Leaving Everything Most Loved (17 page)

Sandra cleared her throat, as if gathering courage to speak; it was a habit Maisie had noticed and thought might diminish as she gained confidence. She imagined her waiting until the last minute to ask a question following a lecture at college.

“Mrs. Paige, had you noticed any change in the women in the days before Miss Pramal was murdered? Did one or both of them seem more, well, morose? Unhappy? Or even sunnier than usual?”

“I didn't see them as much as you might think, Mrs. Tapley. The women went out in the morning, to work; they came back in the evening or the afternoon—if they were in early, the time was their own. They had jobs around the house here, and at night we had our supper and some Bible study—and I'm a busy woman, I can't go looking at the women, wondering what they're thinking.” She began pleating the fabric of her dress again. “But I remember saying to Mr. Paige—must have been a month before Miss Pramal died—that she didn't seem very happy, and we put it down to one of her jobs. And as for Miss Patel, she hadn't been herself since the murder, which is understandable.”

“Could you tell us about the job that you think caused Miss Pramal's unhappiness?” said Maisie.

“We put an advertisement in the paper every now and again, so we have cleaning and household jobs lined up for the women, and there was an inquiry from a housekeeper over in St. John's Wood, needing a bit of extra help for a short period of time—it was for spring cleaning, not last year, but the year before. Miss Pramal went over there, and I don't think she liked it much. I put it down to the journey, but on the other hand, our women can't expect to get their jobs around the corner. All the same, she stayed on there for a good while—not a regular day every week, but as and when needed. I asked Miss Patel about it, if Miss Pramal was unhappy, and she said it was the sick woman at the house making it awkward. Well, you know how they can be about sickness—very funny, to my mind. No wonder there's all them Indian students at St. Thomas' Hospital, learning to be doctors, I mean, they've got to take proper medical practices back over there, haven't they? What with putting their bodies in the Ganges River to float off to heaven—thank the Lord we were able to bring the Bible to our ladies.”

Maisie glanced at Sandra. Mrs. Paige had been more forthcoming than at any other time.

“Do you have the name of the customer, Mrs. Paige?” asked Maisie.

“I can check in my books.”

“While you're doing that, might we have a quick look in Miss Patel's room again, and Miss Pramal's quarters, too?”

“You might as well—you'll have to take yourself up there, though. I'll have to trust you.”

Maisie and Sandra made their way up the stairs.

“You know who the customer is, don't you, Miss?” said Sandra.

“I'm quite sure I do, because I spoke to the sick woman's nurse. I had to inquire further of Mrs. Paige—it wouldn't seem right if I hadn't asked the question. Here we are, this is Maya Patel's room.”

Maisie opened the door, and for a moment the two women did not move, but stood on the threshold looking in.

“It's as if no one ever lived here,” said Sandra. “I mean, there's things, bits and pieces, but there's no feeling of her, is there?” She stepped into the room, though Maisie did not follow. “A room should tell you something about a person, shouldn't it? I think this room tells me that Maya Patel tried hard to make things comfortable for herself. She wanted things soft—and from what I saw of that woman downstairs, and the way she worked these ayahs, it was far from restful here.”

Maisie could see that there was little more to be gleaned from a search of Maya Patel's room—the Indian woman had taken any confidences shared, any secrets told, and kept them to herself. Now only supposition would draw back the veil on the motive for her murder—unless she found the killer and a confession revealed why her life was taken. Closing the door, Maisie pointed to the staircase, and they made their way up to Usha Pramal's attic room.

Following Maisie into the room, Sandra picked up the small statuette of Ganesh. “For a churchgoing woman, she hadn't left her true beliefs far behind, had she?”

“I think she knew it was important to her employers, to learn the Bible stories, and she was a sharp, intelligent woman, good enough to teach Sunday school. But she was not going to leave her culture far behind.” Maisie looked around the room. “I don't see anything new here. My guess is that both Usha and Maya knew the Paiges would come into their rooms on occasion, so they wouldn't leave anything out that was important. I know Usha concealed things.” She turned to Sandra. “Usha saved a fair amount of money that she hid in this room—I discovered it, almost by accident. I don't know exactly how she earned that money, but I suspect she had a talent—skill, gift, call it what you like—for easing pain, by touch and by blending various herbs and spices. I remember Dr. Elsbeth Masters—you remember her, she was the one who treated Doreen; I worked with her once, years ago—well, she was brought up in Africa, and she once told me that as a child she had seen the local native women use simple herbs picked from among the grasses to cure something as dreadful as cancer. Dr. Masters is a fine physician, but she said she knew that much valuable, timeless knowledge is being lost from so many places around the world where missionaries—and doctors—have settled. I think Usha was probably doing something that came quite naturally to her, but she also had something else, and that was the willingness to touch someone who was sick.” Maisie looked out of the window, partly to prevent Sandra from seeing the tears that had welled up in her eyes. “I remember, when I was a nurse, a man—he had been terribly wounded in the war—saying to me that people don't touch you when you're mutilated, when you're sick, even those who love you most. Perhaps that was Usha's gift, that she had no fear of touching people, no sense of propriety even in her own country. Remember . . .” She turned to Sandra. “Remember her brother saying how much it distressed his family, that she would touch people, would be too forthcoming, simply in greeting.”

Sandra nodded. “What a maze this is, Miss Dobbs. A real web to unravel.”

They both searched Usha Pramal's room, and Maisie ran her hands across the mattress again, just in case. She had a sense that almost all the clues she would find in this case were already in her possession, and alone they might not be enough. But she was about to be given a name, and knew already that it would be Jesmond Martin.

After they had descended the staircase and had been given the slip of paper confirming the name she had known would come up once again, she asked one more question of Mrs. Paige.

“I know that any monies belonging to Miss Pramal will go to her brother, however, you must also have savings put by for Miss Patel, too. What will you do with them, as no next of kin has been identified?”

“We'll give it to the Reverend Griffith, of course. The church always needs money, and those women have much to thank the Lord for, so the money goes to the Lord.”

Maisie nodded. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Paige. Thank you very much.” As she stepped out across the threshold, Maisie turned to Mrs. Paige. “Such a nice afternoon, isn't it? Is Mr. Paige out walking, taking advantage of the weather before it turns?”

“Probably. He said he was going to see Reverend Griffith, but he likes a walk, especially along the canal. He walks there almost every day.”

“I see, well, it's a good day for it. Thank you, Mrs. Paige.”

Maisie started the MG as Sandra settled in the passenger seat. Before setting off, they both looked at the house belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Paige: a place of refuge for women who were so far from home.

“What do you think, Sandra?”

“Well, I'm only a beginner at this, but I would say she didn't have anything to do with the deaths of those women, but I don't think her motives for having them there have been completely altruistic—is that the right word?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Anyway, I don't think they're as much do-gooders as they look. I would say that they've set themselves up nicely, on the work of those women. They've given them a roof over their heads, I'll grant you that, but they've looked after themselves, too. And I bet this Reverend Griffith doesn't get as much as they say—probably just a few extra coppers on the collection plate. Or maybe he's in on it as well, and does all right.”

As they crossed the river, Maisie added another thought to their discussion. “One glaring gap in all this is the Allisons. When did you say they were due back from their holiday?” asked Maisie.

“On Sunday, according to the housekeeper. So you should be able to see them on Monday.”

“Good. And in the meantime, I would like you to visit the two women who employed Usha Pramal: Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Hampton. Confirm the terms of employment—hours, wage, and so on—and just ask a few more questions to see if they noticed anything out of the ordinary in the weeks before Usha died. Did she turn up for work on time? Was she working to her usual standard? Frankly, Sandra, we both know that most of these employers don't notice a thing about the staff, so you might see if you can ask a few questions of anyone who worked with Usha. There's not a moment to lose now. I'm going to try to see Jesmond Martin tomorrow—and wouldn't it be good news if Billy had found the boy? I have a feeling that not only is he the son we've been charged to find, but he's also this ‘Marty' the boys have talked about.”

“Two birds with one stone then.”

“Two birds with one stone,” said Maisie. “Just like Usha and Maya—two women killed with one gun. Except that boy might not know as much as we're hoping he does.”

W
ith Sandra dropped at the office of Douglas Partridge—somewhat later than she was due at her second job—Maisie returned to the office, which was late-afternoon quiet. She pinned out the case map and added some more information, linked a couple of statements she'd penned onto the sheet of paper, and ballooned in a separate color. Like those stones across a river, they would soon lead her across the waters of ignorance to knowledge of Usha Pramal's killer, she hoped. And there was something else playing on her mind. Now she had made the decision to close her business, to leave London, Kent, and—perhaps only for a while—James, she thought it would probably be best if she began to make firm her plans. If she was going to go, she had better get on with it; rather like tearing a dressing from a wound, she must make her arrangements and simply go, as soon as this case was closed and all ends tied. It seemed as if Billy's immediate future might be settled, so now she must think of getting Sandra placed in another job, and of talking to Frankie—leaving her father, even for a sojourn of a few months, might be one of the worst decisions she had ever made, at his age. But she knew he would be the first person to say she should follow her dream. He had always, without exception, been her greatest supporter, even considering the part that Maurice had played in her life.

She scribbled a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Allison for Sandra to type the following day, and jotted a plain postcard to Mr. Pramal at his hotel—there was no telephone at such a small establishment—asking him to please get in touch so she could keep him apprised of her work thus far. A telephone call to Detective Inspector Caldwell informed her that, no, the boy they knew as Martin Robertson had not been found, though Caldwell was somewhat more sanguine about the lad's disappearance, saying it was probably the shock of finding a body and then having to deal with the police. “His sort don't like the boys in blue much, even when we're not out to sling them in clink.”

Maisie had sighed, though Caldwell's droll comments had come to amuse rather than annoy her.

Maisie realized she had been delaying her departure from the office. She had been fiddling with small tasks, pinning papers together that really did not need to be pinned, or filing papers that would usually be put on Sandra's desk to attend to the following day. But she had made a late commitment to go to the Otterburn house for the supper party, and go to the house she would, no matter how much unfinished business she might have with the man in question.

J
ames was already home by the time Maisie pulled into the mews behind the Ebury Street mansion. Forsaking protocol, she entered by the kitchen door, told the servants—all of whom stood to attention as she entered—that they should take no notice, she was in a hurry, before proceeding to run up the back stairs to the floor where her rooms were situated. She knew she had crossed a boundary by doing such a thing, but since coming to live at the house—and she lived there most of the time now—she had pressed against boundaries more and more, mainly, she realized, to escape a sense that she might suffocate under the weight of expectation. Now the servants, all of whom were fairly new employees, would know that Maisie was very familiar with the hidden stairs and entryways that were the exclusive domain of downstairs staff.

A navy blue box with gold ribbon binding had been left on her bed; the gift seemed almost too exquisite to open.

“Well, aren't you dying to look inside?” James stood behind her, a whiskey and water in one hand, and already almost dressed for their outing—his shirt was open at the neck, with cuffs unlinked. He ran his free hand through blond hair silvered with gray, and smiled.

“Oh, James, what have you done?”

He came to her and held her to him. “Spent money wildly and lavishly on the woman I love—oh, what a sin.”

“James, I—”

“Oh, do just open it, Maisie. Can't you for once accept a gift without admonishing the person who loves you enough to want to surprise you, to give you wonderful things?”

She smiled and carefully loosened the satin ribbon, which ran through her fingers as softly as if it were warm cream. The box was sturdy, though the lid came off with ease to reveal sheets of the finest gold tissue paper. Maisie gasped as she slowly lifted a dress in silk of the darkest violet, with silver threads added just so, that to wear the dress would be like being part of the night sky above.