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.”
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.”
Having 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 t
o 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.”
Later, 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
Caldwell 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 pat
h 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.