Leaving Everything Most Loved

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Having parked the MG in front of the house, she walked up to the front door, gravel crackling beneath her feet with every step. She suspected Mr. Jesmond Martin used the local St. John’s Wood tube station to travel into the city—though he might also have a chauffeur, she saw no sign of a motor car.

  When she pulled the bell at the side of the front door, there was nothing to indicate anyone was at home. No sound came from inside the house, no shuffle of an old housekeeper, and no commanding step of a butler, nor even the rushed footfall of a harried maid, bustling along the hallway wiping her hands on a cloth and shouting, “All right, all right, I’ll be there in a minute.” She rang the bell again.

  “Who’s there?” A moment later the call came from outside.

  Maisie stepped back and looked around her.

  “Up here. Look up.”

  Maisie looked up at the square bay window, which from that angle seemed even more of an afterthought, as a child might slap an extra piece of clay onto the side of a model house. A nurse—she presumed it was a nurse, for she wore a white dress and apron, and the same kind of cap that Maisie had worn in the war—was looking down at her from an open window.

  “Oh, hello,” said Maisie. “I’m here to see Mr. Martin. My name is Maisie Dobbs, and I have an appointment.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, you. Well, he telephoned a little while ago to say that he had been kept at his office and wouldn’t be home until later. He said you must have your secretary make another appointment to call.”

  “I see.” Maisie paused. “I wonder, could I have a word with you—or are you busy?”

  The nurse drew back into the room, then leaned out of the window again. “Well, all right, but I don’t know what you might want with me—who are you anyway?”

  “I’ve been asked to conduct an investigation into the disappearance of Mr. Martin’s son.”

  Maisie could have sworn the woman rolled her eyes.

  “You never know what he’s going to get up to next, that one—mind you, it’s not as if I could always blame him. He can be a bit of a tyke, a real thorn in his father’s side, though. Look, she’s gone down now, so I can spare a few minutes.”

  She’s gone down? thought Maisie as she stepped back onto the front doorstep to await the nurse’s arrival.

  The door opened, and the nurse, her face flushed and with a few strands of strawberry blond hair escaping from her cap, stood back.

  “Nurse Wilkins,” she introduced herself. “I live in. There’s a daily, who leaves at half-past three, and then there’s the cook, who’s as deaf as a post, so she wouldn’t have heard you. Won’t you come in?”

  Maisie stepped across the threshold into an entrance hall decorated in a baronial style. A wide wooden staircase swept to the upper floor in front of her, and to the right was a reception room with the door open. To the left a hallway led, she assumed, to other rooms and, possibly, the kitchen staircase. Nurse Wilkins made no move to invite her into the reception room, nor did Maisie expect such a breach of employer trust. She was somewhat surprised to be asked into the house at all, but suspected the woman might be lonely for company.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Nurse Wilkins. I wanted to find out a little more about Robert—we have a possible lead as to his whereabouts, but of course some more information would be useful.”

  “Robert. Nice boy at heart, I suppose, but he can be a handful. I think it was all high jinks really, him running off. And his father has a very strong thumb, if you know what I mean.” She pressed her thumb into the center of her forehead, to illustrate her point that Mr. Martin was a firm disciplinarian. “I tell you, she hasn’t had a sparkle in her eye since that boy left.” The nurse raised her thumb towards the ceiling.

  “You mean his mother, I take it.”

  “Yes, though she’s been like that since he was a nipper, so I was told. And only young, she was, when she had him.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Gets terrible heads. Has to be in the dark, and can’t have strange smells in the room, or loud noises—one squeal out of the boy could start her off when she was younger. And she gets sick with it, can’t keep a thing down.”

  “Does she have times of respite from this illness?”

  The nurse shrugged. “She does sometimes, but I can’t take her out, because it would start her off again.”

  “Oh, poor woman. I am deeply sorry for her. Those sort of headaches can be debilitating. How is she treated?”

  “It’s been one doctor after another. I know that, like I said, light from the window and loud noises can start her off again, and so can smells—she can’t abide scent, won’t have it in the room. And apparently, she used to love her Shalimar, once upon a time.”

  “And she lies there all day?”

  “She has powders, to make her sleep.”

  “What a terrible life. And does she see much of her husband, when he’s home?”

  “He comes up for a visit, when he’s home from his office, and on Sundays he goes out, Saturday nights, too. He has a club, and he has his shooting parties. Always took the boy with him, so he wasn’t able to see his mother much either, what with school. And then he went to boarding school. It was just before the summer holidays that he went missing, as you know.”

  “Yes, I know—but Mr. Martin didn’t call the police, and didn’t even come to me immediately.”

  “I imagine he thought Robert would come home.”

  “He’d absconded before then?”

  Nurse Wilkins nodded. “A day or two here and there. Probably off with his friends, shooting apples.”

  “Shooting apples? Did he own a gun?”

  “I don’t know how he was with a gun, but he was a bit of a Robin Hood with a bow and arrow. You had to watch yourself, if you were out in the garden; never knew when one of them arrows might go whistling past your ear.” The nurse smiled. “But even though he’s tested me beyond measure at times, I’d like to think Robert is a good one, at heart. He loves his mother, so I’m surprised he left, in that regard.”

  “Did anything else happen? Did he have an argument with his father? Or do you think he was having trouble at school?”

  Nurse Wilkins shrugged. “He and his father weren’t exactly best friends—well, you don’t expect them to be, do you? After all, one’s the father and one’s the son, so they’re not pally, though I thought Mr. Martin tried to do his best with the boy, you know, keep him in line, but at the same time not be brutal with it.” She was thoughtful. “Mind you, it wasn’t long after that Indian woman stopped coming that he went off.”

  “Indian woman? What Indian woman?”

  “Lovely girl, Miss Pramal. Started coming in to help the maid, just a day or two each week—not for long, mind. Anyway, one day she came into the room to clean, and asked me what was wrong with Mrs. Martin, and I told her and she said, ‘May I see her?’ Now, normally, I would have put a stop to that, no two ways about it. But it was the way she looked at her, really tender, as if she had a sympathy for the woman. So, I asked Mrs. Martin, and to tell you the truth, I don’t think she’d’ve cared either way. Miss Pramal goes up to her, takes her hand, and says she’s going to touch her on her temples.” Wilkins placed the tips of her fingers on either side of her head. “Just like this.”

  “Did it have any effect?”

  She nodded. “Her headache was gone in an hour. And Miss Pramal said she had something that would help. Next time she came, she crushed up these spices and grains to make a sort of paste, then she poured hot water on and gave it to Mrs. Martin to sip. I swear, that woman started to get better. And young Robert noticed it, too—he started staying longer with his mother, making her laugh. And he has a laugh on him, that one—it could raise the roof. It was a joy to see them together. To tell you the truth, I thought it wouldn’t be long before I was out of a job.”

  “So, what happened?”

  Nurse Wilkins shook her head. “I reckon it was down to the fact that Mr. Marti
n used to live over there, in India. He found out what was happening, and he didn’t like it at all. You would have thought he’d be pleased, what with his wife getting better, but he wasn’t at all. I reckon he didn’t like the fact that the lad was so close to his mother, and he certainly didn’t like the fact that Miss Pramal had helped her. It’s a wonder I didn’t lose my job, too, for allowing it all to happen, but not everyone wants to work alone all day in this house, and just a sad, moaning woman for company.”

  “Did he tell Miss Pramal to leave?”

  She nodded. “Yes, as far as I know, he did—though I could be wrong. There was a dust-up with the boy, too, so I reckon that didn’t help matters. It was strange, because I thought Mr. Martin quite admired Miss Pramal. She might have been an Indian woman, but she was one to look at—she sort of drew you to her, no matter what you thought of them before. But I saw him looking at her a couple of times—he usually wasn’t here when she came to clean, but he works from home in his study on the odd occasion. And when he looked at her, I could see she had that effect on him, too. Trouble is, I don’t think he liked it at all.” Nurse Wilkins looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Oh, look at that, I’d better get on. I must take some broth up to her.”

  “Thank you, Nurse Wilkins. I am grateful to you for your time—and your honesty.”

  “I hope it doesn’t get me into trouble.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Not to worry. This is between us. I do have one question, though.”

  “Yes?” said Wilkins, reaching for the door handle.

  “What do you think Robert thought of Miss Pramal?”

  Wilkins smiled and rolled her eyes. “Puppy love, I would say. A boy with his head in the clouds. Of course, she walked on water as far as he was concerned, because she’d helped his mother. But you could see he had a bit of a schoolboy crush. She was beautiful, after all. Like a princess, really. Now then . . .”

  “Of course. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  As she reached the hedge, she turned, and looked back at the house. A woman with long gray hair stood at the window, her hands pressed against the panes, her face filled with despair.

  Maisie couldn’t get the image of Mrs. Martin out of her head. Trapped in her room, her hands against the windowpanes, and the look on her face. She might have been one story above Maisie, but for a second her expression of distress was as clear as day—and it was wretched. Maisie felt an anger towards Jesmond Martin, whom she suspected might be a controlling bully—then checked herself, knowing that if Maurice were there to offer counsel, he would admonish her for jumping to such a conclusion based upon a limited opportunity to observe.

  Following the original meeting, when Jesmond Martin had asked for assistance in finding his son, Billy had put forward the idea that perhaps Martin just didn’t like the police. Maisie had then turned to Sandra, who sighed and looked at Maisie with an air of resignation and, she thought, some annoyance. “I’m not saying this just because I didn’t like Mr. Martin—and I can’t help it, Miss Dobbs, I didn’t like the man. And I’m not saying it because of my political views. But I think he came to you because you’re a woman, and he reckons a woman couldn’t be a good detective, and a woman won’t be able to find his son. I don’t think he wants that son of his found, if you want my opinion.”

  Maisie had nodded, while Billy had raised his eyes and sighed deeply, a common mannerism when he heard something a bit controversial, or “near the mark” as he would say.

  “That’s an interesting observation, Sandra,” Maisie had responded. “But what do you think might have inspired such feelings?”

  Billy was the first to speak. “He might’ve been jealous of the boy. Or he might’ve been jealous of his wife. Could be that he was good at all the manly sort of things, like taking the boy shooting, but when it came to just having a bit of a lark, he was too much of a stuffed shirt.”

  “Enough to see a boy of fourteen leave home and not know where he is?” asked Maisie.

  “I’d been out at work for two years by the time I was fourteen,” said Billy.

  “Me too,” added Sandra. “And my father certainly didn’t expect to see me but once a year.”

  And then the moment Maisie now regretted. “Billy, if he thinks a man could do a better job, which is why he came to a woman, why, we’ll give him a man—and one who knows boys better than Sandra and me put together.”

  She had thought he would be pleased, and he seemed genuinely so at first. It was later that his fear of failure had been so devastatingly played out. But she was now fairly certain that Sandra had made a good point. Perhaps Jesmond Martin had not wanted his son found, or at least, not for a while. Not only did she wonder why, but she found that she was not as surprised as she might have been to find that Usha Pramal was, for a short time, part of the Martin household.

  Usha Pramal was still on her mind as she cut into a clutch of herbs, then crushed seeds and measured spices according to the recipe given to her by Mrs. Singh. She felt at once as if a spark had lit the kindling under her senses. Her skin tingled when she leaned over the bowl and breathed in the fragrance. The different aromas seemed like ribbons twisted and tied together; though each hue was distinct, a brash new color had been created. It felt alive, this color, as if it were a person.

  In two separate pans she fried onions and the whole spices, adding a ginger and garlic paste to the mix, along with crushed almonds. Juggling the pans as best she could—she wondered just how many frying pans an Indian cook might need—she set aside the cooked ingredients and turned her attention to the meat. She boned a fresh chicken, putting the carcass in a saucepan with water to draw the stock, perhaps to make a soup for another day. Having cut the flesh into smaller pieces, she began to place them in a large cast-iron frying pan into which she had poured an oil called ghee, also purchased from the Singhs’ shop. When the chicken was golden brown—and the smell of cooking had well and truly penetrated her flat—she began to blend the ingredients together, turning down the gas burner to a mere simmer.

  “There,” said Maisie. “That should do it.” And she smiled, pleased with her efforts thus far.

  Concentration on the task at hand had once again transported her to thoughts of leaving England. She would not be gone for long, perhaps a few months—six, at the outside. Or perhaps a year. That was a nice, rounded length of time; time enough to truly be a traveler and not a tourist. Some specific plans for that part of her journey were emerging; there was something she wanted to accomplish. And then Canada, perhaps. Certainly, when James described the broad, unforgiving landscapes, she was intrigued—but would that interest sustain her? As she stirred the simmering chicken, she realized, again, that it was James’ love for her and hers for him that he imagined would sustain them both—but would it? She reached for a small pot of cream—she could not find the yoghurt specified in the recipe but thought this would do—and used a penny to twist off the lid and poured in half, sweeping it into the deep yellow mixture and enjoying the change in color and texture as it merged until there was a lighter golden hue, like morning sunshine bringing everything alive.

  That’s what they would be together. Blended. Not two, separate; but two, becoming more united with the years. And there was a comfort in the thought. Perhaps, like a complex dish, they could retain their separateness—leaning over the pan, she could still distinguish turmeric and cardamom—but be part of something else, something stronger together. Priscilla was probably right—she simply had to let go. She would not fall; she would not be left alone, grieving. She would not fail to be able to provide for herself—she was well provided for anyway. And she would not lose herself, because in truth, James loved who she was and he would not want to see her become less than the Maisie Dobbs to whom he had given his heart. But still, there was that niggle holding her back, the sense that this was a promise that would change everything.

  “I could always be Mrs. Dobbs-Compton,” said Maisie aloud. And she began to laugh. Neve
r had anything sounded so preposterous.

  “Hello! Anyone home?” James called out, having let himself into the flat—he had held a key since the early days of their courtship.

  “Just a minute, I’m in the kitchen.” Maisie turned the gas dial down a notch, took off her apron, and went to greet James.

  “What on earth are you cooking? Your flat smells like a Delhi dining room.”

  “Good, that means I’m not doing too badly.”

  James enfolded her in his arms. “Even your hair smells of curry. What’s for supper—as if I didn’t know! I brought a bottle of wine, but now I think I might have been better bringing ale—doesn’t curry taste better with beer?”

  “I don’t think it’s too strong—I’ve tasted it, and Mrs. Singh, who owns the shop where I bought the seeds and spices, promised that it’s a dish fit for a king—well, if you’re a Mughal ruler.”

  “What’s it called?”

  Maisie shook her head. “Mughlai something-or-other. She gave me the basic recipe and most of the ingredients, though I had to make do with a substitute here and there.”

  “Well, it’s certainly teasing my taste buds.”

  James poured wine for them both and lingered by the kitchen door while Maisie served the cooked chicken over a bed of saffron rice. “You’re supposed to sort of mix it all together and use a different rice, but I liked the look of saffron, and I thought I’d just do it differently.”

  “Always your own way, Maisie.” James raised an eyebrow, adding, “So, is this practice for going to the far-flung reaches of Kashmir, or something of that order?”

  “Kashmir? Now, I hadn’t thought of that—isn’t that where they have lovely houses on the water? Houseboats, aren’t they?”

  “And problems with the locals, and spitting cobras, no clean water, and—”

  “Have you been there, James?”

  He shrugged. “No, but I would quite like to go.”