‘But suppose he doesn’t come for days!’ Juana was relieved to see that her grandmother looked a little better this morning. ‘Shouldn’t I send for my Camoens transcriptions back? You remember we agreed I could summon him that way in a crisis?’
‘Don’t be absurd, child. He’ll come. Today if he can. At the worst, tomorrow. Panic never helped anyone.’
Panic? But it was true; she had been close to it. Bad enough to be afraid for herself; this terror for Gair was something beyond reason. ‘They know so much, ma’am,’ she tried to explain it. ‘They’re bound to find him out.’
‘I’m glad, at least, it has made you realise how dangerous they are. But you do Gair Varlow less than justice. You’ve not been here long enough to see the picture he has managed to create of himself. If they think Strangford (what did you say?) a nothing and a poetaster, they must have dismissed Gair Varlow as even less worth their notice. It’s all over Lisbon that he only got his appointment here through the influence of his sister’s husband, who was tired of having his brother-in-law hanging on his sleeve.’ She managed an admirable pretence at a laugh. ‘No need to look so angry. It’s an admirable cover. And Mr. Varlow’s not the man I think him if it doesn’t turn out that there is also a likely candidate among Lord Strangford’s suite for the part of secret service agent.’
‘But if there is, he’ll be killed!’
‘If there is, he’ll be expendable.’
For a moment, Juana came near to hating her grandmother. How could she shrug off a man’s life like that? Was it perhaps this streak of ruthlessness in her that had made such disasters of her children’s lives?
‘It’s time you went out for your ride,’ Mrs. Brett interrupted her thoughts. ‘Nothing must seem out of the way this morning. Besides, I’d like you to go down the Pleasant Valley and see how they are getting on with the preparations for the grape harvest. It should be starting any time now.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ But this was another blow. She had meant to ride part of the way toward Sintra in the hopes of meeting Gair. Had her grandmother guessed?
Her next words suggested that she had: ‘I’ll see to it that Mr. Varlow stays for dinner, if he should come while you are out. He’ll have to, as I don’t propose to get up today. Don’t look so anxious, child. He’ll manage to see you alone. It’s his business.’
And that was curiously cold comfort, Juana thought, as she hurried across the courtyard to the stables, eager to get this unwelcome errand done.
Iago was whistling through his teeth as he greased the wheels of the family carriage. He greeted her with his usual elaborate respect, but went on to explain that Tomas would have to accompany her this morning as he had orders to prepare the carriage. ‘The Senhor Miguel has unexpected business in Lisbon.’
Juana looked about her. ‘But where is Tomas?’
‘That’s the difficulty, senhora. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him this morning.’
‘You mean he hasn’t come to work?’ Tomas lived in the little huddle of peasant houses between the castle and the Pleasant Valley.
‘No. And no message either. I suppose Maria didn’t say anything?’
‘Maria slept in the castle last night. She mostly does, now she’s waiting on me. But what’s to do, Iago? Mrs. Brett wants me to ride down the Pleasant Valley and let her know how the preparations for the vintage are coming on.’
Iago dropped his tools at once. This put an entirely different complexion on Juana’s morning ride. The slightest wish of Mrs. Brett’s had priority over the needs of any other inhabitant of the castle. ‘In that case, I’ll call Jaime. He will have to take the Senhor Miguel to Lisbon. I’ll be with you directly, senhora.’
Naturally, this was not the case. Juana had to wait, controlling impatience as best she might, while Iago finished getting the carriage ready, since Jaime could not be expected to demean himself with such a task. Then Miguel appeared, and the whole thing had to be explained all over again to him.
‘That’s not like Tomas,’ he said. ‘Have you sent to see what’s the matter, Juana?’
‘Who could I send?’ Impatience was beginning to boil up in her. ‘I’ll go myself on my way down to the valley. I wish I’d known you were going into Lisbon, uncle. I’d have had some more of Uncle Prospero’s translation copied out ready for Lord Strangford.’ Here had been the perfect opportunity to send to Gair and she had not even known about it.
‘I’m sorry, child. I didn’t know myself till Father Ignatius got back this morning with the message. It’s my Little Brothers of St. Antony.’ He did not explain further. ‘I can wait a few minutes now, if you wish.’
‘Thank you, uncle, but it’s no use. It would take too long.’ She had suddenly realised that she could hardly send for the Camoens without making at least a pretence of consulting Prospero. Besides, was Miguel a safe messenger? Why did he have to go so urgently into Lisbon this morning? ‘Anyway, I’d need to discuss it with Uncle Prospero, and I don’t suppose he’s down yet.’
‘Down? Oh – of course, you breakfasted with the old lady. You wouldn’t know. Prospero didn’t get back last night. He sent to say he would stay at Guincho. You’re ready at last, Jaime? Good. Enjoy your ride, child, and may God watch over you.’
‘Thank you, uncle.’ She hated Miguel’s blessings. But at last Iago had finished harnessing the four shaggy mules to the old carriage and had picked up his long, metal-tipped cane, ready to accompany her.
Tomas’ mother looked even older than Mrs. Brett, though Juana knew she could hardly be half her age. Toothless, skinny and almost bald under her voluminous black draperies, she was busy preparing bacalhau for her grandchildren’s dinner. No, she told Juana, she had not seen Tomas since the night before. ‘I expect he’s out with the sardine boats, senhora.’ It sounded like an excuse she had used many times before.
‘Without asking leave at the castle?’
‘I know nothing about that.’ The old woman’s eyes swivelled to look past Juana. ‘Tomas never tells me anything about his work. It’s none of my business. Perhaps that wife of his would know something. She who’s too good to live here with her husband and children.’
The hatred in her voice shook Juana. It had not occurred to her before to what an extent she had taken Maria away from her family. It ought to have. ‘I’m sorry—’ she began.
‘No need, senhora. We do better without her.’ And the old woman turned away to her cooking with a rudeness that amazed Juana.
‘You mustn’t mind her.’ Iago felt it incumbent on him to apologise. ‘She’s always been a queer one.’ He crossed himself. ‘I wouldn’t want to meet her, out on the cliff, on All Souls’ Eve.’
‘Nonsense, Iago. She’s not a brucha, she’s a poor old woman with too much to do. I must see to it that Maria gets home more often.’
‘I wouldn’t, senhora.’ Iago’s respectful voice held a warning. ‘I don’t think anyone would thank you for that.’
What exactly did he mean? She thought he wanted her to question him, but thought, too, that she would rather not know any more about Maria’s private affairs. ‘We’d best be getting down the valley, Iago.’ She kicked Rosinante into a reluctant amble and started down the long sloping track that led to the pressing floor, with Iago running a few paces behind. She had not been down here since the bad weather and saw that, as usual, her grandmother had been right. The few days of sunshine after the rain had brought the grapes on immensely. They would be ready for the harvest any time now.
‘The grapes are nearly ripe, Iago.’ She turned back to speak to him. ‘I hope Senhor Macarao is here today.’
‘He’s always here when he’s needed. I expect we’ll find he had work for Tomas. He’s a skilled man with the vines, Tomas, the best there is.’ But he sounded puzzled, just the same, as if he was trying to explain Tomas’ disappearance to himself.
‘Of course. That will be it.’ She greeted the suggestion with what struck her as disproportionate relief. ‘Why didn’t we think of it sooner?’ As she spoke, she came out from the shade of a thicket of ilex and myrtle to her first view of the pressing floor. ‘Good gracious, what can be the matter?’ It was not nearly time yet for the midday break, yet all the men who should have been working among the vines up and down the valley were gathered in a gesticulating mob in the open space round the pressing floor.
‘I don’t know, senhora.’ Iago caught up with her and pulled Rosinante to a halt. ‘But I don’t like the look of it. Let me go first.’ He broke into a trot, while Juana urged Rosinante forward to follow him.
The crowd parted at the sight of her and Senhor Macarao came forward. Normally a rotund, jovial little man, shining with good living, he looked sallow today under his tan. ‘Don’t come any further, senhora.’ It was a measure of his disturbed state that he omitted the usual elaborate greetings as he seized Rosinante’s bridle.
‘What’s the matter?’ She could see now that most of the men were crowded round something that lay on the pressing floor.
‘It’s poor Tomas, senhora. He has met with an accident.’
‘An accident? You mean—’
‘He’s dead, I’m afraid. He must have got up early to come out and work on the vines – he was always a good worker, was Tomas.’
‘But what happened to him?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? A fall, perhaps. A seizure of some kind? We’ve only just found him, and now, with your permission, senhora, we must get him home, fetch the priest to him. Poor Tomas’ (he crossed himself) ‘dead without the last rites of the church.’
‘God rest his soul. Can I help in any way, senhor?’
‘If you’ll be so good as to break the news to Mrs. Brett?’ He obviously wanted to be rid of her. Hardly surprising, perhaps? And yet there seemed something odd about the whole business. It was true that Tomas was an expert worker with the vines, but equally true that he was bone idle and used his position in the castle to escape all the work he could. Would he really have got up early to come down here? And – something else. ‘You’ve only just found him?’
‘Yes.’ He had not meant to tell her this. ‘His body was down at the bottom of the valley. He must have gone down there for something, tripped … fallen? He might have lain there for days if my dog hadn’t found him.’
The bottom of the valley. Down toward the Jaws of Death; the place Iago thought was haunted. The way to the Cavern of the Star? She was cold in the hot sunlight. ‘I’d like to see him, senhor.’
‘See him? You?’
‘Yes. Some member of the family ought to. I’m here. I think it my duty.’ She felt sick at the very thought. ‘He was our servant,’ she finished, as if that settled it.
They had laid Tomas’ body on an improvised stretcher of poles. Juana fell on her knees on the hot stone of the pressing floor to say a prayer beside it. The face was covered. There was no sign of any injury. She could not ask to see more. She did not want to.
‘Very well, senhor.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Take him to his house. I will tell Mrs. Brett and send Father Ignatius.’ She stood back and watched as the men lifted the improvised bier and started the slow march up the valley. ‘Iago!’ He had been in the thick of the group, no doubt asking questions of his own. ‘We’ll go this way and get there ahead of them.’ She turned Rosinante up one of the paths that led between the rows of vines.
They were soon out of earshot of the others and as the path widened toward the head of the valley Iago caught up to trot beside her. He was white and shaking. ‘The bruchas got him, senhora. I told you how it would be if you went down there. There wasn’t a mark on him. But his face! I’ll never forget it. He saw his death coming and knew there was no escape. But why did he go down there, senhora, that’s what I want to know?’
So did Juana. Or rather she was afraid she did know. But there was no time to think about it now. They were almost back to the little group of houses. ‘I must tell his mother, Iago.’
‘Yes, senhora.’ It was her job, and they both knew it.
The old woman took the news with a stoicism that Juana found at once impressive and unsympathetic. ‘It’s the will of God, senhora.’ She went on spooning food into the mouths of her three grandchildren.
‘Don’t worry about anything. We’ll look after you. I’ll send Maria down right away, and Father Ignatius.’ In face of the old woman’s calm, Juana felt she was babbling absurdly.
‘Send the priest, by all means. As to Maria.’ The old woman spat on the floor.
‘I’ll talk to my grandmother.’ Juana felt it cowardly, could think of nothing else to say, and was grateful to escape from the hot little room, with its tragedy and its smells of food and child, into the less oppressive heat of the sun.
It was still early when they got back to the castle, and Juana went first to the chapel, where Father Ignatius could usually be found at this time of day. ‘I’ll go at once.’ He was almost as plump as Senhor Macarao, but pale with it, and flabby. Even today, Juana could not bring herself to like him, or to be grateful for his words of sympathy.
‘I must go and tell my grandmother.’ She cut short his expressions of regret that she had been exposed to such an unpleasant experience.
‘yes. I’ll send her down. They’ll need her.’
‘Yes.’ He, too, looked doubtful
Mrs. Brett’s reaction and Maria’s were equally predictable. Mrs. Brett was playing cribbage with Estella. ‘Dead?’ She discarded. ‘And just before the vintage! Oh well, we’ll manage, I expect. You to play, Estella.’ And then, looking up from her cards. ‘Don’t stand there gawping, child. Run along and tell Maria.’ She might have been talking about the weather.
It was almost a relief when Maria, also predictably, went into hysterics. At least it was a human reaction. ‘What am I to do?’ she asked at last, through hiccups and sobs.
‘I told his mother you’d go down there.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She wasn’t best pleased. But you’ll have to go, Maria.’
‘Yes. But I won’t stay. She’s taken my children from me, as she took my husband. She can rear them. You won’t turn me off, senhora?’
‘Of course not. If you really want to stay.’ Indeed, it had already struck her that this was probably the only way that Maria could support a family of four. ‘Tomas has no other relatives, has he?’
‘Not here.’ Maria had taken her point. ‘He’s from the Alentejo, like Iago. I expect his mother will want me to go back there. But I won’t. Not if you’ll keep me.’
‘Of course I will. Come back when you can, Maria. Don’t worry about anything.’
Absurd advice. She might as well tell herself not to worry. If only there was someone she could talk to … But it was no good going back to Mrs. Brett’s rooms. She had made it perfectly clear that she did not want to discuss Tomas’ death. Besides, her callous attitude to it was intolerable. Juana picked up the volume of Shakespeare she had found in the castle library and went down to the seaward terrace, where, defying the hot sun, she made herself recite the last speech she had learned: ‘Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I …’
It had a curiously calming effect, particularly as today she really thought she was stammering a little less. Was this, perhaps, because half her mind was elsewhere all the time, busy with Tomas’ death and her fears for Gair Varlow?
The bell rang for dinner, and still there was no sign of Gair. Since Miguel was in Lisbon and neither Prospero nor Father Ignatius had returned, Juana and Elvira were alone. Usually, on these occasions, Juana had thought Elvira tended to be more rational than usual, but today she was white and distraught, pushing the food about on her plate, eating hardly anything, and muttering to herself:
‘ “He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone.”’
Her maid, standing, as usual, behind her chair, tried in vain to get her to eat.
‘Take it away.’ Elvira pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘You are Beelzebub, tempting me, but I’ll not eat and I’ll not drink; I’ll not talk and I’ll not think … We are all mortal, Juana. Never forget that.’
‘No, aunt.’ Juana had found it equally difficult to eat, and now gave up pretending. ‘Jaime, would you serve fruit and sweetmeats with our coffee on the loggia?’ Perhaps alone with her out there, she would be able to persuade Elvira to eat something.
‘Certainly, senhora.’ Jaime was always quick to take a hint and soon appeared on the terrace with a tray loaded with their own fruit and some of the little sweet cakes of flour, egg and honey that Elvira usually ate for breakfast. ‘You’ll ring if you need me?’
‘Yes, thank you, Jaime.’ She could rely on him to keep the other servants out of the way.
It was cooler here, in the shade of the vine, but Juana wished the loggia did not look out toward the Pleasant Valley. At least they could not see the peasants’ houses, where, by now, Tomas’ body must be lying in brief state. She poured coffee and handed it to her aunt, then helped herself to two of the little cakes and pushed the plate a little nearer to Elvira. ‘I couldn’t eat in there.’ she said.
‘You must eat.’ Elvira sounded perfectly normal now. ‘It doesn’t matter about me, but you must eat, Juana.’ She absent mindedly helped herself to a bunch of grapes. Then, looking around to make sure that Jaime had closed the door of the Ladies’ Parlour securely behind him, she leaned toward Juana: ‘Tomas was a spy. I’m glad he’s dead. He watched outside rooms; he listened at doors; he lurked on the stairs. Juana! You must go back to England, quickly, before it’s too late. It’s not safe for you here. You should never have come. The old woman will swallow you up, as she’s swallowed the rest of us. “Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly – ” Go home, Juana. Make any excuse; make none. Just go.’
‘I wish I could.’ For a moment she was horribly tempted.
‘ “Stand not upon the order of your going,”’ said Elvira, ‘but go, Juana, quickly, before it’s too late. There’s someone coming, and I must go. Only remember I told you so.’ She picked up a handful of the little cakes and moved toward the castle door as it opened and Jaime ushered Gair Varlow out into the loggia. She dropped a low curtsey: ‘ “Welcome lords and ladies all to my bower and to my hall.” You may go, Jaime.’ And, as the door closed behind him, ‘And so must I. To bed, to sleep, perhaps to die. Only, go back to England, Juana!’ She followed Jaime and closed the door softly behind her.
‘Poor thing.’ Gair said it mechanically as he looked quickly and carefully about him. ‘Are we really alone? It’s too good to be true.’ It was the conspirator speaking, not the lover.
‘We’d better make the most of it. My Uncle Prospero may return any moment. Miguel has gone to Lisbon.’
‘I know. I met him on the way. But what’s the matter? It’s not just your crazy aunt, is it?’
‘I’m not sure she is crazy at all.’ There was no time for that. ‘Tomas is dead.’ Incredible that in the shock of this discovery she had almost forgotten her anxiety about Gair.
‘Tomas?’
‘You know! The servant. The one you said was a member—’
‘Hush!’ He went on the parapet and looked over. But the drop was impossibly steep. No one could be listening there. ‘How did he die?’
‘They found him this morning among the bushes down near the Jaws of Death. Iago says there wasn’t a mark on him, but his face was terrified, as if he saw his death coming. Of course Iago thinks it’s the bruchas.’
‘And a very safe thing to think. I only wish you could do so too. But, since you can’t, for God’s sake think it was an accident.’
‘How can I? He was one of the acolytes last night. I didn’t realise at the time, but I thought there was something familiar about his voice. He spoke, you see, when he came into the little cell: voices aren’t so distorted there. And I answered him. Suppose he recognised me?’
‘If he did, we must simply be thankful he was killed.’
‘It’s horrible!’ She turned on him. ‘My grandmother didn’t care either. And there’s his mother, down there, and his children! I don’t care if he was a spy; he didn’t deserve to be dead. It’s bad enough if they killed him, but if he was killed because he recognised me …’ How could she explain how much worse it made it?
‘Don’t think about it. Besides, there’s no time. What happened at the meeting?’
It was the distraction she needed. ‘It was horrible. They almost decided to kill Lord Strangford. Then someone (the Brother of the Broken Cross) said that was foolish: they should merely kill the man behind Strangford. He meant you.’
‘But he didn’t know?’
‘No. He has been told to find out, and kill you. Just like that. And, there’s worse. If he doesn’t, I think they’ll kill them all, Strangford’s people.’
‘They’re quite capable of it. We must see that they find someone.’
‘That’s what my grandmother said. That you’d have someone ready. Someone who didn’t matter.’ She could not keep the disgust out of her voice.
‘A scapegoat. Well, of course. But don’t look at me like that. Your grandmother may be quite ruthless but I’m not. Frankly, I don’t even think it’s good policy. Of course we’ve got our scapegoat ready. I’ll tell you his name. He’s that Mr. Brougham who came out with Rosslyn. He’s off, just now, feeling very important and touring the north of the country getting in touch with some of our more expendable agents. When he returns, we’ll let them find out he’s the man – and pack him back to England before they have time to strike.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course. He won’t know anything about it. That’s the beauty of it. He thinks he’s a secret agent, so he’ll take all the proper precautions. And by the time they are on to him, he’ll be safe in England. Their arm is long, but not as long as that, thank God. But tell me, what else was discussed?’
She told him, as quickly and clearly as she could, about the argument over when they should strike. At last, he nodded his approval. ‘I knew you had a clear mind. So the upshot of it is, they will await the result of yet another appeal to Napoleon.’
‘And who is the messenger?’
‘The Brother of the Crescent Moon. He’s there already, I think.’
‘I see.’
He had been standing close to her, leaning down so that they could speak quietly. Now he dropped suddenly on one knee. ‘Only say you’ll be mine.’
The door swung open and Prospero advanced on them. ‘I’m afraid I intrude. Surely not a proposal in form?’
‘Good gracious no.’ Juana knew she was blushing and thought angrily that it would serve Gair Varlow right if she accepted him on the spot. ‘You must know, uncle, that Mr. Varlow is never serious.’