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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Maisie Dobbs
- Sprache: Englisch
Spring, 1937. Four years after she set sail from England, leaving everything she most loved behind, Maisie Dobbs is making her way home, only to find herself in a dangerous place. She was seeking peace in the hills of Darjeeling, but her sojourn is cut short when her stepmother summons her back to England. But on a ship bound for Southampton, Maisie realises she isn't ready to return. Against the wishes of the captain she disembarks in Gibraltar - the British garrison town is teeming with refugees fleeing a brutal civil war across the border in Spain. Days after Maisie's arrival, a photographer is murdered, and Maisie becomes entangled in the case, drawing the attention of the British Secret Service as she is pulled deeper into political intrigue on 'the Rock' . . .
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Seitenzahl: 472
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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A DANGEROUS PLACE
A Maisie Dobbs Novel
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
To Kas Salazar
Dear friend, this one’s for you.
The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.
– ALBERT EINSTEIN
The world is getting to be such a dangerous place, a man is lucky to get out of it alive.
– W. C. FIELDS
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Gibraltar, April 1937
Arturo Kenyon stood in the shadows of a whitewashed building opposite a small guest house known locally as Mrs Bishop’s, though it had no sign to advertise the fact. He was waiting for a woman who had taken a room under the name of Miss M. Dobbs to emerge. Then he would follow her. She had, after all, been instrumental in not allowing the dust to settle on the death of one Sebastian Babayoff, a photographer of weddings and family events, and contributor of photographs to the odd tourist pamphlet. Not that there were the usual number of tourists in Gibraltar at that very moment. Refugees – yes. Government officials – yes. Increasing numbers of soldiers and sailors – yes. Black-market profiteers – of course. And to top it all, more than a few like himself, working on behalf of their country in a role not specified on any identification documents, but considered important all the same. In fact, the town was crawling with men – and, he had no doubt, women – with a similar remit: to be the eyes and ears of their government’s most secret services in a place seething with those dispossessed by war across the border. This place of his birth wasn’t a good place to be.
Kenyon’s father had been a navy man stationed in Gibraltar when he’d fallen for a local girl of Maltese heritage named Leonarda. Such a love affair was not an unusual occurrence – Gibraltar was, after all, a military garrison. An only child, Arturo had grown up on tales of Lord Nelson and the Battle of Trafalgar, and the strategic importance of his home. His father had been killed in the war, but his loss at the Battle of Jutland in 1916 did not deter Arturo from following in his footsteps and joining the Royal Navy, albeit under the name Arthur Kenyon. It wouldn’t have done him any favours to be an Arturo on board ship. An injury sustained while at sea should have mustered him out of the senior service, but instead he was – as his commanding officer termed it – ‘reassigned’ to another role. Which is how Kenyon found himself working for naval intelligence, now back in Gibraltar under the name by which he had been known until he left his mother’s house at sixteen on a quest to follow in his father’s footsteps. Fluent in Spanish and English, and the strange hybrid of those two languages that could be heard in Gibraltar, he was a good man to have at their disposal as far as the government was concerned. Especially now, when the Spanish were killing each other across the border.
The body of Babayoff, a Sephardic Jew, had been discovered by the Dobbs woman when she was out walking one evening. That was another thing about her; she walked alone at night, despite curfews in place to protect the citizenry. At first it appeared as if she would not pose too much of a problem – Mrs Bishop had informed a policeman that Miss Dobbs would likely book a passage to Southampton soon, based upon what had happened. But instead she remained and began asking questions and visiting Babayoff’s people, one of the older Gibraltarian Jewish families. She wasn’t doing these things in a hurry, Kenyon had noticed. It was as if each day she took it upon herself to make an attempt to tidy an ill-kempt room – dust a little here, sweep there, remove a cobweb or two.
Dobbs was a strange one, thought Kenyon as he lit a strong French cigarette and drew until the tip almost enflamed. He’d followed her a couple of times since receiving orders. She was tall, her chin-length hair almost jet black, though he’d noticed a few grey hairs at her temples. And those eyes – she almost caught him looking at her once, and he thought then that those eyes might see right through a person, though the person in question might not see anything in return. If eyes were windows into the heart of a human being, then hers were locked tight, as if a portcullis had come down across her soul. Kenyon – whose hair was almost as black as that of the woman for whom he waited, though his eyes were the pale blue of his blonde father – was used to watching people, well versed in discovering the truth of someone just by observing them about their daily rounds. He thought this woman, Maisie Dobbs, carried something inside her, as if she didn’t really want to be involved in the death of Sebastian Babayoff but could not help herself. It was as if she felt a responsibility to the deceased, having found his body. What was it she’d said to the police at the time? He’d read her statement in notes acquired from his man at the police station. His death deserves our attention, so his family can be at peace. There is a duty here, and it cannot be ignored.
Peace? That was a fine word – everyone who entered Gibraltar now wanted nothing more than to be enveloped by peace. Perhaps this Maisie Dobbs was looking for something too. According to a report he’d received from Whitehall, she might have been travelling under another name; Dobbs was not the name on her passport. She’d begun her journey in India, bound for Southampton, yet had disembarked in Gibraltar three weeks ago. She should have continued on to her final destination, but for some reason she’d decided to remain, having left the ship against the advice of the captain. More interesting to Arturo Kenyon, a man named Brian Huntley, from one of those nameless government departments in London, seemed pleased to know where she was, and had given orders for her to be accounted for. Not intercepted, not approached and questioned, or even – he dreaded the word – ‘eliminated.’ His brief was to keep an eye on her.
Kenyon was watching the whitewashed house, its window boxes trailing geraniums, when the door opened and Maisie Dobbs stepped out into the sunshine. Though her clothes were made of cotton and linen, she was not dressed for fine weather as a tourist might. A black blouse and a narrow black skirt to mid-calf emphasised her slender shape, and she wore plain black leather shoes with a peep toe. She wore no stockings, which was something of a surprise to Kenyon. That woman could do with a bit of fat on her, he thought, and as he watched, Maisie Dobbs looked up at the sky, took off her hat, and put on a pair of dark glasses. Replacing the brimmed hat, she glanced both ways before setting off along the narrow passageway toward Main Street. It was clear that she was not short of funds – something about her demeanour suggested a confidence that attended the well-heeled. The guest house proprietress had informed him – in return for folding money – that Dobbs had paid one month in advance.
Kenyon waited just a moment before stepping out of castellated shadows cast by late-morning sunshine against mismatched buildings, and kept her in view as she went on her way. He wondered why a woman of means would not be staying at the Ridge Hotel. Only a few years old, the luxurious hotel had become a mecca for the rich. And he wondered what had come to pass in her life, and why she’d chosen not to continue on her journey – for surely being safe at home in England would be more desirable than lingering in a town overrun with people running from hell.
Darjeeling, India, March 20th, 1934
Maisie Dobbs sat at a desk of dark polished teak set in a bay window, looking out across terraced tea gardens that seemed to sweep up into the foothills of distant mountains. She held her pen over a sheet of writing paper, but was distracted by converging thoughts as she watched a cadre of women pick young ‘first flush’ tea shoots. Their hands moved across the bushes with speed as they snatched at the soft, rubbery leaves of Camelia sinensis, more commonly known by the name of the place in which it now grew across the vast estate. She continued to watch the women as they filled the deep baskets resting on their backs, held steady with a belt across their foreheads.
Soon she would leave this place where she had found a measure of calm. March and April brought spring to Darjeeling; days of crystal light and pearls of dew on rhododendrons of peach and magenta, and on flora she had never seen before and might never see again. There were light breezes filled with a sweet fragrance, and days when she turned her face to the sun and felt its warmth flood her body. A chance meeting in Bombay, where she had spent several weeks helping a man named Pramal set up a school in honour of his dead sister – a woman whose killer Maisie had found – had led her to Darjeeling, and an opportunity to rent this bungalow for some three or four months. The journey had been long and arduous, by train for the most part, and then all manner of transportation, including her first – and to this point, only – passage atop an elephant. But it was worth it for the peace. In London – how many months past, now? Was it six, even so soon? – she had begun to doubt herself, to question what she had believed for so many years to be her vocation. On behalf of those who came asking for her help, it was her task to uncover the truth and lies that stood in the way of their personal contentment. Sometimes the truth and lies were held within one tormented individual, who sought out Maisie in her role as psychologist to unravel the contradictions underpinning his or her turmoil. Some had simpler problems – a missing piece of jewellery, or a profligate business partner who had hidden evidence of funds misplaced. But among the clients who came to the Fitzroy Square office of Maisie Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, were those touched by the unresolved and perhaps mysterious death of someone dear, someone whose memory was tightly held. Maisie had brought every element of her training, every ounce of her character, and every last ache in her soul to the task of restoring peace to the bereaved – but then it had been her turn to find peace.
Amid the tea gardens and mountains, in the solitude she craved – a different solitude, away from even those she loved – she felt the war was truly behind her. All her wars were now behind her. It was as if the laundry had been washed and aired, ironed and folded, put away in a cupboard and locked. She had accepted what she considered to be her failings, had come to terms with her powerlessness against fate itself. Now, with the sleepless nights of dark thinking consigned to the past, she felt as if she were walking along a road that kept narrowing until it reached the vanishing point. She had come to a juncture where she could consider what might come next. And she knew the responsibility awaiting her: she had promised a decision. On March 31 she would send a telegram to James Compton: YES STOP, or NO STOP.
Darjeeling, March 31st
Miss M. Dobbs to James Compton
YES STOP
Miss M. Dobbs to Mrs Priscilla Partridge
HAVE ACCEPTED JAMES STOP WANT VERY SMALL CEREMONY STOP JUST US STOP WILL WRITE STOP
Mrs Priscilla Partridge to Miss Maisie Dobbs
HOPE THIS ARRIVES BEFORE DEPARTURE STOP WONDERFUL NEWS STOP RECONSIDER CEREMONY STOP DO NOT DEPRIVE YOUR FATHER OF WALK DOWN AISLE STOP I WANT CHAMPAGNE STOP
The Times, London, April 1934
The engagement is announced between Margaret Rebecca, only daughter of Francis Edward Dobbs and the late Mrs Analetta Phyzante Dobbs, and James William Maurice, Viscount Compton, only son of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton.
The Times, London, August 1934
A fine summer’s day greeted guests last Saturday at one of the year’s most anticipated weddings, when the Viscount James Compton, son of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton (the former Lady Rowan Jane Alcourt, daughter of Lord Jonathan Alcourt), was married to Miss Margaret Dobbs, daughter of Francis Dobbs, Esq. Following a service at St Joseph’s Church in Chelstone, a reception was held at the Dower House, Chelstone Manor, the bride’s home.While honeymoon details are held secret by the groom, it is expected that the happy couple will be leaving for Canada within the month.
May 1935
Maisie Dobbs to Priscilla Partridge
Dear Priscilla,
I cannot believe I have been married now for over six months! I doubted ever coming to enjoy the life of a wife, but I have found a certain delight in marriage, and though I might have had my doubts when I walked up the aisle (holding on to my father’s arm as if my life depended upon it), I made the right decision. We spend Monday to Thursday in northern Ontario, in a sizable leased house on the edge of a town named Dundas. James is very busy with what I can only call ‘Otterburn business’ during those days. I worry about the work, which as you know involves his skills as an aviator (that’s all I can say, really), but he assures me he is more of an ‘on the ground’ man. You may wonder what I do all day, now that (for the first time in my life) I do not have a job. I am going through Maurice’s papers with great care and am learning much about him and his work. It is illuminating. Suffice it to say, he had so much more to teach me, and I sometimes feel as if he were here at my side offering words of advice, and his own inimitable wisdom.
At week’s end we generally return to Toronto – not a short journey by any means, but we enjoy our apartment (the one where James lived in bachelor days), which is very large, I must say, and we have so much fun sailing on the lake. Sometimeswe remain in Dundas, however, we end up seeing more of the Otterburns at those times because they like to remain at their farm, and of course they have lots of guests and we are always expected to be at their parties. Fortunately, we can avoid them with more ease if they’re in Toronto – they have a rather grand house in an area called Rosedale – and as you know, I still would rather avoid Otterburn.
I cannot believe Thomas is fifteen now, Timothy thirteen, and dear Tarquin eleven (and with a full set of teeth! I still remember him losing those front teeth!). At least my middle godson is no longer bound and determined to be an aviator – sailing, you say? Well, it’s lucky his pal Geoffrey comes from a family with a boat, otherwise you would be on your way to the coast every Friday evening.
My father and Brenda are well. They moved from the Groom’s Cottage to the village two months ago and now live in a new bungalow they’ve purchased on the Tonbridge side of Chelstone. Brenda loves what she calls the ‘mod cons’ that the cottage didn’t have, but they come back to the Dower House twice a week to make sure all is well, though I have tenants moving in on a year’s lease at the end of the month. Dad is establishing a rose garden at the new house, though he checks the gardens at the Dower House, which are looked after by Mr Avery.
Finally, to answer your question – please continue to keep our news under your hat. The doctor advised me to take care, so I don’t want to tempt fate.
With love to you all,
Maisie
The Times, London, September 1935
James Compton, son of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton, was killed in a flying accident in northern Ontario, Canada, on Sunday. Details of the tragedy have not been revealed, but according to early reports the Viscount Compton, chairman of the Compton Corporation, was a keen aviator and enjoyed the hobby whilst working for his company in Toronto. Viscount Compton’s wife, the former Miss Margaret Dobbs, has been admitted to hospital in Toronto, though she was not involved in the immediate accident. It is understood that Viscount Compton’s parents have sailed for Canada, along with his wife’s father and stepmother. Viscount Compton was with the Royal Flying Corps during the war and received commendations for gallantry following an attack during which he sustained wounds. Details of a memorial service in London will be released by the family in due course.
Toronto, November 1935
Dear Priscilla,
This will be a short letter. Everyone has gone home now. I did not want to return to England, but I do not want to remain here. There are too many memories for me to encounter every single day, not least James’ study – which looks as if he might be home at any moment – and a beautiful nursery that haunts me each time I pass the door. I had never expected marriage to James to make me so content, but it did.
I will be in touch again, in good time. You know and understand me, Pris – I have to be alone, and I need to goaway, perhaps even back to India. I think travelling might be the best idea. If I am on the move and not in one place, then I can perhaps outrun myself. If I linger, then like dark flies on a dead deer, the memories and thoughts land and terror seems to fester and pull me in. I cannot bear to be at Chelstone or even in London, where too many people will be watching me, waiting for something to happen, waiting for me to sink or swim, when all I want to do is float, as I did in hospital when the present was held at bay by ether and morphia and whatever else they put into me. The thought of return bears down upon me and renders even my home unsafe.
Please keep in touch with my father and Brenda. I know they will worry – it was all I could do to get my father to leave, but Brenda understood. She once lost a baby too.
Love, as always,
Maisie
January 1936
Lady Rowan Compton to Priscilla Partridge
My dear Priscilla,
I find it so strange, yet heart-warming, that I have come to know you since my beloved son died, and our Maisie has been all but lost to us. Though I feared for them when a romance seemed to be in the offing, it seemed that they had so much going for them as a couple, and had settled into a very happy marriage – I think it surprised them as much as it did me! But now I grieve, for I have lost them both. You may not know that James’ older sister died in an accident when she was a child,and though the years softened the hard edges of my anger – for I was angry at my loss, there is no other way to describe the utter pain – Maisie became like a daughter to me. There was talk about her station, yes, but to be honest, when you have grieved as a mother, such things matter not. Once you’ve decided not to sink into the dark caverns of your aching heart and die yourself, only life matters – and as I am sure you know, you feel more able to tell the world what to do with itself if it doesn’t ‘approve’ of you or your family. And Maisie was such a light. Of course, she had her days of sad reflection – the war did that to so many of our young, as you know yourself – but she was always so spirited. Stubborn at times, yes, but she gave her all to her work. And once she was married, she gave her all to James. That’s the sort of person she is. And now we don’t know where to find her.
James’ father still has contacts where contacts count. I never ask him about it, because to be frank, I don’t want to know. When she had her business, Maisie would telephone him on occasion, you know, to squirrel some information from on high when she was working on a case. I think he rather liked it, being of service to someone in that line of work. In any case, he has not been himself since James death – none of us have – but I think it’s time for him to call upon his old chums in Whitehall. They always seem to be able to find someone who appears to have vanished into thin air. I’ll tell him the last letter you received came from Boston, though she did not mention where she was staying, or give a return address. I vaguely remember that Simon Lynch had a wartime doctor friend there who Maisie kept in touch with – she might have gone to him and his wife to seek solace. Or she might be alone, which alwaysworries me, and I know it does you, too. I don’t like the idea of her without company, not after all she’s lost. And I am sure her health is not what it should be, especially after everything she’s gone through.
I will be in touch as soon as I hear something.
With affection,
Rowan
Boston, February 1936
Dr Charles Hayden to Priscilla Partridge
Dear Mrs Partridge,
We met briefly when I was over in London a few years ago, and then again at the wedding. If you remember, I knew Simon Lynch during the war, and he introduced me to Maisie. When I first met you, you’d assisted her with some information on a case concerning the son of family friends, the Cliftons. She helped them discover a few things about their son, who was killed in 1916. Considering the horrors that happened during their stay in London, it is a miracle that Mr and Mrs Clifton are still alive and enjoy fair health. However, this letter is not about them. I wanted to let you know that Maisie has been staying with my wife and me at our home here in Boston. I believe she has not let anyone in England know her whereabouts – not an unusual response from someone who has experienced such a tragedy. I am a neurosurgeon by profession, and though I have an understanding of psychological trauma, my field is brain disease and injury – but I know deep shock when I see it, and I believe Maisie is in a very vulnerable position.
The purpose of this letter is to inform you that Maisie has now left us. Pauline begged her to stay on, to no avail. My wife is very good with people, and she managed to bring Maisie out of herself, but in the end Maisie said she felt she had to go back to India, that she had found peace there, and she believed it was the best place for her to stay for a while. She said she had to ‘unpick the knitting’ and start all over again. I guess you might know what that means – and I suppose in my heart of hearts, I do too. She needs to go back in order to go forward in life. God knows, she’s done it before, and if anyone can do it again and rise from the flames like a phoenix, then it’s the Maisie we both know and love.
I hope this letter finds you and your family very well. Your boys were an impressive trio, I must say. I have a daughter about the same age as your eldest – if Patty ever comes over there, I’ll have to warn her about those darn good-looking Partridges!
We will let you know if Maisie gives us a forwarding address.
With best regards,
Sincerely,
Charles D. Hayden, MD
October 1936
Mrs Brenda Dobbs to Maisie Dobbs
Dear Maisie,
First of all, per your instructions, we have not told anyone that you’re in India, even though Lady Rowan sends a message to the house at least once a week. I think she’s even been to seeyour tenants to find out if they know where you are, but of course Mr Klein deals with them directly, and I know he would not tell a soul of your whereabouts – he’s your solicitor, after all.
Maisie, I’m not one for writing long letters, but there are things that need to be said, and if you know this already, then consider it a reminder. Your father and I both understand what you’ve gone through – your dad watched your mother die of that terrible disease, and I lost my first husband and child. Between us women, we all know that the death of a child, even one not born, is a terrible thing to bear – and you were so late on, really. Then on top of seeing your dear James lose his life, well, that’s just beyond my imagination. My heart aches for you, Maisie, really it does. But that doesn’t stop me saying what needs to be said now. Your father wouldn’t want me to write this letter, so this is between you and me. Frankie isn’t getting any younger. He’ll be eighty years old next year, and though his only complaint is that limp from the accident a few years ago, time is written across his face, and he misses you. We all miss you.
It’s time to come home, Maisie. I know you must be scared, imagining how difficult it will be seeing the places where you and James courted, and having to face the grief all over again. Not that I think grief is something you put behind you in the snap of a finger. But come home, Maisie. If for nothing else, come for your dad. You’ll be safe at home, dear love – we’re family. We’ll look after each other. I promise you that.
Yours most truly,
Brenda
Bombay, January 1937
Maisie Dobbs to Mr and Mrs Francis Dobbs
COMING HOME STOP LEAVING END OF WEEK STOP DO NOT TELL ANYONE STOP PLEASE STOP
On board the SS Isabella, off Gibraltar, March 1937
‘But, Lady Compton, I—’
‘Miss Dobbs, if you don’t mind, Captain Johnstone. I’ve had to correct you once already. If you would just let me go about my business without argument, I would be most grateful. I have decided to disembark and remain in Gibraltar. I can join another ship bound for Southampton at any point.’
‘My good woman, you are clearly unable to grasp the situation. I doubt you will find adequate accommodation, and even if you do, this is not a safe place. People are swarming across the border from Spain – all sorts of people, and not all savoury. Any location in close proximity to war presents an element of risk, especially for a woman.’
‘Yes, I am most abundantly aware of that particular fact, Captain – I was a nurse in the war, and closer to battle than you might imagine. Now, if you will just follow my instructions – the leather case, the carpetbag and my satchel will disembark with me, and I would be obliged if you would be so kind as to have the remainder of my luggage delivered to this address once the ship has arrived in Southampton.’ Maisie handed him a page of ship’s stationery. ‘The details are on that slip of paper. Send care of Mr Francis Dobbs. And it must go to exactly that address in Chelstone, and no other.’
The captain sighed. ‘Very well.’ He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I have a note for you, too. I suspected you would not relent, so here’s a list of hotels and the like where I believe you might secure accommodation. I would suggest the Ridge Hotel for someone of your station – I have already made enquiries, and they have informed me that a room is available. It will be held until further notice.’
Maisie reached out her hand and grasped the small sheet of paper. ‘Thank you, Captain Johnstone. I am most grateful.’
The ship’s captain raised an eyebrow. ‘Please take care, Miss Dobbs. I wish I could urge you to remain with the ship – I repeat, this is not a safe place for a woman on her own.’
‘It’s safe enough for me.’
Maisie held out her hand to Johnstone, who took it in his own.
‘I will ensure a taxi is waiting to take you to the hotel,’ said the captain, who held on to her hand a second longer than necessary, as if he might be able to keep her aboard ship after all. ‘And please, be very careful. There is a war not very far away, and battle can wound people. Not all injuries are visible to the naked eye, and they can render the most human of beings volatile. That is what you are facing here; an element of instability.’
‘I understand very well, Captain Johnstone. And I know, too, that not all wars are between countries – are they?’
She turned and left the cabin.
After Maisie had disembarked, Captain Richard Johnstone made his way to the ship’s telegraph room – he had not asked a cabin boy to run this errand – and ordered a message sent to a man named Brian Huntley. He did not know exactly what office Huntley might hold in Whitehall, but he knew the man worked in a department cloaked in some secrecy. The message was that Margaret, Lady Compton, widow of the late Viscount James Compton, was disembarking the ship and would soon be en route to the Ridge Hotel. There was something Johnstone did not add, though: his doubt that the woman would remain even one night in the hotel. If she did, he suspected, she would be gone by the following morning. He had no solid evidence for such a supposition, but as his crew knew only too well, he was a man who trusted his gut. He’d been known to temper the rate of his vessel on no more evidence than the swell of the waves, or a certain texture to the air. In any case, the fate of this particular passenger was out of his hands now. Whatever these people wanted with the woman who preferred not to use her title by marriage – and in his experience, most women would love a title other than Miss or Mrs – well, they would have to find her themselves.
For her part, though she had sent word that she was returning to England, with every mile closer to her destination, and at every port along the route, Maisie’s sense of dread had grown. It was akin to sickness, a fear that she could not bear to step onto home soil. When only two ports remained on the journey – Gibraltar and Cherbourg – the urge not to return to the ship but instead seek refuge where she knew no one, where she might be invisible, unknown, had strengthened like a fast-approaching storm. Cherbourg was too close to England. When she imagined leaving that port of call with only Southampton awaiting her, she knew she would have little choice. No, she would remain ashore in Gibraltar. She was not ready to face a familiar world in which something so precious was missing. The very thought of returning to Chelstone without James made her feel as if she were looking over the edge of a precipice into the void.
CHAPTER TWO
April 1937
Maisie Dobbs sat inside the small cafe on Main Street, having taken a seat on a banquette underneath an embossed mural of Gibraltar in earlier days, when there was no such thing as an airfield, little in the way of a port, and when almost all inhabitants were army, navy, or marines. Sailing ships floated offshore, sails furled, and one could almost distinguish small figures clambering up the mast of the vessel closest to shore. She knew that in choosing this particular seat she might not be quite so visible to anyone walking by; the busyness of the painting at her back was a distraction to the eye. There was one pair of eyes she was determined to deceive if she was to have anything resembling quietude for a few hours.
She had discovered already that his name was Arturo Kenyon, and that he lived in the upper rooms of a whitewashed house in one of the oldest streets flanking the Rock of Gibraltar. He was known in the town as a jobbing carpenter; apparently he’d been mustered out of the Royal Navy due to a shoulder injury, and had taken up a trade on home turf. She was willing to bet he was working on behalf of her father-in-law, no doubt through someone else, but she could not be sure. In all likelihood he would not know who, along the chain of communicants, had assigned his remit.
There were those, she knew, who would not understand or sympathise with her decision to adopt her maiden name once again. But there was comfort in hearing herself say ‘Maisie Dobbs.’ Her surname carried a sense of belonging, now that James was gone. It had her father’s down-to-earth roots in its very sound, reminding her of the way even his footfall seemed grounded with meaning. It was as if the name were stamped on her very being, like a brand. Her father was the most stalwart person she had ever known, perhaps even more so than her late mentor, the famed forensic scientist and psychologist Dr Maurice Blanche. And as much as she knew her deceased husband’s parents loved her, she did not feel as if she were a Compton. Her eyes filled with tears as she tried again to banish the images from her mind, images that came to her often and unbidden, with no warning of their imminent arrival. There it was again, the aircraft gaining speed, swooping low across the escarpment. Once more the memory was so strong that she might have been swept back in time, to the day John Otterburn’s cadre of engineers, designers, and a selected aviator were due to test a new weapon on board the aircraft. James was not meant to be flying. He was to be making notes, having discussions on the ground, and peering into the sky through his binoculars. She was sitting on a rocking chair on the wraparound porch of the old farmhouse used as headquarters for the engineers and aviators, where lunch had been laid out. One hand rested on her rounded belly, while the other shielded her eyes from the sun. John Otterburn had come back to the house twice to see if his indulged daughter – indulged, as far as Maisie was concerned – had arrived for the flight. Elaine Otterburn had claimed the piloting of this particular test for herself, arguing that a woman with her expertise could handle the craft just as well as a man. Otterburn had cursed when Maisie informed him that Elaine had yet to appear, then left to walk back to the other men, clustered alongside the landing strip. Maisie stood up as she watched James meet Otterburn, still shielding her eyes with one hand. The two small figures in the distance appeared to be in some discussion. She left the farmhouse and began to walk across the field toward her husband and the man he had agreed to help in his quest to provide a new fighter aircraft to support Britain’s air defence, should war come once more. They had waited and waited at the airfield – a most secret airfield on Otterburn land – and still there was no sign of Elaine. Then, as Maisie reached the men, a messenger came along on a motorcycle. He brought a note from Otterburn’s wife, informing her husband that Elaine had been to a party the night before, and could not even construct a sentence that morning, let alone fly. She was spending the day in her bed, sleeping off too many champagne cocktails. Maisie remembered thinking that only this spoilt young woman could have found a party in such a rural area.
Then James offered to fly the test. Just one flight, just one test. A take off and landing, and in between a burst of gunfire to make sure everything worked, after which he would report on the aircraft’s stability, the effect the gun had on trim when firing, and how changes in weapon emplacement affected handling. Once again James was stepping forward in the service of his country. The thought crossed Maisie’s mind, though, as she watched her husband don the padded overalls and his sheepskin aviator’s jacket, then pull a leather balaclava over his head, that if push came to shove, his country would know nothing of his work. On behalf of his friends in high places, Otterburn would deny that James Compton had been anything more than an enthusiastic aviation hobbyist. She regretted ever having had that thought, but James had gone back on his word that morning. He’d promised her he would not fly, not now, with a child on the way. He’d given her his promise that from now on he would only ever be an observer, working in an advisory capacity; his feet would not leave the ground. With the baby coming, he had too much to look forward to, and too much to lose. After all, the doctor had instructed them that, given problems she’d already experienced, Maisie should do everything in her power to have a calm final month before the child was born.
Arturo Kenyon walked past the cafe and finger-combed his hair in the window’s reflection. Maisie could see him trying to peer into the cafe. Why didn’t he just come in, sit right next to her? She put her head down so her hat shielded her face, and waited. Glancing up at last toward the window, she saw Kenyon walk to the other side of the road, and look both ways.
She called the proprietor over to her table. ‘Mr Salazar, would you mind if I left by the back door? There’s a man lingering outside who’s been bothering me, making a nuisance of himself, and I want to avoid him.’
The proprietor looked around. ‘You tell me who he is, señora, and I’ll give him something to look at. You’re a good lady, a good customer – there’s too many bad men on the streets now, so I have to watch out for my lady customers. Here, come with me.’
Maisie left by the rear entrance, following Salazar along an alley that snaked around to Main Street. There she thanked her guide and slipped out onto the hot stone thoroughfare behind Arturo Kenyon. As she watched, he approached another man waiting in the afternoon shadows, just as Kenyon had waited for her. Looking into a shop window, she could see reflected in the glass a piece of paper changing hands – it might have been money, it might not. Kenyon nodded at something the other man said.
She recognised the man Kenyon was meeting, though he’d pulled his hat down at the front, perhaps to avoid identification. His name was Michael Marsh, and he was an inspector with the Gibraltar Police. Inspector Marsh had taken her statement after she found Babayoff’s body. She had thought then that he was a good man, though he’d been annoyed by her insistence that perhaps it was not a simple case of robbery, not when the man’s Zeiss camera was still on a strap around his neck. It was Marsh’s conviction that the case was cut-and-dried – one had to remember the sheer numbers of broken ne’er-do-wells entering Gibraltar, he’d said – that had inspired Maisie to do something later, something that she knew was a crime in itself. It was as if she could not help herself, as if she were at the mercy of her own reflexes.
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 leant 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 supper-time 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 leapt, 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 leant 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 watercolours, 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 learnt 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 honour 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 leant 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
