Leaving Everything Most Loved (8 page)

“Well, when she was with the vicar it was different. No one would have said anything to him. He had a regard for her, you see.”

Maisie nodded. “Thank you. You've been most kind.” She turned to leave, but as the Paiges were about to step into the house, she looked back as if forgetting something. “Oh, one last thing, Mr. Paige. Could you tell me how much longer Miss Pramal would have had to wait until she had enough saved for her passage to Bombay?”

Paige looked at Maisie for more than a few seconds before answering. “She could have sailed three months before she died, Miss Dobbs, but I think she wanted to wait for Miss Patel. She didn't seem in a hurry to leave, even if she did feel like a mouse with a few crumbs.”

Maisie left Addington Square and walked in the direction of the canal. Though it was far from being the loveliest walk in London, she could imagine Usha Pramal and her friend Maya Patel meandering close to the waterway, and then on the streets in the neighborhood where they lived. Had Usha ventured farther afield, to the bustling markets and shopping streets on this side of the river? Was it a certain wanderlust—a desire to be in places where people swarmed, where the teeming activity reminded her of home—that had taken her into a thoroughfare where she might not have been welcome? More to the point, what did Maya Patel want to tell Maisie? She had jumped at the chance of a meeting across the water—in a busy station, among strangers, many from overseas, and among whom she might not be recognized—but she had been silenced before her secrets could be shared.
This time yesterday, she was alive
, thought Maisie. She imagined her smiling, walking along, her silken sari flapping in the breeze on the warm September day, not knowing the very fragility of her future. But someone was watching her. Someone with a gun in his hand.
His
hand? Yes, it would have to have been a man, wouldn't it? After all there was that kickback, wasn't there? A man had the strength to handle a gun like that, especially if he'd learned to use it during the war. Maisie walked back towards the square. She felt as if she were looking at Usha Pramal through a kaleidoscope. Whenever she thought of her, a myriad of colors seemed to flash into her mind's eye, but they changed with every turn, creating a new and complex pattern. And at the center, she could see the woman's eyes looking back at her, waiting for her to find her way to the truth. Now she must find and talk to the man of the cloth who thought so highly of Usha Pramal.

T
he Reverend Colin Griffith was at home when Maisie arrived at the house. It was not the vicarage—there was a vicarage in Goodyear Place, but it accommodated the Church of England minister. Instead, Griffith lived in another home similar in architectural style to the one owned by the Paiges in Addington Square. And Griffith's church was not the local “C of E,” or the Congregational Emmanuel Church with its tall spire pointing towards heaven; his flock met in a community hall not far from the square. It appeared Griffith may have founded his own church. Maisie wondered how local parishioners—those for whom churchgoing was a regular event—might choose between places of worship, as there were several in the immediate area. Her question was answered when Griffith came to the door. A bright smile, deep blue eyes, and silver-gray hair on a man who seemed only a little older than Maisie combined to render his appearance almost angelic and engaging at the same time. He wore no priestly garments—on this day not even a white clerical collar—and might have been taken for a teacher in a boys' boarding school.

“Yes? How may I help you?” His smile became broader, and Maisie at once revised her opinion of the content of his sermons. In speaking with the Paiges, she had imagined a grim-faced paternal figure, promising all manner of ills if one did not follow scripture to the letter. Griffith appeared friendlier than she had expected, and she suspected that what he had to say to his parishioners might leave them feeling quite uplifted.

“My name is Maisie Dobbs.” She handed him a calling card. “I'd like to speak to you about Miss Usha Pramal and Miss Maya Patel, and other women the Paiges have brought to church.”

Griffith studied the card. Maisie could see his smile lose some of its vitality, like a ripe fruit weakening on the vine.

“The police have already been here, you know.” He placed a hand on the doorjamb, as if to protect his home.

“Yes, Reverend Griffith, I know. I am working alongside Scotland Yard, but also more specifically on behalf of Mr. Pramal, Miss Pramal's brother. He has come a long way and is very anxious to know why his sister might have incurred such hatred that someone would take her life. I thought you might shed more light on her character and on those who knew her.”

He removed his hand. “Yes, of course. Come in, won't you?”

Griffith stood back to allow Maisie to enter. He closed the door and walked past her to lead the way along a passage, then out to a room overlooking a walled garden behind the house. Ivy-clad stonework gave a sense of being held in place. A mature rhododendron had grown to quite a height in one corner, and the garden was a pleasing mix of hardy perennials and other blooms that would have been considered weeds if they were gracing a hedgerow, but which seemed equally at home among the cultivated plants. Griffith held his hand out towards a low slipper chair upholstered in faded purple velvet. He pulled a wheelback chair away from a desk and sat in front of Maisie.

“I only rent one floor—I have this, which is a sort of sitting room cum study, plus my bedroom, and a kitchen. Having the garden flat helps; it gives me an extra room on a fine day.”

Maisie looked around at books piled on the floor, at a black typewriter on the desk, and the half-finished document lodged next to the platen. A wastepaper basket was filled with crumpled sheets of paper.

“Not having much luck with Sunday's sermon, I'm afraid. It usually comes right about half an hour before I'm due to leave for church, otherwise I'm sort of like a mad aviator, flying directly into the sunshine.”

Maisie smiled. “Yes, I can see that. Have you taken to the air, Reverend Griffith?”

He gave a half-laugh. “Well, apart from being three inches from the ground before every service, yes, I have. When I was in Africa I went up in an old boneshaker a few times.”

“Is that where you met Mr. and Mrs. Paige, in Africa?”

“No, but we have mutual friends, others who have been involved in missionary work among the tribal peoples. I was there for a year, and that common experience brought them to my ministry here.”

“So you are used to bringing a Christian faith to those from other parts of the Empire.”

“Just Africa, Miss Dobbs.”

“Tell me what you thought of Miss Pramal.”

Griffith sighed and rubbed his chin. “Miss Pramal was a very vivacious young woman. Always had a greeting for everyone, even if—and I hate to admit this of my parishioners—even if they were not so energetic in their response to her approach.” He paused. “People in London, as you know, are used to seeing faces of another color, of hearing another language spoken, and are tolerant of those differences—to a point, until that other color, creed, or language goes where it hasn't set foot before, and then there's a snigger here, an unkind word, a greeting left hanging in the air without response. For Miss Pramal, such—what could I call it? Such
discrimination
—” He left the word hanging in the air for a second or two, as if it might be superseded by a better word. “Such discrimination,” he went on, “did not affect her at all; it was water off a duck's back. Which is why she was so good with Sunday school—children say all sorts of things that aren't terribly nice, and Miss Pramal would never react, never reprimand. She would simply smile, perhaps make a child laugh, and then she would remind them of scripture, that there is no greater commandment than you should love your neighbor as yourself.”

“Did she give any impression of having friends, associations outside her work and her immediate neighbors in the ayah's hostel?”

He shook his head. “Miss Dobbs, I saw Miss Pramal when she came to church on Sunday morning for the first service of the day, after which she remained so that she could take the children into the back room for Sunday school while their parents were here for the later service. Then she went home. Mr. and Mrs. Paige ensured the women were brought together for prayers in the home, and for Bible study. They were generally present in church for Sunday evensong. I doubt she had the time to do much else in the way of establishing social contacts.”

Maisie nodded and looked out at the garden, which, although it was a fine day, seemed a little soporific, as if it were tired of summer and was ready to slip into an autumnal nap before enduring the frostbitten days of winter.

“Have you any idea why Miss Pramal and Miss Patel were murdered?”

Griffith seemed to flinch at the word.
Murder
was not part of his usual vocabulary. It came to Maisie's lips far too often.

He shrugged and looked down at his hands, which to Maisie appeared almost unnaturally unblemished, as if opening books had been the extent of his life's work.

“I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill another person, Miss Dobbs. I never went to war. I have never lost my temper. I have only love for my fellow man, so I have no other answer for you.” He rubbed his hands together. “But there are people who will trample flowers into the ground, who will beat dogs, and who will exert a terrible cruelty upon children. None of this do I understand, but I know it exists. And in my ministry I do what I can to banish evil from the little world I inhabit here in London, in the hope that the ripples of peace, of the word of the Lord, will gently go out further and further until they reach the far edges of humanity here on earth. No, I cannot imagine how anyone could take the life of a bright shining star such as Usha Pramal.”

Maisie stood up and looked down at the vicar, who came to his feet. He turned away to put the chair back in front of the desk, though not before Maisie was able to see his pained expression.

At the front door, Maisie extended her hand. “Thank you, Reverend Griffith. I am grateful for your time—you were obviously busy with that sermon.”

Griffith's grip was firm when he took her hand. “I think you've given me some food for thought, Miss Dobbs. I think it's time to pull out a sermon about us all sitting at the feet of the Lord, who pays no mind to color, creed, or to youth or age.”

“May I return if I have some more questions?”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

Griffith smiled once more as a beam of sunlight haloed his silver-gray hair.

Maisie waved as she went on her way, and pressed her palms together to re-create the sensation she experienced when she shook the Reverend Griffith's hand. Although it was soft, almost like a woman's, there had been a catch against her hand when they touched. A shaft of rough skin ran along the V formed by the outer edge of his right forefinger and the inner flesh of his thumb. This part of his hand had worked hard—perhaps against a spade in the garden, or a broom in the house. She couldn't imagine that lifting a chalice would cause such a callus. But she wondered whether the repeated handling of a weapon might. It was not an idle thought, but a secondary consideration when she realized that the Reverend Griffith had misled her. He had most certainly been to India—a photograph on the wall above his desk attested to the fact that he had even been transported by an elephant, seated as he was on the giant beast, both he and the mahout with broad smiles for whoever was behind the camera.

Chapter Eight

M
aisie returned to the office to find a message from Sandra in her clear, slanted handwriting. The ink had been pressed dry with blotting paper, and Maisie considered how different the message was from those left by Billy, whose almost childishly formed letters bore splatters of ink unless he wrote with a pencil. His messages, however, always contained details of key importance to the case. Sandra's words were equally informative.

I have addresses for the boys involved in the discovery of Miss Pramal's body and will be at Albany Road school when they come out this afternoon. Two of the boys go to the school, so I will ask one of the younger children to point them out to me, as the infants' classes generally end before the juniors. I've also found out the name of that lecturer who addressed the women's meeting. Her name is Dr. Chaudhary Jones. I've left an index card with her address in south Kensington. She is married to an Englishman, who is also a professor. I've been told he's at the Imperial College of Science and Technology. I remember when she started her speech, she made us all laugh when she said she didn't want to give up her maiden name when she married because with her skin she could never see herself as just Jones. She said that her husband was a wonderful man, who often introduced her as “The Mrs. Quite Lovely Just Jones.” She said she would never have married him unless he'd been that sort of man, and that no woman should ever marry unless they had a husband who would put them on a pedestal.

Lucky
Mrs. Just Jones
, thought Maisie. She sat back in the chair and stared out of the window across the room. She had to admit to herself that James was such a man. Yes, he had wanted her to forgo her work, but not because she earned money or had her own business, but because he feared the outcome of some of her cases, which often took her into dangerous territory. Her own father preferred not to think about it, knowing his headstrong daughter was adamant about keeping her job, even though he hated to consider what might happen if she crossed paths with the wrong person at the wrong time. “We can all do that, Dad,” she'd argued. “We can all cross paths with the wrong person. Wasn't there an old man hit over the head for the tuppence in his pocket, in Tunbridge Wells, of all places? He was walking down the street in the middle of the day, not even at night.” Frankie Dobbs had conceded to her argument and rarely mentioned his worries.

James Compton was a Mr. Jones. James was a dependable man. A man who would put her on a pedestal and call her
Mrs. Quite Lovely Dobbs-Compton
, if that would please her. But she wouldn't be a Mrs., would she? Marriage to James would come with strings attached; strings that tied her to a long history, to a big house, to the kind of people she did not always care for—though his parents were an important and much-valued part of her history, and she had great affection for Lady Rowan in particular. Having the Compton name would tie her to a different kind of life. She sighed. But hadn't that happened already, to some extent? Had not the wealth inherited from Maurice set her apart from others? Or had it simply been a different sort of apart, for hadn't she created a moat around her separateness years ago? In fact, if she was to be honest, being with James had helped soften the edges around the protective circle of her own making. She had found that some of those people she thought too wealthy to be aware of those less fortunate were indeed philanthropic with their time and money—not all, granted, but more than she might have imagined. And there were people she'd been introduced to who had welcomed her into their group, not simply because she was with James, but because they had a generosity of heart and could see the same in her. Did her money make a difference? Yes, she allowed that it obviously made a difference, not least because she knew she would not have had access to such company if she had been simply an educated, very fortunate woman who had been born in Lambeth.

She set down the note, rubbing her eyes. Priscilla had always said that Maisie saw all the gray areas. Now she was seeing even more of those gray areas, along with some stark black and white. Her education and her work with Maurice Blanche had set her at the foot of the mountain. His money—her money now—had allowed her to ascend almost to the summit in terms of her place in society and the company she kept, though she felt as if she wandered back and forth a lot, if only to remember the strength in her roots.

Mrs. Quite Lovely Just Jones.
She wanted to meet this woman, and not just to ask her about her life in London, or about the way she was perceived as a woman whose complexion, whose mode of dress, of speech—or the luster of her hair and the deep red bindi smudged upon her forehead—conspired to set her apart. She wanted to ask for her help in understanding a culture that was as complex as the patterns at the edge of a wedding sari. She wanted to know how this woman could hold on to the Chaudhary in her while embracing the Jones.

Maisie picked up another file left for her by Sandra. Oh dear. She had almost forgotten Billy's case of the missing boy, which she had committed to working on in his absence. She opened the file. And as her eyes took in the pages of notes, she realized the extent of the damage Billy had sustained when attacked and left for dead that spring. Words not formed, unfinished sentences, numbers of houses without full addresses. Hurried scribbles, an ill-executed sketch of the front of a building. A map with no address and nothing pointing to a significant location. But not the usual format of notes, with a date listing an address, a name, a list of questions answered, facts discovered, points to act upon, another clue, another step towards the successful closure of a case, towards an invoice submitted and payment received. There was nothing to continue, nothing to suggest that work of any substance had taken place. She would have to start from scratch.

Maisie leaned forward with her head in her hands. She would have to visit Jesmond Martin again so that she could create a new plan for the inquiry. They had met when he first came to the office to discuss his son, missing some weeks by the time he'd contacted Maisie. Should she invent a story to account for the lack of progress? Or should she simply tell the truth, that during a previous investigation, her assistant had been left for dead by thugs in the pay of a powerful man—and she placed blame for Billy's breakdown firmly at the feet of that particular man. Should she tell him she'd left the case in Billy's hands, trusting—hoping—that he could manage on his own.

“Oh Billy, how I have failed you,” said Maisie aloud.

I
t was on the way home through traffic thick with motor cars, exhaust-belching omnibuses, clattering trams, and high-stepping carthorses that Maisie began to list what she knew about the life and death of Usha Pramal against elements of the case still to be discovered. Yes, she had to interview the friend at whose house Usha's brother had lodged upon his arrival in England. She was eager to discover the name of the young man who had courted Usha in India, in her younger days. Had he returned to England? And had she chosen to work away from home as a governess to avoid contact with a man she might have loved, but who was an unacceptable suitor? From the information Maisie had garnered thus far, Usha was not one to allow family disapproval to stop her doing what she wanted, and imagined her swatting away the warnings of a cluster of interfering aunts as if they were annoying midges flying around her head on a warm summer's eve. But she drew the line at being humiliated by the actions of a young man who did not appreciate the customs of her country or was too impulsive to believe they might apply to him.

“D
o you think your Billy could come to the office to meet Bob Wilmott—he sorts out taking on staff and so on—for an interview next week?”

Maisie was standing by the window, looking out at the carefully tended shrubs, colorful late-blooming roses, and flower beds filled with chrysanthemums, asters, and her favorite daisies. She'd always loved the simple flowers—primroses, bluebells, and daffodils in spring, wild roses in summer, and all manner of daisies in autumn. Her thoughts were on the other side of the river, close to Addington Square; she was thinking about the Reverend Colin Griffith and his unruly yet colorful garden.

“Sorry, James—miles away. What did you say? About Billy?”

James set down his drink, stood up from the armchair, and came over to her. He put his arms around her waist and kissed her on the neck. “I do believe I've been talking to the wall for the last fifteen minutes. I asked about Billy Beale.”

“Au contraire, James—I may have been a bit distracted, but I believe I heard the words ‘Your Billy.' ”

“Figure of speech. Now, what do you think? Could he come in?”

Maisie paused, considering the question. “Here's what I think—this shouldn't come through me. I think it's best if your company's usual protocol were followed.”

“We're always snitching good people from otherwise worthy employers.”

“That's not what I mean, James, and you know it.” She turned to face him, but did not move from his arms. “And I would suggest it's best to wait a little while. Billy's been under the weather. Then it would be a good idea if Bob Wilmott wrote to Billy, or telephoned him at his home, and asked him if he would be interested in coming in to discuss an open position. Billy knows that I've talked to you in the past about a job, so it won't come as much of a surprise, yet, it would be better for his self-respect if he thought the actual landing of a job was up to him.”

“Well, it would be anyway, Maisie. If Bob or anyone else he would be working with didn't think he was up to it, he wouldn't be taken on. All we've done is open up the path to get him to the station—we're not buying the ticket and putting him on the train.”

Maisie nodded. “Bob should be the one to get in touch, not me. I'm more than willing to give a reference—it will be a very good one, and completely honest. I think this would be a fine opportunity for Billy. Heaven knows I will miss him terribly, but I have to think of him first, and what's best for his future and the family.”

“Oh, I think that whether he comes to work for us or someone else, you'll always make sure his future is bright.”

Maisie shook her head. “That's something I have come to learn the hard way, James. You can send out your army to stop an invasion on the horizon, but sometimes it comes from a completely different direction. That's what happened when their little Lizzie died. I tried to help them, tried to keep them from going under, but look what happened—so much befell that family, and most of it came from within: Doreen's illness, for example.” She sighed. “I don't want to meddle. I just want them to be settled and content. Working for me is making Billy far from happy, if I am to admit it. He is a man of dutiful intentions and great loyalty. He will do well at the Compton Corporation, of that I am sure.”

“And if you are sure, then I am sure your reference will take him in the right direction.”

Maisie nodded, allowing James to hold her close.

“Let's make it an early night, shall we? I probably won't be home until late tomorrow—a meeting with your most unfavorite person.”

“Otterburn?”

James stood back as, resting his arm across her shoulder, he led her towards the door. “I know you've told me that the less you know about all this, the better it is all around. But there are some people he wants me to meet in connection with our work in Canada. Scientists. An engineer, a materials man, and a physicist who's apparently top of his tree when it comes to aerodynamics and speed. He's a bit of a boffin. I just nod my head like an intemperate donkey when he chimes in, though he is a very good sort indeed. He tries to make it all seem very easy, as if I were one of his less able students.”

Maisie stopped as they reached the door. “What's his name?”

“Oh, you don't really want to know that—and it's more than my life's worth to say.”

She rolled her eyes, though she felt no sense of humor at his tongue-in-cheek reply. She knew only too well that little stood between Otterburn and the level of security surrounding his interest in the marrying of aviation and defense of the realm.

“I
spoke to a couple of those boys, Miss.” Sandra was waiting for Maisie when she came into the office the following morning.

Maisie removed her hat and took a seat at her desk. “Go on, Sandra, I'm all ears.”

“A right pair of ragamuffins they were, too. Freddie Holmes and Sidney Rattle. Both of them nine years old. Freddie had a right shiner on his left eye as well, as if he'd been in a nasty playground scrap.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

“A couple of penny dippers did the trick. Boys that age have a sweet tooth—they'd probably sell their grandmothers' souls for a bag of toffees. Anyway, there's this little gang of them—and not all the same age; there's a couple of older lads, they're both twelve or so; one of them's got a job at the market, so he gets home early, and the other one has a habit of sciving off school; eventually they all get together when the younger ones come out of school.”