A Dangerous Place (9 page)

Us.
Many of
us
. If Vallejo considered himself a fighter, then what was he doing in Gibraltar? And did he remain in the café to talk long into the night because Mr. Salazar was an old friend, or was there something else for them to discuss? And really, could he have known Babayoff? There was no surprise in his voice when she mentioned that she had discovered the man's body, a shock that needed no stretch of the imagination. It was as if he knew.

Of course, it could have been nothing more than the chance meeting it seemed at face value. But what if it were more?

Maisie sighed. Was her intuition off? Had the months of retirement diminished her ability to think strategically? Had settling into the comfortable life of an expectant mother allowed her senses as a psychologist and investigator to lie so fallow that she could no longer separate the wheat from the chaff? She pressed her hands to her eyes. It was so long ago. So long ago that she was Maurice's student, then his assistant. She remembered how, in the early days, he would only allow her to toil over the case map after she had meditated, had spent time alone in silence. He had advised her that later, when she was ready to work independently, her need for that time would lessen, though he would expect meditation in the morning and evening.

Maisie sat up, threw her pillows on the floor, and sat upon them
with legs crossed. She clasped her hands together, her thumbs just a rice grain width apart. It had been a long time since she'd had the courage to return to her practice—how would she ever tame her mind? How would she control the images she knew would assault her senses? As if he were there with her, she heard Maurice's voice.
Watch the image, and let it go. Take note of it, know that it is there, and allow it to move away, across the landscape of your mind's eye. Allow yourself to see connections, Maisie. Then go to the case map, and plan your next move
.

She closed her eyes. It was time to go back to her training, to become a student again. The student and the graduate, at the same time. She would immerse herself in the sacred silence of the next two days. There was little she could do; Shabbat had already begun, and for the town's Catholic and Protestant congregations, Sunday, with its tolling bells and church services, was sacrosanct.

M
aisie woke early on Monday, April 26th. There was no heaviness in her limbs, no weight of nightmares to leaden the morning. She swung her feet onto the floor, pulled down the pillows, and slipped into meditation again.
Still the mind, if only for five minutes. Then open your eyes—and your heart—and consider what needs to be done.
Maurice's voice was louder now, and she had followed his instructions to the letter. She washed, dressed in a dark skirt and white blouse, her black sandals, and a straw hat. She unbuckled her leather satchel, took Sebastian Babayoff's Leica from its hiding place at the back of the wardrobe, and placed it in the satchel, along with a notebook and pencil she slipped into the front pocket. She folded a cardigan on top of the camera, then looked around the room for anything she might
have missed. Picking up a fresh handkerchief, her wallet, and her sunglasses, she added them to the satchel. She would ask Mrs. Bishop for a small flask of water to take with her, and perhaps a few biscuits. She left the room and found Mrs. Bishop once again pegging out laundry in the courtyard.

“I'll get you a bottle of ginger beer, much better than plain old water on a hot day—though, as you've heard me say, a cup of tea is best. Fight heat with heat.”

“That's what people told me in India—until it came to the afternoon gin and tonic!”

Mrs. Bishop laughed and set off into her inner sanctum, returning a few minutes later with a corked bottle of ginger beer and a small paper-wrapped snack. “There, I've half-pulled the cork for you, so all you have to do is give it a little tug and it'll come out. And I don't know if you like this sort of thing, but I made some Eccles cakes yesterday—I used to make them for my husband, and just fancied setting up a batch.”

Maisie's eyes widened. “Oh my, what a coincidence! Eccles cakes are my favorite!”

Mrs. Bishop nodded toward Maisie's satchel. “There you go, then—put them both in your bag to keep you going today. Make sure that bottle is upright—it shouldn't leak, but you never know.”

Maisie thanked her landlady and went on her way, heaving open the thick oak door and stepping out into the alley. She wondered where Arturo Kenyon was today, and if she would hear from him later. Thoughts of MacFarlane skimmed over the surface of her mind. Today she would take the camera to Miriam Babayoff, and afterward she would make her way to the fisherman's beach for another visit. She wanted to speak to Rosanna, Carlos Grillo's niece.

The sun was shining, and a soft yet determined breeze was blowing; there was a dampness to the air. A large cloud seemed to linger overhead, casting shadows across the Rock, and Maisie wondered if this was the Levanter, a weather phenomenon she had heard about but not as yet experienced—it was more likely in May, but it was almost the end of April, so there was always the possibility. If it was the Levanter cloud, there might be showers. Perhaps she should have brought an umbrella. In any case, she might be grateful for her cardigan before nighttime claimed the day.

She continued on her way towards the Babayoff house, and was only a little surprised to see Jacob Solomon leaving as she approached. Maisie suspected that Miriam had already locked the door following his departure; upon seeing her walking up the cobblestone alley, he banged on the door again, and though his voice was low, Maisie heard him say, “Miriam. Miriam, you have another visitor.” By the time she came alongside the house, the door was open, and Solomon was making a small bow in greeting. He did not raise his black hat, though he bowed again to Miriam, who, Maisie thought, seemed more than a little flustered. Perhaps having two visitors in succession was more than she was used to. Without doubt, though, Solomon trusted Maisie—why else would he have heralded her approach?—the woman was on tenterhooks as she closed the door and went through the ritual of pushing home bolts and locking the door.

“I hope I have not come at an awkward time, Miss Babayoff,” said Maisie.

“No, though I have laundry to do, and mending that must be returned to my customer this evening.”

Maisie unbuckled the flap on her leather satchel and took out the Leica. She held it out toward Miriam, who did not move for a few seconds. Tears welled in her eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron, her
fingers shaking as she reached for the camera. She looked at Maisie as she held it to her heart.

“He loved his Leica, you know.” Miriam turned the camera in her hands, then squinted at the top. “It looks like he'd used the entire reel. I'll begin immediately.”

“Don't you have work to do, Miriam?”

“I can do it all. When can you come back?”

Maisie looked at her wristwatch. “Let's say this afternoon—how about three o'clock? Would that be time enough for you to provide something for me to look at?”

Miriam nodded. “Yes—I can do this.”

Maisie stood up and walked to the door, followed by Miriam, who was still holding the camera to her chest.

“One thing, Miriam.” Maisie paused and regarded the woman directly. “Please remember that every single image on that roll could help me. Know that even if there is something there that you do not care for—I don't know what it might be, but let's say it was something that did not throw a good light on your brother—it could hold a key to the identity of his killer, or the person who wanted him dead.”

Miriam nodded.

“Are you sure you understand?” asked Maisie.

The woman nodded again. “Yes, Miss Dobbs. And I even understand that his murderer might not be the person who ordered him killed.”

Maisie smiled. “Good.”

Yet again she heard the bolts slam home as she left the house, a sound that seemed angry and final, yet signaled fear. Miriam had grasped that the man—or woman—who wields the weapon is often not the person who wants a life ended. It was almost as if she expected such an outcome.

T
he fisherman's beach at Catalan Bay was busy when Maisie arrived, keeping her distance to observe the scene before her. For the most part it seemed the morning's catch had been unloaded and was already on its way to market, but a couple of the boats were pushing back out to sea again. It was apparent that, for the fisher folk, there was always something to do—nets rinsed and checked, then brought to the women to mend, though some fishermen repaired their own nets. And there were decks to be sluiced and rigging to be inspected. As before, the women sat farther back along the beach. Maisie took out her binoculars to scan the scene. Rosanna Grillo was not there among the women, but as she watched, she saw one of the older matrons turn around, call out, and beckon. The gesture seemed to express annoyance.

Moving the binoculars in the direction of the woman's wave, Maisie saw Rosanna walking toward the net-mending circle. She thought the girl held anger within her as she stepped across the beach, revealed by a tightness across her shoulders, and in the way her arms were crossed. Maisie lowered the binoculars, then lifted them again. Rosanna was being followed by a man—a man she turned to face and then moved her hand as if to direct him away. She was asking him to leave. Maisie adjusted the binoculars, pursing her lips. She could not get a better view of the man, though she suspected she knew who it was.

Rosanna approached the women and sat down among them. It seemed they had not seen the girl with the man, and went about their business, passing her a section of the fishing net to work on. Maisie directed the binoculars toward the man, watching as he turned and walked away. He did not look around, did not check to see whether he had been observed, though she suspected he might be aware of her presence. His walk suggested a man carrying a burden; his shoulders were hunched. He stopped once and looked back at the gathering of
women, then went on, cupping his hands to light a cigarette as he went. When he was out of view, Maisie returned the binoculars to her bag and sat down on a rock. She wanted to speak to Rosanna, but at the same time, she wanted to think. At first glance the drama played out before her might have been one of a lover spurned. Or was the man pressuring the young woman for another reason? But she was settled upon one thing—that Carlos Grillo's niece knew Arturo Kenyon very well indeed.

C
ould Maisie be sure that Kenyon had not seen her? He had departed with only the briefest glance back in the direction of the women. Although he had made errors, he was no fool. But the question remained—what was he doing with Rosanna, and why had she been so angry?

She sat watching the fisherfolk for some time without making her move, weighing the possibility of having a productive conversation with Rosanna. But she had to find out more about the woman's relationship with Babayoff—which Maisie suspected had been a romantic one, if only on the part of Babayoff, who may have had designs on his friend's niece. Coming to a decision, she rose and made her way across the beach, smiling as she approached the women. Rosanna looked up at her.

“Hello, Rosanna.” Maisie addressed the girl, but nodded at the women. She brought her attention back to Rosanna. “May I speak to you? In private?”

Rosanna stood up and motioned with her head, indicating that they should walk away from the cluster of women, out of earshot of the fishermen.

“What you want from me, Miss Dobbs?”

The girl's hair was drawn back and her clothing was as before, a black skirt, black blouse, and a shawl across her shoulders despite the heat. Maisie remembered the photograph and the smile she had for the photographer who had revealed the vitality within her. Maisie thought it was like a fairy tale in which the prince releases his love from her prison—and perhaps is given freedom in return.

“I wonder if you can help me again. Sebastian Babayoff—” Maisie allowed the name to hang in the air, watching the girl's response. Just a flinch at the corners of her eyes gave her away. Maisie continued. “I believe you were friends.”

“I told you—he knew my uncle, Carlos Grillo.”

“Yes, I know that. But I've seen some photographs he took of you—and it occurred to me that you might have been quite attached, and not just because he was a friend of your uncle.”

The girl pressed her lips together and turned away. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand.

“Rosanna, did you love him?”

The girl nodded.

“But it was not to be—is that it?”

Rosanna shrugged by way of an answer, and pointed to a place in the shade where they could rest. They sat on the sand, their backs against solid rock. Maisie brought out the bottle of ginger beer and offered some to the girl. She declined, but Maisie took a sip, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Will you tell me what you know about Sebastian?” asked Maisie.

The girl pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and opened her
mouth to speak, but stopped short and looked up. Maisie was already on her feet, having heard the same sound, a deep whining, as if something were falling from the air. It was an aircraft engine, coming closer. Both women looked up as Maisie pressed her hands to her ears and hunched her shoulders. From beyond the cliffs, a flight of aircraft flew at speed overhead; she closed her eyes and fell to her knees on the sand. Rosanna knelt beside her as she doubled over, weeping.

“Miss Dobbs. Miss Dobbs, are you all right?” Rosanna asked, her voice raised above the noise.

The two women watched as the aircraft appeared to change direction over the sea, a cluster of small dots becoming smaller, then larger again, only to be joined by more aircraft overhead.

“Where are they going? What are they doing?” Maisie looked across to the fishermen, who stood with their hands shielding their eyes from the sun so they could watch the aircraft. The women had instinctively gathered their children and run for cover in the lee of the cliffs.

“I don't know, Miss Dobbs—but listen, they're going now.”

“They're flying back across Spain, aren't they? Did you see the insignias? They weren't Spanish—they were German, and I saw another I think was Italian.” Maisie was calmer now, holding her hand to her chest. She was aware of Rosanna holding out her handkerchief.

“Thank you. Yes, thank you very much.” She took the proffered cloth and wiped it across her eyes and temples.

“The aeroplanes make you sad, Miss Dobbs,” said Rosanna

Maisie nodded. She sat on the sand again, leaning against the solid rock and closing her eyes against the sunshine. She could still feel her heart beating inside her ribs as she leaned forward, her head in her hands. The girl sat beside her and began to rub her back, as if she were a child fearful of imagined ghosts in a darkened room.

“Do you feel better now?”

Maisie nodded. “Thank you. It was a shock. I didn't expect those aircraft to come flying out of nowhere, without warning. It took my breath away.” She turned to Rosanna, but waited, her eyes closed. Then she spoke. “May I ask you the question again? About Sebastian Babayoff?”

The girl looked out to sea, but kept her hand on Maisie's back. “I adored him, and he adored me, Miss Dobbs. But it was a difficult love.” She shrugged. “He was a Jew, you see, and my family is Catholic. It did not matter to us, but, well, this is not a very big place. There would have been difficulties—and of course, he had his sisters to think about.” She shook her head. “But we were trying to find a way to be together, though neither of us could imagine leaving Gibraltar. It is home.”

Maisie looked at her. “And Arturo Kenyon?”

She shook her head. “He's like a mosquito that keeps you from sleep.” She patted Maisie on the back, a gentle touch that was more of a question, as if her fingers were asking,
Are you all right now?

Maisie put out her hand to steady herself as she came to her feet. Rosanna followed, and both women brushed sand from their skirts.

“Was Sebastian a Communist?” asked Maisie.

“His family held that there should be equality, that we should all have the same chance, whether peasant or prince.”

Maisie studied the girl as she answered, then pressed her again. “Was he doing anything dangerous, do you think?”

Rosanna sighed in response, rubbing her hand across her forehead, revealing fingertips angry and red from mending fishing nets. “I don't think he would have done anything he thought might bring harm to his sisters.”

The fisherman's beach was quiet again, though in the distance Maisie could see specks in the sky she believed to be aircraft. She
wondered what it meant, to have these aeroplanes flying overhead. And she knew enough by now—after months in Canada, often privy to long conversations about new aircraft design, when John Otterburn and James would talk of such elements as air speed and lift, of trim and maneuverability—to know that the German aircraft were bombers. She looked at her watch and decided to leave Catalan Bay now. She would walk back to Main Street—with any luck she would find Vallejo there. He might have the answer.

Maisie watched Rosanna as she in turn looked out to sea, and to the fishing boats being pushed out, perhaps to gather in another catch.

“Thank you,” said Maisie. “For your honesty.”

Rosanna smiled. “I'm glad someone is trying to find out who took Sebastian's life. The police are too busy with refugees to bother.”

Maisie took her hand. “I'll find out who wanted him dead. Time is not on my side, but I will not leave Gibraltar until I discover the truth behind Sebastian's murder.”

T
he walk back into town seemed longer, even though Maisie felt as if she were walking faster. She was anxious to see Miriam Babayoff again, to see whether she had managed to develop her brother's last roll of film. Perspiration ran down her temples and between her shoulder blades. Approaching Grand Casements Square, she stopped and closed her eyes. In her mind's eye she saw the aircraft above her head, then making their way out across the straits and looping back again. To do what? Were they en route to an airfield, perhaps in North Africa? And why fly over Gibraltar?
Because they can.
She sighed, another image coming to mind, this time a small fighter aircraft unknown outside the cadre of aviators and engineers John Otterburn had gathered around him. The aeroplane swooped low over the escarpment, followed by
a retort from the guns on board. The wings tilted this way and that, and the engine spluttered, coughing as if fuel were blocked. The pilot struggled to keep aloft, and then it was over, the small aircraft spiraling down, down, down, and blown into tiny pieces on impact.

Maisie held her hand to her mouth and began to weep anew. She would be happy never to see anything other than a bird in the sky for the rest of her days. Walking on, half stumbling, she recalled seeing a church nearby. Though all faith had left her during the war, she half staggered into St. Andrew's Church. She wanted to feel the touch of prayers fanning around her like butterfly wings, and she wanted to be held safe in the still coolness of the familiar building—it could have been a church anywhere in the British Isles, though there was a certain Moorish influence. She took a seat in a pew at the back of the church and closed her eyes.
Help me
, she whispered.
Please help me
.

The sound of the door opening and closing caused her to look up, and she realized that others had entered the church, their footfall light and voices low before slipping into silence as they knelt with bowed heads. There was no service, yet the minister was present, in prayer at the altar. Most visitors did not remain long in the church, as if they wanted only to petition the Lord and then be about their business once again, yet they had come, and perhaps for the same reason as she had sought a place inside—the aircraft overhead had unsettled her.

Half an hour later Maisie stepped out into the shadows cast by the church, and walked in the direction of Main Street. She was only half surprised to see Professor Vallejo walking toward her. She forced a smile as he approached.

“Miss Dobbs. How are you?”

“I went into the church to . . . to be in a cool place for a while. I have been walking, and I'm rather warm.”

“Did you see the aeroplanes? German and Italian?”

“I did, yes, and they seemed rather low—I thought they were German and Italian. Not that I am an expert on aviation, by any means,” she added as an afterthought.

“I am troubled by them,” said Vallejo. He looked up as if he had heard the distant drone of an engine aloft, but only seagulls swooped and called.

“You said they fly over Gibraltar.”

“Aircraft such as those have only one purpose, and that is to cause damage—to wage war. In any game there is a winner and a loser, and the purpose of those planes is to increase the chances of winning. But in war there are no real winners—too many lives are lost, too much pain to endure. How can we look back at any war and say, ‘We won'?”

They began to walk toward Main Street at a slow pace. Maisie fell into step with Vallejo, and focused on the way he carried himself as he put one foot in front of the other. His shoulders were hunched, just a little; as if he had caught a glance of his reflection in a mirror, he began to draw himself up, pulling his shoulders back.
There's something he wants to tell me,
she thought, though it occurred to her that anything the professor might choose to tell her had a very definite purpose, and she wondered how she might respond to whatever he had to say.

“Spain was neutral in the war, wasn't it, Professor Vallejo?” asked Maisie.

He nodded. “As much as any country can be neutral, when such terrible fighting is going on across the border. I was here in Gibraltar in 1915 and saw the hospital ships coming from Gallipoli, and we knew about the disasters not only in the Dardanelles, but in France and Belgium. That was when I decided that I could not stand by and do nothing. I went to Belgium as a volunteer, and I drove an ambulance, back and forth to the front from hospitals and aid stations. Never have
I seen so much pain, so much blood. I gave up my position at the university to serve.”

“That was brave of you, and good.” Maisie felt the anger emanating from Vallejo.
The dragon is alive inside him
.
And if I allow it, he will bring me down further.
It was an idle thought, tagged on to the realization of Vallejo's memories, red-hot like coals fallen from a fire.

Vallejo shrugged. “There were many who came—as they have to Spain. People with good hearts and worthy intentions, but alas, most of us could never have been prepared for such hell on earth.”

They walked in silence for a minute or two before Vallejo spoke again. “Miss Dobbs, it occurred to me, when you said you had been a teacher at a college in Cambridge, that you might have met an old friend of mine who also taught there.”

Maisie shrugged. “Well, there are many colleges in Cambridge—it's teeming with students and lecturers, with teachers who only come in for one term or even a day or so a week.”

“Yes, of course. But in any case, it occurred to me that you might know Professor Francesca Thomas—that's her name now.”

Maisie caught her breath, trying to hide any sign that she recognized the name. Should she admit to knowing Dr. Thomas? She decided to feign ignorance.

“I'm afraid it doesn't ring a bell, but I'll rack my brain and see if I can shake anything out.” She laughed, then looked at her watch. “Oh, dear, I have to run—I'm due to see someone in about five minutes, so I had better crack on.”

Vallejo gave a half bow. “I hope we meet again—perhaps at Mr. Salazar's little café.”

“I'm sure we will,” said Maisie. She waved her farewell and turned up a narrow street she had not taken before, feeling for her map in the leather bag as she stepped along the flagstones. Dipping into a doorway,
she sighed with relief. “What just happened?” she said aloud, though there was no one on the street to hear her. She leaned against the stone wall to catch her breath. She was thirstier than ever, and would have loved to go to the café, but she had to get away from Vallejo.

“Blast!” she admonished herself. “Damn and blast!”