Maisie blushed, and tears sprang to her eyes. She looked down until she felt them subside, then looked up at MacFarlane.
“No. No, I will not leave. There’s a grieving family, and they cannot rest until they have answers. I know something else is going on, and I know who’s involved.”
MacFarlane leaned back in his chair. “I knew that would be your answer.”
“Then why did you even ask?”
“I had to make sure.”
There was a silence between them.
“Had to make sure of what?”
MacFarlane sighed. “I don’t know, Maisie. I had to make sure you had at least some semblance of a plan, of a clear purpose for doing this—though you can’t fool me, lass. This interest is to deflect your attention from widowhood.”
Maisie looked down at her hands, clenched before her on the table. “I lost more than my husband, you know.”
“Aye, I know, lass.” MacFarlane reached across and placed his hand on hers. It was large, broad, the fingers long and thick; one hand covering both of hers, as if he were bestowing a benediction.
After a moment, MacFarlane withdrew his hand, and they reached for their coffee and sipped. He put down his cup and picked up one of the two jam-filled pastries. “None of this cutting off little bits here and there—this is how I do it.” And with two bites, he had finished the pastry and was wiping a handkerchief across his chin and hands.
Maisie could not help herself; she laughed. “You don’t change, do you, Robbie?” They had slipped into first-name terms. She held her open handkerchief to her chest and picked up the remaining pastry. “I don’t want to get the jam all over this clean blouse.”
“That’s the way, lass. You get that down you—you could do with a bit of weight on those bones.” MacFarlane paused, then leaned forward. “So give me a thorough account of what you’ve done and what you know.”
The sudden direct question took Maisie aback, though she did not give herself away. Instead she took up her coffee cup and finished the beverage. MacFarlane looked at his watch. Maisie cleared her throat and recounted her investigation, with one omission. She did not want the policeman to know about photographs taken by Babayoff just prior to his death—as much as she respected him, she knew the man before her was working for the Secret Service now, with the threads of connection to Scotland Yard remaining unsevered.
“And I haven’t seen Mr. Kenyon since,” she concluded.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” replied MacFarlane, looking at his watch again.
“Do you have a prior appointment?”
He shook his head. “No, but as I always say, the sun must be over the yardarm somewhere in the world, so I think it’s time for a wee dram.” He turned and summoned Salazar, who came to his side at once. “Have you by any chance got an eighteen-year-old malt whisky languishing behind that bar of yours?”
Salazar smiled and nodded, placing a hand on MacFarlane’s shoulder in a conspiratorial fashion as he laughed.
“Good man. I don’t believe the lady will partake, so if you could bring me a good two fingers’ worth in a glass, I will be a happy laddie.” MacFarlane looked at Maisie, raising his eyebrows as if daring her to comment. Salazar walked at a clip toward the bar.
“What about Kenyon?” she asked.
“I do believe he was no longer quite as useful as he had been—he had found you, reported back to the necessary quarters, and was poking here and there, not getting anywhere and on the verge of upsetting the local bobbies. He was playing above his rank, Maisie—though the death of this photographer fellow seems to have that effect on people. Mr. Kenyon is at the moment engaged in some carpentry work at the garrison. Windows, I believe. It necessitates him staying in quarters there.”
“I see.” She paused. “I’ve told you about Babayoff and Carlos Grillo—but what do you think was going on? You haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“And I don’t have to, either.”
Salazar approached, holding the bottle of single-malt whisky and a glass. With a flourish he pulled out the cork and poured to the level indicated by MacFarlane, his broad two fingers held alongside the glass.
“I think I ought to go now,” said Maisie.
“No, lass. Sit a while, I haven’t finished yet.” MacFarlane sipped from the glass. “Aye, that’s better. Now, then, where was I?”
“Telling me you didn’t have to inform me why you’re here, or why you’re interested in the case of Sebastian Babayoff.”
“That I was. Now then, I am here with several things in mind. First, the question of refugees, of wrongdoing on the part of both the locals and those refugees and how that could affect the security of our great British Isles. And when I am in a British territory, or a protectorate or a colony, or whatever you care to call any place where the Union Jack flies, I am concerned with that little overlap between control of the criminal element and the more shadowy work of our brethren working in intelligence.”
“Then what about the submarine?”
“You’re sure it was a sub?”
Maisie nodded and sat back. “You knew already, didn’t you?”
MacFarlane said nothing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” Maisie turned to gather her bag. “I’m fed up with cat and mouse. I have things to do today.”
MacFarlane was about to respond when Salazar could be heard greeting another customer, with some enthusiasm. Maisie looked up. It was Professor Vallejo. His face was drawn, his eyes dull. Salazar’s ebullient mood was replaced by a questioning look as he grasped the other man by the hand. Maisie strained to catch their conversation, but she could only hear Salazar repeating a single phrase—Dios mio, Dios mio, Dios mio—time and time again.
“What’s going on over there?” asked MacFarlane, turning to follow Maisie’s gaze.
“Shhh. I don’t know. It’s something serious, though.”
At that point, Vallejo looked across the café, saw Maisie with MacFarlane, and turned to leave. Salazar held his hand to his heart and pressed a handkerchief to his eyes as he stepped back toward the bar. Maisie squeezed out from the banquette and approached Vallejo, stopping him at the door.
“Professor Vallejo, what is wrong? Why is Mr. Salazar so upset? And you’re in shock—what has happened?” She laid a hand on his arm.
“It’s only just coming in, the news—the tragedy.”
“Tell me—what tragedy? What has happened?”
“In Guernica—close to France, in the north, a town in the Basque country. They’ve attacked, the Germans and the Italians—the Fascists. They’ve bombed the marketplace, killed men and women and children, little children, women, blown to pieces. The town is no more. They came yesterday, flying in and out and in and out, dropping their bombs. Those bastards were looking down, looking down at the market, at the people going about their business, and they killed them in cold blood.”
Maisie held her hand to her mouth, feeling the nausea rise. “The bombers—they flew over Gibraltar, didn’t they? They came in over here—I saw them.”
“Then you saw the murderers of children, Miss Dobbs. The killers of little ones, of mothers who fell on top of their young to protect them, and fathers torn to shreds before their families. Women and children in the marketplace.”
Maisie struggled to imagine such a scene. And when the picture flickered into her consciousness, she felt a searing pain, as if the scar had come alive.
“Maisie. Maisie, lass, sit down. You’ve lost your color.” MacFarlane was at her side, his arm around her shoulders. He pulled out a seat for her, and as her feet became solid on the ground once more, the pain subsided. She sipped from a glass of water brought to her by Mr. Salazar, his eyes red.
“Where did the professor go?” asked Maisie.
“On his way, lass,” replied MacFarlane. “He left after giving you the news.”
And Maisie remembered, then, that it was as she felt the blackness encroach upon her vision, and as her knees bega
n to fail her, that MacFarlane had come to her aid. Vallejo had looked up, nodded his acknowledgment toward her rescuer, and turned away. He’d walked out of the café, and was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
MacFarlane offered to accompany Maisie back to her lodging, but she declined. “I just want to take the air for a while, walk around,” she said.
MacFarlane reached inside his pocket and took out a notebook and short pencil. He licked the end of the pencil, reminding Maisie of a tic-tac man at the races, pegging his prices and calculating a punter’s winnings. He scribbled a telephone number.
“Salazar here has a telephone in his caff, so if you learn anything at all that you think I should know about, well, this is where you can find me. If I am not there, a man named David Shaw will take a message. No one but David Shaw.”
Maisie nodded.
“And you’ve told me everything you know?”
“Yes,” she replied, shivering.
“Terrible news, that—about the bombing,” said MacFarlane, looking along Main Street toward Grand Casemates Square.
“Brings it all back, doesn’t it?” said Maisie.
“Aye, it does that, lass. But we both came through it, that’s the thing to remember—we came through it.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “And you’ll get through this, Maisie, through your bereavement. You’re made of stronger stuff than you will ever know.” He cleared his throat. “There, you’re making a wet rag of me, your ladyship.” He gave a brief grin when Maisie shook her head, then was serious again. “I know you’ve kept a few things to yourself, but remember what I said, Maisie—this is not a game. Murder never is, and war definitely isn’t, and when the two come together, we all have to look out for ourselves and the people we trust. Keep me informed, Maisie. I want to know what you’re up to.” He nodded, and walked away.
Maisie wasn’t sure what she should do. Her plans, gathered in a neat mental list before she left Mrs. Bishop’s, were now driven asunder, scattered across her mind like a fallen house of cards. At a slow walk she set off from Main Street in the direction of Governor’s Parade and St. Andrew’s Church, which with its no-nonsense solidity drew Maisie in. She felt at once a need to be tightly held and a desire to be alone, with just herself and her thoughts for company. Stepping from midday sunshine into the cool shadows of the building, she sat down in one of the pews.
The professor’s description of the Guernica tragedy was alive in her mind’s eye—the searing scenes of men, women, and children cut down, torn from limb to limb and from one another. These images of the terrors visited upon the Basque town mingled with memories of France and Flanders, of communities destroyed by shelling, innocents killed. But they are all innocents, she could hear Maurice saying. They are all innocents. She thought of the bombers attacking Guernica, flown by men who’d descended low enough to gain a close view of their quarry, men who had seen the children playing on market day and then taken their lives. She wished she could ask Maurice, “Where is the innocence now?” And he would no doubt have an answer. She wished she knew what it was. Then, for the first time it occurred to her that perhaps John Otterburn was right after all. Bombers were the dark crows of death, sent out to lay their eggs on an unsuspecting world. Perhaps a new, swift fighter aeroplane would destroy bombers even before they could unleash their weapons. Perhaps, then, James had not died in vain.
Maisie was aware that others were coming into the church to pray, drawn into a place of worship by the news now spreading through the community. She closed her eyes once more and tried to marshal her thoughts. MacFarlane had given away little, and for her part she had kept a few things to herself. She knew she wanted to find Babayoff’s killer on her own. In fact, if she were honest with herself, it was more than something she wanted, it was a deep-rooted need. If she could not attribute blame for her husband’s death, by God she would bring back the killer of a young man who had been—she had no doubt—punching well above his weight.
She thought of Babayoff’s photographs, and in particular the image of Grillo’s niece, clad in silk, her look sultry, her laugh wide, drawing in the blond man as if she were a spider who had caught a fly in her web. But Maisie was sure of one thing—the man was no helpless insect. Everything about his stance, the lift of his chin, the swept-back hair, the hand raised to make a point, the easy way he stood before the young woman, spoke to a confidence that he would prevail in anything he tried, whether it was his work or the art of seduction. It was as if he knew he was engaged in a game, and it was one he was playing on top form. She studied the photograph in her mind’s eye and considered the sport in progress—but who were the players, and what was the point?
Maisie raised her head and made ready to leave the church. She looked at the people around her, and then, as she glanced across the aisle, felt herself unable to take another step. A fair-haired man was sitting alone in the neighboring pew, staring in the direction of the altar, his face without expression, his gaze unblinking. Maisie looked away, then gathered her bag and stepped sideways along the pew to the aisle, where she bowed her head in respect and walked toward the door. She glanced back once, and at that moment, she noticed two things. One, that the man was now looking directly at her. Second, she could have sworn that the man sitting in the half-light at the back of the church was Robbie MacFarlane, yet his attention was not on Maisie—it was on the fair-haired man in the immaculate gray suit, his hair swept back from his blue eyes. He was the man in Sebastian Babayoff’s photograph.
And as she stepped out once again into the hot sunshine, she realized that the man reminded her of James, though James, she knew, would have been praying for the souls of dead children and their grieving families. James had warmth and compassion. It would not surprise her had she been told that the man in the opposite pew was a man whose veins ran with cold blood.
Catalan Bay was warm by the time Maisie arrived. Fishermen were now working on their boats or talking in small groups. The scene reminded her of Hastings and Dungeness—it seemed to Maisie that women in fishing communities wore the same uniform, garbed in black. It was as if they expected disaster each time a boat with their menfolk aboard set out into the waves.
The women working on the nets informed her that Rosanna was probably at the market, or looking after her mother, who was unwell. No one offered to tell where the young woman lived, or to let her know that Maisie had come to see her, so Maisie turned away, prepared to come back another day. She tried to find shade as she walked—not at any speed, for she was weary. She was looking up to see if a cloud or two would lumber across the sky to offer respite, when she saw a man watching from the rocks above the beach ahead. She slowed, and squinted. If she were not mistaken, this was Arturo Kenyon—who was clearly not engaged in carpentry at the garrison.
Kenyon gave no indication that he had seen Maisie. His beige cotton trousers flapped in a breeze that had blown up, and his white shirt-sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He wore no jacket, though a fisherman’s cap shielded his eyes from the sun. He brought down the binoculars, then looked out to sea and lifted them to his eyes again. Then, in a decisive movement, he lowered the binoculars, turned, and began walking away. Maisie scrambled up the rocks and set out on the path behind him, keeping well back so he would not see or hear her. He seemed intent upon making good time. Perhaps he knows I’m here, thought Maisie. Then she considered how strange it was that the man who had followed her, stalking her movements to report back to his Secret Service employers, was now being followed by his quarry.
Soon the path changed, becoming a narrower thoroughfare. Maisie realized this was not a route back into town, but was leading to another part of the looming rock that defined Gibraltar. Undergrowth increased, and it was not long before they were in an area of sandy brush land, populated by stunted trees as the path began an ascent. She could still see the white shirt ahead, though she kept well back. Just in time, Maisie stepped behind some bushes as Kenyon slowed and looked around him. He seemed to be list
ening, his eyes searching the path he’d just walked. As he turned back to the path, Maisie peered out from her hiding place. Instead of continuing, he extended his hands in front of him, as if to grab something. She heard metal on metal, and put her hand to her ear to try to distinguish the sound. The noise changed: metal scraping across rock. Kenyon was no longer on the path.
It was a risk, but she stepped out from her hiding place and slowly crept toward the point where she had last seen Kenyon. Then she saw it: a barred gate, looking as if it were the entrance to a prison cell. But this gate led not to a gaol but to a cave—and it seemed that Arturo Kenyon had vanished inside.
The rusty padlock was one of substance, and had she not taken care, it would have clunked when she lifted it. She could see how a man’s hand could slip through the bars from inside the cave, to open and close the padlock, as long as he had a key. She suspected, too, that there were bolts on the inside—bolts that could be drawn back from outside the gate only if a person knew where to place his hand to wrench them free.
Maisie was thankful that sound echoes in a cave; she could hear voices, coming closer. She turned and ran on tiptoe to her former hiding place, crouching amid the low, leafy shrubbery. She heard the scrape of bolts drawn back, the rattle of chain and padlock, followed by the cast-iron gate screeching against the rock, a sound that set her teeth on edge. The grating was repeated as the gate was closed and secured again, and two people—or was it three?—walked along the path flanking the place where she crouched to avoid detection.
She leaned forward to better identify who was there, when a sound distracted her and she stumbled, cracking branches as she avoided falling onto the path. She closed her eyes and held her breath.
“What’s that?” said Arturo Kenyon.