Leaving Everything Most Loved (27 page)

Maisie nodded. “I'll miss you, Billy. You don't know how much I'll miss you.”

“And I'll miss you, too, Miss Dobbs. But we'll both be better out of this lark. I mean, I reckon I was safer in the war, even with all them bombs and that shelling.”

H
aving accompanied Robert Martin to Carter Street police station, where he was taken into custody, Caldwell was waiting as Maisie emerged from Battersea Dogs and Cats home with the boy, Joey, and his dog, the limping, bandaged, but very much alive Nelson.

“Nelson, you say his name is, son?” said Caldwell.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy.

“I know a good joke about Nelson,” added the Detective Inspector.

“No,” said Maisie. “No, not that one, please. He's a boy.”

“Right then, I've got to talk to this lady here, so you can go home in style in one of our nice motor cars and your own driver, along with your dog—who might get a medal, if he carries on like that. He deserves a good meal in any case,” said Caldwell. He reached into a pocket and brought out a few coins, which he pressed into Joey's hand. “Now, go on with you—and don't let me see that dog wanting for a meal again, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy as he was led away towards the Invicta police vehicle.

Caldwell turned towards Maisie. “I reckon we've got some talking to do, eh, Miss Dobbs.”

“I can drive you back to the Yard, Inspector,” said Maisie. “Did Billy get home all right?”

Caldwell nodded. “Right as rain—not that we're running a chauffeur service for your assistants and their dogs here. One of my drivers took him.”

“Thank you,” said Maisie. “There's some blood on the passenger seat by the way, but it's only from Nelson.”

“The Yard, then, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie shook her head. “I want to speak to Jesmond Martin, if I may. And his son.”

“No to both, I'm afraid,” said Caldwell.

Maisie placed a hand on Caldwell's arm. “Inspector, I know we haven't enjoyed the best when it comes to working together, but I think we've reached an understanding.” She paused, removing her hand. “I know Robert Martin—Robert Payton—has committed two terrible murders, but please try to be . . . to be
kind . . .
when you question the boy.”

“Kind? He's a killer, Miss Dobbs, a coldhearted killer.”

“Yes, and there's no getting away from the fact that he took the lives of two innocent women, and—”

“And almost took those children, too—don't forget them.”

“No, I can't. I will forever see the look of fear in their eyes—and fear in a child is a terrible thing. Which is why I ask you to be as compassionate as you can with Martin.” Maisie paused, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Just imagine, Inspector—imagine him as a four-year-old, an innocent, brutalized by a man himself damaged by war. Imagine that, Inspector. I do not ask for him to be absolved of his crime, but I ask for kindness. He has suffered, and his heart has been broken.”

“You'll have me in tears in a minute,” said Caldwell.

Maisie smiled. “A good start, Detective Inspector. A good start.”

L
ater, Maisie parked the MG in the mews behind 15 Ebury Place, and was in two minds as to whether she should enter via the kitchen, voicing apologies to the staff for the transgression of trespass into their domain, or make her way to the front door. She decided upon the latter, only to discover that James was waiting for her to return and opened the door himself.

“At last! I thought you would never get home,” said James.

“I'm only a little later than usual,” said Maisie. In truth, she had almost gone straight to her flat, with the intention of calling James to make excuses for not returning to Ebury Place. However, she decided that honesty was, in this case, the best policy.

“Where have you been—and why is there blood on your sleeve? In fact, why do you have blood on your stockings and shoes? Oh, Maisie, this cannot go on!”

“James, don't worry—it was a dog.”

“Did it run out into the road? Tell me that it was a dog you decided to aid in its moment of need.”

“Well . . . yes, James. I saw the dog hit by another motor car, in full sight of his young owner, and I decided to help. Luckily, both boy and dog were returned to their home in good spirits, though the dog may walk with a bit of a limp in the future, and the boy might be reprimanded by his mother.”

“Thank God for that. For a moment I thought you might tell me a gun was involved, and then I would have had to say something, I'm afraid.” James smiled and took Maisie in his arms.

“No, don't worry—no need to say anything. All's well that ends well.”

“I think you should bathe away the strains of the day, my love,” said James.

“Probably a good idea—it's been a while since breakfast.” Maisie drew back, ready to go upstairs to her rooms and the hot bath that she knew was being drawn for her.

“A long day, then?”

“Yes, James. It was a really long day.”

“I'll have a drink ready for when you come down, darling.”

Maisie nodded. Truth, she knew, was watching her as she ascended the grand staircase to the first floor, though on this occasion, she knew she had told a lie that was worth the telling.

Chapter Twenty

C
aldwell had joined Maisie and Mr. Pramal at her office the day after Robert Martin—born Robert Payton—was arrested and charged with the murder of both Usha Pramal and Maya Patel, and the attempted murder of five children of the Fielding family.

“I've a mind to throw in the attempted murder of one Nelson Fielding, for good measure!” said Caldwell.

Maisie said nothing in direct response, knowing that it was Caldwell's way to be flip at tension-filled moments. She had decided, though, that she could not help but like the man; this manner was his way of coping with murder, the most troubling outcome of uncontrollable passion—whether that passion was the need to feed a family, fear, a love thwarted, jealousy, or rage.

“It's a web, Miss Dobbs,” said Pramal. “This Jesmond Martin was the man my sister loved and he loved her in return—and then he married in haste when she refused him. And this deep lingering malice and her death—from a boy—is the result?”

“Mr. Pramal, as Detective Inspector Caldwell will tell you, the roots of murder often run very deep, and sadly, in many cases, are cast in childhood, in the abyss of terror and fear. Young Robert was not of sound mind, of that there is little doubt. His stepfather had tried hard to lift him beyond memories of beatings and humiliation suffered at the hands of his father, who had himself been harmed. Part of that care was in giving Robert his name, and thereafter referring to him as ‘my son.' ”

Pramal nodded. “I often wondered, in the war, Miss Dobbs, how men could go forward and see such death and destruction without it staining their souls forever. Yet so many have.”

“And so many haven't—though I would like to think the powerful demons that subsequently tortured Arthur Payton are rare. The brutal treatment of a child is a terrible thing and is so often hidden.”

“And my Usha, my dear beloved sister, was having an affair with this man, Jesmond Martin? I cannot believe it. She was pure,” said Pramal.

“Yes, she was pure—and that was what drew people to her, even if they were at first prejudiced against the color of her skin. She was pure of heart and of spirit and saw only the very best in people. If called to a house to help someone—perhaps to assist in lifting an old gentleman from a chair, or washing a sick woman—she did not draw back, but tended to people with the same deep respect. In my investigation, I have discovered that children, too, were captivated by her. She need not be on a pedestal; she was a good person, a very dear person, not a goddess.”

“A spirited girl, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie nodded.
A daughter of heaven
, she thought.

Pramal continued, speaking of his plans to leave Britain for India as soon as he could secure passage. He would take Usha's money with him, now safely transferred to circular notes for security during travel. The notes would be deposited in a Bombay bank as soon as Pramal arrived in his home country.

“What of Usha's dream, Mr. Pramal?”

Pramal shrugged. “I don't really know how to begin. I am an engineer, not a teacher, but I will learn how to set up a school in her name.”

Maisie pushed a piece of paper towards Pramal. “May I trouble you for your address, Mr. Pramal? I am planning a visit to your country . . . perhaps . . . and I might be able to assist. Indeed, it would be an honor.”

Pramal bowed his head in acknowledgment and began to write.

“You never told me about all this India business, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell.

Maisie shook her head. “There wasn't much to tell, but you would have found out soon enough. I am closing my office and traveling abroad for . . . for a while.”

“Got to be too much for you, did it, Miss Dobbs? This investigating lark?”

Maisie shook her head. “No, Detective Inspector. Quite the opposite. I realized it had become not enough.”

With that she pushed back her chair and handed an envelope to Caldwell.

“My final account. You will find everything in order, and in the circumstances, I would appreciate immediate payment upon receipt of the invoice—so pass it on to one of your lady bean counters without delay, if you don't mind. I know she'll be most efficient.”

“Never one to miss a trick, Miss Dobbs.” Caldwell tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I'll make sure they jump to the job straightaway. Right, then, Mr. Pramal—can I drop you somewhere?”

“Camberwell, if you don't mind,” said Pramal. “The Surrey Canal. Now I know my sister went there to meet the man she loved—but she met her death instead. I want to be alone with her precious memory.”

Caldwell raised his eyebrows and looked at Maisie.

“I think that's a good idea, Mr. Pramal,” said Maisie. “Walk along the path where the children play and say farewell to Usha. You have no need to see anyone else. Then leave. As quickly as you can, leave and put this country behind you.”

Tears filled Pramal's eyes. “It's leaving her that's hard, Miss Dobbs. I will take her ashes, but leave my beloved sister.”

Maisie nodded. “Then hold her with you as she held her family—in the heart.”

As soon as the men left her office, Maisie packed up the case map and filed away all papers—even the scrappiest notes—belonging to the Usha Pramal case. Billy's first scribbles, the almost unintelligible sentences scrawled when he first began looking for Jesmond Martin's son, formed part of that file. Every case file held not only information on the path of discovery, but something of the journey traveled by Maisie and Billy, and more recently, by Sandra. Maisie knew that in filing away those notes, she was encapsulating part of herself, part of who they were in a working partnership. And she wondered how she might look back upon those notes in years to come. She only hoped she would see some essence of wisdom reflected in the journey.

A real pilgrimage awaited her attention, and when the filing was complete, before the more arduous task of packing away over four years of work under the business name,
Maisie Dobbs, Psychologist & Investigator
, she traveled to Leadenhall Street, to the offices of the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Navigation Company, to book her passage. In the middle of October, she would board the SS
Carthage
to India. She would travel as one of the one hundred and seventy-seven first-class passengers on the ship, which also carried the Royal Mail service to India and the Far East. From Southampton, she would sail via Gibraltar, to Naples, Port Said, through the Suez Canal, to Aden, and then Bombay. The SS
Carthage
would leave with Maisie on board in just four weeks—time enough to close her business, to have the many files transported from Fitzroy Square to be stored in the cellars of The Dower House, company for the boxes of Maurice's archived notes. It would be time enough to see her father married and with a loving wife at his side. She would be leaving after James, for his departure was already booked for the day following her father's wedding—from Southampton, he would sail for Canada. The oceans would part them, perhaps for now. Perhaps forever. Leaving Leadenhall Street, her ticket safely tucked in her document case, Maisie walked towards James Compton's office. Yes, he would be busy. Yes, there was work to be done. But for now, perhaps he might be persuaded to leave work early to return to Ebury Place together. In fact, she knew he would.

M
aisie's list of loose ends to tie up seemed to grow each day. Amid the packing, the cancellation of the lease on the Fitzroy Square office, the necessary hours spent with her solicitor, Bernard Klein, and the process Maurice had called their Final Accounting—the essential visits to places and people encountered during work on the Usha Pramal case, a task that brought work on a particular investigation to a more settled close—she realized that this would not be the final accounting of a single case. She knew that, if he were with her, Maurice would counsel her to look critically upon the years since she first began work on her own, from the time she moved into the dusty office in Warren Street, when a man named Billy Beale, who recognized her as the nurse who had saved his life in the war, had come to her aid on her first big case, and had, ever since, been at her side—to the point where he had saved her life when Robert Martin discharged the gun, spattering her with the blood of a dog who tried to protect the children he loved.

“Oh, Billy
,” said Maisie to the silent room as she lay down her pen and pressed her hands to her eyes. “Oh, Billy, bless you, dear man. Bless you for risking everything for me.”

F
rom the Surrey Canal in Camberwell, to the house where she saw the “For Sale” sign—the Paiges really were leaving—she retraced her steps in the Usha Pramal case. The Reverend Griffith was gone now—there was a sign indicating that rooms were available for rent in the house where he'd lived—and the building that served as his church was boarded up. On a fine day in early October, Maisie stood for a while looking across the common land close to Addington Square, before setting off towards the clump of trees where children had played, where a boy she hardly knew, but knew so much about all the same, threatened a young family and was saved by their loyal dog. It was here that she sat down, that she lingered under the dappled light of a willow tree and rested her head against its trunk, to finally face the past and what it might mean to step out into another future.

“The trouble with you, love, is that you think too much.” The oft-spoken warning from her father—a light admonishment that she would accept and he would offer with a smile that hid his true concern—echoed in her mind and almost led her to leave this place where a tragedy had been averted, where the blood of an animal still stained the ground. But she remained, sitting, thinking, allowing her thoughts to roam across time and the lives she had touched and been touched by in return.

How different now was her life from that of the girl who left a small house in Lambeth to work at a grand mansion in Belgravia. Ebury Place. She was, to all intents and purposes, mistress of that same house now, yet at once she remembered the feelings that caused her to weep as she made her way towards the kitchen entrance on a blustery day so long ago. She had just turned thirteen, still grieving the loss of her mother, when she left her father's house that morning. He was then a man suffering the death of his wife so deeply, he had considered the best future for his daughter was one away from a house with the curtains closed against the light of day, and a widower father clad in black whose heart was broken.

It was at Ebury Place that she had been summoned to meet Dr. Maurice Blanche, and from that moment, her life would never be the same again. How she had worked for that future—Frankie Dobbs could never have imagined such possibilities for his beloved daughter, who then pushed all opportunity aside when war touched her.

“You think what you can do for these boys,” her friend Enid had said as they watched the wounded being brought through Charing Cross Station in early 1915, after the crossing from the battlefields of France. Within hours Enid was dead, killed in an explosion at the Woolwich Arsenal where she was a munitions worker—a tragedy that inspired Maisie to make a decision that would define the person she became, the person she still was. Perhaps more than anything else, going to war had changed her life.

“Doesn't death always change a life?” she heard herself say aloud. And with that sentence, she knew the die had been cast from that time. In her work as a nurse, as Maurice's apprentice, and as a woman with her own inquiry agency, she worked in a realm where death always changed lives.

And now, under the trees, as a chill seeped across the land from the river, along the thoroughfare of the canal, she looked at life after life, at the people she had met: those she could help and those who would never be saved. She remembered Tom, the man who tended the Nether Green Cemetery because his son, wounded in the war, now lay there beneath the soil. She thought of those men who had lost their facial features in battle, and whose masks—designed to allow them to live lives alongside their fellow men—now ceased to keep pace with age, so that on one side their features were young, untouched, as if they had never been to war, and on the other the years had creased and folded their skin. She had saved a group of such men from the power of another damaged man. And what did it mean for a woman to lose her sons, her husband to war—she remembered bringing to justice a woman who had murdered those she deemed responsible for the lost loves of her life. Billy had wept as the woman was led away into police custody, for he understood how it felt to be drawn under by death. What was it like for him to lose his brother and descend into dependence upon narcotics to dampen the pain of his own wounds? One case after another came to mind, as if her future demanded one last look at the past, a reckoning on her conduct in each investigation. Images of the women who'd given out white feathers to young men they'd considered shirkers merged with the face of a man who had clutched at the enemy on the field of battle and had been held in return, their terror mingling with tears and blood. There was an artist maligned, and a man cast out of his family for his love of another man. A speck of light had begun to shine in her life once more, when the Gypsy woman who'd foretold her future—and whose earthly belongings had burned in a fiery ritual of death and renewal—encouraged Maisie to dance again.