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.
Miriam! 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 photogra
pher, 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.”
Maisie 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?
As Maisie made her way along another alley, overhung by lines of freshly washed laundry, something else occurred to her—that the very broken, stilted English spoken by Miriam when they first met had given way to more articulate expression. Had this been a form of protection for Miriam, to conceal her linguistic skill at first? Perhaps now she had come to trust Maisie, she was letting down her guard. Or was she another who had cast out her line and hooked Maisie, and was now playing her for a fool?
Another question came to mind, one that she wanted to kick herself for not asking before—was it Miriam who had been burdened with the task of identifying her brother’s dead body? Or had someone else stepped in to protect a vulnerable young woman from seeing Sebastian mortally wounded—perhaps a senior member of the hotel staff, or a neighbor? As Maisie passed Mr. Solomon’s shop, she thought she might pop in and ask—one more question would not do any harm. But as she came alongside the entrance, she saw that the Closed sign was turned out for all to see. No one would be buying the Babayoff sisters’ colorful embroidery today.
Maisie returned to the guest house. She did not want to cross paths with Mrs. Bishop—she still hadn’t worked out what sort of communication was going on between the landlady and Robert MacFarlane—so she went to her room, placing a Do Not Disturb sign on the door before closing and locking it behind her. She was tired. She just wanted to lie on her bed for a while, and try to think of nothing.
To Maisie’s surprise, almost as soon as her head touched the pillow she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Wakefulness came to her slowly. She struggled to become fully conscious, as if weights had been placed on her eyelids. For a while she remained stretched out on the bed, her neck damp with perspiration and her body languid with afternoon fatigue. She was parched, her throat dry, so she lifted herself on one elbow to pour a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table. Her thirst quenched, she forced herself to rise. A washbasin in the room provided only cold water, but that was all Maisie needed to freshen herself, splashing water on her face and neck time after time until she felt her flesh tingle. She looked up into the mirror to wipe her skin dry with a towel, and as she caught sight of her reflection, she said aloud, “I am a widow.” She said it again and again, not quite understanding why she felt compelled to do so. But then she remembered Maurice telling her that only by accepting the events of our lives can we go on—and acceptance begins with admitting all that has come to pass.
“I am a widow, and my unborn child died.”
Maisie didn’t dwell on her declaration. Instead she thought of the women and children of Guernica, of the suffering across the border in so many towns and villages.
She turned from the mirror and opened the wardrobe door to select fresh clothes. A black linen skirt, a white blouse, and a cream linen jacket tailored to the hips caught her eye. She’d had the jacket made in India, during her first sojourn in the country, before she had given James her answer, that she would marry him. She had not worn it for a long time, and felt defiant in bringing it out, as if she were gaining purchase on another foothold out of the abyss. Putting on black sandals polished to remove scuffs and a hat and sunglasses to shield her eyes from the late-afternoon sun, she set off for the police station, where she would ask to see Inspector Marsh.
It was a relief to be informed that Marsh was on duty when she arrived. She stated her business and was taken to a small room furnished with a table and two chairs to await the inspector. She did not have to linger in the soulless room for long.
“Miss Dobbs, a pleasure,” said Marsh, beginning his greeting as he opened the door, so half of his words seemed directed along the corridor rather than at Maisie.
“Thank you for seeing me, Inspector Marsh. I appreciate your time.” Maisie held out her hand, which he seemed to study before taking it in a less than firm shake.
Marsh was a tall, thin man, who Maisie estimated to be in his late thirties. It appeared his light woolen jacket may have been donned in a hurry—the cuffs of his shirt were not pulled down—and he seemed distracted.
“Well, then—
what can I do for you?” he asked, indicating that she should take her seat once more. He sat down at the table opposite her.
“You’ve probably guessed it’s about Mr. Babayoff, the photographer.”
“Miss Dobbs—really, that case left my desk weeks ago. Do you have any idea what we are dealing with at the moment? Our resources are at their limit. Even though many refugees have gone back across the border, we still have a lot on our plates. Our population seems to change every day, and not always with an influx of the kind of people we would like to see on the streets. I really don’t have the time to go back over old ground.” He hit the table with his palm—not hard, but to make a point. “I told you when I took your statement that it was clear to us that Mr. Babayoff was—regrettably—the victim of an itinerant, someone looking for ready cash, and not a camera that would be hard to shift, hence leaving it behind. I do wish you would see this whole case from my point of view—it’s so obvious, it beggars belief. Even MacFarlane thinks so.”
“Ah, so you’ve met Mr. MacFarlane,” said Maisie. She remained composed, her hands on her lap.
Marsh sighed. “Oh, please, Miss Dobbs. No cat and mouse—of course I’ve seen him. He was a senior Scotland Yard policeman, and he has contacts here, so we were his first stop when he came to Gibraltar. No surprises there, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie nodded. “Well, I’ve a simple question, Inspector. Can you tell me who identified Sebastian Babayoff’s body?”
“I do wish you’d drop all this and either go home or enjoy your sojourn as a visitor to our town.”
“As soon as you tell me, I promise I will not darken your door again, Inspector.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute, but I will tell you anyway. We prefer a body to be identified by the next of kin; after all, even if facial features have been . . . well, altered, there are other telling marks that a member of the family would be familiar with—a mole, a scar, a birthmark, that sort of thing. But Babayoff’s wounds were quite distressing. He was beaten with metal of some sort—the pathologist suspected the perpetrator had both a knife and something pretty hefty, possibly a hammer, or a wrench, an iron pipe, something of that order. Given the degree of his wounds, we considered it too distressing for a woman. A man known to the family stepped forward, another Jew. He said it wasn’t a woman’s place to do the job. That seemed fair.” Marsh sighed, pausing, as if still unsure as to whether he should reveal the information to Maisie. “His name is Solomon. He has that shop at the end of the street where the Babayoff sisters still live. Funny fellow, but serious, intent upon protecting Miriam Babayoff.”