goddesses, but you’ve had your share of warrior women, haven’t you?”
“I see your point.”
“Yes, and I think you might have seen it before you came here, but you were intrigued because I represent the picture not always acknowledged.” Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones rested her elbows on her desk and her chin in her hands. “In a nutshell, though we have traditions to honor, there are many very educated Indian women—women who are powerful in both their families and their villages, and indeed in the country, though you might not always hear their names. The same is true of Great Britain. Let me give you some names to think about. Bhicoo Batlivala—her father owned a woolen mill, and she was from quite a privileged family; however, she was highly educated and became a barrister here in England. You’ve doubtless heard of Sophia Duleep Singh, a brilliant woman, and a most forceful suffragist. Twenty-three years ago she was with Emmeline Pankhurst and Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, marching to Parliament on Black Friday—and she the daughter of a maharajah! Then there’s another one—Bhikaiji Rustom Cama—she is a firebrand. Seventy-one years of age now, but she has made her voice heard, whether it be for home rule in India or equality for our sex. I could continue, I could tell you about the Indian women who have studied medicine, science, law, and so on, in this country—some have remained and others taken their precious intellectual and academic gifts home to India.”
Maisie leaned forward. She took a breath as if to ask a question, then sat back again.
“I think you want to ask me if a woman such as your Usha Pramal could have been killed by one of her countrymen, someone who did not like the way she walked, or her presence in a church, or her confidence. You want to know what I think.”
“I do, yes, that’s one thing.”
“I think that is entirely possible. Of course I do. There are British men who would do the same—you know that, Miss Dobbs. Why do men kill prostitutes, for example? And please do not worry—I am a woman of the world, and the woman’s place in the world has been the subject of my work for a long time. A man might feel the urge to physically assault a woman who has power over him—whether that power breaks his will in some way, whether it causes acute unease, or whether, for example, he is shamed by the darkness of his shadow. And of course a savage assault can lead to death—for both of them.”
“Yes, I understand that very well.”
“I’m not a psychologist like you, Miss Dobbs, but I would say that you’re looking for someone—and don’t rule out the fact that it might be a woman—who was fearful of the shadow that emerged when they saw Miss Pramal.”
Maisie nodded.
“So, how else can I help you, Miss Dobbs?”
“Tell me about your country, Dr. Chaudhary Jones. Tell me about India, and why you left. Do you miss your country? And how do you keep . . . how do you keep a connection with your . . . your heritage, when you are married to an Englishman and living here in Britain.”
Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones smiled, left her desk, and opened the door.
“Layla! Layla, would you bring us a nice cup of tea. And some of those biscuits your father likes. Thank you!”
She turned back into the room.
“I think a little chat between women calls for a cup of tea, don’t you?”
It was over an hour later that Maisie left the apartment of Dr. Chaudhary Jones. Layla accompanied her to the door.
“Thank you, Layla,” said Maisie. “Your mother is a remarkable woman.”
“Yes, she is.” The young woman paused, smiling at Maisie. “But she’s just like any other mother, really.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Maisie.
“I know so. She’s already putting away little baby clothes in anticipation of becoming a grandmother—and she’s not looking to my brother to give her that exalted status.”
“All in good time, Layla.”
“Not any time, Miss Dobbs. Not for me.”
Maisie bid the young woman good-bye, and walked out into the mid-afternoon sun. Her smile was short-lived, though, as she thought back to Lakshmi Chaudhary Jones’ words. I would say that you’re looking for someone—and don’t rule out the fact that it might be a woman—who was fearful of the shadow that emerged when they saw Miss Pramal.
Chapter Eleven
The Martin home stood on a leafy street in St. John’s Wood. Most of the houses were just visible behind