Leaving Everything Most Loved (4 page)

“It might have been the only place for her to go—she had been taken on as a governess. How long had she been dead when she was discovered?”

“About twenty-four hours, according to the postmortem report.”

“Had her body been brought to the canal? Were there any signs of her death along the canal path? The summer's been dry for the most part, so there would have been blood on the ground if she'd been shot nearby.”

Caldwell shook his head. “I had men walking up and down that path looking at the dirt and gravel until they couldn't move their necks for a week. Nothing.”

“So, she was carried there?”

He nodded. “I would have thought so.”

“Not easy to lift, a dead weight,” said Maisie.

“Unless there were two doing the carrying.”

“Were there distinct footprints?”

Again, Caldwell shook his head. “Someone was very careful, I reckon. Could have shot her next to the canal, so she just fell in when the bullet hit her.”

Maisie sat back and regarded the inspector, the way he fiddled with a piece of paper on his desk and avoided meeting her eyes.
He feels guilty
, she thought.
He didn't do the job as well as he could have, and he knows it.

“What else did you discover? And I know I could read all this, but what might you have found out about Usha Pramal that you were keeping from her brother?”

Caldwell sighed. He looked up at Maisie, then came to his feet to stand alongside the small soot-stained window through which sun would never shine into his office.

“We have evidence to suggest she was a prostitute.”

Maisie frowned. “Are you sure?”

“We talked to people in the area, and from all accounts she was seen with men.”

“I'm seen with men, Inspector, but I hope no one thinks ill of me.”

“But not her sort. It's not on for them, is it? Seen going into houses to see men.”

“Are you sure? Was she seen going into a house to see one man, but five people saw it? Or was she really seen going into different houses?”

The detective sat down again. “I admit, a bit of doubt crept in. She was never seen out at night—we talked to the warden at the ayah's hostel, and she said Miss Pramal was always in of a night. Rules, you see. But she was out during the day. According to the warden, she always had some money—not lots, mind, but she had some sort of work outside what was organized for her. Most of them work as cleaners, anything they can get.” He paused. “And there's no two ways about it, a lot of these women who were given their marching orders by the people who brought them over here
have
ended up on the streets, especially down by the docks. They find their own kind there, see. Lascars—Indian sailors.”

Maisie chewed the inside of her lip. “Poor souls probably didn't have much choice. What kind of people would bring a young woman from her home—so different from this country—then cast her out when they no longer had need of her services?”

“They didn't all do that. When I spoke to the warden, Mrs. Paige, she said a fair number had their passage paid to go back home. And there's cases of these ayahs' getting a new job straightaway and coming right back again with another family.”

“Then why is there an ayah's hostel?”

“Well, you've got a point there, Miss Dobbs. Mrs. Paige and her husband—churchgoers, they are, very religious—said they felt they had to help these women. Started when Mrs. Paige came across an Indian woman begging on a street corner, so she got talking to her and realized what had happened—lost her job, and had nowhere to go. She brought her home, gave her room and board in return for work, and she discovered that there were more who needed that sort of help. Of course, they couldn't keep them all, it gets expensive, with so many mouths to feed, so they went to their vicar, scrounged every penny they could from their fellow parishioners, and they turned their house into a hostel. They had the room after all, it's a big house. They've got enough beds to accommodate twelve women on three upper floors. The Paiges have the ground floor, turned it into a nice flat for themselves.”

“That's very generous.”

“Like I said, they're religious.”

“I'll see them as soon as I can.”

“Of course you will.”

Maisie looked at Caldwell. “What's happened on this case, Inspector? You started off according to the book—a quick glance here tells me you began everything in line with correct procedures—securing the area where Pramal was discovered, conducting a search along the canal, speaking to associates, locals in the area who might have seen the woman. Then very little follows.”

He shrugged. “It went cold. We hit a brick wall with nothing new coming in, and there were other cases pending. Life's not getting any easier around here, you know. There were no relatives banging on my door every day, and word came from a bit higher up to leave it alone and get on with more pressing cases.”

“And a gunshot wound to the head is not pressing? Was the bullet identified?”

“Went straight through the skull, out the other side.” He sighed. “And no, we couldn't find it. There is a best guess, though—Fred Constantine, the pathologist on the case, said he could well be off his mark, but he couldn't help but think it was a Webley Mark IV revolver. Standard issue to British officers in the war.”

“And officers from Empire armies.”

“Yes. And Empire armies.”

“And it needs a practiced hand, I seem to remember,” said Maisie. “Otherwise it jumps as it's fired.”

“That's right. Good little pistol—had one myself. But in the war we kept our eyes out for a Luger, if we found a dead German. Nice little prize to get yourself, that.” Caldwell shrugged.

“But you had to relinquish your pistol when you were demobilized, didn't you?”

“I did. Yes. But you know as well as I do, Miss Dobbs, not all were handed back, and anyone who wants to arm themselves will find a way.”

Maisie nodded, lifted the folder, and placed it in her briefcase. “I'll go through this and get in touch if I have any questions.”

They stood at the same time, the two chairs being pushed back making a scraping sound across the floor. They shook hands.

“I'll get my sergeant to see you out.”

“Thank you, Inspector Caldwell.”

Caldwell reached forward and opened the door for Maisie to depart the room.

“I'm sure it's all in here, Inspector,” said Maisie, tapping the document case where she had placed the file. “But can you tell me exactly when Mr. Pramal was informed of his sister's death?”

“As soon as we got the details from the Paiges. I sent a telegram to the police in Bombay, and they found him quite quickly—working somewhere else at the time, he was.”

“And then he came over straightaway?”

Caldwell nodded.

“And now he's staying in a hotel here. That can't be much fun.”

“Well, he was with an old mucker, from his army days,” said Caldwell, summoning his sergeant with a wave of his hand.

“He told me he lodged with a friend for a short time.”

“Yes, he did, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell. “And he is very well thought of, according to Mr. Singh—that's his friend. He said the Sarn't Major's men would have done anything for him, in the war. Anything.”

Maisie nodded and smiled, holding her hand out to Caldwell. She would find out herself if Usha Pramal's brother was no longer staying with the friend who would do anything for him, simply because it became an inconvenience.

M
aisie looked at her watch. Billy and Sandra would both have left the office by now, so she decided to make her way back to Ebury Place and the mansion where she lived—though she still thought of it as “stayed”—with James Compton. Compton was not her husband, or her fiancé, though he was open about his desire to be married to Maisie. Her friend Priscilla Partridge, whom she had known since she was seventeen years of age and a new student at Girton College in 1914, continued to press her to make up her mind; yet even she knew that Maisie's foot-dragging was due to not one but several threads of reticence. The difference in background between Maisie and James was one, despite the fact that Maisie was now a woman of considerable wealth following the death of her longtime mentor, Dr. Maurice Blanche. Maisie had a successful business, and had worked hard to establish herself as a professional woman—she did not relish relinquishing that independence to become a society matron. James Compton had promised her that he would not expect such an outcome, though it was already clear he was not happy with the risks inherent in her work. But more than anything, Maisie had established within herself a strength, a sense of her own worth, and an independence. At the same time, though she had long recovered from the wounds of war—wounds of both body and mind—there were times when the ice still felt thin beneath her feet, and she retained a fear that she might crash through into the cold waters of her most terrible memories if events conspired to make her fall. She feared that in marrying she might give up that essential part of herself, the resilience that kept her skating above the ice. Fortunately, Maisie was not the only woman of her day who had chosen a looser relationship than marriage might have offered, and she knew that, for now, James Compton's love for her and his fear of losing her outweighed his need to be married—and more important, to produce an heir to the Compton estate.

“Miss Dobbs, welcome home.” The butler, Simmonds, held out his hand for Maisie's coat, which she slipped from her shoulders. He handed the coat to the maid as he continued to address Maisie. “Viscount Compton has telephoned to say he may be a little late, and would you please dine without him this evening.”

“Oh, I see—yes, I think he had some visitors from abroad at the offices today. I daresay he's taken them to his club.” She pulled off her gloves and unpinned her hat, which the maid reached out to take from her; the presence of a maid assigned to her service was something that still occasionally took Maisie by surprise. She handed the hat and gloves to the young woman. “Thank you, Madeleine.” She turned back to the butler. “In that case, I think I'll just have something on a tray in the library. Soup with some bread and cheese would be just the ticket.”

“Cook has prepared your favorite, Miss Dobbs—oxtail soup.”

“Thank you, Simmonds. In about half an hour.”

“Very good, Miss Dobbs.” He gave a short bow.

Maisie made her way upstairs, pleased that the staff had finally become used to the fact that she abhorred being referred to as “mu'um” or some other strangled form of “madam.” She had uttered the word often when she herself was a member of the belowstairs staff in this same grand mansion, and did not care to be addressed in such a fashion.

James had taken her to task, pointing out that she was making the staff feel uncomfortable, but Priscilla had told her that she shouldn't worry about it, observing, “You know your trouble, Maisie—you care too much.”

After supper, she set her tray to one side, then moved to an armchair close to the open French windows that led into the gardens. Michaelmas daisies danced in the cool air, contrasting with the burnished colors of autumn leaves waiting to loosen and fall, and their green neighbors yet to change. And she wondered about Usha Pramal, a young Indian woman, far from home, yet always smiling. She wondered about her independence of spirit, and how that might have upset those who knew her as a girl—a girl who, like Maisie, had lost her mother at an early age. She closed her eyes and brought to mind the scene described by Sandra, at the lecture she attended in Camberwell. It wasn't the image of colorful silks draped across Usha's dark skin that drew her attention, but rather Sandra's description of the lecturer's reaction to the woman's touch when the lecture had ended, as if a precious element remained on his skin.

Yes, she would see the man as soon as she could, she would find out what it was he felt in his hand. She wasn't sure why, but she thought his might be valuable information, an insight to what it was that Usha Pramal carried inside her, and perhaps something of her essence.

She's a Camberwell Beauty, if ever I saw one.
Maisie reflected upon Sandra's recollection of her friend's description of the murdered Indian woman. She walked over to the stacks of books in the library, a library that had grown over the years—though it had seemed full to overflowing even in the days of her girlhood, when she would steal downstairs at night to read and read and read, in an effort to quench her thirst for learning. She knew this library like the back of her hand. She ran her fingers over the spines of books and soon found what she was looking for. It was a tea card book, a collection of palm-size cards from boxes of tea, pasted in by James Compton when he was just a boy. “Butterflies & Moths of the World” was inscribed in his childish handwriting. She flipped through until she reached the one she was looking for:
The Camberwell Beauty.
She had simply wanted to look at an image of the butterfly, curious, for she could not remember what it looked like. It wasn't a butterfly often seen in Britain, let alone London. More accustomed to the climates of Asia and North America, it was the discovery of two of the butterflies in Coldharbour Lane in Camberwell in the mid-1700s that led to the local name. With soft wings of deep purplish red decorated with small blue dots and rimmed by a yellow border, the butterfly was at once elegant and mystical. Maisie felt her skin prickle when she read the more common name for the Camberwell Beauty: the Mourning Cloak. It was not a clue, not an element of great import to her investigation, but there was something in the picture before her that touched her heart. That something beautiful was so bold, yet at once so fragile.

Chapter Four

“I
promise, I won't be home quite so late this evening, Maisie.” James Compton cut into a slice of toast, spreading it liberally with butter and marmalade. “It was that meeting with Tom Hollingford, you know, the architect working on those houses we're building in Bromley. It just went on and on, and at the end of the day, it was all about apple trees.”

Maisie placed her table napkin beside her plate and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She wanted to leave for the office and prepare for the meeting with Usha Pramal's brother. “Apple trees, James?”

“Well, you know the entire area was once apple orchards—all down to Henry the Eighth and his desire for an abundant supply of fresh fruit in days of yore. Anyway, what we are trying to do is retain at least one apple tree in each garden. Keep a bit of the past lurking in the present. And it's proving to be a bit of a pain in the neck. Hollingford wants to just plough the whole lot in, though I believe we should keep as much as we can—it's good for public opinion. We don't want to be seen as a raze-and-build firm, and there are some very big contracts, here and overseas, that will come our way if we get it right. It's always so much easier when permission to build goes through the local council without too much ado, and that's more likely to happen if people are happy about what's going in.”

Maisie stood up, leaned forward, and kissed James on the forehead. “Keep the apple trees. People will thank you for them.”

“Shade in summer and fruit in September,” said James.

“Yes,” said Maisie. “And a tree is always handy for tying one end of the washing line.”

James laughed. “I never thought of that.”

“No, James, you would never have thought of that. Now then, I must go. Stick to your guns, James.”

As she left the room, Maisie reached out and took an apple from the bowl on the sideboard buffet. “A cox's orange pippin is so much nicer than apples from foreign parts,” she added, closing the door behind her.

“M
r. Pramal, you must be quite busy, with the various arrangements that have to be made. I didn't think of that when I asked you to come back so soon.” Maisie held out her hand to the chair made ready for Pramal. She nodded to Billy and Sandra to join her; Pramal waited until the women were seated before taking his place.

“Finding the truth of my sister's death is the most important thing I have to do at the moment,” said the man, his head bending forward as a mark of respect.

“May I ask what arrangements have been made for her . . . for her funeral?”

“We have had to do our best to honor her in our way, Miss Dobbs. So, as soon as her body is released to me by the authorities, Usha will be cremated. I will take her ashes back to India with me, and a ceremony will follow. It is most important that she is laid to rest in a proper way.”

“Of course.” Maisie nodded to Sandra, who was to take notes. “Now then, let's get down to work. “We asked you some questions yesterday, but I feel it might have at first been difficult for you to speak in front of Detective Inspector Caldwell.”

“He is a prejudiced man. He does not like the color of my skin, the sound of my voice, or the fact that I know he has not done his job. So much for the illustrious Scotland Yard. He wants me on a ship. Gone. And with my sister poured into a glass jar, safely in my suitcase.”

Maisie looked at Pramal, and felt the power of his grief and anger.

“Major Pramal—”

“Miss Dobbs, as I pointed out yesterday, I am no longer a member of His Majesty's Imperial Armies, so I do not deserve to be addressed as any sort of major. I do not seek to be known in this way. I have enough memories of the war, so would rather be the mister I was before I first came to this country.”

“Of course, Mr. Pramal. I also served in the war, so it is a habit of acknowledgment I am given to slipping into when I see medals worn with pride.” She paused, glancing at Billy. “But I understand the importance of leaving the past behind, and your reasons for wearing your medals in front of Caldwell.”

Maisie thought Pramal had an attractive face, with a hint of European expression, though he moved his head as he spoke with the light cadence of his fellow countrymen. His hair was neat and oiled, combed back with a parting to one side. His eyes were like his sister's—the shape of almonds and the color of dark chocolate. His skin was clear, barely lined, yet his hands were the hands of one familiar with manual work. She imagined him overseeing construction, physically moving iron and brick, clambering over the site of a new dam or bridge, demonstrating to workers exactly how he wanted a job done. She saw him talking to his foreman, and never giving in to the urge to remove his jacket, or open his stiff collar and loosen a tie from its perfect position. It was as if he were intent on being the perfect King's subject.

“It was clear from our conversation yesterday that you made a request for the case to be referred to me. I should have asked at the time, but—where did you hear of my services?”

“From Dr. Basil Khan. Of Hampstead. I knew of Dr. Khan from my great-uncle. They were young men together.”

“They were?” Maisie leaned forward. “I confess, I sometimes forget Khan was a doctor—I have only ever known him as ‘Khan.' ”

Pramal smiled. “He is—as you probably know—from Ceylon; however, as far as I know, he came to Bombay in his youth. He was a medical doctor, but it was not his calling. Instead he went to live in the hills, in Sikkim. Then he went away, and it was years before anyone knew where he'd gone. All over the world, everyone said. My uncle is no longer with us, but I remembered his story, and that Dr. Khan now resided in Great Britain. So I came to him in my time of sadness. He told me that you would help me.” Pramal smiled.

“What is it?”

“He said that I must look beyond your youth. But you are not as young as I thought you would be.”

Maisie smiled. “I don't know how to take that. To be fair, I was very young when I first met Khan—not yet fifteen years of age—so he probably still considers me a girl.”

“No, Miss Dobbs. He said you were a wise woman.”

Maisie blushed, opening the file she had collected from Caldwell. “I only hope I don't disappoint you, Mr. Pramal. Now then—” She turned over a page. “Can we talk about Usha coming to England? She was a governess, and never employed as a maid, or a nurse to the children?”

“That is correct. There was already an ayah, who looked after a younger child and undertook general housekeeping, though she did not accompany the family to England. The Allisons were very well positioned, you know. They wanted a governess who could teach English, French, who could read with the children and who could also give them lessons in arithmetic.”

“Did they make any promises regarding her future employment?”

“They said that she would be looked after, that she would be with the family until the youngest child had finished her education—then she would have her passage paid to return home. The boy was destined for a boarding school, but I believe it was intended for the young ladies to learn at home and then attend a school in London before being sent to Switzerland. That is the way with these people.”

Maisie looked up. Billy caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, while Sandra held her gaze for a second longer than a glance.

“Mr. Pramal, may I ask—it seems quite common for families to bring an ayah with them from India, but not a governess. Am I right?”

Pramal sighed. “Yes, you are correct, but my sister was a highly regarded young woman, who matriculated from her college with top marks and first-class references. She was well versed in the English language and literature—she was tested many times. And she had learned French as well—not a common language to learn in my country.”

“From my notes here, it seems that she was given notice to leave her employment with no financial assistance, apart from that which was owed her. Can you account for this?”

“Usha did not tell me about what had happened. In her letters she seemed as happy and content as she had ever been.”

“If I may risk overstepping the mark, Mr. Pramal, I would like to return to a point we discussed yesterday—would Usha not have been betrothed to be married at some point?”

Pramal shook his head. “I wish she had, but as I explained, my father indulged her following the death of my mother. My aunts tried to advise him in the most very strong way, but he allowed her to turn up her nose at every suitor. And if I am to be perfectly honest, there were not many suitors—a family soon learns when a girl is too headstrong for their son. It is not desirable, and it comes with a reputation. I believe that if my mother were alive, Usha would have been a different person—but . . .”

“But perhaps not.”

Pramal shrugged. “Perhaps not.”

Sandra held up her pencil, as if she were a student in class.

“Have you thought of something, Sandra?” asked Maisie.

Sandra blushed, and at once Maisie wondered if she felt less than confident in her classes when called upon to speak or to answer a question.

“Well, yes.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Pramal, I just wondered if any of Miss Pramal's suitors might have gone away feeling, well, slighted in some way. If they and their family tried to bring about a, um, a betrothal—is that how it is?—well, a boy might have had a bit of a chip on his shoulder when she turned down a proposal.”

Maisie nodded her agreement. “Mr. Pramal?”

Pramal sighed. “My friend, Mr. Singh, he was in love with Usha once. She made it clear to my father that she would not accept any approach from his family. And there was another man who called upon her, though most unsuitable. An Englishman. He came to the house one day. Usha was very furious with him and asked an aunt to send him away. I—”

Maisie looked up from a note she was making. Pramal had stopped speaking, and was now shaking his head.

“Mr. Pramal?” Maisie leaned forward, to catch his eye.

“I—I had a suspicion at the time—though I never proved it, of course. But I wondered if Usha had already been seen out with the Englishman, without a chaperone. He was a young man, not long in India, and I would say he was a very naive boy—a civil servant, working in the shipping office, or perhaps he was some sort of diplomatic person—I can't remember now. It was soon after he came to our home that she decided to accept the position of governess. She worked for the family for a while before they sailed to England. I never saw the man again, and doubt he ever saw Usha.”

“Do you know his name?” Maisie held her pen ready above the index card.

“I really don't remember—in fact, I am not sure that I ever knew. You see, I was not at home then, and did not visit often, because I was new in my position and working very hard to establish myself. I heard that he was a very ordinary young man with nothing to commend him. It was most discourteous that he should call to see Usha without an invitation from my father, or even one of my aunts, standing in for our mother. Such a lack of respect. He had much to learn about India.”

“Before we leave the subject of Usha and her suitors, do you think there's anyone else we should know about?” asked Maisie.

“As I mentioned, there was my fellow officer, with whom I stayed for a short while here in London. He is married now. Our mothers were close and our fathers had business together—there was at one time a hope that he and Usha might join the two families. It would have been a source of joy, but she was not to be persuaded.”

“Mr. Pramal. Please, correct me if I am wrong, because I have not been to India and my experience of your way of life is rather limited, but everything you have told me about Usha points to the fact that she very much sailed against the wind, that she—for want of a better phrase—took liberties. How was she not vilified in the community . . . didn't people talk?”

Pramal smiled as tears rimmed his eyes. “Ah yes, indeed, Miss Dobbs, that should have been the case. But you see, Usha was beautiful and loved, and ever since she was a child—a very precocious child—it was as if there was a young goddess in our midst. She carried with her an eternal sunshine, you know. She was one of those people who walk along the street and everyone notices them; it's as if they are the source of all brightness.”

There was silence for a half-minute.

“Well, excuse, me, Mr. Pramal,” said Billy. “But someone didn't like all that brightness, did they? In fact, someone would have had to hate it enough to kill her, or she would still be here. You've got to have given someone a right upset, to get a bullet through your skull, if you don't mind me saying so.”

Maisie looked at Billy, shocked at his tone, then turned back to Pramal, her voice modulated to soothe in the wake of her assistant's words. “Mr. Beale has a point—we are now down to who might have wanted her dead, and we might well get to some answers through asking why rather than via any other route.” She held up her closed palm, opening each finger in turn as she listed possibilities. “Usha was likely killed for one of the following reasons: One—she had offended or upset someone to the extent that they lost their temper, or they premeditated her murder. Two—she knew something about someone that cost her life. Three—it could have been a random attack, possibly the result of prejudice. Four—mistaken identity. A decade ago London saw some of the worst violence, based upon the color of a person's skin, ever to take place on this soil; that sort of tension can linger, especially in these difficult times. Five—someone loved her too much and wanted to punish her for it.” She held up the opposite forefinger. “Six—envy. Someone was envious of her.”