Chapter Six
The French doors leading to the gardens at 15 Ebury Place had been left ajar. Though past eight o’clock, the light still seemed dusky outside; coal fires had not yet been burned in earnest, so there was little evidence of the yellow pea-souper smogs that would envelop houses and streets as winter approached and colder evenings drew in. James Compton reached for Maisie’s hand and held it in his own.
“Can we talk, Maisie?”
Maisie felt a tension in her spine. She anticipated a conversation she had avoided for some time, and thought that she might now have reached a cul-de-sac, a place of no escape from what might be another painful dialogue. When she turned, it would be to face the truth of James’ intentions.
“Yes, let’s talk, James.” She smiled, and squeezed his hand.
Following an initial courtship filled with promise, Maisie had felt doubt about the future of her relationship with James Compton. James had pressed her to scale back her work—unfairly, she thought—after he had taken possession of the newly refurbished mansion, where Maisie had rooms and where she was considered mistress of the house. She was unwilling to exchange her business for marriage, for her work represented a steadfast rock that had grounded her through the journey of recovery from the wounds of war, especially those lingering in her soul. It often seemed that an inner dialogue intersected with the task in hand, so when she came to the close of an investigation, it was with a deeper sense of knowing about herself—and a humble understanding of how much more there was to learn. Where might she find strength if she relinquished her work?
Yet on the other hand, she loved James Compton, in her way. He, too, had suffered in the war and had battled memories that kept him awake at night. He had rebuilt his life, and now wanted to forge a future with Maisie at his side. Their courtship had floundered in recent months, though both felt they were on a more even keel. However, as Maisie had discovered to her chagrin, James had been drawn into the plans of powerful men who were preparing for the possibility of another war. With Germany’s new chancellor, Herr Adolf Hitler, diminishing the freedoms of so many people in his country—and with intelligence to suggest a stockpiling of weapons and the training of young aviators in direct contravention to the agreements made during the 1919 Peace Conference—there were those of James’ acquaintance who were making plans to prepare Britain for another conflict. John Otterburn was one such man. Having started his career as a newspaperman, the wealthy self-made Canadian now lived in England, where his success in the print industry had afforded him large mansions in London and Surrey—and a good deal of influence in the highest quarters. Such power had brought him into contact with one man in particular—Winston Churchill—who was languishing on the hinterland of British politics. Otterburn supported Churchill’s prediction that in another war with Germany, the fight for Britain would be in the air. In secret, Otterburn was bankrolling the design and testing of new military aircraft—and had recruited James Compton to his cause. James had been an aviator in the war, and for him, flying represented a passion. His loyalty to his country was without question. Yet Maisie had discovered that Otterburn was also ultimately responsible for the death of an innocent man in a case she was investigating. Otterburn’s position rendered him untouchable, and she was deeply affected by her inability to bring him to justice.
“I know I might sound like a scratched gramophone record, Maisie, but I want to talk about us,” said James.
Maisie nodded. “Yes, you’re right. We’ve danced around it before—me more than you, I confess. I think it’s time.”
She could see the tension in James’ face, the small vein that throbbed at his temple, the muscles in his neck, taut with apprehension.
“I know you hate me to talk about John Otterburn—and I absolutely understand your position—but I’m afraid I have given my word. I have promised to be in Canada in about six weeks. I’ll be in Toronto, at the Compton Corporation head office there, but I will also be back and forth to Otterburn’s headquarters. We’ll have some time for a little flight testing this year, before the weather closes in, but still, there’s a lot of work to do with the draftsmen and engineers throughout the winter months, until we can resume aircraft trials again next year. I’m not sure whether I’ll be back for Christmas, Maisie.”
“Yes, I see. Who will take care of the Corporation here, in London?”
“That second cousin of mine, Jonathan Compton—frankly, the families aren’t close, but he’s worked for the Corporation for years and has been groomed to be my number two. He’s a bit older than me, actually. My father brought him into the company during the war, when I was in the Flying Corps—sensible idea, after all, you never knew when I might have had a particularly bad landing.”
Maisie rubbed her forehead with her free hand; James still held the other.
“So, we’re down to the crunch, Maisie.” He picked up his wineglass, then set it down again without taking a sip. “Will you come with me? Will you marry me and come with me as my wife?”
Maisie felt light-headed. This was not a new question, or an unexpected proposal. But it was time to give an answer.
She rubbed her forehead again, back and forth.
“Well?” James looked at her intently.
“Oh dear.” She caught her breath. “James, let me tell you something. I have been thinking about traveling. I have never been anywhere really—apart from France—and I think I need to go overseas. But not to Canada; not yet, anyway.”
“This is the first you’ve said about it. Where do you want to go? I mean, we could go together. We could plan a tour, then make our way out to Canada. A long honeymoon—though not the best time of year for shipping, I’ll grant you. We could—”
“James. James, stop.” She paused. “Here’s what I think I must do. I cannot consent to marriage at this point, because I want to follow in Maurice’s footsteps. It’s a journey I think I must embark upon, but I don’t know when. I’ve just taken on a couple of new cases, and Billy isn’t well; he never recovered from those injuries he sustained during our last murder case. I’ve told him to take at least a month, and if I am honest, I don’t think he should return.” Maisie could hear herself, the speed of her words, as if the velocity of her explanation would mollify James. “He needs another job, something more regular. And then there’s Sandra, and—”
“Maisie—” James leaned forward, forcing her to look at him. “Maisie, shhhh. Here’s how it is. As I said, I’m planning to leave in about six weeks. You can give me your answer at the last minute if you like. Or you can join me later. Your choice, but you know my intentions.”
“All right. Yes . . . I see.”
“And I might be able to help with Billy. Just give me a little time to talk to Jonathan and some of my staff.”
Maisie smiled. “Oh James, thank you.”
He pushed back his chair and came to kneel at her side, taking her in his arms. “I love you, Maisie.”
She nodded, her eyes downcast. “And I love you, James. I love you.”
Sandra stood up as soon as Maisie opened the door to the office and stepped into the room.
“That Caldwell has been on the telephone, he wants to speak to you.”
Maisie went to her desk, set her briefcase down beside her chair, and pulled off her gloves. “If we’re not careful, we’ll be calling him ‘that Caldwell’ to his face! Did he say what he wanted?”
“Only to give him a call—a ‘bell,’ he said—as soon as you showed your face this morning. And those were his words, not mine.” Sandra lifted the receiver, adding, as she began to dial, “Oh, I’ve found out that Miss Pramal’s former employers, the Allisons, are presently in Italy, and are not expected back until Sunday.” She looked up at Maisie as the call was answered, changing her tone to speak to the Scotland Yard operator. “Miss Maisie Dobbs to speak to Detective Inspector Caldwell, please.” She smiled at Maisie and held her hand over the mouthpiece. “This’ll get him going, me doing the calling for you. Shows him you’re important.”
Maisie shook her head. “Sandra, I do think you’re setting up a vendetta here.”
Sandra smiled at Maisie as she began to speak once more. “Ah, good morning again, Detective Inspector Caldwell. I have Miss Maisie Dobbs on the line for you, per your request.” The sweetness of her greeting was laced with just the hint of a sarcastic edge. She handed the receiver to Maisie.
“What’s the matter, can’t get your finger in the dial of a morning?” said Caldwell.
“Good morning to you, too, Inspector. I have just come from an early meeting, so Mrs. Tapley placed the call for the sake of speed—she said you wanted to speak to me with some urgency.”
“Murder is an urgent matter, in my book.”
Maisie felt her smile deflate. “What’s happened, Inspector?”
“I understand you recently spoke to a Miss Maya Patel.”
“Yes, when I visited the ayah’s hostel—we were to meet again today.”
“Well, you won’t be meeting her at all, I’m afraid—her body was found by some dockers early this morning, round the back of a warehouse, not far from the canal. Doesn’t look like she was dumped, we reckon she walked there.”
“What was the cause of death?”
“A bullet, Miss Dobbs. Same as the other young lady—straight between the eyes.”
“Oh, dear God.”
“At least it was quick, Miss Dobbs. At least it was quick, not like some of them I see. Anyway, can you come to the Yard?”
“I’m expecting Mr. Pramal here at any moment.”
“Right then, just the man I’m looking for—I’ll come to you.” There was silence on the line for a second or two.
“Caldwell?”
“How long do you want with him before I get there?”
“About forty-five minutes or so. And thank you, Inspector. I appreciate your forethought.”
“Might as well show a bit of willing. After all, Miss Dobbs, we’re in this one together. Getting to be a habit.”
Maisie walked to the window. She’d been due to meet Maya Patel at half past four, at St. Pancras station. How much of a coincidence was there to connect Patel’s death with her knowledge of Usha and the fact that she had welcomed the opportunity to meet with Maisie and perhaps confide in her? She wondered what connections might exist between the dead women, beyond secrets shared in their accommodations. She suspected that, if they had been in their own country, they might not have encountered each other, but here they had been brought together by the common experience of exile.
The bell rang, announcing the arrival of a visitor. “That’ll be Mr. Pramal,” said Sandra.
Maisie escorted Usha Pramal’s brother to the office and offered him a seat in front of her desk. She brought her chair to the side, so that the desk did not form a barrier between them. Pramal declined tea, so Sandra remained at her desk.
“Mr. Pramal, I have some news to report, and as you can imagine, more questions. First of all, the disturbing development, and I am very sorry to have to break this to you under such circumstances. Another resident of the ayah’s hostel, a friend of your sister, has been murdered, and at this point it would seem that she was killed by a single bullet to the head. Detective Inspector Caldwell will be here at about ten—as you would imagine, he wishes to interview you; however, he has been most gracious, and not entirely following protocol, by allowing our meeting here to go ahead.”
“I suppose I am among the suspects.” Pramal’s anger was barely disguised, the words delivered without meeting Maisie’s eyes.
“I believe that if you were a prime suspect, you would not be here in my office, but at Scotland Yard. Having said that, be prepared for Caldwell to be somewhat confrontational—it’s his way, and he has a murder to investigate.”
“It’s a pity he didn’t get a bit more confrontational when he was investigating my sister’s death, wouldn’t you say, Miss Dobbs?”
“Your frustration is warranted, Mr. Pramal. But let us not waste time going over old ground. Maya Patel has been killed, and she was due to meet me later today. I am assuming she had some crucial information to impart, and in a way she already has.” Maisie paused, allowing her words to filter through Pramal’s temper. “I visited Usha’s accommodations yesterday, and discovered something very interesting, which I must tell you about. Hidden in her mattress—not a terribly safe place, but no one else had looked, clearly—I discovered a considerable sum in savings. I have taken the liberty of depositing the monies at my bank, in a box under lock and key.”
“Usha had money?”
“Easily enough to return home, I would say, but I spoke to Miss Patel long enough to establish that Usha was remaining here to earn a sum sufficient to achieve her ambition of founding a school. It seems they had confided in each other.”
“But this Miss Patel, she was just an ayah—she doesn’t sound like someone my sister would confide in.”
“From our conversation yesterday, it would seem that Usha thought nothing of flying in the face of convention, and if she considered Maya and her fellow ayahs less than herself, she would not have remained, or would have returned sooner. I believe she and Maya Patel might have found comfort in their friendship, especially so far from home.”
“Yes, of course. You are right, Miss Dobbs. My comment would not do Usha justice.”
“Let’s move on—Caldwell will be here shortly. Mr. Pramal, I am interested in the two men who had a romantic interest in Usha—your fellow officer, the gentleman with whom you lodged upon first arriving here, and also the young man whom you said had inappropriately courted your sister in India.” She looked at her notes. “First of all, have you had any recollection at all, of the man who had declared his love for Usha?”
“As I said yesterday, Miss Dobbs—I don’t know that I ever knew.” He frowned, as if trying to agitate his memory. “I only know that he was most pressing in paying her attention. And my aunt said it was clear the whole event had distressed Usha—she clearly reciprocated his affection, which was most worrying, but at the same time felt embarrassed by him, and by his lack of respect. You see, it is not usual for a man to come to the house without an invitation, and any approach of this kind would of course be discussed with his family, who would accompany him if serious intent to propose marriage was on the cards. Courting might be the British way, but it is not ours. And I must explain, although Usha might have done things her own way, she would not have wanted to bring that sort of gossip to the door, and would have been very circumspect if she were seeing this man outside the house. She would have kept it secret. It was one thing for people to think she was a free spirit and tut-tut here and there, but she would not have wanted a serious slight against the family in connection with her moral code. A line was crossed.”
“Yes, I understand, Mr. Pramal. But what about Mr. Singh?”
“Oh, Singh was like so many—head over heels at first glance, but Usha showed no interest whatsoever, and to be frank, teased us both, because of course I would have welcomed him as a brother. He’s very happily married now, though, and living here in London.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I plan to visit Mr. Singh—please do not be alarmed, it’s just that he might have some insight that has evaded you, being her brother. Do you know if she kept in touch with him, when she came to London? Or why she did not call upon him when she found herself thrown out by her employers?”
Pramal smiled. “Pride. Usha would have been too proud to have done that, though Singh and his wife have told me that, once she was settled, she came to see them. But she never told them about her change of circumstances.”
“Yes, I can imagine her being like that.” She looked at her notes again. “And just to keep you apprised of our progress, Mrs. Tapley reports that Usha’s former employers are on holiday in Italy, but will be home soon. I will visit as soon as they return to London. In the meantime, I have another question regarding Usha. My visit to the ayah’s home revealed that your sister was left with precious little money from her daily work—which was as a cleaner in two mansions. Miss Patel informed me that Mr. Paige took most of the wages and saved them on behalf of the girls, so that they could one day return home. If that is so, then there should have been money coming to you from that quarter—have you received word regarding the funds?”
Pramal pressed his lips together. Clearly the thought that his sister was engaged in menial work was painful to him.
“I have received nothing.”
“I thought not. I’ll ask about it. However, there is the matter of this money saved in the mattress. That being the case, I wonder, how do you think she might have been able to earn and put by such a tidy sum?”
“Are you suggesting—?”
“I am not suggesting anything, I am asking a very good question. Your sister had saved a considerable amount, and though it was over a period of some years, it still mounted up. Maya Patel was going to tell me more and now she’s dead. So, if you could offer me anything you know about Usha that might help me establish where the money came from—it might well be the key to finding her killer.”
Pramal folded his arms, and as he moved his hands, Maisie noticed an obvious yellow stain on his fingers—he was a man who smoked cigarettes and, surprisingly, given the tension caused by her questions, had not asked if he might light one.
“She was a teacher, so she might have taken on private tutoring.”
“Her free hours were limited, but it’s a possibility,” allowed Maisie.
“And she . . . no, nothing. There’s nothing else.”
“What were you going to say, Mr. Pramal? Was there something else?”
Pramal fidgeted in his chair. Maisie felt Sandra looking at her, and looked back. She indicated the clock to Maisie—Caldwell would ring the bell soon. The moment might be lost.
“Mr. Pramal. What else might Usha have done to earn money?”
He shook his head. “I can’t imagine that she would have, but—”
The bell above the door sounded. Sandra pushed back her chair.
“Let him wait, Sandra.” Maisie held up a finger. The bell rang again. “Mr. Pramal?”
Pramal took a deep breath. “She touched people.”
“She touched people? I know you said she was the sort of person who might set her hand upon the arm of another when speaking with them—but you don’t mean that, do you?”
“It was not something she ever would have done outside our family, and never with men—never, ever, would she have touched a man. But if one of the women was in pain, if she had an ache—in the feet or the shoulder, anywhere—my sister would gently rest her hand on the place, and the pain would be soothed. She could leach away pain and suffering.”
“Ah, I see. Yes, I see,” said Maisie.
The bell rang once more. Sandra stood up. “Miss?”
Pramal spoke. “Do the police know about my sister’s savings?”
“No, I have not told them.”
“They were incompetent in their investigation. Please do not give them that piece of information.”
Maisie looked at Pramal and nodded, then glanced at the clock. “I shouldn’t let him wait on the doorstep any longer—it might be difficult for you if he’s built up a bit of a temper.”
“Then my temper will be a match for his, Miss Dobbs. I have nothing to fear from Detective Inspector Caldwell of your esteemed Scotland Yard.”
Maisie had no questions for Pramal throughout the interview, and Caldwell’s inquiries were predictable, asking if Pramal knew Maya Patel, where he was at the estimated time of her death—which had been established as early the previous evening—and if he knew of a friendship between his sister and Maya Patel. Caldwell asked Pramal if Usha had ever mentioned the other young woman in letters. There appeared no doubt that Pramal had never met Maya Patel, and had no knowledge of her until Maisie informed him of her death. But like so many others, Maya Patel had been touched by Usha Pramal, and had died for it.