Any thought of admitting defeat and returning to England was wiped from my mind now. Since the disappearance of the Jade Dragon a pall of suspicion had lain over the Quinta dos Castanheiros, and we were all in its shadow. I as much as anyone—perhaps even more so than the others, for was I not the newcomer whose true motive for coming here was still regarded as obscure?
During the first couple of days the mystery was discussed interminably. To my amazement, though, neither Stafford nor Vicencia mentioned anything about our visit to the Chinese salon the previous night and the unknown eavesdropper who had vanished so swiftly into the darkness. More than once I was on the point of speaking out, but always at the last moment I held back. Those vehement words of Stafford’s kept returning to me, haunting me. Personally, he had declared, he wished to heaven that the Jade Dragon could vanish into thin air and never appear again.
So might not the deed be laid at Stafford’s door? Was he hoping, perhaps, that by removing the Jade Dragon he would compel the family to think along lines of reason and logic, rather than be ruled by superstition?
In which case, Stafford was wrong, dreadfully wrong. If the Jade Dragon, as my grandmother insisted on believing, had so far exerted a benign influence upon the household, its influence now—by its very absence—was a wholly destructive one. Mistrust was in the air, and everybody, right down to the youngest kitchenmaid and newest garden boy, was tainted by it. The servants crept about their duties with downcast eyes, expecting imminent disaster to strike. As for the family, it seemed as if a thundercloud hung above our heads, as if a careless word from any one of us might trigger off the flash of lightning that would destroy us all.
In the end, I plucked up courage to tackle Vicencia. “Why is it that both you and Stafford have kept silent about our visit to the Chinese salon the evening before the Jade Dragon disappeared?” I asked her. “It has troubled me greatly, and I have wondered if I myself should mention it to the others.”
She laid a hand upon my arm. “No, Elinor, you must do no such thing.”
“But why not? It might help bring an end to this poisonous atmosphere.”
“But to speak out can solve nothing. Don’t you see, Elinor, it would only make matters worse. Perhaps if we wait,” she added hopefully, “the Jade Dragon will turn up again. But if it doesn’t, I expect the whole unfortunate incident will soon be forgotten.”
“Do you really believe it will ever be forgotten?” I asked somberly.
She shook her head in a helpless way, having no answer to give me. Looking at her as she fingered the gold band of her wedding ring, a thought came into my mind. Did Vicencia share my uneasiness that Stafford was responsible for the removal of the Jade Dragon? If so, she would be desperately anxious not to draw suspicion toward him. Vicencia had such a high regard for her brother-in-law. He mattered to her far more than any other member of the family. More even than myself, despite the close relationship that had sprung up between us.
“I beg you to say nothing,” she implored me. “It can serve no useful purpose. We cannot hope to solve the mystery, so much better to leave well enough alone.”
“Don’t forget there is someone else involved, Vicencia— the unknown person in the library who must have overheard everything we said. Why has he or she never come forward, I wonder. Perhaps that person was the thief.” Her gentle brown eyes had taken on a scared, piteous look, and suddenly it was beyond me to pursue the matter any further. “Very well, then. I won’t mention our visit to the Chinese salon—at least, not for the time being.”
“Oh, thank you, Elinor.” she said gratefully. “I am sure it is the right thing.”
She left me at once with some trivial excuse about household duties. Watching her hasty escape, I was struck by a new and startling thought. In begging for my silence, was it Stafford whom Vicencia was protecting, or herself? Could it be that, having heard his wish so passionately expressed that the Jade Dragon should disappear, Vicencia had determined to make the wish come true? It was a grave risk for her to take, for discovery would surely jeopardize her position at the quinta. But perhaps it was a measure of the devotion she felt for Stafford, a devotion that was understandable when one remembered the contempt with which she was treated by others in the family.
After my conversation with Vicencia, she seemed more busily occupied than ever with her domestic duties. Though I begged to be allowed to help in some way, she brushed aside my offers almost brusquely. Perhaps Vicencia was afraid to relinquish any of the tasks that might be her only passport to a home at Castanheiros.
I became restless doing nothing, so I decided to try my hand at some sketching. A walk into Cintra one morning provided me with pencils and a pad of cartridge paper. On my return I changed into a cool muslin dress and went hatless into the gardens, taking a parasol to shield me from the sun’s glare.
With no fixed plan in mind, I strolled wherever my footsteps led me—along a flagged terrace with clumps of yellow iris edging a pool, down a stone stairway where alpine strawberries ripened on a sunbaked wall and honeysuckle tangled through a trellis, past an arbor of red and white roses, and by way of a curving hydrangea walk to a wood of sweet-chestnut trees. These, I realized, must be the trees which had given the quinta its name. They were ancient now, their giant trunks twisted in tortured spirals, their massive branches meeting above me, spilling a cloying sweetness from their creamy catkins.
Then, as I came to an open glade of neatly clipped lawns, I was surprised to find a pavillion built in the style of a Chinese pagoda. I hesitated, half tempted to sketch it. My inclination, though, had always been for natural subjects, and as I wandered further down the glade, my fancy was taken by a tree that flaunted striking, flame red flowers. A rustic seat nearby provided a suitable perch, and soon I was busy with my pencil.
I became so engrossed that when next I glanced up, I saw from the position of the sun that some considerable time must have elapsed. Afraid that I might be late for luncheon, I quickly gathered up my things and began to walk back the way I had come. While I was crossing the area of mown grass in front of the Chinese pagoda, I heard a murmur of voices—a couple of the gardeners, I presumed, taking a few minutes’ surreptitious rest. I glanced through the fretted entrance as I went past—and halted in surprise. One of the men was Stafford Darville, and with him was the young coachman Pedro, the brother of my maid Maria.
Neither seemed to have noticed me, and I wondered whether to disclose my presence. But there was a curious tenseness in the manner of each of them that decided me against it. I had a presentiment that Stafford would not wish to be observed talking to Pedro like this. If they had been speaking in English, I was close enough to have caught the drift of what was being said, but in Portuguese I could not follow their muttered conversation. Except that just one word leapt out at me.
Cascais....
Cascais, I reflected, was surely the name of the fishing village that Stafford’s wife had visited just before her mysterious death by drowning. And it was Pedro, I knew, who had driven her there in the carriage that day. Walking on, I recalled how a few evenings ago Stafford had talked of his determination to find out more about the circumstances of Luzia’s death. Could that be why he was questioning Pedro now?
Lost in speculation, I suddenly became aware of hurrying footsteps behind me. Stafford caught up with me beside a buddleia bush, where a cloud of peacock butterflies flitted among the sprays of purple blossom. He glanced at the sketchpad under my arm. “Is that a hobby of yours, Elinor? May I see what you have drawn?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t very good. I don’t know if you’ll be able to recognize the tree and tell me its name.”
He took the pad from me and studied my drawing, his dark head slightly tilted. Then he looked at me with a quick smile. “Unmistakably, it’s a romazeira, a pomegranate tree. You are far too modest, Elinor. A very pleasing composition and a nice firmness of line.”
“Thank you.”
We strolled on together past the rose arbor, and Stafford said idly, “I hear that you walked into Cintra earlier on.”
“Yes, to buy pencils and paper. Vicencia said there was nothing suitable she could let me have.”
“Did you manage to converse with the shopkeeper satisfactorily? I daresay you are able to understand a good deal of Portuguese by now?”
I was about to reply that I was picking up the language faster than I had dared to hope, but I checked myself. I suspected there was some definite reason for Stafford’s question, apart from casual interest. Had he in fact seen me by the pagoda, and was he trying to gauge whether I could have understood any of his mysterious conversation with Pedro? I said warily, “I managed fairly well—if people are kind enough to speak slowly and distinctly.”
“Pode honrar-me com cinco minutos de conversa?” Stafford said quickly in a somewhat muffled voice.
I knew that he was asking if I would honor him with five minutes’ conversation in Portuguese. But I pretended not to understand, because I had an unpleasant feeling that he was trying to trap me.
“I’m sorry, what was that you said, Stafford?”
He smiled at me again. “Never mind, it was nothing of any importance. Look, there’s Vicencia. I expect she is coming to find us to say that it’s time for luncheon.”
* * * *
A curious relationship had developed between my grandmother and myself—a kind of intimacy without any real sense of closeness. I made a point of going to see her each day, even if she would only permit me to stay for a few minutes.
One afternoon I found her sitting by the open window, stitching a canvas that was mounted on an embroidery frame. “What is it you are doing, Grandmama?” I asked, going forward to look.
“This is a chair seat, and I am repairing it, Elinor. It belongs to a set of chairs that are over two hundred years old, but alas, the fabric has become very worn. I am determined to restore them all before I die.”
“What very beautiful work,” I said admiringly. The design was an intricate one, depicting creatures in a forest. I pointed. “Isn’t that a dragon peering out from behind the tree there?”
Dona Amalia was obviously pleased with my interest.
“All the chairs have different designs, but the dragon features in every one of them,” she told me. “They were commissioned by Henriques da Milaveira’s great-grandson, Jorge, and he had them made in England.”
I hesitated. “Perhaps I could help you with the work, Grandmama. I have always enjoyed doing embroidery.”
“If you think this is simple, Elinor, you are very mistaken.”
I silently thanked heaven that I was no newcomer to needlepoint. The drawing room at Harley Street held several examples of my talent. “I promise to be very careful and not to spoil anything,” I assured her. “Please let me try.”
“Very well, if you wish. But mind you match the colors and the stitches correctly. Ring for Josepha, and she will fetch one of the other canvases They are already mounted and trammed in readiness.”
Within a few minutes I was settled down beside Dona Amalia, an embroidery frame before me. I selected a variety of greens from the twisted sticks of tapestry wool in her sachet, and we both stitched in silence until I broke off to show her what I had done. My grandmother surveyed it critically through her gold-rimmed spectacles, her lips pursed together, then she nodded for me to continue. At least, I thought wryly, she had not condemned my work, even though she didn’t seem overly impressed.
After a while I became aware that she had stopped working and was looking at me thoughtfully. “What is the matter, Grandmama?”
Her black eyes glittered, unreadable as always. “Elinor, are you unhappy here? Do you hate me very much for the anger I have expressed about your mother?”
“Not hate you.” I protested. “How could I hate you? But frankly, I think you have been unjust to poor Mama. I wish you could understand, I wish that you could find it in your heart to forgive her.”
“Come child, do not play with words. Perhaps you wished that I could be made to suffer as you believe I made your mother suffer? Perhaps you have sought a means to be revenged on me?”
“No, you are quite wrong.” I cried. “No thought of revenge has ever entered my head. I would not dream of such a thing.”
My grandmother seemed not to have heard me. “Elinor, my life has not been easy. Believe me, I have endured more than my fair share of unhappiness. Now I am nearing the end of my time on earth, and I beseech you not to add to the burden I have to carry.”
I felt a sudden rush of emotion and took her thin fingers in mine. It seemed to me that this was an opportunity to break down the barriers of mistrust between us. “Please let us be friends, Grandmama. It is my dearest wish. Can’t we put aside all the bitter thoughts of the past and make a new beginning?”
I felt her hand tremble, and she said huskily, “Elinor, you took the Jade Dragon, did you not? Put it back where it belongs, I beg you. If you do, then nothing more will be said about the matter, I promise you.”
I stared at my grandmother in dismay, all my tenderness toward her killed in an instant. I felt sick with disappointment. So this was what her display of emotion was all about. She suspected me of having taken the Jade Dragon in order to wound her. She believed that I was capable of such a cruel act of revenge.
“I did not take the Jade Dragon,” I said coldly. “How could you even imagine that I would?”
She brushed aside my protest. “I meant what I said, Elinor. If the Jade Dragon is returned, there will be no questions asked. No recriminations. All I want is that it should be put back in its proper place.”
I drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I did not take it, I tell you. I did not take it.”
I rose to my feet and stumbled toward the door. Then with my hand on the knob I paused for a second, looking back at my grandmother for some small sign of regret, of apology. But she was staring at me with those gimlet black eyes of hers, and I knew that nothing I could say would convince her of my innocence.