have wanted only the best for her. Please, if you have occasion to communicate our condolences to her family, we would appreciate it,” said Allison.
The couple accompanied Maisie to the front door, the housekeeper closing it almost in silence as she stepped out into the tree-lined street.
Usha Pramal had left her employers—with whom she had been happy, despite their lapses in “diplomacy”—one day following a walk around the area of St. John’s Wood. The question of who she might have seen that day to have inspired relinquishing a satisfactory post as governess might be easily answered if one were to consider the obvious coincidence—that Jesmond Martin and his family also lived in St. John’s Wood. But if Usha had reason to leave upon seeing him—or perhaps his wife—why on earth would she have returned to the area to become a cleaner at his home? Unless she could not avoid the situation.
Chapter Seventeen
Maisie left the Allisons intending to go straight to St. John’s Wood, but soon checked herself. Precipitous decisions had not always served her well; reconsidering her options she came to the conclusion that a visit could do more harm than good at this stage of the case. No, one step at a time. Before speaking to Jesmond Martin again, she should have more information to hand. First, she would visit the Singhs, as planned, to see Pramal. Then she would go back over her work and darken the Paiges’ doorstep one more time—she knew they would be furious, but she had to take the chance. And while in the area, she wanted to have another conversation with the Reverend Griffith. There was something there, a missing link in the chain of information. It might not be a key to the final door, but it could help her beat a path to the lock. Finally, she knew she was drawn to the common land behind the square, to see if the elusive Martin Robertson was still camping out—if it was him, after all. The name in the knapsack had thrown her—completely new names at this stage in an investigation suggested a crucial point missed early, rather like a dropped stitch in knitting discovered only when a garment was almost complete. At this juncture she would expect all names to be on the case map, with only the correct order of relationship between them awaiting a final nugget of information.
Mrs. Singh welcomed Maisie into the shop, but informed her that Mr. Singh and Mr. Pramal had gone out to the market. The two women talked about vegetables and fruits in season, and how they might be added to autumn dishes. After receiving another recipe from Mrs. Singh and purchasing the requisite herbs and spices, Maisie engineered the conversation back to Mr. Pramal, and asked Mrs. Singh why she thought her husband’s friend had moved from their home to the hotel in the first place—after all, wasn’t the community a tight one, where a warm welcome to lay down one’s head would always be found?
“Oh, he could have slept here, we’d have made room above the shop, but he didn’t want to. He said he didn’t want to bring misery to the house, that it was bad luck and would cast a pall over our roof.” She sighed as she weighed and measured spices into small indigo paper bags, then twisted the ends closed before placing them in a large jar. “I think he might have wanted more peace and quiet, to think. He is grieving for his sister, make no mistake, Miss Dobbs.” She stopped weighing the rich golden powder, and looked up at Maisie. “And if truth be told, there was something else, though I hate to admit it. I think it might have been me being here. His best friend now married to an Englishwoman. And though it’s not unheard of—as I told you before, there were many lascars off the boats who stayed and married locally—it wasn’t something he entirely approved of. I don’t think he believes I’m good enough for his friend.” She coughed as a fine cloud of dust rose from the counter. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie had stepped back, feeling the same irritation in her nose and mouth. “No, not at all. That’s quite pungent powder you have there.”
“Does you the power of good, too, this one—it’s a blend of several spices. Clears the head.”
“I see,” said Maisie, feeling as if she were, indeed, breathing a little easier. “But you were telling