Leaving Everything Most Loved (14 page)

“Enough to see a boy of fourteen leave home and not know where he is?” asked Maisie.

“I'd been out at work for two years by the time I was fourteen,” said Billy.

“Me too,” added Sandra. “And my father certainly didn't expect to see me but once a year.”

And then the moment Maisie now regretted. “Billy, if he thinks a man could do a better job, which is why he came to a woman, why, we'll give him a man—and one who knows boys better than Sandra and me put together.”

She had thought he would be pleased, and he seemed genuinely so at first. It was later that his fear of failure had been so devastatingly played out. But she was now fairly certain that Sandra had made a good point. Perhaps Jesmond Martin had not wanted his son found, or at least, not for a while. Not only did she wonder why, but she found that she was not as surprised as she might have been to find that Usha Pramal was, for a short time, part of the Martin household.

U
sha Pramal was still on her mind as she cut into a clutch of herbs, then crushed seeds and measured spices according to the recipe given to her by Mrs. Singh. She felt at once as if a spark had lit the kindling under her senses. Her skin tingled when she leaned over the bowl and breathed in the fragrance. The different aromas seemed like ribbons twisted and tied together; though each hue was distinct, a brash new color had been created. It felt alive, this color, as if it were a person.

In two separate pans she fried onions and the whole spices, adding a ginger and garlic paste to the mix, along with crushed almonds. Juggling the pans as best she could—she wondered just how many frying pans an Indian cook might need—she set aside the cooked ingredients and turned her attention to the meat. She boned a fresh chicken, putting the carcass in a saucepan with water to draw the stock, perhaps to make a soup for another day. Having cut the flesh into smaller pieces, she began to place them in a large cast-iron frying pan into which she had poured an oil called ghee, also purchased from the Singhs' shop. When the chicken was golden brown—and the smell of cooking had well and truly penetrated her flat—she began to blend the ingredients together, turning down the gas burner to a mere simmer.

“There,” said Maisie. “That should do it.” And she smiled, pleased with her efforts thus far.

Concentration on the task at hand had once again transported her to thoughts of leaving England. She would not be gone for long, perhaps a few months—six, at the outside. Or perhaps a year. That was a nice, rounded length of time; time enough to truly be a traveler and not a tourist. Some specific plans for that part of her journey were emerging; there was something she wanted to accomplish. And then Canada, perhaps. Certainly, when James described the broad, unforgiving landscapes, she was intrigued—but would that interest sustain her? As she stirred the simmering chicken, she realized, again, that it was James' love for her and hers for him that he imagined would sustain them both—but would it? She reached for a small pot of cream—she could not find the yoghurt specified in the recipe but thought this would do—and used a penny to twist off the lid and poured in half, sweeping it into the deep yellow mixture and enjoying the change in color and texture as it merged until there was a lighter golden hue, like morning sunshine bringing everything alive.

That's what they would be together.
Blended
. Not two, separate; but two, becoming more united with the years. And there was a comfort in the thought. Perhaps, like a complex dish, they could retain their separateness—leaning over the pan, she could still distinguish turmeric and cardamom—but be part of something else, something stronger together. Priscilla was probably right—she simply had to let go. She would not fall; she would not be left alone, grieving. She would not fail to be able to provide for herself—she was well provided for anyway. And she would not lose herself, because in truth, James loved who she was and he would not want to see her become less than the Maisie Dobbs to whom he had given his heart. But still, there was that niggle holding her back, the sense that this was a promise that would change everything.

“I could always be Mrs. Dobbs-Compton,” said Maisie aloud. And she began to laugh. Never had anything sounded so preposterous.

“Hello! Anyone home?” James called out, having let himself into the flat—he had held a key since the early days of their courtship.

“Just a minute, I'm in the kitchen.” Maisie turned the gas dial down a notch, took off her apron, and went to greet James.

“What on earth are you cooking? Your flat smells like a Delhi dining room.”

“Good, that means I'm not doing too badly.”

James enfolded her in his arms. “Even your hair smells of curry. What's for supper—as if I didn't know! I brought a bottle of wine, but now I think I might have been better bringing ale—doesn't curry taste better with beer?”

“I don't think it's too strong—I've tasted it, and Mrs. Singh, who owns the shop where I bought the seeds and spices, promised that it's a dish fit for a king—well, if you're a Mughal ruler.”

“What's it called?”

Maisie shook her head. “Mughlai something-or-other. She gave me the basic recipe and most of the ingredients, though I had to make do with a substitute here and there.”

“Well, it's certainly teasing my taste buds.”

James poured wine for them both and lingered by the kitchen door while Maisie served the cooked chicken over a bed of saffron rice. “You're supposed to sort of mix it all together and use a different rice, but I liked the look of saffron, and I thought I'd just do it differently.”

“Always your own way, Maisie.” James raised an eyebrow, adding, “So, is this practice for going to the far-flung reaches of Kashmir, or something of that order?”

“Kashmir? Now, I hadn't thought of that—isn't that where they have lovely houses on the water? Houseboats, aren't they?”

“And problems with the locals, and spitting cobras, no clean water, and—”

“Have you been there, James?”

He shrugged. “No, but I would quite like to go.”

She lifted the serving plate and nodded towards the door. “Supper is served, and if the maharajah doesn't want it dropped on the floor, he'd better move out of the way quickly, and sit down.”

“Mmmm, this is very good, Maisie,” said James, tucking into a mouthful. “I wonder if we can get the cook at Ebury Place to adopt this sort of recipe.”

“I think that would be pushing it a bit. Think how much she had to stick her neck out to do that Pavlova—mind you, that was her idea, but I think it taxed her a bit.”

James set down his fork, picked up his glass and raised it to Maisie. “This is lovely, Maisie. My favorite supper—anything you choose to put in front of me in this flat, just the two of us.” He took her hand.

“Yes, it is lovely, isn't it?”

A silence descended upon them, and Maisie thought they were both probably thinking the same thing—would it be such a leap to marriage? Although it was more likely that James was probably wondering why she couldn't yet accept his proposal. And at that moment, she was wondering the same of herself.

“Will you stay here at the flat tomorrow evening, while I'm at the Otterburn party?”

“Yes, I believe I might. I've been thinking of asking Sandra if she would care to join me for supper. We may work in the same office, but we don't have time to talk about, well, how she's doing in that shared flat with the other girls, or her courses.”

“Or if she's seeing anyone,” added James.

Maisie sighed. “She's still in black, James.”

“Yes, I know. But she will find someone, in time.”

“I don't know. She might have an admirer or two.”

“Good, she shouldn't wear those widow's weeds forever.”

“Yes. That's right.”

“I think I'll probably be seated next to the Otterburns' daughter, Elaine, tomorrow evening. Apparently, she and her fiancé ended their courtship a few months ago—John said that, thankfully, he hadn't spent much on the wedding, because Lorraine was in the early throes of going mad arranging everything. Now I think they believe I have the names of other eligible London bachelors in my address book, and can initiate introductions to Elaine—who, I might add, is probably quite a handful for whoever takes her on.”

“Is she?”

“Well, independent, certainly—and such a good aviator, very much her father's daughter. But on the other hand, she's easygoing, likes to laugh and have fun. She lights up the room that one, but of course, she's twenty-one, perhaps twenty-two now, as far as I know, so her mother thinks she's on the shelf.”

“Heavens, what does that make me?”

James laughed, then continued to talk about John Otterburn. It was when he spoke of Otterburn's friend Winston Churchill—the man whose beliefs and plans Otterburn was secretly supporting, by putting money into the design and testing of agile aircraft suited to combat in the air, rather than in the destruction of what lay below—that Maisie saw a deep respect and regard in his eyes, a loyalty and commitment that would take him across an ocean to be of service.

“Since Churchill's speech in August, about Germany's rearmament, John has been like a man possessed,” said James. “Elaine and Johnny—his son—will also be flying in Canada, so heaven knows when he thinks he will be able to find a suitor for his daughter. But that's by the by. In the meantime, I think no one could be blamed for being worried about Germany.”

“I know. I've seen things in the papers I never imagined I might see. So I know why you have to go—you don't have to persuade me, James. I do understand. What was it Churchill said? That there was grave reason to believe Germany was seeking to arm herself, despite the treaties signed in Paris.”

“Oh, he's got Ramsay MacDonald's number. This government has put forward ideas about allowing Germany to be on a par with France, in terms of armament—and they've been encouraged by our friends across the Atlantic, too. But Britain has to be as strong as possible—as he said, and I swear, I believe this will go down in history, ‘Britain's hour of weakness is Europe's hour of danger.' ”

Maisie reached for James' hand. “That's why I understand why you have to go to Canada, James. Truly I do.”

James nodded. “Yes, I know.” He paused. “But you do know, India's not looking much like a picnic at the moment.”

“I may not go to India. Who knows, we may be trying Polynesian dishes next.”

“Give me a chance to digest this one, eh?”

Later, with James sleeping soundly beside, her, Maisie looked out at the night, though no stars could be seen through a thick blanket of low cloud. Foghorns blasted along the river, starting loud, then echoing into the distance.
Where will I be by Christmas?
And the fact that she could not answer both thrilled and scared her at the same time. She would be leaving not a place that she disliked or people she could stand no longer, but instead she would be—perhaps for a short sojourn, perhaps for longer—leaving everything she loved most. She thought of all those in the world who were moving beyond the boundaries of their everyday lives, and upon whom the stars stood sentinel each night. There were the many Jews leaving Germany, bound for a new life in Palestine—some sixty thousand over the next six years, according to newspaper reports of the recent Haavara Agreement. A world away from the streets of Munich or Hamburg or Berlin; families were trying to find a place for themselves in a barren desert. And look at the people who had teemed into her own country. Gypsies from Bohemia, who had brought color with their flouncing skirts and stuttering language. Maltese grocers and purveyors of Italian coffee. There had been Indian sailors—lascars—who had remained in Britain when their ships docked, many to marry Englishwomen and merge into life on the streets of London. And there was Usha Pramal and Maya Patel, women who had come to another land with trusted employers, only to find themselves cast out. People leaving home with hope in their hearts. That's what she clutched, a hope in her heart that “abroad”—a place in itself—might be the final step in bringing her home to herself. It was only then, she knew, that she could stand alongside another, could perhaps consider and accept James' proposal and be his helpmeet, wife, and lover, for life.

She remained awake for some time, consideration of the case in hand merging with thoughts about what life might hold. She could almost hear Priscilla offering advice. “You know, the trouble with you, Maisie, is that you think too much.” But there was one element in all this that Maisie knew Priscilla would light upon and chew over, and that was the small, almost inconsequential mention of a certain Elaine Otterburn, who would be seated next to James the following evening, at a supper given by her parents. Yes, Priscilla would not like that at all, and Maisie could almost hear her saying, “Never mind convention—you tell James immediately that you've decided you'd love to come to supper, and perhaps Mrs. Otterburn could make a last-minute seating arrangement. I'd keep Miss Elaine Otterburn well away from James, Maisie.” And on this occasion, as if Priscilla had actually been in the room admonishing her, Maisie thought her friend could be right.

Chapter Twelve

I
t was at breakfast that Maisie asked James if it wouldn't be too much trouble for her to come along to supper at the Otterburns' that evening after all.

“Oh, that's wonderful, darling—thank you for changing your mind. I'll have my secretary call the Otterburns; I am sure they will be thrilled you're able to come.” James leaned forward and kissed Maisie on the cheek. He sat back. “But how are you feeling about John Otterburn?”

“The same, James, but I also appreciate that he is part of your plans for the future—in fact, that he is directing your plans for the future, so I should perhaps not be so, well, dismissive of his importance in your life. I can't bring myself to hold him in any regard, though.”

“Fair enough, Maisie. But there are many men—and women—who do things in a time of war that they wouldn't dream of doing in peacetime, and all for the common good.”

Maisie looked at James, and for a second she knew she would remember his words forever, along with her reply.

“But, James, we're not at war, and this is supposed to be a time of peace.”

And with that, she wondered how she would ever get through the evening, and was already half-regretting her decision.

O
nce again Maisie drove in the direction of Camberwell, in good time to be at the School of Arts and Crafts to see Harry Ashley during his tutorial hours—she hoped he would be in his office, and with some luck there would be only a short queue of students waiting to see him, paint-splashed or with dried clay under their fingernails.

The morning was fine, with sunshine pressing through a dense morning mist, and just a nip in the air to remind London that winter would draw in on that mistress of disguise, the Indian summer, soon enough. She parked the MG close to the college and neighboring gallery, its design typical of so many public buildings constructed during the reign of Queen Victoria, when a certain bold grandeur proclaimed the wealth of Britain at the center of a burgeoning Empire. Above the ground streets had been torn up to provide an architectural legacy intended to stand for hundreds of years, testament to a golden age, while in the subterranean depths of London, fetid rivers had been pushed underground and now formed part of a labyrinthine sewer system designed by a civil engineer, Joseph Bazalgette, to last several lifetimes.

Maisie made her inquiry at the main porters' desk, and was directed to a corridor of rooms on an upper floor. Stepping along the hallways and up the stairs brought back memories of a past case in which she took on the guise of a college lecturer. Being deprived of the schooling she so loved at twelve—and all of her classmates then had left the dour black school buildings at the age of twelve—had doubled her hunger for learning. Now she'd had that education, and had even taught in a college—but she always felt something of an excitement to be among students.

The door was slightly ajar as she approached, so she could already see Harry Ashley. He was a man in his early forties, wearing dark gray corduroy trousers, a gray shirt, and a sleeveless woolen pullover in a Fair Isle pattern. He wore scuffed leather brogues, and on his desk, Maisie could see a pile of fabrics, some pieces of pottery, and a collection of books and papers. He was poring over a handwritten note.

“Mr. Ashley?”

As he turned, Maisie saw the livid scar along his jawline, a line following bone that had, at one point, been reconstructed.

“Yes?”

Maisie smiled. “May I speak to you for a few minutes? My name is Maisie Dobbs.” She extended her hand, and it seemed that he looked at it for a second before reaching forward with his own. “I am working on behalf of Mr. Pramal, the brother of Miss Usha Pramal.”

“Miss Pramal? Usha? Is she all right?”

Maisie looked at the man, at his eyes, in particular. Was he genuinely inquiring about Usha Pramal? Or was it a feigned surprise, meant to deflect her inquiry?

“May I sit down?” asked Maisie.

“Oh, yes—yes, of course. I'm so sorry, forgetting my manners.” He pulled a pile of papers from a chair and brushed across the seat with his left hand—which Maisie noticed was claw-like, though he could, she noticed, wield a pencil with some dexterity.

“So, is Usha all right? I haven't seen her in a long time.”

“Mr. Ashley, I am afraid I must inform you that Miss Pramal is dead. In fact, she was murdered.”

Ashley looked at her without speaking, as if he had watched every word form in letters and leave her mouth. Maisie could see that for the teacher, time had been suspended, and her words seemed to linger in the air above them.
Miss Pramal is dead. In fact, she was murdered.

“Mr. Ashley?”

Ashley started, jolting himself into the present. “I'm so sorry, Miss . . . Miss . . .”

“Dobbs. Maisie Dobbs. And it is I who must apologize—I thought you would have known.”

He scraped back the chair and walked the three steps his small cluttered room allowed, and then back again. Maisie noticed he walked with a slight limp. He ran his fingers—his good fingers, from his right hand—through his hair, and then sat down again.

“I . . . I am shocked. I had no idea.” He rubbed his chin, his thumb worrying the scar back and forth. “Mind you, there's no reason why I would know. I haven't seen anyone who knows Usha for ages, so why would I be told? Was it in the newspapers?”

“Yes, but not in such a way as to catch the eye readily.”

He shook his head again. “Don't read them anyway, if I can help it. And I'm in my studio much of the time, or at home—I'm in digs near Russell Square.”

Maisie nodded. “So you come out by bus every day?”

He shook his head. “Not every day. I only lecture a couple of days a week here, and I also teach privately—mainly using oils. Here I teach a course that's sort of a mix of anthropology and art, so we do a lot with textiles, and with pottery, looking at rock art, that sort of thing. There is an emphasis on craft here and Usha assisted me with a couple of lectures for the embroiderers, though other arts students came along, because it was all about color and how they could be blended, what they mean in different cultures, that sort of thing.” Ashley had been folding and unfolding a piece of paper as he spoke. Now he paused, crumpled the paper, and looked at Maisie. “How did it happen? Who killed her and how did it happen?”

“It was very quick, I would imagine, Mr. Ashley. She was shot.” Maisie touched the place in the middle of her forehead where, if she had been an Indian woman, a bindi would have been smudged in red.

“Oh, God, what— I mean . . . who would have done that to such a sweet girl?”

“That's what I am trying to find out. I thought you might be able to help me.”

“Me? I hardly knew her, Miss Dobbs.”

“But she helped you here.”

He nodded. “Yes. She brought along some lovely examples of the sari—her Indian friends helped and gave her some to help illustrate my lecture.”

“But how did you know her, Mr. Ashley?”

“I was introduced by a friend—well, I say ‘friend,' but more of an acquaintance, really—who said she would be a good person to talk to about the sari.”

“I see—who was your friend?”

“Oh, he lives not that far from here, near Addington Square. Colin Griffith—or I should say, Reverend Griffith.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Have you met him?”

“I have, indeed,” said Maisie. “He was introduced to me by Mr. and Mrs. Paige—not in person, but they owned the house where Miss Pramal lodged, on Addington Square.”

“Very good chap, and thought highly of Usha, I must say.”

Maisie allowed a silence to linger for just a second more than was necessary, and watched as Ashley fidgeted, then scratched the back of his wounded hand with the fingers of the other. As he did so, Maisie noticed a bracelet formed of some sort of cord had slipped forward on his wrist.

“That's an unusual bracelet—forgive me for mentioning it, but I have never seen anything like it before.” Maisie leaned forward.

“Oh this?” said Ashley. “Yes, I suppose it is unusual.” He extended his wrist towards Maisie, so she could better see the knots on either side, and how the bracelet could be adjusted to a smaller or larger size. “It's made of elephant hair. Apparently, they were originally made in Africa, but this one came from India.”

“Well, I never,” said Maisie with a feigned enthusiasm, though she was not really taken with the piece. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, this came from Griffith. He was in Africa—just after the war, I think—then went to India. He knew how to construct these things, and with the right hair, he made a few of them himself, and gave me one because I'd helped him out, running an art class for his Sunday school children. I rather liked it—never been anywhere that exotic myself—” He blushed. “Unless of course you count the Dardanelles. So it seemed rather fascinating to me.”

“That is interesting. Perhaps that's why Reverend Griffith liked Miss Pramal's company—she helped with Sunday school, too, I believe—it probably reminded him of India.” Maisie smiled. “I wonder when he was there—do you know?”

Ashley shrugged. “Gosh, from what he's told me, I would say about eleven or twelve years ago. He was only in Africa for a year, as far as I know, then had a couple of years back here in England before trundling off to India. I don't think he was doing missionary work there, though. No, I think he was a civil servant or something like that—he's talked about the work being really tedious, and how much he hated the humidity, and that he would rather have remained in East Africa. I think that's why he left, actually.”

“And how did you meet him, if I may ask?”

Ashley sighed. “I was . . . I was still in hospital for a few years after the war. Nothing seemed to work. My leg was gammy, my hand was gammy, and my mind wasn't up to snuff, all that sort of thing. He'd just returned from Africa and was a volunteer visitor to the hospital—in Richmond, on the hill there, above the river.”

Maisie felt a shiver, felt the room move slightly out of kilter. Was it just for a mere feather's weight of time, or did Ashley notice?

“Do you know where I mean, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie smiled; it was a quick smile, a smile of acknowledgment. Ashley nodded, as if understanding.

“You know it. I can see that.”

“Yes, I do. I've been there, as a visitor,” said Maisie.

“I thought you had, the way you looked when I mentioned it.” He paused. “I'm so sorry.”

“Yes. Thank you. And so am I. For you. That you were there.”

“That we were all there, Miss Dobbs. I'm sorry that we were all there.”

“Did you know a man named—?”

Ashley stopped her. “Don't ask. It's gone. Past. Please don't ask, because I don't want to remember.”

“Yes, of course. It's best, isn't it? We struggle to get so far along the path, don't we?”

He nodded and smiled. “And we're so easily dragged back again. Anyway, I first met Colin Griffith there, where he was working as an orderly—I believe he had been a conscientious objector in the war, not that I have any issue with that. I think by the time the fighting was over, a fair number of people had a lot more time for those who'd put their foot down about the war. Anyway, I think Griffith must have gone to Africa not long after the Armistice. I didn't meet him again until this past year, and I don't know him that well, as I said.”

Maisie asked a few more questions, and learned that, following the introduction by Griffith, Usha Pramal had met with Ashley just once before the two lectures, and never saw her again afterwards. It was as Maisie was leaving that Ashley added a personal reflection.

“She had an aura about her, Miss Pramal. It was as if . . . as if she was powerful and strong, and she knew it. But not in an overtly pushy way. She just knew she had something that others didn't—a sort of self-possession.” He paused, sighing, then went on. “I don't know how you do your job, or what knowledge makes a difference, but there are people who don't like that presence, especially in a woman.”

Maisie waited, for she felt he had more to say.

“I know this sounds as if I'm a cranky art teacher—and you know, perhaps I am. Perhaps that's why I came back to art, after the war—it's a license to be a bit strange, after all; I sometimes think people expect it, so the fact that I am different doesn't matter. And I've felt different, ever since the war.” He rubbed his damaged hand. “But the thing is, in all my experience as an artist, I have found that there are people who want to destroy beauty. Is that because it's beyond them? Is it because beauty represents something they cannot have, or is not inside them? I have seen children destroy flowers growing alongside the canal. Of course, you can say, ‘That's just children for you.' But I don't believe it at all—I believe there is some pain, something untoward in certain people—certain communities, even—perhaps it's anger, a sense of dispossession or disenfranchisement, and they have to destroy that which brings joy, and love.”