A Dangerous Place (4 page)

“Hello, Miss Babayoff.” Maisie spoke slowly. Miriam Babayoff could speak English, but with hesitation; she sometimes squeezed her eyes shut as she struggled to remember a word, though her vocabulary was quite good. “Thank you so much for letting me come to see you again.”

“Come, señora.” Miriam extended her hand in welcome, but closed the door again as soon as Maisie had crossed the threshold, pulling across two bolts and a chain for good measure. The second bolt was new, as was the chain. Miriam must have been waiting for her, peeping through lace curtains so she wouldn't need to open the door on the chain.

“Please sit down, Miss Dobbs.” Miriam pulled back a chair for Maisie. “Would you like tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

Maisie's attention was drawn to a wooden box at the side of the table, with a spool of silks poking from under the lid. “Oh, Miss Babayoff, I didn't know you were an embroiderer.” She picked up the bright embroidered cushion on the chair Miriam had pulled out. “Is this yours? It is exquisite. Do you sell your work?”

Miriam blushed as she poured scalding water onto tea she'd had measured into a china teapot. The face of Queen Victoria stared with imperious displeasure from the side of the pot.

“Yes. It is an important income for my family.” She put the kettle down and rubbed a hand across her forehead. A tear trickled down her face.

Maisie put the cushion back down and came to Miriam's side, putting her arms around her. “I know, dear child. I know—”

And as if she understood that knowing, Miriam Babayoff leaned into Maisie's embrace and wept. Maisie bit her lip, remembering that Maurice had always cautioned against reaching out to assuage grief, arguing that such sadness needed room to emerge and be rendered powerless by the elements of light and understanding. He would have suggested that in the rush to embrace, the tide of emotion is stemmed just when it requires expression. But in that moment, she pushed aside her training and held Miriam until her tears subsided, until any reticence on the part of the dead man's sister was washed away and she was ready to talk.

Maisie pulled out a chair for Miriam before seating herself. The two women sat at the table, each with a cup of tea and a slice of sweet bread. The tea was served in tall glasses, with sugar cubes set on the saucer. There was no milk on the table, nor did Maisie look for any.

“Tell me, Miss Babayoff, will your embroidery suffice to keep you and your sister?”

Miriam wiped her eyes and nose with a handkerchief pulled from her apron pocket. She shrugged. “At the moment, I am not under water.” Her eyes filled again. “My sister paints. She is in bed now, but she has her watercolors, and we sell her work, though there aren't so many tourists. And she embroiders too.”

Maisie nodded. “Did your brother have savings? Was he owed money by anyone who could be approached for payment?”

“He had some savings, Miss Dobbs. And we are owed for some photographs—there is a shop at the end of the street where he had set up a small area for portrait work. The owner of the shop is Mr. Solomon—he sells our needlework and other, um . . .” Miriam closed her eyes, searching for a word. She opened them again. “Other haberdashery goods.” She nodded, then paused to sip her tea, though Maisie suspected she needed to rest—speaking in English was tiring for her.

Miriam began again. “And the hotel sent an envelope with money—some from recent work Sebastian did for them, and a little extra to help us. It was very kind. And our people here, we are—how do you say? Close-knit? Like a cardigan? They have helped.” She nodded toward the door. “The new bolt and the chain.”

Maisie said nothing, staring into her tea for a moment.
I could help her. I could give her money.
She shook her head, remembering the trouble such largesse had caused in the past. She had learned that to give money did not always serve the recipient. But she knew she had to help the Babayoff sisters.

“Miriam, may I ask some questions about Sebastian?”

The woman swallowed, as if bile had come up in her throat, but she nodded.

“Your brother's death was as a result of a dreadful attack in the dark. The police believe the culprit to have been one of the many
newcomers to Gibraltar—a refugee, or a black marketeer. I have to tell you that I have my doubts, and—”

Miriam looked up, her brow knitted. “But how would you know? Who are you, Miss Dobbs, that this suspicion would enter your head?”

Maisie sighed. “I'm sorry—I should have explained. Until about three years ago, I was a private investigator in London. My training is in medicine and psychology, and I had the honor to work for many years with one of the world's foremost forensic scientists. I took on his practice when he died, and though I am not a forensic scientist, he taught me that the dead have stories to tell—that even following the most dreadful passing, there is evidence to suggest what had happened to that person. More than anything, he taught me about duty, about doing all in our power to bring a sense of . . . a sense of rest and calm to those left behind. I was—I am, I suppose—an advocate for the dead.” She paused and fingered the cuff of her blouse. “You and your sister are bereaved following the brutal death of your brother. I found his body. It is ingrained within me to follow my instinct, and my mentor's training—and, if I can, to bring about something resembling acceptance of what has come to pass, for the sake of you and your sister. That is who I am.”

Miriam Babayoff regarded Maisie and nodded. Then she looked away. “There is no peace to be had in this household, Miss Dobbs. There is only fear. There is only sadness and worry. It would have been better if they'd killed us in our beds.”

Maisie waited, this time allowing the woman her moment. Then she asked a question.

“Who are ‘they,' Miriam?”

Miriam Babayoff shivered, clutched her arms as if to protect herself, and looked down at the untouched sweet bread. Maisie leaned forward and picked up the teapot, refilling the thick glasses.

“It's stronger now—it'll do you good. Now, eat something,” she said.

Miriam sipped the tea, then cut the slice of bread into four smaller squares. She ate one square, coughing as she swallowed, sipped her tea again, and set the glass on the table.

“Who do you think wants to kill you, Miriam?” asked Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs—”

“Maisie. Please call me Maisie.”

Miriam nodded, and then looked up into Maisie's eyes, her own dark eyes like coals against the pallor of her skin. “I don't know. I just know that over the past two months, Sebastian had become very . . . very . . . oh, how would you say? Very . . . not scared, not as if he could not sleep—well, not at first, though that came. But he was, um,
wary
. Yes, wary. He started being wary. Then it increased, as if it were a heavy stone right here.” She placed her hand on her chest. “Yes, and he worried me. You see—” She leaned closer, as if the trickle of words were about to become a flood. “Before this time he would try to come home in the afternoon, and he would lift my sister and bring her down and we would take chairs outside here to the front of the house—there is nothing at the back, just a gully. It was good for her to get a little sun. And if people walked by, she would talk to them and show her work—and if it was a visitor, maybe sell something. But then—then he stopped doing that. He said that with the war across the border, it was not safe. I argued with him—we are all Sephardim along this street, and we've lived here all our lives. We will die here.” She nodded. “Yes, we will die here.”

Maisie sipped her tea and set down the glass. “You say his behavior changed about a couple of months ago.”

“I cannot be exact, but yes, about that.”

“Can you remember anything that happened around that time? I would imagine as a photographer, every day might be different. But if
you consider the change in his demeanor—his way of doing things—can you remember anything else?”

“Well, it was probably around the same time as Carlos died,” said Miriam.

Maisie looked up. “Who was Carlos?”

“Carlos was a friend of our father's, though a little younger. My father died ten years ago, and my mother soon after—they were joined, you see.” She crossed the forefinger and middle finger of her left hand. “One could not live without the other.”

“I'm very sorry, Miriam. I know what it is to lose a parent at an early age.” Maisie paused. “But tell me about Carlos, how he died.”

“Carlos was a fisherman, about seventy years old. He was not one of our people, but my father and he had become friends and liked to go out in the boat together, early in the morning, as the sun rises. They would talk enough to change the world, I think. And Carlos was very good to us—he made sure we never went without. He was alone, you see. His sons had left Gibraltar, and his wife had died anyway, so he visited once a week and would bring fish and always leave a few coins to help us. We knew his health was not the best—he said his sons had broken his heart long ago—but it was very sad when he died. A navy patrol vessel discovered his fishing boat, drifting. Carlos was dead—there was no wound, nothing visible. At first it was thought the boom might have swung around and caught him off guard, but in the end they said it was his heart. He left only enough money for his burial. Then his sons came and took any possessions he might have had, and they sold his boat, which had been his home.”

Maisie chewed the inside of her lip. “So, when Carlos died, it was as if Sebastian—as if you all—had lost your father all over again, in a way.”

Miriam nodded.

“And you think that was when Sebastian became more fearful?” asked Maisie.

“I think so, perhaps.” Miriam sighed and looked toward the window, though the lace obscured her view. “He last saw Carlos a couple of weeks before he died. They went out on the boat together, very early in the morning. Sebastian liked to go every now and again, if he could. He would take his cameras—he liked the light. He said it skimmed off the water and made it look like jewels. And I think it brought back my father to him—he and Carlos would talk about him, out there in the morning.” She shrugged. “They came in early that day, I remember. I remarked on it—I said, ‘So soon you're back?' He never said anything, just went to his dark room.” There was a pause. “I've wondered, you know, whether he didn't get a . . . a . . . what do you call it? When you see something that has not happened?”

“A premonition?”

Miriam Babayoff nodded. “Yes, a premonition. Of Carlos dying on the boat. He was a bit quiet, you see, for a few days. Then when Carlos died, he became different.”

Maisie was about to ask another question when a hammering sound came from the floor above.

Miriam pushed back her chair. “Oh, look at the time. I must go to her, Miss Dobbs—Maisie. I must look after my sister, make sure of her. She may need to . . . you know . . . personal things.”

“Would you like some help?” asked Maisie.

The woman shook her head, then looked up at the ceiling as the
thump-thump-thump
continued, and several flakes of plaster fell on the table.

“I'll leave you to get on then, Miriam.” Maisie picked up her satchel
and turned toward the door. Miriam drew back the bolts and the chain, opening the door just enough to allow Maisie to slip out onto the street.

“May I come again, Miriam?”

Miriam nodded. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Maisie lifted her hand to wave, but already the door was closed. She could hear the bolts being shot home, the chain drawn across, and the key turned in the lock.

And as she walked back toward Main Street, Maisie thought about dear Carlos, an elderly fisherman who had lost his wife, who had not seen his sons for years, and who—she had no doubt—had come to consider his old friend's son as his own. She had a strong feeling that Carlos might not have been felled by a bad heart, and that Sebastian Babayoff knew the why of it, even if he did not know exactly how the old man might have lost his life.

S
hadows were beginning to lengthen across the rooftops as Maisie returned to the guesthouse, and the late sunlight shimmered rose-pink on the water. Fishing boats had returned to their moorings, and those seeking refuge who had not already found rest looked for shelter. She was weary, now—fatigue seemed to come more readily than it had before, and there was a dull ache across her abdomen. She'd been told that the scar would heal, that the place where her lifeless child had been taken from her body would cease to give her pain, yet some discomfort remained. She was reminded of her tenure as a nurse during the war, working close to the front, a terrible time when soldiers screamed with the pain of limbs no longer there. A man would clutch the stump of amputation as if to soothe the violence to his flesh and bone, and she wondered if that same ghost of what was and could never be again had been haunting her. It was as if every day her child cried to be held, and she thought she would die, wishing she could reach out and envelop the small body with her love.

She sat in the armchair next to the open window, looking out toward a sliver of sea. If she were an artist, she might try to paint that fragment; the color and subject seemed so intense. In the frame a fishing boat crossed before her, and a naval vessel lay at anchor, as if watching. Of course there were people watching and waiting on that ship, guarding the sovereignty of Gibraltar's waters.

Maisie reached for a packet of cigarettes, turned it upside down, and shook one free. She looked at the slender roll of tobacco in its thin paper shell. How could she do this? She had always hated smoking. She would take Priscilla to task for the habit:
You smell like a chimney, Pris—I'm sure it's not good for you.
And Priscilla would point out that advertisements extolled the virtue of the cigarette, that it was said to be excellent for the health. Maisie doubted that very much. Yet Maurice had smoked a pipe, and she had loved to walk into his home—now her home, though she was loath to return—and smell the fragrant rich tobacco he favored. Still, she'd never imagined she would take up smoking. Perhaps this cigarette would be her last.

She inhaled and thought about the murder of Sebastian Babayoff. In truth, she felt ill equipped to investigate his death—ill equipped, yet compelled by the very fact that she had discovered his body. Had she bitten off more than she could chew by getting involved? After all, she could have walked away, could have just given a statement to the police. But she hadn't. Her instinct had pressed her to keep the Leica and the film it held. Why had the larger camera been left behind? Unless she had disturbed the killer in the midst of attack—likely enough, after all. Or perhaps Babayoff's murderer had no interest in a camera.

Maisie felt at sea; she realized this sense of inadequacy was due to her lack of knowledge about Gibraltar, about the conflagration across the border, even about the Sephardic community. What did Maurice
always say? That the commencement of an investigation was akin to entering a dark room, where there were no shadows, no familiar shapes to guide the person who wanted to cross from one wall to the next, or find the door. She closed her eyes and tried to summon the image of her mentor. He was not a tall man, and not one who carried weight, though there was a strength to him, a substance demonstrated when he walked—even in later years, when he depended upon a cane to provide balance. His suits were tailored to fit shoulders that were broad but not overly muscular, and without exception his trousers had turnups, fashion or no fashion. Always he had seemed old, even when he must have been a younger man. From their very first meeting she'd sensed a deep wisdom within him, as if he held at his fingertips all the knowledge a person might need to navigate the waters of life—yet he too was a student when he visited Khan, his own mentor, who had advised her on many an occasion. Was Khan still alive? At the thought, she felt herself sink farther into the chair.

We must bring light to the darkened room, Maisie.
Maurice's voice echoed down the years, and it was as if he were with her.
Knowledge is the light. Information is the light. Come out of the darkness one lamp at a time. Paint your picture of what came to pass question by question—and remember, some are never meant to be answered because the response closes the door to knowledge you most want and need.

Pressing her hardly smoked cigarette into the ashtray, Maisie clutched the arms of the chair and drew herself to her feet. But as she moved toward a writing table at the corner of the room, the pain crossed her abdomen again, and she doubled over.
It should have gone by now.
She began to weep. She knew she should probably see a doctor, just to be on the safe side. But she was in the dark room in more ways than one. Yet there was a light—only a temporary light, but it gave her a means of escape more potent than the occasional cigarette. Refuge
came in the form of a small pill. She had first been given the medicine by her doctor at the hospital in Toronto, then again in Boston. After she was rushed away from the airfield—after she'd run toward the fallen aeroplane, tripped on rough ground, and run again—she was taken to a local doctor before being transferred to the hospital in Toronto. She remembered holding on to her belly after she'd witnessed James' aircraft plummeting to earth, as if to protect her child from the terror. The doctor had given her the drug via a syringe, and then at the hospital, it had been administered through a line into a vein in her arm. She'd tried to stop them, but the ether had done its job, and soon it seemed she was drifting above herself, looking down at the melee in the operating room, at her body and the other small body, and then that tiny perfect being rose up to be cradled in her arms before she heard her name and had to follow the sound, releasing her child—her dear sweet child—to the hereafter.

Morphia.
It had often brought terrible images into her mind's eye, but it took away the pain, and she had some in a small bottle, right there in her leather case.

M
aisie woke the following morning still dressed, her clothing crumpled as she lay on top of the bedcovers. The curtains were still open from the day before, and already she could hear midmorning sounds on the street. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, then dragged her legs to the side of the bed and pressed her knuckles down on the mattress as she rose to her feet. At first the room seemed to swim before her, so she steadied herself, reaching out to the bedside table. The carafe was still half full of water; she filled a glass and quenched her thirst. The physical pain had gone, for now. She picked up the bottle of pills and walked across the room toward her leather suitcase. She lifted
the lid, placed the pills inside a small silk bag containing a few items of jewelry, which she secreted in a pocket inside the case. She closed the lid and secured the lock and then the straps. She was not trying to hide the bottle of morphia. She was making it harder for herself to take the drug at will.

Maisie made her way to the window, her legs finding their strength and balance. Kenyon was across the road. Another person might not have seen him, leaning against a wall just inside a narrow alleyway commanding a good view of the front door of the guest house, but Maisie spotted him at once. She observed his stance. He was leaning, his right leg bent with the sole of his shoe against the wall. He smoked a cigarette and read a newspaper, though his eyes moved from the page to the door, from the page to the door. He was vigilant, of that she had no doubt. But as she watched, Maisie set her upper body in the same position, her shoulders hunched just so, mirroring the man who waited for her in the shadows. Then she knew that Arturo Kenyon held within him a feeling of inadequacy. She was sure this was his emotion, not her own sense of worth seeping into her observation. Maisie was willing to bet that he had no real interest in his remit, that no matter what he'd been told about her, it made him feel less than a man, having been tasked with following what appeared to be a very ordinary, if perhaps meddlesome woman, albeit a woman who was able to lose him with ease. Kenyon must feel he was capable of much more, and wish he were embroiled in an investigation of greater importance. But perhaps he had not been told everything. And perhaps today would be the best day to approach him, to let him know that she had his number. She would have to see.

Maisie rubbed her forehead as the room began to move again. She knew she needed to eat, and it had to be something substantial. The dose of morphia would have left its imprint on her thinking—it
had tempered the physical pain, but now she had to get it out of her system—and she could not let it prevent her from achieving something in the hours to come. If she had nothing to show for herself, then she might as well be with her husband and child. Dead.

H
aving bathed and breakfasted at the guesthouse, Maisie made a mental list of two or three things she wanted to accomplish before her energy was spent. First of all, she would visit Mr. Salazar—he would know where she could buy a large sheet of paper. It was time to begin a case map; she needed to focus her mind on the murder, and she needed to see before her the threads linking everyone she met—if such connections existed. She needed colored pencils to mark her steps on the map, and to see where gaps were revealed in the story. And she wanted to find someone who would tell her more about the territory she'd chosen as a refuge. She added Mr. Solomon to her list, as well as Inspector Marsh. She still had the Leica with a roll of film inside, and had yet to discover what images it might hold. Who could she trust with developing the film? And what could she find out about Carlos, the fisherman? Already she could see that each item amounted to a fair amount of work for one day—she admitted to herself that she would not be moving at her accustomed speed—thus it might not be the best day to approach Kenyon. Perhaps, like certain important questions, he should be left alone for the time being, after all, he might have much to tell her by his very presence.

A
rturo Kenyon flicked down the half-smoked cigarette and folded the newspaper into the pocket of his linen jacket. He pushed his frame away from the wall with his foot and emerged from the alley as
Maisie Dobbs left the guesthouse and began walking down the street. Today she was wearing a white blouse with the black skirt and the same black sandals. She'd clipped her hair back with a comb on one side of her head, and though she wore dark glasses, she did not wear a hat. She carried her leather satchel with a long strap over her shoulder. Kenyon sighed. Another day of tedium, following this woman who someone surely must have been been wrong about. Yes, she'd managed to lose him yesterday, but he hadn't been paying as much attention as he should. It was not as if she was doing anything worth remarking upon. He'd returned to the guesthouse, and watched as, at six o'clock in the evening, she entered again. Back in her room, she'd stood by the window, looking out—he imagined she was trying to view the sea through spaces between the buildings. She'd allowed the lace curtains to fall, but as it grew darker, the light inside never came on. Had she just sat in darkness, this Dobbs woman? Had she gone downstairs to her landlady to ask for supper, only returning after night fell, perhaps? And did it really matter what she'd done?

Kenyon maintained a working distance behind the woman as she walked once again toward Salazar's little restaurant. Perhaps he'd have to go in for a word with Salazar, see if there was anything on those old bones ready to be picked off.

A
h, my good lady, Miss Dobbs—very kind of you to come again,” said Salazar, wiping his hands on the white apron he wore, day in, day out, though each day the apron was fresh and crisp with starch. “A cup of my best coffee? A little something to set you up for the day, perhaps?”

Maisie smiled. There had been a lull in the stream of customers, and only two others were present, a man and a woman at adjacent tables, their heads bowed over a newspaper and a book, respectively.

“Good . . . day, Mr. Salazar. Of course, I was going to wish you a good morning, but it's getting a bit late for that, isn't it?” Maisie looked up at Salazar. “I think I'll have a cup of milky coffee, if you would be so kind. And a pastry—not too sweet. Could you pick something for me?”

“A plain croissant, perhaps? I know they're French, but our customers like them—though a Frenchman came in and said ours were not light enough.”

“I'm sure they will go down well with butter and a little jam or marmalade, if you have some.”

“I'll be just a moment.”

Salazar left, pushing his way through a door behind the serving bar. The door swung on its hinges a couple of times, and Maisie could hear him shouting to the kitchen staff, which amounted to a member of his family. It was not an aggressive order, but loud all the same, as if he had an army to command. Maisie liked Mr. Salazar; she liked his manner, the way he bustled, and his good heart. Sometimes she thought she could see that good heart beating, and realized that more often now she looked for goodness in a person, sought it out and found it comforting. She had been so practiced in looking for that which brought ill, yet Maurice had taught her to look for the duality in everyone. Her success had depended upon an ability to see the innocent within the guilty, the monster within the angel. More often she looked for the victim within the perpetrator of a crime. Perhaps that's what she had to do with the death of Sebastian Babayoff—look for another victim. But of what? So far Babayoff was the only victim, though Carlos, the fatherly fisherman, might also have met an unnatural fate.

Kenyon waited outside. How does he not know I am aware of him? thought Maisie. The doors swung open again; the voices in the
kitchen became loud and then muffled as the doors thumped into each other and closed.

“Lovely, miss, a good coffee and a heavy Gibraltarian French croissant. With English marmalade.”