THINGS WERE BECOMING CLEARER TO EDWARD. IT WAS all in the numbers, ultimately. He splashed water out of the bath. Steam rose into the air. The ledgers sat on a bath tray before him, along with a hot cup of tea. When he had got back to Mrs Walker’s hotel at last, the old widow – much respectable if plain, the mixed-blood wife of an English merchant who had succumbed to illness of a mysterious nature some years back – made much fuss over him and his bruises, and ordered the servants to draw a bath. Mrs Walker, though native to Peru, had been married long enough to Mr Walker to know the correct way of preparing English tea, a fact for which Edward now gave much gratitude. He stared thoughtfully at the sugar.
His study of the ledgers revealed a host of small errors. Those, he was sure, were not by malicious design but simple incompetence, but added together they formed a large piece of the irregularity of which his uncle had concerns. The rest, however, was not as easy to uncover. The sums involved were large, and skimming, he had to surmise, was easy. In fact, he calculated, purely as a working hypothesis, some 10 per cent set aside for the inevitable siphoning off of money by clerks and middlemen. The secret of business, his uncle once told him, was to find the right people, who would skim just enough off the top. That could be allowed for. That could be factored in.
And yet there was a hole. He had been circling it, this absence, for all this time, like flotsam round a drain. He needed to be careful not to fall in.
He shuddered. That had been close, the encounter with the Franciscans. He would have nightmares about the catacombs, he knew. When he closed his eyes, skulls grinned at him from their shelves. He sipped his tea. Mrs Walker’s hotel was an acceptable establishment, providing long-term accommodation to respectable gentlemen. Besides Edward there was a Mr Schlotke, of Hamburg, a timber salesman; Mr William Turner, partner of Turner, Marriott and Smith of Arequipa and Valparaiso, who was in Lima for a couple of weeks only, but a regular visitor; and Samuel Gibson, a one-eyed ship’s captain, now retired.
Edward splashed in the bath and examined the columns of numbers in the ledger before him. Yes, things were becoming clearer. He sank deeper into the water and closed his eyes, but the sensation was unpleasant, as though he were trapped again in the catacombs; and so he opened his eyes and rose from the bath. He felt very tired then. When he at last made it to his bed sleep overwhelmed him almost at once. In his dreams he was chased around by grinning skeletons, while Sofia Salazar writhed provocatively in the arms of a wizened old monk who bore Moens’ face.
*
‘What happened to you?’ Moens said upon Edward’s entrance, the next day, into the office. ‘You look like…’ He made a rude gesture. His cronies, who were sitting around him as they always did at that time of the morning over brandy and cigars, dutifully laughed. Edward felt the resentment rise inside him, but he tamped it down and smiled as though Moens’ crude jibe had been a witty remark; as Moens himself no doubt imagined it to be.
‘A slight accident on the riverbank,’ Edward said. ‘I fell and slipped in the mud.’
‘You should be careful on the Rimac after dark,’ Moens said. ‘I should have mentioned that to you.’
‘Speaking of things you forgot to mention,’ Edward said. ‘Tonight’s President’s Ball—’
‘Did I fail to mention it?’ Moens said innocently. His cronies guffawed. ‘Well, it is no harm done, Mr Feebes. It is merely a function, one of many I must drag myself to in my service of the firm.’
‘I believe it would have been seen as a slight had I failed to make an appearance,’ Edward said stiffly, and Moens laughed.
‘Don’t overestimate your worth, Edward,’ he said; not perhaps entirely unkindly. Though Edward did not see it this way. He made little time in the office, his main intention having been to confront Moens. Shortly he bade them a stiff goodbye, and went to the coffee house, where Dr Steinmeier was seated at his usual table.
‘Edward!’ he said, rising in alarm. ‘What happened to you?’
Edward sat. He told Dr Steinmeier of the previous night’s events over coffee and pastries. When he had finished, the good doctor nodded thoughtfully.
‘A lucky escape,’ he said.
‘You could certainly say that again,’ Edward agreed.
‘A lucky escape!’ Dr Steinmeier said, and then burst out laughing at his own childish jape. Edward smiled despite himself.
‘I am made of sterner stuff than they think me,’ he said. ‘I am a Feebes.’
‘Indeed you are,’ Dr Steinmeier said, recovering his composure. He filled his pipe. ‘But still. I did tell you to be careful. You and I are civilised men, and it is easy to forget, sometimes, that this land is not. You don’t even know if those men really were monks, though it would not surprise me. Half the flotsam and jetsam of the old Spanish dominions seek refuge in the vows. It’s three square meals a day and a dry roof over your head.’
Edward dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
‘It will be taken care of,’ he said.
‘You should think of leaving town for a while,’ Dr Steinmeier said. ‘Just in case. Which reminds me. I tracked down that lady scientist you were asking for. This Mary Stephenson.’
‘The naturalist,’ Edward said.
‘Yes. She was last seen in Ica, in the south. I’m told that on her last visit to Lima a month back she had expressed interest in viewing the Candelabro de Paracas.’
‘What’s that?’ Edward said.
‘A giant etching on the side of a hill, in the shape of a candelabra, or perhaps a cactus. It’s very unclear. Some say it was put there for the benefit of pirates, for it can really only be seen in full from the sea.’ Dr Steinmeier shrugged. ‘She might still be there, or she might have moved on.’
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ Edward said. ‘Thank you. Will you be at the ball tonight?’
‘Naturally. I shall see you there?’
Edward smiled.
‘Naturally,’ he said.
*
Evening made Lima almost pretty. Edward, dressed in his finest suit, still kept an eye out for the turkey-buzzards. These birds, gallinazos, the locals called them, looked like black widows wearing a devil’s red mask. They were everywhere in the city, feeding on carrion, going wherever they could smell the rot of dead things. In that, they provided so useful a function as to be declared protected birds, to be neither killed nor threatened. They watched from the rooftops as Edward’s carriage arrived at the palace.
There were many dignitaries already there, the horses jostling and the cab men lashing with their whips and arguing with each other as the horses relieved themselves and the guests alighted. Edward was glad to escape, and made his way inside, past the soldiers at attention and the musicians getting ready and the president’s welcoming committee, who checked his invitation was in order before allowing him into the ball proper. There, the great and the good of Lima mingled as servants glided by with trays of drinks and finger foods. In the distance, Edward could see President Castilla, with his full head of black, luxurious hair: he had only just become president again, having defeated former president Echenique in the Battle of Arequipa. Echenique was now in exile in New York.
This was the problem, Edward reflected. The House of Feebes dealt directly with the government of Peru, but what did you do when the government kept changing? Business could not be allowed to be derailed based on political instability. At least the new president needed the guano money just as much as the old one did. He saw Felipe and Sofia Salazar.
‘Edward!’ Felipe said. He shook Edward’s hand warmly. His face glowed with the warmth that wine brings. ‘How are you, please?’
‘I’m well,’ Edward said, reminding himself that Felipe and Moens were close. Could he trust any of them? He didn’t know. The Salazars were old money. They did not care who wore the presidential sash. It was always thus with the old families. Power moved between them like a cricket ball between players.
‘Mr Feebes,’ Sofia said.
‘Miss Salazar.’
‘Would you care for some wine?’ she said. ‘It’s from Chile.’
She hailed a servant and Edward accepted a glass.
‘To your health,’ he said.
‘And to yours.’
Felipe watched the two of them shrewdly. Edward could see the calculation in his eyes. A match between the house of Feebes and the Salazars would serve the latter well, he thought. And he could not but admit a certain desire for Sofia.
‘. . . Excuse me?’
He realised Felipe had been talking. His gaze wandered from Sofia’s bust up to Felipe. The man watched him in amusement, but his eyes were cold.
‘I must go converse with Mr Bergmann, of Templeman and Bergmann,’ Felipe said. ‘I trust my sister to your keeping, Mr Feebes.’
‘I shall look after her well,’ Edward promised. Sofia smiled around her glass.
‘Do you care to dance, Mr Feebes?’ she said.
‘Would you care to dance, Miss Salazar?’
‘I would indeed.’ She curtseyed. They disposed of their drinks and joined the swirling couples on the marble floor.
The music soared; the drinks flowed; the great and the good conversed and schemed and conducted business; Sofia was a nimble dancer and Edward did his best to keep up.
It was when they paused to rest that he heard a commotion outside, and shouting, though it was hard to make out in the music. Then the figure of a young man, dressed in dusty uniform, burst through into the hall, followed urgently by guards. He held something in his hand – a small round object, like a perfume bottle. He raised it above his head. His eyes were wild.
‘Viva Vivanco!’ he cried. ‘Muerte a Castillo!’
He threw the object. Edward acted without thinking. He tackled Sofia and brought her to the ground and lay on top of her. There was the whoosh of an explosion. The musicians stopped abruptly and in the sudden silence all Edward could hear were screams.
He was painfully aware of Sofia’s body beneath him. Of her warmth and the press of her flesh. She looked into his eyes and there was something there he had not seen before: a sort of longing.
‘It should have been an anarchist,’ she whispered.
It made no sense to Edward. He leaned forward, the better to kiss her. For a moment she let him. Then she broke the contact and pushed him gently away, and rose to her feet. He followed a moment later.
In the middle of the dance floor the marble was fractured. The young man was not dead, but his hands were burned and he was the cause of most of the screaming. He was being detained by the guards, who were not being gentle. The revellers watched, none seemingly hurt. President Castillo, on the other side of the room, watched with his lips pursed.
‘Who is Vivanco?’ Edward said.
‘He is an enemy of Castillo,’ Sofia said. ‘Also my second cousin once removed.’ She frowned. ‘He is in exile in Chile, I think. Clearly, he wished to send a message.’
‘You people are all mad!’ Edward said.
‘It’s just politics, Edward,’ Sofia said. She looked wistful again.
‘You mustn’t take it personally,’ she said.