Sandra nodded. “What a maze this is, Miss Dobbs. A real web to unravel.”
They both searched Usha Pramal’s room, and Maisie ran her hands across the mattress again, just in case. She had a sense that almost all the clues she would find in this case were already in her possession, and alone they might not be enough. But she was about to be given a name, and knew already that it would be Jesmond Martin.
After they had descended the staircase and had been given the slip of paper confirming the name she had known would come up once again, she asked one more question of Mrs. Paige.
“I know that any monies belonging to Miss Pramal will go to her brother, however, you must also have savings put by for Miss Patel, too. What will you do with them, as no next of kin has been identified?”
“We’ll give it to the Reverend Griffith, of course. The church always needs money, and those women have much to thank the Lord for, so the money goes to the Lord.”
Maisie nodded. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Paige. Thank you very much.” As she stepped out across the threshold, Maisie turned to Mrs. Paige. “Such a nice afternoon, isn’t it? Is Mr. Paige out walking, taking advantage of the weather before it turns?”
“Probably. He said he was going to see Reverend Griffith, but he likes a walk, especially along the canal. He walks there almost every day.”
“I see, well, it’s a good day for it. Thank you, Mrs. Paige.”
Maisie started the MG as Sandra settled in the passenger seat. Before setting off, they both looked at the house belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Paige: a place of refuge for women who were so far from home.
“What do you think, Sandra?”
“Well, I’m only a beginner at this, but I would say she didn’t have anything to do with the deaths of those women, but I don’t think her motives for having them there have been completely altruistic—is that the right word?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, I don’t think they’re as much do-gooders as they look. I would say that they’ve set themselves up nicely, on the work of those women. They’ve given them a roof over their heads, I’ll grant you that, but they’ve looked after themselves, too. And I bet this Reverend Griffith doesn’t get as much as they say—probably just a few extra coppers on the collection plate. Or maybe he’s in on it as well, and does all right.”
As they crossed the river, Maisie added another thought to their discussion. “One glaring gap in all this is the Allisons. When did you say they were due back from their holiday?” asked Maisie.
“On Sunday, according to the housekeeper. So you should be able to see them on Monday.”
“Good. And in the meantime, I would like you to visit the two women who employed Usha Pramal: Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Hampton. Confirm the terms of employment—hours, wage, and so on—and just ask a few more questions to see if they noticed anything out of the ordinary in the weeks before Usha died. Did she turn up for work on time? Was she working to her usual standard? Frankly, Sandra, we both know that most of these employers don’t notice a thing about the staff, so you might see if you can ask a few questions of anyone who worked with Usha. There’s not a moment to lose now. I’m going to try to see Jesmond Martin tomorrow—and wouldn’t it be good news if Billy had found the boy? I have a feeling that not only is he the son we’ve been charged to find, but he’s also this ‘Marty’ the boys have talked about.”
“Two birds with one stone then.”
“Two birds with one stone,” said Maisie. “Just like Usha and Maya—two women killed with one gun. Except that boy might not know as much as we’re hoping he does.”
With Sandra dropped at the office of Douglas Partridge—somewhat later than she was due at her second job—Maisie returned to the office, which was late-afternoon quiet. She pinned out the case map and added some more information, linked a couple of statements she’d penned onto the sheet of paper, and ballooned in a separate color. Like those stones across a river, they would soon lead her across the waters of ignorance to knowledge of Usha Pramal’s killer, she hoped. And there was something else playing on her mind. Now she had made the decision to close her business, to leave London, Kent, and—perhaps only for a while—James, she thought it would probably be best if she began to make firm her plans. If she was going to go, she had better get on with it; rather like tearing a dressing from a wound, she must make her arrangements and simply go, as soon as this case was closed and all ends tied. It seemed as if Billy’s immediate future might be settled, so now she must think of getting Sandra placed in another job, and of talking to Frankie—leaving her father, even for a sojourn of a few months, might be one of the worst decisions she had ever made, at his age. But she knew he would be the first person to say she should follow her dream. He had always, without exception, been her greatest supporter, even considering the part that Maurice had played in her life.
She scribbled a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Allison for Sandra to type the following day, and jotted a plain postcard to Mr. Pramal at his hotel—there was no telephone at such a small establishment—asking him to please get in touch so she could keep him apprised of her work thus far. A telephone call to Detective Inspector Caldwell informed her that, no, the boy they knew as Martin Robertson had not been found, though Caldwell was somewhat more sanguine about the lad’s disappearance, saying it was probably the shock of finding a body and then having to deal with the police. “His sort don’t like the boys in blue much, even when we’re not out to sling them in clink.”
Maisie had sighed, though Caldwell’s droll comments had come to amuse rather than annoy her.
Maisie realized she had been delaying her departure from the office. She had been fiddling with small tasks, pinning papers together that really did not need to be pinned, or filing papers that would usually be put on Sandra’s desk to attend to the following day. But she had made a late commitment to go to the Otterburn house for the supper party, and go to the house she would, no matter how much unfinished business she might have with the man in question.
James was already home by the time Maisie pulled into the mews behind the Ebury Street mansion. Forsaking protocol, she entered by the kitchen door, told the servants—all of whom stood to attention as she entered—that they should take no notice, she was in a hurry, before proceeding to run up the back stairs to the floor where her rooms were situated. She knew she had crossed a boundary by doing such a thing, but since coming to live at the house—and she lived there most of the time now—she had pressed against boundaries more and more, mainly, she realized, to escape a sense that she might suffocate under the weight of expectation. Now the servants, all of whom were fairly new employees, would know that Maisie was very familiar with the hidden stairs and entryways that were the exclusive domain of downstairs staff.
A navy blue box with gold ribbon binding had been left on her bed; the gift seemed almost too exquisite to open.
“Well, aren’t you dying to look inside?” James stood behind her, a whiskey and water in one hand, and already almost dressed for their outing—his shirt was open at the neck, with cuffs unlinked. He ran his free hand through blond hair silvered with gray, and smiled.
“Oh, James, what have you done?”
He came to her and held her to him. “Spent money wildly and lavishly on the woman I love—oh, what a sin.”
“James, I—”
“Oh, do just open it, Maisie. Can’t you for once accept a gift without admonishing the person who loves you enough to want to surprise you, to give you wonderful things?”
She smiled and carefully loosened the satin ribbon, which ran through her fingers as softly as if it were warm cream. The box was sturdy, though the lid came off with ease to reveal sheets of the finest gold tissue paper. Maisie gasped as she slowly lifted a dress in silk of the darkest violet, with silver threads added just so, that to wear the dress would be like being part of the night sky above.
“I thought it matched your eyes,” said James.
Maisie held the dress against her and wal
ked to the bevel mirror in the corner of the room. With long sleeves and a boat neckline—the cut accentuated her fine collarbones—the dress was draped in the bodice and from the waist fell in a slender column cut on the bias, to just above the ankle. A narrow belt in the same fabric with a silver clasp put a delicate finishing touch on an exquisite gown.
“Oh my. Oh my goodness, James, this is so gorgeous. I can hardly dare to wear it.”
“Dare you will, and”—he looked at his watch—“in forty minutes we should be on our way or we’ll be late. Drink while you’re changing, my love?”
She shook her head. “I daren’t. I might spill some. Oh dear, what will Priscilla say? Perfect, just perfect, and it’s not even one of her cast-offs.” She laid the dress on the bed and went to James. He held her in his arms. “Thank you, James—you’ve spoiled me and I don’t deserve it.”
“I love you, Maisie.”
“And I love you, too,” said Maisie. And she knew, in her heart, that her words were true. She loved James, and realized that there was something in what Sandra had said about having someone to come home to. And it didn’t depend upon a new dress.
Though she usually shunned assistance from the maid who had been assigned to help her personally, Maisie summoned Madeleine to help her dress—she was so scared that she might spoil the new gown. Her hair had grown longer, so she thought she might wear it pinned up for the evening. Madeleine proved to be an expert hairdresser, her nimble fingers fashioning a braid from ear to ear that brushed against the nape of her neck. When she had finished, and before Madeleine helped her into the new garment, Maisie used a mirror to look at the braid. She touched the skin under the woven black hair.
“Are you sure you can’t see my scar?” asked Maisie. “I wouldn’t want it to show.”
Madeleine came closer, frowning. “What scar, Miss Dobbs? I never saw no scar.”
Maisie turned and took the girl’s hand in hers, causing her to blush. “Thank you, Madeleine. You’re a dear.”
Maisie stopped to make one final check in the mirror before joining James. Her high cheekbones were enhanced by her hair being drawn back, and her eyes seemed deeper as they reflected the color and sheen of the gown, which fitted perfectly. She already owned a pair of black satin shoes, which would do nicely, and matched the black clutch bag she would carry with her. She would not take a wrap, as she had nothing to complement the dress—and the evening was not too cold in any case.
“I think that will do, don’t you, Madeleine?”
“You look really lovely, Miss—like one of them film stars you see in the picture books.”
“Oh, you lovely girl. When I am bleary-eyed at the end of another working day, I will remember what you’ve said, and it will buoy me up.”
As she reached the door, the maid spoke again. “Miss, if I may ask, what scar were you talking about? Did you have an accident?”
Maisie smiled. “I was a nurse, in the war. I came home wounded . . . I was caught in the shelling, you see. But if you can’t see it, that’s a good sign—it means it’s almost gone.”
Chapter Fourteen
The party at the Otterburn mansion was much as Maisie expected it to be. A gathering in one of the grand reception rooms, much shaking of hands, effusive hellos, and champagne cocktails served as if the flow would never end. She was relieved to see Priscilla and Douglas Partridge among the guests, and Priscilla was doubly delighted to see her.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” said her friend. “I thought you had begged off this one.”
“I changed my mind.” Maisie sipped champagne from a crystal flute engraved with an O—as a self-made man, Otterburn did not have a coat of arms, so he used his initial to underline ownership of luxury.
“Probably just as well,” said Priscilla, nodding towards a young woman wearing a clinging white backless gown peppered with sequins, her cropped hair closely curled, as she made her way towards the group.
“James, it’s so good to see you again,” she said, lifting her lightly rouged cheek to his, and pressing her red lips together to kiss the air.
James blushed and stepped back. “Hello, Elaine. Lovely to see you, too.” He turned to Maisie, his hand at the small of her back, and introduced her to John Otterburn’s daughter, making it obvious with his tone and the way he touched Maisie that they were a couple.
Elaine Otterburn smiled at Maisie and offered her hand. “Lucky, lucky lady!” She turned to greet Priscilla and Douglas, whom she had met before, and then said she must be off to do the rounds. She smiled again, as if turning on a switch, then turned away, waving to a young man who had just entered the room.
“Whew, she’s a streak of lightning, that one,” said Douglas.
“But a damn good aviatrix, despite appearances,” said James. “Though a bit too forthcoming, to my mind—but then, she’s young.”
“Not that young,” said Priscilla, raising an eyebrow as she turned her attention to Maisie and began to recount the latest escapades of her three boys.
As Priscilla was speaking another couple entered the room and immediately garnered the attention of almost all present. Heads turned, then turned back again; women seemed at once less colorful than they thought themselves to be, and there was a split-second hush that propriety ended quickly. The learned scientist Raphael Jones had arrived, with his equally learned wife, Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones, resplendent in a sari of iridescent golden silk, with a deep burgundy border, embellished with delicate beading depicting a series of butterflies. Maisie had never seen anything so beautiful, and knew the sari had been handmade for Mrs. Chaudhary Jones; the butterflies must have been her own idea. However, it was James who surprised Maisie.
“Oh, good, there’s Raff.” He turned to Maisie, Priscilla, and Douglas. “Come on, I’ll introduce you—Raff is an extraordinary physicist and engineer, an expert on flight, velocity, maneuverability of aircraft, that sort of thing. Not met his wife before, but heard a lot about her—she’s just your sort, Maisie; very intelligent, an academic herself, I believe. Hello—Raff!” He waved, and they moved towards the couple, who were both drinking water with a slice of lemon.
The couples exchanged pleasantries following introductions, though Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones took the opportunity of an approaching footman to turn to Maisie. While passing him her empty glass, she whispered, “Let’s not tell them we’ve met; probably better for you, Maisie, given your work—which I am sure everyone knows about, even if they’d never say a word to you on the subject.”
Maisie nodded and smiled. She liked Mrs. Chaudhary Jones; she was indeed a thoughtful woman.
Soon supper was announced, and the guests took their places along the seemingly never-ending table. Fortunately, Maisie was seated next to Douglas on one side, and a well-known journalist on the other, and James was between Priscilla and Mrs. Chaudhary Jones. Elaine Otterburn was positioned well along the table, between the young man she’d greeted so effusively earlier and her mother’s brother, whom Maisie had had the poor fortune to be seated alongside at a supper earlier in the year—he was a drunk. Later, when Lorraine Otterburn stood to indicate it was time for the ladies to withdraw, leaving the men to their port and cigars, Maisie saw James step away from his chair and move towards Otterburn. Raphael Jones followed. Now it was clear. Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones’ British husband was the scientist working with Otterburn to develop the aircraft that he believed would be the answer to Britain’s defense prayers.
Thoughts spun through Maisie’s mind while sitting with the women, on occasion nodding in agreement as the conversation buzzed back and forth. Though she went through a process of reflection at the end of a case—originally instigated by Maurice, when she was his apprentice, wherein each place of note in the investigation was visited, as if to exorcise remaining ghosts of the inquiry—the emotions wrought by certain cases lingered, and she felt the weight of them in the drawing room she had previously visited in the midst of a major case at a time when she had been powerless
against the might of John Otterburn and the moral dilemma presented by his actions. He had brought about the death of a man in order to keep secret certain plans that would be to the advantage of Britain in a time of war, which he anticipated would happen within just a few years. The knowledge that she might never forgive herself for her failure to bring Otterburn to justice was once more brought to the forefront of her thoughts. And now she wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the room, leave Otterburn’s house, and she wanted to leave her country. But was it really her desire to see new lands and experience other cultures that drove her to seek adventure abroad, or was she running from frustration and failure? Perhaps it was as Dame Constance had counseled. Pilgrimage to the place of the wise is to find escape from the flame of separateness.
Her deliberations led her back to Usha Pramal, and she wondered again what painful experience she might have been running from, and what she was casting away in leaving her home for an unknown land so many miles away. Maisie was convinced it was ultimately her past, not the way she conducted herself in the present, that had brought about the woman’s death—and that of her loyal friend.
“You seemed to enjoy the party more than you thought you might, Maisie,” said James as they drove home some hours later.
“Well, Priscilla and Douglas were there. And I like Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones. I like her very much.”
“I thought you would.” He laughed. “And what about Elaine Otterburn? I think John ought not to depend upon her doing much flying in Canada, the way she was hanging on the every word of that chap she was sitting next to just before we left.”
“Perhaps not, James. But isn’t it supposed to be a woman’s prerogative, anyway—to change her mind.”
Though it was dark inside the motor car, she knew he was smiling.
Maisie was somewhat surprised to find Billy at the office when she arrived in the morning.
“Billy, how are you?”
Leaving Everything Most Loved Page 19