Leaving Everything Most Loved Read online

  “I beg your pardon,” said Maisie.

  “It’s something written by the Persian poet Jal¯al ad-D¯ın Muh. ammad R¯um¯ı, from a more recent translation, though most of his work remains in his original language.”

  “But . . .”

  “I believe the words you find most startling are ‘the flame of separateness.’ ”

  Maisie nodded.

  “Then go. Go to find out who you are—Know Thyself, as written at the entrance to Delphi. Know thyself, Maisie Dobbs, for such knowledge is freedom. Extinguish the flame of doubt that has burned in you for so long, and which—I suspect—stands between you and a deeper connection to someone with whom you might spend the rest of your life.”

  “There are more recent reasons for that separateness, Dame Constance. Matters of a confidential nature.”

  “You would not have come had you not felt trust.”

  “James—the man with whom I have been, to all intents and purposes, walking out with for some months now . . .” Maisie paused. A year. In truth a year had passed without engagement, cause for some gossip within their social circle. “James is associated with certain men of influence and power, one of whom I have had cause to cross. I know the man orchestrated the death of another man—one I knew and had affection for—though it was not by his own hand, he has others to do his . . . dirty work. He is a powerful man who at the same time is serving our country in matters of international importance, and is therefore untouchable.”

  Dame Constance bowed her head, then looked up at Maisie again.

  “So, I suspect you feel compromised. I know of your work, and it would seem that you were powerless against a man who is beyond the law, so you have become disillusioned with the law.”

  “Disillusioned with myself, I think. And though I grasp why James must follow this man, I find I admire him for wanting to be of service, yet sickened that it requires him to throw in his lot with such a person.”

  “So, perhaps the leaving is to set this episode behind you, to distance yourself from the grief associated with death, and also with a feeling that you have failed because you could not win against those who ensure that this man you speak of will be able to evade justice. But remember this, Maisie—according to The Rule of Benedict, the fourth rung of humility requires us to hold fast to patience with a silent mind, especially when facing difficulties, contradictions—and even any injustice. It asks us to endure. Thus I would suggest that you might well see justice done, in time. Patience, Maisie. Patience. Now go about your work. Seek the knowledge you crave, and remember this: you have expressed your desire, so be prepared for opportunity. It may come with greater haste than your preparations allow.” She paused, and there was silence for what seemed like a quarter of an hour, though it might only have been a minute. “I am sure that, because you have voiced your desire to venture overseas, a direction will be revealed to you. Now, lest I be thought of as heathen, I should balance the esteemed Persian poet with our beloved Benedict.”

  The Abbess met Maisie’s gaze; neither flinched.

  “Listen and attend to the ear of your heart, Maisie. Before you leave, let us pray together.”

  And though it was not her practice to pray, Maisie bowed her head and clasped her hands, wondering how indeed she might best attend to the ear of her heart.

  Chapter Two

  London, September 4th, 1933

  Sandra Tapley, secretary to psychologist and investigator Maisie Dobbs, placed her hand over the cup of the black telephone receiver as Maisie entered the office.

  “It’s that Detective Inspector Caldwell for you.” She rolled her eyes; Sandra bore a certain contempt for the policeman.

  Maisie raised her eyebrows. “Well, there’s a turn-up—wonder what he wants.”

  She took the receiver from her secretary’s hand, noticing the telltale signs of bitten nails.

  “Detective Inspector, to what do I owe this pleasure, first thing in the morning?” As she greeted her caller, Maisie watched the young woman return to her typing.

  “Good morning to you, too, Miss Dobbs.”

  “I thought you liked to get down to business, so I dispensed with the formalities.”

  “Very good. Now then, I wonder if I could pay a visit, seeing as you’re in.”

  “Oh dear, spying on me again, Inspector? Now that we’re off to such a good start, I’ll get Mrs. Tapley to put the kettle on in anticipation of your arrival.”

  “Fifteen minutes. Strong with—”

  “Plenty of sugar. Yes, we know.”

  Maisie returned the receiver to its cradle.

  “I can’t stand that man,” said Sandra, stepping out from behind her desk. “He needles me something rotten.”

  “He likes needling people, and I shouldn’t really needle him back, but he seems to be so much more accommodating when he’s had that sort of conversation—there are people who, for whatever reason, always seem to be on the defensive, and they’re better for being a bit confrontational. If they were taps, they would be running brown water first thing in the morning. At least he’s not as bombastic as he used to be—and he’s coming to me about a case, which is the first time he’s done that. It must be something out of the ordinary, to bring him over here. Or someone’s breathing down his neck.”

  “I’ll keep out of his way then.”

  “No, don’t. I’d like you to be here—and what time did Billy say he’d be back?”

  “Around ten. He went over to see one of those reporters he knows, about that missing boy.”

  “Finding out more about how the press covered the story, and what they might have known but didn’t report, I would imagine.” Maisie looked at the clock. “Looks like Billy will cross the threshold at about the same time as Caldwell and whichever poor put-upon sergeant he brings with him this time.”

  Detective Inspector Caldwell, of Scotland Yard’s murder squad, did indeed arrive on the doorstep of the Fitzroy Square mansion at the same time as Billy Beale, assistant to Maisie Dobbs. And he was not alone, though the man accompanying Caldwell was not a police sergeant, but a distinguished gentleman who wore an array of service medals. Maisie watched from the window as Billy greeted Caldwell in his usual friendly hail-fellow-well-met manner. Caldwell shook his outstretched hand, and in turn introduced the gentleman. Billy must have recognized that the visitor had served in the war, because he at once stood to attention and saluted. The man returned the salute, then gave a short bow and extended his hand to take Billy’s. Billy shook the man’s hand with some enthusiasm, and Maisie was at once touched to see the respect Billy accorded the visitor. Her assistant had served in the war, had been wounded, and still suffered the psychological pain inflicted by battle. The war might have been some fifteen years past, but there was a mutual regard between men who had seen death of a most terrible kind. Given the color of his skin, his shining oiled hair, and his bearing, the man who Billy was escorting up to the office along with Caldwell had likely served with one of the Indian regiments that had come to the aid of King and Country.

  Maisie could hear Billy’s distinctive footfall on the stairs and his voice as he welcomed the visitors, asking if the Indian gentleman had been in London long. Sandra was already setting out cups and saucers, and the tea was brewed in the pot, ready to pour.

  “Miss Dobbs, may I have the pleasure in introducing Major Pramal—he served with the Engineers in the war. We didn’t know each other, but Major Pramal said he’d met my commanding officer.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Major Pramal. And good morning, Detective Inspector Caldwell—you’ve been a stranger.”

  The Indian gentleman was about to return Maisie’s greeting when Caldwell interrupted.

  “I thought you were about to say just ‘strange’ then,” said Caldwell, removing his hat and taking a seat before being invited to do so. “I’ve been busy, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Please, Major Pramal.” Maisie held out her hand towards a chair.

  “I am honor
ed to make your acquaintance, Miss Dobbs, though please forgive me for correcting you—I was not a major in the war, as I am sure Mr. Beale already knows; it was not possible for an Indian man to be a commissioned officer until after the war—I was a sergeant major.” He was seated, and then went on. “No, only British officers could command us until 1919. In any case, I would prefer to be known as simply ‘Mr. Pramal,’ though as I said, I appreciate Mr. Beale’s respect for my contribution.”

  Maisie looked at Billy and suspected he had made the deliberate error to antagonize Caldwell—it seemed to be a sport among her employees.

  Sandra handed cups of tea to the guests, and Billy pulled up a chair alongside Maisie’s.

  “Well, we’ll get straight to the point, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell. “Sergeant Major—I mean, Mr. Pramal—has come a long way, from India, on account of the fact that his sister was discovered dead.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Pramal. Please accept our deepest sympathies for your loss—and your sister was such a long way from home.”

  “Indeed, Miss Dobbs. We miss her from the deepest place in our hearts, but my family was very proud of Usha. She had been the governess with an important family—a governess, mind you. Very important person in the bringing up of children.”

  Caldwell rolled his eyes, and Maisie saw that Sandra had witnessed the look and was shaking her head.

  “How can I help? Inspector?” asked Maisie

  “Mr. Pramal here is—understandably, I’ll grant you—not very happy with the police investigation, and—”

  “My sister was murdered, Miss Dobbs. In cold blood, her life was taken. It was no accident. A bullet at short range is never an accident.”

  Maisie looked at Caldwell. “Inspector?”

  “Mr. Pramal has a point. We’ve drawn a blank. I’ve had some of my best men on this case, and still not a hint as to who might have murdered Miss Pramal. When Mr. Pramal came to us, he pointed out that he had knowledge of your services, and that he intended to come to you directly if we didn’t bring you into the fold. I felt it would be better if we kept ourselves apprised of what steps you might take towards a satisfying conclusion. So we’re here together.”

  “I see. Right.” Maisie looked at Billy, then glanced at Sandra before she stood up from her chair and walked to the window. Caldwell had told her only part of the story, so she could either challenge him—ask for more details—or she could take his account as truth, and accept the case. Or she could turn them both away, saying she had too much work at the moment. It would have been a lie, but she wondered if she really needed the annoyance of working with Caldwell of Scotland Yard.

  But as she turned back into the room, having been with her thoughts for only half a minute, Maisie saw something in Pramal’s eyes, a look of despair, of yearning. His eyes were those of a man who had been strong, but was now almost beaten by grief. It was as if the bones in his body, used to a certain correct posture, were all that stood between him and collapse. Now there was no choice. They were all looking at her: Billy, Sandra, Caldwell, and Pramal.

  “Mr. Pramal . . . we should begin. Time is always of the essence in this sort of case—and so much time has been lost already.” She glanced at Caldwell. “How long since Miss Pramal’s body was discovered?”

  Caldwell reddened. “About two months now, I’m sorry to say it, but we hit a dead end early on, and never picked up the lead. And of course, Mr. Pramal has had a very long journey from India—weeks.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Camberwell. That’s where the body . . . where Miss Pramal was found. In the canal.”

  “All right. Here’s what I think we should do, if I may make a suggestion, Inspector Caldwell? Perhaps Mr. Pramal could remain here for a while, just to give us his viewpoint.” Maisie turned from Caldwell to the Indian gentleman. “Would that be convenient?”

  The man bowed his head, then looked at Maisie. “I have all the time needed, for my sister.”

  “Good. Inspector, perhaps I could visit you later, at the Yard, and we can discuss the case—I am sure there will be no problem in allowing me to view your investigation records, in the circumstances.”

  “In the circumstances—”

  “Good,” said Maisie, cutting off any dissent that Caldwell might have expressed. In that case, Inspector, I’ll walk with you down to your motor car?”

  As they stood on the downstairs threshold, Maisie folded her arms against a cool breeze that had blown up to chill a fine day in what promised to be one of the warmest Indian summers she could remember.

  “What happened? It’s not like you to lose the thread—assuming you found it,” said Maisie.

  Caldwell shrugged. “I’ve had a lot on my plate, Miss Dobbs. She was an Indian woman, knew hardly anyone, and she turns up dead. There was no one pressing me for a result, so it went to the bottom of the pile—mind you, we had a go at finding who did it, but it’s not as if there was anyone to answer to, and the press weren’t all over it—no grieving relatives, nothing your Daily Mails and Mirrors could make hay with. Then he comes along—the brother. Of course, it takes, what—six weeks to come over on the boat? There had been a letter saying he was on his way, but I suppose it went into the file and the next thing you know—”

  “She wasn’t the right color, so no one bothered.”

  “Now, don’t be like that, Miss Dobbs. You know me, straight as a die—I don’t make any distinction whether the deceased is one of us or not.”

  Maisie sighed. “You know my usual fee?”

  “Only too well. So does the Commissioner, and the bookkeeper.”

  “Tell him to keep that checkbook at the ready.”

  “Tell her. The bookkeeper who deals with my department is a she.”

  “Good. I’ll be paid on time then.” Maisie looked at her wristwatch. “About four?”

  Caldwell nodded, turned away from Maisie and raised his hand. A black police motor car moved from the place where it was parked and approached at a snail’s pace.

  Maisie half-turned to go back into the mansion where her first-floor office was housed. “Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll keep you posted all the way along. And I will find the killer.”

  “I know you will, Miss Dobbs.”

  “How do you know?”

  Caldwell put his hat back on. “Because you’re a terrier, Miss Dobbs. You might not be quick, and you might not go about it like I would, but you never let go. Now then, you go and get your teeth into his story. See where that leads you.”

  Maisie waved and made her way back up the stairs to her office. Caldwell was right, she wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t, because fifteen minutes earlier, when she’d turned from the window and looked into Pramal’s eyes, she had seen the open wound across his soul that the death of his sister had inflicted upon him. And Maisie Dobbs could never turn away from such an entreaty.

  “Now then, before we begin, Mr. Pramal, would you like more tea, or have we soaked you?” Maisie smiled and nodded to Billy, who pulled the chairs into a circle. He had already allowed for Sandra to join them.

  “No thank you, Miss Dobbs. I have had sufficient refreshment.”

  “So, you returned to India after the war—did you remain in the army?” Maisie made small talk while Billy and Sandra took their places, both with notebooks ready.

  “For a while, yes. I left the service in 1920, and I am now a civil engineer with a company in Bombay, though I spend much time in other places, mainly working on water flow—irrigation, for example—and bridges.”

  “Sergeant Major Pramal was an explosives man in the war—tunneling and laying explosives. Not very good for the heart, that. Takes a very calm man to do the job of blowing things up,” added Billy.

  Pramal smiled. “I am pleased to be the recipient of your respect, Mr. Beale, and I understand addressing me by my army rank is ingrained in the soldier when he sees the medals, but I am happily no longer in the service of the King and Emperor.”

&nbs
p; “But you wear your medals with much pride, Mr. Pramal,” said Maisie.

  “They have their uses—for example, when I wanted to be heard at Scotland Yard. There are men there who might have passed me in the street, looking the other way, but if they’ve had military training—which many have—it remains locked in the memory, so they could not help but accord me respect when they saw my medals. In a few hours with your police force I think I was saluted more than at any other time since the war.”

  Maisie smiled. “We are grateful to you, Mr. Pramal.” She paused. “Now then, this is how we go about our business, especially in an initial conversation with a new client. Though we could easily read through a series of reports provided by Inspector Caldwell, we conduct our own interview first. You may already have answered questions, and I realize there is much you cannot answer, but this helps us. The reason we are all sitting here is that we all listen in different ways, and something I miss might be noticed by either Mr. Beale or Mrs. Tapley.”

  The man pressed his hands together and bowed again. “I am grateful for your attention. Please ask your questions.”

  Maisie began.

  “Let’s start with Usha. How old was she?”

  “My sister was twenty-nine years of age, last birthday, April 15.”

  “How long had she been in England?”

  “She sailed with the family approximately seven years ago. It might be more. Sometimes it seems only yesterday, but at other times I can hardly remember her features.”

  “Do you have the name of the family who brought her here? What about an address?”

  “The Allisons. Lieutenant Colonel Allison, his wife, and three children, who were then—if my memory serves me well—two, four, and six.”

  “He was an army man?” Billy interjected.

  “Not at the time. He was a civil servant, with the British foreign service, as far as I know, though his army achievements were sufficiently impressive for him to continue using the form of address to which he was entitled. His wife advertised for a governess for the children, so my sister applied and was accepted for the position. She was a trained teacher, Miss Dobbs. She was with them for almost two years before they left to return to Great Britain, and she came with them.”