A Dangerous Place (14 page)

As Maisie made her way along another alley, overhung by lines of freshly washed laundry, something else occurred to her—that the very broken, stilted English spoken by Miriam when they first met had given way to more articulate expression. Had this been a form of protection for Miriam, to conceal her linguistic skill at first? Perhaps now she had come to trust Maisie, she was letting down her guard. Or was she another who had cast out her line and hooked Maisie, and was now playing her for a fool?

Another question came to mind, one that she wanted to kick herself for not asking before—was it Miriam who had been burdened with the task of identifying her brother's dead body? Or had someone else stepped in to protect a vulnerable young woman from seeing Sebastian mortally wounded—perhaps a senior member of the hotel staff, or a neighbor? As Maisie passed Mr. Solomon's shop, she thought she might pop in and ask—one more question would not do any harm. But as she came alongside the entrance, she saw that the Closed sign was turned out for all to see. No one would be buying the Babayoff sisters' colorful embroidery today.

M
aisie returned to the guest house. She did not want to cross paths with Mrs. Bishop—she still hadn't worked out what sort of
communication was going on between the landlady and Robert MacFarlane—so she went to her room, placing a Do Not Disturb sign on the door before closing and locking it behind her. She was tired. She just wanted to lie on her bed for a while, and try to think of nothing.

To Maisie's surprise, almost as soon as her head touched the pillow she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Wakefulness came to her slowly. She struggled to become fully conscious, as if weights had been placed on her eyelids. For a while she remained stretched out on the bed, her neck damp with perspiration and her body languid with afternoon fatigue. She was parched, her throat dry, so she lifted herself on one elbow to pour a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table. Her thirst quenched, she forced herself to rise. A washbasin in the room provided only cold water, but that was all Maisie needed to freshen herself, splashing water on her face and neck time after time until she felt her flesh tingle. She looked up into the mirror to wipe her skin dry with a towel, and as she caught sight of her reflection, she said aloud, “I am a widow.” She said it again and again, not quite understanding why she felt compelled to do so. But then she remembered Maurice telling her that only by accepting the events of our lives can we go on—and acceptance begins with admitting all that has come to pass.

“I am a widow, and my unborn child died.”

Maisie didn't dwell on her declaration. Instead she thought of the women and children of Guernica, of the suffering across the border in so many towns and villages.

She turned from the mirror and opened the wardrobe door to select fresh clothes. A black linen skirt, a white blouse, and a cream linen jacket tailored to the hips caught her eye. She'd had the jacket made in India, during her first sojourn in the country, before she had given James her answer, that she would marry him. She had not worn it for a long time, and felt defiant in bringing it out, as if she were
gaining purchase on another foothold out of the abyss. Putting on black sandals polished to remove scuffs and a hat and sunglasses to shield her eyes from the late-afternoon sun, she set off for the police station, where she would ask to see Inspector Marsh.

I
t was a relief to be informed that Marsh was on duty when she arrived. She stated her business and was taken to a small room furnished with a table and two chairs to await the inspector. She did not have to linger in the soulless room for long.

“Miss Dobbs, a pleasure,” said Marsh, beginning his greeting as he opened the door, so half of his words seemed directed along the corridor rather than at Maisie.

“Thank you for seeing me, Inspector Marsh. I appreciate your time.” Maisie held out her hand, which he seemed to study before taking it in a less than firm shake.

Marsh was a tall, thin man, who Maisie estimated to be in his late thirties. It appeared his light woolen jacket may have been donned in a hurry—the cuffs of his shirt were not pulled down—and he seemed distracted.

“Well, then—what can I do for you?” he asked, indicating that she should take her seat once more. He sat down at the table opposite her.

“You've probably guessed it's about Mr. Babayoff, the photographer.”

“Miss Dobbs—really, that case left my desk weeks ago. Do you have any idea what we are dealing with at the moment? Our resources are at their limit. Even though many refugees have gone back across the border, we still have a lot on our plates. Our population seems to change every day, and not always with an influx of the kind of people we would like to see on the streets. I really don't have the time to go back over old ground.” He hit the table with his palm—not hard, but
to make a point. “I told you when I took your statement that it was clear to us that Mr. Babayoff was—regrettably—the victim of an itinerant, someone looking for ready cash, and not a camera that would be hard to shift, hence leaving it behind. I do wish you would see this whole case from my point of view—it's so obvious, it beggars belief. Even MacFarlane thinks so.”

“Ah, so you've met Mr. MacFarlane,” said Maisie. She remained composed, her hands on her lap.

Marsh sighed. “Oh, please, Miss Dobbs. No cat and mouse—of course I've seen him. He was a senior Scotland Yard policeman, and he has contacts here, so we were his first stop when he came to Gibraltar. No surprises there, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie nodded. “Well, I've a simple question, Inspector. Can you tell me who identified Sebastian Babayoff's body?”

“I do wish you'd drop all this and either go home or enjoy your sojourn as a visitor to our town.”

“As soon as you tell me, I promise I will not darken your door again, Inspector.”

“I don't believe that for a minute, but I will tell you anyway. We prefer a body to be identified by the next of kin; after all, even if facial features have been . . . well, altered, there are other telling marks that a member of the family would be familiar with—a mole, a scar, a birthmark, that sort of thing. But Babayoff's wounds were quite distressing. He was beaten with metal of some sort—the pathologist suspected the perpetrator had both a knife and something pretty hefty, possibly a hammer, or a wrench, an iron pipe, something of that order. Given the degree of his wounds, we considered it too distressing for a woman. A man known to the family stepped forward, another Jew. He said it wasn't a woman's place to do the job. That seemed fair.” Marsh sighed, pausing, as if still unsure as to whether he should reveal the
information to Maisie. “His name is Solomon. He has that shop at the end of the street where the Babayoff sisters still live. Funny fellow, but serious, intent upon protecting Miriam Babayoff.”

“Was he quick in his identification, or did he linger?”

“The thing is, he didn't identify the body after all—the sister was adamant. She said it was her brother, and only she could make that final decision. And she identified Babayoff by looking at his hands, both of them. Who am I to argue with that? She grew up with him. It took her barely any time at all—she wanted to be gone, and Solomon and the rabbi wanted her out of our hair and back into the bosom of the family. As soon as the paperwork was done, the body was released—it's their way, you know, to get the burial over and done with quickly.”

“Yes, of course.” She gathered her bag and came to her feet, pushing back the chair.

Marsh, who was now also standing, extended his hand, which Maisie took, smiling. “Thank you, Inspector. I appreciate your time and your willingness to speak to me about this matter.”

“Miss Dobbs, a word of advice. Drop this matter, please. It's done. He's dead. I shall have to be honest with you and tell you that we do not have the time or the men to pursue the inquiry any longer. Leave well enough alone—and if you've any sense at all, leave Gibraltar. See a few sights, buy some trinkets, and go home.” Marsh stepped back, opened the door, and held out his hand for Maisie to leave.

M
aisie was loath to go back to her room. She waved to Mr. Salazar as she passed, but she wasn't in the mood for a drink, though she realized that she would rather like some company. Not the company of strangers, but of someone she knew, someone who knew her. She
would love to be able to go to Priscilla's home, to be drawn into the Partridge enclave. She wondered how Priscilla's sons would approach her now—perhaps, mindful of her loss, not with their usual bubbling enthusiasm. The boys had loved James, had admired him not only for his exploits as a wartime aviator but because he was always ready to romp with them, whether they were flying kites on the Downs in Surrey or running along a beach, arms spread out, pretending to be aeroplanes.

“I sometimes think my husband is a very big child,” said Maisie once, after she and James were married and before they left for Canada. They had taken a drive down to Camber Sands with the boys and Priscilla. Douglas was busy with an article for the
Manchester Guardian
, so he'd remained in town, but James was there to keep the younger ones amused, racing along the beach, throwing a rugby ball back and forth between them in teams of two.

“Oh, Maisie, they're all just big children, even my Douglas. Better that than a grumpy old man!”

And Maisie had laughed, loving James all the more as she watched him dive into a wave for the ball, at which point Thomas, Timothy, and Tarquin fell upon him, four boys soaking wet and wreathed in giggles.

Oh, she ached for so much. How angry she was at herself for dragging her feet before accepting James' proposal, for the time wasted. They could have had so much more fun together, if only she had not kept worrying about their courtship.

She realized that she had started to walk toward the village at Catalan Bay, and as she turned back, she stopped to look up at the Rock, at its magnificence, rearing up from the earth as if on course to touch the heavens. Clouds were gathering above the summit as the sun was going down, lending a glow that backlit the crags and ridges. She had
heard about the many caves leading into the Rock of Gibraltar, both natural and man-made. Some were used to store munitions; others, it was said, tunneled right into the Rock's limestone core. A person could get lost inside forever, if they didn't know where they were going.

It was then that Maisie knew she would have to take a risk or two. She didn't care for caves or tunnels. Andrew Dene, the orthopedic surgeon she had courted years before, had once taken her up to the caves above the Old Town in Hastings. He told her that many of those caves incorporated smugglers' tunnels that led right down into the town, emerging in cellars under houses built in the fifteenth century. He'd teased her when she declined to venture farther, but added, “You're probably right, Maisie—I had to go into the caves once, to look at a child adventurer who'd fallen and broken his ankle. It was a dank place, dark and musty, and it made my skin crawl just being in there.”

Despite her fear of being in a place that was dank, dark, and musty, Maisie knew she must return to the cave where she had seen Miriam Babayoff and Arturo Kenyon. If there was something untoward going on—and if nothing else, a man in a cave was untoward—then it would happen at night. It might not be this evening, but she would take a chance that at the very least, someone would have to come to the cave to bring sustenance for whoever was in there.

B
efore closing the door of her room at the guest house, Maisie hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outer doorknob once more. She pulled out her leather case and carpetbag, and began to sort through the items she would need. First, her clothing—a pair of dark linen trousers and a navy-blue blouse. She unfolded her hemp knapsack and found a torch, which she switched on and off to ensure it worked—she would try not to use it, to avoid drawing attention to herself with a light. Setting her black beret, black socks, and leather walking shoes on the bed, she added her notebook and a pencil, her small binoculars, and the Victorinox knife Frankie had bought her so long ago. It still worked, though she had only used the larger blade to open letters in recent years. Finally, rooting through the carpetbag, she pulled out a wrap of dark aubergine wool. She stood for a moment, remembering. She had been alone on the veranda of her bungalow in Darjeeling late one evening, after her return from America. It was cold, though she felt nothing against her skin, and might have frozen
had it not been for the boy, the one who swept the floors and brought water. He came onto the veranda and held out the shawl, bowing before her.

“For you not to catch your death, memsahib,” he had said.

Maisie had taken the wrap, and remembered half-repeating his words. “For me not to catch my death.” She had thanked him for his kindness and drawn the shawl around her. And she had wondered, then, what it might mean to catch death.

The shawl folded neatly into a small square, a shape that belied its ability to keep her warm. She knew she might need it, come nightfall.

Having checked each item as she placed it in her knapsack, and dressed in the clothing she had laid out, Maisie went to the window and looked out onto the cobbled street below. It appeared empty. She found her map of Gibraltar, put it in her pocket with some money, and glanced around the room. As an afterthought she pulled the bolster from underneath the pillows and laid it under the covers as if it were a body. The sign on the door would remain, and she would lock the door—the bolster in her place was only a precaution. She left the room.

Mrs. Bishop was out, probably shopping, so Maisie stepped into the kitchen to fill her water bottle and filch some bread and cheese from the larder. Now she was ready. Keeping away from Main Street as best she could, she was on her way, back through the town and then out onto the rocky paths that led up to the cave where she had seen Arturo Kenyon and Miriam Babayoff. Someone would have to bring food and water to the man incarcerated there.

She was confident that she would not see anyone during daylight, though once she had left the town's cobbled alleyways and flagstone streets, she took care to lighten her step and stop at intervals to check
if anyone were following. She knew she would have to be patient, that waiting would be the name of the game—but she knew, too, that biding her time in silence was something at which she excelled.

Maisie chose a place among the scrubby trees that would camouflage her presence, yet at the same time offer a good sightline to the mouth of the cave and the path. The sun was lower in the sky now, though twilight was still a couple of hours away. She settled into a position with her legs crossed, as if she were with Khan. To bring silence to her mind and stillness to her body, she closed her eyes and began to take deep breaths, imagining she were in his room in the big house in Hampstead, the sheer white curtains billowing, caught like spinnakers in the city's summer breeze. Conscious thought was banished as she felt her mind separate from her physical self, yet she was still aware of seagulls overhead, of the chatter of birds and the soft movement of sand shifting across the rocky path.

She opened her eyes. At once her senses were alert, every sound audible, the slightest movement detected with ease. There were three people now—no, four—at the mouth of the cave, and they had brought handcarts with them. Two more approached, also pushing carts. Maisie's breath was shallow, almost as if her lungs would not fill. It was not dark, though it would be soon. Already her eyes were accustomed to the limited light. There were no lanterns along the approach to the mouth of the cave, though she could see shadows and beams within. Not a word was spoken. The six people moved as if well-orchestrated players on a familiar stage.

Maisie leaned forward and squinted. The handcarts were being loaded with boxes and, given the manner in which each box was lifted, she suspected the cargo was of some weight. She could not distinguish men from women, though she suspected two of the figures were female. She observed each person's movements, trying to identify a familiar
gesture—shoulders held so, or a step taken in a certain manner. Soon she knew—Arturo Kenyon and Joseph Solomon were among the dark-clad coterie. And two women. Was Miriam Babayoff one of them? She waited.

The loading and checking did not take long—perhaps twenty minutes, half an hour? The gate to the cave clanged shut, and Maisie could hear the chain being pulled through the bars, and the padlock pushed home. The man locking the gate turned around and nodded. They were on their way—and Maisie suspected she knew their destination.

When the sound of the handcarts had faded, Maisie slipped from her hiding place. Her footfall was soft on the path, and with her keen ear she was able to keep the people and their cargo within her range of observation. If she thought she was gaining on them, she slowed her step. They were walking in the direction she had predicted—toward the fishing boats.

It was a rock on the path that caused her to stumble and lose her footing. As quickly as she could, she sought cover in the brush, as the caravan of handcarts and people ahead stopped. She heard voices for the first time since she had seen the group by the cave.

“What was that?” said a man—not Kenyon or Solomon, though Maisie thought the voice familiar—but then, perhaps not. Sound was altered in darkness.

There was silence. Maisie could feel tension in the air.

“Nothing. Probably a monkey. Vermin.” It was a woman's voice, low, smooth—Rosanna Grillo.

“I'll go back, check,” said a man.

“Don't be a fool—there's no time. They're waiting.”

No one brooked the instruction. They continued on their way. Maisie drew herself out from under branches, feeling one score a graze
across her cheekbone. She licked her fingers and wiped the blood from her face, then, turning her head to catch the sound of the handcarts, she stepped almost on tiptoe along the path.

Close to the village of Catalan Bay the group pushed their handcarts onto the beach, where a fishing boat was waiting. Only one lantern guided them. Maisie found her way onto an outcrop of rock to watch the scene unfold before her. It was dark, and though she had become accustomed to the darkness, she had to squint to see, aided by the lantern, which flooded a person with light here, a handcart there. They loaded crates one by one onto the vessel, and when all was done, began to disperse, leaving two of the men on board.

“May God go with you,” said Solomon, in a voice Maisie might not have associated with the quiet proprietor of a haberdashery shop.

“Tell them to make every bullet count, my friend,” said another man.

Maisie watched as the boat was pushed into the water, soon catching the waves as she went on her way into the Straits of Gibraltar, where vessels patrolled bearing the flags of countries with a stake in the outcome of a terrible civil war. It was clear the fishermen knew where to set their course to avoid interception, but it was a journey not without risk. Nighttime fishing, but with a hold filled with weaponry and ammunition.

It was one thing to follow the group to the beach, yet quite another to retrace her steps. There was a greater likelihood of Maisie encountering one of the men and women making their separate ways home if she tried to return to the guest house under cover of darkness. Instead, she found shelter behind the rock, pulled the shawl around her, and took out her bread and cheese and water. Then she closed her eyes, and—to her surprise—dozed until just before daybreak, when she crept out from her shelter and walked back into town.

T
he banging began in her dream: a man with a mallet, thumping down hard on nails to secure a wooden crate—only as he wielded the tool, the crate became a coffin. Then she woke, coming back into morning consciousness by the sound of someone knocking on her door. It was not a light entreaty to greet the day but a sharp, insistent
rap-rap-rap
against the wood, as if the person on the other side had metal knuckles. Sunlight streamed across the rooftops and through her window—she had not even bothered to draw the curtains when she returned to her room. She shook her head and reached for the khaki linen dressing gown that lay across the foot of her bed. It had been made for a man, and had none of the lace or decoration of a woman's garment. It had belonged to her husband.

“All right, all right, I'm coming,” she called out toward the closed door, rubbing her eyes and running her fingers through her hair.

“Miss Dobbs! It's me, Mrs. Bishop.”

Maisie unlocked and opened the door. Her landlady stepped forward, but Maisie remained in place.

“What's the matter, Mrs. Bishop? You seem quite fraught.”

“Well, there's a man downstairs to see you—the policeman.”

Maisie felt herself become rooted. She would not be rushed, nor would she tolerate any more evasion from the guest-house proprietor.

“Mrs. Bishop, we both know his name—indeed, you've probably known Robert MacFarlane longer than I—so let's drop the pretense. I am afraid I have no patience for smoke and mirrors. Now then, let me get dressed, and in the meantime he will have to wait.”

“He said it's urgent.”

“Then I am sure it is, but will another five minutes hurt? I will be down shortly. Please give him a cup of your lovely coffee and tell him I am on my way.”

She shook her head, turned back into the room, and closed the
door behind her, leaning into the solid wood as the brass latch tongue released with an audible click.

A clean white linen blouse, a fresh walking skirt of heavy beige sailcloth, and her black sandals would be good enough for the day. She washed at the sink in her room, checking the graze across her cheekbone—there was nothing she could do about it, and it was superficial in any case. She dabbed some powder across the wound and, having applied a sweep of lipstick and placed her straw hat on her head, left the room, locking the door behind her.

MacFarlane was sitting at a table in the courtyard, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as she descended the stairs. He looked up.

“Ah, so the sleeping beauty wakes! Fine time of day for a working woman to rise from her slumber.” MacFarlane rose from his chair as she approached.

“I'm on my own time, Robbie, not yours.”

“Sit down, lass.”

“What's going on? Why the urgent summons?”

“Walked into a door, did you?” MacFarlane pointed to her cheek.

“It seems to be my Achilles' heel—I managed to walk into a branch while meandering along one of the mountain paths. It hit me in exactly the same place where I sustained a graze falling in Hyde Park a few years ago.”

“It'll not scar, I can see that.”

“No, I know it won't—I've plenty of those to my name already. Anyway, you didn't have Mrs. Bishop bang at my door as if the world were ending just to while away the morning chatting with me.”

“The morning's gone, lass—it's past noon.” He paused. “Arturo Kenyon.”

“Your lackey.”

“Now, now, Maisie—sarcasm does not become you.” He looked at
her, sighing. “He seems to have vanished, and we—I—wondered if you knew anything about it. Thought you might have seen him on one of your walks.”

“You know I've seen him—he was tasked with following me all over the place when I first arrived.”

“Since then.”

Maisie met MacFarlane's gaze. “I saw him last night. He was with others, on the beach at Catalan Bay.”

“Did he know you were there?”

“Of course not.”

“No? And why do you think he was there? And, more to the point, why were
you
there?”

Maisie allowed a long pause. “What's going on, Robbie? Why are you really here?”

“What
I
am doing here is between me and His Majesty's government. What
you
are doing here is my business.”

“Here we go round the mulberry bush again. I am here because I realized I wasn't ready to return to England, and then a man named Sebastian Babayoff was ill-mannered enough to get himself murdered right in front of me—well, almost.”

“Why were you at Catalan Bay?”

“I was there because I followed Arturo Kenyon, earlier.”

MacFarlane shook his head. “I wish you'd take up knitting or something, Maisie, really I do.”

“You're blowing hot and cold, Robbie. One minute you're confiding in me, and the next you want me to go home to my needles.”

“Hmmph.” MacFarlane looked away, folded his arms, and brought his attention back to Maisie. “Just tell me what you know.”

“All right. I think Arturo Kenyon was engaged in smuggling. I cannot say for certain what he was smuggling, but I would guess
armaments—and a fair stash at that. I last saw him on the beach at Catalan Bay. He might have left Gibraltar, MacFarlane. I believe he had Communist sympathies, and now he's gone.”

“And where do you think he is now?”

Maisie shrugged. “Precisely? I have no idea, but I would guess it's across the border, then on to Madrid.” She paused. “And that leads me to wonder—was he absconding with arms lifted from the garrison? Or was his cargo being shipped with an official nod and a wink?”

“We're not in the business of trading with Communists.”

“And what about the Fascists?” She pointed up at the sky. “Sorry, but I couldn't help but notice the aircraft on their way to bomb Guernica. It appears they were given leave to fly over British sovereign territory—as they must have done on many an occasion to bomb men, women, and children who are fighting for nothing more than food in their bellies, books in their schools, and something of the life the gentry are leading.”