“Just as I was going over to get permission to see him.”
“He’s important, isn’t he?”
“And not only because he found Maya Patel. I’m very anxious to see him.”
“Miss,” said Sandra, “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think it might be an idea to go into Miss Patel’s room again. I don’t think she was killed because she was an Indian woman, though it might seem like that. I reckon she knew who the killer was—and that was why she wanted to talk to you.”
Maisie nodded, pushing the door of the telephone kiosk ajar—she always felt trapped in such small places. “Yes, you’re right, Sandra. Here’s an idea: Leave as soon as you can and take the Underground to the Elephant and Castle Station. I’ll collect you and then we’ll go back to Addington Square and see if we can view Maya Patel’s room together—another pair of eyes might see something I’ve missed. What do you think?”
“Just one moment, Miss. Would you hold the line?”
Maisie frowned. Why did Sandra want her to hold the line? Her question was soon answered.
“ ’Lo, Miss.”
“Billy! Billy, what are you doing at work? You should be at home, digging your garden or playing with your boys.”
“I had to come into the City this morning. But what I thought was that if you want, I could look for that boy—the one who found Miss Patel. I’ve got a few hours to spare, so I could ask some questions, have a sniff around.”
“The police have already done that, Billy—and I think you should go home.”
“I’m a bit bored, Miss. And it’s only one afternoon, ain’t it?”
Maisie sighed. “Billy, I have to put my foot down. I am concerned for your health and I want you to get well. I know you want to help and I know you have a good idea, but you must go home.”
“All right. I’ll go home and dig the garden.”
“It’ll do you good. Now, I must speak to Sandra again.”
As the receiver was passed between the two, Maisie heard Billy mutter something and Sandra giggled.
“I’ll see you at the station, Sandra. Make sure you have a bite to eat before we leave, won’t you?”
“Oh, Billy brought in some sandwiches, and we’re just finishing them with a cup of tea before he goes off again.”
“Right you are. Half an hour.”
Maisie smiled, a brief smile, as if Sandra could see her. But she didn’t feel very much like smiling. She felt like a child who was being instructed by her teacher to sit on her hands to stop her fidgeting, and she knew she was fidgeting because she wanted to stop whatever was going on between Billy and Sandra—which might be nothing, of course. On the other hand, it could be something. And she had no right in the world to interfere.
Built in 1890, the Elephant and Castle Station was a grand Arts and Crafts–style structure designed by Leslie Green, who had been the architect of so many London Underground stations. Sandra emerged from the terra-cotta and white building and ran towards Maisie’s MG, taking her place in the passenger seat. They were soon on their way along Walworth Road towards Addington Square.
“I hope there’s someone home when we get there,” said Sandra. “Those remaining Indian women are all somewhere else now, aren’t they?”
“It’s a chance we have to take, though Mrs. Paige doesn’t look like someone who goes out visiting much, unless it’s to church, or to a women’s meeting.” Maisie paused as she changed gear to turn a corner. “And speaking of women’s meetings, how are you getting on with your society?”
“Once a week, Miss Dobbs. We’re working hard to get equal pensions for women. And next week we’re going to a lecture by Ellen Wilkinson.”
“Red Ellen? She lost her parliamentary seat a couple of years ago, didn’t she?”
“Oh, she’ll be back. I’m positive about it. Anyway, I’m looking forward to hearing what she has to say.”
“That’ll be something to remember, Sandra—she’s a firebrand. I like her.”
Maisie could see that Sandra was a little more relaxed in the MG now, more used to being in a motor car.
“I bet it was nice to see Billy again today. The office is probably quite quiet when I’m not there,” said Maisie.
“Oh, there’s always a lot to get on with, and as soon as we’re back I’ve to go over to Mr. Partridge—luckily, he’s seeing his publisher again today, so he doesn’t need me until about three.”
“I’ll drop you at his office, if you like.” Maisie paused again. “Do you think Billy looked well?”
“I thought he looked better, Miss. Not completely well. But better.”
“It’s probably lovely for the family to be together a bit more. I bet Doreen is grateful to have him at home.” Maisie felt the clumsiness in her words.
Sandra looked out of the passenger window. “Hmmm.”
“Do you not think so, Sandra?”
“It’s not for me to say.”
“Not for you to say what? Come on, you can tell me what’s on your mind.”
Sandra turned to face Maisie, who was keeping her eyes on the road. “I think she’s a weak woman. I know all about them losing their little girl, and no one can tell someone how to get over that sort of thing, but I know what it’s like to lose someone, too—and so do you, Miss. But you don’t drag everyone else down with you, not to my mind. And that’s what she’s doing to Billy. I think she should pull her socks up.”
Maisie cleared her throat, now wishing she’d kept a lid on this particular Pandora’s box. “Sandra, I think you have a point, but at the same time, I have worked with people who have psychiatric illnesses, and it’s not always as clear cut as that. You and I have been fortunate, we have been able—to a point—to get on with things. We know that you throw your line out to a rock somewhere, and pull yourself through the oncoming tide to the next landing place. Someone suffering as Doreen has doesn’t have the strength to do that, so she can only thrash around in the current, trying to get to the rock.”
“But she’s taking Billy down. If you look at it like that, Miss, she’s got her hands around his neck and she’s pulling him down while he’s swimming for both of them—and look at him.” Sandra folded her hands in her lap, her color heightened by the strength of her words.
“Sandra,” said Maisie. “Perhaps you’ve become a little too close to Billy—to his problems—so you can see only what’s happening to him, rather than how they are coping as a couple. They’ve had some very difficult times, but they will come through it, if given the chance. He could not leave Doreen, ever. He’s too good a person. So they will make their way together. And soon, I believe, things will get much better for them. It’s hard for people to leave everything they love, you know, and Billy loves his family very, very much.”
Maisie slowed the MG, and parked by the side of the road, knowing Sandra’s eyes had filled with tears.
“Oh, Miss . . .” Sandra began to weep almost as soon as Maisie put her arms around her. “I’ve made a fool of myself, making up to a married man, and me a widow. I thought I was doing well, you know, I thought I was getting over it all, what with my college and these new friends I’ve made. But I realized—” She choked as she took a handkerchief from Maisie. “I realized I was becoming a different person. If Eric was here, he wouldn’t know me. He would wonder who I was. And I do miss him. I miss us coming home to each other, being there, and then knowing, when he went down to work in the morning, that we would come home to each other again. Now I have all this coming and going, and learning, and working, and it’s all very well, but there’s no being with someone at the end of the day. Someone to talk to, to have your tea with, to go out to the picture house with or to walk out with. There’s all the others, but not the one. And having that one is special. That’s what I think.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “And when my Eric died, when I heard him calling and I ran down the street to hold his hand as he was bleeding to death, I knew it wasn’t the pain in his body that was hurting most. N
o, it was because he was leaving me and he was trying to hold on to me. I know he really loved me. He really did.”
“I know, Sandra. You were made for each other, anyone could see that. But think of it like this, that he is never far, in your heart. I know those words are thin, but you have been such an honor to his memory, and he loved you so much he wouldn’t want you to turn back. You can’t, Sandra. Just think of how proud he would be, how much he would love you for everything you’re doing—even going to see Red Ellen.”
Sandra laughed through her tears. “Oh yes, we’d have a giggle about that, a right bellyacher.”
“And let’s let Doreen and Billy get through this together, just the two of them, if we can.”
Maisie slipped the idling motor car into gear again, and pulled out into traffic.
“You’re a fine one to talk, Miss. The reason Billy came up to town was because he’d been asked to see someone at the Compton Corporation, in the City. They’ve offered him a job. Not starting yet, apparently, but in November, when they’ve had some work done on the offices and some other sorting out. It’s to do with office security, from people using the telephones to keeping an eye on who comes in and out. They said it’s a new position, and he’d come highly recommended.”
“Did he say he’d take the job?”
Sandra nodded. “He said he’d hate to leave you, leave the business—he thinks a lot of you, Miss, says that without you, he’d be nothing—but on the other hand, it’s regular hours, no evenings, no Saturday afternoons or Sundays. He said Doreen would like it.”
“I confess, I recommended him for a position, but I didn’t know the fine details. I’m sure he’ll tell me all about it. It’ll be a good job for him—and you’ll see, everything will calm down in the family, once they have a regular routine.”
“Leave in the morning, and come home to the ones you love at night,” added Sandra as they parked outside the Paiges’ house in Addington Square. “It’s what keeps people going, that.”
Mrs. Paige sighed when she saw it was Maisie at the door.
“I really don’t know what I can do for you, Miss Dobbs. This business has cast a dreadful pall on Mr. Paige and me, and we were only trying to do good—and now these terrible deaths have started our neighbors talking, and I don’t know what it’s all coming to.”
“I know, Mrs. Paige. It must be very difficult for you. But may we come in? This is my assistant, Mrs. Tapley—she sometimes comes with me to see people, if that’s all right with you.”
“You might as well come into the parlor.”
Mrs. Paige led the way into the small room, and they were soon seated.
“I’m interested in Miss Maya Patel, and wanted to ask some more questions. You’ve said that they were very friendly, she and Miss Pramal, but I was wondering if you ever noticed anything, well, amiss, in the friendship.” Mrs. Paige seemed confused, the creases between her eyebrows deepening as she listened, so Maisie continued. “For example, you told me that Miss Pramal was a very ebullient person, always smiling, one for whom each day was a reason to smile. Was Miss Patel the same, and if not, what do you think she thought of Miss Pramal?”
“I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Paige. She cleared her throat and began to gather the fabric of her dress into a concertina at her knee—making tiny pleats with her busy fingers, then pressing the material flat and gathering it again. “I will say this—and I might have mentioned it before—but I think Maya Patel was in thrall to Miss Pramal. It was as if she were some sort of handmaiden, that’s what I thought when I saw them walk down the road together, to church, say. I think they knew a lot about each other—just like most women, they talked, and they must have spoken about personal matters. They become quite close, our ladies here. I can only imagine that the ones the police have put up in other lodgings must want to come back, because this is their home, isn’t it?”
Maisie thought that while the house wasn’t exactly like home, it was likely something of a comforting refuge for women who had been cast out by their employers.
Sandra cleared her throat, as if gathering courage to speak; it was a habit Maisie had noticed and thought might diminish as she gained confidence. She imagined her waiting until the last minute to ask a question following a lecture at college.
“Mrs. Paige, had you noticed any change in the women in the days before Miss Pramal was murdered? Did one or both of them seem more, well, morose? Unhappy? Or even sunnier than usual?”
“I didn’t see them as much as you might think, Mrs. Tapley. The women went out in the morning, to work; they came back in the evening or the afternoon—if they were in early, the time was their own. They had jobs around the house here, and at night we had our supper and some Bible study—and I’m a busy woman, I can’t go looking at the women, wondering what they’re thinking.” She began pleating the fabric of her dress again. “But I remember saying to Mr. Paige—must have been a month before Miss Pramal died—that she didn’t seem very happy, and we put it down to one of her jobs. And as for Miss Patel, she hadn’t been herself since the murder, which is understandable.”
“Could you tell us about the job that you think caused Miss Pramal’s unhappiness?” said Maisie.
“We put an advertisement in the paper every now and again, so we have cleaning and household jobs lined up for the women, and there was an inquiry from a housekeeper over in St. John’s Wood, needing a bit of extra help for a short period of time—it was for spring cleaning, not last year, but the year before. Miss Pramal went over there, and I don’t think she liked it much. I put it down to the journey, but on the other hand, our women can’t expect to get their jobs around the corner. All the same, she stayed on there for a good while—not a regular day every week, but as and when needed. I asked Miss Patel about it, if Miss Pramal was unhappy, and she said it was the sick woman at the house making it awkward. Well, you know how they can be about sickness—very funny, to my mind. No wonder there’s all them Indian students at St. Thomas’ Hospital, learning to be doctors, I mean, they’ve got to take proper medical practices back over there, haven’t they? What with putting their bodies in the Ganges River to float off to heaven—thank the Lord we were able to bring the Bible to our ladies.”
Maisie glanced at Sandra. Mrs. Paige had been more forthcoming than at any other time.
“Do you have the name of the customer, Mrs. Paige?” asked Maisie.
“I can check in my books.”
“While you’re doing that, might we have a quick look in Miss Patel’s room again, and Miss Pramal’s quarters, too?”
“You might as well—you’ll have to take yourself up there, though. I’ll have to trust you.”
Maisie and Sandra made their way up the stairs.
“You know who the customer is, don’t you, Miss?” said Sandra.
“I’m quite sure I do, because I spoke to the sick woman’s nurse. I had to inquire further of Mrs. Paige—it wouldn’t seem right if I hadn’t asked the question. Here we are, this is Maya Patel’s room.”
Maisie opened the door, and for a moment the two women did not move, but stood on the threshold looking in.
“It’s as if no one ever lived here,” said Sandra. “I mean, there’s things, bits and pieces, but there’s no feeling of her, is there?” She stepped into the room, though Maisie did not follow. “A room should tell you something about a person, shouldn’t it? I think this room tells me that Maya Patel tried hard to make things comfortable for herself. She wanted things soft—and from what I saw of that woman downstairs, and the way she worked these ayahs, it was far from restful here.”
Maisie could see that there was little more to be gleaned from a search of Maya Patel’s room—the Indian woman had taken any confidences shared, any secrets told, and kept them to herself. Now only supposition would draw back the veil on the motive for her murder—unless she found the killer and a confession revealed why her life was taken. Closing the door, Maisie pointed to the staircase, and they made their
way up to Usha Pramal’s attic room.
Following Maisie into the room, Sandra picked up the small statuette of Ganesh. “For a churchgoing woman, she hadn’t left her true beliefs far behind, had she?”
“I think she knew it was important to her employers, to learn the Bible stories, and she was a sharp, intelligent woman, good enough to teach Sunday school. But she was not going to leave her culture far behind.” Maisie looked around the room. “I don’t see anything new here. My guess is that both Usha and Maya knew the Paiges would come into their rooms on occasion, so they wouldn’t leave anything out that was important. I know Usha concealed things.” She turned to Sandra. “Usha saved a fair amount of money that she hid in this room—I discovered it, almost by accident. I don’t know exactly how she earned that money, but I suspect she had a talent—skill, gift, call it what you like—for easing pain, by touch and by blending various herbs and spices. I remember Dr. Elsbeth Masters—you remember her, she was the one who treated Doreen; I worked with her once, years ago—well, she was brought up in Africa, and she once told me that as a child she had seen the local native women use simple herbs picked from among the grasses to cure something as dreadful as cancer. Dr. Masters is a fine physician, but she said she knew that much valuable, timeless knowledge is being lost from so many places around the world where missionaries—and doctors—have settled. I think Usha was probably doing something that came quite naturally to her, but she also had something else, and that was the willingness to touch someone who was sick.” Maisie looked out of the window, partly to prevent Sandra from seeing the tears that had welled up in her eyes. “I remember, when I was a nurse, a man—he had been terribly wounded in the war—saying to me that people don’t touch you when you’re mutilated, when you’re sick, even those who love you most. Perhaps that was Usha’s gift, that she had no fear of touching people, no sense of propriety even in her own country. Remember . . .” She turned to Sandra. “Remember her brother saying how much it distressed his family, that she would touch people, would be too forthcoming, simply in greeting.”
Leaving Everything Most Loved Page 18