Bess Singh nodded, pulling up the silk of her sari so her head was covered. “According to Pramal, yes, it was.”
“And no one seems to know the man’s name,” said Maisie.
Bess Singh looked at Maisie, then added, “There’s remembering with an outsider, and remembering with family, no matter where you come from—so really, someone might know the name, but they won’t say any more about it. It would have been embarrassing, you see, disrespectful. It brought some talk to the family’s door—it might have been unfounded, but it was talk all the same—and they wanted Usha to be settled in a marriage. They’d have wanted her to be accepted into a good Indian family—and to get her out of the house to be another man’s problem, though they all loved her very much. And as I said, you couldn’t help being drawn to her—she came up to you, fluttering around you, paying attention, her eyes only for you, and you loved her.”
Maisie nodded. Again, much of the description was familiar—it was a hallmark of her work to hear repetition. But among the stories told and retold, there was often that little thread, that new slub in the fabric of a tale she had not noticed before.
Maisie left the shop clutching her collection of spices, nuts, herbs, and some onions, along with a scribbled recipe for a dish called Mughlai Biryani—she had been promised it would be unlike anything she had ever eaten before. Walking along to her motor car, she began to reconsider the two conversations. That Singh had loved Usha was without question, though it was the kind of youthful love that a person might have for the unattainable—a love that had at one time been searing, yet sweet. It might have been a love that inspired tears, and at the other extreme, intense joy should a smile be bestowed upon the admirer by the one who is loved. But that love had been superseded by marriage to another, and with it had come a deeper, perennial love. Maisie could see the respect that Singh and his wife had for each other. Without doubt, their union represented a road that had been difficult, though they’d had each other on the journey, and it seemed the couple—and their children—had been accepted in the community.
Maisie thought Singh was right, that Usha could well have been killed by someone who loved her very much. And it would appear that everyone who met Usha Pramal fell in love with her, almost as if she had cast a spell upon them. But new light had been thrown onto the dead woman’s character by Bess Singh—Usha could turn her back on an admirer if that person came too close, close enough to feel the snap of indifference to his deepest feelings. Maisie thought Mrs. Singh spoke very much from the heart—after all, she had loved Usha Pramal, too, though it might have been an affection that was against her better judgment.
“Oh, good, so Mrs. Chaudhary Jones can see me this afternoon—excellent.” Maisie looked at the card Sandra had just handed to her. “Not far from Imperial College. If I can make an appointment to see Mr. Martin, I will go on to his house immediately afterwards.” She picked up a pen to make a note in her diary. “Anything else, Sandra?”
“Yes, here’s the name of that lecturer, at the art college in Camberwell. “Dr. Harry Ashley. He lectures at the Slade, too, but apparently he has an office at the college. Shall I make an appointment?”
Maisie was thoughtful. “No, I’ll try to catch him on the fly—does he have hours when he sees students?”
“According to my friend, he’s generally there in the mornings until early afternoon, between eleven and one.”
“Right, I’ll make a point of seeing him tomorrow morning, if I can. In the meantime, could you call Jesmond Martin at his office. I had it in mind to go later this evening, but I can’t—and I would really like to see his wife as well. Would you ask if I can see him at his home, around five-ish. He might be able to leave his office early, which means I can get on back to the flat after we speak. In fact, I might well go over to his house without prior consent; I think I need to take that chance.”
“It’s all as good as done,” said Sandra. “Anything special on this evening, Miss?”
“I’m cooking. Something rather different, so I’ll need some more time. Indian food.”
“Is that what that smell is? Indian stuff?”
“Yes, it is. I think it’s very nice.”
Sandra crinkled her nose and shook her head as she picked up the telephone receiver. “I think I’d prefer sausage and mash, myself.”
Maisie looked across at her secretary, a young woman whom she admired for her tenacity—Sandra had risked her life and freedom to find the man behind her husband’s death in a so-called accident. Not only was Sandra an employee, but there was a connection of mutual regard and friendship, though the difference in age and experience, and the fact that Maisie was Sandra’s employer, ruled out the same sort of deep emotional bond between women of the kind shared by Maisie and Priscilla. Maisie wondered whether she should mention seeing Sandra and Billy—after all, she might be wrong, there might be nothing more to their meeting than friendship, a companionship that had grown from working together. On the other hand, there was something in the way they moved towards each other that suggested to Maisie a closer connection. She sighed. Should she let such a thing run its course? She had to concede that there was a thread that drew them together—Sandra had lost her husband, and though Doreen was still very much alive and at home with the children, her psychological well-being caused her to detach from her husband, to go into a shell, leaving Billy isolated.
No, she would leave well enough alone. For now.
To the south of Imperial College, a terrace of grand mansions had been divided into apartments for teaching staff and made available at a fixed rent. Maisie had knowledge of this already, as she had attended an art class not far away, and the teacher—a vibrant Polish woman who always wore clothes of clashing colors in every hue—had her studio on the top floor of a similar mansion, and paid only a peppercorn rent given the fact that she was also a teacher at another London college. Dr. Jones and his wife lived on the second floor of a mansion, not far from Princes Square. It was a fine day with a slight nip in the breeze, and Maisie enjoyed the walk from the motor car to her destination. She remembered delighting in the Saturday classes with Magda, and the sense of freedom she felt when working with color. Her life had seemed so very gray at the time—perhaps it was the lack of light in her heart—and the hours spent in Magda’s studio with a motley assortment of people she might never have otherwise met elevated her, gave a spring to her step as she was leaving. Stopping to look around her, Maisie remembered the day she’d bumped into James Compton, her hands still bearing the stains of dyes used to color raw yarns. He’d taken her for a meal, and then calmly told her that her face was speckled with colored spots. They’d laughed together, and she remembered that feeling of lightness, of a sense that there was a connection between them. She touched her stomach, where butterflies seemed to have gathered. Sometimes it seemed as if the past bound them—that deep understanding of what it was to go to war, to see life taken on such a scale and so violently—yet it was also the past that threatened to tear them apart. Those interludes of joy, of lightheartedness, of forgetting everything but the good fun they were having, were the best of times, and she acknowledged that she would grieve for his company if he were gone from her life forever. She pushed the thought aside as she arrived at the address for Dr.—Mrs.—Chaudhary Jones.
A young woman in a well-tailored pale blue wool barathea costume answered the door. The jacket was cut to enhance her slenderness, with a narrow belt around the waist. The skirt came to mid-calf, with kick pleats to allow freedom of movement, and her shoes were plain black with a strap fastened with a patent button.
“Miss Dobbs. Dr. Chaudhary Jones is expecting you. I am her assistant, Layla.”
The young woman held out her hand to Maisie, who smiled, shook the proffered hand, and stepped into the entrance hall. Maisie had been somewhat taken aback when the woman first answered the door, for her features suggested she was of Indian origin, yet she wore the garb of an Englishwoman. They reached the doo
r to the apartment, which had been left ajar, and Layla led Maisie along a wide corridor, past several closed doors until she reached an open door to the right. She knocked lightly and stepped in, indicating that Maisie should follow her.
“Amma, Miss Dobbs to see you.”
The woman before Maisie was seated behind a desk piled high with books, and framed by light from the open window behind her. Another desk across the room was neater, with only a pile of papers on each side of a typewriter.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Dr. Chaudhary Jones, as she stood up and stepped from behind her desk to greet Maisie. She nodded to the young woman, who left the room. It had not taken the young woman addressing Dr. Chaudhary Jones as “Amma” for Maisie to see the familial connection. Though Layla’s skin was lighter, her eyes a greenish hazel rather than dark brown, Maisie could see the mother in the daughter. The older woman was dressed in a sari of deepest olive with a pale green border decorated with golden thread. She wore no jewelry except for small hoop earrings and the ring on the third finger of her left hand. A small pile of silver bangles had been set to one side on the desk—most likely put on this morning, they had become a hindrance as the woman was writing. Her hair was drawn back in a bun, with the strands of gray around her hairline adding to an overall impression of worldly wisdom rather than narrow experience.
“Thank you very much for agreeing to see me, Dr. Chaudhary Jones.”
The woman smiled at Maisie, and took her hand. “It is a pleasure, Miss Dobbs, though I confess, I was intrigued by your secretary’s description of why you wanted to see me—you are a psychologist and investigator, and you are looking into the death of an Indian woman. And in suspicious circumstances. My gosh, I thought, what have I done?”
Maisie smiled. “Nothing at all. I know it must have sounded a bit cloak-and-dagger, but I wanted to speak to an Indian woman who could give me some information—a picture, if you like—of the lives of other Indian women here in Britain, especially London.”
“I see. Well then, sit down and let’s have that chat.” Chaudhary Jones extended her hand towards the chair in front of her desk, and returned to her place.
“Your daughter is very striking, Dr. Chaudhary Jones.”
“I know. A beautiful daughter is the delight of young motherhood, but when they reach womanhood, it is a worry. She gets her mind from her father, though—she’s a student here at Imperial, though he is a physicist at heart, while she is studying microbes.”
“Do you mind me asking—I see you in a truly beautiful sari, yet your daughter is dressed as if she was a professional woman in an office.”
“She is a professional woman in an office when she’s working for me, and she prefers to wear the same clothes as other young women, plus it’s easier when she’s in the laboratory. But she dresses in the sari for special occasions, and for supper. Her father likes to see her in the sari, actually, whereas I don’t really mind—as long as she works her brain, I don’t worry too much about the clothes.”
“That’s a bit unusual, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I suppose some people think we’re an unusual family. But if you want to find out more about Indian women, you should start by knowing that the stereotype doesn’t reflect everyone, though it might give an impression of the majority. Now, tell me about this young woman—I’m curious.”
Maisie described Usha Pramal as best she could, drawing upon the descriptions she’d received from those who had known her—or perhaps known only a facet of her character.
“Oh, my, she was a butterfly, wasn’t she? But what a daughter to have, I would say—a bit of spark never hurt anyone, and can take a woman far, unless it causes her to burn out too soon. But she had ambition, with her plan to start a school. Yes, a good daughter to have.”
“Dr. Chaudhary Jones, I confess, I am very confused. On the one hand, here I am with you—a highly educated woman with her own professional status, married to an Englishman, with a daughter who is also a scientist.”
“And a son who is a writer of poems, in India.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I despair of him, though to be a poet is an honorable thing.”
Maisie went on. “I have met an Englishwoman married to an Indian man, and I have passed Indian women in the street who seem to adhere to what you referred to as a stereotype. Amid all this information, I am trying to get an impression of Usha, of who might have taken her life, and to underpin my investigation, I want to gain an understanding of how her life might have been here, of what kept her here when she could have returned to India months before she died.”
“Oh, the grand dilemma. Trying to put India in a little box—a country with goddesses as revered as gods, and where women are at once downtrodden and highly educated. My gosh, it sounds almost like Great Britain, does it not? You might not have had goddesses, but you’ve had your share of warrior women, haven’t you?”
“I see your point.”
“Yes, and I think you might have seen it before you came here, but you were intrigued because I represent the picture not always acknowledged.” Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones rested her elbows on her desk and her chin in her hands. “In a nutshell, though we have traditions to honor, there are many very educated Indian women—women who are powerful in both their families and their villages, and indeed in the country, though you might not always hear their names. The same is true of Great Britain. Let me give you some names to think about. Bhicoo Batlivala—her father owned a woolen mill, and she was from quite a privileged family; however, she was highly educated and became a barrister here in England. You’ve doubtless heard of Sophia Duleep Singh, a brilliant woman, and a most forceful suffragist. Twenty-three years ago she was with Emmeline Pankhurst and Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, marching to Parliament on Black Friday—and she the daughter of a maharajah! Then there’s another one—Bhikaiji Rustom Cama—she is a firebrand. Seventy-one years of age now, but she has made her voice heard, whether it be for home rule in India or equality for our sex. I could continue, I could tell you about the Indian women who have studied medicine, science, law, and so on, in this country—some have remained and others taken their precious intellectual and academic gifts home to India.”
Maisie leaned forward. She took a breath as if to ask a question, then sat back again.
“I think you want to ask me if a woman such as your Usha Pramal could have been killed by one of her countrymen, someone who did not like the way she walked, or her presence in a church, or her confidence. You want to know what I think.”
“I do, yes, that’s one thing.”
“I think that is entirely possible. Of course I do. There are British men who would do the same—you know that, Miss Dobbs. Why do men kill prostitutes, for example? And please do not worry—I am a woman of the world, and the woman’s place in the world has been the subject of my work for a long time. A man might feel the urge to physically assault a woman who has power over him—whether that power breaks his will in some way, whether it causes acute unease, or whether, for example, he is shamed by the darkness of his shadow. And of course a savage assault can lead to death—for both of them.”
“Yes, I understand that very well.”
“I’m not a psychologist like you, Miss Dobbs, but I would say that you’re looking for someone—and don’t rule out the fact that it might be a woman—who was fearful of the shadow that emerged when they saw Miss Pramal.”
Maisie nodded.
“So, how else can I help you, Miss Dobbs?”
“Tell me about your country, Dr. Chaudhary Jones. Tell me about India, and why you left. Do you miss your country? And how do you keep . . . how do you keep a connection with your . . . your heritage, when you are married to an Englishman and living here in Britain.”
Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones smiled, left her desk, and opened the door.
“Layla! Layla, would you bring us a nice cup of tea. And some of those biscuits your father likes. Thank you!”
She turned back into the room.
“I think a little chat between women calls for a cup of tea, don’t you?”
It was over an hour later that Maisie left the apartment of Dr. Chaudhary Jones. Layla accompanied her to the door.
“Thank you, Layla,” said Maisie. “Your mother is a remarkable woman.”
“Yes, she is.” The young woman paused, smiling at Maisie. “But she’s just like any other mother, really.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Maisie.
“I know so. She’s already putting away little baby clothes in anticipation of becoming a grandmother—and she’s not looking to my brother to give her that exalted status.”
“All in good time, Layla.”
“Not any time, Miss Dobbs. Not for me.”
Maisie bid the young woman good-bye, and walked out into the mid-afternoon sun. Her smile was short-lived, though, as she thought back to Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones’ words. I would say that you’re looking for someone—and don’t rule out the fact that it might be a woman—who was fearful of the shadow that emerged when they saw Miss Pramal.
Chapter Eleven
The Martin home stood on a leafy street in St. John’s Wood. Most of the houses were just visible behind tall hedges and seemed to be of Georgian architecture. Maisie’s destination, though, a grand house built in the later years of Edward VII’s reign, was inspired by an architectural style favored by wealthy merchants in Tudor times, but with a front door on the corner of the house, rather than at the front. Above it a square bay window seemed to jut out with self-importance, as if it were an afterthought added by a builder anxious to put his stamp on the dwelling. Maisie could see swags of fabric behind the windows, and thought the interior might be quite dark. She wondered if it would have been too dark for a boy growing up, and reminded herself that Priscilla’s light and spacious home where few rules seemed to reign over the lives of the Partridge boys was the exception; the windows on so many houses were still lined in the heavy fabrics favored by a generation that came of age when Victoria was queen.
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