Leaving Everything Most Loved

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Sitting in silence, Maisie stilled her mind and quieted the voices asking their questions. She wanted to know about Sergeant Major Pramal. In their meeting, when Usha Pramal’s brother had mentioned Khan, Maisie realized that in her mind she had absolved Pramal of any wrongdoing in the case of his sister’s death. Given that he was so far away, he could not have been directly responsible for her murder—but on the other hand, he was not yet cleared of complicity in the crime. Maisie wondered if she should temporarily disengage her trust in Khan, though she knew he thought highly of her and would not have sent a man to her who might have had a hand in the taking of another life. Unless, of course, in this one very rare instance, Khan had not seen the truth.

  She remained in the MG, the passing traffic barely denting her quieted mind as she prepared for an audience with the man her beloved Maurice had turned to in times of doubt. Soon she took a deep breath and left the motor car. She unlatched the heavy iron gate and made her way across the courtyard to the front door. It opened at the very second she raised her hand to grasp the bellpull.

  “Miss Dobbs. Welcome.” A young man dressed in a long white tunic and white linen trousers bowed before her, his hands together as if in prayer. “Khan sent me. He said you would be here soon.”

  Maisie put her hands together and gave a short bow in return. “Thank you. Would he be able to see me now, or shall I wait?”

  “Oh no, no waiting. He wishes to see you at once.”

  She slipped off her shoes, leaving them on a bench at the side of the door, and followed the young man across the hexagonal entrance hall and into Khan’s inner sanctum.

  Khan sat by the open window, as was his habit. The fine white curtains flicked back and forth, twitched by the breeze, which in turn seemed to move the heavy scent of incense around the room so that it never seemed cloying, but was carried gently on the air.

  The young man plumped several cushions on the floor for Maisie to sit as Khan turned to face her, his hands outstretched.

  Maisie took his hands in her own. “Khan, you knew I would come.”

  “Of course. You have questions for me, and rightly so, for I have sent you a problem, a maze to be negotiated, I am afraid.”

  She drew breath to respond, but he held up his right hand. “No, let us speak of you first. Do you still grieve?”

  “Of course, Khan. I miss Maurice very much, though the pain is not so sharp—instead it catches me when I least expect it. When I see his handwriting on a card, or when I want to hear his voice directing me.”

  Khan nodded, and as he moved his head, a long white strand of hair fell forward. He did not reach to touch the hair, but ignored it, as if the distraction had not happened.

  “Those are reminders, my child. Each time you see his penmanship or hear his voice in your head, it is as if he is here with you, and in your soul you will know his advice for you.”

  “I wish I could be as confident. Sometimes I feel that, with passing time, I am losing him, losing all that he taught me.”

  Khan laughed. Maisie thought it sounded like a chuckle, a sound that might come from an amused child, yet this man was of a great age. His mind, though, was as sharp as a freshly honed knife.

  “You will never lose him, Maisie Dobbs, for he is as much part of your mind, of your work, as your skin is part of your body.”

  Maisie drew breath to speak again, but Khan posed a question.

  “Now, what of you? Where are you on life’s road?”

  “That’s a very good question.” She paused. Khan made no movement to hurry her. “I want to go overseas, Khan. And I think I want to travel to India. And the strange thing is that it isn’t inspired by this case—your referral of Mr. Pramal to me. I had decided long before he first came to me that I wanted to travel. You see . . .” She faltered, searching for words. “You see, that’s the missing link. I have followed Maurice into this work, and I have been so very fortunate to be the recipient of his wisdom, of his deep knowledge. Yet he learned so much through a breadth of experience, not least in much time spent abroad, often living in simple circumstances. I have read his diaries and I have, in a way, seen those places in my mind’s eye. But it does not replace the desire to see, to feel, to smell another country.” She rubbed the place at the nape of her neck where she’d been wounded by shelling when she was still no more than a girl—she had lied about her age to work as a nurse close to the front lines of battle during the war. “And now this . . . this case. The Indian woman whose life was taken so violently, to be followed by the death of her friend, Maya Patel, in exactly the same manner.”

  “It should come as no surprise, Maisie. You invited that country into your life, so do not marvel that it has come to you.”

  “It is a very cold trail, Khan. You have recommended me, yet I do not know if I will be successful. I am only asking questions the police asked before, I am sure. If a loose thread remains, I will be hard-pushed to find it.”

  “Then do not press so hard upon the fabric.” Khan put out his hand and grasped the curtain as it flapped. Holding the material with one hand, he reached forward until he felt Maisie’s right hand. “Here.” He pressed her hand firm upon the fabric, holding her fingers and running them back and forth across the muslin. “What do you feel?”

  “Just the curtain.”

  “Do you feel the pattern?”

  “There is no pattern.”

  “Oh, but there is. Now, feel the pattern.” He took her fingers, holding them gently upon the white fabric. So light was her touch that she could barely feel it beneath her skin. But then, as she closed her eyes, she began to feel a movement, like tiniest ripples across a pond, and then something clearer. A slub in the weave, a thread proud against her fingertips. Khan smiled. “Ah, you feel it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do your work with a light step. Run your fingers across the weaving of knowledge you’ve gathered. Then you will be successful.”

  Maisie sighed. “Murder is never a light touch, Khan.”

  “No, it isn’t. But truth buried for a long time can be trodden down by a heavy footfall. Step lightly.” He stopped speaking and breathed deeply. “You would like to know about Pramal, Usha’s brother?”

  “Yes, I would,” said Maisie.

  “I knew the children’s father when he was a boy—though at my age anyone much younger than I seems like a boy. He lost his wife when his daughter was quite young, and in her he saw his wife incarnated. Such was his love for Usha that he indulged her with freedoms she might not have otherwise encountered. He treated her as older than her years. I know this because he wrote to me about his children. He held his son in high esteem, and was full of praise for his service in the war. But though he had not a favorite among his children, Usha was favored—and if Maurice were here, he would ask you to see the distinction.”

  “I know—and I do,” said Maisie.

  “But Usha’s brother has assumed the responsibility of the father, and he has come to find the person who took his sister’s life, and to see that she is laid to rest, that her soul does not suffer. He was not confident in the work of the authorities here, so he wanted to know whom he should task with this challenge. Yours was the only name I could give him.”

  “I have a question, Khan, and I know it will sound clumsy and disrespectful. But I must ask it.”

  Khan smiled. “I will save you from using a heavy hand, Maisie Dobbs. I will tell you now that I who am never shocked would swear that Pramal would never have lifted a finger to bring an end to his sister’s life. I would have misjudged him greatly if that were the case.”

  Maisie nodded. “Thank you, Khan. It is time I took my leave—you must be tired.”

  There was no answer, and she realized that the old man’s eyes were closed. Coming to her feet, she stepped away from the cushions and towards the door. When she looked back, she noticed that Khan was still holding on to the curtain, his finger and thumb running across the raised threads with the lightest of touches.
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  Chapter Nine

  It was some two years earlier that Maisie had first asked James about the possibility of a position for Billy with the Compton Corporation. Canada was on her mind then, as she wondered how it might be possible for the family to emigrate with some sort of work and accommodation already in place. Billy’s dream had been to embark upon a new life in Canada—but was it still a dream for him? Since moving from the dark streets of Shoreditch to a new house in Eltham—helped by Maisie—Billy had seemed more settled, though the move had not been without problems in the wake of Billy’s attack. Now she wanted to see him settled in a job with more regular hours and less risk. And she also wanted to know that he was not without work when she left, for as time went on she was gaining confidence in her decision to close the business and depart, bound for the kind of adventure that had been the making of Maurice Blanche.

  For Billy to secure a new position, he must be well. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, and upon hearing the horn from another motor car, she pulled over into a side street and stopped the MG. She wanted to think.

  When Billy had gone through a breakdown of sorts some four years earlier, she had sent him down to Chelstone, to live with her father and help with the horses on the estate. The fresh air, the slow pace of life, and the down-to-earth counsel of her father had worked magic with Billy. Doreen and the children had visited, and during his sojourn amid the rolling hills of the Kent countryside, Billy had found a measure of peace and had come to know himself again. Could that magic work a second time? Could Billy and the family return to good health following a break from their new house? The children might have a bit of trouble at the local school—their rich Cockney accents would mark them as outsiders—but she was sure they could weather it and make friends in short order. But would they welcome her interfering in their lives again? She could imagine Priscilla taking her to task about it. Then again, perhaps she should ask Priscilla—some of her ideas were on the unpredictable side of fantastic, but on the other hand, when it came to families, she had a strong practical no-nonsense streak that Maisie envied. Yes, she would talk to Priscilla.

  Now it was time to return to the office, to collect Sandra and visit the homes of two of the boys who had found Usha Pramal’s body. It was as she slipped the MG into gear that she realized she did not know the name of the person who discovered the murdered Maya Patel.

  “Let me see,” said Caldwell. Maisie could hear him turning a page. “Yes. Here we go. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten the name per se, but it’s one of them names that sounds as if it’s backwards. Martin Robertson. No fixed address at the time, though he has one now and we’ve asked him not to move. He’s a laborer living in digs, getting work where he can, mostly on the river. Seventeen years of age.”

  “Martin Robertson?”

  “That’s it.”

  In repeating the name, Maisie identified the sense of familiarity upon hearing Caldwell’s words. It’s one of them names that sounds as if it’s backwards.

  “Can you tell me the circumstances of the discovery, Inspector? Was he alone, and was it he who alerted the police?”

  “Well, as it happens, he wasn’t alone. He was with another bloke, a—wait a minute.” Papers rustled again. “Sean Walters. Irish lad come over here to find work. Robertson saw her first and Walters ran for help.”

  “What does Martin sound like, when he speaks?”

  “Funny question, Miss Dobbs. You know something I don’t know?”

  “Not sure—but can you tell me what he sounds like?”

  “Sounds like your ordinary south-of-the-water lad to me. Why?”

  “I’m not sure. It could be nothing. A coincidence, perhaps.”

  “I hope you’ll tell me if it’s important, Miss Dobbs. I know how you can keep things to yourself.”

  “I will. I just don’t want to be wrong.”

  “All right then. Now, this won’t get the eggs cooked, me talking to you all day.”

  Maisie held the receiver for a second longer, the continuous tone sounding after Caldwell had ended the call without so much as a swift “good-bye” to bracket the conversation.

  Martin Robertson. She picked up the folder pertaining to the missing boy, the case she had given to Billy. Robert Martin. Son of Jesmond Martin, a stockbroker living in St. John’s Wood, and his wife, Miriam. But this boy was not yet fourteen. She looked at the date he was missed from his boarding school, Dulwich College. One week before Usha Pramal’s body was discovered floating on the canal. And Dulwich was only a bus ride from Addington Square, and the Grand Surrey Canal.

  Maurice had taught Maisie to trust coincidence. He warned her that such things happen in an inquiry, as if the time and thought put into a case drew evidence in the same way that tides were affected by the proximity of the moon. Coincidence was the way of their world, and many a case depended upon the timely entrance of that serendipitous event. Maurice had taught her so much—and much that she doubted. He had told her that cases reflect each other, and that certain lessons come in threes. A case might mirror the one before, perhaps in the relationship between suspects or in the nature of their work. The victim of a new case might have something in common with another.

  She flicked the only readable page in the Robert Martin file: notes taken when she and Billy had first seen the boy’s father. Not the mother. Just the father of a missing son. She had found missing sons and daughters in the past, had seen parents relieved at the discovery—and on at least one occasion equal relief when she reported that the trail had run cold. Billy should have made regular telephone calls to their client to report on progress, though Maisie doubted he had done so. Yet she had not received an angry telephone call from the anxious father awaiting news. Was he so busy that he did not have time? Did he trust them to find his son without learning of their progress along the way? Could Jesmond Martin have been going through the motions of looking for a lost son, but with no true commitment on his part? Yes, she had known that before, a man making a promise to his wife, but lacking the conviction himself. She rubbed her neck and walked across to the filing cabinet and pulled out the rolled Pramal case map, which she unfurled across the table and pinned to keep it flat. But her thoughts were still on the man who had come to her because his son was missing.

  He had made an appointment for late afternoon, explaining that he could not come earlier due to his work, which demanded his undivided attention from an early hour. She had not asked for an explanation, but Jesmond Martin seemed keen to establish his credentials as a busy, important man. He was like so many of his kind who worked in the City, as if they had been issued with a certain attitude along with a uniform. Martin wore a dark pin-striped suit, removed a top hat upon entering the room, and carried a briefcase that had without doubt been expensive at time of purchase and was now worn around the handle and the corners and along the top flap. A brand-new case at his time of life would have pointed to only recent success, whereas the age and wearing of good leather proved to be a badge of honor among businessmen of his ilk. He had given details of his son’s disappearance in a tone devoid of emotion, yet when Maisie looked at his eyes, it was as if she was staring into a well of sadness. She remembered wondering what walls of division might be at the root of family discord, and whether an argument—perhaps one of many—had inspired the son to leave his boarding school. Jesmond Martin showed no embarrassment or regret when he explained that his son, Robert, had been missing for several weeks; in fact he exuded an air of indifference as he spoke. He informed Maisie and Billy that he had at first expected the boy to return in good time and saw no reason to alert the authorities. And there had been only a brief mention of a poorly wife. Would she go as far as to say the father appeared cold? In fact, she found herself feeling rather sorry for him, for she thought he had an affection for his son that had been scarred in some way, perhaps by discord as the boy formed his own opinions of the world and no longer followed the lead of his strong—and, it would seem, o
pinionated—father.

  If Robert Martin was indeed the boy who found Maya Patel—and until confirmed, the guess was tenuous, at best—how might it be related to Usha Pramal? She shook her head, and wrote in large letters, Robert Martin—Martin Robertson? and drew the names together in a large red circle. Martin Robertson was not a police suspect, so she had to be careful. She would have to make another call to Caldwell to gain an interview with the lad. Before turning the page she took out a photograph of Robert Martin, in his Dulwich College school uniform. “He looks barely able to wear long trousers,” she said aloud. She remembered asking for a recent photograph, not an old image from earlier in the boy’s childhood. “The features can change so much in these years, Mr. Martin,” she’d said. And they could, to be sure. But one aspect of a person’s looks rarely changed—and that was the eyes.

  Maisie noticed that Sandra was clutching the passenger seat when she approached Tower Bridge. The evening was already drawing in, and motor car headlamps lit up the road as they crossed London’s most famous bridge.

  “Are you all right, Sandra?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She continued to grip the seat. “I just haven’t been in many motor cars, and the last one was a lot bigger than this. I’m more used to buses, or the trains. But I prefer buses. Not going under the ground.” Her eyes were focused straight ahead.

  “Well, perhaps it would help if I gave you a few driving lessons—you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Miss. No, I don’t think I will.”

  Maisie had been pleased with Sandra’s report on her “little chat” with the two boys she’d seen outside the school. She had encouraged them to tell her how scared they were when they saw Usha Pramal’s body, and that they’d both had bad dreams ever since. She’d asked them if anyone else had seen the body, and she’d discovered that they hadn’t seen any strangers in the area either before or after the flash of green-slimed peach silk had caught their attention. Both boys lived at home with their parents, as would be expected, and both had paper round jobs before school in the morning, and quite far from home, considering the area; they were mainly delivering to bigger houses just off the Old Kent Road. If the boys had work to do after school—looking after the younger ones, perhaps, while the mother went out to an evening job, and before the father came home—they had little time to skim stones across the canal. Sandra had asked how friendly they were with the older boys, and learned that they all lived on the same street. “So we’re a gang,” said one of the boys. Sandra had asked them about their “gang” and discovered that it was just the four, a little group of boys who had been in and out of each other’s houses for years, whose mothers chatted over the garden fence or while hanging out the washing. They might well grow up to marry each other’s sisters or cousins, because that’s how it was on the streets; people who had lived cheek by jowl with each other, who had seen babies born, and who had gathered when one of their own passed away, were like a clan. Only a moonlight flit with parents who couldn’t pay the rent took the children away from friends who were like family. Would they lie to protect each other? Yes, without a shadow of doubt, they would lie.