“At the end of the day, it boils down to this: Sebastian Babayoff took chances without truly understanding the stakes, which in wartime are always high.”
There was a brief silence, and then MacFarlane smiled. “Good work, Maisie. Very good work. Now then, go home.”
“I’m not quite finished,” said Maisie. “One thing continues to bother me. If Babayoff’s activities presented a problem, why not just kill him on the path, and shore up the story that it was the act of a desperate refugee? That would have done the trick. But I think I know why the plan became so convoluted—it was all to buy time, to find out exactly what Babayoff knew, what photographs he had, what he had witnessed and how dangerous he was. Then, once in Spain, Wright just had to give him enough rope to hang himself—only it wasn’t rope, it was opportunity. Sebastian Babayoff went off to photograph war. But he forgot that the camera is a flimsy thing. It is not a wall between the photographer and a bullet.”
MacFarlane put down his empty glass. “You tell a good story, Maisie, I’ll give you that.”
“You’re not going to say anything else, are you?” She reached for her satchel. “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve booked my passage—though I bet you knew that already.”
“I am pleased, and yes, I knew. You shouldn’t be here. It’s a dangerous place.”
“I remained for the sake of Sebastian Babayoff and his sisters.”
MacFarlane deflected her comment. “And I hear you’re going up to stay among the rich people at the posh hotel for your last few days—I never thought you would do that, Maisie.”
“It just makes it a little easier. I’ll not enjoy saying good-bye to Mrs. Bishop. She’s a good egg.” She paused again. “What happened to Arturo Kenyon?”
“Poor man was killed. A fine soldier, apparently.”
“No doubt the agent took care of outstanding matters.”
MacFarlane shrugged, then looked at Maisie. “This is how it is, Maisie. You know that very well. This is how people are kept safe—the sacrifice of others.”
“I think I’ve had enough for one day, MacFarlane. I’ve had enough of the sacrifice of others. My husband was one of those others.”
“I know that very well. And you’ve sacrificed enough, yourself.”
“That’s as may be. I’ll go now. I have to pack my belongings, and I’ve a few things to do before I leave Gibraltar.”
“I’ll come to see you off. I’ll be returning to the sunny skies of home soon myself.”
“No need to wave from the dockside, MacFarlane.” She stood up to leave.
“I’ll see you in Blighty, then.”
“Will you?”
MacFarlane nodded. “Most definitely. Along with my friend Brian Huntley.”
Maisie met MacFarlane’s gaze. And she heard again the words of Dr. Francesca Thomas, the Belgian agent she’d met while working undercover at a college in Cambridge.
They’ll never let you go, you know. They’ll never let you go.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Maisie pulled out her leather suitcase, her carpetbag, and her knapsack and repacked her clothing. She cleared her toiletries into a cotton drawstring bag and tucked it away in the carpetbag. As she did so, the vial of morphia tablets dropped out on the floor. She picked it up and looked at the label, realizing she’d not had cause to take a pill for a while. Perhaps focusing on something outside of herself had focused her immediate thoughts away from her wounds. The scar on her abdomen had become part of her. She felt comfort, now, because it marked the place where her tiny girl had lain within her, taking sustenance from her body. James, she held deep in her heart. She had wondered many times, during the war and then in the course of her work, how people could bear so much loss. She had met women who’d lost not just one son but two or three, and a husband. Like them, she had learned how to shoulder grief, and knew she would see a clear path ahead, in time.
A boy with a barrow was called to carry her luggage to the hotel, and she said her farewell to Mrs. Bishop. The woman encircled Maisie in her arms, and told her to take care of herself, and that she was welcome back to the guest house whenever she wanted.
“You like your privacy, and you keep yourself to yourself, Miss Dobbs, but some things are written on the heart, you know. You can see it in a person’s eyes, and I’ve seen it in yours. I wish you well, my dear, and I hope the sun soon shines through the cloud that brought you here.”
Maisie smiled, nodded, and left the guest house, accompanied by Mrs. Bishop as far as the street. She turned once as she walked away, to see the landlady standing, raising her hand to wave. She waved in return.
She stopped at the Babayoff house for as long as it took for Miriam to hand her an envelope, which she slipped into her satchel. The conversation between the two women was short, but enough time for thanks to be expressed, and a promise made that Maisie would do all she could to ensure the photographs were published.
Leaving Miriam’s house, Maisie walked along to Jacob Solomon’s shop. She bought a needlepoint cushion cover heavy with threads, with paper folded inside to bulk it out for display.
“Mr. Solomon, I wonder, might you have some brown paper for me to wrap this in? It’s a gift for a friend, and I want to send it as soon as I can.”
“I have some thick paper and string upstairs in the stockroom. Just a moment . . .”
As Maisie expected, Solomon left her alone in the shop. She pulled the envelope with Sebastian Babayoff’s photographs from her bag and slipped it inside the cushion cover, together with three letter-size envelopes. Finding a pin on the counter, she used it to attach an envelope bearing Priscilla’s name to the outside of the cushion cover. Solomon returned.
“I should remove the paper inside.” Solomon held out his hand to take the cushion.
“Oh, not to worry. Look, I am sure you’re really busy. If I might just stand at the end of the counter, I’ll prepare the parcel. Thank you so much for the paper and string.”
Solomon continued working on his accounts while Maisie wrapped the needlepoint cushion cover, secured the parcel with string, and addressed it to Mrs. Priscilla Partridge at her address in Holland Park. When she was finished, she held out her hand to Mr. Solomon.
“I hope you don’t mind—I’ve used your shop as the return address. I’ll be traveling a little, so I’ll have no firm address as such, though I am sure it will reach its destination. May I prevail upon you to take it to the post office for me? I have the money for you here.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
They bid farewell, with no mention of Sebastian Babayoff, or the events of the past few weeks. As Maisie stepped out along Main Street, she heard the bell above Solomon’s shop door clang. She turned in time to see him greeting the rabbi and a woman she assumed to be his wife, and together they began walking up the narrow alley toward Miriam Babayoff’s house. Maisie hoped Jacob Solomon was about to offer his formal proposal of marriage. It was time.
Maisie set out again to walk to Catalan Bay, detouring to find the path that led to the cave where munitions had been stored before being taken by boat into Spain. She wondered how the fishermen ever managed to steer a course through the patrols—but then again, they had generations of navigation and knowledge to draw upon. Soon the path narrowed, and she reached the cave. She heard the chatter of monkeys close by, receding as they scampered farther up the rocks. The iron gate was locked. She looked at it for some time, holding on to the rusty chain while peering into the depths beyond.
And she realized, then, that this was what it had felt like, after James had died, after their child was lost: she had gone into a dark cave, and the bars had clanged shut behind her. It had taken a death to open them again, just a little, enough space for faith to slip through. As she wiped away her tears, she looked down at her hands and saw that she had been gripping the chains.
“It’s time to let go now, Maisie.” She whispered the words to herself, but knew it was something that Maurice might have
said. She turned away, wiping the rust from her fingers with a fresh handkerchief.
She did not go down to the beach, but looked across the sands from the road. The fishing boats were drawn up, some leaning to one side as if asleep, waiting for the tide to come in once more and set them upright, ready to sail. The women sat close together, mending nets. She did not know if Rosanna was with them, but in her heart she wished her well. She hoped that she would find contentment, if not happiness.
On her last night in the Ridge Hotel, Maisie set her alarm clock for three o’clock in the morning. To her surprise, she slept soundly, though she’d gone to bed at an earlier hour. She had enjoyed her sojourn in such luxurious accommodation more than she thought she might. There was no need to tiptoe along a stone corridor to the bathroom with her towel and soap, as she had at the guest house. Indeed, it seemed that there was always someone at her beck and call, whether she wanted a cup of tea, a three-course meal delivered to her room, or her clothing laundered and pressed.
Half an hour after waking, she was tiptoeing past a night watchman and out into the night. She carried only her carpetbag, knapsack and leather satchel. In her room she had left a note on her leather case, with instructions to have it shipped to an address in Holland Park, London. Sure that no one had seen her emerge from the hotel, she tried to keep her breath measured as she made her way alongside a low wall, but she walked faster when the headlights of a waiting motor car flashed once. Raoul had seen her. She was on her way.
They crossed the border into Spain long before the sun rose over the Rock of Gibraltar. Long before a maid discovered the note in Maisie’s room, and hours before Robert MacFarlane received an urgent telephone call from the hotel: Miss Maisie Dobbs was gone.
Maisie remained awake for some time, then drifted into the dozing sleep that had marked her previous journeys. She was safe, for now, traveling through Republican held territory with no arms on board the motor car, and no other intention but to reach her destination. Soon enough the people she loved most in the world would know where she was. She trusted that Solomon would be true to his word and post the parcel, and she had no doubt that the letters would reach their respective destinations.
Dear Priscilla,
If you are reading this letter, then I hope you don’t fling down the needlepoint in disgust. I know it’s not to your taste, but it was the best cover for this particular job. First of all, here’s what I would like you to do with the enclosed photographs. Please ask Douglas to show them to his various editors. You will see the photographer’s name printed on the back of each photograph, along with the name of his sister. His name is—was—Sebastian Babayoff, and he is now dead. You may say he was killed in the civil war raging in Spain. I hope you can find someone to take the photographs—his sister could do with the money, and it would be only right to see his memory honored.
Would you please forward the letters I have enclosed to Mr. Klein, my father and Brenda, and Lady Rowan? By my reckoning, if this parcel goes out on the next ship, and you post the letters upon receipt, they will arrive at their destinations within a couple of weeks.
Priscilla, I can only apologize for not being in touch. One day we will sit down, you will pour us gin and tonics, and I will reveal all that is in my heart. I plan to return in just a few months—in time for Christmas, and to see in 1938. It’s hard to believe next year will mark twenty years since the war ended, and here I am in a place where the memories have been brought back with such definition. I cannot speak of James in this letter—my spirit is still so wounded and raw—but I am better than I was. I know in the coming months I will grow much stronger, strong enough to face returning to England. It still seems to be such a dangerous place for my heart to reside, given all that has come to pass since James and I were married.
Please give my love to those toads of yours, and to Douglas—you are all so very dear to me. I will write again with news, though my letters might well take a while to reach you.
Until then. . .
With all my love,
Maisie
The letter to her father and Brenda was more difficult to compose; she tore up several versions before settling on her message.
My beloved Father and Brenda,
I know you must think me terribly selfish for not returning on the ship, and I hope you received my letter explaining why I could not come home at that particular juncture. As the ship sailed closer to England, I was filled with trepidation every time I imagined my return to Chelstone. I am still afraid, if truth be told. But I have spent a while here in Gibraltar, and plan to return in time for Christmas. Perhaps we can spend it in London this year, at an hotel rather than home.
I will write you more about my current destination after I am settled, though I think it might be difficult for letters to go to and from England. Having said that, I have always found ways to transport my communications, whether by recognized means or not!
I miss you both very much, but before I return, there are some things I want to do. I have been working again, in a small way, and am on my way to another place, again to work. It is doing me good, I think, and in return I can do something of worth at the same time.
With all my love,
Your daughter,
Maisie
There were two more letters tucked away inside the cushion cover.
Dear Mr. Klein,
I sometimes think that Maurice landed you with more than you might have wanted to take on, when you became my solicitor. I trust my absence from England and the difficulty in reaching me has not been too troubling in the management of my affairs. In the years since Maurice passed away, you have given me such sterling guidance, and have become my most trusted adviser.
First of all, I will be sending a new address to you soon, though I should tell you that post is difficult in the region—but I have useful contacts. Thank you for your last letter, informing me that Sandra is still my tenant at the flat. I wish to confirm that I remain adamant that no rent should be charged, though if she continues to send you regular payments, then the funds must go toward costs for Maurice’s medical clinics.
Thank you for confirming that the most recent lease on the Dower House will come to an end on December 31st. If the tenants wish to extend their stay to get them over the New Year, I have no objection. At this point, I do not plan to lease again, but I will advise you closer to the end of the year.
Now I must ask you to do the following: with monies from the Properties Account, I wish to fund the purchase of a fully kitted-out ambulance for use in Spain. I am not sure how one goes about this, but you can write to a Professor Vallejo, care of the address below. I believe an ambulance can be bought in France and then transported into Spain by road. It is to be used to take wounded men from a small hospital run by a nun named Sister Teresa in a hamlet—it is too small a community to be called a village—on the Tajo River. A driver should also be funded; Professor Vallejo will know how to find a suitable person to take on the job. I will be in a position to confirm purchase and use of the ambulance, though it will probably take a few weeks.
I expect to be in England again before year’s end. I would be remiss if I did not mention my will. I have no changes to make at the present time. All beneficiaries remain the same, and in the event of my death, the Dower House should revert to the Chelstone estate, where it should once again become part of the Compton trust.
As always, my thanks for your wise counsel over the past few years, and particularly since my husband’s sudden death. I expect to see you when I return.
Yours faithfully,
Maisie
She had lingered over the signature, but in the end used just her Christian name, though Klein would never have addressed her by anything other than her correct title, which was now somewhat grander than it had been when they first met.
Her final letter was addressed to Lady Rowan. She had gone back and forth over whether to send the letter to both in-laws, but decided, in the end, that he
r message would be more personal, a woman-to-woman communiqué.
Dear Lady Rowan . . .
Again she had torn the paper into shreds and begun with a fresh sheet of vellum.
Dear Rowan,
I can only apologize for not keeping in touch with any regularity. If I am to be perfectly honest—and it is my intention to do so in this letter—it is because not only did words fail me, but I have been in a very dark cave of sadness from which I have not really emerged, though I think I can see light at the end of the tunnel. You were so kind to me in Canada, so deeply understanding and compassionate at a time when your hearts were breaking. We all miss James so very much, don’t we? And yet in my grief and shock I was unable to take the hands that were held out to me, so there was nothing to do but drift away from you all—even from my dear father.
I appreciate Lord Julian’s efforts to find me, and to keep an eye on me. But I am an investigator by training, so it was not long before I realized that I was the subject of some attention from men who could only have been working for Lord Julian’s contacts in London. I would have done the same thing in his position.
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