Leaving Everything Most Loved (7 page)

“But this Miss Patel, she was just an ayah—she doesn't sound like someone my sister would confide in.”

“From our conversation yesterday, it would seem that Usha thought nothing of flying in the face of convention, and if she considered Maya and her fellow ayahs less than herself, she would not have remained, or would have returned sooner. I believe she and Maya Patel might have found comfort in their friendship, especially so far from home.”

“Yes, of course. You are right, Miss Dobbs. My comment would not do Usha justice.”

“Let's move on—Caldwell will be here shortly. Mr. Pramal, I am interested in the two men who had a romantic interest in Usha—your fellow officer, the gentleman with whom you lodged upon first arriving here, and also the young man whom you said had inappropriately courted your sister in India.” She looked at her notes. “First of all, have you had any recollection at all, of the man who had declared his love for Usha?”

“As I said yesterday, Miss Dobbs—I don't know that I ever knew.” He frowned, as if trying to agitate his memory. “I only know that he was most pressing in paying her attention. And my aunt said it was clear the whole event had distressed Usha—she clearly reciprocated his affection, which was most worrying, but at the same time felt embarrassed by him, and by his lack of respect. You see, it is not usual for a man to come to the house without an invitation, and any approach of this kind would of course be discussed with his family, who would accompany him if serious intent to propose marriage was on the cards. Courting might be the British way, but it is not ours. And I must explain, although Usha might have done things her own way, she would not have wanted to bring that sort of gossip to the door, and would have been very circumspect if she were seeing this man outside the house. She would have kept it secret. It was one thing for people to think she was a free spirit and tut-tut here and there, but she would not have wanted a serious slight against the family in connection with her moral code. A line was crossed.”

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Pramal. But what about Mr. Singh?”

“Oh, Singh was like so many—head over heels at first glance, but Usha showed no interest whatsoever, and to be frank, teased us both, because of course I would have welcomed him as a brother. He's very happily married now, though, and living here in London.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I plan to visit Mr. Singh—please do not be alarmed, it's just that he might have some insight that has evaded you, being her brother. Do you know if she kept in touch with him, when she came to London? Or why she did not call upon him when she found herself thrown out by her employers?”

Pramal smiled. “Pride. Usha would have been too proud to have done that, though Singh and his wife have told me that, once she was settled, she came to see them. But she never told them about her change of circumstances.”

“Yes, I can imagine her being like that.” She looked at her notes again. “And just to keep you apprised of our progress, Mrs. Tapley reports that Usha's former employers are on holiday in Italy, but will be home soon. I will visit as soon as they return to London. In the meantime, I have another question regarding Usha. My visit to the ayah's home revealed that your sister was left with precious little money from her daily work—which was as a cleaner in two mansions. Miss Patel informed me that Mr. Paige took most of the wages and saved them on behalf of the girls, so that they could one day return home. If that is so, then there should have been money coming to you from that quarter—have you received word regarding the funds?”

Pramal pressed his lips together. Clearly the thought that his sister was engaged in menial work was painful to him.

“I have received nothing.”

“I thought not. I'll ask about it. However, there is the matter of this money saved in the mattress. That being the case, I wonder, how do you think she might have been able to earn and put by such a tidy sum?”

“Are you suggesting—?”

“I am not suggesting anything, I am asking a very good question. Your sister had saved a considerable amount, and though it was over a period of some years, it still mounted up. Maya Patel was going to tell me more and now she's dead. So, if you could offer me anything you know about Usha that might help me establish where the money came from—it might well be the key to finding her killer.”

Pramal folded his arms, and as he moved his hands, Maisie noticed an obvious yellow stain on his fingers—he was a man who smoked cigarettes and, surprisingly, given the tension caused by her questions, had not asked if he might light one.

“She was a teacher, so she might have taken on private tutoring.”

“Her free hours were limited, but it's a possibility,” allowed Maisie.

“And she . . . no, nothing. There's nothing else.”

“What were you going to say, Mr. Pramal? Was there something else?”

Pramal fidgeted in his chair. Maisie felt Sandra looking at her, and looked back. She indicated the clock to Maisie—Caldwell would ring the bell soon. The moment might be lost.

“Mr. Pramal. What else might Usha have done to earn money?”

He shook his head. “I can't imagine that she would have, but—”

The bell above the door sounded. Sandra pushed back her chair.

“Let him wait, Sandra.” Maisie held up a finger. The bell rang again. “Mr. Pramal?”

Pramal took a deep breath. “She touched people.”

“She touched people? I know you said she was the sort of person who might set her hand upon the arm of another when speaking with them—but you don't mean that, do you?”

“It was not something she ever would have done outside our family, and never with men—never, ever, would she have touched a man. But if one of the women was in pain, if she had an ache—in the feet or the shoulder, anywhere—my sister would gently rest her hand on the place, and the pain would be soothed. She could leach away pain and suffering.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, I see,” said Maisie.

The bell rang once more. Sandra stood up. “Miss?”

Pramal spoke. “Do the police know about my sister's savings?”

“No, I have not told them.”

“They were incompetent in their investigation. Please do not give them that piece of information.”

Maisie looked at Pramal and nodded, then glanced at the clock. “I shouldn't let him wait on the doorstep any longer—it might be difficult for you if he's built up a bit of a temper.”

“Then my temper will be a match for his, Miss Dobbs. I have nothing to fear from Detective Inspector Caldwell of your esteemed Scotland Yard.”

M
aisie had no questions for Pramal throughout the interview, and Caldwell's inquiries were predictable, asking if Pramal knew Maya Patel, where he was at the estimated time of her death—which had been established as early the previous evening—and if he knew of a friendship between his sister and Maya Patel. Caldwell asked Pramal if Usha had ever mentioned the other young woman in letters. There appeared no doubt that Pramal had never met Maya Patel, and had no knowledge of her until Maisie informed him of her death. But like so many others, Maya Patel had been touched by Usha Pramal, and had died for it.

Chapter Seven

A
ddington Square was bathed in sunlight when Maisie arrived at the Paige residence that afternoon. She'd taken the opportunity to walk around the area first. There was common ground behind Goodyear Place, a somewhat less salubrious street adjacent to Addington Square, where children played with a large retriever dog, running to and fro, catching a ball, then throwing it to each other as the dog gamboled between them, as if hoping to snag the prize. Providing an additional distraction for the youngsters, the canal was also close by. As a working waterway, it wasn't a comforting place to meander, though Maisie could see how young boys might be drawn to the path, perhaps to call to the men on the timber barges, or to skim stones across the dark water.

Mr. Paige answered the door when Maisie called, and was soon joined by his wife in the parlor, which seemed to lose none of its dour character on a bright day. Maisie thought Paige rather matched the sense of emptiness in the room, with his drawn pallor and hollowed cheeks suggesting a sour nature rather than physical deprivation.

“Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Paige,” said Maisie. “I am sure you have had a lot to deal with, given that the police will have already been here to talk to you.”

“There was a constable on the street, in front of the house, until an hour ago, but mainly they came and went this morning. It's all very distressing, I must say.” Paige looked at his wife, who was sitting on a straight-back chair next to his.

Mrs. Paige sniffed into her handkerchief. “They were both good girls, Miss Pramal and Miss Patel. They did their work without complaint, they studied the Bible, and they never gave a moment's trouble.”

Maisie nodded. “Are there other women here at the moment?”

“There were three more in residence—we've room for more, but as I said, numbers have dropped off. The police thought they would be better off at another house—a safer place, they said. Apparently they've found them lodgings somewhere across the water, not far from a police station, but I don't know which one. I dread to think what the neighbors might say—and all we ever wanted to do was some good for those less fortunate. There might have been a bit of gossip about what we did here, but once people knew our ladies were courteous and kept themselves tidy, there wasn't much talk at all.”

Maisie suspected that Mrs. Paige might be the daughter of a vicar, or at least brought up in a home with parents who observed the tenets of the church with an intensity that bordered on the oppressive; she had a sense that the woman's religious belief was something deeply ingrained. As she spoke, she clutched the plain silver cross worn around her neck, and her diction revealed a person not originally from southeast London. Her husband, though, seemed as if he were from a family of tradespeople, perhaps having chosen missionary work following a reigniting of faith. If she allowed her mind to create a story for him, she would say he had been affected by a charismatic man of the cloth who had visited the area when he was at an impressionable age, possibly in his early twenties, perhaps at a time when he was enduring a period of self-doubt. While he spoke well, there was the occasional pronunciation that suggested a childhood spent in the local borough. The couple had likely met later than one might expect of a youthful romance, and then forged a bond based upon wishing to do the work of the God they worshipped, with the ayah's hostel being the culmination of that work.

Mr. Paige was a lean man, with clothes that made him seem taller and thinner than he was. Gray trousers were topped with a gray shirt, navy blue tie, and maroon sleeveless knitted pullover; errors in the cable suggested a homemade garment, and that Mrs. Paige was an easily distracted knitter. Paige's hair was cut very short at the back and sides, as if he were newly conscripted into the army, though the weathering at the nape of his neck indicated a man who was used to being in his garden.

“Had anyone ever shown a grudge towards the women?” asked Maisie. “I know the police will have asked that question, but I must press it upon you again.”

Husband and wife shook their heads at the same time. Paige answered. “We do good work here, Miss Dobbs, and our women don't have much time to go out meeting people, though they are over the age of consent, so they can go for a walk or to the library if they want, when their work is done. You see we have rules—about lights out and being here for Bible study—so they don't have too much in the way of loose time on their hands. And in general they don't have a lot of spending money. Our intention is to get them back to India when their savings allow it—and of course, we want them to go back with something, so that they're not destitute when they disembark from the ship.”

“I understand that you thought Miss Pramal often had more funds than her allowance might suggest, Mr. Paige. Can you account for that?”

Paige shrugged. “She seemed to have more money at times, but when I asked her about it, she just said she'd always been like a mouse with crumbs, saving them up in her hole.”

Mrs. Paige interjected. “Miss Pramal sometimes had a bit of lip on her. She could say something without being obviously cheeky, but when you thought about it, you knew she meant it. As if we only gave them the crumbs off the table, and that she slept in a hole. She could be like that, though most of the time she kept herself to herself. Went to the library a lot. And she and Miss Patel would go out together, on a nice evening, just for a walk. Miss Pramal liked to walk. She liked to wander along busy streets, especially on a hot day when most of us would want to be inside in the cool—she said it reminded her of home.”

Maisie nodded. She knew that feeling. She remembered during the war, in France, there were days, in spring especially, when she'd wake up and believe she was at home in Kent. There was perhaps a scent on the air, the sound of birds calling—a song short-lived before the cannonade began again. And she would be reminded of walks alongside the streams that ran through the Chelstone Manor estate, when the pungent smell of wild garlic would waft up with every swish of her skirts. And then she would remember, again, that she was not home at all, and the ache of longing would rise within her.

She pressed on with her next question. “When I came before, I think you told me, Mrs. Paige, that you were the first recipients of the women's earnings, and you gave an allowance—pocket money for essentials—each week. Would you explain that to me again? You said that Mr. Paige was in charge of those accounts.”

Paige cleared his throat. “We're not wealthy people, Miss Dobbs. Our house was left to my wife by a distant relative, which was indeed a blessing from the Lord at a time when we were newly arrived in Britain following two years of missionary work in Abyssinia. I also received a small bequest when my father's business was sold—he had several hardware shops; the largest was on Rye Lane. Neither my brother nor I wanted to take it on—we weren't the best of friends—so it was sold. It allowed my brother to purchase a smallholding in Kent, and I was able to continue with our work here. As well as offering a home for these poor women abandoned by their wealthy employers, we do God's work by taking food down to the docks, where men stand looking for a job.”

“That is kindness indeed, to share your good fortune with others. But what about the ayah's savings?” asked Maisie.

“We obviously took money to reimburse us for offering lodgings—these women would not have found landlords willing to rent to them—and for their general keep. And they tithed to help with our work. Each woman's wages was divided in three—one third for the lodging, one third tithing, and one third for them—out of which they would be given ninepence each per week.”

“It would have taken many, many years to save for passage home to India.”

“And in the meantime, they have a roof over their heads, food on the table, and sustenance from the Holy Spirit.”

Maisie nodded. “I'd like to return to the fact that Miss Pramal gave you the impression that she had more funds than she might, considering the allowance she was given from her wages. If she was earning money elsewhere, what do you think she might have done to accumulate the funds?”

Mrs. Paige sat up taller in her chair, her hands in her lap. Paige folded his arms. He shook his head. “I really don't know, Miss Dobbs. She helped with Sunday school at church—she was good with children, as you might imagine—though there was no financial recompense for that, obviously. And our Reverend Griffith thought very highly of her. Always spoke well of her work.”

“Did she go to church every Sunday?”

They both nodded. “All the women do,” said Mrs. Paige.

“You've not asked us much about Miss Maya Patel, Miss Dobbs,” said Paige.

“Not at the moment, no. I believe that her life was taken because she knew something about Miss Pramal that someone else did not want her to know. Or it could be even simpler.”

“What do you mean?” asked Paige.

“It could be as obvious as the color of her skin.”

M
aisie asked to see the room allocated to Maya Patel and was taken upstairs by Mrs. Paige. Maya had made fresh curtains from sari silk lined with plain cotton muslin. The medley of bright colors brought a freshness to the room, which was otherwise plain. There was a wardrobe in the corner, a washstand alongside one wall, and a small chest of drawers next to the bed. The bed itself was narrow, and as Maisie pressed down upon it, she could feel that it was old and poorly upholstered, and definitely not conducive to a good night's sleep.

Mrs. Paige lingered by the door as Maisie walked around the room. There was a sadness within the four walls, and she thought the room might have been both a cell and a retreat. It was a place Maya could come to that she had done her best to make her own, yet at the same time, an incarceration of sorts in a country that had, in truth, abandoned her. The Paiges had clearly helped the women, who might otherwise have had nowhere to go at all, and Maisie conceded that there were a lot of folk who would love to have a room in a house in Addington Square—but still she felt the discomfort, not least because there was a dark side to the Paiges' generosity: in control of money, and what grown women were allowed and not allowed to do. Was such a regulated life to the benefit of women alone in a country so different from their own? Perhaps. She could not argue with the fact that the vulnerable were always easy prey, whether women, children, or, indeed, men. But how long would it have taken to afford a passage back to the land of their birth? At the rate of recompense allowed by the Paiges, it would take a very long time.

“Thank you, Mrs. Paige.” Maisie turned away from the room and smiled at the woman, who she thought was nervous. She allowed for the fact that the woman had suffered a difficult day—a second one of her charges found murdered, the invasion of her house by police, and now additional questioning.

“Did the police take much from the room?”

The woman shook her head. “I don't know that they took anything. She didn't have much, poor girl.”

“Letters?”

Again, a shaking of the head from Mrs. Paige. “I don't remember her getting any, even after all these years. I think that's why she depended upon Miss Pramal so much—Miss Pramal was like family to her. I think she looked up to her, to tell you the truth, and I heard Miss Pramal saying that when she went back, well, she'd take Miss Patel with her.”

“Is that so? Do you think she would have?”

“Oh yes. She wasn't one who struck you as the sort to make promises she had no intention of keeping, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie nodded. It seemed there was little more to be revealed by a couple who were reaching the end of their tether.

“I'd better be going now,” said Maisie.

The Paiges stood at the threshold to see Maisie on her way. She thanked them for their time and for accommodating her questions, especially when there was so much to trouble them. As she put on her gloves, she asked a final question.

“I'd like to speak to the Reverend Griffith. Where might I find him?”

Paige pointed across the square. “If you go across there onto the next street, then a couple of houses on the right, you'll see a blue door with his name on a brass plaque on the wall alongside; that's where he lives. He might be at the church, or even out visiting parishioners.”

“I'll take my chances, then.”

“He'll speak very highly of Miss Pramal, you know,” said Mrs. Paige.

“Did she do a lot for your church, beyond teaching Sunday school?”

“He sometimes asked for her to go with him when he went to see a woman patient who was poorly. He said she brightened up a room, what with her silk saris. He said it made people feel better.”

“And there was no discrimination?” asked Maisie. “After all, you said that people sometimes talked about your offering a place of refuge for the women here.”