I heard the sound of our coachman jumping down from his seat, followed by that of the two lanterns being opened one after the other and a match being struck on the steel rim of the wheel. Then I heard the spring on the little door that you close after lighting the candles and a faint creaking as he adjusted the lanterns on their stands.
I did not initially understand why we had stopped to carry out this task when night had not yet fallen and we were travelling along a good road.
It can be explained, however, as a precautionary measure. Our coachman preferred not to have to stop where there might be other people about. If we were to pass through a village, the lights being lit in the streets – and which we would be able to see through the curtain or the cracks in the blinds – might give us a clue as to our whereabouts. By lighting the lamps early, any such discovery would be thwarted. As we passed between buildings or high walls, the projection of the bright light from the lanterns onto those walls and its reflection back into the coach would make it impossible for us to know whether we were driving through a village or along a well-lit street.
As soon as the lanterns were lit and the carriage had set off again, the masked man who had promised to explain to F. the reason why he had been chosen to accompany us, proceeded to do so:
‘Imagine I am the lover of the lady whom I described. The matter is known only to three friends of mine, close friends, childhood playmates, comrades from university, constant companions, each of us ready to make whatever sacrifice that friendship might demand. Alas, none of those friends is a doctor. We had to find one and, at the same time, ensure that my secret would not be passed on to other people, whoever they might be, a secret that involves a man’s love and a lady’s honour. My child will probably be born tonight or tomorrow morning. Since no one must know the identity of the mother or even suspect, by some clue, who she might be, it is vital that the doctor does not recognise the people he is speaking to or, indeed, the house to which he has been taken. That is why we are wearing masks and why you gentlemen must allow us to keep the shutters closed and the curtain drawn, and also why we will blindfold you before you leave the carriage and enter the house we are going to.’ He turned to face F. and continued: ‘Now do you understand why you are here? We could not prevent you from accompanying your friend from Sintra today, nor could we postpone this visit or leave you at the point on the road where we kidnapped the doctor. You would easily find some means to follow us and discover who we are.’
‘Most ingenious,’ I observed, ‘but you clearly have little regard for my discretion.’
‘To entrust someone with someone else’s secret is to betray the owner of the secret,’ the masked man countered.
F. agreed wholeheartedly with this point of view and said so, praising the masked men’s spirit of romantic adventure.
The very sincerity with which he spoke these words appeared to trouble the stranger somewhat. It seemed to me that he had expected it would prove far harder to persuade us and so was rather put out by F.’s sudden acquiescence. He who had always been ready with a prompt retort and a glib word now found himself unable to respond to the confidence invested in him, and from then until we reached our destination, he kept a silence that must have weighed heavily on his normal talkative, expansive self.
It should be said, however, that shortly afterwards, the coach left the macadamised road on which we had been travelling and continued along what was either a local road or a short cut. The ground was stony and potholed. Given the jolting of the carriage – which, under the expert hand of the driver, continued to proceed at a gallop – and the racket made by the wooden shutters banging against the window frames, conversation was well nigh impossible.
At last, we turned onto a smooth road. The carriage stopped for a second time, and the coachman climbed quickly down from his seat, calling:
‘Coming!’
He returned shortly afterwards and I heard someone say:
‘They’re taking some girls to Lisbon.’
The coach proceeded.
Could it be some kind of customs barrier near the city? Perhaps our driver had made up a plausible excuse so that the officials would not come and open the carriage door? Would the phrase I had overheard be intelligible to my companions?
I cannot say for certain.
Soon afterwards, the carriage drove onto some kind of paved area and two or three minutes later, it stopped. The coachman knocked on the window:
‘We’re here,’ he announced.
The masked man, who had not uttered a word since the moment I mentioned earlier, took a handkerchief from his pocket and said to us with some embarrassment:
‘I do apologise for this, but that’s how it must be!’
F. leaned towards him and the fellow put the blindfold over his eyes and I, in turn, was blindfolded by the man opposite me.
We then climbed down from the coach and were led by our companions into a house and down a corridor. As far as I could deduce from the way in which we had to stop and make way for someone coming in the opposite direction, it was clearly a very narrow corridor.
‘Shall I take the coach?’
‘Yes, do,’ answered the voice of our guide.
We paused for a moment. The door through which we had entered was locked, and the man who had served as coachman went on ahead saying:
‘Let’s go!’
We shuffled forwards, went up two stone steps, then turned to the right and reached a staircase. It was an old, steep, wooden staircase covered with a narrow carpet. The steps were very worn and their once sharp projecting edges had grown smooth and round. Along the wall beside me ran a cord that served as a banister; it was made of silk and, to the touch, felt little used. The air was damp and had the musty smell common to uninhabited houses. We climbed eight or possibly ten stairs, turned left at a landing, climbed yet more stairs and stopped on the first floor.
No one had said a word, and there was a sombre quality to the silence that enveloped us like a cloud of gloom.
I heard the carriage moving off and felt a sense of dread, a childish anxiety.
A key turned in a lock, we crossed the threshold and the door was locked again behind us.
‘You may take off your blindfolds now,’ said one of our companions.
I uncovered my eyes. It was night.
One of the masked men struck a match, lit five candles in a bronze candelabra, picked it up, went over to a piece of furniture covered by a travelling rug, and lifted the rug.
I could not contain my shock and let out a cry of horror. There before me lay a man’s dead body.