A Dangerous Place

  James’ father still has contacts where contacts count. I never ask him about it, because to be frank, I don’t want to know. When she had her business, Maisie would telephone him on occasion, you know, to squirrel some information from on high when she was working on a case. I think he rather liked it, being of service to someone in that line of work. In any case, he has not been himself since James’ death—none of us have—but I think it’s time for him to call upon his old chums in Whitehall. They always seem to be able to find someone who appears to have vanished into thin air. I’ll tell him the last letter you received came from Boston, though she did not mention where she was staying, or give a return address. I vaguely remember that Simon Lynch had a wartime doctor friend there who Maisie kept in touch with—she might have gone to him and his wife to seek solace. Or she might be alone, which always worries me, and I know it does you, too. I don’t like the idea of her without company, not after all she’s lost. And I am sure her health is not what it should be, especially after everything she’s gone through.

  I will be in touch as soon as I hear something.

  With affection,

  Rowan

  Boston, February 1936

  Dr. Charles Hayden to Priscilla Partridge

  Dear Mrs. Partridge,

  We met briefly when I was over in London a few years ago, and then again at the wedding. If you remember, I knew Simon Lynch during the war, and he introduced me to Maisie. When I first met you, you’d assisted her with some information on a case concerning the son of family friends, the Cliftons. She helped them discover a few things about their son, who was killed in 1916. Considering the horrors that happened during their stay in London, it is a miracle that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton are still alive and enjoy fair health. However, this letter is not about them. I wanted to let you know that Maisie has been staying with my wife and me at our home here in Boston. I believe she has not let anyone in England know her whereabouts—not an unusual response from someone who has experienced such a tragedy. I am a neurosurgeon by profession, and though I have an understanding of psychological trauma, my field is brain disease and injury—but I know deep shock when I see it, and I believe Maisie is in a very vulnerable position.

  The purpose of this letter is to inform you that Maisie has now left us. Pauline begged her to stay on, to no avail. My wife is very good with people, and she managed to bring Maisie out of herself, but in the end Maisie said she felt she had to go back to India, that she had found peace there, and she believed it was the best place for her to stay for a while. She said she had to “unpick the knitting” and start all over again. I guess you might know what that means—and I suppose in my heart of hearts, I do too. She needs to go back in order to go forward in life. God knows, she’s done it before, and if anyone can do it again and rise from the flames like a phoenix, then it’s the Maisie we both know and love.

  I hope this letter finds you and your family very well. Your boys were an impressive trio, I must say. I have a daughter about the same age as your eldest—if Patty ever comes over there, I’ll have to warn her about those darn good-looking Partridges!

  We will let you know if Maisie gives us a forwarding address.

  With best regards,

  Sincerely,

  Charles D. Hayden, MD

  October 1936

  Mrs. Brenda Dobbs to Maisie Dobbs

  Dear Maisie,

  First of all, per your instructions, we have not told anyone that you’re in India, even though Lady Rowan sends a message to the house at least once a week. I think she’s even been to see your tenants to find out if they know where you are, but of course Mr. Klein deals with them directly, and I know he would not tell a soul of your whereabouts—he’s your solicitor, after all.

  Maisie, I’m not one for writing long letters, but there are things that need to be said, and if you know this already, then consider it a reminder. Your father and I both understand what you’ve gone through—your dad watched your mother die of that terrible disease, and I lost my first husband and child. Between us women, we all know that the death of a child, even one not born, is a terrible thing to bear—and you were so late on, really. Then on top of seeing your dear James lose his life, well, that’s just beyond my imagination. My heart aches for you, Maisie, really it does. But that doesn’t stop me saying what needs to be said now. Your father wouldn’t want me to write this letter, so this is between you and me. Frankie isn’t getting any younger. He’ll be eighty years old next year, and though his only complaint is that limp from the accident a few years ago, time is written across his face, and he misses you. We all miss you.

  It’s time to come home, Maisie. I know you must be scared, imagining how difficult it will be seeing the places where you and James courted, and having to face the grief all over again. Not that I think grief is something you put behind you in the snap of a finger. But come home, Maisie. If for nothing else, come for your dad. You’ll be safe at home, dear love—we’re family. We’ll look after each other. I promise you that.

  Yours most truly,

  Brenda

  Bombay, January 1937

  Maisie Dobbs to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Dobbs

  COMING HOME STOP LEAVING END OF WEEK STOP DO NOT TELL ANYONE STOP PLEASE STOP

  On board the SS Isabella, off Gibraltar, March 1937

  “But, Lady Compton, I—”

  “Miss Dobbs, if you don’t mind, Captain Johnstone. I’ve had to correct you once already. If you would just let me go about my business without argument, I would be most grateful. I have decided to disembark and remain in Gibraltar. I can join another ship bound for Southampton at any point.”

  “My good woman, you are clearly unable to grasp the situation. I doubt you will find adequate accommodation, and even if you do, this is not a safe place. People are swarming across the border from Spain—all sorts of people, and not all savory. Any location in close proximity to war presents an element of risk, especially for a woman.”

  “Yes, I am most abundantly aware of that particular fact, Captain—I was a nurse in the war, and closer to battle than you might imagine. Now, if you will just follow my instructions—the leather case, the carpetbag and my satchel will disembark with me, and I would be obliged if you would be so kind as to have the remainder of my luggage delivered to this address once the ship has arrived in Southampton.” Maisie handed him a page of ship’s stationery. “The details are on that slip of paper. Send care of Mr. Francis Dobbs. And it must go to exactly that address in Chelstone, and no other.”

  The captain sighed. “Very well.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a note for you, too. I suspected you would not relent, so here’s a list of hotels and the like where I believe you might secure accommodation. I would suggest the Ridge Hotel for someone of your station—I have already made inquiries, and they have informed me that a room is available. It will be held until further notice.”

  Maisie reached out her hand and grasped the small sheet of paper. “Thank you, Captain Johnstone. I am most grateful.”

  The ship’s captain raised an eyebrow. “Please take care, Miss Dobbs. I wish I could urge you to remain with the ship—I repeat, this is not a safe place for a woman on her own.”

  “It’s safe enough for me.”

  Maisie held out her hand to Johnstone, who took it in his own.

  “I will ensure a taxi is waiting to take you to the hotel,” said the captain, who held on to her hand a second longer than necessary, as if he might be able to keep her aboard ship after all. “And please, be very careful. There is a war not very far away, and battle can wound people. Not all injuries are visible to the naked eye, and they can render the most human of beings volatile. That is what you are facing here; an element of instability.”

  “I understand very well, Captain Johnstone. And I know very well that not all wars are between countries—are they?”

  She turned and left the cabin.

  After Maisie had disembarked, Cap
tain Richard Johnstone made his way to the ship’s telegraph room—he had not asked a cabin boy to run this errand—and ordered a message sent to a man named Brian Huntley. He did not know exactly what office Huntley might hold in Whitehall, but he knew the man worked in a department cloaked in some secrecy. The message was that Margaret, Lady Compton, widow of the late Viscount James Compton, was disembarking the ship and would soon be en route to the Ridge Hotel. There was something Johnstone did not add, though: his doubt that the woman would remain even one night in the hotel. If she did, he suspected, she would be gone by the following morning. He had no solid evidence for such a supposition, but as his crew knew only too well, he was a man who trusted his gut. He’d been known to temper the rate of his vessel on no more evidence than the swell of the waves, or a certain texture to the air. In any case, the fate of this particular passenger was out of his hands now. Whatever these people wanted with the woman who preferred not to use her title by marriage—and in his experience, most women would love a title other than Miss or Mrs.—well, they would have to find her themselves.

  For her part, though she had sent word that she was returning to England, with every mile closer to her destination, and at every port along the route, Maisie’s sense of dread had grown. It was akin to sickness, a fear that she could not bear to step onto home soil. When only two ports remained on the journey—Gibraltar and Cherbourg—the urge not to return to the ship but instead seek refuge where she knew no one, where she might be invisible, unknown, had strengthened like a fast-approaching storm. Cherbourg was too close to England. When she imagined leaving that port of call with only Southampton awaiting her, she knew she would have little choice. No, she would remain ashore in Gibraltar. She was not ready to face a familiar world in which something so precious was missing. The very thought of returning to Chelstone without James made her feel as if she were looking over the edge of a precipice into the void.

  CHAPTER TWO

  April 1937

  Maisie Dobbs sat inside the small café on Main Street, having taken a seat on a banquette underneath an embossed mural of Gibraltar in earlier days, when there was no such thing as an airfield, little in the way of a port, and when almost all inhabitants were army, navy, or marines. Sailing ships floated offshore, sails furled, and one could almost distinguish small figures clambering up the mast of the vessel closest to shore. She knew that in choosing this particular seat she might not be quite so visible to anyone walking by; the busyness of the painting at her back was a distraction to the eye. There was one pair of eyes she was determined to deceive if she was to have anything resembling quietude for a few hours.

  She had discovered already that his name was Arturo Kenyon, and that he lived in the upper rooms of a whitewashed house in one of the oldest streets flanking the Rock of Gibraltar. He was known in the town as a jobbing carpenter; apparently he’d been mustered out of the Royal Navy due to a shoulder injury, and had taken up a trade on home turf. She was willing to bet he was working on behalf of her father-in-law, no doubt through someone else, but she could not be sure. In all likelihood he would not know who, along the chain of communicants, had assigned his remit.

  There were those, she knew, who would not understand or sympathize with her decision to adopt her maiden name once again. But there was comfort in hearing herself say “Maisie Dobbs.” Her surname carried a sense of belonging, now that James was gone. It had her father’s down-to-earth roots in its very sound, reminding her of the way even his footfall seemed grounded with meaning. It was as if the name were stamped on her very being, like a brand. Her father was the most stalwart person she had ever known, perhaps even more so than her late mentor, the famed forensic scientist and psychologist Dr. Maurice Blanche. And as much as she knew her deceased husband’s parents loved her, she did not feel as if she were a Compton. Her eyes filled with tears as she tried again to banish the images from her mind, images that came to her often and unbidden, with no warning of their imminent arrival. There it was again, the aircraft gaining speed, swooping low across the escarpment. Once more the memory was so strong that she might have been swept back in time, to the day John Otterburn’s cadre of engineers, designers, and a selected aviator were due to test a new weapon on board the aircraft. James was not meant to be flying. He was to be making notes, having discussions on the ground, and peering into the sky through his binoculars. She was sitting on a rocking chair on the wraparound porch of the old farmhouse used as headquarters for the engineers and aviators, where lunch had been laid out. One hand rested on her rounded belly, while the other shielded her eyes from the sun. John Otterburn had come back to the house twice to see if his indulged daughter—indulged, as far as Maisie was concerned—had arrived for the flight. Elaine Otterburn had claimed the piloting of this particular test for herself, arguing that a woman with her expertise could handle the craft just as well as a man. Otterburn had cursed when Maisie informed him that Elaine had yet to appear, then left to walk back to the other men, clustered alongside the landing strip. Maisie stood up as she watched James meet Otterburn, still shielding her eyes with one hand. The two small figures in the distance appeared to be in some discussion. She left the farmhouse and began to walk across the field toward her husband and the man he had agreed to help in his quest to provide a new fighter aircraft to support Britain’s air defense, should war come once more. They had waited and waited at the airfield—a most secret airfield on Otterburn land—and still there was no sign of Elaine. Then, as Maisie reached the men, a messenger came along on a motorcycle. He brought a note from Otterburn’s wife, informing her husband that Elaine had been to a party the night before, and could not even construct a sentence that morning, let alone fly. She was spending the day in her bed, sleeping off too many champagne cocktails. Maisie remembered thinking that only this spoiled young woman could have found a party in such a rural area.

  Then James offered to fly the test. Just one flight, just one test. A takeoff and landing, and in between a burst of gunfire to make sure everything worked, after which he would report on the aircraft’s stability, the effect the gun had on trim when firing, and how changes in weapon emplacement affected handling. Once again James was stepping forward in the service of his country. The thought crossed Maisie’s mind, though, as she watched her husband don the padded overalls and his sheepskin aviator’s jacket, then pull a leather balaclava over his head, that if push came to shove, his country would know nothing of his work. On behalf of his friends in high places, Otterburn would deny that James Compton had been anything more than an enthusiastic aviation hobbyist. She regretted ever having had that thought, but James had gone back on his word that morning. He’d promised her he would not fly, not now, with a child on the way. He’d given her his promise that from now on he would only ever be an observer, working in an advisory capacity; his feet would not leave the ground. With the baby coming, he had too much to look forward to, and too much to lose. After all, the doctor had instructed them that, given problems she’d already experienced, Maisie should do everything in her power to have a calm final month before the child was born.

  Arturo Kenyon walked past the café and finger-combed his hair in the window’s reflection. Maisie could see him trying to peer into the café. Why didn’t he just come in, sit right next to her? She put her head down so her hat shielded her face, and waited. Glancing up at last toward the window, she saw Kenyon walk to the other side of the road, and look both ways.

  She called the proprietor over to her table. “Mr. Salazar, would you mind if I left by the back door? There’s a man lingering outside who’s been bothering me, making a nuisance of himself, and I want to avoid him.”

  The proprietor looked around. “You tell me who he is, señora, and I’ll give him something to look at. You’re a good lady, a good customer—there’s too many bad men on the streets now, so I have to watch out for my lady customers. Here, come with me.”

  Maisie left by the rear entrance, following Salazar along an alle
y that snaked around to Main Street. There she thanked her guide and slipped out onto the hot stone thoroughfare behind Arturo Kenyon. As she watched, he approached another man waiting in the afternoon shadows, just as Kenyon had waited for her. Looking into a shop window, she could see reflected in the glass a piece of paper changing hands—it might have been money, it might not. Kenyon nodded at something the other man said.

  She recognized the man Kenyon was meeting, though he’d pulled his hat down at the front, perhaps to avoid identification. His name was Michael Marsh, and he was an inspector with the Gibraltar Police. Inspector Marsh had taken her statement after she found Babayoff’s body. She had thought then that he was a good man, though he’d been annoyed by her insistence that perhaps it was not a simple case of robbery, not when the man’s Zeiss camera was still on a strap around his neck. It was Marsh’s conviction that the case was cut-and-dried—one had to remember the sheer numbers of broken ne’er-do-wells entering Gibraltar, he’d said—that had inspired Maisie to do something later, something that she knew was a crime in itself. It was as if she could not help herself, as if she were at the mercy of her own reflexes.