A Dangerous Place Read Online Free PDF Page B

embroidery suffice to keep you and your sister?”
    Miriam wiped her eyes and nose with a handkerchief pulled from her apron pocket. She shrugged. “At the moment, I am not under water.” Her eyes filled again. “My sister paints. She is in bed now, but she has her watercolors, and we sell her work, though there aren’t so many tourists. And she embroiders too.”
    Maisie nodded. “Did your brother have savings? Was he owed money by anyone who could be approached for payment?”
    â€œHe had some savings, Miss Dobbs. And we are owed for some photographs—there is a shop at the end of the street where he had set up a small area for portrait work. The owner of the shop is Mr. Solomon—he sells our needlework and other, um . . .” Miriam closed her eyes, searching for a word. She opened them again. “Other haberdashery goods.” She nodded, then paused to sip her tea, though Maisie suspected she needed to rest—speaking in English was tiring for her.
    Miriam began again. “And the hotel sent an envelope with money—some from recent work Sebastian did for them, and a little extra to help us. It was very kind. And our people here, we are—how do you say? Close-knit? Like a cardigan? They have helped.” She nodded toward the door. “The new bolt and the chain.”
    Maisie said nothing, staring into her tea for a moment. I could help her. I could give her money. She shook her head, remembering the trouble such largesse had caused in the past. She had learned that to give money did not always serve the recipient. But she knew she had to help the Babayoff sisters.
    â€œMiriam, may I ask some questions about Sebastian?”
    The woman swallowed, as if bile had come up in her throat, but she nodded.
    â€œYour brother’s death was as a result of a dreadful attack in the dark. The police believe the culprit to have been one of the manynewcomers to Gibraltar—a refugee, or a black marketeer. I have to tell you that I have my doubts, and—”
    Miriam looked up, her brow knitted. “But how would you know? Who are you, Miss Dobbs, that this suspicion would enter your head?”
    Maisie sighed. “I’m sorry—I should have explained. Until about three years ago, I was a private investigator in London. My training is in medicine and psychology, and I had the honor to work for many years with one of the world’s foremost forensic scientists. I took on his practice when he died, and though I am not a forensic scientist, he taught me that the dead have stories to tell—that even following the most dreadful passing, there is evidence to suggest what had happened to that person. More than anything, he taught me about duty, about doing all in our power to bring a sense of . . . a sense of rest and calm to those left behind. I was—I am, I suppose—an advocate for the dead.” She paused and fingered the cuff of her blouse. “You and your sister are bereaved following the brutal death of your brother. I found his body. It is ingrained within me to follow my instinct, and my mentor’s training—and, if I can, to bring about something resembling acceptance of what has come to pass, for the sake of you and your sister. That is who I am.”
    Miriam Babayoff regarded Maisie and nodded. Then she looked away. “There is no peace to be had in this household, Miss Dobbs. There is only fear. There is only sadness and worry. It would have been better if they’d killed us in our beds.”
    Maisie waited, this time allowing the woman her moment. Then she asked a question.
    â€œWho are ‘they,’ Miriam?”
    Miriam Babayoff shivered, clutched her arms as if to protect herself, and looked down at the untouched sweet bread. Maisie leaned forward and picked up the teapot, refilling the thick glasses.
    â€œIt’s stronger now—it’ll do you good. Now, eat something,” she said.
    Miriam