He nodded and smiled. “And we’re so easily dragged back again. Anyway, I first met Colin Griffith there, where he was working as an orderly—I believe he had been a conscientious objector in the war, not that I have any issue with that. I think by the time the fighting was over, a fair number of people had a lot more time for those who’d put their foot down about the war. Anyway, I think Griffith must have gone to Africa not long after the Armistice. I didn’t meet him again until this past year, and I don’t know him that well, as I said.”
Maisie asked a few more questions, and learned that, following the introduction by Griffith, Usha Pramal had met with Ashley just once before the two lectures, and never saw her again afterwards. It was as Maisie was leaving that Ashley added a personal reflection.
“She had an aura about her, Miss Pramal. It was as if . . . as if she was powerful and strong, and she knew it. But not in an overtly pushy way. She just knew she had something that others didn’t—a sort of self-possession.” He paused, sighing, then went on. “I don’t know how you do your job, or what knowledge makes a difference, but there are people who don’t like that presence, especially in a woman.”
Maisie waited, for she felt he had more to say.
“I know this sounds as if I’m a cranky art teacher—and you know, perhaps I am. Perhaps that’s why I came back to art, after the war—it’s a license to be a bit strange, after all; I sometimes think people expect it, so the fact that I am different doesn’t matter. And I’ve felt different, ever since the war.” He rubbed his damaged hand. “But the thing is, in all my experience as an artist, I have found that there are people who want to destroy beauty. Is that because it’s beyond them? Is it because beauty represents something they cannot have, or is not inside them? I have seen children destroy flowers growing alongside the canal. Of course, you can say, ‘That’s just children for you.’ But I don’t believe it at all—I believe there is some pain, something untoward in certain people—certain communities, even—perhaps it’s anger, a sense of dispossession or disenfranchisement, and they have to destroy that which brings joy, and love.”
Maisie nodded. “I think you’re right—but do you think that someone might have taken the life of Miss Pramal for this reason?”
He scratched his head with the curled fingers of his lame hand. “I hate to say it, but I think so. Yes, I think so, from what I have observed of the destructive nature of man. Perhaps there is nothing more unattainable than the beautiful outsider, so perhaps someone, somewhere, wanted to end a sense of their own ugliness by taking the life of the beautiful thing that gave weight to those feelings.” He shrugged. “It’s just all so very sad.” He looked up at Maisie. “I don’t know how you do your job, truly.”
She looked at Ashley, into his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know either. But at the end of the day, I do my job so that people like Usha Pramal have a voice. I cannot bring back their beauty to this world—and even the most ragged soul was once beautiful, Mr. Ashley. But I can stand up and find out the truth. Sometimes I’m successful and sometimes not. But I do my best.”
He nodded again. “I take my hat off to you, Miss Dobbs. Every time I see art desecrated, I want to strangle the person who did it.”
Maisie smiled. “Oh, I sometimes feel like that, too. But I also know that inside the perpetrator of a crime, inside the destroyer, there is often a work of art that has also been ravaged.”
She bid good-bye to the art teacher, who stood at the threshold of his office, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. And she knew she had just met another person whose heart had been touched by Usha Pramal.
But who had taken her life? With each interview, with each new nugget of information, and as her knowledge of the woman and her life took shape, she felt that Truth was playing games with her, as if she were being led through a forest by a sprite who sped in and out of trees saying, “Over here.” And behind each tree, under each leaf, there was just a little more to go on, but nothing that pointed to a killer.
As she walked to her motor car, the mist having lifted and the sun breaking through white clouds puffed with gray, she wondered again if Ashley had ever seen Simon at the convalescent home in Richmond—Simon, the young army doctor wounded alongside Maisie when the casualty clearing station in which they struggled to save lives torn apart by war came under enemy attack. He had been her first and most special love, yet he had lingered for years in a netherworld of existence, brain injured and shell-shocked, before finally succumbing to his wounds. She had struggled to put memories of their love and the terror of that war behind her, and now she wondered if this man before her, himself battling wounds long after the war had officially ended, had ever walked past Simon’s wheelchair placed in the conservatory. Had he perhaps sat alongside him, close to the window where leaves of so many green and luscious plants were reflected in his blank, unseeing eyes, their shimmering almost creating the myth that there was movement somewhere in his mind? And she wondered if, in going away, in leaving this country, she would expunge that final vapor of the dragon’s breath. Oh yes, the dragon. Priscilla had described their memories of war as being like a dragon that lived deep inside. The dragon had to be kept quiet, had to be mollified; otherwise he could breathe fire into the most ordinary of days. If a journey overseas could slay that dragon once and for all, she could not wait to be on her way.
She would go to see the Reverend Griffith again now, and return to the street where children played hopscotch and cricket on cobblestones in threadbare shoes cut down from old footwear meant for adults. And she would draw up the list of people she still wanted to see, and those to whom she would pay another visit. There were more statements to collate, more information to add to the case map. She had met many men in the police force who maintained that the killer is present early in an investigation, that in the hours after a murder, the name of the man or woman who took the life of another is there written among the names of so many suspects. There was some truth in that assertion—Caldwell always said that you should keep your eye on the person who found the body—but on the other hand, though the link might be there, the chain could lead anywhere; it could be far away or hidden in the shadows. A group of boys found Usha Pramal, and two young dockworkers discovered the body of Maya Patel. And as Priscilla often told her, pinning down boys was a bit like herding cats.
“Miss Dobbs! A pleasure to see you once again—have you good news regarding your investigation? Will someone be brought to justice for taking the life of dear Usha?”
Maisie thought the greeting was just a little too effusive, though Reverend Griffith, she realized, always seemed to be on tiptoe, enthusiastic to a fault—which, considering the competition for congregation in the area, was hardly surprising. Only a small percentage of the community attended church, and she’d already seen quite a few places of worship vying for their allegiance.
“Just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind—have you a moment?”
Griffith led her into his sitting room cum study, where, once again, it appeared he was struggling to compose a sermon, evidenced by the many crumpled pieces of paper in and around a wastepaper basket.
“I see you looking at the fruits of my labors this morning, Miss Dobbs. Let me assure you, I waste not, want not and each discarded sheet has seen both sides penned from margin to margin. To be honest, I write the sermon, but in most cases, I say what’s on my mind anyway. I might as well not struggle and just allow the muse to inspire me on the day, but sermon preparation is part of a vicar’s life, and if the bishop thought I’d ad-libbed my way through the Sunday service hoping for a gentle whisper in my ear from the likes of Polyhymnia, that dear goddess of the sacred word, he would be appalled. And I might be in terrible trouble.”
Griffith held out his hand toward a chair; Maisie took her seat, followed by the vicar, who relaxed back into his chair.
“I’ve been having a word with Harry Ashley. I’d heard that Miss Pramal had helped him with a lecture on color and
texture, so I thought he might know her. He said you had suggested he speak to her.”
“Yes, that’s right. I know Harry from his time in convalescence, as he’s probably told you.”
Maisie nodded. “Reverend Griffith, I believe that, having returned from Africa, you went on to work in India for several years.”
He nodded. “Did I not tell you that? I’m sorry. Perhaps I said that I was a missionary only in Africa. Besides, I wasn’t in India that long, a matter of just a few years. And don’t mind my telling you, I didn’t like it at all. I suppose I was spoiled by Africa—I loved my first missionary work in British East Africa, so taking on the job of a government scribe in India probably wasn’t a very good decision.”
“I suppose you didn’t come across the Pramal family while you were there.”
Griffith laughed. “Oh, come now, Miss Dobbs. That would be like a visitor to London asking if you happen to know their cousin who lives in Shetland—not very likely, is it?”
“I see your point,” said Maisie.
“It’s a common error, though, among those who haven’t wandered beyond this sceptered isle.”
Maisie blushed, feeling the criticism inherent in his comment. She was not beyond a retort of her own. “Do you think your experience of India, limited though it was to the civil service, contributed to your understanding of Miss Pramal?”
“My true calling has given me a certain understanding and tolerance that others might not have, and it was clear that Miss Pramal was an intelligent woman. I thought there might be some talk among the parents regarding her work with the children at Sunday school, but I was surprised—the children were enchanted with her and she knew her Scripture, so there were no complaints.” He paused and leaned forward towards Maisie, his elbows resting on his knees. “Look, I know you are turning over every leaf, stone, pebble, and fluttering piece of paper left on the ground in your quest to find the killer of Usha Pramal, but I really don’t think I can help you, Miss Dobbs. If you find yourself at a dead end, then that is perhaps because there is nothing here. I have struggled to find a reason for the death of such a lovely creature on God’s earth, and have come to the conclusion that the person might be long gone, that it was likely random.”
“And her friend, Miss Patel?”
He scratched his head. “Oh yes, I had forgotten about that. Well, in any case, I really can’t help you—I wish I could offer you more.”
It was as he lifted his hand to his head that Maisie saw the black woven bracelet on his wrist.
“Oh, you have an elephant hair bracelet.”
“This? Yes, I made it myself—in fact, once I learned, I made quite a few. This one is from an Indian elephant, though—”
“These bracelets are usually from Africa, aren’t they?”
“That’s right. To the African people, the elephant is a sort of link between heaven and earth—the knots represent different things, and one like this has two knots, for the bond between earth and nature. If I was wearing this on my right hand, you’d have to be worried, because it would mean I had killed the elephant myself. In any case, it is said that wearing the bracelet protects the wearer from all manner of ills.”
Maisie nodded. “Why do you wear it? As a man of the cloth, do you not feel protected?”
He smiled. “As a man of the cloth here, in this place, I am always thinking of ways in which to be of service to my parishioners, especially the younger ones—to be honest with you, anything to steer them away from trouble. In places of want, there’s always a criminal element ready to prey on the young. So, I do my part to keep them busy, especially boys who are coming up to working age; eleven, twelve, thirteen.”
“And how do the bracelets play a part?”
“I give each boy one of these—so they’re in my gang, if you like. Gangs offer the change of belonging to something, and I just want to make sure it’s the right sort of gang.”
“What do you do?”
“First, what I don’t do—I don’t ram the Bible down their throats, but I can teach in all sorts of ways. I’ve taken boys out to the country, to fish—then I can slide in a story about Christ and the fisherman. I have taken them across the river—some have never been to see Buckingham Palace, or the Changing of the Guard. That’s a perfect place to introduce the story of the eye of the needle. And I set them up with games—there’s that land that edges down to the canal, so I’ve taught them how to build a fire without matches or paper, and how to build a camp. The self-sufficiency gives them confidence, helps them to see beyond the boundaries of their lives here, on the streets. We can talk about Jesus and his disciples, and the bonds between friends.”
“And you all have these bracelets.”
He shrugged. “Better than all having a weapon, isn’t it, Miss Dobbs? Or a prison record in common to show allegiance.”
“Yes, of course. However, I wonder, do you meet on the same day each week? Or is it a monthly arrangement?”
“The boys’ club meets on the first Wednesday of the month, in the church hall at seven o’clock in the evening.”
“And do the same boys come along each time?”
“Generally, though some drop in and out, dependent upon whether they’re needed at home. Most of the mothers like it, but some of the fathers tend to tease the lads—a bit of jealousy, perhaps. We plan our adventures throughout the month at the Wednesday meeting.”
“Have you seen anyone new in the past few months, someone not from this area?”
“I try not to ask too many questions, Miss Dobbs. The parents in these parts are suspicious of questions, and so are the children. I’ve noticed newcomers from outside the area, but I just get on with welcoming them to the fold.”
Maisie looked at Griffith’s hands again, and considered the rough skin on his right hand. “Do you shoot, Reverend Griffith?”
“That’s not a question a vicar has to answer every day of the week, and I do hope you aren’t suggesting I took the life of Miss Pramal.”
Maisie shook her head. “I’m just interested, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually, I do. But not living things, not God’s creatures, bright and beautiful, great and small. I confess that, when I was in Africa, I accompanied some acquaintances on a safari, and what I saw sickened me. But I am not against shooting lumps of clay flying through the air, and I have discovered that, given the chance, my boys rather like it, too—it gets rid of the frustrations of being a young boy in a man’s world of work in the factories, the docks, the market, or down the sewers.”
“You allow the boys to shoot?”
“All very organized, in fact, I approached some local businessmen—the wealthier ones, not the greengrocers and suchlike—and asked for their help. They’re men who engage in that sort of recreation, and one by one I tugged on their conscience, so that once a year I organize a charabanc down to Surrey where the boys can have some fun and learn clay pigeon shooting.”
“I thought there were shooting schools in London,” said Maisie.
“Yes, there are, and shooting of clay targets has been popular for years—you may remember the first open shooting championship was held in London about six years ago. But not for lads from this part of the world, I’m afraid. And it does them the power of good to get away from their home turf, if only for a day.”
“Were any of them a good shot?”
Griffith shook his head. “That’s a bit transparent, Miss Dobbs. Why not ask if I thought any of them could have killed Miss Pramal, if only they’d have had the weapon and the ammo?” He sighed. “To tell you the truth, they were all over the place, shots going everywhere but at the target. There were a couple who showed talent, who had a good eye.”
“Do they enjoy it?”
“For the most part they see it as a lark and a chance to let off steam.”
“I won’t keep you any longer, Reverend Griffith. I would like to ask you one question, though—what kind of shot are you?”
“Sadly, Miss
Dobbs, I am an excellent shot. I have no idea where the talent came from, for I do not practice in any way, but I always hit my target spot-on—and even with a Webley. Pity the same could not be said for my sermons.”
Maisie smiled and held out her hand, wondering whether to ask just one more question, one she felt would nip at her if she didn’t.
“I’ll leave you in peace then. And best of luck with your sermon.” As she shook his hand, she noticed that his clerical collar seemed just a little askew. “I must ask, however—how on earth did you know that Usha Pramal was killed with a Webley?”
“After the boys discovered her body, I thought it would be wise to have the entire club in here, to talk about matters of life and death—perhaps try to circumvent the nightmares that would inevitably follow finding the body, and the tales that would be told time and again among the lads. I encouraged them to talk about it, about what they had seen and so on, and one of them mentioned that it was probably a Webley. I don’t know where he got the information, but he seemed knowledgeable. I suspected he had overheard the police.”
“Which one was it?”
Griffith stared out at the garden as if he regretted the ungoverned comment, then turned to Maisie. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember.”
Chapter Thirteen
Maisie thought she might be able to take a guess at the name of the boy who had identified the gun that killed Usha Pramal and Maya Patel. And it wasn’t one of the local boys she had in mind. Instead of making her way back to Fitzroy Square, she stopped at a telephone kiosk and placed a call to the office to inform Sandra that she would not be in until after lunch, as she had changed her plans and was going directly to Scotland Yard.
“Oh, just as well you telephoned, Miss Dobbs. Detective Inspector Caldwell called this morning, with some news. Apparently, that lad—the one who found the body of Maya Patel—has absconded. They couldn’t hold him anyway because he hadn’t done anything, but as you know, he was in new lodgings. Now he’s gone.”
Leaving Everything Most Loved Page 17