Chapter Eighteen
There was no answer to her knock when Maisie called at the home of the Reverend Griffith. She waited on the doorstep, knocked again, and listened. No sound issued from the house, though she remembered that the main rooms in Griffith’s garden flat were at the back of the building. Nevertheless, it appeared that no one was home. She could not try a back door, as the front entrance was the only means of access to the house and garden. Why, then, did she have a pressing feeling that she was still being watched and that someone was at home. She knocked one more time, and when there was again no answer, she began to walk away towards her motor car. As she walked, she remembered the children and their dog, and the girl saying her mother could always see what they were up to from the top of the house. Perhaps it was this recollection that caused her to turn and look once again at Griffith’s somewhat shabby terrace home in time to catch a glimpse of movement on the roof. Could it have been a pigeon flapping its wings in upward flight? She shielded her eyes with her hand against the low light of late afternoon. At once she was tempted to wave, just to see if acknowledgment came in return. She waved, but did not wait for the gesture to be reciprocated. It was enough to know that if she were indeed being watched, the person keeping tabs on her knew she was aware of their presence. They would meet soon enough.
The office was quiet when she returned, though a tidy pile of papers had been left by Sandra. On top was a note with messages and information regarding each item of correspondence. She’d ended the communication by adding that she would be in the office early in the morning, as she wanted to discuss something with Maisie. “If that would be convenient,” she’d added.
There was a brief report on her visit to the other houses where Usha Pramal had been employed, with the conclusion that there was nothing out of the ordinary observed by the women, who she thought had hardly ever seen Usha anyway. The Indian woman had come to the houses, gone about her work, and left. Next came a note to the effect that Mr. Pramal had telephoned from a kiosk, and had had just enough time to inform her that he would pay a visit to the office of Miss Maisie Dobbs the following morning. Sandra had taken the liberty of suggesting ten o’clock. Maisie nodded her head in silent approval of the appointment. And another man had walked to his nearest telephone kiosk that afternoon, possibly at some point before Maisie left Camberwell to return to the West End. Mr. Paige had left a message that he had some information for Maisie, and would place another call to her office the following morning.
Not long before Maisie decided to leave for home, but prior to departing the office, she looked up the location of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. In truth, it was easier to think and talk about leaving England than it was to take the first step. But with the address in Leadenhall Street scribbled on a piece of paper, it seemed as if her imaginings could become the reality she craved. After all, plans and dreams were just words and images in the mind until she did something concrete.
She arrived back at 15 Ebury Place before James, and following a hot bath took the opportunity to sit in her rooms in silence. An uncomfortable feeling of anticipation was rising up within her. She knew that this was due in part to the case and an overriding sense—increasing as the hours passed—that she was close to identifying the killer of the two Indian women. But there was something else, too. Over the course of the days spent at Chelstone, following the news that Frankie Dobbs and Mrs. Bromley were to be married, James—who had at first been enthusiastic about the match—seemed more distant. Maisie knew the news had unsettled him, and that the status quo they had achieved in a union outside the bounds of marriage was proving, to a greater degree, to be inadequate for him. James, as she knew only too well, was a man who wanted more from her. And they both accepted that, despite their ages—she was now thirty-six years of age, James almost thirty-nine—Maisie was far from ready to take that particular leap. But was it a case of readiness? Or simply that the idea of marriage did not suit her? She rested her head in her hands, running her fingers through her hair.
James was a good man, of that she was in no doubt. She loved him as much as she could—she believed—love anyone. She knew that the past year had rocked her foundation; as time went on, the good fortune bestowed upon her by Maurice’s will had not made the ground beneath her feet seem any more firm; on the contrary, she discovered that the responsibility had made her question who she was. In her plans to travel, was she hoping to find her essential self hidden in the unknown as if it were buried treasure? And when she came home, would she be ready, at last, to embrace the life she had come to know with James?
These thoughts led her once again to John Otterburn, and the case that had caused her to question the integrity of her moral compass, to lose her true north, which was a belief that all would be well and good if she acted with compassion and a sense of the right thing to do. She felt as if she had been David against Otterburn’s Goliath, but holding no sling and stone with which to slay the giant—yet at the same time, this particular behemoth was intent upon protecting Britain and her people; he saw himself as the answer to a prayer not yet spoken by the common man. Therefore, she had come to the conclusion that she could no longer continue to put herself forward as a woman of good conduct in her business, when she had been complicit—in her estimation—in keeping secret the role played by John Otterburn in what amounted to murder, even though her voice had been a small one.
Could she blame James for agreeing to ally himself with Otterburn and become part of his plans? James loved his country, had fought for his country, and would lay down his life to protect the land he cherished. He was a man of good intentions, of integrity, and for that she had utmost respect, and yes, love.
It was in the midst of these considerations that James returned home. Soon there was a knock on the door adjoining their rooms. Maisie had pulled her armchair close to the window and was looking out.
“Maisie. We’re both home at a reasonable hour—that makes a change.” He came to her side, kneeling down before her. “What’s wrong, my love? You seem so very sad.”
Maisie wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, nothing, James. Just thinking about nothing in particular. Probably my father, really.”
“You’re not losing him, Maisie—he’s getting married, though I think that’s enough to inspire thoughts of the past and of your mother, perhaps. You and your father have only had each other for so long.” He smiled, holding her hand. “Well, and you’ve got me, I suppose.”
She nodded. “Yes, you’re right—it’s probably down to too much excitement these past few days.”
“And you’re looking very tired, my love. Perhaps we should go away for a Friday to Monday, somewhere different—what about Paris?” said James.
“I have an important case on, you know. I can’t just swan off, not yet.”
They were quiet for some moments, when James spoke again. “Look, there’s something I want to say to you, but there never seems to be the right time. I find I dither back and forth.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes. I know.”
“It’s this, Maisie. We agreed to just go along as if all was well, as if we both found our life here suitable, acceptable. But I have realized, time and again, that I don’t find things at all agreeable.” James continued without further pause; Maisie looked at him, though she did not speak to counter his words. “So, here’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said, looking down at her hand nestled in his. “I have made no secret of the fact that I want to marry you, to have and to hold you for the rest of both our lives. I want to make a life with you, and even hope for children. That is the measure of my intentions. Now, I know you want to go abroad, to follow in Maurice’s footsteps—and even to find part of him again. I understand all that, Maisie—in fact, I think I understand more than you might give me credit for. And you have every right to do as you wish. I know very well that you are searching for answers to questions I cannot help you with. So be it. But I want you to know that I need an answer to my proposal of marriage: yes or no.” James held up a hand as Maisie’s eyes widened. “Not yet though. You have a plan, as yet not fully formed—that much is clear—and I will be on my way to Canada soon after your father’s marriage. I suppose we will be going our separate ways at the same time.” He sighed, and took another deep breath before going on—it was clear he had a planned monologue and wanted to say every word. “Six months, Maisie. I want your answer in six months. By the end of March. We’ll write to each other, of that I am sure, and you will know where I am as I will know where to find you—let us agree that much. Send me a telegram, or a message by carrier pigeon if that’s the only viable option—I will be waiting for your answer on March 31, give or take a day or two. Yes Stop or No Stop. That’s all I ask of you. Together until death us do part; or apart, forever. No going back.” He looked directly into her eyes, still holding her hand. “That is all I have to say.”
Maisie nodded. “All right, James. That is more than fair. On March 31 I will let you know. Yes. Or no.”
James smiled and stood up, pulling Maisie to him. “Now, let’s go and have a glass of champagne and toast to the future, whatever it may hold.”
She placed her free hand on his cheek and held his gaze, though there was nothing she could say at that moment.
For some reason, Maisie felt calmer the following day, perhaps more settled than she had for some time. Now she knew, now there was a landing point for what she might become. She would go abroad. She would have several months in which to immerse herself in places new and far away, and then she would make her decision. Yes Stop. No Stop. In one telegram perhaps the most important part of her future would be decided. She would either marry James Compton or not. From the close of the Pramal case until the end of March, she would be accountable only to herself. The weight lifted from her shoulders, though she knew it would return in good time. But she hoped, too, that the decision, when it came, would be an easy one.
Sandra arrived at the office at the same time as Maisie. Over a cup of tea, Maisie went through files on several open cases, so that plans for the day ahead would be clear. Some assignments required only research and organization—a telephone call to a newspaper or a records office, a visit to a bank with a client—and of late Maisie had asked Sandra to take on various tasks that would have been Billy’s responsibility, though on this occasion, Sandra would work only half a day with Maisie before going on to her second job with Douglas Partridge, followed by evening classes at Morley College.
As Maisie closed the final case file, which required only the preparation of an invoice, she turned to her secretary. “You wanted to speak to me about something, Sandra. Is everything all right?”
Sandra leaned forward, her hands flat on the wood of Maisie’s desk. She was sitting on the opposite side, facing her.
“Well, Miss Dobbs, I thought I would let you in on what’s been happening, just so you know.”
Maisie pulled her chair closer to the desk, as if she were about to hear a secret told for the first time.
“A couple of things, actually,” said Sandra. “The first is that, well, I might be moving, but I haven’t found somewhere to live yet.”
“You’ve hardly been in the flat a few months yet. Don’t you get along with the others?”
Sandra shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t get along with them—it’s good fun, having others around, and we all muck in to keep it nice.”
“But?” asked Maisie.
“But it gets very noisy of an evening, when I’m trying to study. I stay late at the library, after my lectures, but there’s the other evenings, when I’m supposed to be reading and then writing essays, so I’m trying to work out how I can afford a room of my own—a bedsit perhaps—and then still keep up my college work.”
“I see,” said Maisie. She had discovered that often the best helping hand was in fact an ear to listen to another.
“I didn’t think I could do it, what with working part-time at two jobs, but something’s happened that could help me, but I would feel just awful about it.”
“I think you should tell me what the awful thing is, Sandra. Sometimes the awful things aren’t half as bad as we think they are—everything sorts itself out in the end.” As Maisie spoke, her own words echoed in her mind. Everything sorts itself out in the end. “Come on, tell me what’s so bad.”
“The bad thing is, Miss Dobbs, that I’ve been offered another job.” She held up her hand. “No, not with Mr. Partridge, but through someone he knows. It, well, it pays better, and if I took it, I would have to give up working for you, that’s what’s bad about it. I could carry on helping Mr. Partridge on Saturdays, but this job here is different, there’s something every day. I mean, it was all very well, but what with Mr. Beale leaving, and what with one thing and another and you being so busy, I couldn’t just—”
Maisie held up her hand. “Hold on, hold on, Sandra. Let’s just talk about the job, and what it means to you—the most important thing you should be thinking about is yourself, though I appreciate the consideration. This all might have come at an opportune time. Now then, tell me all about this job.”
“It’s through a friend of Mr. Partridge, like I said. He’s a publisher and he’s setting up by himself, a new company. He has money, apparently, and wants to publish books for students—like me, actually. Which is why he liked what I could do when he met me at Mr. Partridge’s office. I’ve come to know a lot about the business, through Mr. Partridge, and I’m also a student and know about books—now I do, anyway. And I will be his secretary—with possibilities.”
“Possibilities?”
“This man, Lawrence Pickering, says as the Pickering Publishing Company grows, so will the possibilities for me to be promoted. And he’ll be flexible, he says, where my hours are concerned, so I don’t have to rush so hard to get from my lectures to the office.”
“Well, this all sounds wonderful, Sandra. A good job in an exciting new company, and an employer considerate of your studies. You’re a clever young woman, and hardworking. The Pickering Publishing Company will be lucky to have you.”
Maisie picked up a pen and turned it around in her hands, then looked up at Sandra—who was a maid at Ebury Place when they had first met; a young woman whom she had seen engaged, married, and widowed, and whom she admired anew each day with her determination to create a new life for herself. Weren’t they trying to do exactly the same thing, really? To discover what the world might hold if they stepped off the well-worn path, for just a little while. Possibilities—wasn’t that what Maisie had always wanted, even in girlhood, during those dark early-morning hours when she had stolen into the Comptons’ library to teach herself Latin and philosophy, to read from books she touched with a deep excitement knowing that each one would take her on a journey of discovery? Wasn’t that what James wanted, what Frankie and Mrs. Bromley wanted—the sweet sense of being touched by possibility? And now Serendipity had danced in concert with Fate at exactly the right time, and all would be well. It was as if the path were being made clear for her journey to India.
“I think you should take the job, Sandra. I think it sounds very good indeed.” Maisie smiled, her eyes catching the morning light as it came in broad shafts through the window. “But make sure Mr. Partridge approves—he will know how serious this man is about his company. And I will ask just this of you—stay with me for another few weeks. Just to get some things organized here.” She looked at her hands, wondering how much to reveal. “You see, Sandra, I have some plans of my own, so this is a time of change for Billy, you, and me. Sometimes things just work out the way they need to. Oh, and don’t rush out and look for a new flat. I may have the answer on that one, too.”
“I will stay for as long as you need me to, Miss Dobbs—I would always have given you plenty of notice, come what may.”
“I know, Sandra. You’re a good worker.” She looked at the woman before her. “All sorted out with Billy?”
Sandra nodded. “We weren’t being sensible.”
“We’re not always as sensible as we would like to be, Sandra—our hearts take care of that for us.”
At that moment, both women started as the bell sounded. The day had begun. Pramal had arrived to discuss the case of his murdered sister with Maisie.
As Sandra came back into the room with Usha Pramal’s brother, the telephone began to ring.
“I’ll answer it, Miss Dobbs—then I’ll make tea.” Sandra pulled out a chair for Pramal, and then picked up the black telephone receiver. She shook her head; the caller had begun speaking before she had time to give the exchange and number.
“It’s that Caldwell man, Miss Dobbs. Not a mannered bone in his body.” She rested her hand across the mouthpiece. “Do you want to talk to him now?”
Maisie could hear Caldwell’s voice despite the muffling effect of Sandra’s fingers, and smiled, thinking he sounded like a mouse in a box.
“Let me speak to him—we’ll never hear the last of it.” She turned to Pramal as she took the receiver. “Do excuse me, Mr. Pramal, it’s our good friend, the Detective Inspector.”
Maisie half-turned away to greet Caldwell.
“Good morning, Det—”
“No need for all that, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell.
“Well then, let’s get on with it—to what do I owe the pleasure?” said Maisie.
“Got an interesting bit of news for you, Miss Dobbs.”
“I’m all ears.” Maisie smiled.
“Man came into the Yard this morning, asking for me.”
“Yes—go on.” Maisie could hear the measured telling of the tale by Caldwell, teasing her with his news, as if he were dangling a length of string in front of a kitten.
“Man came into the Yard to confess to the murder of one Miss Usha Pramal,” said Caldwell.
Maisie felt her smile vanish as she looked at Pramal, who met her gaze.
“What was his name, Inspector?”
“Mr. Jesmond Martin. Said he murdered her because he doesn’t like them, these people coming over here. Said she insulted his sick wife, and he was so filled with anger, he just took matters into his own hands.”
“And Maya Patel?”
“Said he took her life, too—she had seen him kill Miss Pramal, so he followed her one night and shot her, just like Miss Pramal.”
“And do you believe him?”
“Come on, Miss Dobbs—why wouldn’t I? Man comes in, bold as you like, and admits to a crime of murder because he can’t live with himself anymore. Of course I bloody believe him. Read him his rights and locked him up. The Commissioner’s happy, the Foreign Office is happy—that could have been a bit tricky, what with the brother kicking up sand—and so, Miss Dobbs, I am happy. So should you be, I would have thought—though I bet you wish you’d have got him yourself, don’t you?”
“No, I’m happy when a murderer is brought to justice.” She ran the telephone cord through her fingers. “But tell me, does he have the skill with a gun? Could he hit a target—a very small target—with the precision that took the life of both women?”
“You thought we hadn’t got that one, didn’t you? Took him out and tested him with a target. Course, it was tricky, giving the man a gun—could have turned it on himself or even us, but we thought he would have done that before now, if he’d have wanted to. He was as good as gold, like a sheep, in fact. Just took the gun, leveled it up, squinted a bit at the target, and boom-boom-boom. Bull’s-eye. Three shots right in the center, and after the first one the others went through the same hole. Must’ve been a sniper in the war—if he wasn’t, he should’ve been, that’s all I can say.”
“Right, I suppose we’re finished then,” said Maisie.
“I’ve just got to find that Pramal bloke now.”
“Not to worry, Inspector. He’s right here in front of me. I’ll tell him, if that’s all right with you—or you can come to my office, if you want to speak to him.”
“Nah, better give you something to do, Miss Dobbs. Can’t have you going off thinking you’ve not been useful, eh?”
“You’re smiling too much, Inspector. Remember, we’ve been working on a murder inquiry—people have died.”
“There’s always one to bring down the curtain on an otherwise excellent start to the day, eh, and I would have put money on it being you. Here I am, happy as sunshine on a rainy morning, and you have to put the damper on it. Never mind.”
“Please let me know if you need any information from me,” offered Maisie.
“I’ll see you in a day or two—after all, you interviewed him, so we’ll need to know all about that little tête-à-tête.”
“Right you are, Inspector. I’ll give Mr. Pramal the good news.”
“That’s more like it, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Until then,” said Maisie, but she was too late—as usual, Caldwell had put down the receiver as soon as he had said everything he wanted to say.
“Do you have something important to report, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie looked up—she had continued to twist the telephone cord between her fingers. “Yes, I have, Mr. Pramal. Apparently, a man has come forward to accept responsibility for the murder of both your sister and Miss Maya Patel. He gave himself up to detectives at Scotland Yard early this morning. It appears he has the skill with a gun that was required to take the life of your sister in an instant.”
Pramal’s olive skin became drawn and gray, his eyes filled with tears. It was several seconds before he could speak. “And why on earth did he do such a thing?” He thumped the desk with his closed fist. “I want to see this man, as soon as I can. And I want to see him hang.”
Maisie raised a hand. “I don’t think you’ll be at liberty to see him, Mr. Pramal. He has been cautioned and charged, so will be moved to a prison—probably Wandsworth, I would imagine, or Brixton. He will be able to see counsel, but no one else until further notice.”
“Why, Miss Dobbs? Why did he kill my beloved sister? If she had offended him, what act or words on her part could have made him take her life?” Pramal leaned forward, grief and hatred writ large in his eyes.
Maisie sighed. “He claims she was disrespectful of his wife while in his employ. Mr. Pramal, I have to tell you that I went to the man’s house, I met his wife’s nurse, and I learned that Usha had taken the liberty of administering medicines of her own making to ease the woman’s dreadful headaches. It’s no excuse, but according to his statement, he was angered beyond measure and took matters into his own hands—and much too far. Frankly, I am at a loss to understand it all.”
“Did you see the man?”
“Yes, I did, and though I had outstanding questions and wanted to see both the man and his wife again, I had yet to conclude he was the killer.”
“But you thought he could be, is that it?”
“Yes, I thought he could be. But a thought is only a gate to the path—it is not evidence. I must have evidence in my hands—or at least a stronger feeling of guilt from a person—to press forward with a suspicion that someone has committed murder.”
“You could have been wrong, though, Miss Dobbs—and it seems you were,” said Pramal, his chin jutting forward as he spoke.
Maisie took a breath to counter, but exhaled instead. Yes, of course Jesmond Martin could have murdered Usha Pramal. But if so, and if Martin Robertson was his son, as she suspected, then why did the boy alert the police to the body of Maya Patel? Unless he wanted his father caught. Unless he knew more about his father than he would have told the police.
“Mr. Pramal, in confidence, please—may I ask if you have ever heard the name Jesmond Martin?”
Pramal, so quick to answer when he had a definite response, looked at Maisie. He rubbed his chin and pressed his hands together close to his lips, as if he were about to say a prayer. Then he spoke again. “Miss Dobbs, I cannot say that I have heard this name, but you know, it seems to ring a bell.”
Maisie smiled; not a smile of joy or happiness, but of irony. “Mr. Pramal, I have come to the conclusion that, in my work, the three words that are the most frustrating to hear are that something seems to ring a bell.” She sat down, holding out her hand for Pramal to take his seat once again. Looking up towards Sandra, she saw her secretary hold up a teacup, her eyebrows raised in inquiry. “Yes, Sandra, tea would be lovely, I am sure we could all do with a cup.” She turned to Pramal. “Let’s see if we can get that bell clanging, because I want to know why there is even a hint of recognition when I mentioned his name.”
Pramal put his hand up, as if he were a schoolboy in class. “Miss Dobbs, please forgive me for asking, but Mrs. Singh said you had something for me, something belonging to Usha.”
Maisie drew her hand across her forehead. “Of course—it is you who should forgive me. What I have for you is currently under lock and key, in a safe. It is a sum of money—a rather large sum of money—from Usha’s earnings while she lodged at the ayah’s hostel, together with the several velvet bags full of coins I’ve already told you about: money she had earned outside her cleaning jobs.”
“How much could be there? And how did she earn this extra money?”
“You will find Usha had saved enough money to return to India some time ago, and have some in hand, too. I believe Usha’s lack of fear around those with sickness was something for which people were willing to pay. Yes, she was familiar with the healing properties of herbs and spices, but she had something else—she saw that the sick are often ignored, even in their own homes, and as such seldom feel the touch or attention of another human being. From what I have learned, she never drew back from resting a hand upon one who could not walk or see, or who was confined to bed—and families would pay her to come in and tend to one struck by illness, if only for half an hour here and there. Usha could teach, too, and though I have no firm evidence, I cannot believe she did not also earn pin money by giving lessons on occasion. I have a feeling that your sister did any paid work that was within her capability because she had a dream. And she was well on the way to making it come true, I would say.”
“Her dream? Her educational castle in the air? I am sick of her so-called dream, that it brought her to live in a way that would have made my poor father turn in his grave. It brought her to this city that has corners no better than the worse slums of Bombay.” Pramal could barely contain the grief that had turned to anger.
“Perhaps Usha saw something precious in those corners, just as she saw a diamond in even the darkest person. She had that burning ambition to return to India and to found her school for poor girls who have no chance in life. So perhaps coming to London was a necessary part of her aspiration—or it grew within her after she arrived here.” Maisie paused, her words coming more deliberately now. “I have no idea how far her savings will stretch to bring this dream to fruition, but you must know that when I give the money to you, I am placing everything your sister worked for in your hands.”
Sandra returned to the room bearing a tray set for tea just as the telephone began to ring.
“I’ll answer, Miss Dobbs,” she said, placing the tray on her desk. She picked up the telephone, gave the exchange and number, then turned to Maisie. “It’s Mr. Paige, from the ayah’s hostel. He said he remembered why that name you gave him yesterday rang a bell.”
Maisie reached for the telephone. “At last. A bell has rung and woken up a memory. I was beginning to lose faith.”
“Miss Dobbs.” Pramal came to his feet. “You should speak to your caller in private, and I am in need of a brisk walk and some fresh air.” He turned to Sandra. “Mrs. Tapley, thank you for making tea, but I should take my leave. And Miss Dobbs, I will telephone to make arrangements to collect Usha’s money before I depart for India. I thank you very much for your assistance in the matter of investigating my sister’s death—I am most grateful for your help.” Pramal bowed again, then stepped towards the door, where Sandra stood ready to accompany him downstairs.
Maisie frowned, her eyes on the doorway, before bringing her attention back to Paige and the bell that had rung in his mind.