Birdcage

by Victor Canning

  He put his hand on the telephone to call Quint’s room, but left it there while he read through again the report which he had just decoded from Lisbon.

  Your QX137. Sarah Branton. Residing Villa Lobita, Monchique— owner Mrs. Ringel Fanes now in America, departed three days before arrival Branton. Branton accompanied by, presumed British subject, Richard Farley. No action taken on Farley background. Advise. Light surveillance Branton. Will continue unless advised change.

  Kerslake rang Quint who said, “I’m just going out. Read it.” Over the telephone Kerslake heard Quint’s slight asthmatic wheeze and smiled. Asthma could strike at any time and put a man at risk. One day Quint would be shunted out of field work and upwards and the vacuum would be filled and he knew that it would be by him. He read the message slowly and clearly. Quint was silent for a while and then said, “Tell them to go total on this Farley, but keep the Portugal people out. And you do the same for him this end. There may be something. Why the bloody hell didn’t they give an estimated age for him? He could have war or national service. You try this end for that, anyway. All right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He put down the telephone and began to draft a message to Lisbon. Not for a moment did he allow himself any speculation about the interest in Sarah Branton. He would either know or not know in time.

  * * * *

  They left the villa after breakfast. He drove well, and fast when he could with safety. He drove, she realised, as he did any task to which he set himself, like painting the Holderns’ pool or shutters, giving himself to the work and letting himself be absorbed in it. Respecting this concentration she talked very litde. There was no need, anyway, in her for talk because she was happy. There had been many times when she had been driven along this road, first with Giorgio and then later with Melina’s husband Carlo Spuggi. If she were alone with Giorgio, then she stayed alone because Giorgio answered when spoken to but was never willing to take part in any time-passing conversation. The road before him and his beloved Rolls-Royce answering to his hands and feet were all he cared for. Driving, he lived in a world of his own which was completely satisfying. It seemed to her that she had never seen Giorgio out of livery or far from the car. Perhaps he had even slept in it at night. She smiled to herself at the fancy. Carlo was quite different, A jay, a magpie, a chatterer given the least encouragement, and fond of hurling abuse or jokes at any mule cart or other car they passed; a short, stocky gorilla of a man who had won the heart of tall, dark, handsome Melina under whose window—when her mother was away—he would play his guitar to woo her. And also, in fun, because his whole nature was generous and kind, he would sometimes—because he knew she loved guitar music—pause under her own and give her a short serenade before shouting, Boa noite. He had even charmed her father on his rare visits, her father who could only barely tolerate Giorgio.

  She was content now with Richard’s long silences, for they were quite unlike Giorgio’s. In her thoughts—and often in her talk with him—she named him as Richard. He seldom used her name. Just now and again when, she realised, the use was deliberate and well or kindly intended. When she got wrought up—which was something she must try not to do because she realised any disturbance in her made him uncomfortable—he knew exactly the right moment to soothe her and name her . . . no longer Sister Luiza but Sarah. Astonishingly, how distant that so-recent life now seemed.

  Not long after noon they went through Lisbon and took the coast road to Estoril. The hotel run by Carlo and Melina stood back from the seafront at the top of a public square. When Farley pulled the car up outside she said, “Do you want to come in?”

  He shook his head and began to fish in his pocket for his pipe. “No, this is your business. I’ll sit and enjoy my pipe.”

  She went in. The main hall was empty but the dining room, she saw through the glass doors, was full and lunch still being served. The reception desk was empty. She rang the bell and Melina herself came through from the inner office. For a moment or two she faced her with a look of polite enquiry and said, “Senhorita?” She had thickened a little with the years and hotel living, but she was still handsome and still with a little shadow of dark hairs across her upper lip.

  Sarah said quietly, “Melina—you don’t remember me?” For a moment or two Melina’s face was blank. Then suddenly she gasped, clasped her hands to her cheeks, and cried, “Oooh! No, no! Is it true?”

  But even as Sarah nodded, Melina came round the desk and threw her arms about her, hugging and kissing her.

  Sarah let the welcome wrap itself about her and felt tears come to her own eyes to match those in Melina’s. She was led into the inner office, fussed into a chair, stood back from and looked up and down, and then embraced again. Had she had lunch? She said she had on the road up, knowing that Richard would not want to be dragged in. A glass of porto? No, she did not——

  Then Melina’s eyes widened and, her arms dropping loosely to her sides, she said, “But. . . but the convent. How——?”

  More calmly than she would have thought possible Sarah said, “I have left it for ever. I was not a good nun. But, please, Melina, cara, do not ask me about it. Some time I will come again and see you and tell you all the story.”

  Vigorously Melina said, “There is nothing to tell. I understand. Many times did I say to your mother it was not for you . . . and that, that she should stop you. You do not have to tell me anything. Also, I know why you have come. Wait.”

  While she was gone Sarah went to the window and looked out. Richard had driven the car a few yards down the road to gain the shade of an acacia tree. Melina was gone only a few minutes. When she came back she was holding a parcel in her hands against her body. It was wrapped in oiled brown paper and tied with thick string whose knots had been sealed with blue wax.

  Melina said, “Somebody drove you up here?” There was a shrewd protective note in her voice.

  “Yes. A man. A true friend. He saved my life when I left the convent. Don’t ask me more. Someday I will tell you.”

  “I ask you nothing. It is not my business. I am even glad that Carlo is away at Cascais eating with his friends, for he knows nothing of this.” She tapped the parcel. “For me, it is a parcel your mother gave me to hand to you if one day you should come to me.”

  “And if I hadn’t come?”

  “I must keep it always. Never open it and put in my will that it be burnt in a furnace without being opened. Very strange, but I think your mother knew one day you would come. And here you are. To please me, you will promise to come again when you have your life properly regulated?”

  “I promise.” ‘

  “Good. I am glad you are no longer a nun.” She smiled slowly. “There was always too much of your mother in you for that.”

  When she got back to the car Farley opened her door for her as though he were her official chauffeur and then went round into his own seat and started the motor. Before moving off he said, “It’s a long drive back, and we shall be late. Would you like to stop to eat on the road?”

  “No, thank you, Richard.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He drove off and she sat at his side with the parcel on her lap. He had obviously seen it, but he had said nothing about it. That was like him. She had the feeling that he was far from accepting her belief that she could repay him. For him—she could be frank with herself now—all her talk was probably being taken as a different form of the hysteria which had driven her into the sea. He humoured her out of his good nature, but he was far from taking her seriously. She pressed her hands against the parcel but its bulk gave no indication of its contents. The agonising thought went through her that its contents would be useless . . . that maybe her mother’s mind was going when she had made all the arrangements with Melina. She sat there remembering how, in those last days before her mother’s death, her mind would wander and she would talk strangely. She had a swift picture of her mother distractedly packing a parcel with any bits and pieces that came readily
to her hands.

  Richard suddenly said, “Funny thing. Might amuse you. I spent a week in Estoril once. Never really gambled heavily in my life before. But I decided to have a go with the little I had left. I won enough to start that ristorante of mine. Easy come, easy go. Eh?”

  She put out a hand and touched his arm briefly. She did not know why, but quite irrelevantly his words had lifted the gloom from her.

  * * * *

  As they drove out of the square and swung left on to the Lisbon road, a grey dust-covered Volvo which had been parked lower down the square side followed them. It was driven by Matthew Gains, a grizzle-haired, long-faced man in his fifties, the son of a Portuguese mother and an English father. Both were dead. His father had worked in an Oporto shipping office and had married the daughter of the house in which he had had lodgings. According to need Gains could pass either as a Portuguese or an Englishman; considerable assets in a mixed life which might have made him successful and rich had it not been for an irrepressible streak of idleness which always seemed to surface when it was least needed. He had learned to accept it with a cheerful tolerance because it had—particularly in this job—encouraged him to foster an imaginative bent which had always been with him and had made of him a persuasive liar when his duties called for too great a show of industry.

  He had no biting curiosity about these two. He had driven down to Monchique and found the Villa Lobita. Making his number with the gardener husband of the couple who lived in the cabin at the drive end of the villa had been no trouble for the old man had been full of talk of the Senhorinha Branton who had once been a nun when he had met him in the local wine shop. On the Saturday evening the man had let slip that the Senhorinha and her friend were going to Lisbon the next day.

  Following them he was easily convinced—he always was when laziness surfaced—that they could be going nowhere else now but back to the villa. The prospect of the long drive had no appeal to him. He had no intention of making it. Not today, anyway. He would see them through Lisbon, over the river and on the road south and then return to his own private pleasures in Lisbon until the next morning. What did it matter? The pay was poor; all the time you worked in the dark; there was no pension, and no one had ever queried one of his reports because he was careful not to make any statement of fact which could be verified false” and so proved against him. Anyway, if they had had any sense, they would have assigned another man and car for the return drive. The same car behind coming up and going down, even at a discreet distance, could become noticeable. From what he had seen through his glasses of the man he was far from giving the impression of a born fool, and also the kind to get ugly if you stepped on his toes.

  Anyway, he knew them—throw them a few crumbs and they were happy; stuck-up sods who thought they ran the world while the sun shone out of their backsides. They would be happy with—Drove up to Estoril. Hotel Globo. Senhorita enters alone. Twenty minutes inside. Comes out. Carrying fair-sized paper parcel. Enters car. Drives off with Senhor Farley. A lucky man the Senhor if the Senhorita was favouring him.

  He followed the car, whistling thinly through his teeth. Anyway, his instructions had been light contact in the event of movement. What could be lighter than going down comfortably tomorrow?

  * * * *

  It was late when they got back to the villa. Fabrina, the housekeeper, had left them a cold supper which Farley welcomed. For herself, Sarah knew that she had gone beyond the need for food that day. As she stood now in the big hallway with the parcel held to her Farley said to her, “Don’t bother about me. I can look after myself.” He looked down from her face to the parcel she held and then smiled at her. “I can guess how you feel. You want to get upstairs and be alone with it. Yes?”

  She nodded, appreciating his tact, and wondering if he realised—perhaps he did, his understanding of her was wide— the slow growth there had been in her of doubt. The parcel had to hold that which would enable her to repay him. But she kept imagining her mother, distraught, not clear in her mind, packing up a random collection of possessions of no importance or worth . . .

  She said, “Yes, I would like that, Richard.”

  When he replied she knew that he had read her fears. His big mouth slanted in a lop-sided grin and with a shrug of his shoulders, he said, “Don’t fuss about it. If it turns out to be junk it makes no difference to me. Whatever you may feel— there’s nothing you have to repay me—not even the petrol to Lisbon and back.” He reached out and lightly touched the knuckles of his right hand against her cheek as though she were a small girl—full of imaginary fears—and he a kindly uncle. He turned away to go to the kitchen and called, “Goodnight. And sleep well.”

  The burden of her emotions brought a mistiness to her eyes as she turned and began to go up the wide stairs under the large oil painting of her mother, dark now with the shadows cast by the single hall light by the front door.

  She put all the lights on in her bedroom and sat down at the little desk in the window alcove. With a pair of small embroidery scissors and shaking hands she cut the sealed cords around the parcel and slit through the lines of scotch tape that held the heavy paper in place. Inside, wrapped in soft white tissue paper, were two packages. One was long and thin and the other was rectangular and lighter in weight than the former. Loose between the two packets was a white envelope, unsealed and without any inscription on its cover. From inside this, her hands shaking finely, she drew a sheet of folded writing paper. As she spread it wide on the desk she saw that it was a piece of the headed note-paper of the Villa Lobita, and she recognised at once the small, very precise renaissance script which was her mother’s handwriting. The note, which was dated just over a week before her mother’s death, read:

  The contents of this parcel which have been shown to and packed in the presence of Father Ansoldo of the Capella da Senhora da Pi da Cruz, Monchique——

  She had known Father Ansoldo as a young girl and knew too now from Fabrina that he was long dead.

  ——and Senhorita Melina Montes, my personal maid, of this address, I bequeath absolutely and utterly to use or to dispose of in any way she wishes to my daughter, Sarah Branton.

  The document was signed by her mother and witnessed by Father Ansoldo and by Melina, using then her maiden name. Beneath their subscriptions and, Sarah guessed, not written in the presence of the witnesses there was a paragraph in her mother’s hand which read: Sarah, my darling daughter, if ever this comes into your hands, light a candle for me and pray for the redemption of my soul and the forgiveness of my many sins.

  Immediately touched, Sarah slipped forward from her seat to her knees, bowed her head into her hands and prayed, regardless of her own lack of grace, for her mother. It was some time before she felt able to seat herself and pay attention to the two packages before her. Outside it was moonlight now and a fresh breeze was singing through the copse of sweet chestnuts at the side of the drive. This had been her mother’s bedroom and many times she must have sat, as she did now, looking out over the moon-washed country. Her mother had loved this place, coming back to it always from her wanderings . . . to live simply and, she felt she understood now, to find perhaps a peace and hope which maybe she knew she could never permanently hold.

  Slowly she unwrapped the soft paper from the long package. Inside was a narrow, red morocco leather jewel case. She opened it and the soft rays of the desk light fired its contents with sudden sparkling light, the raising of the lid releasing its beauty from long darkness to a liberty and life which brought pure enchantment to her eyes. She knew at once what it was although she had never seen the real thing before. It was the girdle which her mother wore in the oil painting in the hall.

  She lifted it out and held it spread between her two hands. The belt was made of large rectangular enamelled gold links set with diamonds and emeralds. The centre clasp, bordered by small sapphires and supported on either side by gold, plump cupids, was a large oval gold enamelled medallion showing Venus risen from the wave
s. Inscribed on its lower border were the words VIRTUS VINCIT. For some moments she sat just holding it, enchanted by its beauty, feeling its weight drag gently at her fingers, and tipping it a little each way here and there to set the stones catching the soft lamplight. A great joy rose in her, not only from its loveliness, but also from sensing that it must be worth a very great deal of money.

  Then her eye was caught by a thin slip of white card which lay in the bottom of the case. She put down the belt and picked up the card. It was covered with her mother’s writing, the slightly faded ink matching that of her letter so that she felt sure they were of the same date.

  The card read: The girdle of Venus. It was given to me by Lord Bellmaster, many, many years ago and I was painted wearing it by Augustus John. Personally I think it is slightly vulgar and I never used it much. The stones are diamonds, emeralds and sapphires. It has been ascribed to a French jeweller of the seventeenth century called Gilles Legare, but I was told by more than one expert that were this true Legare would never have left the centres of each link unadorned by his characteristic jewelled floral motifs. Its valuation in 1948—two years before your birth—was £30,000. J.B.

  On opening the second parcel Sarah found a thick but pliable book, bound in soft and now faded blue suede covers which were held by a small gold clasp. As she opened it a slip of paper slid from the first page on to the desk. Sarah picked it up and, immediately recognising her mother’s writing, smiled to herself. It had been her mother’s habit to write and leave notes to servants and friends all over the place; and also to write notes to herself as aides-memoire; Take this to Lisbon for repair—propped against a French ormolu clock on a mantelpiece. Notes left by the telephone—If Auguste rings remember to tell her about Melina’s priceless remark!