Leaving Everything Most Loved (22 page)

“Miss Dobbs,” said Allison, entering the room. He held the door open for his wife.

Maisie looked back from watching the children to be greeted by a well-dressed couple, who showed none of the strains of travel just a day earlier.

“Ah, Mr. Allison, Mrs. Allison—so good of you to see me and without very much notice.” Maisie held out her hand to the man and his wife in turn, and was invited to take a seat by Mrs. Allison, a slightly built woman with reddish-blond hair.

“We understand it's about dear Usha,” said Mrs. Allison. “The police came here—when was it, Gerald?” She turned to her husband, then back to Maisie. “A couple of months ago—yes, that's right. We were completely shocked to hear of her death, and in such a terrible way—a gunshot.”

“We couldn't believe it—she was such a likable young woman. That sort of prejudice is just not on, really. She was an educated woman, not some . . . some flotsam and jetsam just off the boat.”

“It was a terrible death no matter who she was,” said Maisie, reaching into her document case for an index card upon which to make notes.

“Yes, quite,” said Allison. “But how can we help? Please, let us know what we can do to assist you—your note of introduction said you were working on behalf of her brother.” Allison rubbed his chin back and forth, as if only just realizing he had not shaved that morning. Maisie thought he must be tired following the long journey from overseas.

“That's right—he wanted an independent investigation, so he came to me. I should add that I also work closely with Scotland Yard, so there is no conflict of interest, and they are supporting my inquiry in every way possible.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Allison. He ran a finger around the edge of the cravat at his neck, as if he could not believe he had been so remiss in his personal care. “As far as I'm concerned, they did precious little in the first place.”

Maisie was taken aback by his words. She was gaining an impression of the couple's deep affection for the dead woman, which was at odds with her understanding that Usha had been turned out by the Allisons without due warning or sufficient financial assistance.

“I wonder if you can tell me something about the relationship between your family and Usha Pramal. When did you first meet her? And when did she join your family as a governess? If you could start there—and please, I must apologize if you've already answered these questions, but everyone hears things differently, and I might gain an alternative perspective than the policemen who interviewed you before.”

“Oh, they were in and out within, what, dear? Ten minutes, all told?” Allison looked at his wife.

“At the outside, dear, definitely. We talked about it, wondering how deeply they were looking into it. I mean, once they told us why they were here, we thought, definitely, we must help in any way we could—and we thought we were in for a few hours' worth of questioning—didn't we, my love?” Mrs. Allison turned to her husband. “You were very angry, weren't you?”

“I was, actually. I thought the police were letting us all down—after all, we're dealing with a very tricky situation over there in India at the moment. Another ten years and I'll be surprised if we're over there at all, what with one thing and another—and even though it's a small case on the world stage, it's the sort of thing that, if the Indian press got hold of it, it would be all over the place and the next thing you know, you'd have the Mahatma strolling half-clad into Scotland Yard, with a flower-throwing entourage behind him.”

“Um, yes,” said Maisie, though she thought Allison's prediction melodramatic. “I wonder, when did Usha first come to work for you, and how did you find her?”

“Ah, yes,” said Allison. “It must have been about eight or nine years ago—yes, we came back in 1926—I went into the civil service following my military discharge, and we were sent out there for a few years. And a few years was quite enough, I can tell you. Our children were quite young—in fact, the youngest only a matter of months old when we left.”

“I never made the journey back here to have my children, Miss Dobbs. Most of the women do, you know—it's safer, but frankly, all that time at sea is just dreadful.”

“Yes, I would imagine it is.” Maisie turned from Mrs. Allison to her husband. “So, how did you make Usha's acquaintance?”

“Recommendation from a colleague. He realized we wanted someone who was not your run-of-the-mill ayah, but a proper governess—and I won't beat about the bush here, we were able to take on Usha Pramal for just a bit more than you would have paid a semi-illiterate woman who knew how to change a baby's napkin. The older two were ahead of themselves in their reading, and she—blessedly—had a good accent and could also speak French and German. Of course, she had a bit of that up and down lilt, but the children loved her—and we considered ourselves very fortunate that she wanted to travel. You see, she didn't have to work, not with her father being quite well off, as far as they are there.” Allison rubbed his chin again, worrying at a particular area of stubble. “Apparently, she wanted to get away—lost love, that sort of thing. A man had come calling for her without paying attention to the protocols of Indian family life—the blithering idiot. Makes things very hard for all of us, a complete disregard for the natives.”

“The natives?”

“Figure of speech, Miss Dobbs. Too many years in foreign service. Luckily, I'm no longer a diplomat, though I travel a fair bit.”

“A diplomat? Really? Well, that is interesting.” She paused, smiling at Allison. “So, Miss Pramal returned to England with you—and you were living here at the time?”

“No, we rented a house in St. John's Wood for a while, then bought this when my husband was assigned to another branch,” said Mrs. Allison. “We wanted to settle down a bit, give the children a permanent home—my father was also a diplomat, and I didn't want them to have the same sort of upbringing, though I must say, I got to see a lot of places, as a child and young woman.”

“I see. You were living in St. John's Wood, and then something happened and you asked Usha to leave your employ.”

The Allisons looked at each other. Mrs. Allison spoke first, followed by her husband.

“But, Miss Dobbs, you have been misinformed. We did not nor would we have asked Usha to leave our employ.”

“Our children adored her. They thought the world of her and they learned so much—they were well ahead by the time they went to school.”

“I thought . . .”

Allison shook his head. “No, we were astonished when she said she was leaving, truly shocked. We offered to book passage back to India for her, so she wouldn't be left at a loose end if she really was that homesick, but she declined. She gave no explanation, save for the fact that it was time for her to leave.”

Mrs. Allison continued. “I confess, we were a bit put out—weren't we, Gerald? I mean, she was working for us, but we weren't treating her as if she was some sort of common skivvy—she was a much-valued employee.”

“She had more or less sole charge of our children, for heaven's sake!” added Allison. “You were very upset by it all, weren't you, Margaret?”

“The children wept, I wept, and I think the dog almost wept. You see—this may sound very odd, but well, here goes—we were entranced by her. The children never had a cold or any of the illnesses other children seem to come down with, from the moment she came to work for us. She made them lovely drinks each morning—nothing you would have found an English governess or nanny making—and they loved them. Spices and fruit and all sorts of things, and they were the healthiest children we knew. But more than anything, you see, we thought she loved them—and then she went. Gone. Just like that.” Margaret Allison snapped her fingers.

“I know this happened some time ago, but I wonder if you can remember anything about the day she said she was leaving. Was it an ordinary day? Or were the children doing something different, out of the normal routine?” asked Maisie.

“I was probably at work—darling, do you remember?” Allison turned to his wife.

“Oh dear, let me see.” Margaret Allison scratched her forehead. “Well, after breakfast, Usha usually began lessons with the children—she always liked to make it a happy time for them, she said they remembered things if there was a game attached to it, which seemed to work very well, so I had no argument with her on that point. After lessons, if the day was fine, she would take the children for a walk and they would come back with all sorts of treasures—a fallen chestnut, or a leaf, perhaps an insect in a glass jar.”

“And she generally walked around the area where you lived—did she ever take a bus anywhere, for example?”

“Good lord, no,” said Allison. “We were all for children having lessons in a fairly unconventional manner, but to go out on a bus? No, that sort of thing wasn't really on.”

“I see. And where did you live in St. John's Wood?”

“Alwyn Gardens. A lovely house, wasn't it, Gerald?”

“Rather cramped, I thought, but it sufficed for a while until we found this one.”

“Which is perfect,” said his wife.

“If I may come back to Usha,” said Maisie. “What can you tell me about the day she gave notice of her intention to leave your employ?”

“I was out for most of the day,” said Margaret Allison. “And I returned after tea with friends. The children were in the nursery, and all was well. It was all according to the usual round for the day—Usha bathed the children, read them a story, then they were allowed to read quietly until their father and I came up to say good night. Usha knocked on the door of the drawing room—we were having drinks, if I remember rightly. She came in and said straightaway that she had decided she wanted to leave, that it was nothing to do with us or the children, whom she loved, but she said she had been offered another job and would be leaving the following morning—she specifically wanted to leave before the children were up, so she wouldn't have to say good-bye to them.”

“Then what happened?”

“We were shocked, of course. I mean, we had treated her more than fairly. She could not have found better employers here or in India,” said Allison.

“You were very angry, Gerald.”

“Darling, you were rather angry yourself—it left us in the lurch.” Allison turned from his wife to Maisie. “My wife was alone with the children all morning until we were able to cover Usha's absence. Mind you, despite the hard feelings at her news, we paid her in full and also gave her a bit extra.”

“Did you have any reason to believe she was lying, or was scared?”

“I only thought it was so out of character, and it occurred to me that she might have had some sort of shock.”

“What made you think she'd had a shock—did she seem scared?”

The couple looked at each other; then Allison spoke. “She was jittery. Nervous. It was as if she had to act with speed.”

“Did you ask her whether she was all right, whether she was under some sort of strain?”

“Of course we did, Miss Dobbs,” said Margaret Allison. “I mean, we deserved more of an explanation, after all we'd done for her. But she just said she was anxious to leave as soon as possible so as not to upset the children. She said that she had made her decision, so now she had to act.”

“I see.” Maisie looked at her hands, then back at the Allisons. “Is there anything else you noticed before all this happened?”

The couple looked at each other, and shook their heads in unison.

“No, not at all,” said Allison.

“And you never heard from her again,” said Maisie, as a statement to be confirmed, or not.

“No, we never heard a word from or about her until the detectives came to ask if she had worked for us and when she had left our employ.”

Maisie nodded. “Right. You've been very kind to allow me so much of your time, especially when you must be so tired from traveling.”

“We wanted to help. Usha may not have left our house as we might have wished, but we would have wanted only the best for her. Please, if you have occasion to communicate our condolences to her family, we would appreciate it,” said Allison.

The couple accompanied Maisie to the front door, the housekeeper closing it almost in silence as she stepped out into the tree-lined street.

Usha Pramal had left her employers—with whom she had been happy, despite their lapses in “diplomacy”—one day following a walk around the area of St. John's Wood. The question of who she might have seen that day to have inspired relinquishing a satisfactory post as governess might be easily answered if one were to consider the obvious coincidence—that Jesmond Martin and his family also lived in St. John's Wood. But if Usha had reason to leave upon seeing him—or perhaps his wife—why on earth would she have returned to the area to become a cleaner at his home? Unless she could not avoid the situation.

Chapter Seventeen

M
aisie 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.

M
rs. 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.”

I
t 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 nothing 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.”