There were no children bounding around in the long grass now, no big golden dog, and no sounds of squeals and laughter. Only the muffled sounds of traffic on the canal and, more distant, the Thames—“the water,” as it was known to those who lived south of the navigation—challenged an otherwise quiet day. Maisie stopped at the edge of the land, alongside the gate. Though this was the working edge of one of the busiest cities in the world, she could smell the country, as if she were in Kent at harvesttime. She stepped out along one of the many paths beaten across the common, towards the cluster of trees.
It seemed as if someone was still sleeping rough under the low boughs. The grass was pressed down, and behind a tree trunk Maisie saw a couple of empty tins of rice pudding—as acceptable cold as it was heated, thus an easy choice of quick, though not hearty, sustenance. A dappled afternoon light filtered through the trees, and after walking around the area, Maisie took off her jacket, laid it on the smooth grass, and sat down. She thought that if she lay back she might fall asleep, comforted by a lazy Indian summer breeze brushing against her skin. But she remained sitting, arms around her knees. She closed her eyes and stilled her mind—a mind that she knew was racing ahead. Was she making the same mistake as the police? Was she rushing from person to person, trying to tie up loose ends so she could move on to the next thing sooner? She sat in silence and allowed her thoughts to skim across her mind, as if they were splashes against stones in the waters of her conscience. She considered every step she had taken—including sending Billy home. It was the right thing to do, though she had underestimated the fact that she felt as if something important was missing every day as she worked. Maurice had once questioned her choice of Billy as an assistant, suggesting that his intellect wasn’t up to the job. But Maisie stuck to her guns, knowing that it was Billy’s heart that would stand him in good stead, and his great loyalty towards her. That loyalty had almost cost him his life, and he had suffered while trying to continue his work for her. She sighed, opening her eyes and picking at a blade of grass. But now he was moving on—and for that, this new job, she was relieved and grateful. And Sandra had proved to be more than able—more than she had ever imagined the young woman would be. The anger of widowhood had inspired her, giving her energy to propel her from her station in life to greater levels of accomplishment. What could stop her now, except the limits of her imagination?
Usha Pramal seemed to have an imagination without limits, and the determination to achieve her dreams. But the vision of establishing a school for poor girls at home in India had been brought to an abrupt end by a single bullet from a gun fired by someone with a perfect eye for their target. Had Usha known her killer? Maisie closed her eyes again and brought to mind the woman she had never met: colorful in her fine silk sari, confident in her manner and walk. She imagined her walking along the street, cutting down towards the canal, a humid summer’s day reminding her of home. But why was she walking towards the canal? Why would she leave the street where she was seen earlier in the day—according to Caldwell’s notes—and make her way to a canal where barges lumbered back and forth from the river, and through the canal’s dark waters? Was there something about the path that eased her heart, perhaps? Or was she meeting someone?
Maisie sighed, though her eyes remained closed. She thought of those she had met during the investigation, and others she knew only by association, dependent as she was on a picture built by question after question. She imagined Robert Martin, Jesmond Martin’s missing son, to be typical of his age—perhaps somewhat lanky, possibly in the transition from a childhood during which he hung on his father’s every word to now questioning each comment, question, or instruction. In the short years between boyhood and growing the beard of maturity, had he argued with his father to the extent that he would leave his beloved mother? Had he struck out