A Dangerous Place Read Online Free PDF

a little of the woman’s time. She would not push too hard for information; in fact, she wasn’t sure why she was doing this. Perhaps she should leave well enough alone, especially when she felt so very fragile herself, as if she were made of the finest glass and could shatter at any moment. But she wanted to find out more about the photographer, and why he was killed. It was as if the act of searching, offingering the facts and mulling over suppositions, would help her excavate something inside herself.
    She knocked at the door.
    M iriam Babayoff was not a tall woman, probably just over five feet tall. Maisie found it difficult to guess her age, as her sallow skin and the way her lustrous dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun might have made her seem older than she was. Sebastian Babayoff, she knew, had been thirty years of age at the time of his death. There was also another older sister, confined to a wheelchair, or more likely to her bed, now. Maisie suspected Sebastian had been the one who’d helped her out of her room and pushed her up and down the street in her wheelchair. Maisie could not imagine Miriam having the strength to carry her sister down the narrow stairs she suspected lay beyond the curtain-draped door across the kitchen. Miriam must have been the youngest of three, around twenty-five. She had probably not married because she was needed at home.
    â€œHello, Miss Babayoff.” Maisie spoke slowly. Miriam Babayoff could speak English, but with hesitation; she sometimes squeezed her eyes shut as she struggled to remember a word, though her vocabulary was quite good. “Thank you so much for letting me come to see you again.”
    â€œCome, señora.” Miriam extended her hand in welcome, but closed the door again as soon as Maisie had crossed the threshold, pulling across two bolts and a chain for good measure. The second bolt was new, as was the chain. Miriam must have been waiting for her, peeping through lace curtains so she wouldn’t need to open the door on the chain.
    â€œPlease sit down, Miss Dobbs.” Miriam pulled back a chair for Maisie. “Would you like tea?”
    â€œThat would be lovely.”
    Maisie’s attention was drawn to a wooden box at the side of the table, with a spool of silks poking from under the lid. “Oh, Miss Babayoff, I didn’t know you were an embroiderer.” She picked up the bright embroidered cushion on the chair Miriam had pulled out. “Is this yours? It is exquisite. Do you sell your work?”
    Miriam blushed as she poured scalding water onto tea she’d had measured into a china teapot. The face of Queen Victoria stared with imperious displeasure from the side of the pot.
    â€œYes. It is an important income for my family.” She put the kettle down and rubbed a hand across her forehead. A tear trickled down her face.
    Maisie put the cushion back down and came to Miriam’s side, putting her arms around her. “I know, dear child. I know—”
    And as if she understood that knowing, Miriam Babayoff leaned into Maisie’s embrace and wept. Maisie bit her lip, remembering that Maurice had always cautioned against reaching out to assuage grief, arguing that such sadness needed room to emerge and be rendered powerless by the elements of light and understanding. He would have suggested that in the rush to embrace, the tide of emotion is stemmed just when it requires expression. But in that moment, she pushed aside her training and held Miriam until her tears subsided, until any reticence on the part of the dead man’s sister was washed away and she was ready to talk.
    Maisie pulled out a chair for Miriam before seating herself. The two women sat at the table, each with a cup of tea and a slice of sweet bread. The tea was served in tall glasses, with sugar cubes set on the saucer. There was no milk on the table, nor did Maisie look for any.
    â€œTell me, Miss Babayoff, will your