Free Leaving Everything Most Loved by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

shine framed the deep-red, embossed wallpaper. A table set next to the bay window had a plant on top with leaves that had grown out to the point of diminishing natural light that might otherwise have illuminated the room. Ornate plasterwork on the ceiling seemed oppressive, as if it were bearing down on one’s head, and heavy cloths on tables and across chairs lent the room a funereal feel.
    Paige led Maisie to the table, where she pulled out two dining chairs carved in a manner that would have made them at home in a church.
    â€œPlease sit down. Would you like tea? I can summon the girl.”
    Maisie shook her head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Paige.”
    â€œI’ve already had the police here, weeks ago. Not very nice at all, what with the neighbors getting nosy. We’ve had it hard enough, looking after these women, you know. This is a good area, after all.” Paige nodded as she finished the sentence, and Maisie thought this might be a habit.
    â€œYou have been most benevolent, Mrs. Paige. I have heard about your work—how you gave room and board to women far from home who have been abandoned by the very people who should have looked out for them.”
    â€œWe’re doing God’s work, Miss Dobbs. The women here have all toiled for those far wealthier than us, you know. We give them a roof over their heads, and we find them jobs so they can earn their way back to their people. We ask only that they work hard, keep themselves and their rooms tidy, their conduct above reproach, and that they follow the word of the Lord.” She nodded again.
    â€œI see. Very commendable, Mrs. Paige.” Maisie paused. “I wonder if I might ask about Usha Pramal. How long was she with you?”
    â€œLet me see. Three years it was, perhaps four. Yes. No, now I come to think about it, it was more like four years ago she came to us—1929. She arrived on the doorstep without a place to go, so we took her in. My husband and I live only on this floor, and we’ve given over the upper floors to our lodgers. They generally share three to a room, but Usha was one who had her own room, as did a couple of the others, of longer standing. We haven’t had as many through as we once had, so there’s a bit more space now. More families coming home from India without bringing the ayahs, you see. And fewer families going out there. There’s been some trouble over there, you see—uprisings. There isn’t the respect that there was, not for us, you know.”
    Maisie nodded. Yes, she did know, but didn’t want to have a conversation about politics—not yet, anyway. “Did you know that Usha Pramal was not brought here as an ayah, but a governess? She was a well-educated woman.”
    â€œSo they said, the police, but she never let on. Of course, I noticed that she had books, and could read English very well. She probably went to an English missionary school.”
    Maisie shook her head. “No, she was a graduate of a well-regarded ladies’ college in Bombay.”
    Paige seemed surprised, but said nothing.
    â€œWhere did she work?” asked Maisie. “You said you found work for the women who live here.”
    â€œMainly as cleaners, maids, that sort of thing. Miss Pramal worked for two employers, as an extra maid for cleaning.”
    â€œMay I have the names of her employers?”
    â€œThe police didn’t ask for all this, you know.”
    â€œBut I am working with the police, Mrs. Paige—you can telephone Detective Inspector Caldwell of Scotland Yard if you have any doubts. And I would like to know who Miss Pramal was working for.”
    Paige patted the back of her bun, then fingered the crucifix at her neck. “Right you are.” She sighed, and seemed to slump a little. “You see, it’s sometimes hard enough to find work for the women here. People are so . . . so . . . so difficult. Of course, I can understand it,