“The two younger started screaming, and one of the older ones went for help, while the other sort of held the body steady with sticks. The boys admitted they were both as sick as dogs.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Maisie. “Those children will be living with that memory forever.”
“Oh, you know boys—they’ll be telling the story time and time again, adding a bit here, them being the big heroes of the day.”
“Did they see anything else? Anyone in the area they’d not seen before, that sort of thing?”
“These two didn’t. The older boy came back with a couple of policemen he’d come across—their usual beat turned out to be a bit unusual that day.”
“It sounds like the boys managed to get a good look at the body—though it would have been in a poor state having been immersed in water. I wonder if they recognized the victim—did they say anything about knowing Miss Pramal?”
“I’m glad you asked that, because when I put that question to them, young Freddie said he knew it was Miss Pramal, because she’d helped his nan with her rheumatism.”
“Helped his nan?”
“Yes, he said his nan has hands like claws, and pains in her back and legs, and that his mum had asked the Indian woman to come round to the house.”
“Did he say what she did?”
“His mum turfed him out, so I’ll probably need to talk to her—oh, I mean, only if you want me to, Miss.”
Maisie was thoughtful. “Here’s what I think is best. Why don’t you continue on with interviewing the boys—you’ve done well, and you can obviously get them talking to you, which is no mean feat. Boys of that age can be a bit of a handful—I know from my godsons; they’re very boisterous at times. I have several inquiries to make today, but perhaps we can go over to Camberwell together—I’d like to visit a parent or two, if I can.”
Sandra beamed. “Oh, thank you, Miss. I’ve to put in a couple of hours with Mr. Partridge this afternoon, but I could go at about five, before my class at Morley College at half past seven.”
“Perfect.”
Parking the car outside the end of terrace mansion in Hampstead, Maisie sat for a few moments to compose her thoughts. She had come to this house many times over the years that had passed since Maurice had first brought her to meet Dr. Basil Khan. He was known only as Khan, and to Maurice he was a mentor, a man who had guided him when he faltered, though at the time Maisie could never imagine Maurice becoming unbalanced when he stepped onto life’s uneven ground. She sat in her motor car and remembered those earlier days, when she was awed by Khan’s silence, by his demeanor, and not least by the white robes he wore and the spartan yet graceful room in which they always met. She once wondered if heaven itself might look like that room—all white, with muslin curtains that billowed, candles that soothed, and many cushions placed on the floor for those who came to see a man so wise that visitors traveled from far and wide to be touched by his presence. When he was in conversation with callers, whoever they were, they were on the same level. Never mind if a man was wearing a bespoke suit from his Savile Row tailor, or the woman a day dress of the finest silk. They had come to seek the counsel of a simple man in white robes who asked them to join him on the floor, so that he might better see them. Yet Khan was blind.
Sitting in silence, Maisie stilled her mind and quieted the voices asking their questions. She wanted to know about Sergeant Major Pramal. In their meeting, when Usha Pramal’s brother had mentioned Khan, Maisie realized that in her mind she had absolved Pramal of any wrongdoing in the case of his sister’s death. Given that he was so far away, he could not have been directly responsible for her murder—but on the other hand, he was not yet cleared of complicity in the crime. Maisie wondered if she should temporarily disengage her trust in Khan, though she knew he thought highly of her and would not have sent a man to her who might have had a hand in the taking of another life. Unless, of course, in this one very rare instance, Khan had not seen the truth.