Leaving Everything Most Loved (18 page)

“I thought it matched your eyes,” said James.

Maisie held the dress against her and walked to the bevel mirror in the corner of the room. With long sleeves and a boat neckline—the cut accentuated her fine collarbones—the dress was draped in the bodice and from the waist fell in a slender column cut on the bias, to just above the ankle. A narrow belt in the same fabric with a silver clasp put a delicate finishing touch on an exquisite gown.

“Oh my. Oh my goodness, James, this is so gorgeous. I can hardly dare to wear it.”

“Dare you will, and”—he looked at his watch—“in forty minutes we should be on our way or we'll be late. Drink while you're changing, my love?”

She shook her head. “I daren't. I might spill some. Oh dear, what will Priscilla say? Perfect, just perfect, and it's not even one of her cast-offs.” She laid the dress on the bed and went to James. He held her in his arms. “Thank you, James—you've spoiled me and I don't deserve it.”

“I love you, Maisie.”

“And I love you, too,” said Maisie. And she knew, in her heart, that her words were true. She loved James, and realized that there was something in what Sandra had said about having someone to come home to. And it didn't depend upon a new dress.

Though she usually shunned assistance from the maid who had been assigned to help her personally, Maisie summoned Madeleine to help her dress—she was so scared that she might spoil the new gown. Her hair had grown longer, so she thought she might wear it pinned up for the evening. Madeleine proved to be an expert hairdresser, her nimble fingers fashioning a braid from ear to ear that brushed against the nape of her neck. When she had finished, and before Madeleine helped her into the new garment, Maisie used a mirror to look at the braid. She touched the skin under the woven black hair.

“Are you sure you can't see my scar?” asked Maisie. “I wouldn't want it to show.”

Madeleine came closer, frowning. “What scar, Miss Dobbs? I never saw no scar.”

Maisie turned and took the girl's hand in hers, causing her to blush. “Thank you, Madeleine. You're a dear.”

Maisie stopped to make one final check in the mirror before joining James. Her high cheekbones were enhanced by her hair being drawn back, and her eyes seemed deeper as they reflected the color and sheen of the gown, which fitted perfectly. She already owned a pair of black satin shoes, which would do nicely, and matched the black clutch bag she would carry with her. She would not take a wrap, as she had nothing to complement the dress—and the evening was not too cold in any case.

“I think that will do, don't you, Madeleine?”

“You look really lovely, Miss—like one of them film stars you see in the picture books.”

“Oh, you lovely girl. When I am bleary-eyed at the end of another working day, I will remember what you've said, and it will buoy me up.”

As she reached the door, the maid spoke again. “Miss, if I may ask, what scar were you talking about? Did you have an accident?”

Maisie smiled. “I was a nurse, in the war. I came home wounded . . . I was caught in the shelling, you see. But if you can't see it, that's a good sign—it means it's almost gone.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
he party at the Otterburn mansion was much as Maisie expected it to be. A gathering in one of the grand reception rooms, much shaking of hands, effusive hellos, and champagne cocktails served as if the flow would never end. She was relieved to see Priscilla and Douglas Partridge among the guests, and Priscilla was doubly delighted to see her.

“I didn't know you were coming,” said her friend. “I thought you had begged off this one.”

“I changed my mind.” Maisie sipped champagne from a crystal flute engraved with an
O
—as a self-made man, Otterburn did not have a coat of arms, so he used his initial to underline ownership of luxury.

“Probably just as well,” said Priscilla, nodding towards a young woman wearing a clinging white backless gown peppered with sequins, her cropped hair closely curled, as she made her way towards the group.

“James, it's so good to see you again,” she said, lifting her lightly rouged cheek to his, and pressing her red lips together to kiss the air.

James blushed and stepped back. “Hello, Elaine. Lovely to see you, too.” He turned to Maisie, his hand at the small of her back, and introduced her to John Otterburn's daughter, making it obvious with his tone and the way he touched Maisie that they were a couple.

Elaine Otterburn smiled at Maisie and offered her hand. “Lucky, lucky lady!” She turned to greet Priscilla and Douglas, whom she had met before, and then said she must be off to do the rounds. She smiled again, as if turning on a switch, then turned away, waving to a young man who had just entered the room.

“Whew, she's a streak of lightning, that one,” said Douglas.

“But a damn good aviatrix, despite appearances,” said James. “Though a bit too forthcoming, to my mind—but then, she's young.”

“Not that young,” said Priscilla, raising an eyebrow as she turned her attention to Maisie and began to recount the latest escapades of her three boys.

As Priscilla was speaking another couple entered the room and immediately garnered the attention of almost all present. Heads turned, then turned back again; women seemed at once less colorful than they thought themselves to be, and there was a split-second hush that propriety ended quickly. The learned scientist Raphael Jones had arrived, with his equally learned wife, Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones, resplendent in a sari of iridescent golden silk, with a deep burgundy border, embellished with delicate beading depicting a series of butterflies. Maisie had never seen anything so beautiful, and knew the sari had been handmade for Mrs. Chaudhary Jones; the butterflies must have been her own idea. However, it was James who surprised Maisie.

“Oh, good, there's Raff.” He turned to Maisie, Priscilla, and Douglas. “Come on, I'll introduce you—Raff is an extraordinary physicist and engineer, an expert on flight, velocity, maneuverability of aircraft, that sort of thing. Not met his wife before, but heard a lot about her—she's just your sort, Maisie; very intelligent, an academic herself, I believe. Hello—Raff!” He waved, and they moved towards the couple, who were both drinking water with a slice of lemon.

The couples exchanged pleasantries following introductions, though Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones took the opportunity of an approaching footman to turn to Maisie. While passing him her empty glass, she whispered, “Let's not tell them we've met; probably better for you, Maisie, given your work—which I am sure everyone knows about, even if they'd never say a word to you on the subject.”

Maisie nodded and smiled. She liked Mrs. Chaudhary Jones; she was indeed a thoughtful woman.

Soon supper was announced, and the guests took their places along the seemingly never-ending table. Fortunately, Maisie was seated next to Douglas on one side, and a well-known journalist on the other, and James was between Priscilla and Mrs. Chaudhary Jones. Elaine Otterburn was positioned well along the table, between the young man she'd greeted so effusively earlier and her mother's brother, whom Maisie had had the poor fortune to be seated alongside at a supper earlier in the year—he was a drunk. Later, when Lorraine Otterburn stood to indicate it was time for the ladies to withdraw, leaving the men to their port and cigars, Maisie saw James step away from his chair and move towards Otterburn. Raphael Jones followed. Now it was clear. Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones' British husband was the scientist working with Otterburn to develop the aircraft that he believed would be the answer to Britain's defense prayers.

Thoughts spun through Maisie's mind while sitting with the women, on occasion nodding in agreement as the conversation buzzed back and forth. Though she went through a process of reflection at the end of a case—originally instigated by Maurice, when she was his apprentice, wherein each place of note in the investigation was visited, as if to exorcise remaining ghosts of the inquiry—the emotions wrought by certain cases lingered, and she felt the weight of them in the drawing room she had previously visited in the midst of a major case at a time when she had been powerless against the might of John Otterburn and the moral dilemma presented by his actions. He had brought about the death of a man in order to keep secret certain plans that would be to the advantage of Britain in a time of war, which he anticipated would happen within just a few years. The knowledge that she might never forgive herself for her failure to bring Otterburn to justice was once more brought to the forefront of her thoughts. And now she wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the room, leave Otterburn's house, and she wanted to leave her country. But was it really her desire to see new lands and experience other cultures that drove her to seek adventure abroad, or was she running from frustration and failure? Perhaps it was as Dame Constance had counseled.
Pilgrimage to the place of the wise is to find escape from the flame of separateness
.

Her deliberations led her back to Usha Pramal, and she wondered again what painful experience she might have been running from, and what she was casting away in leaving her home for an unknown land so many miles away. Maisie was convinced it was ultimately her past, not the way she conducted herself in the present, that had brought about the woman's death—and that of her loyal friend.

“You seemed to enjoy the party more than you thought you might, Maisie,” said James as they drove home some hours later.

“Well, Priscilla and Douglas were there. And I like Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones. I like her very much.”

“I thought you would.” He laughed. “And what about Elaine Otterburn? I think John ought not to depend upon her doing much flying in Canada, the way she was hanging on the every word of that chap she was sitting next to just before we left.”

“Perhaps not, James. But isn't it supposed to be a woman's prerogative, anyway—to change her mind.”

Though it was dark inside the motor car, she knew he was smiling.

M
aisie was somewhat surprised to find Billy at the office when she arrived in the morning.

“Billy, how are you?”

“I'm all right, Miss. Not so bad, anyway,” he replied. He was tapping his fingers on his desk.

Maisie set her briefcase on her desk and continued speaking as she removed her gloves and hat. She was aware of the tap-tapping of Billy's fingers, and thought he seemed agitated.

“I've just remembered, Sandra's with Douglas Partridge this morning, isn't she?”

“That's right, Miss. I thought I'd pop in to tell you something I think might be important on this case—it's about that boy, the one who's missing.”

“Billy—you're supposed to be resting.” Maisie pulled up a chair in front of Billy's desk. “All right—what about him?”

“Well, I think he's dossing down somewhere near where them women were found—well, Miss Pramal in particular. Got a feeling he's not far from Addington Square somewhere.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Maisie.

“I was over there yesterday. I know you said to go home, but I had a right bee in my bonnet about it, so I ended up going across to Camberwell. It must've been after you'd been to Addington Square, because I didn't see your motor car anywhere. Miss, I could have sworn I saw him, walking along near that field over the back. It was a boy who fitted his description anyway—mind you, I'll admit that his description fits a lot of lads of that age. Anyway, I took the chance and came up on a really early train this morning, to have another look. I reckoned that, if he was sleeping rough, he would come out before anyone else was about—them kids with their great big dog, for instance. Or I thought perhaps he'd stay over there, keep his head down. But I didn't reckon on seeing what I did.”

“Billy, you're supposed to be resting, enjoying time at home with your family, digging your garden.” She leaned forward. “What did you see?”

“Miss, there's only so much digging a garden of that size will take, and I thought I could lend a hand with the case. Anyway, I was walking along—and by then there were a few people about, so it wasn't as if anyone would notice me because I was the only bloke on the street—and when I got to the street that leads onto the square, Goodyear Street, or Place, or something, the door opened from one of them houses, and a man stood on the doorstep, looked around—of course, I stayed back, behind a tree—and then this lad came out and ran along the road.” He took a breath and wiped his brow. “I reckon the fella might have been a vicar or a verger or something, because he left after the boy had gone, and he went down the road to his church—if you can call it a proper church.”

“Well, that's a turn-up for the books.” Maisie leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. She looked up at Billy. “I don't think I'm surprised, to tell you the truth—but of course, it might not be him, and the Reverend Griffith might be offering refuge to a helpless young man in all innocence—that's part of his ministry, to be a source of comfort to those less fortunate. We have to give him the benefit of the doubt—though I believe you're probably right.” She paused again. “Billy, you're all in, what with getting up at the crack of dawn and all that walking around yesterday. I was worried about you then, and I'm worried now—and not about you being bored! Would you go home, please, and rest?”

Billy looked at his hands, then brought his attention back to his employer. “I've decided to take that job, you know. At the Compton Corporation. The money's fair, and it's regular. Doreen's pleased already; after all, I won't get much grief from a broken telephone, or a clerk who's nicking drawing pins, will I?”

Maisie smiled. “I think you're right—you've made a good decision.”

“One thing that bothers me, Miss. What about the house? I mean, you own that house of ours, Miss, and I'm paying you rent. If I'm not working for you, can we stay there? Is that all right, I mean?”

“Oh, Billy, of course you are staying—it never entered my head that you wouldn't. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that—but perhaps not yet. I'll just put the word in your ear to consider. I was thinking that it would be a good investment for you—for the future—if your rent were to go towards payment of the house. That would mean you would own the house one day, and it would be yours. I can give you the original purchase price, and we'll take it from there—proper papers drawn up, so no concern on that score.”

“Oh, Miss, that's an awful lot, ain't it? I mean, to go from Shoreditch to a semi-detached house in Eltham is a big old leap, eh? And, well—”

“Have a think about it. Talk to Doreen. You wouldn't be paying any more than you are now, and you would be on the way to owning your house. And you can take your time—I have no other plans to sell the house. It's your home.”

Billy took a while to answer. Maisie allowed him his silence, while at the same time wondering whether she had overstepped the mark again.

“Thank you for the opportunity, Miss, I really appreciate all this. And I know Doreen will. She'd love to think we might own the house—and do it on our own.”

“Good. Think about it. Now then, Billy—you go home.”

“Miss—”

“What is it, Billy?”

“What're you going to do? Will Sandra be working for you, taking my place?”

“No one can take your place, Billy. Ever. But I have some plans of my own—and no, don't ask, I've no thoughts about getting married.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I believe I might close the business for a while. I haven't told Sandra yet, so keep it under your hat. I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Is it to do with Dr. Blanche?”

Maisie sighed. “Yes, I suppose it is. I am going to honor his memory, in a way. Do something he would have liked me to do.”

Billy nodded and smiled. “Well, good on you, Miss. Good on you for doing it, whatever it is.”

“I'll keep you posted. Now then, you go on home.”