MacFarlane shook his head. “I wish you’d take up knitting or something, Maisie, really I do.”
“You’re blowing hot and cold, Robbie. One minute you’re confiding in me, and the next you want me to go home to my needles.”
“Hmmph.” MacFarlane looked away, folded his arms, and brought his attention back to Maisie. “Just tell me what you know.”
“All right. I think Arturo Kenyon was engaged in smuggling. I cannot say for certain what he was smuggling, but I would guess armaments—and a fair stash at that. I last saw him on the beach at Catalan Bay. He might have left Gibraltar, MacFarlane. I believe he had Communist sympathies, and now he’s gone.”
“And where do you think he is now?”
Maisie shrugged. “Precisely? I have no idea, but I would guess it’s across the border, then on to Madrid.” She paused. “And that leads me to wonder—was he absconding with arms lifted from the garrison? Or was his cargo being shipped with an official nod and a wink?”
“We’re not in the business of trading with Communists.”
“And what about the Fascists?” She pointed up at the sky. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice the aircraft on their way to bomb Guernica. It appears they were given leave to fly over British sovereign territory—as they must have done on many an occasion to bomb men, women, and children who are fighting for nothing more than food in their bellies, books in their schools, and something of the life the gentry are leading.”
“Don’t go political on me, Maisie. Keep a level head, for goodness sake.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Arturo Kenyon,” said MacFarlane, deflecting her question.
“What about him?”
“Foolish, foolish boy.”
“There are always foolish boys in wartime, Robbie. I was married to one—and now he’s dead.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I have something to ask of you now.”
“What can I do for you, lassie?” MacFarlane came to his feet alongside her.
“I want to talk to Marsh about Sebastian Babayoff.”
MacFarlane laughed. “Oh, Maisie, what am I going to do with you? What do you want to know?”
“Specifically, I want to talk to him about Miriam Babayoff.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
Maisie tucked a lock of hair behind her right ear and squinted up into MacFarlane’s eyes. “Just a feeling, that’s all. I can’t really say until I’ve spoken to him.”
“All right, lass—and I’ll be right there with you.”
“Yes, I know—more’s the pity.” She met his eyes again. “What about Arturo Kenyon? What will you do about him?”
“I could wait until he turns up alive or I know he’s dead, or I could send someone to intercept him—count on it being the latter. I don’t want him to fall into the hands of Franco’s boys, whether they’re Spanish, German or Eye-ties, and I certainly don’t want Stalin’s mob to find him. Even tea boys know where the key to the office is.”
“And as far as Spain’s war is concerned, Gibraltar’s Britain’s guardroom, isn’t it?”
“More like the entrance hall—we can see who goes in and comes out, and we keep an eye on all of them.”
“I’ll just get my bag,” said Maisie.
Maisie waited while MacFarlane summoned Inspector Marsh. She had not missed the way in which MacFarlane was greeted at the police station. The constable on duty stood to attention, and there seemed to be a buzz about the place as soon as they entered the building. A small room was cleared for them to meet, and when Marsh appeared, MacFarlane had already taken the seat behind the desk, leaving Marsh to sit next to Maisie in front of him. He’d refused tea on behalf of himself and Maisie, whispering to her as the constable left, “We’ll nip over to old Salazar’s and have a decent cup of his coffee after this.”
“Inspector Marsh,” said MacFarlane, when they were all seated, “Miss Dobbs here has some questions for you, and I said you would be happy to assist her.” He nodded at the other policeman to indicate that he was at liberty to answer.
“Miss Dobbs, how can I help you? I take it this is about the Babayoff murder. I think I explained that—regrettably—it was unlikely that his assailant would be found.”
“Indeed, and I perfectly understand,” said Maisie. “However, I’d like to go back to the time when Miriam Babayoff, the victim’s sister, came to identify the body.”
Marsh blew out his cheeks, suggesting this meeting was the most tedious thing he would have to deal with all day. It was clear from the way he crossed his legs at the ankle and wagged his foot back and forth, back and forth, that he could not wait for them to leave him alone.
“Inspector?” said MacFarlane.
Marsh uncrossed his legs so that both feet were firm on the floor. He placed his hands on his knees.
“It was fairly straightforward, as I said when I described the identification before. We’d sent a member of the Jewish police to—”
“Jewish police?” said Maisie.
MacFarlane interjected. “It was how things were done in the earlier days of the force here—there was a separate Jewish force to deal with matters arising among the Sephardic brethren. It’s not formally organized like that anymore, but it’s as well for people to receive bad news from a member of their own kind, so to speak.” He looked at Marsh. “I assume you were about to allude to the fact that you sent one of the Jewish police to deliver news to the family about the man’s death.”
Marsh nodded, turning to Maisie. “It was the same with the Irish—they had their own police. Anyway, we sent one of our Jewish police to break the news to the sister—not the crippled one, but the younger one. He went to the house with the rabbi and a neighbor, a Mr. Solomon. They accompanied her to the mortuary to identify the body.”
“Were you there?”
He nodded again. “I was in attendance, but not what you would call center stage—it would not be respectful of the deceased or the next-of-kin.”
“What happened when she identified the body?” asked Maisie.
Marsh looked up at MacFarlane, who nodded for him to continue.
“Miss Dobbs, we’ve gone through all this. When you discovered the body, there was limited light. You were escorted from the scene; but when we brought in the pathologist and lights, we realized that Mr. Babayoff had received not only chest wounds but deep head and facial wounds. Miss Babayoff would not have been looking at the peaceful face of her brother, Miss Dobbs.” He cleared his throat. “The rabbi had already been informed of this and had in turn explained the situation to Miss Babayoff. As I told you previously, Mr. Solomon was going to identify the body, to protect Miss Babayoff from even more distress. But she would not allow it.”
“How did she identify the body?”
“She lifted the sheet close to his head, just enough to see his hair. Then she did the same to see his arm and inspected his fingers and she looked at his palm. She walked around the table to touch the other hand. Then she broke down. She wept almost uncontrollably, and said she wanted to leave. The rabbi consoled her. Solomon nodded to my colleague, and that was all we needed.”
“I see. And was there any reason for you to doubt her?”
“Oh, no—she was distraught. In fact, as the rabbi guided her toward the door, she asked for some scissors. The pathologist handed her a pair, and she proceeded to snip a lock of her brother’s hair, which she pressed into a locket she’d brought with her.”
“And then they left.”
Marsh shook his head. “Solomon remained. It is the tradition for a family member to remain in a sort of vigil, and in the absence of that family member, a person close to the deceased and the next-of-kin. We might be British here, but we’re a mixed populace, and we try to respect one another’s way of life.”
Maisie nodded her understanding.
“The burial took place either the following day or the day after—I can check for you. As I said before, it is Jew
ish tradition to be respectful of the dead and those mourning by not waiting any longer than necessary to bury the deceased. We had no further need to retain the body, so it was released to the family.”
“Of course,” said Maisie. She glanced across at MacFarlane, who was frowning, then brought her attention back to Marsh. “That’s all I needed to ask. I wanted to clarify what happened just once more. Thank you for your assistance, Inspector.”
Marsh moved as if to stand, but MacFarlane remained seated.
“Miss Dobbs, I will see you in a little while,” said MacFarlane. “I need to have a quick word with my colleague here.”
Maisie smiled, shook hands with Marsh, who opened the door for her and called to a constable to escort her out. The door was closed behind her, and she heard nothing of the conversation between the two policemen.
She went on her way in the direction of Main Street and Mr. Salazar’s café, where she was welcomed to her usual seat underneath the mural. She ordered a milky coffee and a japonesa. Though her eyes were heavy with fatigue, she felt something rising within her. It was the old energy, that feeling she’d have when working on a case, and it told her she was close, very close to peeling back the layers of lies and deception to reveal the truth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mr. Salazar,” said Maisie, when he stopped by her table to ask if she wanted more coffee, “have you seen Professor Vallejo in the past few days?”
Salazar shook his head, and as he did so, Maisie noticed a shift in his mood. He lowered his chin, cast his eyes across to the bar, and cleared his throat. “No, Miss Dobbs—he has not been in for a few days. But he is a busy man.” He lifted the coffeepot and the jug that held warm milk. “Top-up, miss?”
Maisie looked at her watch. MacFarlane had indicated that they should meet at the café, but she had waited long enough.
“No, I think I’ve had my fill. But if you see Mr. MacFarlane—the tall man, with the . . .” She held her hand out in front of her to suggest someone who carried weight around the belly. “Could you tell him I had to leave? I have no doubt our paths will cross another time.”
Salazar nodded and bowed as Maisie slipped coins into his hand, moved along the banquette, and stepped out from behind the table.
“And the professor—shall I tell him you asked after him, when he returns?”
Maisie gave a half smile and nodded. “Yes, please. Tell him I was asking after him.”
On Main Street she checked Mr. Solomon’s shop; the sign still informed shoppers that it was closed. More people were on the street now, and at once Maisie wanted to be in her room at the guest house, lying across her bed and staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Following those jagged lines seemed to calm her mind, and more than once had lulled her into a soft slumber, though one she would wake from with a sudden start, thirsty, her head seemingly filled with cotton wool. As she walked, she became more tired, yet she smiled again when she considered the conversation with Mr. Salazar. There was no doubt she liked the man, liked his honesty, even when he was trying to protect someone—as he had once protected her when she was being followed by Arturo Kenyon.
And where was Arturo Kenyon? Had he boarded the fishing boat, bound, she suspected, for a place along the Spanish coast where fighters loyal to the Republican army received the arms they so desperately needed? But where had those arms come from? They could not have come from the British, who—to all intents and purposes—were firm in their adherence to the non-intervention policy, and equally intent upon appeasing Fascist leaders in Germany and Italy. Or could Arturo Kenyon have acquired the arms from inside the garrison after all, perhaps with the help of sympathizers, or by greasing a few palms?
The thought of sympathizers brought Maisie back to the professor, and dear Mr. Salazar’s question. Shall I tell him you asked after him, when he returns?
Returns from where? In her estimation there was only one place Vallejo might be at that moment, and that was Spain. Specifically, Maisie suspected he had crossed the border and was in Madrid, likely as close to the front as he could get. But was he involved with Kenyon? Had he known Carlos Grillo? Of one thing, however, there was no doubt—the professor knew exactly who the blond man was, and so had Sebastian Babayoff and his lover, Rosanna Grillo. As Maisie walked, she recalled the moment when she saw the man in St. Andrew’s Church—and just seconds afterward caught sight of MacFarlane, sitting in the shadows.
Oh, Miss Dobbs—just a minute!” Mrs. Bishop came out of her quarters as Maisie began to climb the flagstone staircase to the guest rooms. Once more the house felt quiet, and Maisie wondered if other guests had left. Perhaps it was just the hiatus before more arrived to take up temporary residence.
The landlady flapped an envelope above her head. “Post for you, Miss Dobbs!”
Maisie turned and stepped down into the courtyard. “For me?” she asked, surprised. She had not told anyone of her specific whereabouts, though she had sent a telegram to Brenda the day after disembarking the ship, to let her know that she would be home in a month or so. Already her time on the Rock was extending into “or so.”
“I had to go to the post office, and they asked me if I had a Miss Dobbs staying with me. The envelope was marked ‘Poste Restante’—to be collected—and addressed to ‘A Guest House,’ with a note under the address to please deliver if possible. The staff in there know me, so they asked if you were one of my guests, and of course you are.” She held out the envelope to Maisie and rested her hands on her hips. “Now you can tell your nearest and dearest where you are, can’t you, dear?”
Maisie took the envelope and glanced at the return address—it was from Brenda, her stepmother. Considering the heft of it, she suspected it held not one but two letters. She sighed. Priscilla. It had to be her idea; sending the letters poste restante would not have occurred to Brenda.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bishop.” Maisie tapped the envelope against her free hand. “Mrs. Bishop, I wonder if I could talk to you about something that’s been bothering me a little.”
“Why, of course, dear—let’s sit down. Shall I bring us some wine? That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?”
Mrs. Bishop hurried away before Maisie could answer. The landlady must have been so immersed in her adopted English culture during her marriage that she had taken on the self-important bustle of a London woman, one not living on the breadline but “comfortable”—not flush, and certainly not quite what was now termed middle class.
Maisie opened the letter to reveal two smaller envelopes inside. The one from Brenda was bulging, most likely filled with news of the village and of their new bungalow, and only at the end—lest it seem as if she were interfering in her stepdaughter’s life—no doubt petitioning her husband’s daughter to come home soon. Priscilla’s would comprise two or three sheets of fine onionskin paper, covered with her expressive looping hand, giving the latest news of her boys, of life in London, of her husband’s most recent published work. There might be a little gossip, too. With that out of the way, she would admonish Maisie, take her to task, threaten to come and get her. Such a threat should be taken seriously; Priscilla was more than capable of booking passage on the next sailing to Gibraltar and scouring the streets until she found her, after which she would not budge until Maisie—bullied and nagged—had agreed to return. Maisie smiled. Priscilla could go from being a feted socialite to a busybody in a second, and Maisie loved her for it.
“Here you are, dear.” Mrs. Bishop set down a small carafe of white wine and two glasses. She poured for them both, then took her seat. “Chin-chin, my dear.” She touched her glass to Maisie’s, took a sip, and commented, “Letters from home?”
“Yes, it seems so.” Maisie set down her glass, having toasted her companion. “Mrs. Bishop, as I said, I want to ask you something, if I may.”
The woman pressed her lips into a smile and raised her eyebrows. “Fire away, my dear.” She sipped again. “Fire away!”
“Mrs. Bishop, I think you have been some
what—how can I put this—cavalier with the truth. And by that, I mean the truth about Mr. MacFarlane.”
“Well, I’m sure I—”
Maisie raised her hand. “Let me finish.” She paused for a few seconds. “You have acted as if Mr. MacFarlane was not known to you, as if you intuited by his very manner that he was with the police. You even said that you knew this because your husband was once with Scotland Yard, and therefore you could tell when a man was a policeman.” Maisie sighed. “I could have said something before, but I chose not to—I wanted to see what might happen. But I have come to realize that Mr. MacFarlane was known to you for many years—the photographs in the passageway there attest to your acquaintance. And I suspect that MacFarlane—or one of his associates; goodness knows the web is complex enough here—sent you to the Ridge Hotel to ensure that they recommend your guest house to me when I inquired regarding accommodation that was a little less ostentatious. MacFarlane knows me well enough to understand my preference for simplicity.” Another pause. “My question is—why, Mrs. Bishop, have you been lying to me?”
The woman took her time to respond. Finally she said, “Robbie MacFarlane looked after me when my husband died. Bill was one of Robbie MacFarlane’s men after he moved up the ranks—and Robbie moved fast; Scotland Yard was his life. When I was widowed, Robbie helped me get some money—a pension, you could call it. He said he never left his men high and dry, and that meant their families too. I’m not beholden to him, but I would do anything for that man, because he looks after his own.” She looked at Maisie. “And if you didn’t know that before, you know it now—that means you, too.” She picked up her wineglass, took a hefty swig, and refilled it to the top.
“But why bother with all this maneuvering?”
“He wanted you kept an eye on for as long as possible without you knowing. Then he wanted you to know he was here before you actually saw him. He said that if he’d marched up to you without you having an inkling, that would be it—you’d take flight.”
“He’s probably right there.” Maisie sipped her wine. The sun slanted across the courtyard now, so she moved her chair back into the shade. “But did he also add that he wanted to know what I had discovered about Sebastian Babayoff’s death before he contacted me? Was that another reason?”