Was it the atmosphere that made Solomon’s appearance at once become like wax, whitening as she looked at him, waiting for his answer? He pulled on the black eyeshade once again and pressed down on his knees as if to stand. He shook his head.
“As far as I know, Sebastian was interested only in his work, and in keeping hunger and want from the door of the house. Family is our strength, Miss Dobbs—and the Sephardim are all family. His sisters were his first concern, that is why we hold them close.” He smiled. “Now I must return to the shop—I too need to feed my family, my mother and sister.”
Maisie pulled a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her forehead as she came to her feet. “Yes, I could do with some air, Mr. Solomon.”
The shopkeeper opened the door to a rush of warm air and light that flooded across the bottom two steps into the courtyard.
“Please be careful as you go down, Miss Dobbs.”
Solomon locked the door behind him, and they returned to the musty coolness of the shop. He wrapped the set of handkerchiefs for her, tying the package with string, and was about to bid her farewell when Maisie pointed to the photograph of the woman with a baby on her lap.
“Why is that for sale, Mr. Solomon?”
He shook his head. “Sebastian said he would wait for payment from the family, and he developed the photograph anyway, but I cannot be so generous—and neither could he, if truth be told. So when they have the money to pay for it, they can have the portrait—unless someone else buys it. And not before.”
“I suspected as much,” said Maisie. She reached into her bag for her wallet, pulling out a handful of coins, which she held out toward Solomon. “Please take what is owed and have the photograph delivered to the family, if you would be so kind?”
Solomon’s eyes widened, and he took three coins from her hand, then closed it around the remaining money. “I will deliver it myself. You are most generous.”
Maisie smiled. “I have another question or two for you, Mr. Solomon. Where did Mr. Babayoff develop his photographs? Was it in the cellar of his home?”
Solomon reddened, as if the heat of the day had assailed him. He started to speak, and then faltered. Maisie suspected he was struggling with the question of whether or not to tell the truth.
“Yes, he had a darkroom set up in the cellar—an obvious place, for it is without light already.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Solomon. I daresay I will be back to purchase more of your lovely embroidered linens before I leave Gibraltar.”
Solomon took her proffered hand and gave a small bow in reply. He escorted her to the door and waved as she departed, closing the door behind her.
Maisie crossed the road and went into another shop, this one selling leather goods. Once inside, she stopped to look at a pair of shoes from a vantage point that afforded a view of Jacob Solomon’s shop. The sign on the door had not been flipped over from Closed to Open, she noticed. Within minutes Solomon departed, a broad-brimmed black hat upon his head and a parcel under his arm. He locked the door and went on his way at some speed—a pace that did not seem required for the simple act of delivering a wrapped, framed photograph, though she suspected it provided a useful explanation for his hurried almost-run along the street.
For her part, she left the leather shop and made her way back toward Mr. Salazar’s café. She considered the conversation, and planned her next move. And she thought of the photograph of the woman with her baby, and the essence of absolute love that surrounded the pair despite the formality of a straight-back chair and a plant made of wire and satin. She held her hand to her waist as she walked, a feeling of light-headedness enveloping her as the dull throbbing returned to her abdomen. She was not so taken with pain, though, as to miss the fact that she had been watched as she left the shop. This time the man’s silhouette seemed to bear a strong resemblance to a certain policeman she’d known in the past. At first she shook off the idea of the resemblance, then wondered: If she had not been mistaken, what on earth was a man from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch doing in Gibraltar?
Though she had only accomplished two things—bringing Arturo Kenyon under her wing, though his loyalty was in question, and visiting Solomon—Maisie was tired. And she was fearful, anxious again about the night ahead. She felt hungry and light-headed, but she also wondered if the listlessness would usher her into a dreamless sleep, or whether nightmares would return. Or would she succumb to the precious tablets in the small brown bottle, now hidden and locked in the leather case; locked against her desire to be lifted above the responsibility for living a life.
She opened the door into the courtyard and stopped to speak to Mrs. Bishop, who was bringing in the dry laundry.
“Miss Dobbs. How was your day?” asked the woman.
Mrs. Bishop was in her mid-sixties, in Maisie’s estimation. She was well-built, with wide hips and an ample bosom, and though she was a good head shorter than Maisie, she gave the impression of muscular strength about the arms. She picked up the wicker laundry basket and set it upon one hip, her right arm holding it steady as she shielded her eyes from a shaft of sunlight with her free hand.
“Very good, Mrs. Bishop—thank you for asking.”
Mrs. Bishop nodded toward the door leading into her private quarters. “Come along and have a cup of tea with me. You look tired.”
“Oh, that’s not nec—”
“Come on, no arguments. A cup of tea brings your temperature down. Why people drink cold beverages on a hot day, I’ll never understand. Hot tea is the ticket.”
Maisie smiled, thinking that Mrs. Bishop sounded a little like Lady Rowan, and at that moment, a sudden affection for the guest-house landlady caught her unawares. “All right,” she said. “A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.”
As they stepped onto cool tiles and made their way along a narrow corridor, Maisie’s eyes adjusted to the shadows. Mrs. Bishop opened a door on the right and put the laundry basket inside, then with her thumb indicated that Maisie should follow through another door, which opened into a small kitchen. It was not unlike the kitchen in the Babayoff house. A kettle was already boiling on the stove, and on the table a cake had been turned out onto a cooling rack. Mrs. Bishop pointed to a chair, instructing Maisie to sit down while she brewed a pot of tea. While she made tea and placed the cake on a plate, cutting two slices, she asked questions about what Maisie had seen in Gibraltar, not always waiting for an answer before commenting on what she should not miss.
“But this war over there, it’s a terrible, terrible thing. And right on our doorstep—though I can’t say I haven’t been glad of the business. A lot of them have gone home now, though. It’s not like it was on fair day in La Linea; I thought everyone would die. There was such a rush across the border to get home to Gibraltar when the firing started—we love fair day, you know, there were a lot of people from the town there. I didn’t breathe again until I was through that door.” She pointed across the courtyard. “I locked it tight and hardly slept that night.”
“I was lucky you had a place for me,” said Maisie. “And such a large room—it’s perfect.”
Mrs. Bishop looked at Maisie as she pushed a cup of tea toward her—she had added milk and sugar without inquiring if it was to Maisie’s taste—and then placed a plate with a slice of cake in front of her guest. “Eat that up—it’ll do you good.”
Maisie sipped the hot tea and looked up at Mrs. Bishop. The woman held her cup to her lips but did not drink, nor did she speak for a second or two.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Bishop?”
The woman shook her head and took one sip of tea, holding the cup as if she was grateful for the warmth on her hands.
“You know, Miss Dobbs, you’ve probably wondered why my English is good, so let me tell you. I was married to a military policeman who was stationed here, and I went back with him to England. I lived there until he died, and then it was time for me to come home. Both my children were born there, and they decided to stay, but I
wanted to come back to my roots.” She shrugged. “I miss seeing the grandchildren grow up, but as you English say, ‘You make your bed, and you have to lie in it.’ I’ve made my bed here.” She shrugged again. “I bought this place ten years ago.” She cleared her throat and leaned forward, picking at the cake on her plate but not lifting the crumbs to her mouth. “When my husband left the army, he became a policeman. Scotland Yard. He never talked about his work much—I don’t think it was that thrilling, not at his end of things anyway. But I learned one thing, Miss Dobbs, having seen his mates come to the house and watching policemen at work—I can tell a copper a mile off. They all have to start somewhere, you see, and I think that walking the beat gives them a way of holding themselves—you can see it in the shoulders.”
Maisie reached for the tea she had set down as Mrs. Bishop began speaking. “I’m not sure I’m following you, Mrs. Bishop.” She took two sips of the now-lukewarm brew. “Why are you telling me this?”
The landlady raised her eyebrows and sighed. “I’m telling you because a man came here asking for you today, and though he didn’t introduce himself, I know he was a policeman—and not from here, either. He wasn’t in uniform, and he seemed . . . serious, if you know what I mean.” She folded her arms. “Now, I didn’t pay much attention to that scallywag, Artie Kenyon, hanging around. I thought he might be keeping an eye on you because you were the unlucky one who found Sebastian Babayoff. Anyway, you knew he was there—I watched you go down the street once, with him on your tail like a lost pup, and I could tell you knew he was following you. It was the way you seemed to glance sideways, checking your hair or your hat long enough to see him out of the corner of the eye. Anyway—”
“Tell me about this man,” Maisie interrupted. “The man who came to the door asking for me. What was he like?”
“Big.” She sat up and pushed back her shoulders, as if to suggest the size of the inquirer. “Tall, a bit of a belly, but not too much. Seemed no-nonsense, as if being cordial wasn’t a natural talent.”
“He didn’t identify himself? No name? No identification?” asked Maisie, who had decided that subterfuge or feigned surprise would cut no ice with Mrs. Bishop.
“No. I asked if I could pass on a message, and he shook his head.”
“Anyone with him?”
“I looked down the street as he left, but I couldn’t see anyone waiting—but that’s not to say he works alone.”
Maisie nodded. She rested her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, feeling tears prick her eyes.
“Are you all right, Miss Dobbs? Not in any trouble?”
Maisie gave a half-laugh and then raised her head and sighed. “No, not in any trouble, Mrs. Bishop—though I suppose finding a dead body counts as trouble.”
“You could leave it alone—you don’t have to go sniffing around.” Mrs. Bishop reached for Maisie’s cup, and poured more tea.
Maisie’s eyes met those of her landlady, and she smiled. “But I do. That’s the trouble—I do have to sniff around, as you put it. The police believe the man’s life was taken by a refugee or some ne’er-do-well robber. But, you see, he wasn’t robbed. And because I found him, I believe it’s my responsibility to bring truth to the matter of his death—for the sake of his family, if nothing else.”
“And the man who was here? Who is he?”
“If he’s who I think he is—and because you know Scotland Yard through your husband and you’ve spoken your mind to me, I will tell you—his name is Robert MacFarlane, and he is indeed a policeman.”
“With one of those special offices they have there?”
Maisie sighed, as if chagrined to be revealing so much. But she was tired, and there was some comfort in sharing a secret with this woman. “Yes, he’s with a special office.”
“And why does he want to speak to you?”
“Because someone wants me back in England, and I’m not ready to go, not yet.”
Mrs. Bishop nodded, slowly. “You must be important, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie laughed. “No, not important. But there are important people who worry about me. And a few other important people who worry what I might say.” She stood up from the table. “Now I must go, Mrs. Bishop.”
“Would you like me to bring you some soup in an hour or two? And a little glass of wine? You’ve got to eat, and I notice you don’t go out for supper, come evening.”
“Yes, why not? I love soup. What kind do you have?”
“Chicken and lemon. Hearty and a little tart.”
“I could eat that—thank you.”
“What shall I do if the man comes again, Miss Dobbs? I know he’ll be back, even though I said I didn’t know you.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bishop, MacFarlane will find me when he’s good and ready. At the moment he’s like a cat with a mouse. He thinks he’s playing with me.”
“What will you do, then?”
Maisie pushed her chair back in under the table. “Oh, I’ll just play him for the mouse myself, just for a while.” She smiled, thanked her landlady for the tea and cake, and left the kitchen, making her way across the courtyard and up the stairs to her room, and set the key in the lock.
As she opened the door, she saw a plain brown envelope on the floor. Picking it up, Maisie noticed it had been used before, the previous address struck through so it could not be read and her own name penciled in above. The flap had been glued in place, but she raised a corner, tore across with her finger, and lifted out the note. It was from Arturo Kenyon. It informed her that a policeman from Scotland Yard had joined Inspector Marsh, and was interested in speaking to her. He would find out more and report back to her. He also said that he had some information for her about Sebastian Babayoff, and suggested they meet—but not at Mr. Salazar’s café. He indicated another place, close to the American Steps, the memorial to a collaboration between the US and British navies in the Great War. He would meet her tomorrow morning. She sat down on the bed, set her bag down beside her, and tore the envelope and letter into tiny pieces, which she sprinkled into the ashtray on the bedside table. She took a match and lit the shredded paper, and once it was destroyed, she picked up the packet of cigarettes alongside the ashtray. She shook out one cigarette, placed it in her mouth, and struck another match. Before she could light the cigarette, she blew out the flame, took the cigarette from her mouth, and pushed it back into the packet, which she took to the wardrobe. She released the straps on the leather case and pressed down on the lock to open the case. Slipping the packet of cigarettes inside, she wavered, touching the bottle of morphia tablets. Just one to get her to sleep. Just one to help forget the scar on her belly, to let her rest without the image of a crashing aeroplane in the distance, then the explosion. She closed the case, snapped the lock, and buckled the leather straps. Soon Mrs. Bishop would bring her soup, and a glass of wine. Then she would lie back on her bed, hoping a dreamless sleep would claim her until the morning. She would deal with “little Artie Kenyon” tomorrow. She was beginning to think that Mrs. Bishop herself might have been a better choice of assistant. Time would tell if her faith in the local runner for the British Secret Service had been well placed.
CHAPTER SIX
Maisie was restless, waking every hour or so, then slipping into a half-sleep before she began to dream again, as if she had fallen through a fissure in consciousness and was aware of herself sleeping. In the end she opened her eyes. She would struggle, toss, and turn no longer. But she did not rise from the bed. Instead she stared at a crack in the ceiling, allowing her gaze to follow it. She thought it looked like a river on a map, or a mountain path. It was a scar on otherwise perfect white rendering. She knew about scars.
She planned her day in her mind as she felt the room grow warmer, and watched dust motes dance in shafts of sunlight beaming through the window. She had opened the curtains again after undressing and slipping into her nightgown last night. She wanted to be woken by daylight, to hear the gulls above the rooftops; she wanted to
know as soon as her eyelids lifted that she was not back in the past. She hated waking up only to experience the jolt of remembering why her heart felt heavy in her chest. The light might allow the ache of recollection to enfold her gently.
First she would meet Kenyon at the American Steps memorial. It was still considered a new fixture in the architectural mishmash of Gibraltar, not yet inaugurated in ceremony. She would wait at the bottom of the steps, looking for all the world like another tourist. Then she would go to the Babayoff house, this time taking the Leica. She had no idea how to make a raw film into a print, but she hoped Miriam Babayoff might put her in touch with someone; she wanted to look at the cellar darkroom anyway. When she had accomplished these tasks, she would go to Mr. Salazar’s café. It felt like such a haven each time she took her customary seat inside, camouflaged with her back against the mural. Was she ready to confront the person she knew might come? Or would she draw back and avoid meeting?
Her plan was made; it was time to begin. She pulled the covers aside and stood up, drawing her hand across her nightclothes. It was habit, now, as if one day she would feel the child she had lost, as if the turmoil would end and all would be well again.
Maisie remembered seeing a photograph of Thiepval’s new memorial to the missing of the war that ended in 1918—a stark, imposing edifice that held the names of those men for whom no remains had ever been found, and who lay under farmland still marked by the scars of battle. She was reminded of it now as she looked up at the American Steps. Though not as grand, nevertheless it bore the same broad, deep, square design with a rounded arch, and it had the same sense that this was a place of remembrance and reverence. She stood at the bottom of the steps, her hat low across her eyes, protected by dark glasses with round metal frames.