by Ann Bridge
‘So has the contact got to come to Gralheira too?’
‘Well that would be the ideal thing, of course; but I daresay he could put up somewhere close by.’
‘There’s nothing “close by” at Gralheira; it’s miles from everywhere. Look, Hugh,’ the girl said, frowning a little as she thought it out—‘this is quite a large order, isn’t it? Suppose you tell me a bit more. For one thing, who is the contact?—and why has Father What-not got to meet him?’
Torrens told her a great deal more, including the episode outside São Braz in the Alfama that very morning. When Julia heard that Monsignor Subercaseaux was the ‘contact’ she hooted with irreverent laughter—‘Him! Goodness, Hetti simply hates him.’ But she registered with satisfaction the fact that the Monsignor was representing the Vatican—‘Of course that could mean a lot. You’re sure about that?’
‘Quite sure.’
Julia continued to reflect.
‘I think I’d better talk to Nanny first,’ she said. ‘Ring the bell, Hugh—by the fireplace.’ Torrens got up, and gazed about for an electric button, in vain. ‘No, pull that trace thing,’ Julia said, laughing a little—the Major obediently tugged on a broad strap of cut velvet which depended on the right of the grate.
‘Whose idea is this?’ she asked, as he came back and sat down in the other armchair.
‘Atherley’s really. But it seems that young Hetta rather mopped up the Duque at the Embassy this afternoon, according to him.’
‘Well, that may help. But the Vatican is the trump card.’ A footman entered. ‘O Francisco, I desire to speak with Miss Brown,’ Julia said. The use of the vocative is still current in Portugal, one of the many pretty archaisms in which the country abounds; it is really rather impolite not to say ‘O Manoel’ or ‘O Francisco’ when speaking to a servant.
Nanny, whose private apartments were on the same upper floor as the schoolroom, appeared almost at once.
‘Nanny, you saw Major Torrens while we were at dinner—Hugh you’d better meet Nanny properly; and until she gives you leave she’s Miss Brown to you!’ Nanny smirked; Torrens got up and shook hands. ‘Now listen, Nanny,’ Julia pursued—‘The Major is in the English Secret Service.’ Nanny looked wise. ‘And he’s in a difficulty, and he wants us to help him.’
‘Well, if it’s in any manner possible, Miss Probyn, we ought to, of course,’ Nanny said, visibly if primly thrilled. ‘What is the trouble?’
Julia explained briefly what the trouble was: Nanny, a devout Catholic—there are quite a lot of them in Leicestershire—was even more thrilled when she learned that what was at stake was nothing less than to promote a meeting between an important foreign divine and an emissary of the Vatican. ‘This Father Thingumy-jig has seen Cardinal Mindszenty quite lately,’ Julia added at the end.
‘Not really? Well, I must say I should like to meet him. And it would be an honour to have a person like that in the house. I think I’d better speak to His Grace about it first,’ Nanny said—‘he won’t get upset.’ Julia grinned— Dona Maria Francisca did get upset by anything unusual. ‘I’d better go at once; it’s nearly time for the Rosary,’ Nanny went on. ‘When would the priest want to come, Miss Probyn?’ She got up as she spoke.
‘Well, that’s rather the thing, Nanny. He ought to come with us tomorrow, with you in the second car—pretending to be Dom Pedro, you see. Everyone knows that we travel with a chaplain, so it would be a complete disguise.’
Nanny gave a discreet giggle.
‘And how is Dom Pedro to get up? Oh well, he can take his chance on the railway like another, can’t he?—if he takes the slow train and gets off at Aveiro they can send the Land-Rover for him, and one of these other two priests can say Mass for us on Sunday morning, if he should be delayed. Is the gentleman from the Vatican to drive up with us too?’
Julia looked enquiringly at Torrens. The Napoleonic thoroughness of Nanny’s strategy had taken her unawares.
‘If the Monsignor could drive up with you and Father Horvath in the second car, Miss Brown, it would simplify matters very much,’ Torrens said at once.
‘Nanny to you, Major.’
‘Oh, thank you. Well, when you have spoken to the Duke, and if he agrees, let me know what time you start, and I will have them both here.’
‘We start at ten-thirty. But I had better see His Grace at once—you wait here.’ She bustled out.
‘That’s a remarkable woman,’ Torrens said, taking another biscuit. He glanced at his watch—it was already after ten.
‘Poor Hugh! When will you eat?’ Julia said. ‘I wish I could give you a bite, but that isn’t so easy.’
‘Oh, I’ll eat when the job’s done. I’m quite accustomed to Spanish hours, from Morocco,’ Torrens said cheerfully. ‘I wish I could get onto the Monsignor, though, to make sure of his being in—if they really would take him up with them it would be a great simplification. Those thugs outside the church this morning will have registered his appearance in detail—probably taken his photograph. Anyhow no-one could miss his eyebrows!’
‘Elidio can get onto him for you,’ Julia said, getting up and tugging at the huge velvet bell-pull. ‘There’s an extension outside the chapel. I practically forced the Duke to put that in when I came to teach Luzia; I really couldn’t go right down to the bottom of the house and scream in the pantry whenever I wanted to talk to my friends!’
Torrens laughed. ‘What an extraordinary set-up the whole ménage is! I wonder if there’s anything like it left anywhere else in the world?’
‘Richard’s description of Hungary sounded much the same, but I suppose that’s all finished now,’ Julia was saying, when Francisco appeared. ‘What’s the Monsignor’s number?’ she asked—she dashed it down on a half-sheet torn from one of Luzia’s exercise books.
‘O Francisco, take this number to Elidio. The Senhor Inglés desires to speak with the Senhor there—um senhor ecclesiastico.’
‘Muito bem, Minha Menina.’
‘Have you got a car?’ Julia asked. ‘I suppose you’ll have to flash out to Estoril to settle this—you’ll hardly want to do it on the telephone.’
‘No, I can’t do that. I haven’t a car; I’m using taxis at the moment—less conspicuous.’
‘A taxi to Estoril will take aeons. I’ll run you out when it’s all fixed—if Nanny manages to fix it.’
‘Why did you leave it to her?’ Hugh Torrens asked, rather curiously. ‘I thought they were so devoted to you.’
‘Devoted is a strong word,’ Julia said slowly. ‘They are quite fond of me, I think, but Nanny has been here twenty years; she came for the little boy who died—such a tragedy—and stayed on to take over Luzia. Then the Duchess died too—poor Duque, he has had it hard!—and of course ever since Nanny has been an irreplaceable fixture. Dona Maria Francisca’s a good old thing, but she’s a bit of a beata, the girl went on, using the admirable Spanish expression for an ultra-religious woman; ‘with all her limitations, Nanny has been the salvation of that child,’
‘Yes, I can imagine that. She’s a remarkable woman,’ Torrens said again—as he spoke the door opened, and the remarkable woman reappeared.
‘Everything’s going to be quite all right,’ Nanny said comfortably. ‘But His Grace would just like to have a word with the Major himself.’
‘All right for both, Nanny?’ Torrens enquired.
‘Yes, Sir. Miss Probyn, you might as well come along too, and do the introducing; Dom Pedro’s been in the chapel this last ten minutes, and Dona Maria Francisca will fret if I don’t go.’
‘Half a second, Nanny, while I get a coat,’ Julia said. ‘I must take the Major out to Estoril to fix up with the Monsignor.’ She hurried away and was back in an instant, a loose tango suède jacket slung over her shoulders.
‘Bless you for this, Nanny,’ Torrens said, as they proceeded along the endless corridors towards the big staircase.
‘We should be thankful to Almighty God if He gives us the chance to do a work o
f mercy, shouldn’t we?’ Nanny responded briskly. ‘And someone from the Vatican!’
Down in the shadowy hall, so vast that it was only faintly lit by the superb 18th-century chandelier which hung in the middle, Elidio stood waiting to inform Julia that he had got ‘0 numero’ for the Senhor Comandante— Julia told Torrens to go with the man and take the call in the pantry, and sat down to wait on a high-backed chair of Dutch marquetry upholstered in magnificent but rather threadbare brocade; a dozen of these stood round the walls, and even one would have added lustre to most museums. When Torrens returned Elidio led them into the Duke’s study.
This apartment, which opened off the hall, was not only very large, but stuffed quite full of original Chippendale furniture: enormous glass-fronted bookcases along the walls, with cabriole-legged chairs standing between them; ‘occasional’ tables, delicate and graceful; also two magnificent twin tall-boys, and a drop-front writing-desk from behind which the Duke rose to receive Torrens and Julia as they entered. Major Torrens was furniture-minded in the English way, that is to say he knew and admired English period furniture, and was blind to any other—but he fairly gaped at the contents of that room. Being new to Portugal he of course could not know that when the English wine-shippers in Oporto built, in the year 1785, the Factory House there, in which to dine and entertain their friends, they caused Mr. Chippendale to fabricate their two colossal dinner-tables, and the lovely chairs which still stand round them, each bearing the hidden ‘C, the master’s hall-mark. Presumably the Ericeira of that day had profited by the presence of these marvellous foreign craftsmen to furnish his own study; anyhow there it was, a room to stagger anyone.
There was nothing staggering about the Duke of Ericeira, except that he looked so very like a Scotsman. He was rather tall, with the same grey eyes as Luzia, iron-grey hair, and a deeply-lined rugged face which somehow also looked grey; he wore grey suits in Lisbon and greyish tweeds in the country—all made in London, and all with that indefinable appearance of being comfortably old from the moment they are first put on which is the special knack of London tailors. He greeted Torrens in perfect English, drew forward a chair for Julia, and then turned at once to the business in hand.
‘I am delighted, naturally, to receive these divines,’ he said, speaking slowly, with a certain formal precision which was also rather Scottish. ‘I am familiar with some of Dr. Horvath’s writings—in translation, of course. A very great man. Tell me, do you wish to bring them here tonight?’
Torrens was as much taken aback by the Duke’s promptitude as Julia had been by Nanny’s.
‘Well, upon my word, I hadn’t thought of that, Sir,’ he said.
‘Might it not be better? It is dark now, which always creates difficulties for watchers; and it will be unexpected. Then they can both leave with us in the morning quite naturally; Dr. Horvath can travel in the car with my sister and myself—and my daughter, of course—and Monsignor Subercaseaux can follow in the second car with my secretary and Miss Brown, taking Dom Pedro’s place.’
‘Dear Duke, don’t tell me that Nanny remembered the Monsignor’s name?’ Julia put in irrepressibly.
The Duke smiled.
‘No, Miss Probyn. But she did tell me that the second party was acting as the Vatican’s representative in this affair, and that could only be Monsignor Subercaseaux.’ He turned to Torrens. ‘Well?’
‘Yes, Sir. I will bring them both here tonight. That is much the best plan, if it won’t be putting you about too much to have guests arriving so late.’
‘My household is never put about by anything that is my wish,’ the Duke said, pressing a bell on his desk. ‘For one thing they are paid to do whatever is required of them, and for another, there still obtains here in Portugal that happy sense of unity in a household between employer and employed. Do you know the Portuguese word for the domestic staff of a house?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘It is “a familia”, the family.’
At this point a representative of the family appeared in the person of Elidio.
‘O Elidio,’ the Duke said, ‘cause two rooms to be prepared for two guests; let borachas (hot-water bottles) be placed in the beds, for the gentlemen are old, and the night is chilly. You will wait upon them yourself, and will enquire if they desire any refreshment—tell the chef to have hot consommé and biscuits ready.’
‘Muito bem, His Excellency. And at what hour does His Excellency expect His Excellency’s guests?’
The Duke glanced at the Empire clock on the chimney-place—it was twenty minutes to eleven.
‘About midnight, or perhaps a little later.’
‘Muito bem, Sua Excellenza‘.
‘And when the Senhora Condessa has finished the Rosary, tell her that I will come up and speak with her, and also with Dom Pedro—let him not go to bed,’ the Duke said firmly. Bowing, with another Muito bem, Elidio withdrew.
‘Well, I think I’d better get going,’ Torrens said; he too had noticed the time.
‘Duke, could Major Torrens have some of the consommé and biscuits when he brings his people along? He’s had no dinner yet.’
‘Of course—how distressing.’ He pressed the bell again. ‘You must forgive my lack of hospitality,’ he said gravely to the Major—’ I had no idea of this. Will you take something now?’
‘Thank you very much, Sir, but I would rather get them safely here first.’
‘Very right. Do you come up to Gralheira with your charges? That would, of course, be a pleasure.’
‘I think not, Sir, thank you so much—there may be things for me to see to here.’
‘I understand—though I am sorry. Will consommé and an omelette, and some cold turkey, be sufficient when you return?—a poor meal, I am afraid.’
‘Ample, Sir. Don’t bother with the omelette.’ He rose— ‘I really think we had better start.’
‘By all means. Does Miss Probyn go with you?’ the Duke asked, suddenly noticing Julia’s jacket, as she also got up.
‘She is very kindly driving me; her car is faster than a taxi.’
‘Ah yes—she drives well. I will say good night, for I trust you and my other guests will excuse me if I should not be here to receive you when you return.’
‘Duke, there is one thing we ought perhaps to settle,’ Julia put in. ‘What names are they to go by?—their own, or should we make some up? I’m not thinking so much of the staff—it’s things like the postman, and all the swarms of people who come and go at Gralheira.’
The Duke, who had risen, sat down again behind his Chippendale escritoire.
‘Elidio, tell the chef to be ready to serve an omelette and some cold perù and a salad, as well as the consommé, when the Senhor Comandante returns with the other guests,’ he said, when the man reappeared. As the servant left the room he turned to Torrens. ‘I think that is a good point of Miss Probyn’s, as regards Dr. Horvath; the Monsignor must, of course, come under his own name—my chaplain, my secretary, my steward, in fact everyone knows him by sight. What do you say?’
‘Yes, Miss Probyn is right—I ought to have thought of it myself. It would certainly be wiser for Father Antal not to use his own name.’
The Duke doodled on his blotting-paper. ‘One can never think of names when one wants them,’ he said, drawing his eyebrows together.
‘Why not Père Antoine for Father Antal?’ Julia suggested. ‘A French name, as he’s a foreigner.’
‘You are very ready, Miss Probyn! Will that do, Major Torrens?’
‘No, Sir, not Antoine—too like Antal.’
‘Then what?’
‘Oh, Père François—they’ll call him Dom Francisco anyhow,’ Julia said abruptly; she was anxious to get off. Torrens agreed to this, and the Duke jotted down the name methodically in a little note-book—‘I will tell Elidio and the steward,’ he said.
As this was settled Torrens gave a fleeting grin, which to Julia’s surprise was repeated in the Duke’s grey lined face.
She registered suddenly that her late employer was enjoying the whole business considerably, and decided to waste two more minutes on increasing his pleasure.
‘Duke, you realise that Countess Hetta Páloczy was cook to Père François‘—she stressed the words, smiling—‘in Hungary for six years?’
‘Impossible! This young lady who knows so much Latin, a cook?’
‘Indeed yes. I’ll tell you about that when we get to Gralheira, and aren’t in a hurry.’
‘Ought she to come up too?’ the Duke asked—nothing, Julia felt, was beyond him that night.
‘Not for the moment.’
‘But you come, of course?’
‘Yes, rather—only I shall have to get back for the wedding.’
‘Oh, this wedding!’ the Duke said. ‘That is not for another week, anyhow.’
A groom swung back the great doors of the cobbled courtyard of the Ericeira stables to let Julia’s car drive out.
‘O Fausto, be here to let me in again—in an hour, or perhaps in two hours—but I must not be caused to wait,’ the girl said urgently. ‘I shall hoot three times, when I return.’ As she turned out into the street the gates clanged to behind them.
‘Which first?’ Julia asked.
‘Oh, Estoril. They probably won’t be watching Subercaseaux at this time of night—though you never know. How often have you had this new car out since you got it, by the way?’
‘Once. It only came yesterday morning, and I took Nanny and Luzia to the Zoo in the afternoon.’
‘See anyone hanging about?’
‘No—though I confess I wasn’t looking.’
‘Well I was looking when we came out just now, and I swear that street was bone empty,’ Torrens said, as Julia twisted down towards the river. ‘There isn’t cover for a cat along those huge house-fronts. We ought to be all right.’ There was a nervousness in his voice and manner that Julia had never met before—he’s tired and hungry, she thought, as they raced along beside the Tagus. The young moon was fuller now than it had been three nights ago, and its light etched the Torre de Belém, the Manueline tower built on the spot whence the great Basque Vasco da Gama set sail to discover the Indies, in black and silver as they shot past it—a black-and-silver tower outlined against the broad black-and-silver river. Julia observed this with pleasure, but she was thinking of the task in hand in all its aspects. It was wonderful how the old Duque had played up, and there came into her mind Atherley’s remark—was it really only three nights ago?—when she had taken him to see the night-watchman’s chair: ‘Just the place to park Hugh’s priest.’ Well, now Hugh’s priest was going to be parked there—and at the thought she gave her slow giggle.