Leaving Everything Most Loved (11 page)

“Mummy's in the drawing room, Tante Maisie,” said Thomas, who had greeted her with a kiss to each cheek.

“Is Uncle James with you?” asked Tarquin, looking down the steps towards her motor car.

“I'm afraid not—but he'll be with me next time.”

“Excellent!” said Timothy. He was looking at Maisie through a pair of large goggles, while wearing a leather aviator's cap.

“You look like the Red Baron, Tim,” said Maisie.

“No, not me. I'm going to be like Captain Albert Ball.”

“Let's hope not,” added his older brother. “He came off worse after a bit of a spat with von Richthofen, you know.”

“Well, I'll be him before he went down, then,” said Timothy.

“And I'll be better than both of you, because I'll be Uncle James,” said Tarquin.

“That's quite enough of that!” Priscilla's voice silenced her sons. “You'd better set a course for upstairs right now. Where's Elinor? Oh lummy, she's still out on her half-day. All right. Tom, you're it—I don't want to hear one single scream, or a ball hitting the wall. Elinor will be back in half an hour, and she will report to me if my sons have not acted like the sort of gentlemen that will make their mother proud. And your father will be home in an hour, so let that be a warning.”

The boys ran upstairs, and Priscilla greeted Maisie. “Not that their father is good for any discipline, and they know it. Come on, let's go and have a drink.”

Maisie thought they must look like bookends, each taking up one end of the sofa, with shoes kicked off and knees drawn up. Yet they were bookends only to a point—Priscilla was a woman of easy elegance, and even at home in London she often seemed to have arrived fresh from Paris. On this day she was wearing a white silk blouse with navy blue silk trousers and a wide cummerbund-style belt. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, bringing an even bolder look to her face—Priscilla had deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a nose that on another women might have seemed long, but on Priscilla added to the impression of a personality to be reckoned with. But Maisie knew Priscilla's Achilles' heel—the memory of her beloved brothers lost in the war, and the dreadful fear that she might lose her sons. And she knew Priscilla had often dulled that fear with alcohol.

“What news? You sounded worried,” said Priscilla.

“I am. It's about Billy.”

“It's been about Billy for a long time, hasn't it, Maisie?”

“I need your advice.”

Priscilla sipped her gin and tonic, holding it close to her mouth for another sip as she spoke. “I love it when you ask for my advice; it makes me feel quite clever.”

“I wouldn't be asking if you weren't quite clever,” said Maisie. She put her drink on the side table, though she had yet to lift it to her lips. “I think Billy needs a break from London, even from the new house. He wasn't well enough to come back to work, and frankly, I think he's having some sort of breakdown.”

“That poor family—what with Doreen, and now Billy. It's not surprising that he's having trouble—he's had to have backbone enough for both of them for a long time.” She sipped again, then, still holding the glass, rested it on her knee. “I know this seems harsh, but she's not the first to lose a child, and she won't be the last. I've as much compassion as the next woman, but as far as I'm concerned, she has to buck up.”

“We're all different. I do feel for her.”

“And so do I. But life goes on. Her husband needs life to be a bit lighter if they are to come through these setbacks, grim as they are.”

“Yes, you're absolutely right, which is why I'm here. When he had something of a breakdown about four years ago, he went down to Chelstone for the summer, to work with my father. With everything that's happened, and—”

“And the fact that if you try to mend the broken fence again, it will be one time too many.”

“Exactly—you said yourself that I shouldn't interfere. So, I wondered if, well—you see, I think the risks involved in more recent cases have told on him. There are late hours, and that attack has laid him very low. He would go to the ends of the earth for me, I know that, but I just don't want to send him on that sort of journey anymore. There's the possibility of a job at James' company, but in the meantime, I thought some fresh air and a different place would do wonders for them all.”

“Maisie, you can't save Billy by proxy. I have a feeling that you are about to inquire if I need more help at the house, and if I could speak to Mr. Alcott and ask him about taking on some more help, now that the gardens will have to be sorted out, the leaves raked in a few weeks, and the gardens generally put to bed for the winter.”

Priscilla often referred to her family's country home as “the house.” She had inherited the estate after her parents' deaths during the influenza epidemic following the war. For a while she found shallow solace in a round of parties in Biarritz—until she met the very solid Douglas Partridge, who had given her a reason for living once more.

“Well, I thought it might be a good idea, what with one thing and another,” said Maisie. “But talking about it aloud, well, it wasn't so bright, was it?”

“Not really, but on the other hand, you don't come up with bad ideas very often. It's not right, and besides, he'd know, and more to the point, Doreen would see your fingerprints all over the idea.” Priscilla put down her cocktail on the table adjacent to her side of the sofa, and picked up her cigarette case and a long ebony-and-white cigarette holder. She proceeded to push a cigarette into the holder. “There's more to it, isn't there,” said Priscilla. She lit the cigarette, inhaled, and blew a perfect smoke ring upwards.

“There wasn't, until this evening.” Maisie took up her drink and sipped.

“Go on.”

“I have a feeling that Billy might be having some sort of romantic affair with Sandra.”

Priscilla's eyes widened. “Oh, that'll rock the bloody boat. I can see the whites of Doreen's eyes already.”

Maisie nodded. “I know. Me too.”

Chapter Ten

“M
aisie, I wonder if we could talk about going to the Otterburns' tomorrow evening. I really don't want to go alone.” James set down his teacup. “I know how you feel about the man, but—”

“James, I am not sure that you do know how I feel. I just don't want to be in his company. Every time I see Billy, every time I think of how he was left for dead, I think of John Otterburn. And while I think that his efforts to bolster our country's air defenses are—as you say, ‘visionary'—I cannot be in the same room as him.” She paused, seeing the disappointment on James' face. She reached for his hand. “Look, perhaps another time, in a neutral place; at someone else's party might be an idea. We're bound to cross paths with him and Lorraine soon enough.”

James sighed. “Oh, I can't say I blame you, Maisie. I just feel better with you at my side.”

She smiled. “And I like being by your side, James—just not tomorrow evening.”

He shrugged. “But you don't like being by my side enough to marry me, do you, Maisie?”

“That's not fair, James. We're enjoying ourselves, aren't we?”

“I'm sorry,” said James. “You're right, that wasn't fair. We had an agreement, and all is indeed well.” He set his table napkin beside his plate and looked at his watch. “Now, I must get to the office—a busy day ahead. And you?”

“Yes, a very busy day. I'll . . . I'll see you later, then.”

“See you, my love.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“James,” said Maisie, pushing back her chair. “How about we spend this evening at the flat—I'll cook for us. Just the two of us, no fussing from Simmonds. One of our indoor picnics. I'll think of something special, not just the usual soup and crusty bread.”

He took her in his arms. “I rather like soup and crusty bread. It's warming.”

“About seven then?”

“Lovely—I'll let Simmonds know he can stand down this evening.”

M
r. Ramesh Singh was at his shop in Commercial Road when Maisie called.

“Ah yes, I am very pleased to see you, Miss Dobbs. My friend Pramal told me to expect your visit.” He looked up at the door. “I had better close up shop for a few minutes while we are having our conversation.”

Singh flipped over the sign that told customers the shop was closed—he had pinned an extra note with the words “Open again in half an hour.” Maisie thought it interesting that he did not specify when the half an hour would begin. He was a tall man, and well built—Pramal had an energetic wiriness about him, whereas Singh looked as if he were content with his life, and enjoyed many evenings sitting with his family over a well-provisioned table. He dressed as she would expect any ordinary working Englishman to dress, and would not have been surprised had he put on a flat cap before leaving his shop. His black hair was short and combed back from his face, save for one small clump of hair that would not be tamed and fell into his eyes every moment or two. She suspected Singh might have a good sense of humor, and enjoyed sharing a joke with family and friends—she could imagine him teasing children and making fun of the womenfolk as they bustled about their business, though such mockery would be in good heart.

When she was settled with a cup of tea in a small room behind the shop, Maisie asked Singh about his friendship with Pramal.

“It is of many years, since we were boys. We went to school together, then later, to war together, so he is indeed like a brother to me, though I returned to this country after the war, and ended up marrying here. I remain here for the love of a good woman, as you English might say.”

“You met your wife here?”

“Indeed. My very British wife—and please do not seem surprised, Miss Dobbs. I am not the only man from your Empire to marry a British woman.”

“I'm not shocked, Mr. Singh—though I wonder, if you don't mind me asking, if you are subject to any prejudice?”

“As I said, I am not the only one, though obviously we do not number in the thousands—indeed, there are only about seven or eight thousand people from India living here in Britain. That is beside the point, though. Do other people matter? Yes, I suppose they do, but we have managed, and we know others in our little community of Anglos and Indians, and it has been for some years now that we have been married, so people are used to us. And our children.”

“I understand that you once held a torch for Miss Usha Pramal.”

“Oh, I did, most definitely! And so did many others, though none were good enough for Usha. Even her brother despaired of her and said she would bring shame on the family if she went on as she did—not that she was bad, no, never bad. But she was willful, you know. Very willful, and her father was powerless—he loved her so very much, and saw his poor dead wife in her eyes. Pramal always said that if his mother had been alive, Usha would have been a different person, but I don't know—that particular leopard had very distinct spots.”

“I do not want to offend, but I'd like to know if she had ever upset you in any way?”

Singh shook his head. “Not at all. No, that's not true. It was clear that she had no intention of accepting an offer of marriage between us, so my family and hers did not discuss the possibility; it saved face—as you English might say—all around.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I understand. Did you know about the young man with whom she'd exchanged affections? He was an Englishman, according to Mr. Pramal.”

“I knew something about it, though Pramal would not have discussed it with me. He would not have wanted the man's appearance at the house to have ruined her chances in the future.”

“But I thought they might have seen each other outside the house, without a chaperone, perhaps.”

Singh seemed thoughtful, and at once Maisie saw a certain sadness in his eyes, as if he were in mourning.

“Usha was like a butterfly, Miss Dobbs. Flit, flit, flit, from this flower to the next, taking nectar and tasting sweetness. She saw the very best in everyone, and I never knew her to be without a smile or a good word for one and all. If she saw this man outside the house, it was with innocence, not a plan, and she would never have wanted a reputation with men to be brought home to her doorstep. Can he be blamed? Yes, he should have known better, though he had not been in our country long—as far as I know—but still, he should not have put her in that position, even if he was in love with her.”

“How do you know he was in love with her?” Maisie leaned forward.

Singh smiled, despite eyes that had now filled with tears. “Because everyone loved Usha, Miss Dobbs. No one could fail to love such a person, so perhaps he had no choice but to follow her, and that led to his disrespect of her position.” He sighed. “Usha was truly the daughter of heaven, you know.”

There was a moment's silence before Maisie spoke again, her voice soft. “Do you have any idea why someone might want to kill her, Mr. Singh?”

He leaned his head forward to rest on his hands, made into a fist in front of his face, with fingers laced. “On the one hand, I could not imagine taking such a precious life—and I speak as a man who took precious life in the war, and of that I am not proud.” He paused. “But I can only think that she was killed because someone loved her very much and either could not stand that love, or someone else couldn't.”

Maisie nodded, inhaling his words as if they were the spices that gave fragrance to air in the room. She looked around her, and for the first time since entering the shop, she took in the many jars and boxes on floor-to-ceiling shelves around the room. Jars filled with color and fragrance she had never experienced, and boxes exuding aromas that teased her senses, along with an exotic redolence seeping from sacks on the floor.

“Mr. Singh, do you think a man could kill for such a love? Do you think he could take the life of one so adored?”

Singh sighed audibly. “I do, Miss Dobbs. I think that one so precious might drive a person—man or woman—to distraction. You see, no one could ever own Usha—it would have been like trying to catch a summer's breeze to put it in a bottle and clamp down a stopper. Children would follow her, you know—as if they could be wrapped in her essence while walking in her wake. That is who she was.” He shook his head, as if to banish images in his mind's eye. “I would have married Usha, had I thought I would be accepted, but fortunately, I didn't. I fell in love with a very wonderful English lady and was saved the turmoil of being a slave to the unattainable.”

As if on cue, the door opened, and a woman entered the room. She was of average height and, arguably, average appearance—if she had been wearing a skirt and jacket, with a hat, gloves, and leather shoes, she might look as if she were a countrywoman on her way to church to arrange the flowers for the Sunday service. Instead, this English woman, with her pale complexion and blue eyes, with her dark-blond hair drawn back, would attract a second look wherever she went. The sari of deep blue seemed iridescent, and the dark red bindi appeared larger on her white forehead, as if it were a more defiant hallmark of the culture she had adopted upon her marriage. She saw Maisie and bowed, her hands clasped together.

“I see my husband has offered you tea, Miss—”

Maisie stood up. “Miss Dobbs. Maisie Dobbs. I'm honored to meet you, Mrs. Singh.”

The woman's eyes sparkled. “Oh, let's not stand on ceremony, eh, Miss Dobbs. Surprised, yes, but probably not honored—I don't think I have ever warranted any honors, except the honor of being married to a very good man. Are you sure you don't want another cup before you go?”

“Um, well—no thank you very much. One cup was enough—I sometimes think I could easily drink my weight in tea.” She gathered her gloves and turned to Singh. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Singh. It was so kind of you to close the shop for a while—in fact, I think I might make some purchases; those spices are quite heady.”

Mrs. Bess Singh introduced Maisie to the spices, herbs, and different kinds of flour in the shop, to the pickles and chutneys she had never before tasted. The pungent ajmud—celery seed—seemed familiar, though the cardamon seeds teased her with their freshness, along with jeera—cumin seed; jethimadh—licorice powder; and one she loved, dhania—coriander. A large jar of turmeric caught her eye—she remembered Mrs. Crawford, the cook at Ebury Place, using turmeric in a stew. Her attention was drawn back and forth along the array of colors and textures, and she was delighted by the vibrant yet delicate threads of saffron in a crystal container. Allspice was familiar, along with cloves and peppercorns, but she was fascinated by their Indian names: kabab chini, lavang, kali mirch. As Bess Singh weighed out a small pouch of dried ginger to add to a collection of small blue-paper pouches collected on the counter in front of Maisie, she began to speak.

“I knew Usha, you know.”

“Did you?” Maisie was quiet, watching the woman twist the top of another blue paper pouch and replace the glass jar on the shelf. She turned around, and spoke while collecting the pouches and putting them into a larger paper bag. “She was very striking, but it was not so much her looks that attracted people—and you've probably heard all this, I daresay. It was her
way
, how she moved, and how she sort of claimed the street when she walked along. And I confess, when I first knew her, she'd come here to the shop to see Singh when she came over to England with the family.” Maisie noticed that the woman referred to her husband by his surname. “Well, I wasn't sure about her, to tell you the truth,” Bess went on. “Though I liked her well enough. She reminded me of those flowers you see at Kew—have you been to Kew, Miss Dobbs?” She did not wait for an answer. “Well, they've got a plant there, with a large, very beautiful flower—but if you chanced to put your finger near the petals, it would take your finger off. You can watch it—it eats the insects drawn to its beauty and fragrance.”

“I've heard of plants like that—from Polynesia, or Indochina, somewhere like that.”

“That's what Usha reminded me of, you see. People were drawn to her beauty, and if she touched a person—and she was one of those people who touched, you know, when they talk to you, or meet you in the street—they went off looking as if their arm had been blessed, or their cheek, or their fingers. But if people became too close, she could clam up. Singh told me about that young man in India—she shut him out, never spoke to him again, by all accounts. And he wept at her door, to the point where even her aunts thought something should be said to him, to help his broken heart.”

“Oh, I see—I didn't know it was that intense,” said Maisie.

Bess Singh nodded, pulling up the silk of her sari so her head was covered. “According to Pramal, yes, it was.”

“And no one seems to know the man's name,” said Maisie.