“Of course, and I understand that completely, Mr. Martin; however, we have been given a remit from you to find your son, and this is part of our investigation. I am sure you understand that some distress might have inspired him to run away. Miss Usha Pramal was not only a member of your household, albeit on a very ad hoc basis—I am sure you would recall her in time, as she was a person most beloved by all who knew her, and I understand much admired by your son, especially as she helped your wife to gain some freedom from the pain and distress she suffered due to those dreadful headaches.”
“Oh, you mean that bloody woman and her potions.” Martin unfolded his arms and once again rested his hands on the desk, fingers splayed. “I am a fair man, and broad-minded, but I could not have it. I just could not have it, a woman assuming the role of physician with no respect for my wishes and for the health of my wife. I could not allow such insubordination to continue. I admit—I gave orders for her to be dismissed at once.”
“Despite the fact that she helped your wife?”
“I don’t think that’s true—it was all in her mind.”
“But it helped—she was free from pain, I understand.”
“Miss Dobbs, I was not aware that my instructions to find my son included express permission to interrogate my staff and—it would seem—harass my wife.”
“Mr. Martin, I feel I must tell you that in my business I am often responsible for several cases at once—like you, I have a staff to support my work. But when two quite different cases intersect, it adds another dimension to my investigation, and I am probably more exacting in my questioning of those involved.”
“What do you mean?” Martin was staring at Maisie now.
“Maya Patel was the second murder of this type, as I mentioned. She was killed by a single shot to the head.” Maisie touched the middle of her forehead. “The first was Usha Pramal.”
Though it was slight, Maisie could not fail to notice Jesmond Martin blink several times in quick succession.
On the way back to her office, Maisie thought about the meeting with Jesmond Martin. What was his history? And how might she discover more about him? Could Robert Martin really be the “Martin Robertson” who had discovered Maya Patel, and who might now be living rough close to the place where Usha Pramal was discovered? According to his father, and subsequent corroboration from his school, Robert Martin was fourteen years of age. Usha Pramal was still in India when he was born, so a connection could be ruled out there. But what of his mother? What of her past, and could there possibly be any thread to link her to India?
Chapter Fifteen
Mr. Pramal’s hotel was a dreary narrow building close to Victoria Station, and of the same age, built to accommodate temporary visitors, travelers awaiting the next boat train, or those who needed a few hours sleep before moving on—and sometimes those few hours sleep might have been in the company of a woman who claimed a few shillings for the pleasure of her warmth and comfort. This was not a good hotel, but it was likely cheap and money was probably very tight for Usha Pramal’s brother, especially if he had a large extended family to provide for at home.
A man and woman were arguing in the small foyer when she came in. The man, who was standing behind the counter with arms folded, appeared to be waiting for money.
“If you want ten per bloody cent, what does that leave me with?”
“Ain’t up to me, love. It’s the guv’nor,” said the man. “If you want to make a bit here, then you’ve got to pay your way. That’s the rules. There’s always round the back of the train sheds, if you want it like that—then you don’t have to pay no one, do you? Mind you, you don’t get as much, so it’s down to what you want at your back—bricks or a mattress, call it like you want it.”
“You bleedin’ tyke.” The woman threw a couple of coins at the man, then turned and stormed towards Maisie.
“I’d find a better class of place, if I were you, love.” She looked Maisie in the eye and wagged her finger. “That bleeding crook over there’ll take the lot.”
Maisie stood back to allow the woman to pass, then made her way to the counter, where the man was placing the coins in his waistcoat pocket.
“I must apologize, madam. The previous guest was not of our usual class, and did not recognize a lady.” He inclined his head. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” said Maisie. “I wonder, do you have a guest here by the name of Mr. Pramal?”
“Indian chap?”
“Yes, that’s right. I understand he has been staying here.”
“He was here. I signed him in myself. I served in the war alongside their sort, so I don’t mind them about. Mind you, when the guv’nor came in he had other ideas, and said he had to go.”
“He was asked to leave the hotel? But why?”
The man reddened. “Well, miss, I didn’t think I would have to explain, but there are some who have a different opinion of them, you see.” He ran a finger around his face to indicate the color of Pramal’s skin. “It wasn’t me, like I said—I know a good man when I see one. But the bloke who owns this hotel has his moments, and he had one when he saw Mr. Pramal.”
“Mr. Pramal was a Regimental Sergeant Major in the war. He fought for our country—and your employer treated him like dirt? When he allows women like . . .” Maisie stopped herself. “Do you know where he went?”
“He said he was going back to his friend’s house. Very proud man, Mr. Pramal. When he came in, he said he didn’t want to stay with his mate, putting him out indefinitely, which is why he came here.” The man scratched his head, ruffling hair that Maisie thought was rarely washed. “But too good for this place, he was, if you ask me. Just went out in the morning, and came back at night, to his room. No messing around, never saw a woman coming out of there.”
“Thank you.” Maisie turned to leave, and then turned back, placing a sixpence on the counter. The man swept it up into his weskit pocket with a quick nod of the head.
Instead of returning directly to the office, Maisie walked along Buckingham Palace Road, past the Royal Mews and the Palace, and on towards Green Park. The afternoon remained fine, though a light breeze was swirling early autumn leaves along the street. Peddlers passed with their barrows, offering sweets, fruit, and ices. Taxi-cabs and buses blew exhaust fumes into the air, so Maisie drew her scarf over her nose and mouth. Once in the relative peace of the park, she chose a bench under a tree to simply sit and think.
What was evading her? Something obvious was there, hidden in plain sight—she could feel it, but she was missing the point. She’d allowed herself to be distracted by her own ambition. It was now a visceral feeling deep within her, the urge to be gone, to be somewhere else, a place other than this, and now. She wanted to beat her own path, and as time went on she wanted a physical distance between her and the past eighteen years, since 1914, even more.
Was that how Usha Pramal felt? Had she taken the position with the Allisons because she wanted distance? Distance from her family, from expectations, from her life in India? Or did she simply want distance from a love who had, without anticipating the outcome of his actions, humiliated her in front of her family? Family was important to Usha Pramal, and though it seemed she took pleasure in upsetting the familial status quo with her mercurial manner, there was a line she would not cross. And though she wanted to return to her beloved country, she remained. Was it only to gather more money with which to make her dream of establishing a school for girls from poor families come to fruition, or was something else keeping her in London? Did she feel responsible for Maya to the extent that she would stay? Yes, Maisie thought she would; from what she understood of Usha, she was kind in that way.
Maisie watched as two women walked past pushing prams, their babies sitting up against mounds of pillows, reaching out to each other and chuckling in the sunshine. The innocence of the scene led her to wonder again who had the skill to take the life of two women, both of whom unwittingly wore the perfect target that would allow someone
to kill with precision. And who had the necessary moral and emotional bankruptcy to do such a thing?
Threads, threads, threads and not one leading to a viable picture in her mind of who could have killed Usha Pramal, and why. She was frustrated by her lack of insight. Perhaps she had not paid enough attention to Maya Patel. She asked herself again: What did Maya Patel know that could have led to her death? Was it simply because she was an Indian woman? If so, then the police did well to remove the other ayahs from the Paiges’ house. But Maisie didn’t think it was so. Maya Patel demanded more attention. It occurred to her that the missing link was someone not known to her—yet. But a new plan was forming in her mind.
Big Ben rang the hour in the distance. It was now two o’clock in the afternoon. She had time to collect the MG, drive to Camberwell, and, if they were there, visit the Paiges just one more time—assuming they would see her. She knew she was testing their patience. And afterwards, before the sun set, she would, she hoped, have time to stroll across the common land where a young man might be sleeping rough. Would she visit Reverend Griffith? Perhaps. She wasn’t at all sure about the respected man of the cloth, and whether she should wait to pay another call when she had more information to hand. The image of bound elephant hair kept coming to mind. She did not care for the clumsy knotting of an animal’s hair, and she wondered if that was a prejudice, a valuable clue, or intuition. But she felt the esteemed reverend might worship more gods than just the One.
Maisie parked the car across the road from the Paiges’ home, went to the front door, and knocked. Soon heavy footsteps could be heard approaching; it was Mr. Paige who answered.
“Oh, not you again.”
“Mr. Paige, I am afraid it is me, and I beg your pardon for dropping in without notice once more, but I was not far from here, and I thought you might be able to help me.”
The man made no move to invite Maisie inside the house.
“I suppose we can speak here just as well as anywhere.” Maisie looked back and forth down the road. “No neighbors seem to be walking this way, though I am sure I saw a few curtains twitching.”
Paige’s face darkened. “Come in, then.” He closed the door behind him and led Maisie into the parlor. “My wife isn’t here—she’s doing flowers for the church this afternoon—she likes to make sure it looks welcoming for Friday evensong.”
“Tell me, the Reverend Griffith’s church isn’t C of E, is it? Nor is it Baptist or Methodist—though I see you use the old community rooms, but he doesn’t seem very much of that type of minister.”
“No, you’re right. We just refer to ourselves as ‘the Church of a Greater God.’ I’m not sure where the Reverend Griffith gained his theological credentials, but he is a most caring vicar, of that I am sure—and he fills our church with goodness.”
“Of course, yes. I’m sure he does.” Maisie paused, putting the information about Griffith to one side in her mind, as if moving a saucepan to another burner on the stove—it was not to be forgotten, but could simmer while her focus was on the main reason for her call. She looked at Paige, noticing the tension in his shoulders as he awaited her question. “Maya Patel intrigues me as much as Miss Pramal. Mr. Paige, I know the women had become close, so I am asking once again if you noticed anything different in the weeks preceding Maya Patel’s death.”
Paige shrugged. “She grieved more than any of us, but that’s to be expected. At first she didn’t want to go back to the church, saying that our church had done nothing to protect Miss Pramal, that our God was not their God. Of course, our Christian hearts went out to her, and we knew it was shock speaking. Reverend Griffith called to see her, and she refused, which was very embarrassing, I must say—and that’s when I felt it had to stop, that her wailing had to come to an end. It wasn’t Christian, having a sound like an Indian banshee howling throughout the house.”
“There are those who believe it’s best to grant sadness a very loud voice—she had lost her best friend, the nearest thing to family she had. But tell me, how did you stop her?”
“I had Griffith come in and take the devil out of her, like he did in Africa.”
“You did?” Maisie felt a revulsion for the unfolding story—a disgust she knew was evident in her expression.
“The good man lay his hands on her head and prayed, and as he prayed she screamed and wept until it was out of her—the demons that had come from Usha Pramal and taken her thoughts.”
“You believe Miss Pramal had demons? Could you explain why?”
“Oh, she was a good person on the face of it—as we said, all our women here kept good hours and were not out at night. They weren’t that sort. But there was a side to Miss Pramal, you could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid of anything.”
“What should she be afraid of? If she kept good hours and wasn’t out at night? What reason was there for fear?”
“The power of the Lord, of course. She had no fear—and though she went to the church and helped with the younger ones in Sunday school, you could see she wore her own power, as if she thought she were something special, sent down to earth.”
“I see.” Maisie paused. “Were you afraid of what you perceived as her power, Mr. Paige?”
“When you have the Lord on your side, you’re not afraid.”
“Do you know anyone who might have been afraid of Usha Pramal?”
“I can’t answer that question, Miss Dobbs. I’m not other people, but I am sure others saw what I saw and what the Reverend Griffith saw. Mrs. Paige and I talked about it, how that demon of superiority had to be fought and banished.”
“Hmmm. But nothing was done about it, from a church point of view—your church, that is?”
“It was done for us. Not that I favor what happened to the poor woman—she was a human being, after all. But someone didn’t like her, did they?”
“And what about Miss Patel? I haven’t heard her spoken of in the same terms.”
“I don’t know what happened to her. As I said, though, I have my suspicions that Miss Pramal upset someone—and it isn’t right that they took her life, but I am not here in judgment. The Lord will judge us all, in the end.”
“Do you think Miss Patel lost her life by association? Or did she have knowledge, do you think, about the murderer?”
“I don’t know. I want to put it behind me—behind us—and continue doing God’s work among those who have no god or too many gods. That is all I ask, for my wife and I to be allowed to plough our land and sow our seeds of faith.”
“And the money you took from the women lodgers will buy a lot of seeds, will it not?”
Paige reddened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do, Mr. Paige. You’ve been fleecing your lodgers for years, and telling me that Usha Pramal had the money to leave months ago does not throw me off the scent—she probably had the money to leave years ago. She might have acted like a goddess, in your estimation, but she was a good worker, and people liked her, didn’t they? They liked her disposition, and I would hazard a guess that there were some who liked the fact that she made them feel better, especially the elderly who suffer aches and pains, and those who were ill. I bet there were quite a few down the years who wanted her to come to them, but that was too much power to give to one person, never mind the money it drew in. I have a good mind to bring in the police to look at your books.”
“They don’t care, Miss Dobbs. It’s only a few destitute Indian women we’ve kept in this house, and if we didn’t look out for them, who would? As far as the police are concerned, they’re off the streets.”
“You may be right, but I have other contacts beyond Scotland Yard—people in high places charged with ensuring nothing goes amiss in our relationship with the Indian subcontinent. And your little charity here is very amiss—unless you clean up your accounts.” Maisie had chosen words to instill fear in the man, and it had worked. All color had drained from his face. “Now then,” she continued. “You can start by going
through your ledger and giving me what was truly owed to Usha Pramal and Maya Patel.”
“And what will you do with it?”
“I’ll give Miss Pramal’s money to her brother, and Maya Patel’s along with it, to contribute to a fund that Miss Pramal started.”
“A fund? What fund?”
“For the training of ambitious young goddesses in India. What else?”
“I must ask you to leave.”
Maisie stood up, aware of her mounting anger, which was close to boiling point. “No. I would like to visit Maya Patel’s room one more time, and Usha Pramal’s as well. I will be long enough for you to run your finger down a few lines of numbers and come to a figure acceptable to me, and you will give me the money to take away—or does the Reverend Griffith have it?”
Paige folded his arms and looked away. “I can get it for you.”
“Good.” Maisie turned away, as if to walk towards the staircase. She looked back. “I have never said this in all my years in this job. I am usually very circumspect in my manner with people such as yourself. You haven’t killed someone, Mr. Paige, but you know how to take a life. And you sicken me. You, with your twisted ideas of God, sicken me.”
“You, what do you know of God?”
“I know when He is truly present in someone’s heart.”
As she made her way up the staircase, Maisie did not feel the recrimination she might once have felt for allowing her emotions to gain the better of her. She heard Paige walk towards the back of the house—his heavy footfall echoed up through the stairwell. She knew she would get the arrears in wages due to the dead women. Then she had to find Pramal, to tell him about the money and more about Usha’s personal savings; funds she had earned by mixing spices to cure headaches, or by taking the arthritic hands of the elderly in her own, until her youth and strength rendered them painless, if only for a short time.
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