Free A Dangerous Place by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

all?”
    Maisie looked around, at linens draped across the walls and hanging just so from the ceiling. A series of mounted photographs had been exhibited on the wall closest to the counter. There were families seated, posing together: a mother with a child on her knee, or a man with his son. A woman, her skin sallow, her eyes dark and deep, seemed to stare out at Maisie from another photograph. A group of sailors had been captured for posterity, laughing as they looked toward the lens.
    â€œDo you have a studio here?” She turned to the shopkeeper, smiling. “Sorry—it’s Mr. Solomon, isn’t it?” She gave him no time to reply, butlooked back at the portraits. “These are very good—you seem to capture more than just the physical features of the subjects, Mr. Solomon.”
    â€œThey’re not mine, madam. They are the work of a photographer who no longer works here. I allowed him to set up a small studio in my stockroom. It was to his advantage and to mine—a little rent, and of course, more sales. Mainly people have a photograph to remember a special day, and then they buy something as a gift.” He looked at Maisie. “But I am afraid he works here no longer, though I am hoping another photographer will take his place.” His glance moved to the images on the wall. “It would be hard to get someone as good as Mr. Babayoff. Customers said you could almost see the sitter’s thoughts in his photographs.”
    Maisie’s eyes turned once again to Sebastian Babayoff’s work, lingering on the eyes of a mother holding her child. She looked away, pressing her lips together.
    â€œIndeed, you’re quite right, Mr. Solomon. May I ask—do you have more examples of his work? I am interested in photography. I had a camera but gave it away—I always ended up frustrated that I couldn’t quite capture what I was aiming for. Instead of a couple of friends on horseback, I would cut off their heads! Or when I tried to photograph my father with his dog, I managed to get the dog and not my father. I just don’t know how people do this.” She held out her hand toward the photographs, aware that she was chattering to distract herself from the image of the child in her mother’s arms.
    Solomon nodded. “Just one moment.” He walked to the door, turned the sign to inform customers that the store was now closed, and returned to the counter. “If you would like to come with me, Miss Dobbs?”
    Maisie smiled. It came as no surprise to her that Solomon knew her name, though she would bide her time with the shopkeeper.
    Solomon pulled a chain with a set of keys from his trouser pocket and opened a door set between the rows of drawers behind the counter. Maisie expected the door to lead to another room, but instead it opened onto a small courtyard, a door on each of its four sides apparently leading to a series of dwellings. Turning immediately to their right, Solomon led Maisie up a stone stairway to a room above the shop. Piles of boxes appeared to have been pushed against the perimeter of the room to clear a space in the middle. On one side two chairs were positioned before a wooden frame covered with a heavy dark velvet cloth, with a potted plant to either side—rather grand and mature shrubs. Maisie looked around the room. Behind the screen a chaise longue was barely visible under a pile of linens and embroidered cushions.
    She stepped toward the plants, reaching out to touch the leaves. “Oh, my—they aren’t real.”
    Solomon smiled, shaking his head. “The stems are made of wire and silk or satin ribbon, as are the leaves. They look real enough in the photographs, though. Sebastian had a way with light.”
    â€œI can see that. Did he leave any more examples of his work here?”
    â€œOnly more portraits to be collected by customers—you may see them if you wish. Most have gone now—only a few