Chapter Seven
Addington Square was bathed in sunlight when Maisie arrived at the Paige residence that afternoon. She’d taken the opportunity to walk around the area first. There was common ground behind Goodyear Place, a somewhat less salubrious street adjacent to Addington Square, where children played with a large retriever dog, running to and fro, catching a ball, then throwing it to each other as the dog gamboled between them, as if hoping to snag the prize. Providing an additional distraction for the youngsters, the canal was also close by. As a working waterway, it wasn’t a comforting place to meander, though Maisie could see how young boys might be drawn to the path, perhaps to call to the men on the timber barges, or to skim stones across the dark water.
Mr. Paige answered the door when Maisie called, and was soon joined by his wife in the parlor, which seemed to lose none of its dour character on a bright day. Maisie thought Paige rather matched the sense of emptiness in the room, with his drawn pallor and hollowed cheeks suggesting a sour nature rather than physical deprivation.
“Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Paige,” said Maisie. “I am sure you have had a lot to deal with, given that the police will have already been here to talk to you.”
“There was a constable on the street, in front of the house, until an hour ago, but mainly they came and went this morning. It’s all very distressing, I must say.” Paige looked at his wife, who was sitting on a straight-back chair next to his.
Mrs. Paige sniffed into her handkerchief. “They were both good girls, Miss Pramal and Miss Patel. They did their work without complaint, they studied the Bible, and they never gave a moment’s trouble.”
Maisie nodded. “Are there other women here at the moment?”
“There were three more in residence—we’ve room for more, but as I said, numbers have dropped off. The police thought they would be better off at another house—a safer place, they said. Apparently they’ve found them lodgings somewhere across the water, not far from a police station, but I don’t know which one. I dread to think what the neighbors might say—and all we ever wanted to do was some good for those less fortunate. There might have been a bit of gossip about what we did here, but once people knew our ladies were courteous and kept themselves tidy, there wasn’t much talk at all.”
Maisie suspected that Mrs. Paige might be the daughter of a vicar, or at least brought up in a home with parents who observed the tenets of the church with an intensity that bordered on the oppressive; she had a sense that the woman’s religious belief was something deeply ingrained. As she spoke, she clutched the plain silver cross worn around her neck, and her diction revealed a person not originally from southeast London. Her husband, though, seemed as if he were from a family of tradespeople, perhaps having chosen missionary work following a reigniting of faith. If she allowed her mind to create a story for him, she would say he had been affected by a charismatic man of the cloth who had visited the area when he was at an impressionable age, possibly in his early twenties, perhaps at a time when he was enduring a period of self-doubt. While he spoke well, there was the occasional pronunciation that suggested a childhood spent in the local borough. The couple had likely met later than one might expect of a youthful romance, and then forged a bond based upon wishing to do the work of the God they worshipped, with the ayah’s hostel being the culmination of that work.
Mr. Paige was a lean man, with clothes that made him seem taller and thinner than he was. Gray trousers were topped with a gray shirt, navy blue tie, and maroon sleeveless knitted pullover; errors in the cable suggested a homemade garment, and that Mrs. Paige was an easily distracted knitter. Paige’s hair was cut very short at the back and sides, as if he were newly conscripted into the army, though the weathering at the nape of his neck indicated a man who was used to being in his garden.
“Had anyone ever shown a grudge towards the women?” asked Maisie. “I know the police will have asked that question, but I must press it upon you again.”
Husband and wife shook their heads at the same time. Paige answered. “We do good work here, Miss Dobbs, and our women don’t have much time to go out meeting people, though they are over the age of consent, so they can go for a walk or to the library if they want, when their work is done. You see we have rules—about lights out and being here for Bible study—so they don’t have too much in the way of loose time on their hands. And in general they don’t have a lot of spending money. Our intention is to get them back to India when their savings allow it—and of course, we want them to go back with something, so that they’re not destitute when they disembark from the ship.”
“I understand that you thought Miss Pramal often had more funds than her allowance might suggest, Mr. Paige. Can you account for that?”
Paige shrugged. “She seemed to have more money at times, but when I asked her about it, she just said she’d always been like a mouse with crumbs, saving them up in her hole.”
Mrs. Paige interjected. “Miss Pramal sometimes had a bit of lip on her. She could say something without being obviously cheeky, but when you thought about it, you knew she meant it. As if we only gave them the crumbs off the table, and that she slept in a hole. She could be like that, though most of the time she kept herself to herself. Went to the library a lot. And she and Miss Patel would go out together, on a nice evening, just for a walk. Miss Pramal liked to walk. She liked to wander along busy streets, especially on a hot day when most of us would want to be inside in the cool—she said it reminded her of home.”
Maisie nodded. She knew that feeling. She remembered during the war, in France, there were days, in spring especially, when she’d wake up and believe she was at home in Kent. There was perhaps a scent on the air, the sound of birds calling—a song short-lived before the cannonade began again. And she would be reminded of walks alongside the streams that ran through the Chelstone Manor estate, when the pungent smell of wild garlic would waft up with every swish of her skirts. And then she would remember, again, that she was not home at all, and the ache of longing would rise within her.
She pressed on with her next question. “When I came before, I think you told me, Mrs. Paige, that you were the first recipients of the women’s earnings, and you gave an allowance—pocket money for essentials—each week. Would you explain that to me again? You said that Mr. Paige was in charge of those accounts.”
Paige cleared his throat. “We’re not wealthy people, Miss Dobbs. Our house was left to my wife by a distant relative, which was indeed a blessing from the Lord at a time when we were newly arrived in Britain following two years of missionary work in Abyssinia. I also received a small bequest when my father’s business was sold—he had several hardware shops; the largest was on Rye Lane. Neither my brother nor I wanted to take it on—we weren’t the best of friends—so it was sold. It allowed my brother to purchase a smallholding in Kent, and I was able to continue with our work here. As well as offering a home for these poor women abandoned by their wealthy employers, we do God’s work by taking food down to the docks, where men stand looking for a job.”
“That is kindness indeed, to share your good fortune with others. But what about the ayah’s savings?” asked Maisie.
“We obviously took money to reimburse us for offering lodgings—these women would not have found landlords willing to rent to them—and for their general keep. And they tithed to help with our work. Each woman’s wages was divided in three—one third for the lodging, one third tithing, and one third for them—out of which they would be given ninepence each per week.”
“It would have taken many, many years to save for passage home to India.”
“And in the meantime, they have a roof over their heads, food on the table, and sustenance from the Holy Spirit.”
Maisie nodded. “I’d like to return to the fact that Miss Pramal gave you the impression that she had more funds than she might, considering the allowance she was given from her wages. If she was earning money elsewhere, what do you think she might have done to accumulate the funds?”
Mrs. Paige sat up taller in her chair, her hands in her lap. Paige folded his arms. He shook his head. “I really don’t know, Miss Dobbs. She helped with Sunday school at church—she was good with children, as you might imagine—though there was no financial recompense for that, obviously. And our Reverend Griffith thought very highly of her. Always spoke well of her work.”
“Did she go to church every Sunday?”
They both nodded. “All the women do,” said Mrs. Paige.
“You’ve not asked us much about Miss Maya Patel, Miss Dobbs,” said Paige.
“Not at the moment, no. I believe that her life was taken because she knew something about Miss Pramal that someone else did not want her to know. Or it could be even simpler.”
“What do you mean?” asked Paige.
“It could be as obvious as the color of her skin.”
Maisie asked to see the room allocated to Maya Patel and was taken upstairs by Mrs. Paige. Maya had made fresh curtains from sari silk lined with plain cotton muslin. The medley of bright colors brought a freshness to the room, which was otherwise plain. There was a wardrobe in the corner, a washstand alongside one wall, and a small chest of drawers next to the bed. The bed itself was narrow, and as Maisie pressed down upon it, she could feel that it was old and poorly upholstered, and definitely not conducive to a good night’s sleep.
Mrs. Paige lingered by the door as Maisie walked around the room. There was a sadness within the four walls, and she thought the room might have been both a cell and a retreat. It was a place Maya could come to that she had done her best to make her own, yet at the same time, an incarceration of sorts in a country that had, in truth, abandoned her. The Paiges had clearly helped the women, who might otherwise have had nowhere to go at all, and Maisie conceded that there were a lot of folk who would love to have a room in a house in Addington Square—but still she felt the discomfort, not least because there was a dark side to the Paiges’ generosity: in control of money, and what grown women were allowed and not allowed to do. Was such a regulated life to the benefit of women alone in a country so different from their own? Perhaps. She could not argue with the fact that the vulnerable were always easy prey, whether women, children, or, indeed, men. But how long would it have taken to afford a passage back to the land of their birth? At the rate of recompense allowed by the Paiges, it would take a very long time.
“Thank you, Mrs. Paige.” Maisie turned away from the room and smiled at the woman, who she thought was nervous. She allowed for the fact that the woman had suffered a difficult day—a second one of her charges found murdered, the invasion of her house by police, and now additional questioning.
“Did the police take much from the room?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know that they took anything. She didn’t have much, poor girl.”
“Letters?”
Again, a shaking of the head from Mrs. Paige. “I don’t remember her getting any, even after all these years. I think that’s why she depended upon Miss Pramal so much—Miss Pramal was like family to her. I think she looked up to her, to tell you the truth, and I heard Miss Pramal saying that when she went back, well, she’d take Miss Patel with her.”
“Is that so? Do you think she would have?”
“Oh yes. She wasn’t one who struck you as the sort to make promises she had no intention of keeping, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie nodded. It seemed there was little more to be revealed by a couple who were reaching the end of their tether.
“I’d better be going now,” said Maisie.
The Paiges stood at the threshold to see Maisie on her way. She thanked them for their time and for accommodating her questions, especially when there was so much to trouble them. As she put on her gloves, she asked a final question.
“I’d like to speak to the Reverend Griffith. Where might I find him?”
Paige pointed across the square. “If you go across there onto the next street, then a couple of houses on the right, you’ll see a blue door with his name on a brass plaque on the wall alongside; that’s where he lives. He might be at the church, or even out visiting parishioners.”
“I’ll take my chances, then.”
“He’ll speak very highly of Miss Pramal, you know,” said Mrs. Paige.
“Did she do a lot for your church, beyond teaching Sunday school?”
“He sometimes asked for her to go with him when he went to see a woman patient who was poorly. He said she brightened up a room, what with her silk saris. He said it made people feel better.”
“And there was no discrimination?” asked Maisie. “After all, you said that people sometimes talked about your offering a place of refuge for the women here.”
“Well, when she was with the vicar it was different. No one would have said anything to him. He had a regard for her, you see.”
Maisie nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been most kind.” She turned to leave, but as the Paiges were about to step into the house, she looked back as if forgetting something. “Oh, one last thing, Mr. Paige. Could you tell me how much longer Miss Pramal would have had to wait until she had enough saved for her passage to Bombay?”
Paige looked at Maisie for more than a few seconds before answering. “She could have sailed three months before she died, Miss Dobbs, but I think she wanted to wait for Miss Patel. She didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, even if she did feel like a mouse with a few crumbs.”
Maisie left Addington Square and walked in the direction of the canal. Though it was far from being the loveliest walk in London, she could imagine Usha Pramal and her friend Maya Patel meandering close to the waterway, and then on the streets in the neighborhood where they lived. Had Usha ventured farther afield, to the bustling markets and shopping streets on this side of the river? Was it a certain wanderlust—a desire to be in places where people swarmed, where the teeming activity reminded her of home—that had taken her into a thoroughfare where she might not have been welcome? More to the point, what did Maya Patel want to tell Maisie? She had jumped at the chance of a meeting across the water—in a busy station, among strangers, many from overseas, and among whom she might not be recognized—but she had been silenced before her secrets could be shared. This time yesterday, she was alive, thought Maisie. She imagined her smiling, walking along, her silken sari flapping in the breeze on the warm September day, not knowing the very fragility of her future. But someone was watching her. Someone with a gun in his hand. His hand? Yes, it would have to have been a man, wouldn’t it? After all there was that kickback, wasn’t there? A man had the strength to handle a gun like that, especially if he’d learned to use it during the war. Maisie walked back towards the square. She felt as if she were looking at Usha Pramal through a kaleidoscope. Whenever she thought of her, a myriad of colors seemed to flash into her mind’s eye, but they changed with every turn, creating a new and complex pattern. And at the center, she could see the woman’s eyes looking back at her, waiting for her to find her way to the truth. Now she must find and talk to the man of the cloth who thought so highly of Usha Pramal.
The Reverend Colin Griffith was at home when Maisie arrived at the house. It was not the vicarage—there was a vicarage in Goodyear Place, but it accommodated the Church of England minister. Instead, Griffith lived in another home similar in architectural style to the one owned by the Paiges in Addington Square. And Griffith’s church was not the local “C of E,” or the Congregational Emmanuel Church with its tall spire pointing towards heaven; his flock met in a community hall not far from the square. It appeared Griffith may have founded his own church. Maisie wondered how local parishioners—those for whom churchgoing was a regular event—might choose between places of worship, as there were several in the immediate area. Her question was answered when Griffith came to the door. A bright smile, deep blue eyes, and silver-gray hair on a man who seemed only a little older than Maisie combined to render his appearance almost angelic and engaging at the same time. He wore no priestly garments—on this day not even a white clerical collar—and might have been taken for a teacher in a boys’ boarding school.
“Yes? How may I help you?” His smile became broader, and Maisie at once revised her opinion of the content of his sermons. In speaking with the Paiges, she had imagined a grim-faced paternal figure, promising all manner of ills if one did not follow scripture to the letter. Griffith appeared friendlier than she had expected, and she suspected that what he had to say to his parishioners might leave them feeling quite uplifted.
“My name is Maisie Dobbs.” She handed him a calling card. “I’d like to speak to you about Miss Usha Pramal and Miss Maya Patel, and other women the Paiges have brought to church.”
Griffith studied the card. Maisie could see his smile lose some of its vitality, like a ripe fruit weakening on the vine.
“The police have already been here, you know.” He placed a hand on the doorjamb, as if to protect his home.
“Yes, Reverend Griffith, I know. I am working alongside Scotland Yard, but also more specifically on behalf of Mr. Pramal, Miss Pramal’s brother. He has come a long way and is very anxious to know why his sister might have incurred such hatred that someone would take her life. I thought you might shed more light on her character and on those who knew her.”
He removed his hand. “Yes, of course. Come in, won’t you?”
Griffith stood back to allow Maisie to enter. He closed the door and walked past her to lead the way along a passage, then out to a room overlooking a walled garden behind the house. Ivy-clad stonework gave a sense of being held in place. A mature rhododendron had grown to quite a height in one corner, and the garden was a pleasing mix of hardy perennials and other blooms that would have been considered weeds if they were gracing a hedgerow, but which seemed equally at home among the cultivated plants. Griffith held his hand out towards a low slipper chair upholstered in faded purple velvet. He pulled a wheelback chair away from a desk and sat in front of Maisie.
“I only rent one floor—I have this, which is a sort of sitting room cum study, plus my bedroom, and a kitchen. Having the garden flat helps; it gives me an extra room on a fine day.”
Maisie looked around at books piled on the floor, at a black typewriter on the desk, and the half-finished document lodged next to the platen. A wastepaper basket was filled with crumpled sheets of paper.
“Not having much luck with Sunday’s sermon, I’m afraid. It usually comes right about half an hour before I’m due to leave for church, otherwise I’m sort of like a mad aviator, flying directly into the sunshine.”
Maisie smiled. “Yes, I can see that. Have you taken to the air, Reverend Griffith?”
He gave a half-laugh. “Well, apart from being three inches from the ground before every service, yes, I have. When I was in Africa I went up in an old boneshaker a few times.”
“Is that where you met Mr. and Mrs. Paige, in Africa?”
“No, but we have mutual friends, others who have been involved in missionary work among the tribal peoples. I was there for a year, and that common experience brought them to my ministry here.”
“So you are used to bringing a Christian faith to those from other parts of the Empire.”
“Just Africa, Miss Dobbs.”
“Tell me what you thought of Miss Pramal.”
Griffith sighed and rubbed his chin. “Miss Pramal was a very vivacious young woman. Always had a greeting for everyone, even if—and I hate to admit this of my parishioners—even if they were not so energetic in their response to her approach.” He paused. “People in London, as you know, are used to seeing faces of another color, of hearing another language spoken, and are tolerant of those differences—to a point, until that other color, creed, or language goes where it hasn’t set foot before, and then there’s a snigger here, an unkind word, a greeting left hanging in the air without response. For Miss Pramal, such—what could I call it? Such discrimination—” He left the word hanging in the air for a second or two, as if it might be superseded by a better word. “Such discrimination,” he went on, “did not affect her at all; it was water off a duck’s back. Which is why she was so good with Sunday school—children say all sorts of things that aren’t terribly nice, and Miss Pramal would never react, never reprimand. She would simply smile, perhaps make a child laugh, and then she would remind them of scripture, that there is no greater commandment than you should love your neighbor as yourself.”
“Did she give any impression of having friends, associations outside her work and her immediate neighbors in the ayah’s hostel?”
He shook his head. “Miss Dobbs, I saw Miss Pramal when she came to church on Sunday morning for the first service of the day, after which she remained so that she could take the children into the back room for Sunday school while their parents were here for the later service. Then she went home. Mr. and Mrs. Paige ensured the women were brought together for prayers in the home, and for Bible study. They were generally present in church for Sunday evensong. I doubt she had the time to do much else in the way of establishing social contacts.”
Maisie nodded and looked out at the garden, which, although it was a fine day, seemed a little soporific, as if it were tired of summer and was ready to slip into an autumnal nap before enduring the frostbitten days of winter.
“Have you any idea why Miss Pramal and Miss Patel were murdered?”
Griffith seemed to flinch at the word. Murder was not part of his usual vocabulary. It came to Maisie’s lips far too often.
He shrugged and looked down at his hands, which to Maisie appeared almost unnaturally unblemished, as if opening books had been the extent of his life’s work.
“I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill another person, Miss Dobbs. I never went to war. I have never lost my temper. I have only love for my fellow man, so I have no other answer for you.” He rubbed his hands together. “But there are people who will trample flowers into the ground, who will beat dogs, and who will exert a terrible cruelty upon children. None of this do I understand, but I know it exists. And in my ministry I do what I can to banish evil from the little world I inhabit here in London, in the hope that the ripples of peace, of the word of the Lord, will gently go out further and further until they reach the far edges of humanity here on earth. No, I cannot imagine how anyone could take the life of a bright shining star such as Usha Pramal.”
Maisie stood up and looked down at the vicar, who came to his feet. He turned away to put the chair back in front of the desk, though not before Maisie was able to see his pained expression.
At the front door, Maisie extended her hand. “Thank you, Reverend Griffith. I am grateful for your time—you were obviously busy with that sermon.”
Griffith’s grip was firm when he took her hand. “I think you’ve given me some food for thought, Miss Dobbs. I think it’s time to pull out a sermon about us all sitting at the feet of the Lord, who pays no mind to color, creed, or to youth or age.”
“May I return if I have some more questions?”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
Griffith smiled once more as a beam of sunlight haloed his silver-gray hair.
Maisie waved as she went on her way, and pressed her palms together to re-create the sensation she experienced when she shook the Reverend Griffith’s hand. Although it was soft, almost like a woman’s, there had been a catch against her hand when they touched. A shaft of rough skin ran along the V formed by the outer edge of his right forefinger and the inner flesh of his thumb. This part of his hand had worked hard—perhaps against a spade in the garden, or a broom in the house. She couldn’t imagine that lifting a chalice would cause such a callus. But she wondered whether the repeated handling of a weapon might. It was not an idle thought, but a secondary consideration when she realized that the Reverend Griffith had misled her. He had most certainly been to India—a photograph on the wall above his desk attested to the fact that he had even been transported by an elephant, seated as he was on the giant beast, both he and the mahout with broad smiles for whoever was behind the camera.