A Dangerous Place (13 page)

“Miss Dobbs. Miss Dobbs!”

Maisie looked up at Mr. Solomon. “I do beg your pardon—seeing all the beautiful embroidery reminded me of my mother, and I was just thinking of her.”

Solomon smiled at Maisie and beckoned her closer. “Memories come out of nowhere, sometimes, don't they? Like a splinter long in the finger finally rises to the surface. Pluck it out, and the pain goes—and you realize there has been discomfort all along, but you have lived with it.”

She was taken aback by Solomon's words, delivered with a quiet empathy as if he too knew the bittersweet melancholy encountered in recollections of someone much loved but now gone.

“And before I forget,” he added, “the young couple were very, very grateful to you for the photograph. They wanted to meet you to express their gratitude, but I said I would pass on the message—I did not give your name, as you requested. I know you value privacy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Solomon. Yes, I am grateful, and I'm glad the people have their portrait.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie looked behind her. She had walked into an empty shop, but it was her habit to double-check. She pointed to the sign on the door, which had been turned to inform passersby that the shop was open. “May I? Just for a moment?”

Solomon nodded, walked to the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and came back to the counter, where Maisie was standing. “This is about Sebastian?”

“In a way,” said Maisie. “I wonder, how is Miss Babayoff now? She suffered quite a shock when someone tried to break into her house.”

He sighed and nodded. “It was a great distress to her—more so than for her sister, who is bound to their home.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?”

He shrugged, reminding Maisie of a schoolboy reprimanded by his headmaster.

“Mr. Solomon?”

“If I were to guess, I would say that there is something in that house belonging to Sebastian that someone else wants—that is all. It might be a photograph revealing a man with a woman other than his wife, or a son at a party when he should have been at work. Sebastian was loose with that camera—if you don't already know that about him.”

“I have seen an assortment of photographs he'd taken, and I understand what you mean.” She paused, looking at an embroidered tablecloth laid across the counter. She took the fabric between thumb and forefinger and felt the soft linen against her skin. She looked up at Solomon. “Did you like Sebastian, Mr. Solomon? I've realized I don't know a lot about him—about what he was like, or who he was as a man. He was clearly a talented photographer, but—”

“People admired his work—myself included, as I told you before—but, if I am honest, he was no more talented than anyone else with a camera in his hand. Sebastian just wasn't afraid to look for the work, or put himself forward for a commission. He was always first to the ships when they came in, taking photographs of people to put on the mantelpiece when they return to their homes in dull places. No, if you want to know who has the talent in that family, you need look no further than
Miriam. Her embroidery stands out. Her paintings show such feeling, and if you put a camera in her hands, you will see something you would never see in Sebastian's work. And there she is, stuck with her sister upstairs, banging on the floor with her stick so Miriam can run up and down at her beck and call. Miriam could have been married one hundred times, I am sure, but Sebastian would not give his permission—he said he needed her at home. The last thing he wanted was to be left with Chana upstairs, summoned whenever she pounded the floor with her broom handle.”

Maisie said nothing at first, taken aback by the passion in Solomon's voice.

“I had no idea,” she said, at a point when to remain silent would have been ill-mannered. “It must have been very hard on Sebastian and Miriam, that their sister was cut down by such an illness.”

“Cut down? You know what I think, Miss Dobbs?” Solomon took a step toward Maisie. She remained in place as he continued. “I think it's all up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “As much as I feel sorry for her, I think that woman could move her legs as much as you or I, but she chooses not to. It's easier to lie in bed all day, painting and embroidering, than get up and do more. Look at poor Miriam, running backward and forward, doing everything that needs to be done—cooking, cleaning, looking after her brother and sister—and still she can embroider and paint and sell her work. Sebastian had her developing his film, running his errands, delivering to the hotels, back to the ships, bringing home the money, making sure he had supplies—and that wasn't easy, as you can imagine.” He took a breath and rubbed his head. “The poor girl. She deserved more respect when he was alive, and she deserves better now.”

Maisie cleared her throat. “You must have known the family your whole life, Mr. Solomon.”

He nodded. “I am a little older than the three Babayoffs, but we all know each other here—in our community, among our people. And we know each other in Gibraltar—if not always by name, then by sight. Among all the visitors, the soldiers and sailors, you know who belongs.”

“The men came to Miriam's aid very quickly, after the locks were broken.”

“She is afraid, Miss Dobbs. I came directly I was summoned, and I brought in men to help. We went there without delay, and we made her house as secure as a fortress. We keep an eye on her—I am only a matter of yards away, and I will go to her at once if I am needed.”

“You are a good neighbor, Mr. Solomon,” said Maisie. She smiled at the man, but noticed he seemed pained by her words. She fingered the cloth once more, then looked up at Solomon. “May I ask, are you married? Do you have a wife at home?”

He shook his head. “No. I have family, but no wife.”

“I believe I might have asked this question before, but some days have passed. Do you have any idea who might have killed Sebastian Babayoff? I am sure it was not a refugee.”

“He probably annoyed someone. He could be very annoying, pestering. For all his so-called talent, he thought he was somebody. It would not surprise me to know that he was playing with fire, and he was burned by being too close to the flames.”

“I see,” said Maisie. “I thought I would call on Miss Babayoff today—I expect she's home.”

Solomon shrugged.

“Tell me, Mr. Solomon, might you have seen Sebastian with a taller man, blond or gray hair, very sharp features? His hair is usually combed back from his face, and oiled, I would imagine. And I daresay he is well dressed, though I may be wrong.”

Solomon looked at her, and after a few seconds shook his head. “No, I don't believe so—but there are many visitors here, it would be easy to miss someone. That's the enigma of this town, you know—we know each other, yet know so few people passing on the street, though that depends upon the time of year. As I said before—too many people passing through. And swept-back hair—you've surely seen the soldiers and sailors, they always look like they've doused their hair in brilliantine before they leave the barracks or their ship.”

Maisie laughed. “I have noticed, Mr. Solomon—but they're only lads. They want to have some fun and look like matinee idols in their uniforms, I'm sure.”

“Hmmph!” He looked at his watch.

“Yes, you'd better open up again—you should have a goodly number of visitors, Mr. Solomon. I think a ship docked today, and the passengers are probably ready to disembark and spend some money.”

He gave a short bow, then held his hand towards the door. He flipped the sign, and opened the door for Maisie to leave. As they stepped out onto the street, they both looked in the direction of Mr. Salazar's café. Already the tables outside were busy, and more visitors were stopping to peer inside in search of a table.

“That's who'll be making the money today,” said Solomon.

“He does a good trade, without doubt. But he's very personable, and he remembers people, which I think is a necessity in his line of work.”

Solomon nodded. “Yes, he remembers people, Miss Dobbs. Perhaps Mr. Salazar can help you with your fair-haired man. I think he has quite a few German visitors.”

M
aisie turned up the street, setting out toward the house Miriam Babayoff shared with her sister. She would return to the café in
time. As she walked along the narrow cobbled street, she knew she had much to think about. It had not occurred to her before, though it certainly did now, that Mr. Solomon was in love with Miriam, and perhaps more than a little protective of her. And there was something else. She had said nothing about the man with the oiled and swept back fair hair and fine features being German—in fact, she had never attributed a country of origin to him at all. Why, then, had Solomon assumed his nationality? And though these thoughts bothered her, it was true that she had come to the same conclusion herself.

M
aisie strolled at a deliberate slow pace toward Miriam Babayoff's house. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts before a new conversation, and perhaps fresh ideas, cast them into disarray. There were times she felt her energy rising, but still, she was in the midst of a long physical and emotional recovery, not over it by a long chalk—especially when it came to the renewal of her spirit. After losing her new family in as long as it took for a small aircraft—no bigger in the distant sky than a butterfly in her hand—to fall to the earth, she had felt crushed in every part of her being. Even after the necessary arrangements had been made with regard to her husband's remains, and even with Frankie and Brenda and Lady Rowan at her bedside in the Toronto hospital, she had found it hard to hold a thought in her mind for longer than it took another to shatter it. Then, at her insistence, they had left, sailing for England without her. And discharging herself from the hospital, she'd traveled to Boston, hoping for the chance to claw back something of herself in
the company of people who knew she required a certain latitude, so that she might, perhaps, begin to fathom who she could possibly be in the world, if she made up her mind to be part of it once more. It was in the return to India that the soft healing of her soul had begun, and she could have remained there, easily. She could have lived in the bungalow set within the hills of Darjeeling for a long time. She might have stayed there forever. But Brenda had called her home.

Reflecting again, she acknowledged that it had been in the application of her mind that she had come through war's aftermath and the loss of Simon all those years ago. It was in
application
that she had risen from the ashes to become of some account to herself. And it was in getting to know the dead, especially, that she had tasked herself with witnessing the path through the myriad different responses that conspired to ignite terror—envy, greed, love, want, grief; they were many and powerful.

She knew very well that she had not given due consideration to her first lesson from Maurice. It had been issued on the very first day of her apprenticeship, when she accompanied him to the scene of a murder. He had taken time to inspect the body and, it seemed, to ask questions of the very air around him, both then and later in the day, when she assisted at the postmortem. “There is more to this than the wound that killed a human being, Maisie. We must spend time with the dead in silence, to try to hear them. Then we ask questions, not to gain an immediate answer but to let them know, even in their netherworld, that we care enough to give voice to our lack of understanding. We begin, Maisie, to study the dead not simply as a medical inquiry of the cadaver, but by applying the forensic science of the whole person. So I ask, who is this man? Who was he as a boy, and how did the child come to this? Who did he love? And who loved and hated him, perhaps in equal measure? There is never just one victim when a body is
found—it is never singular. Who are the other victims, and which one has committed the crime of murder?”

At that moment she missed Billy Beale, her former assistant. Maurice had never quite approved of Billy, believing Maisie should have taken on someone with an intellect to match her own, or with some experience in their field of endeavor. But Maisie trusted Billy and knew he was a gem, often coming up with the right nugget of insight at the right time, and always without realizing his contribution. She stopped on the narrow cobbled street and leaned against a building in the shadows, remembering their conversations, and imagining what Billy might say about Babayoff.

“What I reckon, Miss, is that this 'ere Babayofff was a right dark 'orse.” Billy's distinct accent was loud in her mind, and she smiled. “What you've got to remember is that he had it all his own way. Right, you've got a point, he had to look after them sisters, but they both pulled their weight, didn't they? And that younger one—well, I reckon she was the brains. I mean, look at her. Sharp? I bet she is too. And it wouldn't surprise me, Miss, if she weren't pulling the wool over our eyes. I'm not saying she is, but it wouldn't surprise me.”

She listened to the voice in her imagination. The seagulls ceased to wheel overhead, and instead she could hear the clear yet gentle rustling leaves on the canopy of trees in Fitzroy Square.

“I think we should find out what else Babayoff was up to. You can't tell me he was going out on that boat to just take a few holiday snaps because he liked the water. No, Miss—people like him don't get murdered unless they're up to something. I mean, look at it—there's him and that girl, the fisherman's niece, both of them done up like two penn'orth of hambone at a party in a big hotel—especially her! She could've been a film star you see at the pictures, what with her standing there with that blond bloke, and him looking all Leslie Howard
and smiling at her. If he's an Englishman, I'll eat my hat. No, Miss, we've got to dig a lot deeper into this one, or we'll never sort it all out. I mean, we make some guesses, as a rule, but you'd be the first to say we need more to go on before we stick our necks out.”

“Oh, Billy,” said Maisie to the air around her. “I could do with a dose of your solid feet on the ground next to me.”

She knew she had been remiss. If Maurice, her dear mentor, were standing at her shoulder, he would be seconding Billy's comments and reminding her that if she'd learned so little about the dead man, how could she ever know enough to find and identify his killer? She had applied herself only enough to circle the field of tall grass that obscured the truth. Her case map resembled so many forays into the pasture and then out again, paths that led only a short distance, then to each other, and not to the center, to the essence of what had come to pass. Now it was time to stride in. It was long past time to bring her whole heart to the investigation, instead of leaving something of herself behind, curled up, lost, grieving, and afraid.

M
iriam! Hello! It's Maisie Dobbs. I was passing and thought I would drop in to see you.” Maisie waited while the bolts were drawn back and the chain released. As was her habit, Miriam looked both ways along the street before allowing herself to smile and welcome Maisie into the kitchen.

“How is your sister today, Miriam? I am sure it was good for her to get out into the sun the other day, even though the circumstances were horrible for you both.” Her pause was brief, and only to catch her breath. “Look, I hope you don't mind, but I would like to see Sebastian's darkroom again—may I? And I want to know more about him.” She stepped toward the door leading onto the landing.

Miriam folded a dress she had been in midst of repairing and nodded. “Yes, of course.” She pulled aside the curtain, unlocked the door to the landing, and led Maisie down to the cellar. There she flicked a switch on the wall, casting weak light across the room. Maisie stepped toward the chest of drawers and looked back at Miriam.

“I'd like to look through Sebastian's photographs. Would you help me?”

Miriam shrugged. “If I can, though I must return to my work soon, Miss Dobbs—I have customers waiting.”

“This shan't take long.”

Maisie opened the first drawer, taking out a collection of prints, which she placed on the table in the center of the room, drawing an angle-poise lamp across to better see. She flicked through one photograph after another while Miriam stood beside her.

“Mr. Solomon tells me you're good with a camera too, Miriam,” said Maisie, as if the question were off the cuff, something to be asked and forgotten in short order.

Miriam shrugged again. The shrug seemed to be a default mannerism for the young woman, as if she were shaking off a few raindrops. “Oh, I don't think Joseph Solomon would know a good photographer from a bad one. He's being kind.”

Maisie smiled, still focusing on the photographs, in the main studio portraits, most likely taken in Solomon's shop. “He is very respectful of you, Miriam. It must be heartwarming to have such a caring neighbor just a few doors away.”

The woman shifted her stance and tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “He has been very helpful. I sent a boy in the street to get him, after the business with the door. He gathered the other men, and soon it was repaired. Now everyone looks out for us.”

“I'm glad. You have fine neighbors, Miriam.” She paused, and lifted
one of the prints. “You know, I never saw this one before, when we looked at your brother's work. Do you know this woman?”

Miriam blushed. “I have seen her before, yes.”

“And you know who she is?”

“Yes, though she doesn't look like that every day.”

“No, she doesn't. Why do you think she was photographed in such a manner?”

“It was probably Sebastian's idea—he liked to make people look different. Not in his studio work for customers, but in other photographs, the ones he took thinking he could sell them somewhere else.”

“And what would you say about this woman?”

Miriam picked at a loose thread hanging from her cuff. “I would say that they loved each other. I knew it was so. I daresay this photograph was how he wanted to see her, and she went along with it.”

Maisie nodded and placed the photographs back in the drawer.

“Miriam, are you acquainted with a man called Arturo Kenyon? He's from Gibraltar, and seems to be quite well known—he's a sort of odd-jobbing carpenter, as far as I know.”

Maisie watched for some sign that Miriam was unsettled by the name, but observed nothing—no extra blink of the eye, no nervous touching of the hair or reaching for a handkerchief. Miriam's hands were steady and her manner indifferent, but not blasé.

“I've heard of him, and recently,” said Miriam. “Someone suggested his name to me—the men did a good job with the repairs, but the door could be more secure, and Mr. Kenyon was mentioned as a good workman. But I could not possibly have him in our house, for he is not one of us.”

“Yes, of course.” Maisie nodded. “Here's what I know about your brother. That he was a good photographer, and that it had been his passion since he was given a camera as a boy. Over the years he built
up this studio—and I am not sure whether he taught you, or whether you learned on your own, but you are also a worthy photographer, and you know how to process the film. Sebastian had two cameras—the larger camera used for professional work, and the smaller Leica. He would often use both on an assignment. He was carrying the larger camera—a Zeiss, I believe—when he was killed, and it remained with him. For some reason, as you know, the Leica was thrown into the shrubbery. The police have the Zeiss, and though I have not been able to confirm this, there is nothing on the camera to indicate that he pointed his lens anywhere it wasn't wanted. Not so the Leica, as we know—those photographs seem more off-the-cuff, don't they? More chancy, in my estimation. He knew that—and so did another person at the party.”

“I don't know what you mean,” said Miriam. “They seemed very ordinary to me.”

Maisie reached into her large leather bag and pulled out the prints Miriam had developed for her. She laid them out and pointed to the face of Professor Vallejo.

“Do you know this man?”

“He seems a little familiar. Perhaps it's one of those faces one sees everywhere.”

“Really? I have heard that said of a person so many times. I wonder if it's true, or if some people are very good at blending in with the scenery. To me, everyone is different—but that's just my way of seeing things.” Maisie took a breath. She realized she was becoming impatient. “He is a professor of politics and philosophy at the University in Madrid, and he is also a Communist. I think he and Sebastian were acquainted.”

“If he was a Communist, you may be right.”

“Do you think Sebastian was only going out on the boat with
Carlos Grillo to take photographs of the clouds and the sunrise over the Rock?”

“Do you think he was doing anything more than that, Miss Dobbs? I may not leave my house often, and then only in the company of another woman to the shops, but even I have seen the number of gunboats and frigates and patrol vessels going back and forth in the Straits. What on earth do you think they could have done, without being seen by the British navy? To say nothing of the Americans, the Dutch, the Germans, Italians, Russians, and whoever else is sailing around keeping an eye on the war across the border, hoping it doesn't get any bigger or closer. Or perhaps they want it to. War is always about money and power.”

“You're very well informed, Miriam.”

“I pay attention, and I'm on my own for most of the day. I think about these things, and I worry about us.” She pointed to the ceiling. “I have great responsibilities.”

“Yes, I know.” Maisie paused. “You've had a very difficult time, and it probably began long before your brother's death.”

Miriam nodded.

“Let's go back upstairs to the kitchen, Miriam. Come on. I am sure your sister will be summoning you soon.”

Miriam Babayoff looked at Maisie. “No, not today. I gave her a pill to help her sleep. She does not rest properly, even though she is in bed all day. It is a horrible life for her. She has only her imagination to take her beyond the walls of her room.”

M
aisie had not intended to show her hand, to let Miriam know she was acquainted with Arturo Kenyon. In one regard, it made sense—Communist sympathies would likely bring him into the same fold as the Babayoff family. And yet she wondered about Miriam and
Arturo, alone on a dusty path leading to a cave in the Rock. Surely that would not be an acceptable liaison in the eyes of her neighbors. Could they be lovers? Given her knowledge of Miriam thus far, she thought not. But who was the man she'd heard talking in the cave? She didn't think it was the man with swept-back blond hair—he didn't seem the type to be a willing captive. It might be someone working there temporarily, or guarding something valuable. But what? Could Miriam already know Vallejo? And what about
his
political sympathies?