Leaving Everything Most Loved (26 page)

“Yes, I suppose I do. Jesmond Martin had already indulged his son—his stepson—and tried to channel his energies into various outdoor sports and activities. Was it surprising that he ran away from school and came here? Though Jesmond Martin went through the motions of wanting us to find his son, he knew in his heart where he was because at some point you'd met Robert and he'd liked you. Robert Payton—Robert Martin, or ‘Martin Robertson' was an accomplished archer, an excellent shot, and a boy who knew how to look after himself. As he crossed the boundary between youthful insolence and the beginning of an aggressive manhood, the realization that the father he had come to trust and love might also abandon him led him to lose all sense of reality. He could not take the life of Jesmond Martin, but he could take the life of Usha Pramal. And then, having seen her with her dear friend, Maya Patel—for I am sure he stalked her as if he were on the hunt for a stag—he had to ensure that Miss Patel never uttered the secret shared by Usha Pramal, that she was again in contact with the man she had loved so long ago.”

“Yes, I am afraid events unfolded in much the way you've described.”

“With just the odd detail out of place, perhaps? That sending Usha on her way in such an angry manner was part of the smoke and mirrors—it was to appease Robert and allow him to think his father was true to his mother, but instead, Robert had followed his father on at least one occasion—he seems to have absconded from school with ease—and knew that Jesmond Martin had no intention of giving up Usha Pramal, no matter what he had to say about her. And it seemed that Jesmond had little regard this time for the fact that Usha was drawing back again, perhaps ashamed and dismayed that her love for him had led her to such a point. Her happy mood had changed because she wanted to be free of him, of her shame. Am I right?”

Griffith nodded.

“This is surely a tragedy—a story of love thwarted, a son estranged, and ill-wrought decisions affecting a daisy chain of people. But there's something that still seems amiss to me—your willingness to put Usha Pramal in such a difficult position. You knew of her goodness and you also knew she had loved Jesmond Martin. You knew he was married—not happily, granted—and yet despite being a man of God you almost deliberately tempted two people to flaunt the Commandments. I have to ask myself what else moved you to treat Usha Pramal as if she were a commodity—almost as if she were something to be sold.” Maisie paused, watching Griffith. “Were you offered money by Jesmond Martin?”

The vicar began to speak, but could barely form words through his sobs. “It wasn't quite like that. He helped me out—there were arrears on my rent and on the church rooms—he settled my debts to help me and asked nothing in return. He showed such goodness in his gesture.”

“So you persuaded yourself that nothing untoward would happen between Jesmond Martin and Usha.” Maisie stopped speaking until Griffith could meet her eyes. “You know, I remember reading an old legend—it may indeed have been a Hindu myth, now that I think of it. The story went that before God sent the souls to earth, he divided each one in two, so forever those divided souls would be in search of their mate. Some were never fortunate and wandered this earth alone. Some did not find their soul mate, but were happy with the love they found. Others were joined but lived unhappily. But there were those touched by destiny, who found their soul mates and experienced earthly lives of bliss and contentment.” She paused as Griffith nodded his understanding. “I have wondered, as we've been talking here, whether indeed Jesmond and Usha were divided souls. Perhaps you saw this, but weren't to know theirs would be such a sad and damaging destiny.”

“I was a fool, Miss Dobbs.”

“Yes, I think you were, and you've woven yourself a very tangled web. Beyond a naive, misguided trust that all would be well in the end, I know why you offered the boy a place of safety; why you failed to go to the police. Not only did Jesmond Martin help you with your debts.” She looked around the room. “But I think he kept quiet about something he'd guessed—you have no credentials, do you? You are a man of the cloth in name only. There was no study of theology, no ordination. You invented your church and concluded that protection of your transgression was more important than justice itself, which is why you did not go to the police when you should have. You have committed fraud on at least two counts, and have withheld information of interest to the police.”

“You make it sound so very easy,” said Griffith.

“Truth should always prevail, Mr.—and I do mean
Mr.—
Griffith. The way events have unfolded should tell you that what I say is right—Truth should always prevail. Eventually.”

“I . . . I don't know what to do,” said Griffith.

Maisie sighed. “Where is Robert?”

“Hiding, over on the common,” he replied.

Maisie nodded and stood up, then turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” said Griffith.

“To speak to Robert Martin.”

“But he might—”

“He might,” said Maisie. “I know he's armed, and I know what he might do. But he is a boy who has had his heart broken by a man who was torn apart by war. Someone has to be a true advocate, don't they?”

Maisie walked away, leaving Griffith slumped in chair, weeping.

A
bright afternoon sunshine cast shadows across the golden grasses of the common behind Addington Square. Maisie shielded her eyes with her hand as she walked towards the trees where Robert Payton, now Martin, had made a camp. Though her step was resolute, she felt fear rising as she approached the lair of a boy on the cusp of manhood; a young soul deeply damaged by a father who had sustained psychological wounds that took away all sense of right and wrong. How would she speak to him? How could she calm his temper? She pressed her hand to the center of her body and uttered simple words that came easily.
May we know peace. May we all know peace.

Her quiet entreaty was shattered by the weeping of a child and the plea of an older girl.

“Please don't hurt her. Please don't hurt her. She's my little sister,” said the girl.

“And my dad will come and get your dad, just you see,” said a boy.

Maisie crept closer, bending to the ground. As quietly as she could, she rounded the trees to better view the scene. She held her hand to her mouth.

Robert Martin, stepson of the man Usha Pramal had loved, was holding a gun to the head of the smallest girl in the family she'd met on the common days earlier. The eldest boy held their golden-haired dog by the old leather collar that seemed too large for his neck. The dog growled, and the children wailed as fear overtook them—the younger boy's darned and patched trousers bore the damp stain of terror.

“You're all sissies, that's what you are. This is my camp, my territory, and I live here—it's not yours,” said Martin, his finger on the already cocked trigger.

Maisie put her hand to her mouth as thoughts swept through her mind. At once memories seemed to collide with the present and it seemed she had been in this place so many times—in a clearing in a quarry facing down a madman who threatened the lives of men who had been disfigured in the war; challenging a young politician with a secret he wanted to protect; disarming a broken soldier bent upon killing half of London; bringing an army officer to justice who had killed one of his men. Images from the past seemed to taunt her, but now she faced the insanity of war writ large upon childhood, and she knew that here, in this field, under a cluster of trees, the young were at risk of paying the ultimate price.

Maisie knew she must act now or the children—children whose mother would soon be calling them from the attic window of a house overlooking the common land—would be dead. For she had no doubt that the boy who now held his father's gun could kill every one of them. Far better she gave them the chance of freedom. She stood up, brushed down her skirt, and walked forward towards the center of the group.

“Oh, it's that lovely dog again,” said Maisie, holding out her hand, palm up. “Hello, Nelson.”

Robert Martin swung around, the gun now facing Maisie, who caught the eye of the eldest boy. Martin moved back again, then towards Maisie once more, the gun fanning between the children. He held on to the smallest girl, his arm around her chest.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Me? My name is Maisie Dobbs, and these children are my friends,” said Maisie.

“Is she your friend?” Martin pointed the gun at the eldest boy.

“Y-yes. Yes, she is our friend.”

“Then you'd better move over there, Maisie Dobbs. Where I can see you.”

“What if I don't want to move, Robert?” said Maisie, standing, facing him. He was almost her equal in height, his hair was long, to his earlobes, and his complexion ruddy from lack of sleep. His clothing seemed ill-fitting and unclean, and he wore no shoes. Maisie looked under the tree and guessed the children had disturbed him, for his shoes had been placed neatly together, almost as if he were in a dormitory at boarding school.

“Then I will shoot her,” said Martin.

Maisie shook her head. “But she's only a very little girl, Robert. Can you remember how scared you were when you were that small? Can you remember, Robert?”

Robert Martin sniffed, moving his head as if he wanted to wipe his nose on his shoulder, but not quite able to.

“Why don't you let these children go back to their mother, and you hold me here instead?” offered Maisie.

“No. No. I could kill all of you before you even know what's hit you,” replied the boy, his faced flushed, his eyes now glazed, almost as if he were blind.

Maisie tried another tack, and hoped she would not have to gamble.

“Don't you want to rest, Robert? You must be so very tired. You've looked out for your mother all these years, and you've done your best to be a good son to Mr. Martin, haven't you? But he's let you down, hasn't he?”

Maisie saw Robert Martin's chin begin to crease, as if he were but a two-year-old boy.

“I tell you, don't you come any closer.”

“No, I won't,” said Maisie. “But why don't you let that little girl go back to her mother—you would love to go back to your mother, wouldn't you? You know how she feels, don't you?”

“These are only poor kids, they don't know,” the boy replied.

“Oh, yes they do, Robert. Money doesn't dictate how much people love each other, neither does color, or language or height, or whether you have blue eyes or brown,” said Maisie. “Now let the children go home.”

Maisie saw the boy swallow; his Adam's apple, sharp with the passage of boyhood, moved up and down as he tried to ease the dryness in his throat. His attention went to his gun, which he moved away from the little girl's head, and in that moment, Maisie caught the eye of the eldest boy of the family and nodded. He understood.

“Robert. Robert, look at me, I want to tell you something important,” said Maisie.

Robert Martin turned to Maisie, and in that very second, the boy let go of his dog. “Go, Nelson!”

The golden-haired dog leaped through the air at the same time as the older boy grabbed his sister. In a split second when Maisie thought the bullet would rip through her skull, Maisie felt herself pulled to the ground, and the sound of the gun being discharged ricocheted through the trees.

Stunned, Maisie pulled herself up to see Billy move towards the prone Robert Martin, pinned to the ground by the dog, whose golden coat was spattered with his own red blood.

Four of the children were running away towards a phalanx of blue as Caldwell's men moved across the field. The older boy remained, tears streaking his cheeks.

“He's killed Nelson. He's killed him with his gun.”

“Billy, what . . . how . . .” said Maisie.

“Never mind that, Miss. Later. Help this dog, would you—it'll break the lad's heart if he dies.”

Caldwell and a uniformed policeman were already holding Martin as Maisie and Billy lifted the dog to one side.

Soon the trees were shadowing more policemen, with Caldwell at the center, giving orders. In the distance a gathering of mothers were holding the children to them and taking them away from the meadow. When Robert Martin was led to one side, the older boy remained, holding his dog's head in his arms as Maisie pushed apart hair and flesh to better see the wound.

“Is he dead, Miss?”

“No, he's not, but he's been hit by a bullet. He's a brave dog, you know. He saved all our lives,” said Maisie.

“Oh, please make him live, Miss. Please make him live.”

“Where's the nearest vet?”

“I dunno, I never took him to a vet,” said the boy.

“All right, we'll find one. In the meantime, let me find something to dress this wound and stop the bleeding.”

Soon handkerchiefs were gathered from the policemen and Maisie had packed a hole in the dog's shoulder. As Caldwell checked the handcuffs on Robert Martin's bony wrists, Billy leaned down and picked up the dog and began walking towards the MG, the boy running alongside them.

“Go up to Coldharbour Lane, Miss, and if there's not one there, you'll have to go directly to Battersea—I reckon there'll be one on duty. And if you can't find a vet there, it'll have to be Camden—to the new Beaumont Animals Hospital.”

“Billy, how did you know I was here?”

“You'd just left and I'd popped in to see Sandra—by way of saying good-bye, I suppose. She told me what was happening, more or less.” He wheezed as he bore the weight of the whimpering dog towards Maisie's motor car, the boy running next to him, stroking his dog and talking to him.

“I've been with you long enough, Miss, to know when things are coming down to the thin part of the funnel, and I knew you were walking into something dodgy. So I came over here as soon as I could. And just as well, otherwise that bullet might have hit you.”