A Dangerous Place, Page 3

  Maisie had revisited the scene in daylight, after the pathologist had left, after the police had allowed the path to be used again. It seemed that someone had poured bleach on the gravel in an attempt to clean it, should guests wish to meander. She stood for a while, inspecting the ground, retracing her steps from the hotel, looking at first for something the police might have missed and then simply admiring the blooming shrubs, which seemed so uplifting on such a day. It was as she moved that something glinted, catching her eye. Setting one foot on the low wall, she leaned forward, moving a branch to one side. A Leica camera lay on the ground underneath, obscured by foliage. It did not seem to be a professional camera, though she knew it was expensive. It was the sort of camera used for speed, for catching a scene before it changes, not, perhaps, for a more formal portrait. She reached for the camera and put it in her satchel.

  There was no reason now to follow Kenyon. He would look for her, and then send a report to whoever was instructing him—yes, it must be Lord Julian, perhaps through Huntley. She sighed. That was all she needed—Brian Huntley of the Secret Service keeping tabs on her. She just wanted to be alone, with more time to steel herself for her return. She needed more time to be strong, more time to prepare herself to settle once again in England, and to face Chelstone. She had not been back since she’d departed for her honeymoon, a precious time when she believed all that awaited her was a contentment she’d never before imagined. Now it would never be again. It was as if she could feel her blood running colder, hardening her heart.

  Maisie watched as Kenyon and Marsh parted, and the agent—she had no doubt he was someone’s agent—went on his way, walking along Main Street toward Grand Casemates Square as if he had not a care in the world. But Maisie had a care—though she knew it might be a means of deflecting her thoughts away from her father and Brenda, from the expectation of others—and the care at that moment was Miriam Babayoff, the dead man’s sister. Miriam, too, was being watched. The poor woman was scared, and she had every right to be: she knew something that others wanted kept silent. The trouble was, as far as Maisie understood it, Miriam Babayoff had no idea what that something might be. And Maisie could not protect the woman unless she, too, had such knowledge at her fingertips.

  She continued on her way toward a cluster of houses where Gibraltar’s Sephardim lived. Maisie reached into her satchel for a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and drew upon it as if she had been smoking her entire life. Now she knew why Priscilla smoked. It calmed her. Holding a cigarette was something to do with her hands when she began shaking. It sharpened her mind while dulling her emotions. And at least it wasn’t morphia.

  As she walked back along Main Street away from Grand Casemates Square, with its Moorish buildings and their ornate arches built by Moroccan invaders centuries past, Maisie considered, again, the evening she’d discovered the body of Sebastian Babayoff. She’d been staying at the Ridge Hotel at the time, where she’d remained longer than anticipated, given the difficulty in finding simpler accommodation. Earlier in the day she’d noticed Babayoff in the hotel, taking photographs of the interior and then moving out into the gardens. Was he recording a wedding party? She hadn’t really paid much attention, though by instinct she avoided anyone with a camera. Later—after what might have been suppertime had she felt like eating—she’d wanted to walk, to be outdoors in the dark. There was something comforting to her about darkness, about being shrouded only by that which she could smell, touch, and hear. Without light her eyes became accustomed to shapes, sounds became more acute, and as she ambled along some distance from the hotel, she became aware of an unfamiliar noise. Was it a curious, treat-seeking monkey? She’d been told about the Barbary macaques that infested Gibraltar, making a nuisance of themselves. Or perhaps a stray dog, or a cat? Then another noise, and footsteps receding along a narrow alley—human footsteps in heavy boots, running away. After a moment she continued, but took only a few steps before she tripped over something. Her heart leaped, for even before she knelt down to touch the thing in her path, she knew it was flesh and bone.

  In the dark, by feel, Maisie distinguished an arm, and then the wrist, searching for a pulse. She reached toward the man’s chest—by the size of the wrist, it must be a man—and then his neck. She fingered his skin for the carotid pulse, but there was none.

  Miriam Babayoff lived along a narrow cobbled street that resembled so many other streets in Gibraltar. The terrace houses on either side were like ill-kempt teeth, their roofs uneven, their foundations having shifted with the years. The whitewash was dingy, though window boxes planted with summer blooms demonstrated evidence of care by a few of the residents. Maisie Dobbs came alongside the house—it was not numbered—that she knew to be the home of Miriam Babayoff, her sister and, until recent weeks, her now deceased brother. Maisie had met Miriam once before, at a time when the woman was still so shocked she could barely speak. It was a meeting during which she sat on the very edge of a chair at the kitchen table—the front door opened into the small square kitchen, the only room downstairs—her eyes darting to the bolt drawn across to lock the door, as if it might fly back at any moment and the house be invaded. Maisie had offered her condolences, a basket of fruit, and some flowers. She had remained with the dead man’s sister for some ten minutes—long enough to sense the woman’s unease, to observe her movements, and to know by the cast of her eyes that there was cellarage below the house, and that something of importance was held there.

  Now Maisie was visiting again, by invitation, having sent a note to request a little of the woman’s time. She would not push too hard for information; in fact, she wasn’t sure why she was doing this. Perhaps she should leave well enough alone, especially when she felt so very fragile herself, as if she were made of the finest glass and could shatter at any moment. But she wanted to find out more about the photographer, and why he was killed. It was as if the act of searching, of fingering the facts and mulling over suppositions, would help her excavate something inside herself.

  She knocked at the door.

  Miriam Babayoff was not a tall woman, probably just over five feet tall. Maisie found it difficult to guess her age, as her sallow skin and the way her lustrous dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun might have made her seem older than she was. Sebastian Babayoff, she knew, had been thirty years of age at the time of his death. There was also another older sister, confined to a wheelchair, or more likely to her bed, now. Maisie suspected Sebastian had been the one who’d helped her out of her room and pushed her up and down the street in her wheelchair. Maisie could not imagine Miriam having the strength to carry her sister down the narrow stairs she suspected lay beyond the curtain-draped door across the kitchen. Miriam must have been the youngest of three, around twenty-five. She had probably not married because she was needed at home.

  “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.”