier pigeon if that's the only viable option—I will be waiting for your answer on March 31, give or take a day or two. Yes Stop or No Stop. That's all I ask of you. Together until death us do part; or apart, forever. No going back.” He looked directly into her eyes, still holding her hand. “That is all I have to say.”

Maisie nodded. “All right, James. That is more than fair. On March 31 I will let you know. Yes. Or no.”

James smiled and stood up, pulling Maisie to him. “Now, let's go and have a glass of champagne and toast to the future, whatever it may hold.”

She placed her free hand on his cheek and held his gaze, though there was nothing she could say at that moment.

F
or some reason, Maisie felt calmer the following day, perhaps more settled than she had for some time. Now she knew, now there was a landing point for what she might become. She would go abroad. She would have several months in which to immerse herself in places new and far away, and then she would make her decision.
Yes Stop. No Stop.
In one telegram perhaps the most important part of her future would be decided. She would either marry James Compton or not. From the close of the Pramal case until the end of March, she would be accountable only to herself. The weight lifted from her shoulders, though she knew it would return in good time. But she hoped, too, that the decision, when it came, would be an easy one.

Sandra arrived at the office at the same time as Maisie. Over a cup of tea, Maisie went through files on several open cases, so that plans for the day ahead would be clear. Some assignments required only research and organization—a telephone call to a newspaper or a records office, a visit to a bank with a client—and of late Maisie had asked Sandra to take on various tasks that would have been Billy's responsibility, though on this occasion, Sandra would work only half a day with Maisie before going on to her second job with Douglas Partridge, followed by evening classes at Morley College.

As Maisie closed the final case file, which required only the preparation of an invoice, she turned to her secretary. “You wanted to speak to me about something, Sandra. Is everything all right?”

Sandra leaned forward, her hands flat on the wood of Maisie's desk. She was sitting on the opposite side, facing her.

“Well, Miss Dobbs, I thought I would let you in on what's been happening, just so you know.”

Maisie pulled her chair closer to the desk, as if she were about to hear a secret told for the first time.

“A couple of things, actually,” said Sandra. “The first is that, well, I might be moving, but I haven't found somewhere to live yet.”

“You've hardly been in the flat a few months yet. Don't you get along with the others?”

Sandra shrugged. “It's not that I don't get along with them—it's good fun, having others around, and we all muck in to keep it nice.”

“But?” asked Maisie.

“But it gets very noisy of an evening, when I'm trying to study. I stay late at the library, after my lectures, but there's the other evenings, when I'm supposed to be reading and then writing essays, so I'm trying to work out how I can afford a room of my own—a bedsit perhaps—and then still keep up my college work.”

“I see,” said Maisie. She had discovered that often the best helping hand was in fact an ear to listen to another.

“I didn't think I could do it, what with working part-time at two jobs, but something's happened that could help me, but I would feel just awful about it.”

“I think you should tell me what the awful thing is, Sandra. Sometimes the awful things aren't half as bad as we think they are—everything sorts itself out in the end.” As Maisie spoke, her own words echoed in her mind.
Everything sorts itself out in the end.
“Come on, tell me what's so bad.”

“The bad thing is, Miss Dobbs, that I've been offered another job.” She held up her hand. “No, not with Mr. Partridge, but through someone he knows. It, well, it pays better, and if I took it, I would have to give up working for you, that's what's bad about it. I could carry on helping Mr. Partridge on Saturdays, but this job here is different, there's something every day. I mean, it was all very well, but what with Mr. Beale leaving, and what with one thing and another and you being so busy, I couldn't just—”