A Dangerous Place Read online

  DEDICATION

  To Kas Salazar

  Dear friend, this one’s for you.

  EPIGRAPH

  The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  The world is getting to be such a dangerous place, a man is lucky to get out of it alive.

  —W. C. FIELDS

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Jacqueline Winspear

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gibraltar, April 1937

  Arturo Kenyon stood in the shadows of a whitewashed building opposite a small guesthouse known locally as Mrs. Bishop’s, though it had no sign to advertise the fact. He was waiting for a woman who had taken a room under the name of Miss M. Dobbs to emerge. Then he would follow her. She had, after all, been instrumental in not allowing the dust to settle on the death of one Sebastian Babayoff, a photographer of weddings and family events, and contributor of photographs to the odd tourist pamphlet. Not that there were the usual number of tourists in Gibraltar at that very moment. Refugees—yes. Government officials—yes. Increasing numbers of soldiers and sailors—yes. Black-market profiteers—of course. And to top it all, more than a few like himself, working on behalf of their country in a role not specified on any identification documents, but considered important all the same. In fact, the town was crawling with men—and, he had no doubt, women—with a similar remit: to be the eyes and ears of their government’s most secret services in a place seething with those dispossessed by war across the border. This place of his birth wasn’t a good place to be.

  Kenyon’s father had been a navy man stationed in Gibraltar when he’d fallen for a local girl of Maltese heritage named Leonarda. Such a love affair was not an unusual occurrence—Gibraltar was, after all, a military garrison. An only child, Arturo had grown up on tales of Lord Nelson and the Battle of Trafalgar, and the strategic importance of his home. His father had been killed in the war, but his loss at the Battle of Jutland in 1916 did not deter Arturo from following in his footsteps and joining the Royal Navy, albeit under the name Arthur Kenyon. It wouldn’t have done him any favors to be an Arturo on board ship. An injury sustained while at sea should have mustered him out of the senior service, but instead he was—as his commanding officer termed it—“reassigned” to another role. Which is how Kenyon found himself working for naval intelligence, now back in Gibraltar under the name by which he had been known until he left his mother’s house at sixteen on a quest to follow in his father’s footsteps. Fluent in Spanish and English, and the strange hybrid of those two languages that could be heard in Gibraltar, he was a good man to have at their disposal as far as the government was concerned. Especially now, when the Spanish were killing each other across the border.

  The body of Babayoff, a Sephardic Jew, had been discovered by the Dobbs woman when she was out walking one evening. That was another thing about her; she walked alone at night, despite curfews in place to protect the citizenry. At first it appeared as if she would not pose too much of a problem—Mrs. Bishop had informed a policeman that Miss Dobbs would likely book a passage to Southampton soon, based upon what had happened. But instead she remained and began asking questions and visiting Babayoff’s people, one of the older Gibraltarian Jewish families. She wasn’t doing these things in a hurry, Kenyon had noticed. It was as if each day she took it upon herself to make an attempt to tidy an ill-kempt room—dust a little here, sweep there, remove a cobweb or two.

  Dobbs was a strange one, thought Kenyon as he lit a strong French cigarette and drew until the tip almost enflamed. He’d followed her a couple of times since receiving orders. She was tall, her chin-length hair almost jet black, though he’d noticed a few gray hairs at her temples. And those eyes—she almost caught him looking at her once, and he thought then that those eyes might see right through a person, though the person in question might not see anything in return. If eyes were windows into the heart of a human being, then hers were locked tight, as if a portcullis had come down across her soul. Kenyon—whose hair was almost as black as that of the woman for whom he waited, though his eyes were the pale blue of his blond father—was used to watching people, well versed in discovering the truth about someone just by observing them about their daily rounds. He thought this woman, Maisie Dobbs, carried something inside her, as if she didn’t really want to be involved in the death of Sebastian Babayoff but could not help herself. It was as if she felt a responsibility to the deceased, having found his body. What was it she’d said to the police at the time? He’d read her statement in notes acquired from his man at the police station. His death deserves our attention, so his family can be at peace. There is a duty here, and it cannot be ignored.

  Peace? That was a fine word—everyone who entered Gibraltar now wanted nothing more than to be enveloped by peace. Perhaps this Maisie Dobbs was looking for something too. According to a report he’d received from Whitehall, she might have been traveling under another name; Dobbs was not the name on her passport. She’d begun her journey in India, bound for Southampton, yet had disembarked in Gibraltar three weeks ago. She should have continued on to her final destination, but for some reason she’d decided to remain, having left the ship against the advice of the captain. More interesting to Arturo Kenyon, a man named Brian Huntley, from one of those nameless government departments in London, seemed pleased to know where she was, and had given orders for her to be accounted for. Not intercepted, not approached and questioned, or even—he dreaded the word—“eliminated.” His brief was to keep an eye on her.

  Kenyon was watching the whitewashed house, its window boxes trailing geraniums, when the door opened and Maisie Dobbs stepped out into the sunshine. Though her clothes were made of cotton and linen, she was not dressed for fine weather as a tourist might. A black blouse and a narrow black skirt to mid-calf emphasized her slender shape, and she wore plain black leather shoes with a peep toe. She wore no stockings, which was something of a surprise to Kenyon. That woman could do with a bit of fat on her, he thought, and as he watched, Maisie Dobbs looked up at the sky, took off her hat, and put on a pair of dark glasses. Replacing the narrow-brimmed hat, she glanced both ways before setting off along the narrow passageway toward Main Street. It was clear that she was not short of funds—something about her demeanor suggested a confidence that attended the well-heeled. The guesthouse proprietress had informed him—in return for folding money—that Dobbs had paid one month in advance.

  Kenyon waited just a moment before stepping out of castellated shadows cast by late-morning sunshine against mismatched buildings, and kept her in view as she went on her way. He wondered why a woman of means would not be staying at the Ridge Hotel. Only a few years old, the luxurious hotel had become a mecca for the rich. And he wondered what had come to pass in her life, and why she’d chosen not to continue on her journey—for surely being safe at home in England would
be more desirable than lingering in a town overrun with people running from hell.

  Darjeeling, India, March 20th, 1934

  Maisie Dobbs sat at a desk of dark polished teak set in a bay window, looking out across terraced tea gardens that seemed to sweep up into the foothills of distant mountains. She held her pen over a sheet of writing paper, but was distracted by converging thoughts as she watched a cadre of women pick young “first flush” tea shoots. Their hands moved across the bushes with speed as they snatched at the soft, rubbery leaves of Camelia sinensis, more commonly known by the name for the place in which it now grew across the vast estate. She continued to watch the women as they filled the deep baskets resting on their backs, held steady with a belt across their foreheads.

  Soon she would leave this place where she had found a measure of calm. March and April brought spring to Darjeeling, days of crystal light and pearls of dew on rhododendrons of peach and magenta, and on flora she had never seen before and might never see again. There were light breezes filled with a sweet fragrance, and days when she turned her face to the sun and felt its warmth flood her body. A chance meeting in Bombay, where she had spent several weeks helping a man named Pramal set up a school in honor of his dead sister—a woman whose killer Maisie had found—had led her to Darjeeling, and an opportunity to rent this bungalow for some three or four months. The journey had been long and arduous, by train for the most part, and then all manner of transportation, including her first—and to this point, only—passage atop an elephant. But it was worth it for the peace. In London—how many months past, now? Was it six, even so soon?—she had begun to doubt herself, to question what she had believed for so many years to be her vocation. On behalf of those who came asking for her help, it was her task to uncover the truth and lies that stood in the way of their personal contentment. Sometimes the truth and lies were held within one tormented individual, who sought out Maisie in her role as psychologist to unravel the contradictions underpinning his or her turmoil. Some had simpler problems—a missing piece of jewelry, or a profligate business partner who had hidden evidence of funds misplaced. But among the clients who came to the Fitzroy Square office of Maisie Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator, were those touched by the unresolved and perhaps mysterious death of someone dear, someone whose memory was tightly held. Maisie had brought every element of her training, every ounce of her character, and every last ache in her soul to the task of restoring peace to the bereaved—but then it had been her turn to find peace.

  Amid the tea gardens and mountains, in the solitude she craved—a different solitude, away from even those she loved—she felt the war was truly behind her. All her wars were now behind her. It was as if the laundry had been washed and aired, ironed and folded, put away in a cupboard and locked. She had accepted what she considered to be her failings, had come to terms with her powerlessness against fate itself. Now, with the sleepless nights of dark thinking consigned to the past, she felt as if she were walking along a road that kept narrowing until it reached the vanishing point. She had come to a juncture where she could consider what might come next. And she knew the responsibility awaiting her: she had promised a decision. On March 31 she would send a telegram to James Compton: YES STOP, or NO STOP.

  Darjeeling, March 31st

  Miss M. Dobbs to James Compton

  YES STOP

  Miss M. Dobbs to Mrs. Priscilla Partridge:

  HAVE ACCEPTED JAMES STOP WANT VERY SMALL CEREMONY STOP JUST US STOP WILL WRITE STOP

  Mrs. Priscilla Partridge to Miss Maisie Dobbs

  HOPE THIS ARRIVES BEFORE DEPARTURE STOP WONDERFUL NEWS STOP RECONSIDER CEREMONY STOP DO NOT DEPRIVE YOUR FATHER OF WALK DOWN AISLE STOP I WANT CHAMPAGNE STOP

  The Times, London, April 1934

  The engagement is announced between Margaret Rebecca, only daughter of Francis Edward Dobbs and the late Mrs. Analetta Phyzante Dobbs, and James William Maurice, Viscount Compton, only son of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton.

  The Times, London, August 1934

  A fine summer’s day greeted guests last Saturday at one of the year’s most anticipated weddings, when the Viscount James Compton, son of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton (the former Lady Rowan Jane Alcourt, daughter of Lord Jonathan Alcourt), was married to Miss Margaret Dobbs, daughter of Francis Dobbs, Esq. Following a service at St. Joseph’s Church in Chelstone, a reception was held at the Dower House, Chelstone Manor, the bride’s home. While honeymoon details are held secret by the groom, it is expected that the happy couple will be leaving for Canada within the month.

  May 1935

  Maisie Dobbs to Priscilla Partridge

  Dear Priscilla,

  I cannot believe I have been married now for over six months! I doubted ever coming to enjoy the life of a wife, but I have found a certain delight in marriage, and though I might have had my doubts when I walked up the aisle (holding on to my father’s arm as if my life depended upon it), I made the right decision. We spend Monday to Thursday in northern Ontario, in a sizable leased house on the edge of a town named Dundas. James is very busy with what I can only call “Otterburn business” during those days. I worry about the work, which as you know involves his skills as an aviator (that’s all I can say, really), but he assures me he is more of an “on the ground” man. You may wonder what I do all day, now that (for the first time in my life) I do not have a job. I am going through Maurice’s papers with great care and am learning much about him and his work. It is illuminating. Suffice it to say, he had so much more to teach me, and I sometimes feel as if he were here at my side offering words of advice, and his own inimitable wisdom.

  At week’s end we generally return to Toronto—not a short journey by any means, but we enjoy our apartment (the one where James lived in bachelor days), which is very large, I must say, and we have so much fun sailing on the lake. Sometimes we remain in Dundas, however, we end up seeing more of the Otterburns at those times because they like to remain at their farm, and of course they have lots of guests and we are always expected to be at their parties. Fortunately, we can avoid them with more ease if they’re in Toronto—they have a rather grand house in an area called Rosedale—and as you know, I still would rather avoid Otterburn.

  I cannot believe Thomas is fifteen now, Timothy thirteen, and dear Tarquin eleven (and with a full set of teeth! I still remember him losing those front teeth!). At least my middle godson is no longer bound and determined to be an aviator—sailing, you say? Well, it’s lucky his pal Geoffrey comes from a family with a boat, otherwise you would be on your way to the coast every Friday evening.

  My father and Brenda are well. They moved from the Groom’s Cottage to the village two months ago and now live in a new bungalow they’ve purchased on the Tonbridge side of Chelstone. Brenda loves what she calls the “mod cons” that the cottage didn’t have, but they come back to the Dower House twice a week to make sure all is well, though I have tenants moving in on a year’s lease at the end of the month. Dad is establishing a rose garden at the new house, though he checks the gardens at the Dower House, which are looked after by Mr. Avery.

  Finally, to answer your question—please continue to keep our news under your hat. The doctor advised me to take care, so I don’t want to tempt fate.

  With love to you all,

  Maisie

  The Times, London, September 1935

  James Compton, son of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan Compton, was killed in a flying accident in northern Ontario, Canada, on Sunday. Details of the tragedy have not been revealed, but according to early reports the Viscount Compton, chairman of the Compton Corporation, was a keen aviator and enjoyed the hobby whilst working for his company in Toronto. Viscount Compton’s wife, the former Miss Margaret Dobbs, has been admitted to hospital in Toronto, though she was not involved in the immediate accident. It is understood that Viscount Compton’s parents have sailed for Canada, along with his wife’s father and stepmother. Viscount Compton was with the Royal Flying Corps during the wa
r and received commendations for gallantry following an attack during which he sustained wounds. Details of a memorial service in London will be released by the family in due course.

  Toronto, November 1935

  Dear Priscilla,

  This will be a short letter. Everyone has gone home now. I did not want to return to England, but I do not want to remain here. There are too many memories for me to encounter every single day, not least James’ study—which looks as if he might be home at any moment—and a beautiful nursery that haunts me each time I pass the door. I had never expected marriage to James to make me so content, but it did.

  I will be in touch again, in good time. You know and understand me, Pris—I have to be alone, and I need to go away, perhaps even back to India. I think traveling might be the best idea. If I am on the move and not in one place, then I can perhaps outrun myself. If I linger, then like dark flies on a dead deer, the memories and thoughts land and terror seems to fester and pull me in. I cannot bear to be at Chelstone or even in London, where too many people will be watching me, waiting for something to happen, waiting for me to sink or swim, when all I want to do is float, as I did in hospital when the present was held at bay by ether and morphia and whatever else they put into me. The thought of return bears down upon me and renders even my home unsafe.

  Please keep in touch with my father and Brenda. I know they will worry—it was all I could do to get my father to leave, but Brenda understood. She once lost a baby too.

  Love, as always,

  Maisie

  January 1936

  Lady Rowan Compton to Priscilla Partridge

  My dear Priscilla,

  I find it so strange, yet heartwarming, that I have come to know you since my beloved son died, and our Maisie has been all but lost to us. Though I feared for them when a romance seemed to be in the offing, it seemed that they had so much going for them as a couple, and had settled into a very happy marriage—I think it surprised them as much as it did me! But now I grieve, for I have lost them both. You may not know that James’ older sister died in an accident when she was a child, and though the years softened the hard edges of my anger—for I was angry at my loss, there is no other way to describe the utter pain—Maisie became like a daughter to me. There was talk about her station, yes, but to be honest, when you have grieved as a mother, such things matter not. Once you’ve decided not to sink into the dark caverns of your aching heart and die yourself, only life matters—and as I am sure you know, you feel more able to tell the world what to do with itself if it doesn’t “approve” of you or your family. And Maisie was such a light. Of course, she had her days of sad reflection—the war did that to so many of our young, as you know yourself—but she was always so spirited. Stubborn at times, yes, but she gave her all to her work. And once she was married, she gave her all to James. That’s the sort of person she is. And now we don’t know where to find her.