“I’m sure I don’t know—we do our best for the women. As I said, they have a roof over their heads, and meals. And we save their money for them, so they can go home again.”
“You save their money? How? Did you collect wages from them?”
Paige became flustered, patting her bun again, and then picking an imaginary piece of fluff from a sleeve. “I’m sure I mustn’t discuss money matters without my husband here. He looks after the accounts.”
“I’ll talk to him about it, then. In the meantime, may I see Usha Pramal’s room?”
“I—well, it hasn’t been touched, you know, not since she was found. We thought it best to wait until the brother arrived from India so he could collect her belongings. The police told us not to move anything, anyway, until further notice.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. I am sure Mr. Pramal would be grateful to you for keeping her personal effects in the order she left them. In any case, I would like to see the room—could you let me have a look?”
The woman sighed. “Come with me, then.”
She led the way towards the staircase, stopping alongside the banister.
“Wait here a minute. We’ll need the key.”
She was gone for a couple of minutes, during which time Maisie heard her voice echoing through the house. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the floor a bit cleaner than that!”
Maisie wondered if this was an example of how the women who had come seeking refuge were generally treated. Soon she heard Mrs. Paige approaching, huffing as if the exertion of collecting the key had taken her breath.
“Follow me,” she instructed, rubbing her chest.
Maisie made her way up two flights of stairs in the woman’s wake, until they reached the top-floor attic room.
“Had this all to herself, she did. Here we are.” Mrs. Paige unlocked and opened the door. The room inside was dark and shadowed. She stepped towards the heavy faded velvet drapes and drew them back. At once sunshine streamed in through the window, catching dust motes in broad shafts of light.
“And I wonder why the carpets fade, what with all this hot sun. I had to tell her of it many a time, she was always leaving the curtains wide open. I shan’t draw them back like that again. It rots the carpets, the sun.”
“Please leave them—I’ll close them when I leave. If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Paige, I’d like to spend a few moments here in Miss Pramal’s room on my own. Just to sit for a while, and look around me.”
“I don’t know what my husband would say, but—well, all right. Come down when you’re ready—but don’t be long, because I don’t want to have to come all the way up these stairs again.”
“No, I won’t be long. I just want to look at her books, try to gain an understanding of her character.”
The woman tutted, and turned away from Maisie, closing the door as she left the room.
Maisie sighed. At last. Now she could take time to see what Usha Pramal had left behind of herself. Looking around the room, Maisie took account of the low ceilings and sloping attic beams, of the small iron-frame bed to the right of the room, under the eaves. In the corresponding alcove to the left, a series of shelves were filled with books and small ornaments. Four framed photographs on top of the chest of drawers to the immediate left of the door were, Maisie thought, of family members—she would look at them in detail in good time. To the right, behind the open door, stood a wooden washstand with a marble top and tiled back, on top of which was a bowl and ewer of flower-patterned china. The carpet was threadbare—nothing much to protect there, thought Maisie—and there was no source of heat that she could see. She hoped she might find an electric heater, for this room was doubtless freezing in winter.
Maisie stepped further into the room, towards the window, where two small wicker armchairs had been placed at an angle suitable for conversation between confidantes. The wicker was unthreaded in places, and the chairs bore the wear that one would expect to see in garden furniture; they had doubtless done duty outside before being brought into the house. Folded blankets served as cushions, and were probably snatched back on winter nights as Usha Pramal tried to stay warm in her bed under the eaves.
The window commanded a view that Maisie thought must have been balm for Usha: a square filled with flowers in spring, and trees in blossom. The assortment of houses seemed bold against branches still bearing the green flush of late summer, though in winter the barren bark would seem stark and cold. What did Usha think, Maisie wondered, as she looked from this window out to the street below and to the houses across the square? What did she think of these people, after having lived in a house with family—her father, brother, and aunts. Perhaps this place became something akin to home for her, and the women her sisters.
Usha Pramal’s reading choices were as broad as they were deep, with books on philosophy, on French and English literature; there were novels and one guidebook to London, which was worn and well-leafed. And to her surprise—the Paiges must have been either ill-informed or not ones to pay attention—the small ornaments were in fact statues of Ganesh, Vishnu, and Shiva, gods from a more familiar realm. And there above the alcove with the books was a single framed drawing of Christ on the Cross. It occurred to Maisie that Usha Pramal had kept all doors open in her communications with the divine—and she wondered to what extent she went through the motions of following the Paiges’ Christian beliefs.
The bed was covered in simple plain white sheets that seemed a little gray. A single blanket was topped with an Indian cotton bedspread in a red, yellow, and blue paisley pattern. It appeared somewhat worn, but Maisie thought there was comfort in that. She sat on the bed, feeling a little like Goldilocks in the baby bear’s bed. Placing her bag on the floor beside her, Maisie slipped off her shoes so that her feet could touch the carpet beneath. With her hands on her lap, she closed her eyes.
This was what she had wanted to do, to sit in the room that had been Usha Pramal’s refuge, yet even with the woman’s belongings about her, she realized there was no sense that it was ever a home. And as she placed a hand on her chest, she felt enveloped by a deep yearning. At once she took a short breath, so sudden had the feeling touched her—it was as if, inside this room, Usha Pramal had given in to her sense of estrangement. Maisie felt tears pressing against her eyelids, as if through her the dead woman could weep the tears of loneliness, tears that expressed an ache for the place that was her home. She opened her eyes, and rubbed away the tears that had come freely. She had not taken due care. She was in the home of a woman who was now dead, who had died alone, far from those she had loved. Maurice would have cautioned her, Take care, Maisie. You are sensitive to the essence of one who has passed—do not assume that this field is benign. Protect yourself.
Maisie lay back on the bed. She felt weary. Worry about Billy, about Sandra, and now this case had at once made her so tired, she felt as if she could close her eyes and sleep. She pressed her arm into the bed to lift herself and felt something solid against the point of her elbow. Sitting up, she turned and pushed down upon the bed with both hands. The horsehair mattress was firm, but at this very point, even more so—and lumpy. She had been in the room ten minutes. Soon Mrs. Paige would be calling up the stairs, or sending the Indian girl to find her. She stood up, rolling back the covers so she might with speed make the bed again, and then lifted the bottom sheet to reveal the mattress. Along one side, instead of stitching, a series of pins held the seam in place. She removed them, setting them on top of the white drawn-back sheet. Now she could reach into the mattress. Her fingers were busy, feeling among the fibers to find something she knew had been hidden by Usha Pramal. Soon she touched a cord, which she pulled. She gasped as she realized the cord was attached to a scarlet velvet drawstring bag, which she drew out to inspect. And there was no mistake, it contained a significant amount of money. She reached in again, and found another bag, then one more, secreted in the hair of a long-dead horse.
Stairs creaked, an
d a voice called out. Maisie moved with speed, sliding the bags into her document case. She replaced the pins, tucked in the bottom sheet and remade the bed.
“Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie slipped on her shoes, stepped out of the room, and looked into the deep blue-brown eyes of the young woman who had answered the door when she arrived at the house. Her head was to one side, and she smiled.
“Mrs. Paige asked me to come find you. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, indeed. Such a lovely room—but I bet it’s cold in winter.”
She laughed. “The whole house is cold in winter—but Usha used to come to my room when there was a frost. She had nothing above her head except the roof; no loft, nothing to keep her warm. But my room has a fireplace, and we bought coal with our spending money—Mr. Paige sells us a pennyworth at a time.”
“He doesn’t just make up your fire for you then?”
Another laugh. “I wish Usha were here—she would find that very funny.”
“Did you know her well?”
The young woman shrugged. “We came from different families—different backgrounds—but we found some company together. She helped me with my lessons, you know. I learned to read and write at school, but she read books I could not understand, so she helped me.”
“Do you work outside this house—I’m sorry, I should have asked your name.”
“My name is Maya Patel. And I do work outside the house, every day, but my employer did not want me to come today—he has had to leave London at short notice.”
Maisie heard Mrs. Paige call up the stairs, telling Maya Patel to escort Miss Dobbs to the front door, as she was seeing the grocer about the delivery. When they reached the door, Maisie turned to Maya Patel.
“Would it be possible for me to speak to you—alone—at some point soon? It’s about Usha.”
The young woman looked down, and nodded. “Yes, I think I should like to speak about Usha.”
“How might I find you? I don’t think I can come back here in a hurry.”
“I will be at my second employer’s house tomorrow afternoon until four o’clock. I can meet you at St. Pancras station—near the entrance. Would half past four be suitable?”
“Of course. Half past four then, at St. Pancras.”
Maya Patel nodded. “And please, Miss Dobbs, take care of Usha’s nest egg. She worked very hard for her money. We see hardly any wages from our work. It was her passage home, you see, and more important, for her school. She wanted to build a school for poor girls. ‘If I have to teach in the streets, I will, Maya,’ she said. And she meant it.”
Maisie looked at the young woman, into sweet eyes of light and dark that could see with such clarity. “Don’t worry—I will see that her money goes to the right place.”
After collecting her jacket she waved to Maya Patel and made her way along the road to her MG motor car. And as she placed the case into the back of the car, using her jacket to cover the valuables, she looked down at her blouse. A single black hair, long and shining like polished ebony, perhaps caught from the bedclothes when Maisie searched Usha Pramal’s room, had draped along the length of her sleeve.
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.”