that sort of help. Of course, they couldn’t keep them all, it gets expensive, with so many mouths to feed, so they went to their vicar, scrounged every penny they could from their fellow parishioners, and they turned their house into a hostel. They had the room after all, it’s a big house. They’ve got enough beds to accommodate twelve women on three upper floors. The Paiges have the ground floor, turned it into a nice flat for themselves.”
“That’s very generous.”
“Like I said, they’re religious.”
“I’ll see them as soon as I can.”
“Of course you will.”
Maisie looked at Caldwell. “What’s happened on this case, Inspector? You started off according to the book—a quick glance here tells me you began everything in line with correct procedures—securing the area where Pramal was discovered, conducting a search along the canal, speaking to associates, locals in the area who might have seen the woman. Then very little follows.”
He shrugged. “It went cold. We hit a brick wall with nothing new coming in, and there were other cases pending. Life’s not getting any easier around here, you know. There were no relatives banging on my door every day, and word came from a bit higher up to leave it alone and get on with more pressing cases.”
“And a gunshot wound to the head is not pressing? Was the bullet identified?”
“Went straight through the skull, out the other side.” He sighed. “And no, we couldn’t find it. There is a best guess, though—Fred Constantine, the pathologist on the case, said he could well be off his mark, but he couldn’t help but think it was a Webley Mark IV revolver. Standard issue to British officers in the war.”
“And officers from Empire armies.”
“Yes. And Empire armies.”
“And it needs a practiced hand, I seem to remember,” said Maisie. “Otherwise it jumps as it’s fired.”
“That’s right. Good little pistol—had one myself. But in the war we kept our eyes out for a Luger, if we found a dead German. Nice little prize to get yourself, that.” Caldwell shrugged.
“But you had to relinquish your pistol when you were demobilized, didn’t you?”
“I did. Yes. But you know as well as I do, Miss Dobbs, not all were handed back, and anyone who wants to arm themselves will find a way.”
Maisie nodded, lifted the folder, and placed it in her briefcase. “I’ll go through this and get in touch if I have any questions.”
They stood at the same time, the two chairs being pushed back making a scraping sound across the floor. They shook hands.
“I’ll get my sergeant to see you out.”
“Thank you, Inspector Caldwell.”
Caldwell reached forward and opened the door for Maisie to depart the room.
“I’m sure it’s all in here, Inspector,” said Maisie, tapping the document case where she had placed the file. “But can you tell me exactly when Mr. Pramal was informed of his sister’s death?”
“As soon as we got the details from the Paiges. I sent a telegram to the police in Bombay, and they found him quite quickly—working somewhere else at the time, he was.”
“And then he came over straightaway?”
Caldwell nodded.
“And now he’s staying in a hotel here. That can’t be much fun.”
“Well, he was with an old mucker, from his army days,” said Caldwell, summoning his sergeant with a wave of his hand.
“He told me he lodged with a friend for a short time.”
“Yes, he did, Miss Dobbs,” said Caldwell. “And he is very well thought of, according to Mr. Singh—that’s his friend. He said the Sarn’t Major’s men would have done anything for him, in the war. Anything.”
Maisie nodded and smiled, holding her hand out to Caldwell. She would find out herself if Usha Pramal’s brother was no longer staying with the friend who would do anything for him, simply because it became an inconvenience.
Maisie looked at her watch. Billy and Sandra would both have left the office by now, so she decided to make her way back to Ebury Place and the mansion where she lived—though she still thought of it as “stayed”—with James Compton. Compton was not her husband, or her fiancé, though he was open about his desire to be married to Maisie. Her friend Priscilla Partridge, whom she had known since she was seventeen years of age and a new student at Girton College in 1914, continued to press her to make up her mind; yet even she knew that Maisie’s foot-dragging was due to not one but several threads of reticence. The difference in background between Maisie and James was