Maisie’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.”
From 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.
It was as if a moving picture of her cases were playing in her mind. Soon there came the young cartographer who had gone far afield in search of adventure; it was a case in which she had learned that love, most assuredly, could again be hers. These were all recollections which, in this quiet place, brought her to the death of Maurice Blanche. Maurice, who had given her the tools to measure the path ahead, who had provided her with all she needed to map her own future—a future that might, or might not, include marriage. Finally, John Otterburn seemed to stride into her mind’s eye and take his place—how she detested his part in the death of two men, one of them an innocent in the ways of those who would wage war and end war. She might be closer to accepting her powerlessness against him, but his actions had, ultimately, led her to question who she was and who she might be. And now this. Usha Pramal, whose love reached out to others with the same smooth touch of her silk sari against the skin. Maisie felt the immediacy of her spirit. She felt as if the hand of this woman, who came from a country so very different from her own, had in some ways beckoned to her, had drawn attention in death, as much as she drew so many to her in life.
Maurice had always cautioned her to look for patterns in her cases. He’d taught that certain elements of an investigation came in threes, as if Fate itself were a teacher. She had seen such phenomena during her apprenticeship, but now she identified something quite different—the way in which all those cases had come together to press her onward towards this moment in time, this place and her decision to leave. Who might she be when she returned? That was in itself a mystery, but Maisie knew this, as certainly as she knew that Pramal would found a girls’ school in his sister’s name, that Billy would do well at his new job and Sandra would go on to surprise them all. And she knew that whatever presented itself to her, and whatever lessons she had learned along the way, she would be well equipped. Like Maurice, she would be prepared for whatever turns the future might take.
Priscilla was vehement in her opinion of Maisie’s plans.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Maisie! Are you completely mad? I know you said you planned to do it, but really, I never thought it would come to this. You h
ave a dear man who loves you, a good business—which is getting better. You have a father about to be married—which gives you a delightful stepmother. Even your paramour’s parents think you’re the best he could land—and you are going off to India! How could you possibly deprive my dear boys of their beloved godmother?”
“Don’t lay it on too thick, Priscilla. I don’t know how long I will be away, and anyone with an iota of observational power would see that your boys are growing fast and rather prefer the company of boys their own age—soon it will be girls.”
“Heaven forbid! I don’t know how I will cope with an endless trooping through of the young party set,” said Priscilla, pressing a cigarette into the long ebony holder she favored.
“You’ll love it. They’ll give you nothing but sublime joy,” said Maisie.
“But I will miss you!” said Priscilla. “Now I will be well and truly stuck with these silly women who do nothing but, well . . . talk.”
“You love talking.”
“About things that count, Maisie. You know that as well as anyone.” Priscilla took only one draw on the cigarette holder before pressing it into the ashtray.
“Yes, I know. But we can write, and you never know, I might be home, here, before next summer.”
“It’s a long bloody way, India.”
“I know. But if I have had enough after a fortnight, I will return—or go somewhere else. I haven’t even set foot aboard ship, and I confess, I feel bitten by the bug of travel.”
“Heaven help us. I can see myself trailing around the seven seas in your wake.”
“Whether you’re here or in France, I will find you when the time comes. And I will write to the boys.”
“Don’t expect anything in return. I have yet to see any semblance of the writing cells being passed from Douglas to his sons.”
Maisie shrugged. “But at least they’ll know I care.”
“And they would care a bit more if you married James.”
“If I go anywhere on board an aeroplane, they will be the first to know—and I’ll take photographs.”
“Do you really have to leave?” asked Priscilla.
“Yes. I do,” said Maisie.
Further visits followed, blending the past with the most recent case. Maisie visited the lecturer, Dr. Harry Ashley, at the Camberwell School of Art, and went from there to see the boys who had found the body of Usha Pramal, where she pressed a coin into the hand of each lad, telling them all to buy something nice for their families. The Fieldings were now treating Nelson as if he were canine royalty; he was not left in the concrete yard at night, but enjoyed evenings in front of the fire, his belly full with dog biscuits and leftovers.
The Allisons were surprised to hear the outcome of the Usha Pramal case, and seemed saddened to know the reasons for her death. They talked across each other, and to each other, but despite the chatter that was a hallmark of their union, Maisie could see they were genuinely affected.
She did not make any attempt to see Jesmond Martin, who had been released from custody on bail following a full admission of guilt by his stepson. Martin could still be charged with perverting the course of justice. In questioning, it was revealed by the boy that Robert had indeed committed both crimes alone, having followed his quarry and killed in such a way that he could move the bodies alone before covering all evidence of his footprint and presence in the locations where Usha Pramal and Maya Patel were found. Jesmond Martin had secured the services of a respected legal firm, and the boy could expect expert counsel working on his behalf. Robert Martin’s age, and the circumstances of his mental state, would serve to keep him from the gallows, but Maisie knew he would likely never see the bright light of freedom ever again.
As cooler evenings drew in, she and James turned down invitations to parties or “Friday to Monday” excursions, and instead spent their time together, sometimes close in conversation, and sometimes in silence, but feeling the comfort of each other close by.
“So, are you nearly finished?” asked James one evening.
Maisie nodded. “The van is coming to collect the filing cabinets next week, and a carter will be taking the office furniture to sell. There’s nothing there worth much, to tell you the truth; I never invested in the best desks and chairs. We’re having our post forwarded to my flat, and Sandra will ensure that all inquiries receive a response.”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? I mean, have you forgotten that over four years ago your first big case really caught your imagination when you heard from my mother that I was planning to go to a place called The Retreat?” He paused. “It seems unbelievable that I had reached such a state of terrible desperation—enough to want to leave my world behind. It’s a different time, isn’t it? I mean, despite the fact that we’re both stepping out into the unknown. Neither of us really knows what is there, do we?”
Maisie reached for his hand. “Perhaps we must allow ourselves to be brought gently into the future by the good times, taking those dear memories with us and not allowing the worst of times to hold us in its grip—to hold us back, really.”
Dame Constance, in a move that was not customary, reached through the grille that divided the visitors’ room from the plain cell where she came to meet Maisie, and touched her hand.
“Maisie, I believe you have come to hear words of encouragement as you set out on your path. There is no encouragement, save for me to say ‘Godspeed.’ May you find the person you are most seeking, Maisie. May you discover who you might be in the wider world, now that so much has come to pass.”
Maisie was silent. Her respect for Dame Constance had grown in recent years, and she knew that, especially since Maurice’s death, she had come to the Benedictine nun in search of the mentorship she so missed.
“We are all apprentices, Maisie. Even when we think we’ve graduated to another rung on the ladder of experience, there is always much to learn. Every soul who comes to me for counsel gives me another lesson in return, and I am humbled and made new by each fresh opportunity to serve.”
“I understand, Dame Constance.” Maisie felt the elderly nun’s fingers press her own.
“Godspeed then, Maisie. I look forward to hearing about your adventures.”
“I’ll write.”
“And I would expect you to.”
With that Dame Constance smiled, and instead of the usual snapping of the small door across the grille, she pulled it closed slowly. Maisie sat in the room with the red carpet, the fire in the grate, and a view across the Romney Marsh. She heard only the sound of the nun’s skirts brushing the floor as she made her way back into the silence of her realm.
Khan was resting when Maisie called at the white mansion in Hampstead, and instead of an audience with the man she believed to have been Maurice’s closest mentor, she received a brief note. The English was perfect, and though Maisie thought he had not written it himself, he had without doubt dictated the brief message.
“Go forward with a light step, my child. Your heart will open with every mile traveled. Fill it wisely.”
She folded the piece of paper and held on to it as she walked away.
The final name on her list was Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones, who had invited her to tea. Maisie arrived at the apartment in midafternoon, as the autumn sunshine was reflecting a golden light across trees filled with yellow, red, and rich brown leaves. The mild summer and still-warm days had given London a resplendent and lingering Indian summer.
Tea was served by a maid dressed formally in a black dress with white collar, cuffs, and apron and a small white cap to keep her curls at bay. Mrs. Chaudhary Jones was again wearing a colorful sari, this time of lavender with a deep purple border. Her hair was secured with an amethyst pin, and her beaded shoes, too, reflected the colors of her clothing.
“It’s lovely to see you, Maisie—may I call you Maisie? I ask this to do you a favor really, because Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones is such a mouthful, isn’t it?”
Maisie smiled, and agreed. “Thank you
—Lakshmi.”
“So, I understand you are leaving for my home country, and soon.”
“Yes,” said Maisie. “Just a couple more weeks, actually.”
“And you have a wedding on the cards, too—I hear all the gossip, you know.” Lakshmi offered Maisie a sweet dessert to enjoy with her cup of tea.
“My father, who is getting on now, is to be wed. To my housekeeper. I’m rather thrilled, to tell you the truth. I think they will be very happy, and my home will be looked after very well while I’m away.”
Lakshmi nodded, sipping her tea. “And no marriage for you? Yet?”
Maisie shook her head. “I—I . . . Well, no, not yet.”
“You’re afraid of losing your place, aren’t you—I think ‘independence’ might be the word.”
“I’m not sure anymore,” said Maisie. “I think that’s too simple for me now. I have come to believe that I must garner a greater understanding—of the world, of myself—before I could make a good wife.”
“Oh, that old chestnut,” said Lakshmi. “What, I wonder, is this person, the ‘good wife,’ when she’s at home?”
“Someone who knows herself, so she won’t get lost.” Maisie was aware that her words had been spoken before she could take the measure of what she wanted to say. She reddened.
Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones set down her cup and saucer, and touched the corners of her mouth with the edge of a table napkin. “It comes down to knowing what you stand for, I think—if I were to discern the nub of the matter. If you both stand for the same things, then you can go forward together and apart, whatever the day may bring. That doesn’t mean you agree on everything. I don’t agree with my husband’s work for that man, John Otterburn, but—”