Leaving Everything Most Loved (24 page)

Maisie held up her hand. “Hold on, hold on, Sandra. Let's just talk about the job, and what it means to you—the most important thing you should be thinking about is yourself, though I appreciate the consideration. This all might have come at an opportune time. Now then, tell me all about this job.”

“It's through a friend of Mr. Partridge, like I said. He's a publisher and he's setting up by himself, a new company. He has money, apparently, and wants to publish books for students—like me, actually. Which is why he liked what I could do when he met me at Mr. Partridge's office. I've come to know a lot about the business, through Mr. Partridge, and I'm also a student and know about books—now I do, anyway. And I will be his secretary—with possibilities.”

“Possibilities?”

“This man, Lawrence Pickering, says as the Pickering Publishing Company grows, so will the possibilities for me to be promoted. And he'll be flexible, he says, where my hours are concerned, so I don't have to rush so hard to get from my lectures to the office.”

“Well, this all sounds wonderful, Sandra. A good job in an exciting new company, and an employer considerate of your studies. You're a clever young woman, and hardworking. The Pickering Publishing Company will be lucky to have you.”

Maisie picked up a pen and turned it around in her hands, then looked up at Sandra—who was a maid at Ebury Place when they had first met; a young woman whom she had seen engaged, married, and widowed, and whom she admired anew each day with her determination to create a new life for herself. Weren't they trying to do exactly the same thing, really? To discover what the world might hold if they stepped off the well-worn path, for just a little while.
Possibilities
—wasn't that what Maisie had always wanted, even in girlhood, during those dark early-morning hours when she had stolen into the Comptons' library to teach herself Latin and philosophy, to read from books she touched with a deep excitement knowing that each one would take her on a journey of discovery? Wasn't that what James wanted, what Frankie and Mrs. Bromley wanted—the sweet sense of being touched by possibility? And now Serendipity had danced in concert with Fate at exactly the right time, and all would be well. It was as if the path were being made clear for her journey to India.

“I think you should take the job, Sandra. I think it sounds very good indeed.” Maisie smiled, her eyes catching the morning light as it came in broad shafts through the window. “But make sure Mr. Partridge approves—he will know how serious this man is about his company. And I will ask just this of you—stay with me for another few weeks. Just to get some things organized here.” She looked at her hands, wondering how much to reveal. “You see, Sandra, I have some plans of my own, so this is a time of change for Billy, you, and me. Sometimes things just work out the way they need to. Oh, and don't rush out and look for a new flat. I may have the answer on that one, too.”

“I will stay for as long as you need me to, Miss Dobbs—I would always have given you plenty of notice, come what may.”

“I know, Sandra. You're a good worker.” She looked at the woman before her. “All sorted out with Billy?”

Sandra nodded. “We weren't being sensible.”

“We're not always as sensible as we would like to be, Sandra—our hearts take care of that for us.”

At that moment, both women started as the bell sounded. The day had begun. Pramal had arrived to discuss the case of his murdered sister with Maisie.

As Sandra came back into the room with Usha Pramal's brother, the telephone began to ring.

“I'll answer it, Miss Dobbs—then I'll make tea.” Sandra pulled out a chair for Pramal, and then picked up the black telephone receiver. She shook her head; the caller had begun speaking before she had time to give the exchange and number.

“It's that Caldwell man, Miss Dobbs. Not a mannered bone in his body.” She rested her hand across the mouthpiece. “Do you want to talk to him now?”

Maisie could hear Caldwell's voice despite the muffling effect of Sandra's fingers, and smiled, thinking he sounded like a mouse in a box.

“Let me speak to him—we'll never hear the last of it.” She turned to Pramal as she took the receiver. “Do excuse me, Mr. Pramal, it's our good friend, the Detective Inspector.”

Maisie half-turned away to greet Caldwell.

“Good morning, Det—”

“No need for all that, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell.

“Well then, let's get on with it—to what do I owe the pleasure?” said Maisie.

“Got an interesting bit of news for you, Miss Dobbs.”

“I'm all ears.” Maisie smiled.

“Man came into the Yard this morning, asking for me.”

“Yes—go on.” Maisie could hear the measured telling of the tale by Caldwell, teasing her with his news, as if he were dangling a length of string in front of a kitten.

“Man came into the Yard to confess to the murder of one Miss Usha Pramal,” said Caldwell.

Maisie felt her smile vanish as she looked at Pramal, who met her gaze.

“What was his name, Inspector?”

“Mr. Jesmond Martin. Said he murdered her because he doesn't like them, these people coming over here. Said she insulted his sick wife, and he was so filled with anger, he just took matters into his own hands.”

“And Maya Patel?”

“Said he took her life, too—she had seen him kill Miss Pramal, so he followed her one night and shot her, just like Miss Pramal.”

“And do you believe him?”

“Come on, Miss Dobbs—why wouldn't I? Man comes in, bold as you like, and admits to a crime of murder because he can't live with himself anymore. Of course I bloody believe him. Read him his rights and locked him up. The Commissioner's happy, the Foreign Office is happy—that could have been a bit tricky, what with the brother kicking up sand—and so, Miss Dobbs, I am happy. So should you be, I would have thought—though I bet you wish you'd have got him yourself, don't you?”

“No, I'm happy when a murderer is brought to justice.” She ran the telephone cord through her fingers. “But tell me, does he have the skill with a gun? Could he hit a target—a very small target—with the precision that took the life of both women?”

“You thought we hadn't got that one, didn't you? Took him out and tested him with a target. Course, it was tricky, giving the man a gun—could have turned it on himself or even us, but we thought he would have done that before now, if he'd have wanted to. He was as good as gold, like a sheep, in fact. Just took the gun, leveled it up, squinted a bit at the target, and boom-boom-boom. Bull's-eye. Three shots right in the center, and after the first one the others went through the same hole. Must've been a sniper in the war—if he wasn't, he should've been, that's all I can say.”

“Right, I suppose we're finished then,” said Maisie.

“I've just got to find that Pramal bloke now.”

“Not to worry, Inspector. He's right here in front of me. I'll tell him, if that's all right with you—or you can come to my office, if you want to speak to him.”

“Nah, better give you something to do, Miss Dobbs. Can't have you going off thinking you've not been useful, eh?”

“You're smiling too much, Inspector. Remember, we've been working on a murder inquiry—people have died.”

“There's always one to bring down the curtain on an otherwise excellent start to the day, eh, and I would have put money on it being you. Here I am, happy as sunshine on a rainy morning, and you have to put the damper on it. Never mind.”

“Please let me know if you need any information from me,” offered Maisie.

“I'll see you in a day or two—after all, you interviewed him, so we'll need to know all about that little tête-à-tête.”

“Right you are, Inspector. I'll give Mr. Pramal the good news.”

“That's more like it, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell. “I'll be in touch.”

“Until then,” said Maisie, but she was too late—as usual, Caldwell had put down the receiver as soon as he had said everything he wanted to say.

“D
o you have something important to report, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie looked up—she had continued to twist the telephone cord between her fingers. “Yes, I have, Mr. Pramal. Apparently, a man has come forward to accept responsibility for the murder of both your sister and Miss Maya Patel. He gave himself up to detectives at Scotland Yard early this morning. It appears he has the skill with a gun that was required to take the life of your sister in an instant.”

Pramal's olive skin became drawn and gray, his eyes filled with tears. It was several seconds before he could speak. “And why on earth did he do such a thing?” He thumped the desk with his closed fist. “I want to see this man, as soon as I can. And I want to see him hang.”

Maisie raised a hand. “I don't think you'll be at liberty to see him, Mr. Pramal. He has been cautioned and charged, so will be moved to a prison—probably Wandsworth, I would imagine, or Brixton. He will be able to see counsel, but no one else until further notice.”

“Why, Miss Dobbs? Why did he kill my beloved sister? If she had offended him, what act or words on her part could have made him take her life?” Pramal leaned forward, grief and hatred writ large in his eyes.

Maisie sighed. “He claims she was disrespectful of his wife while in his employ. Mr. Pramal, I have to tell you that I went to the man's house, I met his wife's nurse, and I learned that Usha had taken the liberty of administering medicines of her own making to ease the woman's dreadful headaches. It's no excuse, but according to his statement, he was angered beyond measure and took matters into his own hands—and much too far. Frankly, I am at a loss to understand it all.”

“Did you see the man?”

“Yes, I did, and though I had outstanding questions and wanted to see both the man and his wife again, I had yet to conclude he was the killer.”

“But you thought he could be, is that it?”

“Yes, I thought he could be. But a thought is only a gate to the path—it is not evidence. I must have evidence in my hands—or at least a stronger feeling of guilt from a person—to press forward with a suspicion that someone has committed murder.”

“You could have been wrong, though, Miss Dobbs—and it seems you were,” said Pramal, his chin jutting forward as he spoke.

Maisie took a breath to counter, but exhaled instead. Yes, of course Jesmond Martin could have murdered Usha Pramal. But if so, and if Martin Robertson was his son, as she suspected, then why did the boy alert the police to the body of Maya Patel? Unless he wanted his father caught. Unless he knew more about his father than he would have told the police.

“Mr. Pramal, in confidence, please—may I ask if you have ever heard the name Jesmond Martin?”

Pramal, so quick to answer when he had a definite response, looked at Maisie. He rubbed his chin and pressed his hands together close to his lips, as if he were about to say a prayer. Then he spoke again. “Miss Dobbs, I cannot say that I have heard this name, but you know, it seems to ring a bell.”

Maisie smiled; not a smile of joy or happiness, but of irony. “Mr. Pramal, I have come to the conclusion that, in my work, the three words that are the most frustrating to hear are that something seems to
ring a bell
.” She sat down, holding out her hand for Pramal to take his seat once again. Looking up towards Sandra, she saw her secretary hold up a teacup, her eyebrows raised in inquiry. “Yes, Sandra, tea would be lovely, I am sure we could all do with a cup.” She turned to Pramal. “Let's see if we can get that bell clanging, because I want to know why there is even a hint of recognition when I mentioned his name.”

Pramal put his hand up, as if he were a schoolboy in class. “Miss Dobbs, please forgive me for asking, but Mrs. Singh said you had something for me, something belonging to Usha.”

Maisie drew her hand across her forehead. “Of course—it is you who should forgive me. What I have for you is currently under lock and key, in a safe. It is a sum of money—a rather large sum of money—from Usha's earnings while she lodged at the ayah's hostel, together with the several velvet bags full of coins I've already told you about: money she had earned outside her cleaning jobs.”

“How much could be there? And how did she earn this extra money?”

“You will find Usha had saved enough money to return to India some time ago, and have some in hand, too. I believe Usha's lack of fear around those with sickness was something for which people were willing to pay. Yes, she was familiar with the healing properties of herbs and spices, but she had something else—she saw that the sick are often ignored, even in their own homes, and as such seldom feel the touch or attention of another human being. From what I have learned, she never drew back from resting a hand upon one who could not walk or see, or who was confined to bed—and families would pay her to come in and tend to one struck by illness, if only for half an hour here and there. Usha could teach, too, and though I have no firm evidence, I cannot believe she did not also earn pin money by giving lessons on occasion. I have a feeling that your sister did any paid work that was within her capability because she had a dream. And she was well on the way to making it come true, I would say.”

“Her dream? Her educational castle in the air? I am sick of her so-called dream, that it brought her to live in a way that would have made my poor father turn in his grave. It brought her to this city that has corners no better than the worse slums of Bombay.” Pramal could barely contain the grief that had turned to anger.

“Perhaps Usha saw something precious in those corners, just as she saw a diamond in even the darkest person. She had that burning ambition to return to India and to found her school for poor girls who have no chance in life. So perhaps coming to London was a necessary part of her aspiration—or it grew within her after she arrived here.” Maisie paused, her words coming more deliberately now. “I have no idea how far her savings will stretch to bring this dream to fruition, but you must know that when I give the money to you, I am placing everything your sister worked for in your hands.”