“I see. Did she want to come here? How did she feel about the journey, about leaving her home?”
Pramal sighed, and Maisie remembered her father, at a time when her mother was so ill, taking more money from the savings tin to go to yet another doctor. He’d slump into the chair after carrying her mother upstairs to bed. “It’s the telling of it all that wearies us, Maisie. They look at you, these doctors, and you can see that not one of them is thinking any differently from the others, as if they’ve all read the same book. But you keep on going, trying to find the doctor who’s writing a new book, not just taking his knowledge out of the old ones.” Pramal, too, seemed tired of the telling.
“Usha was a headstrong girl, Miss Dobbs. We are a well-to-do but not a wealthy or aristocratic family such as you might find here, though the war allowed me to achieve some measure of, well, professional stature. My father was broadminded, and believed in the value of education for a woman. But perhaps that was the downfall for Usha—she did not want to be married, not at the time, and the fact that our mother was dead did not help matters; a young woman needs a mother to prepare her for womanhood, you see. Suitors were arranged, but she turned them away. My father did not insist and soon her chance was gone. She relished the thought of coming to Great Britain, and accepted the position knowing full well that she would leave her country, though I believe she expected to return. You see, she had plans.”
“What plans?”
“Usha wanted to found a school for girls. Not rich girls, but girls with promise who wouldn’t otherwise go to school, or who had had their education curtailed. She wanted to save money, and perhaps to find a sponsor, someone who would enthusiastically support her endeavors.”
Maisie rubbed her forehead. “Mr. Pramal, tell me what Usha was like. I want to know who she was, how people saw her.”
The man nodded, brought his hands together in front of his face, and then to his sides, grasping the chair as if for support.
“As child, clever and headstrong, questioning, and sometimes a bit of a know-it-all. She saw no division in people—no, that’s not true, she saw division, but she ignored it. She would touch a leper. She was very—I am not sure that I am explaining this well—she was very much a touching person. If she stopped to talk to a neighbor in the street, she would reach out—” Pramal moved as if to touch Maisie, to demonstrate his sister’s way of being, but drew back his hand.
“Do you mean like this?” Sandra spoke up and touched Billy on the arm. “How do you do, Mr. Beale? Isn’t it a lovely day?” She swept her hand around the room, as if the sun were shining through the ceiling.
Pramal nodded and smiled, his face at once alive as if the memory of Usha had become sharper. “Very much so. And there was no intention in her touch, except to . . . except to . . . except to connect with that person, like one electrical wire to another. And no matter how many times reprimanded by my aunts and cousins, by friends of my mother who had tried to guide her, she would just laugh and do things her way. Her spirit was quite without discipline.”
Maisie was still looking at Billy’s arm, at the place where Sandra had placed her hand and, for a glimpse in time, seemed like another person. A spirit without discipline.
“Do you have a photograph of your sister?” asked Maisie.
“Yes, here—I brought one for you.” Pramal reached into his pocket and brought out a brown-and-white photograph, a portrait of a woman with large almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and lips slightly parted, as if she were about to laugh, but managed to stop herself. Her hair seemed oiled, such was the reflection in the photograph, and though Maisie could only guess at the colors of the sari, she imagined deep magenta, a rosy peach, perhaps rimmed in gold, or silver. She touched the dark place on her forehead where Usha had marked her skin with a red bindi, and at once she felt pain between her own eyes. She handed the photograph to Billy.
“She was a beautiful girl, Mr. Pramal,” said Billy.
Pramal nodded, as Billy passed the photograph to Sandra, who frowned as she studied the image.
“What is it, Sandra?” asked Maisie.
“Nothing, Miss.” She shrugged, handing the photograph back to Maisie. “No, nothing—she just looked sort of familiar, that’s all. But then they all—no, it’s nothing.”
“May we keep the photograph?” asked Maisie.
“Indeed. I have others.”
“Tell me what happened when she arrived here—where did she live?”
“I would send letters to this address, in St. John’s Wood.” Pramal pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Maisie. “This is the address. Later, she wrote that I should send my letters poste restante to a post office in southeast London.”
She nodded. “Where was she living when she died? Have the family been in touch?”
Pramal shook his head. “My sister was given notice within a few years of disembarking here in Great Britain. She was cast aside by the family, with nowhere to go, no money except that which was owed her. I did not know this until a long time afterwards—she did not want to bring shame on her family.”
“But what happened to her?”
“She found somewhere to live—in an ayah’s hostel, in a place called Addington Square. That’s probably why I was not given an address—she didn’t want me to know where she was living, and I think she also would not have wanted anyone else intercepting her correspondence.”
“Addington Square’s in Camberwell,” said Billy. “But what’s an ayah’s hostel?”
“It’s where women live who were servants,” Sandra interjected, leaning towards Pramal. “They call them ayahs, don’t they? Women who look after the children—they do nearly all the work so the mother doesn’t have to lift a finger. They come over with the family, and when the family doesn’t need them anymore, that’s it—out on your ear in a strange country with nowhere to go.” She looked at Maisie. “We talked about this problem at one of our women’s meetings—terrible it is. At least there are a couple of hostels for the women, though it doesn’t stop some from having to work as—”
Maisie shook her head. Sandra had become involved in what was being talked about as “women’s politics” and would not draw back from confrontation. It seemed to Maisie that she had found her voice since the death of her husband—but on this occasion, she did not want Sandra to describe the ways in which a homeless ayah might be pressed to make enough money to keep herself.
“So Usha found lodgings in an ayah’s hostel. And you had no knowledge of her situation until—when?” asked Maisie.
“Until about nine or ten months ago. I have a family, Miss Dobbs, so I did not have sufficient funds to pay for her immediate passage home—and she told me she had almost enough, so was planning to sail at the end of the year.” He paused. “You see, she wasn’t only saving to come home—she wanted to bring enough money to open her school. She said she could earn better money here in London than in all of India, so she remained.”
Maisie could see fatigue in the lines around the man’s eyes and—as much as he fought it—knew it was in his backbone.
“Mr. Pramal, here’s what I would like to do now. I will be visiting the Allisons, and also the ayah’s hostel—I am sure we can find the address, if you don’t have it to hand. In the meantime, I think it best that you return to your hotel and rest. We should like to reconvene tomorrow morning—would nine o’clock suit you?”
“Indeed, thank you, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie stood up, pushing back her chair. Sandra returned to her desk, and Billy stood ready to escort Mr. Pramal to the front door.
“May I ask if you have satisfactory accommodations while you are in England?” asked Maisie.
“A small hotel, Miss Dobbs. It’s inexpensive, close to Victoria Station. I was staying with an old friend, but I did not want to inconvenience the family any longer.”
Maisie nodded. “Please do not hesitate to let me know if the hotel ceases to be comfortable. I am sure I can arra
nge another hotel, with help from Scotland Yard.”
Pramal gave a half-bow, his hands closed as if in prayer. “You are most kind.” He turned to Sandra. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Tapley.”
Billy extended out his hand towards the door and left the room with Pramal. While Sandra removed the tea tray, Maisie walked to the window again, where she watched Billy bid farewell to the former officer in the Indian Army. As if he couldn’t help himself, Billy saluted Pramal again, and was saluted in return. Each recognizing a war fought inside the other.
Chapter Three
“I always thought women in India were sort of tied to the house until they married,” commented Sandra, while marking the name “Pramal” on a fresh cream-colored folder. “Then we had this woman—a visiting lecturer—come along to talk to the class last week. She’s been standing in for someone else. A doctor, she is—not medical, but of something else; history, I think, or perhaps politics. It was a history class anyway. She was talking about imperialism and about Mr. Gandhi, and what was happening in India, and how it would affect Britain. Very sharp, she was. Kept us all listening, not like some of them.”
Sandra continued talking as Maisie looked down at a page where she, too, had marked a name: Usha Pramal.
“Not that there was any reason for her not to be intelligent, mind,” Sandra went on. “But you know, I was surprised to see an Indian woman there, teaching us. She was very, very good—better than most of the men, I have to say.”
“It seems Usha Pramal was of her ilk—her brother’s description reveals an educated woman with an independence of character,” said Maisie. She looked up. “Do you have her name—your lecturer? I think I might like to see her, have a word with her; she could have some valuable information for us, perhaps, regarding Indian women here in London.”
“She’ll be giving the lecture tomorrow evening. I’ve forgotten her name now, but I can find out when I get there.”
“Thank you, Sandra.” Maisie paused. “If it can be arranged, I would like to meet her—at this point, I think any information will be useful, even if it is removed from the case, but it could shed light on how Usha Pramal might have lived. I fear more time has elapsed on this case than I would have wanted. Evidence will be thin, and we’ll be dependent upon the opinions and observations of people who might well have worked hard at forgetting whatever they knew about Miss Pramal. We need to draw in as much background information as we can.”
Billy returned to the room, smiling at Sandra, then at Maisie. “Nice bloke, eh?”
“Yes, a very good man I think, Billy,” said Maisie, standing up. “Let’s all take a seat by the window and get a case map started. I’ll be bringing back more information after I’ve seen Caldwell this afternoon.”
Billy took a roll of wallpaper, cut a length, and unfurled it upside down across the table, where he and Sandra pinned it in place. The wallpaper had been given to them by a painter and decorator friend of Billy’s, who often had surplus from his paper-hanging job. Maisie placed a jar of colored crayons on the table—some of thick wax in bold primary colors, others fine pencils in more muted shades. She took a bright red wax crayon and wrote Usha Pramal in the center of the paper, circling the name. This was the beginning, the half-open shell in what would become a tide pool of ideas, thoughts, random opinions; of words that came to mind unbidden; and of threads connecting evidence gathered. Some of it would make sense, though much of it wouldn’t, but eventually something on the map, often one small buried clue, would point them to the killer. And a terrier could always find something buried, if she’d caught the scent.
“Billy, we need to find the exact point on the Surrey Canal where the body was discovered. I’ll get more information from Caldwell; however, in the meantime, I don’t want to depend upon it, so would you go down to Camberwell, find out where she was found on the canal. Talk to anyone who might have witnessed something—remember, people would love to forget this, so carefully does it.” She sighed. “Mind you, on the other hand, there are probably a few gossips who’d enjoy nothing more than a good old chin-wag about a murder. In any case, could you also find out about movements on the canal that might have taken the body along. I believe timber is transported back and forth to the works there, from Greenland Docks or Rotherhithe—can you find out and ask around? See if any of the dockworkers saw anything of interest to us, or if anyone knows someone who did?” Maisie pushed back her chair, and went to her desk, where she took a camera from a large desk drawer. “Use this. There’s film in the box, and it’s easy to operate—heaven knows, if I can take a photograph, anyone can! I have a neighbor who has a darkroom in his flat, so he’ll get them developed for us, and he’s quite quick about it.” She handed the box containing her pawnshop purchase across the table to Billy—a Number Two C Autographic Camera, manufactured by the Eastman Kodak Company. “Study the instructions for a few minutes. I think it will help us to have some photographs of the area.”
Billy nodded. “Right you are, Miss. We should use this a lot more, I can see it being handy for our cases.”
“Keep it in your desk drawer—I can always grab it if I need it. Anyway, back to Usha Pramal: though we’ll have names later, Billy, root out what you can about the boys who found the body—they were messing around along the canal path, probably getting up to harmless mischief. Now they’ll probably have nightmares for years, poor little mites. Anyway, Billy, you’re a father of boys, so you will know how to deal with them.”
“It’s our girl who’s going to need dealing with, I can see it coming already. Nearly a year old and breaking hearts already.”
“They always say that about the girls, but it’s the boys who break the hearts,” said Sandra.
“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it—no one will break my little girl’s heart.”
“I’m sure they won’t, Billy,” said Maisie, turning to her secretary. “Sandra, you said you thought you might have seen Miss Pramal before—have you had any recollection?”
Sandra shook her head. “I wish I had, Miss. At first I thought I might have seen her—and I’m sorry I nearly said it in front of her brother, but they all sort of look the same, when they’re from somewhere else like that. You know, your Chinese, your Indians. I’m sure you can see the differences if you live there and you’re used to the faces, but when you only see them now and again, you can’t always tell. That sounds really terrible, but, well, I think a lot of people get confused like that.”
Maisie sat back in her chair, tapping the crayon on paper, creating a series of dots. “You know, that might be something for us to bear in mind—what if Usha was not the intended victim? What if someone just got it wrong, and thought she was another person?” She looked up at Sandra. “It’s a sad reflection upon us, if we’re that insular. After all, we’ve all nations under Britain’s roof and it’s not as if we’re short of people from other continents, here in London.” She leaned forward and wrote “mistaken identity?” on the wallpaper, circled the words and then linked them with a line to Usha’s name.
Sandra spoke again. “It’s not that I go to many places in a day—I go from here to Mr. Partridge’s office, or the house, or I go to classes at Morley College, or to Birkbeck—and I go back to my flat. I think I’ve only ever been to Camberwell once or twice, even though one of my friends I share the flat with goes to the art college there.” She frowned, then looked at Maisie, her eyes wide. “Hold on a minute—I think I know where I saw her. Well, it might not have been her, as I said, but . . . about four months ago, must have been in May or thereabouts, my friend asked me to go with her to one of the lectures; open to the public, it was. The talk was all about colors and how things feel—textures, and that sort of thing. The lecturer had people helping him—it was all very interesting, I must say—and he was showing pictures these different artists had painted, and their sculptures, and what have you, and then he talked about color and places, so she—if it was her—came onto the podium with this pile of saris
, all these lengths of silk in different colors, and she opened one up after another, and draped them over her arms. I remember her standing there, like a goddess, she was, clothed in all these colors. Your eyes could hardly stand it.”
“And you think this assistant was Usha Pramal?” Maisie picked up the photograph, now some years old and torn at the edges. She handed it to Sandra.
The young woman frowned, and began to nibble the nail on the middle finger of her left hand. “Oh, dear—I can only say it looks like her, because I remember the woman smiling, really smiling, as if she’d turned into a butterfly. My friend was thinking the same thing, because she whispered in my ear, ‘She’s a Camberwell Beauty, if ever I saw one.’ You know, the butterfly, the Camberwell Beauty?” Sandra paused. “I couldn’t swear on the Bible in a court of law, Miss, but I am halfway positive that it was her.”
“Any chance that your friend will remember the name of the lecturer?”
“I’ll ask her tonight.”
Maisie nodded, and was about to put a question to Billy when Sandra spoke again.
“I remember him as if it were yesterday, though I couldn’t tell you his name.”
“Why? What was it about him that stuck in your memory?”
“You could tell he’d been wounded, in the war. There were scars on his face, and he had a bit of a limp; used a cane.”
“That’s a fair description of almost all of us who went over there,” said Billy.
She shook her head. “Now I’m remembering—and I still don’t know for definite if it was her. But I remember the way he was talking, and he ran his hand along one of the saris she held over her arm, and she smiled this big smile at him. Then afterwards, he was helping her to fold the saris as we were all filing out—and it was slow going, what with people stopping to talk and picking up their things; the line was moving like treacle off a cold spoon. When they’d finished, the Indian woman went to shake his hand—which I thought was very bold of her, I mean, to hold out her hand like that. He looked at her hand as if it were something very precious he was being offered, and at the point where their fingers touched, she took his hand in both of hers. Then, when he turned away—the Indian woman was by now talking to some women that my friend said were students studying embroidery—he looked at his hand and rubbed it, as if he’d touched something warm.” Sandra looked at Maisie, frowning. “I don’t understand that, how one minute you can be sorting things out in your brain, looking for something you’ve lost, then the next thing, the memory comes rushing in.”
Leaving Everything Most Loved Page 3