TUESDAY, 28 OCTOBER 1902
Duilio and Joaquim stood in the hallway at the Royal Medical-Surgical School, waiting for the promised doctor to show up. Their inquiry here had taken far longer than they’d expected. Every doctor who might help them had to be fished out of a consultation, meeting, or class, and none so far had been able to help. They were waiting now on a Dr. Cruz, who’d attended the school in the same years as Dr. Teixeira, twenty years ago or more.
The officious clerk who’d been grudgingly helping them came striding back up the hallway toward them, a stern-looking older man in his wake. The gray-haired doctor looked down his narrow nose with a disdainful scowl. “Well, Officers, what do you need today?”
Joaquim patiently explained again that they were looking for information about a healer who’d visited the school years before to demonstrate his powers for the doctors. “Do you have any recollection of that?”
Dr. Cruz’ jaw worked. “Yes, it was a farce—a waste of the students’ valuable time. Why are you asking after ancient history?”
“We’re following up on an earlier conversation with Dr. Teixeira,” Duilio inserted. “I believe he also witnessed that demonstration. Is there any record of the healer’s visit?”
“I doubt it,” the doctor said. “Professor Rocha—the one who arranged it—wasn’t much of a record keeper. He was constantly losing papers and books.”
“It would be very helpful,” Joaquim tried, “if you could tell us anything about the healer who visited.”
“I don’t recall much, to be frank.” The doctor crossed his arms over his chest. “He was a novice. I remember asking whether he was going to be a priest or a monk.”
He? The doctor seemed sure about the healer’s gender. Joaquim glanced over at Duilio as if seeking agreement, but they both knew what the next question should be. And they both knew the answer. Witches in the Church generally migrated to the same order.
“Do you recall what order?” Joaquim asked anyway.
“A Jesuit, of course,” the doctor snapped. “Is that all, Officers?”
* * *
They’d come to the large house on Boavista Avenue that Anjos had rented for himself and the others of his team. The house sat across the wide avenue from the Dom Sebastião III Military Hospital. Built in a style favored in Spain, it had a small courtyard in the center, complete with a quince tree and a fountain on one wall. It had to have cost a small fortune, making Joaquim curious about the source of the funds. But it was spacious and served as both offices for their handpicked corps of two dozen or so Special Police officers as well as a dwelling for the four of them: Inspector Anjos, Inspector Gaspar, the Lady, and the frightening Miss Vladimirova. Perhaps it was just the Spanish blood in him, but Joaquim liked the house.
“There’s no point in your approaching them,” Anjos told them in a weary voice. He seemed to be having a difficult time catching his breath after climbing the stairs to join them. “They won’t divulge anything about one of their number.”
“I know a couple of the priests,” Joaquim offered. “I might be able to approach them in an unofficial capacity.”
Anjos looked doubtful. “I’ll have the Lady make an official inquiry. She’s been working with them for years. If they’re going to give up anything, they’ll give it to her.”
The Lady’s specialty was witchcraft, and she’d negotiated a tenuous truce between the Jesuits and the Freemasons. She had managed to keep the two groups working together in civility as they sought to unravel the web of spells left behind by Maraval’s attempt to remake the world. If Anjos meant to use official channels, she would be the one to handle it. “Has Gaspar reported back in yet?”
Anjos took a deep breath, and then began coughing. He drew out a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Joaquim fought the urge to shrink back. Tuberculosis was contagious.
After a moment, Anjos had the coughing fit under control and tucked away his handkerchief. “Dr. Teixeira’s secretary didn’t report anything out of the ordinary in his schedule or his notes,” he said as he lit a cigarette. “He did go out to lunch that day, meeting someone at a café on Santa Catarina Street. She didn’t know who. Gaspar’s gone to inspect the doctor’s house.”
Well, that didn’t help. Joaquim took his leave of the ailing inspector, and he and Duilio made their way down the stairs to the ground floor. Joaquim stopped in the foyer, glancing up in time to see a black-draped figure watching them from a window across the courtyard. He shuddered and turned away, heading out into the street. It was overcast, but he felt better for being out of that woman’s sight. “Did you see her?”
Duilio adjusted his frock coat, likely settling it over his holster again. “Yes. I felt that all over the back of my neck. I’d swear she was thinking about killing me.”
Joaquim didn’t argue. “She has barely enough power to stop him from dying, but when she kills something, she’s stronger. That’s probably why Gaspar decided she’s not our killer. If she’d killed all these women, Anjos wouldn’t look so bad.”
Duilio shook his head. “The Lady told us she saved Anjos once before. He works with her, but does she strike you as caring about him? Or anyone?”
Miss Vladimirova’s lack of emotion was eerie. Joaquim walked silently for a few steps, trying to decide whether he was slipping into gossip or merely discussing the case. But it was pertinent that Miss Vladimirova may have a motive to kill. “The rumor is that they are lovers—Anjos and Miss Vladimirova.”
Duilio stopped and gaped at him. “No,” he said in a flabbergasted tone. “Truly?”
“It’s true that the other officers say that,” Joaquim allowed.
Duilio closed his eyes, concentrating. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said a moment later.
“Duilio,” Joaquim protested halfheartedly, “watch your tongue.”
* * *
Nela ran a druggist shop on Bainharia Street, a narrow lane in the oldest part of the city. An exile rather than a spy, the old sereia woman had helped Oriana once before, despite the rules that forbade interaction between the two groups. Then again, Oriana wasn’t a spy any longer. When she came inside, the old woman closed up her store, guaranteeing them privacy. “Now what brings you here this time, girl? The last time you were chasing a necromancer. I assume it was that Maraval?”
Oriana gave the woman a shortened version of what had happened with Maraval’s plan, and then told her about her near execution. “So I’m hunting for this Mrs. Melo now,” she finished. She described the woman to Nela, but Nela shook her head.
“I wish I could help you, girl,” she said, “but I haven’t heard of her. I can keep an eye out for her, if you think she’s still a threat.”
Oriana had spent much of the morning trying to track down other spies here in the Golden City. Most had refused to speak with her, but the two who had weren’t any more helpful. They didn’t know the name, nor had they recognized the woman’s description. Oriana was beginning to think Maria Melo was a ghost.
“I do think she’s a threat,” Oriana told the old woman. “I think her secret mission is to assassinate the prince.”
Nela brought over the pot of tea she’d had brewing, sat down at her table with its tea-stained cloth, and poured for both of them. She regarded Oriana over her cup of tea. “If so, that would be a catastrophe for our people. It doesn’t make sense for the government to follow that path, so you’re thinking that there’s a faction within the ministry secretly supporting her.”
Thank the gods that Nela had seen that possibility. It meant she wasn’t unreasonable in her suspicions. “Exactly. But I still don’t see the point.”
Nela tapped one finger against her lips. “The question is who would profit. Who would most benefit by our going to war with Portugal?”
Oriana didn’t have an answer.
* * *
Over dinner Duilio had divulged his and Joaquim’s discoveries, along with a bit of gossip which, by comparison, made her day feel wasted. She’d gotten nowhere in her search for Maria Melo. Perhaps she was going about it all the wrong way, but she couldn’t think of any other approach to finding the woman.
Fortunately she had one task tonight, and that was well within her abilities. She could surely locate Genoveva Carvalho and casually initiate a polite conversation. She armed herself for that by allowing Teresa to dress her hair and lay out her best gown.
The black dress was a fine one, certainly. The sleeves were puffed and the silk shantung had a luster that spoke of the high quality of the fabric. The silver satin cummerbund lent the outfit a dashing air that the high standing collar belied. It was well made, yet still suitable to a lady’s companion. Oriana ran one of her hands down the front of the dress, admiring the sheen.
Teresa entered the room again, bearing a box in her hands, one too small to be another gown. “This got put in with Lady Ferreira’s new dresses,” she said. “It goes with yours.”
Oriana crossed to the bed where Teresa laid the box and waited while the young woman opened it and spread the paper, revealing silver beading that sparkled in the dim light. “What is it?”
“A capelet,” her maid said. “Felis says Lady Ferreira had this dress made to go with it.”
Teresa lifted the item carefully out of the box.
It made sense of the choice of the silver cummerbund. The capelet was meant to spread over the wearer’s shoulders. Its beading simulated peacock plumes, only mostly in silver with the centers of the feathers rose and gold and burgundy. Teardrop pearls dangled from each multicolored plume, and Oriana saw the sparkle of gemstones among the beads on the high collar. Surely those jewels were paste, not the real thing. Teresa unhooked the collar and held it out, waiting for Oriana to turn so she could set it in place.
She could argue that the capelet was too fine for her to wear. She should. It was too colorful, too eye-catching for a mere companion. Oriana caught her lower lip between her teeth and turned about anyway.
Teresa set the overlay cautiously on her shoulders. It was surprisingly heavy, although with all that beading, she should have expected that. Teresa came around, closed the collar’s hook, and grinned. “Felis says it’s one of Lady Ferreira’s older pieces, but the lady thought it would suit you. It does look good with your coloring, miss, and your hair.”
Oriana licked her lips. This was Lady Ferreira’s? She had trouble catching her breath for a moment. The chance that those sparkling gemstones were paste had dropped dramatically.
* * *
Duilio fiddled with his silver cigarette case, wishing this whole night was over. He hadn’t been out in society much in the last few weeks, partly because he wished to avoid Alessio’s former lovers and partly because he hadn’t had much enthusiasm for it. He’d been too worried about Oriana to spend his evenings listening to gossip and avoiding mothers desperate to find a wealthy husband for their daughter. But tonight he would have to wear his mantle of inane social hanger-on again, long enough for Oriana to catch Miss Carvalho and dissuade her from pursuing him.
Normally he didn’t mind acting the fool for a night or two out of the week, passing among the aristocracy. Most thought him too stupid to pose any threat. They never gave him much notice as he stood on the edge of their world, talking as freely as they would in front of a potted orange tree. That had proven useful to the police. Even so, lately his enjoyment of these functions had dimmed.
But his mother was likely to cause a stir tonight, and the whispering behind fans might be fun to watch. She wore a new gown, a creation of silk in old gold with an overlay of cream-colored lace, the neckline framing her necklace of yellow diamonds. While many widows went draped in black for the remainder of their lives, when a woman decided to remarry, it was customary for her to leave mourning behind. His mother’s choice of gold would be seen as a sign that she intended to find a new husband . . . or already had one in mind.
Duilio sighed and slid the cigarette case back into his jacket. Then he saw Oriana coming down the stairs, one of his mother’s most prized possessions about her neck and shoulders. It had been a gift to her from his father on their tenth anniversary, and there was a small fortune in white diamonds studding the collar. “Mother, does she know where that came from?”
His mother’s eyes flicked toward him. “I wanted her to have it. It suits her.”
Yes, it certainly did. Not only did the beading on the capelet emphasize the burgundy tint in her hair, but he could only imagine how well all the silver beads matched the silvery scale pattern of her lower body. That thought brought forth a quick mental image of Oriana wearing the capelet and nothing else, and Duilio had to remind himself that he was a gentleman and had promised he would wait. “Well, I can’t argue that, Mother. It’s as if it was made for her.”
“It never suited my coloring so well.”
True. His mother would have looked better in gold than silver, but his father hadn’t been the most observant of men. Alexandre Ferreira had found the thing in Goa and purchased it to make up for one of his many infidelities. Oriana didn’t need to know that part of its history.
Duilio went to the stairs to offer his arm. Oriana laid her hand on his sleeve, only the tips of her fingers visible beyond the edge of the silk mitts that hid her webbing. “You look lovely.”
Oriana’s eyes lowered. “If you picked any housemaid off the street, she would look lovely in this gown.”
“Possibly,” he said, “but I was speaking of you, not the gown.”
She licked her lips nervously. “You look lovely, too.”
Duilio smiled. “Thank you. I so rarely get told so.”
She laughed, and then sobered. “I shouldn’t be wearing this. It’s too fine for a companion.”
“Nonsense,” his mother said from behind him. “I think it’s perfect for you, and as you’re my companion, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
“Teresa told me this is yours, Lady,” Oriana said.
His mother reached past him and straightened one of the beaded segments so that it lay smoothly along the black silk of Oriana’s puffed sleeve, the pearls dangling down to her elbow. “I want you to have it, dear,” his mother said. “Now, shall we go and get this performance over with?”
Oriana nodded jerkily, so Duilio laid one hand over hers and led her toward the door. The carriage already waited outside their gate, so they all made their way down to the street, and a couple of minutes later, they were on the way to the Simões house. Normally he would be mentally rehearsing his society chatter, trying to decide what to be when he arrived. But it didn’t seem worth the effort at the moment. He spent the drive watching Oriana in the dim light of the carriage. He hoped she wasn’t cursing him for getting her into this.