CHAPTER NINE

TO say that the touristi were having a lovely time would be to exaggerate. The Juanese, to whom such scenes were merely the highlights of everyday life, soon bounced back to jollity again, the eight hanged bodies were cut down, somewhat stiff from prolonged suspension in their harnesses; everyone fell to eating and drinking once more. For the Archbishop’s fate, little lasting concern was aroused. If he died, why, he was old and one had to die one day—people died for smaller crimes than flouting the Grand Duke’s authority. But anyway, he would not die.…

For Juanita, of course, would give the sign: and what form the sign would take, whether the Grand Duchess would be granted her prayer, how soon Rome would arrange for the canonisation, and who among themselves might most delightfully benefit when all these wonders came about—these formed the only animating topics in a conversation that centred, naturally, on the events of the day. The limonado bottles disappeared, the bottles of arguadiente came out, upon the gallows-rock the band struck up a more lively tune and in the cool of the evening the real dancing began. Only the unsmiling touristi seemed heavy at heart; and the Juanese watched in astonishment as, still sick and shaken, in twos and threes they wandered about and tried to recapture the fiesta spirit of the day.

Major Bull and Miss Cockrill walked westward through the olive groves. She moved as though she were weary and when they came to a rocky niche carpeted with dry leaves and looking out over the sea, was glad to sit down and be quiet for a little while in the comfort of familiar companionship. “You’re tired, old girl?”

“Yes,” said Miss Cockrill, unwontedly subdued.

“Fretting about that poor girl a bit, eh?”

“After what we’ve just seen …”

“By Jove, yes; and she’s sensitive, y’know, soulful, y’know, not like you and me, tough.”

Miss Cockrill was on the whole reasonably tough; but she did not care to be reminded of it by her pretendu nor, indeed, to be bracketed in a comparision with him. Besides … “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dick. Who’s sensitive? I’m talking about the Grand Duchess.”

Major Bull had been talking about Winsome Foley. Miss Cockrill had claimed him as, over the long years of his fidelity she had established a right to do, and he had perforce gallantly walked off with her; and poor Winne had wandered away, looking soulful, in the opposite direction. He could not help wondering … Last evening, as they had strolled through the town—by Jove, poor girl, how close she had stuck to him! And there had been a tremble, he swore, in the hand that lay on his coat-sleeve. A little taller than himself, and more bony than in the choosey days, he had cared for ’em: but a fine girl all the same, little income of her own—and half the age of poor Hat. He fell into a reverie. There had been a hen pheasant, long, long ago, when he was a boy, down on his father’s little bit of rough shootin’ in Suffolk: injured wing, reckernise the bird any day from her irregular flight. Taken a good few pot shots at her; missed her every time. She had survived three seasons, it had become a point of honour to bag her. And so he had at last, and his dear old cocker, Queenie, had retrieved her; and, in triumph, between them they had carried her home. He remembered to this day his pride as, judiciously hung, she had been borne in, done to a turn, with her breadcrumbs and watercress disposed all about her; and, by Jove, poor old girl, how tough she had turned out to be! It made a feller think. Could there be such a thing, after all, as caring too much about the old hen pheasant, while the gay young birds flew by? “Grand Duchess?” he said. “I was talking about poor Winnie.”

“Winsome? What’s poor about her?”

“Thought she looked a bit lonely, wandering off on her own.”

“She’s with the others, I expect. They were going up to look at the gallows. Goya’s supposed to have done the painting on them; quite worn offnow, of course …”

“Goyer?”

“My dear Dick—you must know that the painter, Goya, is supposed to have spent two years here, after he ran away from Spain?”

“No, I didn’t,” said the Major rather sulkily. Hat was so damn sharp.

“Well, you’d better then. Call yourself a courier! What about the paintings on the walls of the cathedral? They’re obviously Goya: and anyway, where was he, between the time he escaped from Madrid in 1765 and turned up in Italy in ’67 or ’8?”

“Why ask me?” said the Major. “I don’t know.”

“I know you don’t, and I’m telling you. He was here in San Juan. Just the person to get mixed up with pirates. It was probably he who inspired the original Juan to build the cathedral; in those days Goya was doing big murals of religious subjects—it wasn’t till he arrived in Rome that …”

“All right, Hat, all right. I’ll mug it all up tomorrow in the guide book. Feller can’t be suckin’ in culture every hour of the day.” ’Nother thing about poor Winnie—she could pour out this kind of drivel by the hour, but she didn’t expect a feller to know it for himself. A lot of stuff about painters—very interesting, no doubt, but it wasn’t a man’s subject. If Hat had a fault, it was that she was a darn sight too critical. Old soldier, grown white in the service of his country and all that—couldn’t be expected to shine in academic circles as well. Royal Academy, Sandhurst—not Royal Academy, Burlington House, by Jove! Not unreasonably pleased by his own wit, he repeated this gem to Hat, suitably led up to, i.e. without reference to Winsome. Miss Cockrill paid it the tribute of only a very wintry smile.

For Miss Cockrill was weary: weary and oppressed. The scene on the gallows rock had revolted her, she saw the world suddenly as ugly and cruel and life as infinitely sad. I am old, she thought; and weary and lonely and happiness has passed me by. A dreary girlhood, an aimless middle-age: and now … There was still much that she could have found to delight in; and yet here she was chained for the rest of her days to a companion apparently sent by heaven for no purpose but to rob her of all pleasure in these last things. Let her but enjoy a book, and Winsome poked her long nose into it too and said that it was clever, no doubt, but was it all, frankly, quite Worth While? Let them see a mackerel sky, and Winsome gave way to fancies about mummy angels tucking cherubs into pink feather beds, let them engage for a moment in conversation with a wit, a scholar, a sophisticate, a cross old village woman bringing round the milk—and Winsome thought that Underneath they were all just simple, lonely, heart-achey people like Ourselves, crying out to be Loved: let them but pass a damned cyclamen in a pot, thought Cousin Hat to herself, almost in tears, and it reminded Winsome of fairies dancing. Till I die! I have got her with me till I die! Her shaking fingers scrabbled up handfuls of the curling, pointed, sun-dry olive leaves from the ground and screwed them into dust, she shuddered and bit her lip in an effort to preserve her self-control. Beside her, the Major sat chewing on his white moustache, his prominent pale blue eyes gazing placidly out to sea. What bliss, what happiness, to sit for ever with a companion who could look at an expanse of salt water without calling it God’s Own, or thinking of it as Our Lady’s Sequined Mantle.…

“Charming thing poor Winnie said t’other day ’bout the Mediterranean,” said the Major dreamily. “Said that from heaven it must look like a bowl of forget-me-nots. Bowl of forget-me-nots!” He mused over it. “Blue, y’know. Yellow bits in the middle—sun dancing on the water. Get it?”

Miss Cockrill could not help laughing and the laughter did her good, it broke up the tension of her little crise de nerfs and left her only rather shaken at its intensity. “Oh, Dick,” she said, “don’t you go whimsical on me too!”

The Major came-to with a start. “What? What?” He turned a little and glanced at her white face. “I say … Bit grey round the gills. Feeling all right, old girl?”

“Yes, I’m all right. It’s only that … Sometimes, you know, Dick, one gets weary and a bit frightened; a woman all alone in life like me.”

“You’re not alone, Hat,” said the Major; referring to Winsome.

Miss Cockrill, however, took it differently. “I know, Dick. And if things had been different …” Dear old Dick! He was not the world’s brightest intelligence but one had grown used to him over the years; and in her mood of weakness she felt that it would be in itself a paradise, only to have someone to rely upon for the endless little difficulties and decisions, the mountain of trivial burden which now, alone, she carried for two. “But it’s no good. I won’t wish upon you a menage à trois, and Winsome won’t ever marry now.” She had taken off the straw hat and speared it with a hat-pin to the ground beside her and now she put her grey head against his shoulder. “You’ve been very faithful, Dick.”

“By Jove, old girl, not like you t’give way like this,” said the Major, growing very red.

She lifted her head and her hands played again with the dry leaves. “No, it isn’t, is it? But … Well, there it is. I can’t leave Winsome now, she couldn’t manage on the money she’s got, not in the way we manage by living together; and she couldn’t understand anything less, she’s a silly woman, really, for all her pretensions; she couldn’t cope with economy, not real, hard economy. No. I promised her mother and I must stick to my bargain. But we could have been very happy all these years, you and I.”

“By Jove, yes, old girl, of course, of course.…”

“Oh, dear, Dick!—to sit down just sometimes to a meal with someone who didn’t keep dashing to the window to Share with the Little Feathered Friends of St Francis (who flourished in a country where there isn’t a single bird left because they’ve killed and eaten them all). To be able to go out and just dig in the garden without Trusty-the-Spade, or set about the weeds without Twin brothers Hoe and Spud! Not to mention running over the gravel with Hogarth.…”

“Hogarth?”

“The Rake’s Progress,” said Cousin Hat, bleakly.

“Poor-Winnie-sensitive-soul …”

“She is not a sensitive soul,” said Hat. “If she were, she’d know that for years every word she has uttered has scraped on my nerves like a knife skidding over a plate.”

Nerves all to bits, poor old girl. “Need a rest, Hat, ought to have a change.”

“I am having a rest, you fool—and a change. And Winsome is all wide-eyed wonder because she can pick a bunch of grapes off a vine, and drools over a dirty old skeleton in a Streatham-High-Street dress. If only,” said Miss Cockrill desperately, “Juanita would give her wretched sign and get herself canonised and Winsome could sell thousands of copies of her translations and be rich and independent—and you and I could be free!”

But perhaps poor Hat herself was not so very sensitive either; or she might have observed that, gallantly though he puffed and protested, such an outcome was no longer quite unreservedly the heart’s desire of her faithful Dick.

The grouppa, in the meantime, bereft of their shepherd, had wandered off to inspect the Vaporetto de Muerte: missing him dreadfully, for most of the ladies were setting their (widows’) caps at him and Fuddyduddy was incensed at his relaxing attentions which, surely, had been bought and paid for in advance. A hoard of colourful urchins followed like gadflies in their wake, telling lies about the financial positions of their families, small brown hands thrust out. “Where is Bull? He ought to be here to shoo these creatures away.”

“Shoo them away yourself,” said Gruff; poor Gruff, who, thanks to the tender care of Aunt Grim, would never have a pack of small boys of her own; or even a Fuddyduddy.

But Fuddyduddy had his hands rammed down on the money in his pockets and could not take them out for fear of creating an impression that he might be about to distribute largesse. Fortunately, the lady novelist was ready to distribute instead and did so, right, left and centre, only careful to keep an account for the income tax people at home. “Research,” she explained briefly, listening with keen delight to family histories which would have astonished the devoted and deeply indulgent relatives concerned. Even the Back-Homes were mollified at hearing of the living conditions behind the facade of luxurious fiesta window-dressing; and, would the Juanese but have admitted the original of the Goya-decorated gallows to be in the U.S.A., would have instituted a Help-for-San-Juan Day, without delay.

Mr Cecil was enraptured with the Vaporetto de Muerte. She lay at her moorings, dingily black and silver, tugging gently on a single tether like a large, richly caparisoned regimental goat. Bunches of ostrich plumes were fixed to every available post, between them hung wreaths, hideously ornate, of innumerable tiny coloured beads, strung on wire. The bulkheads were plastered with photographs, in the da-guerrotype manner, of loved ones who by this means had crossed the Styx from Barrequitas to the mainland—varying in age and beauty but unanimous in somewhat startling choice of background, for the single backcloth of the Barrequitas photographer, portrays an aged donkey peering over a bridge at a waterfall far below, apparently with suicidal intent. Beneath his melancholy nose, generations of bambinos roll on bamboo table-tops with every evidence of acute strangulated hernia; the brides simper, the old ladies glare from behind their abundant moustaches, the gentlemen strike attitudes of bashful grace: all with eyes glazed from two minutes’ unwinking attention to the Juanese birdie. Mr Cecil read out the tributes of the living to those thus petrified into immortality, with hoots of happy laughter; and, forgetful of their own annual contributions to the In Memorium columns at home, the widows tittered in sychophantic chorus. He left them and wandered off into the sable-hung bowels of the boat.

Tomaso had brought the Arcivescovo back to the vaporetto and, in the absence of captain and crew, a-feast on the island, commandeered the one small saloon, below decks, and there laid the old man on a slatted wooden seat, with a rolled-up cloak beneath his head. Others had come forward with tentative offers of help; but with the Grand Duke in his present mood, both Church and State must be on the hop not to offend, and if Tomaso di Goya and his renegade friends cared to stick out their revolutionary necks and take the responsibility off their hands, so much the better. He sent off a message summoning the Gerente and, dismissing his followers, sat down by the still semi-conscious old man for an hour’s constructive thought.

By the time Mr Cecil arrived outside their door, the Archbishop was better and, fortified with arguadiente, deep in agitated counsel with his new friends. That his execution would shortly take place appeared to be accepted fact, at least between himself and the Gerente: El Gerente, indeed, being lavish with promises to make the whole business when it came as little personally disagreeable to his Grace as possible. He only wished that he could have put Mario on the job; but Mario alas! was sailing tomorrow with a cargo of contraband including some heroin, and one dared not send anyone less responsible, drugs were always so tricky. Jose, unfortunately was not to be relied upon, but Jose it would have to be: the trouble was, he was apt to lose his head and let go at the critical moment and it did rather muck things up. However, said the Gerente cheerfully, at the Archbishop’s age and in his state of health, whatever happened he wouldn’t last very long; and in hanging, really that was all that counted. Of course, he added, if Juanita would only turn up trumps …

“Juanita will give no sign,” said Tomaso, elaborately impatient. “Count that out.”

“We must continue to pray,” said the Archbishop.

“Of course. And if she answers, Arcivescovo, well and good. But …” He looked down at his black-rimmed fingernails, searching for some path of ingress into the old man’s pious and simple mind. “Why should she answer? This is an affair of men. How dare we ask the saints to intervene?”

“It is not for myself, my son. Who am I to demand a miracle from heaven, to save my worthless life? It is for the honour of El Margherita herself. It is a challenge to her.”

“You are too humble, Arcivescovo.”

“No man can be too humble in the face of heaven.”

“Ah, no. And, therefore—may not Juanita feel this too? Is it likely that for her own glorification, she will perform a miracle at the bidding of Juan Lorenzo?”

“If she gives no sign, then we must take it that she is content to wait for recognition.”

“But we can’t wait,” said the Gerente, bursting out with it. “Tomaso and I can’t wait.” Tomaso threw him a warning glance and he amended: “San Juan el Pirata can’t wait.”

“I confess I would like to have known before I died—”

“Exactly, Arcivescovo: you can’t wait either. But once Juanita were recognised—ah, then you could go to God with a peaceful mind, knowing your island was safe in her hands, knowing that from all over the world touristi would be flocking in—”

“Pilgrims,” said Tomaso, kicking him under the table.

“—pilgrims would be flocking in: from Italy and Spain, each having a share in our glory, from America and England and France and Germany, all eager to witness the ceremonies. We could spin the ceremonies out for—oh, as much as a year: start a whole new season, perhaps, in this way, popularise San Juan for the months of the English winter. The trade!” cried El Gerente, carried away, his ankles black and blue from Tomaso’s assaults on them, but oblivious of it all. “The smuggling! Think what the tourist hotels alone must import. And the funghi! My wife’s brother, Arcivescovo, who is in the kitchens at the Bellomare, he has made a discovery. By a mistake, some funghi were fed to a party of English touristi, which had been intended for the hotel milch goats. Guiseppe waited quite anxiously, he, alone, knowing what had happened; but instead of their dying off in agony, the touristi enquired a day or two later whether they might not again try this interesting dish. Arcivescovo, these toadstools are now gathered by the basketful by my sister’s children, dried in a disused fowl house and sold off in the streets at great price for these fools to take home to America and England in little paper bags. Let the tourist trade prosper and my brother-in-law will be a rich man one day. And then there is the wine. A whole business has grown up of expressing wine from the Toscanita grapes; who, if the touristi don’t continue to flourish, will consume this horrible stuff? And then, Tomaso, our snuff-boxes.…”

“It is very true,” said Tomaso, his eyes darting daggers at his partner, “that material prosperity would follow Juanita’s canonisation. But we do not think of that. It is the spiritual gain, Arcivescovo. Innocenta, for example,” said Tomaso piously, “reckons that with two really bumper years at the Colombaia, she could afford to reopen the convent.”

“As to that, my son, I have discussed the matter with both the Grand Duke and El Patriarca and both are of opinion that this dream of Innocenta di Perliti should be discouraged.”

“Discourage the convenuto!”

“El Beatitud considers that as a convenuto the Colombaia would be a loss to San Juan. That sink in the town is fit only for casuals from the mainland, come over on the vaporetto for the day trip. If Innocenta retires—where, says El Beatitud, will there be to go? He thinks not so much of the young ones as of the married men, respectable fellows like yourself, Gerente, with your families to think of. And the Grand Duke is anxious about the touristi, what will they think if we can offer them but one colombaia?—and that a wretched hole-in-the-wall in Barrequitas.”

“But, Arcivescovo—the convenuto! To the glory of El Margherita!”

“Alas, my son, when I am gone, who will fight for the glory of El Margherita?”

“Exactly,” said Tomaso triumphantly. “And, therefore, this must be achieved before you die.”

“I have not long. If Juanita fails to give some sign on San Juan’s Day …”

El Gerente groaned, burying his face in two large, dirty brown hands.

“If on San Juan’s Day she fails,” said Tomaso, decidedly, “her canonisation will not come in our generation—if ever. When you die, Arcivescovo, there is no one. El Obispo will become Archbishop in your place, and El Obispo is wax in the hands of the Patriarch.”

“The Bishop is a good man, my son, you must have respect for the princes of Mother Church. But if he shows signs of resistance to the Patriarch …”

“… he will not succeed as Archbishop. So, since El Patriarca is against applying to Rome for the canonisation, so must the Bishop be. And all I say is, Arcivescovo, what you say yourself—all hope is lost of the canonisation if, on the Fiesta di San Juan, Juanita gives no sign. The truth is,” said Tomaso, leaning forward, his thin brown face keen and dominating in the dim light, his thin brown hand clenched on his embroidered knee, “the truth is that on that day El Margherita must—she must—give a sign.” He paused. “Or rather …”

“Or rather?”

“Or rather,” said Tomaso slowly, relaxing back against the wooden chair and letting his hands fall limply at his sides as though the matter were concluded by the speaking of the very words, “or rather, let us put it this way—El Exaltida must receive a sign.”

The boat rocked gently, the water softly slapping wet hands against her wooden sides, the dying daylight filtered through the smeared round portholes into the little room. Outside, Mr Cecil leaned against the tarnished rail of the companion-way and listened with all his ears, within the old man sat bolt upright trying to control the senile shaking of his head; and Tomaso and El Gerente put out hands to their arguadiente glasses, drained them and refilled. “Arcivescovo?”

“No, no, my son, thank you.” But he changed his mind, he was desperately weak from the hideous events of the day, a day that had started with the delivery of the Sermone de Defunto and gone on through the muffled horror of hours spent beneath the hood and cloak of the Hanging Men: the dragging of old, bare feet across the arena and up to the Gallows Rock, buffeted by the movements of the blindfolded dancers, racked by the shovings and jostlings of the populace who, unaware of his identity, urged him on with laughter and mockery to join in the caperings of his fellow condemned. And now it seemed that all was not yet over. He tossed down half a glassful of the raw spirit and it fled through his bloodless veins like a thing on fire. “What do you mean—‛the Grand Duke must receive a sign’?”

“I mean simply that if Juanita will not send a message, we must send a message for her.”

The Gerente’s jaw dropped, he sagged in the folds of the great, blue cape staring in blank incredulity. The colour drained from the old man’s face, leaving the white scar gleaming on his forehead, a splash of milk spilt upon mottled marble. “God forgive you, child: this is sacrilege!”

“Sacrilege! Is it not sacrilege, rather, for Juan Lorenzo to demand this miracle? If Juanita, Santa Juanita, will not dance to his tune—he will do thus and thus: so says the Grand Duke. A man, a mere man—he challenges the saints. What sacrilege then? if mere man take up the challenge in defence of the saints. I say it is the Grand Duke’s duty,” said Tomaso, thumping his brown hand on the cabin table, “to apply for recognition of El Margherita. He evades his duty by issuing to her this impudent ultimatum. It is a trick: to cheat Juanita before all the people, a trick to cheat all the people. The answer is very simple: let the people, in our persons, trick him back.”

“But if Juanita …”

“If Juanita herself gives a sign, then there will be two signs instead of one, that is all: our sign will be a leading-up to hers, a rounding-off of it. There is nothing to be lost by our trying: and so much to be gained which, if we do not gain it now, is lost for ever. The Grand Duke has promised: if he receives a sign, he must apply to Rome. And your other wish, also, Arcivescovo, must surely follow. The Grand Duchess is to pray for an heir; if she receives a sign then surely, surely she must accept from now on, what children the good God sends her. So everyone is made happy. Your life will not end upon the gallows and when it does end, you will die content. Innocenta, will have her Perliti again if Juanita gives her sign, El Gerente will grow rich; and I, no doubt,” said Tomaso, looking down his long nose, “shall find my reward, wherever it happens that I may seek it.” He gave them no time for further protest or argument. “Arcivescovo—the thurible, the Cellini thurible.…”

“The thurible?”

“The thurible is in your keeping. Let me have access to it for an hour or two, let me have it for a morning in my workshop: and on the day of the fiesta, when the Grand Duke has made his appeal to Juanita and steps forward to offer incense as the custom is, then from the thurible shall come, not a cloud of white smoke scented with the scent of incense, but a cloud of rosy pink smoke, scented with the scent of a thousand roses, the national flower of San Juan: the scent of a thousand, thousand roses, mingling with the scent of the roses in the Duomo, that will rise up and up in a great rosy cloud so that all shall know, even the blind shall know, that Juanita has answered. The scent of our island flower shall be Juanita’s answer to our island’s prayers.…” He paused at last. “It is simple and it is dramatic. There can be no flaw in it.”

“Simple is not the word for it,” said El Gerente. “As for dramatic, the drama will come when El Exaltida discovers that attar of roses instead of incense has been thrown on the coals, with a little red colouring matter for good measure.” Not for nothing had El Gerente, two years ago now, spent a week in the invigorating aura of Scotalanda Yarrrda as represented by Inspector Cockrill, brother of Cousin Hat.

Tomaso looked at him coldly. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“A fool by no means. Simply a raving lunatic with no concern for your own neck or the Arcivescovo’s neck or mine. Rosy smoke, indeed! Who will believe it for a moment? Anyone can throw a little bath salts on the thurible coals.”

“You heard me ask for access to the thurible for some hours, in my shop. Do I need several hours, to throw bath salts on the coals? Arcivescovo, Serenity, take no heed of him. Give me this censer tomorrow morning for an hour or two …” He threw wide his clever hands, shrugging his shoulders up to the lobes of his ears. “Am I not goldsmith to San Juan?”

“But what can you …?”

“A sliding door, Serenity: a tiny, sliding door concealing the scented pellet, so arranged that it opens only when the Grand Duke swings the thurible forward, and closes as it swings back. Invisible when the thurible is not actually in use, invisible to anyone examining it, however closely. Let the Grand Duke throw his own incense on the coals, let him arrange and light the coals himself, if he will; let him go over the thurible afterwards with a magnifying glass—still when it is tossed up and forward it will send forth billows of rosy, rose-scented smoke; and still he will never be able to discern that it has been tampered with.”

“A miraculous thurible!” The Gerente thought it over, shaking his head in wonder. “Clouds of rosy smoke—our national flower, the flower of San Juan’s Day! And …” He grew eager. “And not once only?—not once, Tomaso, but always, would not this be possible? Imagine it!—Juanita’s gift to San Juan, in honour, in celebration of her canonisation—a miraculous thurible which, fed with ordinary incense, sends forth the scent of roses. A new pellet each time—what more simple, Tomaso, eh?”

“My sons …”

“Crowds flocking to San Juan to see the miracle take place, each time the censer is used. The touristi!—special vaporetti from the mainland upon every fiesta day, my cousins between them own both the vaporetti … And momentos—miniature censers, Tomaso; you could design a miniature thurible, one copy and we could have them turned out for the touristi by the hundred … Tangiers … El Hamid—we could use him again, more positive specifications this time of course.…”

“My sons …”

“Tiny censers for charm-bracelets, that actually worked: my cousin’s children could be employed, perhaps, rolling the little pellets.…”

“My sons,” said the Arcivescovo, for the third time, forcing up his thin old voice to shout El Gerente down. “No more of this! To stage a ‘miracle’ upon this one occasion to the glory of Juanita—well, perhaps; but to repeat it for mere monetary gain, to profane the piety of our people—it is not to be thought of. Tomaso di Goya …”

“Do not look at me, Arcivescovo, no such thought ever came to my mind. The moment our single ‘miracle’ is over, I will in your presence dismantle the work I have done.”

El Gerente bowed his head in shame. “Forgive me, Arcivescovo, I was carried away.” He remembered the horror with which, only three days ago, he had received Tomaso’s proposals regarding the multiplication of Juanita’s crumbs; and crossed himself and muttered a prayer for her intercession on his behalf. But in those three days, he could not help observing, while he might have deteriorated, Tomaso’s attitude had undergone a remarkable change for the better. He eyed his friend warily. There was something odd about this plan of his, something vaguely childish: and Tomaso di Goya was not, on the whole, remarkable for childish attributes of mind.

The widows came sniggering down the stair, exclaiming at the piously funereal aspect of the little bar which, consistent with the rest of the décor, was in mourning purple with touches of silver and black, right down to black edges round the labels on the bottles; and even, said Mr Cecil, recovering from his rage at being interrupted in so delicious an eavesdropping, black olives in the dishes on the counter. He treated them to a Juanello apiece, calculating the cost exactly and leaving the money with a little note on the bar counter—to the immeasurable astonishment of the next casual customer, who promptly pocketed it. The widows were flattered: but they were anxious about the dear Major—not seen him for hours, so unlike him to leave them unattended and these Juanese were so untrustworthy, could Anything have Happened, was there Anything they should Do …? They chittered and chattered like a flock of starlings, sipping daintily at their drinks.

Mr Cecil eyed them uneasily. A bevy of well-to-do relicts—and the Major hard up, solitary, still a little kick left in him, and visibly chafing at the long, fraying tether of his devotion to ‘poor Hat’ … Mr Cecil was fond of Cousin Hat. He liked rather waspish middle-aged ladies, being something of a waspish middle-aged lady himself; and he would not see her outpaced by some second-hand article less in need than herself of the Major’s comfort and care. “What’s this? Gone off on his own?”

Well, not exactly on his own. That Miss Cockrill had been with him. An old friend, it appeared.…

Jealousy, jealousy! cried Mr Cecil.

The ladies, tittering, disclaimed: passing the buck to one another, making dabbing little, fishing little jokes, steely-eyed, behind the jokes, to detect the real truth of one another’s feelings. ‘It’s Mrs Trubshaw, she went quite pale when the Major went off, you know you did, Mrs Trubshaw …!’ ‘Well, I like that—who went off with him herself, that evening in Rome …?’ ‘And what about a certain bunch of flowers in Cortina D’Ampezzo …?’ Mr Cecil drank it all in and did not care for it a bit. Major Bull was hardly acute of observation but even he, surely, must recognise sooner or later if he had not already, that well-padded comfort both of body and bank-balance was, in half a dozen guises, his for the asking. He decided to take a hand. “Well, all I can say, duckies, is do be careful. You wouldn’t want to find yourselves numbers six to twelve in Bluebeard’s little abattoir, now would you?” But he clapped his hand to his mouth. “Oh, dear!—I shouldn’t have said.”

The ladies put down their Juanellos one after another, the sound of glass upon wood made a clop-clop-clop of regimental precision all along the bar counter. “Bluebeard?”

Oh, dear, cried Mr Cecil, again, he never should have mentioned it. They must forget all about it, every word, please, please, just forget … And anyway, he added, honestly duckies, sheer exaggeration. “Not more than two at the most, of that I’m certain.”

Not more than two. But two what?

Well, wives, said Mr Cecil. He was in a terrible taking. “One does wish one had never said, and you must all forget every word of it, promise, promise!”

But forget what? said the ladies, ashen faced.

Just forget that one had ever uttered one single, single word. One was madly keen, said Mr Cecil, enjoying himself hugely, on giving people a second chance—well, in this case a third chance, of course—and that their pasts shouldn’t follow them round. Not that the Major’s pasts could follow him round anyway, because after all they were … Well, that had, no doubt, been the whole purpose of … But no, no—one had already said too much. He would only implore them never to … Well, not to … Well, just to be a little extra careful if ever there was a gun anywhere about. Anything else, poison, ropes, daggers, even high cliffs—all utterly safe, it was just that some people had a Thing about guns.… He named no names, he made no accusations, heaven forbid! He only said, just be tactful, dears, about guns … So, retreating, advancing a little, retreating again, ducking and side-stepping in a sort of one-man verbal quadrille and enjoying himself immensely, he led them like the Pied Piper, filing white-faced and silent after him, up the companion-way and over the narrow gangplank and so ashore; and left them to vanish into a hole in the mountain-side if they would. But when he crept down again to the door of the saloon, discussion of the miraculous thurible had come to an end.

Now in the arena, flares had been lit, a procession was forming, eight biers carried, each with an effigy marvellously fashioned in paper and wood of a hanged man with grue-somely lolling head. These would be borne round the island and launched at last, lightly bobbing, on the current that would carry them to the cemetery on the Italian shore. The single survivor, also in effigy and more macabre than all the rest, jerked its way in capering triumph behind the line of coffins; and all about them the people danced with flares and banners in the dying daylight, men, women and children in a crescendo of music and laughter and chatter and song, a half-hysterical gaiety not entirely arguadiente-induced: for in the midst of life we are in death—and every bier as it passed bore the legend, ‘I today: tomorrow—you!’

El Gerente and Tomaso di Goya took no part in the dancing. Deep in talk, barely conscious of their surroundings, they shouldered and shoved their way through the mob, walking without particularly directing their steps, up to the Gallows Rock. “But, Tomaso …”

“Gerente, ask nothing, know nothing. Forget even, for your own good, that we had this talk just now with the old man. As to rose-scented smoke, this of course is nothing but nonsense. I had to give him some story so that I might have access to the thurible: but what is concealed behind the sliding door, will have nothing to do with roses! As to that, anyway—leave it all to me. Your part is to be ready, to have your men ready, to take control. He who in that moment is prepared, will be strong; and he who in that moment is strong, Gerente, will have San Juan in his hands. And in all San Juan, only you and I will be prepared.”

“But I cannot tell my men——”

Tomaso made fists of his hands and hammered the air. “Fool, idiot! of course you will not ‘tell your men!’ All that is needed is to have them on the alert. Post them at the doors, have a handful strategically placed. All San Juan will be there: you can say you are afraid of panic when the ‘sign’ comes from Juanita, of over-excitement, a scramble forward, perhaps, which in the crowded building may lead to danger …” If the prospect of El Gerente’s men with their bare feet and blunderbusses casting oil on the waters of religious raptures run amok, afforded him a gleam of amusement, he gave no sign of it. “The great thing is that your politio must not be relaxed, on their knees, in the body of the church; they must not be part of the crowd, and so caught up in the general confusion. When the moment comes, they must be ready for a swift, decisive arrest at your command.”

“Very well, Tomaso.”

“This will satisfy the people, will give them a feeling of security; will show them, later on when we may need it, that they can have confidence in you. ‘Look how he handled things after the assassination!’ And above all, it will deflect attention from me. The only question is—who shall we arrest?”

El Gerente shrugged. “That is not of importance.”

“Perhaps not; but one must pay attention to detail. And my attitude, after all, will be reflected here. Is this to be one of my followers? Or not? Is my reaction to be one of rage and horror at the assassination by some firebrand unknown to me?—the rising up of a strong man, in his wrath and indignation, to take control … Or is the slaying to be by one of my own men who, in a moment of over-enthusiastic folly, overcome by the sufferings of the people under the tyrant’s yoke, etcetera, etcetera, has done this thing: foolishly thinking to please me?—and I, plunged in grief at having been so foully misunderstood, take my part in the rehabilitation of the island, reluctantly but by way of atonement. I have a young fellow, for example, devoted to the cause and to me, a sort of cousin. You know Francisco di Goya?”

“A nice boy. He would do very well. And being a member of your family, if you were to order his death …”

“A good point. Who then would suspect me? Very well. His mother is a widow, half-sister to my uncle, his father was a kinsman also. We must show her some compassion when we come to power; some financial help, perhaps, for the loss of her son. It will look well.” El Gerente nodded agreement most readily but Tomaso was far away, already employing the royal ‘we.’ “It is settled then. Francisco di Goya. I will let him run certain errands in the next day or two which will give colour to our accusation. The next problem is: immediate despatch at the hands of your furious gendarmerie?—or public execution two or three days later: say today week?”

“That would have the advantage of giving the people something to look forward to.”

“Very true. And keep their minds occupied. And to have the murderer disposed of too soon after the event, might be an anticlimax. Very well: public execution on the Sunday, after Mass. If we had the Grand Duke’s funeral first,” mused Tomaso, “and Francisco walking after the bier in chains …”

“Will not the people expect the Grand Duke to lie in state? And be embalmed? All the Grand Dukes are.”

Tomaso privately thought it unlikely that enough of this particular Grand Duke would ever be assembled to admit of his lying in any sort of state; that he would prove a fit subject for embalmment was certainly out of the question. “And then,” said El Gerente, “there is the question of succession.”

The Grand Duke’s Heir Apparent, a nephew, was at this time a minor. Whether Tomaso would assume power in a Regency—until he had time to despatch this young sprig in his turn—or do away with hereditary rule from the first, he had not yet decided. “I will deal with all that, leave these things to me, we will see.” They had come to the rock and automatically turned their feet to the curve of rough-hewn steps that led up to it; and so arrived and stood looking down over the heads of the great, weaving, multi-coloured, dancing crowd, shifting and shadowy in the flare of the smokey torches. Beyond, the sea lay like wrinkled black treacle and, a black shadow in a silver patch of moonlight, the Vaporetto de Muerte rocked at her mooring. “Tomaso—the Arcivescovo!”

“What about him?”

“Will he not guess? I mean—the thurible …”

“What of the thurible? He thinks it will belch forth attar of roses as a sign from Juanita.”

“But—afterwards …”

“Perhaps he will think this also was a sign. After all, it is to his advantage that the Grand Duke dies. His life is saved; and I assure you that we shall lose no time in the advancement of his precious Juanita. And he knows that in our hands San Juan escapes into freedom from tyranny. I have taught him my principles and my beliefs, he knows that with me the rights of the people come first and foremost, he knows that with me the Right of the Individual Man is the be-all and end-all of political aspiration, he knows …”

“He knows—or he will know—that with you lay the death of the Grand Duke,” said El Gerente. “And,” he added anxiously, for this was the hub of the matter, “with me. And when he knows this—what I say is: what if he speaks?”

“He will not speak,” said Tomaso easily.

“He will not speak, you say. That is easy. But I say, Tomaso, again—what if he does?”

“Well, what if he does? Old men are easily silenced,” said the apostle of the Rights of Man.

Winsome Foley came up to them, rising up out of the shadows, tall and angular as the gallows posts themselves. Her long, gangling body was tensed, her hands jerked, her grey-green eyes stared out witlessly from her white face. “Oh, Senor Tomaso—thank goodness …! Oh, Gerente …!” She was exhausted, on the verge of hysteria. Divorced from her party by the defection of Cousin Hat with the Major, she had wandered for the best part of the evening, alone amidst the crowd, unable to extricate herself, her sense of direction soon lost, frightened and insecure: jostled and buffeted, jarred and jolted, affronted at every turn—swung for a moment by the strong brown hand of a dancer passing in some formal set movement, caught and held in half amorous embrace in a patch of shadow; released, cushioned again, helpless, against soft bosom or thigh, cannoning off to reel against a pair of lovers locked in each other’s arms; stumbling away … The air was shrill with laughter and screaming, the high-pitched chatter of women, the whoops of the men. Unashamed, uninhibited, the girls pranced and kicked, plump arms boneless as bolsters, rounded above sleek, dark heads; triumphant in virility, the men leapt and twisted or, on their own axis, spun dizzily round and round and round. Breathless, dishevelled, bruised, terrified, she had come at last to the gallow steps, climbed up out of the surge and sway of the dancing; and there, thank God …! “Oh, Senor Tomaso, oh, Gerente, thank goodness you’re here.…!”

And thank goodness you’re here, thought Tomaso: nothing could have fitted better into his plans. “Senorita!” He made a slight gesture, surreptitiously, of dismissal, and El Gerente, astonished, found himself skulking off like a well-trained dog at his master’s sign. “Senorita! Permit me to assist you. You are alone?”

“Yes. I have come through …” She jerked her trembling hand to indicate the crowds milling twenty feet below.

“But, Senorita—this is not nice for you. They mean no harm but they are rough, they are excited, they have drunk much arguadiente.” He put out his hand to her. “Come, you shall rest and then I will take you back to your grouppa; come and sit for a little while under the olive trees.…”

She went with him, thankfully, exhausted, her nerves all a-quiver, starting like a highstrung horse at every moving shadow; and he held her hand as he might have a child’s and led her away from the rock plateau and into the grey-green glooms of the olive groves, empty but for the murmur and movement of lovers, lying among the twisted tree roots in each other’s arms. They came to a break in the trees, to a grassy sward that looked out over the moonlit sea, and he planted her down on a little mound and sat quietly at her feet. “Be still, Senorita. Be peaceful. All danger is past.” After a short time he got up again. “I leave you for only a little while. Sit quietly here. No one will disturb you. I shall come back.” He came back and brought with him a bottle of light, red wine, some fresh white rolls and a piece of cheese. “Drink: it will refresh you. And then some bread and some cheese—we will have a little picnic together, and soon you will be strong again and forget this fright.”

“You are very, very kind,” she said.

So very kind; a rescuer, coming to her aid in the final moment of her desperation, gentle, understanding, considerate and kind. Impossible, then, to rebuff him when at last he brought the conversation round to their famous plan. “Yes, and what did you mean, you naughty man, coming up to me in front of all those people with some nonsense about the thurible?”

“Some nonsense, Senorita!—this is in deadly earnest,” he said, but still smiling up into her face. “You could not really think that our beautiful plan should end here? No, no, it is magnificent, the Arcivescovo is delighted with it.”

“The Arcivescovo!”

“He alone is in the secret. Of course we had to tell him. Who else should let you have the thurible? It is in his care.”

She put down the glass of wine on the rough grass beside her, her hand searching blindly about for a space for it. “Let me have the thurible? Whatever are you talking about?”

“Senorita, I must have the thurible in my shop. There are hours of work to be done, a whole night of work; I cannot make a place of concealment for the pellet simply by waving my hand over the censer. And there is not much time, the Fiesta di San Juan is in three days time—the Grand Duke himself has commanded our miracle for that day (a little miracle in itself, Senorita, were you not struck by it?). But it means that I must have the thurible by tomorrow.”

“What has that got to do with me?”

“The Archbishop will give you the thurible, you will bring it to my shop.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Winsome. “I shouldn’t dream of such a thing.” If he and the Archbishop, she said, cared to embroil themselves in so absurd and risky a proceeding, that was up to them: she dismissed it all with her old air of kindly, humorous patronage—two small boys playing cloak-and-dagger games, and foreign small boys at that … “After all, dear Senor Tomaso, what is it to do with me?”

“Only that it was your plan,” said Tomaso.

“Goodness gracious, I never meant it seriously, I disapprove entirely of the whole proceeding.”

“Night before last, Senorita—you did not disapprove.”

“Well, when I say disapprove—I don’t in principle, I agree that it doesn’t matter very much how the Pope is persuaded to grant what we all know Juanita deserves. But … Well, I never for a moment took it seriously, I never thought you’d really go through with it.”

There was a tiny pause.

“Yet you brought me the book,” said Tomaso. “I think you have forgotten, Senorita—together we altered the book.”

A dank hand fastened itself for a moment on her vitals, prodded into her fainting heart a cold finger of fear. Blackmail! He was going to blackmail her through Juanita’s book. But his face was smiling and frank, his eyes were clear, the little chill, if chill there had ever really been, had melted out of his voice. “I only mean, Senorita, that if you had meant it only for an evening’s amusement, you wouldn’t have tampered with the book?”

“I didn’t tamper with it,” she said sharply. “You did.”

“I held the pen. You—as it were—held the book. You and I together, both of us, made up the ‘message.’” He shrugged. “It was half-and-half.” Though of course, he said carefully, it was true that the Senorita alone had had the book in her care. But he laughed, he was warm and gay again, she must not look so startled, he meant only that he was astonished to find her protesting now, that she had not intended their innocent deception to go on.

“Well, I didn’t,” said Winsome, “and I really don’t want anything more to do with it now.”

He was dismayed, heart-broken. All the fun would be gone out of it, if the Senorita withdrew. And since the Archbishop was enthusiastic, surely she need have no qualms?

If the alteration to the book were—discovered, said Winsome, refusing this consolatory side-tracking, there would be trouble, she supposed. But for them both. She repeated: for them both?

Trouble! Good heavens! He threw up his hands to the soft night sky. Tampering with Juanita’s writings—an act of sacrilege! Trouble would not be the word for it if the alteration to the book were ever found out. For himself … He shrugged. His lawyers would argue, no doubt, that there could be no possible proof that the addition had been written in by him—it was not of himself but of the Senorita that they must think. For not all the lawyers in San Juan could disguise that she, a foreigner, had had the sacred book in her care and had handed it over for the purpose of desecration.… And the law in San Juan, of course … At another time he would have been off on the hobby-horse again, and most legitimately so; but now he simply shrugged one of his enormous shrugs and allowed his face to grow preternaturally grave. No relative of Inspector Cockereel of Scotalanda Yarrrda could need very much prompting as to the horrors of crime and punishment on the island of San Juan el Pirata.

And really there was no earthly reason why it should be found out: if both of them kept their mouths shut, added Tomaso. Their original idea had been to draw attention to the ‘miracle’: they were to ‘discover’ the reference, to condition the island for the sign that was to be sent to them on the Day of Roses. This no longer, however, would be necessary; the Grand Duke had done it all for them by his challenge to Juanita to send them a sign that day. Now nothing need be mentioned of the reference in the Diary—when, in due course, it was recognised, all danger would have passed …

“I don’t quite see why,” said Winsome. “If there is danger now—there’d be danger then.”

Tomaso permitted himself one small, ironical smile; but the danger, he assured her, growing florid, growing vague, flinging his hands about in dismissal of her anxieties, would be nothing after—after the next two or three days. By that time with her assistance—with her assistance—he would have rigged up the false bottom to the thurible, concealed the pellet, returned the censer to the Duomo: the trick would be played, the sign would be granted—there would be no more to fear.… It would all depend—on her giving him her assistance.

“I see,” said Winsome. She asked, dully: “What is it you want me to do?”

And after all, it was really very simple. He wanted her to bring the thurible—the base of it only, that was where the work would be—from the Duomo, where the Archbishop would hand it over to her, to his shop. “No one else but us three must know: to tell a secret to one is to tell it to all. But the Archbishop cannot be seen coming to my shop, I cannot be seen bringing anything from the cathedral, it will be best for me not to go near it; and for him and me for the next three days to keep far apart. If the Grand Duke were ever to discover that the censer had been interfered with …”

“But you say that the sliding door will be undetectable.”

“Certainly it will. But if he enquires and learns even that I have handled the thurible, if he only faintly suspects me—Senorita you do not know Juan Lorenzo!—I should die.”

“Oh, nonsense; you can’t execute a man on a suspicion.”

Tomaso who had just arranged ignoble death for a cousin and friend on no suspicion at all, could hardly be expected to subscribe to this. “I tell you, it is certain, from the moment the faintest notion enters his head that I have touched the censer, my days are numbered. But you, Senorita—what danger is there to you? Who for a moment will suspect that an English tourista should involve herself in this?”

“Who indeed?” said poor Winsome, bitterly.

“You will go to the Duomo, an innocent tourist, interested as thousands have been before you in the Cellini masterpiece. An appointment has been made, frankly and freely before all the world, for the thing to be privately shown to you. There is nothing in that, it is not a show-piece always on view, it is a cathedral treasure in the Archbishop’s keeping. The Archbishop will show it to you, he will hand you the base of it and put the rest in its case and lock it away. You will carry the base away in a large handbag common to all the touristi; you will call at my shop, preferably with a friend or two, you will place some small order: while you are occupied, I shall remove the base of the censer from your bag. Later you will come again, to collect your order, we will proceed in reverse; on your way home, you will slip into the cathedral to light a candle before Juanita’s shrine; the Arcivescovo spends half the day there, at his prayers.” And she would be very careful—very careful, insisted Tomaso, not to drop or knock the censer on the way back. The—er—the pellet of scent might roll out of its position: it was of importance, enormous importance, that it should not. And then—her task would be done; from then, her role was finished, there would be nothing for her to do but to stick to her story: she had been, as a tourist, to see the treasure, she had looked, admired, rhapsodised, and come away. “What−ever may happen, Senorita, stick to this: and so shall I on your behalf and so will the old man. Whatever may happen.” He repeated it once again with a strange intensity. “Whatever may happen, deny all knowledge of the thurible.…”

But on the whole, thought Tomaso, it was not likely that the Senorita would be eager to broadcast her connection with what was all set to happen, three days from now.

From behind the belt of trees came the sound of music, the sound of voices and laughter, muted to sweetness; ahead lay the starlit mirror of the sea. A fleet of little fishing boats had come out and now crept by twos and twos across the dark water, the lamps at their prows throwing down twin circular patches of light that lay on the dark water like golden sovereigns on a cloth of black velvet. Under the split grey boughs of the olives the lovers lay whispering together unashamed and unshaming; over all lay the silver radiance of the moon. He rose to his feet and held out a hand to her. “Come, Senorita, I take you now back to your friends.” And as they walked back through the olive groves, he took her arm, leaned forward to peer, with quizzical laughter, into her frightened face. “Senorita, you are not smiling, you are not happy: is this not fun, our plan of naughtiness, will not much good come from it, for you, for me, for all of us, all San Juan, all the Christian world …?” He rallied her, laughing still. “There is no danger. It is an adventure, a frolic, you should be gay. Think how we shall smile behind our hands when the smoke goes up, the rosy smoke rising up from the golden censer, Juanita’s sign! And for you—there is no danger; for me—ah! it is for me, if anyone, to pull a long, white, anxious face. But I do not, I am gay. And I have my plans. I have borrowed a speedboat from a friend on the mainland, it is hidden away in the reeds down on the shores of the Toscanita plain. I shall fill it with all my treasures from the Joyeria (not the snuff-boxes, the Grand Duke and his politio will be welcome to those); and if there is danger, I must cut my losses and fly away from San Juan for ever.” But he needed help, he said, pathetically, strolling along beside her, his brown hand at her horny elbow, helping her along. It was tricky work transporting his precious things to the boat, he must not be seen too often going down to Toscanita alone. “Could you not express a wish, Senorita, to see the Toscanita plain? It is beautiful down there: I would offer to escort you, we could stuff our pockets and bags with jewels, we could hide them away in the boat, making big pretence of a picnic, of seeing the sights—it would be fun!” She did not answer, only dumbly shook her head, stumbling on across the olive roots, across the rock plateau and down the steps, plunging into the crowds that rolled and danced between herself and her goal. And he smiled and murmured, teasingly, and followed her and at last brought her to where Miss Cockrill stood looking on at the dancing with the rest of the grouppa; and handed her over tenderly to the Major’s care. “Sir, Senorita Cockereel, I bring back to you the Senorita: she has been lost in the crowd, they are rough and noisy, some perhaps are drunk … Poor lady,” said Tomaso, all impersonal concern, “I met her by chance and she begged me to conduct her back to you. She is distraught.” He bowed and flourished, kissed hands all round, bade them his florid, Juanese good nights. “And, Senorita—you will not forget? You have made an appointment tomorrow at the Duomo with the Arcivescovo. He is expecting you. Alas, after all, I cannot come with you, but I have arranged it. You will not let me down?”

“No,” said Winsome. She stood staring stupidly into his face, wearily twitching into place her disordered dress. “Tomorrow at eleven. Yes. I’ll be there. I won’t let you down.”

“What on earth have you been doing, Winsome?” said Cousin Hat. “You look like a demented hare.”