Leaving Everything Most Loved

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie left the Allisons intending to go straight to St. John’s Wood, but soon checked herself. Precipitous decisions had not always served her well; reconsidering her options she came to the conclusion that a visit could do more harm than good at this stage of the case. No, one step at a time. Before speaking to Jesmond Martin again, she should have more information to hand. First, she would visit the Singhs, as planned, to see Pramal. Then she would go back over her work and darken the Paiges’ doorstep one more time—she knew they would be furious, but she had to take the chance. And while in the area, she wanted to have another conversation with the Reverend Griffith. There was something there, a missing link in the chain of information. It might not be a key to the final door, but it could help her beat a path to the lock. Finally, she knew she was drawn to the common land behind the square, to see if the elusive Martin Robertson was still camping out—if it was him, after all. The name in the knapsack had thrown her—completely new names at this stage in an investigation suggested a crucial point missed early, rather like a dropped stitch in knitting discovered only when a garment was almost complete. At this juncture she would expect all names to be on the case map, with only the correct order of relationship between them awaiting a final nugget of information.

  Mrs. Singh welcomed Maisie into the shop, but informed her that Mr. Singh and Mr. Pramal had gone out to the market. The two women talked about vegetables and fruits in season, and how they might be added to autumn dishes. After receiving another recipe from Mrs. Singh and purchasing the requisite herbs and spices, Maisie engineered the conversation back to Mr. Pramal, and asked Mrs. Singh why she thought her husband’s friend had moved from their home to the hotel in the first place—after all, wasn’t the community a tight one, where a warm welcome to lay down one’s head would always be found?

  “Oh, he could have slept here, we’d have made room above the shop, but he didn’t want to. He said he didn’t want to bring misery to the house, that it was bad luck and would cast a pall over our roof.” She sighed as she weighed and measured spices into small indigo paper bags, then twisted the ends closed before placing them in a large jar. “I think he might have wanted more peace and quiet, to think. He is grieving for his sister, make no mistake, Miss Dobbs.” She stopped weighing the rich golden powder, and looked up at Maisie. “And if truth be told, there was something else, though I hate to admit it. I think it might have been me being here. His best friend now married to an Englishwoman. And though it’s not unheard of—as I told you before, there were many lascars off the boats who stayed and married locally—it wasn’t something he entirely approved of. I don’t think he believes I’m good enough for his friend.” She coughed as a fine cloud of dust rose from the counter. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie had stepped back, feeling the same irritation in her nose and mouth. “No, not at all. That’s quite pungent powder you have there.”

  “Does you the power of good, too, this one—it’s a blend of several spices. Clears the head.”

  “I see,” said Maisie, feeling as if she were, indeed, breathing a little easier. “But you were telling me how Mr. Pramal might not have approved of the union between you and Mr. Singh.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I think he thought my husband could have done better.” She smiled at Maisie. “And perhaps he could, but he’s got me—and Pramal can see now that we do all right, me and Singh.” She pointed to the bindi in the center of her forehead. “You can tell I give it my best. I get on very well with people around here, now they’re used to me.”

  Maisie nodded. “Mrs. Singh, you seem to know a lot about all these spices and herbs.” Maisie held up her hand towards a series of shelves filled with jars of spices. “Can you cure ailments with these powders and petals? Do you think they really help the body, or do you think it’s all in the mind? Could it be that because people believe in the cure, then it works?”

  Mrs. Singh set down the ornate silver spoon she was using to measure the powder onto a small weighing scale. “That’s a fair question, Miss Dobbs, and one I would have asked myself, but you know, we all have our cures, don’t we? I thought of that when I was first told to put a little of that powder—the deeper yellow one over there—into my food each day. I was told it would help the pains in my shoulders, where I wrenched myself carrying shells at the munitions factory in the war. Oh, it would play up on a cold, damp day and give me trouble. But it helped all right, and if I forget to put a little sprinkle in my soup, I know all about it again after a few days. I don’t believe there’s any mind over matter there. And think of us, you know, the English. You can go anywhere in this country of ours and find the locals use something they pick themselves for their ailments, whether it’s comfrey, peppermint, or a sprig of rosemary. My mother swore by a cup of her own ginger beer for a digestive upset, and if you had a bee sting, she’d stick an onion on it and tell you to hold it there. Then there was my father: he said that if you cut yourself, a little sprinkle of gunpowder in the wound would sort out any poisons festering in there. It’s the same sort of thing—it’s just that we’re letting doctors and their pills and medicines wipe out our memories of what we can do for ourselves; there’s no money for them in it, is there? But that’s not happening so much in a tight little community like this. Mothers teach their daughters, and it goes on down the family.”

  “I was a nurse, in the war, and I suppose I became used to the medicines, and I saw how they saved lives,” said Maisie. “Mind you, the French soldiers carried garlic juice to cleanse their wounds and prevent sepsis, and we used it sometimes, too.”

  “There you are then,” said Mrs. Singh as she screwed a top on the jar.

  “I expect Usha knew how to use all these spices and herbs to heal a sick person,” said Maisie.

  “Now it’s interesting you should say that, because Mr. Pramal has always said his own mother was acknowledged as a local doctor, though she wasn’t trained, not like our doctors are trained. But people came to her when they were sick, and she would treat them, and they would leave her what they could afford—I suppose it was often a bag of vegetables or something like that. They said she had a gift, though I’ve often wondered why she couldn’t save her own life, but then I’ve never asked the question either. I don’t know that Usha was able to learn much from her—after all, she died when the girl was very young—yet Usha definitely knew how to mix the spices and add what was needed to take away pain. That was what she was good at, whether it was touching someone or mixing up a drink—taking away pain was her specialty. But she wanted to be a teacher, so she never saw people at her home, like her mother had before her.”

  “I see, that’s interesting,” said Maisie.

  Mrs. Singh turned to her. “Now, don’t you go putting Usha on a pedestal, you know. There’s many a woman I know, living on these few streets here, who could do the same thing. Like I said—we may be forgetting our old ways, but they’re not. I’m one of them now, and I learn something every time one of the women comes in to ask for something special that she’s never asked for before. They say the Chinese are like that, too, but they use different things, like bits of chicken leg and what-have-you.”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, indeed. Look, when Mr. Pramal returns, would you tell him I came to see him? I want to talk to him about his sister. And tell him I have something for him—something very important that belonged to Usha.” She smiled at the woman, who seemed perfectly at home in the shop that was so different from shops she might have frequented had she married an Englishman. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Singh. I appreciate it.” She moved as if to leave.

  “Do you think you’ll find Usha’s killer?”

  Maisie turned to face Mrs. Singh, looking directly into the woman’s melancholy eyes. “Oh yes, I believe I will. And it might be soon.”

  It was predictable that the Paiges were far from happy to see Maisie.

  “You! You said you’d never come here again!” said Paige. “Look, we owe not
hing to Usha Pramal or her brother, her sister, her aunts, uncles, or even a dog, if she had one. We are clear, the slate is now wiped clean. Her personal effects are gone,” said Paige.

  “And if you must know, I rue the day I ever felt my heart go out to that first poor Indian woman I found on the street, cast out by her lords and masters and wanting for a meal and a roof over her head,” added his wife.

  “Yes, I am sure you must be very upset about it all. And I am glad that so much is settled now, but I have just a couple more questions for you,” said Maisie. “With these final pieces of the puzzle, I think I can go on to clear your names,” she added.

  “Clear our names?” said Paige.

  “Mr. Paige, it stands to reason that, until a murderer is found, then suspicion will fall on this house—after all, the two women lived under your roof,” said Maisie. She knew she was pushing the husband and wife, who had, in truth, done what amounted to their best in terms of the welfare of women who needed help, though they had also helped themselves. But at that moment, she felt the need to press harder. She felt so close to the truth, however it might emerge.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in off the street before the neighbors talk even more. It’s a wonder we haven’t had our pictures on the front page of the South London Press,” said Paige. He stood back from the threshold, holding out his hand as if to shield his wife from evil. As he led Maisie into the parlor, she looked back to see Mrs. Paige casting her gaze back and forth along the street before closing the door behind them.

  Neither one of the couple invited Maisie to sit down, so they stood in the parlor. Mrs. Paige ran her left hand up and down her right arm, as if one side of her body were cold. Paige folded his arms.

  “I understand that, for a while, Miss Pramal was working for a man called Jesmond Martin, essentially to help with cleaning and so on.”

  “That’s right, general domestic help. They needed an extra hand in consideration of his wife’s illness. But she left their employ months ago,” said Paige.

  “Why did she leave?”

  “She wasn’t needed anymore,” said Mrs. Paige.

  “And how did you find her the position?” asked Maisie.

  “We didn’t. Usually the employers or their housekeepers are attracted by small advertisements we place in certain newspapers, and we also put cards in windows of newsagents in the more well-to-do areas, within a reasonable distance of travel either by bus or on the Underground—we don’t want to be racking up too many costs,” said Paige.

  “So, how did you connect Usha Pramal with Jesmond Martin?”

  “He found us,” said Mrs. Paige.

  “He found you? How did that happen—through the advertisements?”

  The couple shook their heads in unison. “No,” said Paige. “He found us via the Reverend Griffith. At first Miss Pramal was not at all keen, but it was pointed out to her that she could fit in another job here and there.”

  “Was she that in awe of the Reverend Griffith, that she would do a job she didn’t want to do, just because he asked her?”

  “He is a man of God, Miss Dobbs. She knew he could not be refused. That would not be on,” said Paige, his brows knitted. “And it would have put us, her providers, in a troubling position, and of course she would not have wanted to do anything of the sort.”

  “So, over a period of time—by the way, remind me; how long did she work for the Martin family?”

  The couple looked at each other. “On and off for over two years, as I said before,” said Mrs. Paige.

  Maisie raised her eyebrows. “Really? Then throughout this period of time she was intermittently working at a job she did not wish to hold,” said Maisie.

  “No one wants to do cleaning work, Miss Dobbs. But it is little to ask of them when we were looking out for their future, and their well-being,” said Paige.

  Maisie wanted to point out that the couple were also looking out for their own well-being, but refrained from saying as much. Instead she asked another question.

  “Are you aware of the connection between Jesmond Martin and the Reverend Griffith?”

  “They were known to each other years ago, while Mr. Martin was involved in business overseas. I understand that they met again—” Paige looked at his wife. “Might have been not long before our reverend put Mr. Martin in touch with us, and then Miss Pramal—wasn’t that it?”

  The woman nodded, this time rubbing her hands together, as if she were still fighting an inner chill.

  “And the minister specifically asked for Usha?” said Maisie.

  “Yes. He thought that, given the problem of the wife’s health, and Miss Pramal’s education and obvious command of English—much more accomplished than the other women in the hostel—she would be the better choice.”

  “And you don’t know why she left?”

  “You’ve already asked us that question, Miss Dobbs.” Paige glared as he spoke.

  “I know. Sometimes the memory is jogged when it’s asked again at a different time,” she responded. “Do you know of a man named Arthur Payton?”

  Man and wife looked at each other. Paige frowned while Mrs. Paige seemed to ask a silent question, her mouth formed in a perfect O.

  Maisie asked again. “Does Captain Arthur Payton mean anything to you?”

  Paige scratched his head while his wife looked at Maisie, her face blank.

  “I think it rings a bell, but I couldn’t say why,” said Paige, at once seeming more mellow than he had just a few minutes earlier, as if something was dawning upon him, an elusive memory that he was not able to pin down, no matter how hard he tried.

  “Not to worry,” said Maisie. “But it might come to you later, when you are going about your business and doing something completely different. Perhaps, if that is so, you would send word to my office,” said Maisie. “I believe I gave you my card, but just in case you’ve mislaid it, here’s another. Keep it here on the sideboard, then you’ll be able to find it.”

  Paige watched as Maisie set the plain card with her name, office address, and telephone number on the mahogany sideboard. Though kept polished to a shine, the furniture had not seen a duster of late; Maisie suspected Mrs. Paige was missing the presence of Indian women to tend to the cleaning and upkeep of her house.

  “I think that’s all now. Thank you for seeing me again, Mr. Paige, Mrs. Paige.” She smiled, moving towards the door, which Paige stepped back to open.

  “Will there be more visits to intrigue our neighbors, Miss Dobbs?” said Paige.

  “I hope not. But you never can tell when a murder is being investigated,” answered Maisie.

  She turned to the couple as she reached the front door, to bid them good-bye.

  “Will you be going to see the Reverend Griffith?” asked Paige.

  “Oh, yes,” said Maisie. “I’m going to see him right now.”

  The couple stood back as she took her leave. She walked along the street towards the junction where she would turn in the direction of Griffith’s house, and as she glanced back, she saw Mrs. Paige looking up and down the road and across the square, making sure that no one had seen Maisie leaving the house. Maisie smiled, for even at a distance, she could see lace curtains twitching back and forth as neighbors took note of what was going on at the house where two murdered women had lived.

  Maisie moved her motor car to another street, though when she parked it was still the only vehicle in sight. She decided to go over to the common ground where she had discovered the belongings of whoever was camped out under the low trees.

  There were no children bounding around in the long grass now, no big golden dog, and no sounds of squeals and laughter. Only the muffled sounds of traffic on the canal and, more distant, the Thames—“the water,” as it was known to those who lived south of the navigation—challenged an otherwise quiet day. Maisie stopped at the edge of the land, alongside the gate. Though this was the working edge of one of the busiest cities in the world, she could smell the country,
as if she were in Kent at harvesttime. She stepped out along one of the many paths beaten across the common, towards the cluster of trees.

  It seemed as if someone was still sleeping rough under the low boughs. The grass was pressed down, and behind a tree trunk Maisie saw a couple of empty tins of rice pudding—as acceptable cold as it was heated, thus an easy choice of quick, though not hearty, sustenance. A dappled afternoon light filtered through the trees, and after walking around the area, Maisie took off her jacket, laid it on the smooth grass, and sat down. She thought that if she lay back she might fall asleep, comforted by a lazy Indian summer breeze brushing against her skin. But she remained sitting, arms around her knees. She closed her eyes and stilled her mind—a mind that she knew was racing ahead. Was she making the same mistake as the police? Was she rushing from person to person, trying to tie up loose ends so she could move on to the next thing sooner? She sat in silence and allowed her thoughts to skim across her mind, as if they were splashes against stones in the waters of her conscience. She considered every step she had taken—including sending Billy home. It was the right thing to do, though she had underestimated the fact that she felt as if something important was missing every day as she worked. Maurice had once questioned her choice of Billy as an assistant, suggesting that his intellect wasn’t up to the job. But Maisie stuck to her guns, knowing that it was Billy’s heart that would stand him in good stead, and his great loyalty towards her. That loyalty had almost cost him his life, and he had suffered while trying to continue his work for her. She sighed, opening her eyes and picking at a blade of grass. But now he was moving on—and for that, this new job, she was relieved and grateful. And Sandra had proved to be more than able—more than she had ever imagined the young woman would be. The anger of widowhood had inspired her, giving her energy to propel her from her station in life to greater levels of accomplishment. What could stop her now, except the limits of her imagination?

  Usha Pramal seemed to have an imagination without limits, and the determination to achieve her dreams. But the vision of establishing a school for poor girls at home in India had been brought to an abrupt end by a single bullet from a gun fired by someone with a perfect eye for their target. Had Usha known her killer? Maisie closed her eyes again and brought to mind the woman she had never met: colorful in her fine silk sari, confident in her manner and walk. She imagined her walking along the street, cutting down towards the canal, a humid summer’s day reminding her of home. But why was she walking towards the canal? Why would she leave the street where she was seen earlier in the day—according to Caldwell’s notes—and make her way to a canal where barges lumbered back and forth from the river, and through the canal’s dark waters? Was there something about the path that eased her heart, perhaps? Or was she meeting someone?