Leaving Everything Most Loved (13 page)

Maisie leaned forward. She took a breath as if to ask a question, then sat back again.

“I think you want to ask me if a woman such as your Usha Pramal could have been killed by one of her countrymen, someone who did not like the way she walked, or her presence in a church, or her confidence. You want to know what I think.”

“I do, yes, that's one thing.”

“I think that is entirely possible. Of course I do. There are British men who would do the same—you know that, Miss Dobbs. Why do men kill prostitutes, for example? And please do not worry—I am a woman of the world, and the woman's place in the world has been the subject of my work for a long time. A man might feel the urge to physically assault a woman who has power over him—whether that power breaks his will in some way, whether it causes acute unease, or whether, for example, he is shamed by the darkness of his shadow. And of course a savage assault can lead to death—for both of them.”

“Yes, I understand that very well.”

“I'm not a psychologist like you, Miss Dobbs, but I would say that you're looking for someone—and don't rule out the fact that it might be a woman—who was fearful of the shadow that emerged when they saw Miss Pramal.”

Maisie nodded.

“So, how else can I help you, Miss Dobbs?”

“Tell me about your country, Dr. Chaudhary Jones. Tell me about India, and why you left. Do you miss your country? And how do you keep . . . how do you keep a connection with your . . . your heritage, when you are married to an Englishman and living here in Britain.”

Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones smiled, left her desk, and opened the door.

“Layla! Layla, would you bring us a nice cup of tea. And some of those biscuits your father likes. Thank you!”

She turned back into the room.

“I think a little chat between women calls for a cup of tea, don't you?”

I
t was over an hour later that Maisie left the apartment of Dr. Chaudhary Jones. Layla accompanied her to the door.

“Thank you, Layla,” said Maisie. “Your mother is a remarkable woman.”

“Yes, she is.” The young woman paused, smiling at Maisie. “But she's just like any other mother, really.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Maisie.

“I know so. She's already putting away little baby clothes in anticipation of becoming a grandmother—and she's not looking to my brother to give her that exalted status.”

“All in good time, Layla.”

“Not any time, Miss Dobbs. Not for me.”

Maisie bid the young woman good-bye, and walked out into the mid-afternoon sun. Her smile was short-lived, though, as she thought back to Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones' words.
I would say that you're looking for someone—and don't rule out the fact that it might be a woman—who was fearful of the shadow that emerged when they saw Miss Pramal.

Chapter Eleven

T
he Martin home stood on a leafy street in St. John's Wood. Most of the houses were just visible behind tall hedges and seemed to be of Georgian architecture. Maisie's destination, though, a grand house built in the later years of Edward VII's reign, was inspired by an architectural style favored by wealthy merchants in Tudor times, but with a front door on the corner of the house, rather than at the front. Above it a square bay window seemed to jut out with self-importance, as if it were an afterthought added by a builder anxious to put his stamp on the dwelling. Maisie could see swags of fabric behind the windows, and thought the interior might be quite dark. She wondered if it would have been too dark for a boy growing up, and reminded herself that Priscilla's light and spacious home where few rules seemed to reign over the lives of the Partridge boys was the exception; the windows on so many houses were still lined in the heavy fabrics favored by a generation that came of age when Victoria was queen.

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. Martin 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.

M
aisie 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.”