“Politics and philosophy—subjects that many students are drawn to, until it comes to the actual work.”
Maisie smiled. “I taught in a college once. I enjoyed it very much.”
“I am sure you were a very good teacher,” said Vallejo, waving away Salazar’s offer of change.
“I hope so—I did my best. In any case, Professor Vallejo, I must leave now.” She held out her hand.
“Until we meet again, Miss Dobbs.”
“Indeed. Until then.”
Maisie smiled at Salazar, who held open the door and bowed as she stepped out onto the street. As she walked away, she looked back and saw the lights go dim and hear Salazar push home the bolts at the top and bottom of the door. She and Vallejo had been the last customers, and Vallejo had not left with her.
It was not far to Mrs. Bishop’s guest house, and Maisie’s step was light across the flagstones as she made her way to the front door, slipped in the key, and closed it behind her. She was sure there was no one in the shadows waiting for her, though when she arrived at her room, she stepped across to the window without first turning on the light, just in case. She gave a sigh of relief, closed the curtains, and lay down on the bed. It was too late now to ask for soup, but as she switched on the light, she noticed a sandwich on the side table, and a small carafe of wine, together with a note from Mrs. Bishop to the effect that she was sure Miss Dobbs would like a “little something” when she returned.
Maisie did not reach for the plate, not at first. She closed her eyes to marshal her reflections upon the day. Instead of feeling closer to finding Sebastian Babayoff’s killer, she felt as if the landscape from which she could pry her evidence was becoming broader and deeper. And now there was one more thing, something she had not alighted upon with a comment during her conversation, but let pass like a cloud in the sky. It was the look on Vallejo’s face when he said, “and many of those men and women recruited by Communists overseas to help those of us who fight for the Republic.”
Us. Many of us. If Vallejo considered himself a fighter, then what was he doing in Gibraltar? And did he remain in the café to talk long into the night because Mr. Salazar was an old friend, or was there something else for them to discuss? And really, could he have known Babayoff? There was no surprise in his voice when she mentioned that she had discovered the man’s body, a shock that needed no stretch of the imagination. It was as if he knew.
Of course, it could have been nothing more than the chance meeting it seemed at face value. But what if it were more?
Maisie sighed. Was her intuition off? Had the months of retirement diminished her ability to think strategically? Had settling into the comfortable life of an expectant mother allowed her senses as a psychologist and investigator to lie so fallow that she could no longer separate the wheat from the chaff? She pressed her hands to her eyes. It was so long ago. So long ago that she was Maurice’s student, then his assistant. She remembered how, in the early days, he would only allow her to toil over the case map after she had meditated, had spent time alone in silence. He had advised her that later, when she was ready to work independently, her need for that time would lessen, though he would expect meditation in the morning and evening.
Maisie sat up, threw her pillows on the floor, and sat upon them with legs crossed. She clasped her hands together, her thumbs just a rice grain width apart. It had been a long time since she’d had the courage to return to her practice—how would she ever tame her mind? How would she control the images she knew would assault her senses? As if he were there with her, she heard Maurice’s voice. Watch the image, and let it go. Take note of it, know that it is there, and allow it to move away, across the landscape of your mind’s eye. Allow yourself to see connections, Maisie. Then go to the case map, and plan your next move.
She closed her eyes. It was time to go back to her training, to become a student again. The student and the graduate, at the same time. She would immerse herself in the sacred silence of the next two days. There was little she could do; Shabbat had already begun, and for the town’s Catholic and Protestant congregations, Sunday, with its tolling bells and church services, was sacrosanct.
Maisie woke early on Monday, April 26th. There was no heaviness in her limbs, no weight of nightmares to leaden the morning. She swung her feet onto the floor, pulled down the pillows, and slipped into meditation again. Still the mind, if only for five minutes. Then open your eyes—and your heart—and consider what needs to be done. Maurice’s voice was louder now, and she had followed his instructions to the letter. She washed, dressed in a dark skirt and white blouse, her black sandals, and a straw hat. She unbuckled her leather satchel, took Sebastian Babayoff’s Leica from its hiding place at the back of the wardrobe, and placed it in the satchel, along with a notebook and pencil she slipped into the front pocket. She folded a cardigan on top of the camera, then looked around the room for anything she might have missed. Picking up a fresh handkerchief, her wallet, and her sunglasses, she added them to the satchel. She would ask Mrs. Bishop for a small flask of water to take with her, and perhaps a few biscuits. She left the room and found Mrs. Bishop once again pegging out laundry in the courtyard.
“I’ll get you a bottle of ginger beer, much better than plain old water on a hot day—though, as you’ve heard me say, a cup of tea is best. Fight heat with heat.”
“That’s what people told me in India—until it came to the afternoon gin and tonic!”
Mrs. Bishop laughed and set off into her inner sanctum, returning a few minutes later with a corked bottle of ginger beer and a small paper-wrapped snack. “There, I’ve half-pulled the cork for you, so all you have to do is give it a little tug and it’ll come out. And I don’t know if you like this sort of thing, but I made some Eccles cakes yesterday—I used to make them for my husband, and just fancied setting up a batch.”
Maisie’s eyes widened. “Oh my, what a coincidence! Eccles cakes are my favorite!”
Mrs. Bishop nodded toward Maisie’s satchel. “There you go, then—put them both in your bag to keep you going today. Make sure that bottle is upright—it shouldn’t leak, but you never know.”
Maisie thanked her landlady and went on her way, heaving open the thick oak door and stepping out into the alley. She wondered where Arturo Kenyon was today, and if she would hear from him later. Thoughts of MacFarlane skimmed over the surface of her mind. Today she would take the camera to Miriam Babayoff, and afterward she would make her way to the fisherman’s beach for another visit. She wanted to speak to Rosanna, Carlos Grillo’s niece.
The sun was shining, and a soft yet determined breeze was blowing; there was a dampness to the air. A large cloud seemed to linger overhead, casting shadows across the Rock, and Maisie wondered if this was the Levanter, a weather phenomenon she had heard about but not as yet experienced—it was more likely in May, but it was almost the end of April, so there was always the possibility. If it was the Levanter cloud, there might be showers. Perhaps she should have brought an umbrella. In any case, she might be grateful for her cardigan before nighttime claimed the day.
She continued on her way towards the Babayoff house, and was only a little surprised to see Jacob Solomon leaving as she approached. Maisie suspected that Miriam had already locked the door following his departure; upon seeing her walking up the cobblestone alley, he banged on the door again, and though his voice was low, Maisie heard him say, “Miriam. Miriam, you have another visitor.” By the time she came alongside the house, the door was open, and Solomon was making a small bow in greeting. He did not raise his black hat, though he bowed again to Miriam, who, Maisie thought, seemed more than a little flustered. Perhaps having two visitors in succession was more than she was used to. Without doubt, though, Solomon trusted Maisie—why else would he have heralded her approach?—the woman was on tenterhooks as she closed the door and went through the ritual of pushing home bolts and locking the door.
“I hope I have not come at an awkward time, Miss Babayoff,” sa
id Maisie.
“No, though I have laundry to do, and mending that must be returned to my customer this evening.”
Maisie unbuckled the flap on her leather satchel and took out the Leica. She held it out toward Miriam, who did not move for a few seconds. Tears welled in her eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron, her fingers shaking as she reached for the camera. She looked at Maisie as she held it to her heart.
“He loved his Leica, you know.” Miriam turned the camera in her hands, then squinted at the top. “It looks like he’d used the entire reel. I’ll begin immediately.”
“Don’t you have work to do, Miriam?”
“I can do it all. When can you come back?”
Maisie looked at her wristwatch. “Let’s say this afternoon—how about three o’clock? Would that be time enough for you to provide something for me to look at?”
Miriam nodded. “Yes—I can do this.”
Maisie stood up and walked to the door, followed by Miriam, who was still holding the camera to her chest.
“One thing, Miriam.” Maisie paused and regarded the woman directly. “Please remember that every single image on that roll could help me. Know that even if there is something there that you do not care for—I don’t know what it might be, but let’s say it was something that did not throw a good light on your brother—it could hold a key to the identity of his killer, or the person who wanted him dead.”
Miriam nodded.
“Are you sure you understand?” asked Maisie.
The woman nodded again. “Yes, Miss Dobbs. And I even understand that his murderer might not be the person who ordered him killed.”
Maisie smiled. “Good.”
Yet again she heard the bolts slam home as she left the house, a sound that seemed angry and final, yet signaled fear. Miriam had grasped that the man—or woman—who wields the weapon is often not the person who wants a life ended. It was almost as if she expected such an outcome.
The fisherman’s beach at Catalan Bay was busy when Maisie arrived, keeping her distance to observe the scene before her. For the most part it seemed the morning’s catch had been unloaded and was already on its way to market, but a couple of the boats were pushing back out to sea again. It was apparent that, for the fisher folk, there was always something to do—nets rinsed and checked, then brought to the women to mend, though some fishermen repaired their own nets. And there were decks to be sluiced and rigging to be inspected. As before, the women sat farther back along the beach. Maisie took out her binoculars to scan the scene. Rosanna Grillo was not there among the women, but as she watched, she saw one of the older matrons turn around, call out, and beckon. The gesture seemed to express annoyance.
Moving the binoculars in the direction of the woman’s wave, Maisie saw Rosanna walking toward the net-mending circle. She thought the girl held anger within her as she stepped across the beach, revealed by a tightness across her shoulders, and in the way her arms were crossed. Maisie lowered the binoculars, then lifted them again. Rosanna was being followed by a man—a man she turned to face and then moved her hand as if to direct him away. She was asking him to leave. Maisie adjusted the binoculars, pursing her lips. She could not get a better view of the man, though she suspected she knew who it was.
Rosanna approached the women and sat down among them. It seemed they had not seen the girl with the man, and went about their business, passing her a section of the fishing net to work on. Maisie directed the binoculars toward the man, watching as he turned and walked away. He did not look around, did not check to see whether he had been observed, though she suspected he might be aware of her presence. His walk suggested a man carrying a burden; his shoulders were hunched. He stopped once and looked back at the gathering of women, then went on, cupping his hands to light a cigarette as he went. When he was out of view, Maisie returned the binoculars to her bag and sat down on a rock. She wanted to speak to Rosanna, but at the same time, she wanted to think. At first glance the drama played out before her might have been one of a lover spurned. Or was the man pressuring the young woman for another reason? But she was settled upon one thing—that Carlos Grillo’s niece knew Arturo Kenyon very well indeed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Could Maisie be sure that Kenyon had not seen her? He had departed with only the briefest glance back in the direction of the women. Although he had made errors, he was no fool. But the question remained—what was he doing with Rosanna, and why had she been so angry?
She sat watching the fisherfolk for some time without making her move, weighing the possibility of having a productive conversation with Rosanna. But she had to find out more about the woman’s relationship with Babayoff—which Maisie suspected had been a romantic one, if only on the part of Babayoff, who may have had designs on his friend’s niece. Coming to a decision, she rose and made her way across the beach, smiling as she approached the women. Rosanna looked up at her.
“Hello, Rosanna.” Maisie addressed the girl, but nodded at the women. She brought her attention back to Rosanna. “May I speak to you? In private?”
Rosanna stood up and motioned with her head, indicating that they should walk away from the cluster of women, out of earshot of the fishermen.
“What you want from me, Miss Dobbs?”
The girl’s hair was drawn back and her clothing was as before, a black skirt, black blouse, and a shawl across her shoulders despite the heat. Maisie remembered the photograph and the smile she had for the photographer who had revealed the vitality within her. Maisie thought it was like a fairy tale in which the prince releases his love from her prison—and perhaps is given freedom in return.
“I wonder if you can help me again. Sebastian Babayoff—” Maisie allowed the name to hang in the air, watching the girl’s response. Just a flinch at the corners of her eyes gave her away. Maisie continued. “I believe you were friends.”
“I told you—he knew my uncle, Carlos Grillo.”
“Yes, I know that. But I’ve seen some photographs he took of you—and it occurred to me that you might have been quite attached, and not just because he was a friend of your uncle.”
The girl pressed her lips together and turned away. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand.
“Rosanna, did you love him?”
The girl nodded.
“But it was not to be—is that it?”
Rosanna shrugged by way of an answer, and pointed to a place in the shade where they could rest. They sat on the sand, their backs against solid rock. Maisie brought out the bottle of ginger beer and offered some to the girl. She declined, but Maisie took a sip, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Will you tell me what you know about Sebastian?” asked Maisie.
The girl pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and opened her mouth to speak, but stopped short and looked up. Maisie was already on her feet, having heard the same sound, a deep whining, as if something were falling from the air. It was an aircraft engine, coming closer. Both women looked up as Maisie pressed her hands to her ears and hunched her shoulders. From beyond the cliffs, a flight of aircraft flew at speed overhead; she closed her eyes and fell to her knees on the sand. Rosanna knelt beside her as she doubled over, weeping.
“Miss Dobbs. Miss Dobbs, are you all right?” Rosanna asked, her voice raised above the noise.
The two women watched as the aircraft appeared to change direction over the sea, a cluster of small dots becoming smaller, then larger again, only to be joined by more aircraft overhead.
“Where are they going? What are they doing?” Maisie looked across to the fishermen, who stood with their hands shielding their eyes from the sun so they could watch the aircraft. The women had instinctively gathered their children and run for cover in the lee of the cliffs.
“I don’t know, Miss Dobbs—but listen, they’re going now.”
“They’re flying back across Spain, aren’t they? Did you see the insignias? They weren’t Spanish—they were German, and I saw another I th
ink was Italian.” Maisie was calmer now, holding her hand to her chest. She was aware of Rosanna holding out her handkerchief.
“Thank you. Yes, thank you very much.” She took the proffered cloth and wiped it across her eyes and temples.
“The aeroplanes make you sad, Miss Dobbs,” said Rosanna
Maisie nodded. She sat on the sand again, leaning against the solid rock and closing her eyes against the sunshine. She could still feel her heart beating inside her ribs as she leaned forward, her head in her hands. The girl sat beside her and began to rub her back, as if she were a child fearful of imagined ghosts in a darkened room.
“Do you feel better now?”
Maisie nodded. “Thank you. It was a shock. I didn’t expect those aircraft to come flying out of nowhere, without warning. It took my breath away.” She turned to Rosanna, but waited, her eyes closed. Then she spoke. “May I ask you the question again? About Sebastian Babayoff?”
The girl looked out to sea, but kept her hand on Maisie’s back. “I adored him, and he adored me, Miss Dobbs. But it was a difficult love.” She shrugged. “He was a Jew, you see, and my family is Catholic. It did not matter to us, but, well, this is not a very big place. There would have been difficulties—and of course, he had his sisters to think about.” She shook her head. “But we were trying to find a way to be together, though neither of us could imagine leaving Gibraltar. It is home.”
Maisie looked at her. “And Arturo Kenyon?”
She shook her head. “He’s like a mosquito that keeps you from sleep.” She patted Maisie on the back, a gentle touch that was more of a question, as if her fingers were asking, Are you all right now?
Maisie put out her hand to steady herself as she came to her feet. Rosanna followed, and both women brushed sand from their skirts.
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