by Ann Bridge
‘Yes—what?’ He spoke a little impatiently.
‘I want this big basin carried out into the corridor; it is in the way on the floor. I will take the jug.’ She opened the door as she spoke.
‘I should have thought the maids could do that,’ he said, still impatient, nevertheless doing as he was told. ‘Gosh, it is a weight!’
Out in the corridor—‘She must have two stitches put in,’ the girl said. ‘The Doctor had not brought the local anaesthetic, so he has gone to fetch it—she must have this, because of the child; it can be very painful, without. But I have not told her—I did not wish her to wait, expecting it.’
‘Quite right,’ he said—‘Good girl!’
Back in the bedroom, Richard looked at his watch.
‘I hope this Doctor won’t be too long,’ he said. ‘Your Father will want to see you when he gets in, Luzia.’
‘Is Papa very angry?’ she asked, calmly.
‘Well he isn’t best pleased at having been kept in the dark—I don’t think I should be, in his place. Anyhow he means to hold a regular inquest into it all,’ Atherley said, grinning again.
‘Oh well, we only did what Colonel Marques wished—perhaps a little in advance! And the Monsignor was of that opinion from the start,’ Luzia said, quite untroubled.
The Doctor returned fairly promptly, gave the local anaesthetic, and put in two stitches; Richard was relieved to see that the wound was indeed quite small, just outside the eye, below the eyebrow. ‘That will hardly show at all,’ he said. ‘But what a God’s mercy it missed the eye!’
‘Yes indeed, Senhor; the Senhora was very fortunate. But I am puzzled about this piece of stone in the wound’—he went to look for it. ‘It is gone!’ he said.
‘Yes—did you want it?’ Luzia asked. ‘I threw it away.’
‘That is a pity.’ He turned to Hetta. ‘Senhora, were there cattle in the field where you stood? Or horses?’
‘No,’ Hetta replied, puzzled. Luzia however guessed what he was thinking of—like many continentals, she was thoroughly tetanus-minded.
‘There have been no cattle in that field for at least seven years,’ she pronounced. ‘Maize is grown there, and lucerne, in some seasons.’ She asked him then if he wished to sterilise his instruments before he left? But he said he would do them at home, bundled them together in a polythene bag, gave Hetta some sedative tablets, and took his departure. ‘I will look in tomorrow,’ he remarked, as he left. Luzia rang for a maid, had all the bowls and towels put on an empty shelf in one of the twin cupboards under that vast Victorian wash-stand, and having settled her friend comfortably on the sofa—Mrs. Atherley refused to go to bed—went off to her own room to wash her hands and tidy her hair before she went down to face her Father. ‘Be sure to send for me if he wants me,’ Hetta called after her as she left the room.
The Duke held his ‘inquest’ in his study, over whisky for his guests; as Luzia went downstairs she encountered Elidio, who told her that the Senhor Duque required her presence. In the hall was also João, sitting on a marquetry chair; he rose as she came down.
‘Where is esto homem now?’ the girl asked him.
‘In an empty shed in the back court-yard, Minha Condesa—locked in! We searched him, but found nothing but some spare bullets in his pocket—no papers.’
‘Pena that we did not get the others,’ Luzia said. ‘Is he one of those who trod the wine?’
‘The Senhor Oliveira will know that,’ the man replied. ‘He has been sent for; he is gone to the Romaria at São Zefirimo.’
‘Ah yes—his wife comes from there,’ Luzia said, as usual familiar with the affairs of all the employees about the place. She went on into the study; the five men rose as she entered—her Father from the upright chair behind his desk, Gil, Richard Atherley, Nick, and the Ambassador from deep leather ones disposed about the room.
‘How is Mrs. Atherley?’ the Duke asked at once, waving her to a seat.
‘Tired, a little—she is resting. But she is not in pain; she said I was to tell you that if you wish to see her she is perfectly able to come down.’
‘That is very good of her, but I hope it will not be necessary. I gather that you, and Gil here, know as much as anyone about what lies behind this deplorable incident, which was, it seems, not unexpected by either of you; so perhaps you will both now explain why I was not informed in advance, so that proper precautions could have been taken.’ He bent his bushy grey eyebrows, over the deepset grey eyes, sternly on her and her cousin as he spoke; Gil looked uncomfortable, as well he might.
‘I hope we can satisfy you, Papa,’ the girl said, respectfully, but cheerfully—‘though we do not yet know as much as we ourselves could wish. By the way, Gil, have you told this officer from the Security Police what has happened?—and that we have the man here?’
De Castelo Branco, looking more uncomfortable than ever, said that he hadn’t.
‘But surely this ought to be done at once? If you ring up the Policia they will inform him. Papa, could you excuse Gil while he does this?’
‘What man from the Security Police? How do they come into it?’ Ericeira asked in surprise.
‘Colonel Marques sent him up to São Pedro do Sul to keep an eye on these men who were watching Hetta, and to try to find out if they were agents from Spain; he did not wish them to be alarmed, or arrested, till he had learned more.’
‘But how did Colonel Marques know about them?—he has not been here himself.’
‘Gil went back to Lisbon on purpose to tell him, when he had heard Hetta’s account of the odd way they were behaving; it was too long and too confidential to be explained on the telephone—but especially after the episode at Toledo, it seemed to the Colonel possibly very important.’
‘What episode at Toledo? Is this something else of which I have not been told?’
To Luzia’s relief, the Ambassador here took a hand.
‘Duke, I am partly responsible for Mrs. Atherley’s and your daughter’s silence about that,’ he said. ‘Might I explain?’
‘I should be infinitely obliged if you would,’ the Duke said, looking surprised and also slightly relieved. ‘I seem in need of all the explanations I can get.’
‘Thank you. But Luzia is right—your nephew should telephone to the police at once, if there is any possible connection between the man you hold here, and that incident.’
‘There seems every reason to believe that there is the closest possible connection,’ Atherley put in. His host swung round on him in surprise; the Ambassador too looked startled.
‘Not really?’ he said.
‘Yes; I was speaking to Ainsworth yesterday, and three of the Spanish suspects disappeared from Madrid about 12 days ago, just when those men first showed up here.’ He turned to Ericeira. ‘Excuse me for butting in, Duke. But the Police should really be informed immediately.’
‘Then go and telephone, Gil,’ the Duke said resignedly. As the young man, thankfully, escaped, he turned to Sir Noël. ‘Now, Excellency, I am all attention.’
Diplomats do not spend much of their lives drafting memoranda for nothing; they are rigidly trained in the discipline of brief and lucid exposition. Richard Atherley listened with professional relish while his chief recounted to their host what had happened at Toledo—skilfully outlining the political importance of Admiral Luxworthy’s Spanish visit—before he went on to Hetta’s suspicions of the Hungarian chauffeur, and the attempt at assassination which she had, half-accidentally, foiled; the Duke listened too, in fascinated horror. At the end—‘But though the chauffeur had been deported, and his Hungarian associates rounded up, both the Spanish Security Police, and our own Intelligence in Madrid, were anxious to have the whole thing kept as quiet as possible, since obviously the Hungarian agents were not working in vacuo, but must have been part of a Spanish Communist cell, or ring. So both your daughter, and Mrs. Atherley, were urged to say nothing about what happened at Toledo, except that Mrs. Atherley had broken her wrist in a c
ar accident—which was strictly true. This was an official decision, since it was hoped to learn more.’
‘Suppressio veri, with only a hint of suggestio falsi,’ the Duke said, smiling a very little. ‘Thank you, Excellency; I am most grateful to you. I see a little more light—of a rather lurid sort.’ He was not completely mollified, however. He turned to his daughter. ‘But when suspicious characters appeared here, on my own estate—surely there could be no embargo on your mentioning at least that fact to me? Menacing one of my own guests! I still wish to know why you did not.’
‘Well to begin with, they did not actually menace Hetta; they merely behaved oddly, peering at her, and hiding afterwards. She herself did not wish anything said, for fear she might be mistaken, and cause innocent people to be falsely accused; indeed she did not mention it even to me, until the Monsignor said that she must, and that Gil should be sent for at once.’
‘The Monsignor?—Subercaseaux?’
‘Yes, she consulted him that day when we went over to Sta Maria da Trapa.’
‘Still, he can hardly have told her that I was not to be informed,’ Ericeira said rather stiffly. Luzia blushed.
‘Oh darling Papa, he did say precisely that!’ she exclaimed, with the strangest mixture of mirth and apology in her voice. ‘He was actually emphatic that only Gil and Colonel Marques should be told, while the men were still here, treading the wine.’
‘These men trod the wine? Communists?’ He looked horrified.
‘Yes, these three Spanish-speakers, whom Senhor Oliveira took on when the vintage was so huge, and he had not enough ranchos; Hetta recognised them at the adega, the night we all went down.’
The Ambassador could hardly refrain from smiling at his host’s expression of dismay and disgust at this revelation—his good wine trodden by Communist feet!
‘I am surprised that Subercaseaux should have given such advice,’ he said at length. ‘Treading the wine!’ he repeated. ‘And no warning given; no precautions taken—it seems to me strangely irresponsible behaviour on the Monsignor’s part.’
‘No, Papa, he was not irresponsible—one must be fair to him, even if he is such an old fox. He insisted that Gil should come at once, and inform Colonel Marques and the PIDE; and he also said that all our people must be told to keep a watch on these persons, and report if they behaved suspiciously.’
‘And who was to give these instructions, may I ask?’
‘I was—and I did,’ the girl said firmly. Then, at something in her Father’s expression, her own face altered. ‘Oh, Papa, darling, do not look so!’
It was perhaps as well that at that precise moment Gil reappeared, with the tidings that the official from the Security Police was out, but would come to Gralheira as soon as he could be found. The Duke looked at his watch, then asked the Ambassador if he would have any objection to dining a little earlier? ‘Then, with good fortune, we may get our meal undisturbed.’ Sir Noël of course agreed; Elidio was rung for, and told to advance dinner, and to see that João was given a meal in the kitchen. ‘And you, my child, see to it that the Heriots are told at once, so that they are not too much hurried.’
‘Yes, Papa.’ She gave him an eager penitent kiss before she sped away.
Hetta insisted on coming down to dinner, and Richard, having satisfied himself that she was really equal to it, was rather glad that she should—company, he thought innocently, would be better for her than solitary brooding on what had happened. ‘And you may be able to pacify the Duque a bit,’ he said. ‘He’s pretty vexed with Gil and Luzia for keeping it all so dark. H.E. was splendid—he told the old boy that it was ‘an official decision’ that nothing should be said about the performance at Toledo. But the Duke wasn’t best pleased that the Monsignor should be in on it, when he was left out, and should actually have advised against Luzia’s telling her own Father.’
‘Poor Duque! She didn’t tell him that?’
‘Yes—really she had to. She did frightfully well, but it was all a little awkward.’
Dinner was just over when the official from the Security Police arrived, accompanied by the local Chefe and poor Senhor Oliveira, dragged away from his village festivities—they had overtaken him on the road, and recognising the police car, he had stopped them and begged a lift. When Elidio came to the drawing-room and announced their presence the Duke, after asking Lady Heriot and Hetta to excuse him, went to the hall, taking Gil along with him; João had been summoned from the kitchen, and they all went out to the shed where the would-be assassin had been shut up. Now the Duque had a mania for electricity everywhere, even in out-buildings; considering, rightly, that the risk of fire was less than if paraffin lamps were carried about. So when João had pulled out a large key and unlocked the door, he switched on the light—the six men stood aghast at what it revealed. The wooden table in the middle was covered with blood, so was part of the stone-flagged floor; on it, beside the chair from which he had fallen, lay their prisoner, unconscious, with blood oozing from his left wrist.
‘Perdition!’ the Security man exclaimed. ‘Now we may lose everything!’ He knelt down and felt the right pulse. ‘A doctor, immediately!—he is not dead,’ he said, without getting up—‘And some cloths; we must put on a tourniquet.’ As he spoke he rolled up the man’s sleeve, and put his thumb, expertly, on the wrist above the cut; when he pressed on the artery the blood ceased to well from the wound.
There ensued some minutes of feverish activity. Elidio, who had been lurking in the yard, ran unbidden to the kitchen and despatched Antonio, his underling, to the scene of action with cloths, towels, and a wooden spoon; then he hastened to the telephone and summoned Dr. Mendes—‘It is most urgent.’
‘Is the lady worse?’ the Doctor asked, alarmed.
‘No, it is not she—another. The Senhor Duque desires the Doctor to come without losing an instant.’
‘I come,’ said Dr. Mendes, as Elidio rang off.
In the shed the Security official, still pressing on the artery, caused the local Chief of Police to tie one cloth into a thick knot, and wrapped it in another; then, with his left hand, he placed the knot in the crook of the elbow, and bade Gil tie the cloth firmly; now he inserted the handle of the wooden spoon, and with both hands twisted it round.
‘Wipe the place,’ he said briefly to Gil, who took up a towel and did so. ‘Yes, that has stopped it. Hold this steady’—he took one hand off the spoon-handle; while Gil held it he tore another cloth in half, and bound the spoon in position along the man’s arm with the two pieces.
‘There—that will do for the moment. Now, let us get him on to the table—and we shall need blankets.’ With João’s help he lifted the unconscious man and laid him on the table, putting a folded towel under his head; Antonio, who had overheard the demand for blankets, hurried off in search of them. The official wiped his hands on yet another towel, and turned to the Duke.
‘This is extremely unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Who put him here?’
‘My keepers.’ Ericeira indicated João, who was also wiping the blood off his hands and the knees of his trousers.
‘Did you not search him for a weapon before you left him?’ the Security man asked sharply.
‘Minho Senhor, yes—all over, even in his shoes! Also we bound his hands,’ the head-keeper replied wretchedly.
‘Then the cord should be here, and the weapon also. It was probably a razor-blade. Ah, here are the blankets—let us wrap him up. Lift him!’ he said brusquely to the keeper and Gil; when they did so he took one blanket from Antonio and put it, folded double, on the table; the man was laid on it, and three more blankets wrapped round him. Antonio had also brought a pillow in a tartan cover, like those provided for the ranchos in their sleeping-quarters; this the official slid under the head. ‘He must be kept warm,’ he said to the Duke. ‘Are there any hot-water bottles available?’
‘Yes, certainly.’ Antonio was despatched for these. ‘Should he be given brandy?’ Ericeira asked.
‘Not
till the Doctor comes, I think.’
‘Or be taken indoors?’
‘No—we will move him as little as possible till the Doctor has seen him.’
João meanwhile had found some straw in a corner, and with a wisp was wiping away the blood on the floor. ‘Senhor Duque, here is the weapon!’ he exclaimed, as he picked up a safety razor-blade. ‘And here is the cord,’ he went on after a moment, holding out a blood-soaked length of the loose hairy brown twine which is used on farms to tie up straw or faggots. The officer examined it; the knot was still tied.
‘But this is absurd!—he had bitten through it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you not tie his hands behind him?’
‘No, my Senhor; in front.’ João’s distress was pitiable to see—his master intervened.
‘I regret that this should have occurred,’ he said, with rather stiff politeness. ‘Here, at Gralheira, we have little experience in dealing with criminals; also we did not expect quite so long a time to elapse before the appropriate authorities took charge of the affair. Now, is there any way in which we can help the Senhores in their enquiries?’
Yes, there was—the PIDE official wished to know if the man could be identified as having been seen before? Oliveira stepped forward—the prisoner was certainly one of the three strangers who had taken part in treading the wine; yes, he spoke Spanish, not Portuguese; he had given his name as Fernando Molineiro, and had said, like the other two, that he came from near Pamplona; with them, he had presented himself at the adega and asked for work; as they were short-handed for the treading, all three had been taken on.
And was the Senhor certain that he was one of the men who had followed the Senhora from the Castelo, and aroused her suspicions, the Security man next enquired—the bailiff gaped at him in utter bewilderment. ‘A Senhora from the Castelo?—I know nothing of this.’
Gil spoke up.
‘No one was with the Senhora Atherley when she saw these men watching her; they did this only when she was alone. But when she went down to the adega she recognised them, and established that they were Spaniards—which increased her suspicions regarding them, in view of what had happened in Spain.’