A Dangerous Place

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Of course, I see now. But no, I don’t remember any gentleman or woman such as those you describe. I’m not saying they were not there, but you will appreciate, as a member of staff when the hotel is busy—and I shouldn’t admit this—one face looks much like another, after a while.”

  Maisie smiled and held out her hand. “Not to worry—it was just a thought. It’s been bothering me, you see, that a man could be killed, leaving relatives to grieve his loss, yet with no knowledge of his attacker’s identity. I wanted to see if I could find out anything.”

  “Best left to the police, Miss Dobbs.” The man picked up his pen and smiled past Maisie. Two new guests were arriving, followed by a porter carrying their luggage.

  “Yes, best left to the police,” agreed Maisie.

  She turned away and walked toward the doors, but before she reached them, she glanced back at the clerk. He had summoned a junior clerk and moved to use a telephone some distance from the new guests, who were loudly proclaiming their room preference. Maisie stepped around the edge of the entrance and moved with barely a sound in the direction of the far end of the desk where Santos was now dialing. The pillars were useful in hiding her approach, though he was looking down at a piece of paper he had unfolded and placed before him. Maisie positioned herself so that she could listen to the conversation, but not readily be seen. Santos continued to consult the note. Maisie strained to hear.

  “Yes. Thank you. I can wait.” There was a pause, then Santos gave a half-smile, as if greeting whoever was on the end of the line in person, rather than via telephone. “You were right. Yes, she came back. Yes. She asked about a man at the party, a man that Babayoff had paid some attention to with his camera—he was with a woman. No. She said she was told about them by another couple she’d met who were at the hotel when it happened—but apparently they’ve sailed now.” He gave a half-laugh. “I thought so too, sir. Yes. Very well. Thank you, Mr. MacFarlane.” He replaced the receiver on the cradle and turned toward the other clerk, who was smiling up at the new guests and telling them that of course they could have a room with the best view of the sea.

  Maisie closed her eyes and shook her head, then slipped out of the hotel and back onto the path. She wanted to look at the place where Sebastian Babayoff had been killed. Just one more look.

  She felt as if a cold blanket had enveloped her body as she walked along the path, closer to the place where she had discovered the mutilated body of Sebastian Babayoff. She recognized the exact point not by any sign of blood spilled, but by the very cleanliness of the area, as if acid had been poured liberally across the path, causing the ground to become almost white in places. She knelt down, touched the soil, and closed her eyes, reliving the evening she had first meandered along the path, soon after she had disembarked with no purpose but to become lost. She wanted nothing more than to slip away, as if she had never been known by anyone. Even that recollection grieved her now, because it was her father’s face that came to mind as she stood in the bright sunshine, thinking of the terrible pain he would feel if he knew how she was enduring an existence rather than living a life. Soon she would have to square up to the business of sailing for England, if only to see the face she loved so very much behold her in return.

  Breathing deeply, Maisie sat on the low wall that flanked the path. First she looked behind her at the bushes where she had discovered the Leica camera. Was she sorry she had not handed it over to the police? No, she wasn’t. It would have been either destroyed or put away somewhere, never to be seen again. Not that she blamed the local police—far from it. She believed strings were being pulled to control their actions. It was a delicate time, after all, and they had enough on their plates, dealing with the local civilian consequences of a war too close for comfort.

  It was while she was sitting in quiet contemplation, that she realized she had no idea what Babayoff looked like. When she encountered his body, it was twilight, a time when shadows crossed a grainy darkness, and even a silhouette seemed larger and without human form. She had taken his hand, felt the fading warmth as life ebbed from his body, and seen enough to know his face was bloody and bruised. A heavy weapon must have been used to beat him about the head, along with the knife used to run through his heart. The perpetrator had been intent upon his quest—which Maisie believed was not to rob, not to take money or valuables. Sebastian Babayoff was, she was sure, the intended target—there was no mistaken identity. She thought her investigation—if it could be termed such—revealed activities on the part of the photographer that were too unpredictable for her to take what she encountered of him at face value. His job was to see the world from a narrow perspective, to reveal smiles of joy, or a view of the ocean, or a landscape to be remembered. With his camera he laid down moments in time for posterity—images never to be forgotten because they were there forever, in black and white and shades of gray.

  And as Maisie sifted through these thoughts, as she imagined Sebastian Babayoff, again, going about his work, she realized she could not search for the truth in black-and-white evidence, but in the grainy shadows, among the people who lurked there, hoping never to be seen. If that were so, then who was the man with the fair hair, photographed with Carlos Grillo’s niece—who at the time bore little resemblance to the black-clad young woman from a family of Genoan fisherfolk? There was something so very blatant about his demeanor, as if he were afraid of no one.

  She realized, then, that she didn’t really want to come face-to-face with that man, though she anticipated it might well happen.

  Jacob Solomon was behind the counter of his haberdashery shop when Maisie entered, the bell above the door clanging as she crossed the threshold. She quite liked the musty warmth in the store, as if particles of fabric had come together to reignite a childhood memory long forgotten. There had been a haberdashery shop not far from the small terrace house where she’d lived with her mother and father. She remembered being sent to the shop by her mother to buy a new transfer for her embroidery. There were many intricate designs, and Maisie knew that the greater the challenge, the more it might draw her mother’s mind away from her pain. This was before her father had spent every penny he earned taking his wife to doctors he hoped might hold a cure. Maisie would step into the shop, the floorboards dark underfoot, flanked by chests of drawers full of all manner of linen and cotton goods, many wrapped in paper to protect the delicate materials from from damp and dust. The proprietor would bring out a selection of transfers for Maisie to pore over. There were flowers and paisleys, and embroidery transfers depicting Little Bo Peep and Jack and Jill. “Well, your mother will have her hands full with that one,” the proprietor would say, and Maisie would nod and hand over the requisite number of pennies, telling the woman that she did not need silks; her mother had a basket full of thread in many colors. Maisie wondered, now, where all those squares of her mother’s fine embroidery had gone. Had her father burned them in his grief? Or had they been given away, or sold to bring in a little more money? There was medicine to pay for, toward the end, medicine that took her mother into a netherworld, as if she were standing at a station in gauzy light, waiting to pass into another life, free from pain.

  “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.”

  Maisie 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 tha
t she had come to the same conclusion herself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Maisie 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.