Leaving Everything Most Loved

  “May I return if I have some more questions?”

  “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

  Griffith smiled once more as a beam of sunlight haloed his silver-gray hair.

  Maisie waved as she went on her way, and pressed her palms together to re-create the sensation she experienced when she shook the Reverend Griffith’s hand. Although it was soft, almost like a woman’s, there had been a catch against her hand when they touched. A shaft of rough skin ran along the V formed by the outer edge of his right forefinger and the inner flesh of his thumb. This part of his hand had worked hard—perhaps against a spade in the garden, or a broom in the house. She couldn’t imagine that lifting a chalice would cause such a callus. But she wondered whether the repeated handling of a weapon might. It was not an idle thought, but a secondary consideration when she realized that the Reverend Griffith had misled her. He had most certainly been to India—a photograph on the wall above his desk attested to the fact that he had even been transported by an elephant, seated as he was on the giant beast, both he and the mahout with broad smiles for whoever was behind the camera.

  Chapter Eight

  Maisie returned to the office to find a message from Sandra in her clear, slanted handwriting. The ink had been pressed dry with blotting paper, and Maisie considered how different the message was from those left by Billy, whose almost childishly formed letters bore splatters of ink unless he wrote with a pencil. His messages, however, always contained details of key importance to the case. Sandra’s words were equally informative.

  I have addresses for the boys involved in the discovery of Miss Pramal’s body and will be at Albany Road school when they come out this afternoon. Two of the boys go to the school, so I will ask one of the younger children to point them out to me, as the infants’ classes generally end before the juniors. I’ve also found out the name of that lecturer who addressed the women’s meeting. Her name is Dr. Chaudhary Jones. I’ve left an index card with her address in south Kensington. She is married to an Englishman, who is also a professor. I’ve been told he’s at the Imperial College of Science and Technology. I remember when she started her speech, she made us all laugh when she said she didn’t want to give up her maiden name when she married because with her skin she could never see herself as just Jones. She said that her husband was a wonderful man, who often introduced her as “The Mrs. Quite Lovely Just Jones.” She said she would never have married him unless he’d been that sort of man, and that no woman should ever marry unless they had a husband who would put them on a pedestal.

  Lucky Mrs. Just Jones, thought Maisie. She sat back in the chair and stared out of the window across the room. She had to admit to herself that James was such a man. Yes, he had wanted her to forgo her work, but not because she earned money or had her own business, but because he feared the outcome of some of her cases, which often took her into dangerous territory. Her own father preferred not to think about it, knowing his headstrong daughter was adamant about keeping her job, even though he hated to consider what might happen if she crossed paths with the wrong person at the wrong time. “We can all do that, Dad,” she’d argued. “We can all cross paths with the wrong person. Wasn’t there an old man hit over the head for the tuppence in his pocket, in Tunbridge Wells, of all places? He was walking down the street in the middle of the day, not even at night.” Frankie Dobbs had conceded to her argument and rarely mentioned his worries.

  James Compton was a Mr. Jones. James was a dependable man. A man who would put her on a pedestal and call her Mrs. Quite Lovely Dobbs-Compton, if that would please her. But she wouldn’t be a Mrs., would she? Marriage to James would come with strings attached; strings that tied her to a long history, to a big house, to the kind of people she did not always care for—though his parents were an important and much-valued part of her history, and she had great affection for Lady Rowan in particular. Having the Compton name would tie her to a different kind of life. She sighed. But hadn’t that happened already, to some extent? Had not the wealth inherited from Maurice set her apart from others? Or had it simply been a different sort of apart, for hadn’t she created a moat around her separateness years ago? In fact, if she was to be honest, being with James had helped soften the edges around the protective circle of her own making. She had found that some of those people she thought too wealthy to be aware of those less fortunate were indeed philanthropic with their time and money—not all, granted, but more than she might have imagined. And there were people she’d been introduced to who had welcomed her into their group, not simply because she was with James, but because they had a generosity of heart and could see the same in her. Did her money make a difference? Yes, she allowed that it obviously made a difference, not least because she knew she would not have had access to such company if she had been simply an educated, very fortunate woman who had been born in Lambeth.

  She set down the note, rubbing her eyes. Priscilla had always said that Maisie saw all the gray areas. Now she was seeing even more of those gray areas, along with some stark black and white. Her education and her work with Maurice Blanche had set her at the foot of the mountain. His money—her money now—had allowed her to ascend almost to the summit in terms of her place in society and the company she kept, though she felt as if she wandered back and forth a lot, if only to remember the strength in her roots.

  Mrs. Quite Lovely Just Jones. She wanted to meet this woman, and not just to ask her about her life in London, or about the way she was perceived as a woman whose complexion, whose mode of dress, of speech—or the luster of her hair and the deep red bindi smudged upon her forehead—conspired to set her apart. She wanted to ask for her help in understanding a culture that was as complex as the patterns at the edge of a wedding sari. She wanted to know how this woman could hold on to the Chaudhary in her while embracing the Jones.

  Maisie picked up another file left for her by Sandra. Oh dear. She had almost forgotten Billy’s case of the missing boy, which she had committed to working on in his absence. She opened the file. And as her eyes took in the pages of notes, she realized the extent of the damage Billy had sustained when attacked and left for dead that spring. Words not formed, unfinished sentences, numbers of houses without full addresses. Hurried scribbles, an ill-executed sketch of the front of a building. A map with no address and nothing pointing to a significant location. But not the usual format of notes, with a date listing an address, a name, a list of questions answered, facts discovered, points to act upon, another clue, another step towards the successful closure of a case, towards an invoice submitted and payment received. There was nothing to continue, nothing to suggest that work of any substance had taken place. She would have to start from scratch.

  Maisie leaned forward with her head in her hands. She would have to visit Jesmond Martin again so that she could create a new plan for the inquiry. They had met when he first came to the office to discuss his son, missing some weeks by the time he’d contacted Maisie. Should she invent a story to account for the lack of progress? Or should she simply tell the truth, that during a previous investigation, her assistant had been left for dead by thugs in the pay of a powerful man—and she placed blame for Billy’s breakdown firmly at the feet of that particular man. Should she tell him she’d left the case in Billy’s hands, trusting—hoping—that he could manage on his own.

  “Oh Billy, how I have failed you,” said Maisie aloud.

  It was on the way home through traffic thick with motor cars, exhaust-belching omnibuses, clattering trams, and high-stepping carthorses that Maisie began to list what she knew about the life and death of Usha Pramal against elements of the case still to be discovered. Yes, she had to interview the friend at whose house Usha’s brother had lodged upon his arrival in England. She was eager to discover the name of the young man who had courted Usha in India, in her younger days. Had he returned to England? And had she chosen to work away from home as a governess to avoid contact with a man she might have loved, but who was an una
cceptable suitor? From the information Maisie had garnered thus far, Usha was not one to allow family disapproval to stop her doing what she wanted, and imagined her swatting away the warnings of a cluster of interfering aunts as if they were annoying midges flying around her head on a warm summer’s eve. But she drew the line at being humiliated by the actions of a young man who did not appreciate the customs of her country or was too impulsive to believe they might apply to him.

  “Do you think your Billy could come to the office to meet Bob Wilmott—he sorts out taking on staff and so on—for an interview next week?”

  Maisie was standing by the window, looking out at the carefully tended shrubs, colorful late-blooming roses, and flower beds filled with chrysanthemums, asters, and her favorite daisies. She’d always loved the simple flowers—primroses, bluebells, and daffodils in spring, wild roses in summer, and all manner of daisies in autumn. Her thoughts were on the other side of the river, close to Addington Square; she was thinking about the Reverend Colin Griffith and his unruly yet colorful garden.

  “Sorry, James—miles away. What did you say? About Billy?”

  James set down his drink, stood up from the armchair, and came over to her. He put his arms around her waist and kissed her on the neck. “I do believe I’ve been talking to the wall for the last fifteen minutes. I asked about Billy Beale.”

  “Au contraire, James—I may have been a bit distracted, but I believe I heard the words ‘Your Billy.’ ”

  “Figure of speech. Now, what do you think? Could he come in?”

  Maisie paused, considering the question. “Here’s what I think—this shouldn’t come through me. I think it’s best if your company’s usual protocol were followed.”

  “We’re always snitching good people from otherwise worthy employers.”

  “That’s not what I mean, James, and you know it.” She turned to face him, but did not move from his arms. “And I would suggest it’s best to wait a little while. Billy’s been under the weather. Then it would be a good idea if Bob Wilmott wrote to Billy, or telephoned him at his home, and asked him if he would be interested in coming in to discuss an open position. Billy knows that I’ve talked to you in the past about a job, so it won’t come as much of a surprise, yet, it would be better for his self-respect if he thought the actual landing of a job was up to him.”

  “Well, it would be anyway, Maisie. If Bob or anyone else he would be working with didn’t think he was up to it, he wouldn’t be taken on. All we’ve done is open up the path to get him to the station—we’re not buying the ticket and putting him on the train.”

  Maisie nodded. “Bob should be the one to get in touch, not me. I’m more than willing to give a reference—it will be a very good one, and completely honest. I think this would be a fine opportunity for Billy. Heaven knows I will miss him terribly, but I have to think of him first, and what’s best for his future and the family.”

  “Oh, I think that whether he comes to work for us or someone else, you’ll always make sure his future is bright.”

  Maisie shook her head. “That’s something I have come to learn the hard way, James. You can send out your army to stop an invasion on the horizon, but sometimes it comes from a completely different direction. That’s what happened when their little Lizzie died. I tried to help them, tried to keep them from going under, but look what happened—so much befell that family, and most of it came from within: Doreen’s illness, for example.” She sighed. “I don’t want to meddle. I just want them to be settled and content. Working for me is making Billy far from happy, if I am to admit it. He is a man of dutiful intentions and great loyalty. He will do well at the Compton Corporation, of that I am sure.”

  “And if you are sure, then I am sure your reference will take him in the right direction.”

  Maisie nodded, allowing James to hold her close.

  “Let’s make it an early night, shall we? I probably won’t be home until late tomorrow—a meeting with your most unfavorite person.”

  “Otterburn?”

  James stood back as, resting his arm across her shoulder, he led her towards the door. “I know you’ve told me that the less you know about all this, the better it is all around. But there are some people he wants me to meet in connection with our work in Canada. Scientists. An engineer, a materials man, and a physicist who’s apparently top of his tree when it comes to aerodynamics and speed. He’s a bit of a boffin. I just nod my head like an intemperate donkey when he chimes in, though he is a very good sort indeed. He tries to make it all seem very easy, as if I were one of his less able students.”

  Maisie stopped as they reached the door. “What’s his name?”

  “Oh, you don’t really want to know that—and it’s more than my life’s worth to say.”

  She rolled her eyes, though she felt no sense of humor at his tongue-in-cheek reply. She knew only too well that little stood between Otterburn and the level of security surrounding his interest in the marrying of aviation and defense of the realm.

  “I spoke to a couple of those boys, Miss.” Sandra was waiting for Maisie when she came into the office the following morning.

  Maisie removed her hat and took a seat at her desk. “Go on, Sandra, I’m all ears.”

  “A right pair of ragamuffins they were, too. Freddie Holmes and Sidney Rattle. Both of them nine years old. Freddie had a right shiner on his left eye as well, as if he’d been in a nasty playground scrap.”

  “Did they tell you anything?”

  “A couple of penny dippers did the trick. Boys that age have a sweet tooth—they’d probably sell their grandmothers’ souls for a bag of toffees. Anyway, there’s this little gang of them—and not all the same age; there’s a couple of older lads, they’re both twelve or so; one of them’s got a job at the market, so he gets home early, and the other one has a habit of sciving off school; eventually they all get together when the younger ones come out of school.”

  “And they go along the canal?”

  “Oh, they get up to the things that boys will—you know, collecting conkers, playing a game of football in the street, teasing the girls while they’re playing with a long skipping rope, all waiting their turn. But the canal draws them—they throw stones, call out to the men working the boats, sometimes cadge a lift up to the lock. And they poke around with sticks, looking for treasure—their kind of treasure.”

  “What did they say about finding Usha Pramal?”

  “They said they saw a big silk bubble, so they tried to reach it with sticks and stones, and then eventually it moved closer. And then it turned, and at first they thought it was a log, but suddenly one of them shouted, ‘It’s a body. It’s a dead body.’ ”

  “Then what?”

  “The two younger started screaming, and one of the older ones went for help, while the other sort of held the body steady with sticks. The boys admitted they were both as sick as dogs.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Maisie. “Those children will be living with that memory forever.”

  “Oh, you know boys—they’ll be telling the story time and time again, adding a bit here, them being the big heroes of the day.”

  “Did they see anything else? Anyone in the area they’d not seen before, that sort of thing?”

  “These two didn’t. The older boy came back with a couple of policemen he’d come across—their usual beat turned out to be a bit unusual that day.”

  “It sounds like the boys managed to get a good look at the body—though it would have been in a poor state having been immersed in water. I wonder if they recognized the victim—did they say anything about knowing Miss Pramal?”

  “I’m glad you asked that, because when I put that question to them, young Freddie said he knew it was Miss Pramal, because she’d helped his nan with her rheumatism.”

  “Helped his nan?”

  “Yes, he said his nan has hands like claws, and pains in her back and legs, and that his mum had asked the Indian woman to come round to the house.??
?

  “Did he say what she did?”

  “His mum turfed him out, so I’ll probably need to talk to her—oh, I mean, only if you want me to, Miss.”

  Maisie was thoughtful. “Here’s what I think is best. Why don’t you continue on with interviewing the boys—you’ve done well, and you can obviously get them talking to you, which is no mean feat. Boys of that age can be a bit of a handful—I know from my godsons; they’re very boisterous at times. I have several inquiries to make today, but perhaps we can go over to Camberwell together—I’d like to visit a parent or two, if I can.”

  Sandra beamed. “Oh, thank you, Miss. I’ve to put in a couple of hours with Mr. Partridge this afternoon, but I could go at about five, before my class at Morley College at half past seven.”

  “Perfect.”

  Parking the car outside the end of terrace mansion in Hampstead, Maisie sat for a few moments to compose her thoughts. She had come to this house many times over the years that had passed since Maurice had first brought her to meet Dr. Basil Khan. He was known only as Khan, and to Maurice he was a mentor, a man who had guided him when he faltered, though at the time Maisie could never imagine Maurice becoming unbalanced when he stepped onto life’s uneven ground. She sat in her motor car and remembered those earlier days, when she was awed by Khan’s silence, by his demeanor, and not least by the white robes he wore and the spartan yet graceful room in which they always met. She once wondered if heaven itself might look like that room—all white, with muslin curtains that billowed, candles that soothed, and many cushions placed on the floor for those who came to see a man so wise that visitors traveled from far and wide to be touched by his presence. When he was in conversation with callers, whoever they were, they were on the same level. Never mind if a man was wearing a bespoke suit from his Savile Row tailor, or the woman a day dress of the finest silk. They had come to seek the counsel of a simple man in white robes who asked them to join him on the floor, so that he might better see them. Yet Khan was blind.