by Ann Bridge
Torrens weighed in.
‘You’re going rather too fast, Julia. The Monsignor has got to come back here to finish off with Father A., and anyhow Marques has already told Countess Páloczy that he is looking after Hetta. That’s in the future conditional tense, but we’re bound to run into trouble if Subercaseaux stays in Estoril; he’s sure to be seen, and she’s sure to be told.’
‘Oh, ah, yes; I see your point,’ Julia said blandly. ‘Very well, let Richard bring him back tomorrow night. And the Monsignor can go down again on Friday with the Duque and me and all. Old Dorothée won’t make any fuss at the wedding—she’ll be much too excited! But I wish I could be a fly on the wall when he tackles her tomorrow.’
‘He’ll win—you can bet on that,’ Richard said.
Monsignor Subercaseaux did win, although he was playing on a bad wicket and the Countess on a good one. When he walked into the apartment at half-past one he saw at once that she was all set to give him a rough passage; but the Monsignor was not at all inclined to submit to rough passages, and did not on this occasion.
‘Well, Monsignor, I hope now you will have the goodness to explain to me what goes on about Hetta?’ she began. ‘That quite insufferable Colonel Marques said you would.’
‘You dislike him?’ the priest said, raising his bushy eyebrows. ‘I find him so intelligent, and invariably courteous.’ He glanced towards the tray of drinks under the window; after being driven at nerve-wrecking speed by Atherley for five and a half hours he felt like a glass of sherry. The Countess saw his glance, and interpreted it; already a little cowed, she moved towards the tray.
‘A glass of Tio Pepe, Monsignor?’
‘Thank you, my daughter.’ The last words put her back in her place as his spiritual child. He sipped, gently, and sniffed appreciatively at a bowl of roses.
‘Well?’ the Countess asked sharply. ‘Why did she rush off like that? And was it with Townsend Waller or with Atherley? I know she went with a man—right from the door here! She has no sense.’
‘Do you remember a conversation we had about her, just after she arrived?’ the Monsignor asked tranquilly. ‘You complained then of her independence, and I made certain recommendations as to your own course of behaviour. I am beginning to wonder if you have carried them out.’
‘Now look here, Monsignor, you’re trying to put mein the dock, and I don’t like it,’ the angry woman said. ‘Are you really suggesting that this performance of hers is my fault?’
‘I am not sure. Your treatment of her might have been a contributing factor, let us say.’
‘No, let’s not say that, or anything like it! I’ve been doing everything in the world for that child, gauche and difficult as she is, since she came.’ In her anger the Countess’s voice took on the rasping accents of the Middle West, and she reverted to her native idiom. ‘Quit stalling, Monsignor, and tell me where my daughter is?’
‘She is in my care,’ he said, in tones of studied moderation. ‘She is well, and she will return to you presently; but I am not going to tell you her address, I am not going to send her back till I think fit, and I am, above all, not going to enter into explanations as to why she left, or with whom, at this stage. Later I may do so; but the present is not the moment.’
The calm authority in his voice checked Dorothy Páloczy momentarily; then her resentment flamed up afresh.
‘In fact you’re taking my own child out of my hands? Is that it?’
‘No. Your child left your hands of her own free will and without my knowledge; you may ask yourself why. But now, I repeat, she is in my care.’
‘It’s—it’s absolutely outrageous!’ the Countess said fuming, walking up and down the pretty flower-filled room. It was, of course, and no one knew it better than Mgr Subercaseaux. But security demanded that the wretched woman should be kept in the dark—to say nothing of their obligations to the Duke, to Father Antal, and to Hetta herself. The Monsignor had no qualms at all about the line he was taking. He drank some more sherry, and sat relaxed in his chair, waiting for the storm to blow itself out.
‘Well, when is Hetta coming back?’
‘Oh, soon after the wedding, I think. You do not want her to come before that, do you? Will you not be very much involved in your own preparations, till then?’ There was a hint of irony in his tone, and Dorothée, who was not altogether a fool, realised that he was thinking—quite rightly—of all she would be having done to her clothes, her feet, her hands, her hair, her face. She gave an angry laugh. ‘Oh very well—you win! But when what you call “the moment” for explanations comes I shall want a full one, remember!’
‘I shall not forget.’ He pulled out a thin gold watch in a Cartier case from somewhere in his soutane, and glanced at it. ‘My dear Countess, I have to leave at three. Will you do me the honour of lunching with me downstairs?’
‘No, I won’t!’ the Countess said flatly. ‘We’re lunching here, in the apartment, where the chef will send us something fit to eat.’
‘You are very kind. Do you wish me to ring?’
Dorothy Páloczy had been slower than most American women married to Europeans about learning to let things be done for her; after twenty-five years she was still liable to do them herself, especially when her nerves were out of order. She moved now to the telephone and ordered luncheon to be served immediately; then she poured out another glass of sherry for her guest. Subercaseaux was relieved by this promptitude. He had undertaken to walk up and meet Atherley outside the Casino sharp at three, but he was exceedingly hungry, and did not at all want to cut his meal short.
Atherley lunched more briefly, and rather less well. After dropping the Monsignor he raced in to Lisbon and from the Chancery rang up the Ambassador’s residence to ask how soon he could see him? Sir Henry was in, and luckily had no luncheon-party; he sent a message to say that his First Secretary could come at two-fifteen.
‘Tomlinson, what can you get me to eat, here, in five minutes?’ Richard asked, sitting at his desk, and groaning inwardly at the sight of three laden ‘In’ trays.
‘Well in five minutes, Mr. Atherley, that isn’t so easy; there aren’t any restaurants close round here. Must it really be five minutes?’
‘Yes, Tomlinson, it must.’
The messenger reflected, wrinkling his pale forehead.
‘Well, Mr. Atherley, I hardly like to suggest it, but Mrs. Tomlinson and I often bring along some of her meat pies if we’re liable to be busy; I could bring you up some of those at once, if you would fancy them. They’re fresh-baked; she did them last night.’
‘That’s very good of you, Tomlinson—the meat pies by all means. But what will you do?’
‘Oh, I can go out, Sir. We’re not so rushed as we expected; the Messenger’s plane was held up, so the bag isn’t in. Would you like some wine, Sir? We can get that just round the corner, and it isn’t too bad either—though not what you’re accustomed to, of course.’
No district in Lisbon is without its small wine-shops, however lacking it may be in the matter of restaurants, and the Lapa quarter is no exception; in less than five minutes a tray was placed on Atherley’s desk with a china jug of wine, tomatoes, and a plate of Mrs. Tomlinson’s meat pies. These were the most English food the young man had eaten since he came to Portugal—stodgy, wholesome, and the pastry in fact rather good; he was ravenous, and helped down by the tomatoes and the rough cheap wine they made quite an adequate meal. Richard grinned as he ate, amused by this side-light on the domestic arrangements of the messenger and the telephonist—imagine that little thing going home, after her day’s work in the head-phones, to roll out pastry and bake meat pies!
Punctually at a quarter past two he was waiting in the Embassy drawing-room, where a coffee-tray stood before the fireplace at one end of the long room; in a moment Sir Henry and Lady Loseley came in by the door at the farther end—Lady Loseley, after a pleasant greeting, took a cup of coffee and said that she must go and see the baby, and tactfully went out.
> ‘Well, Richard, does this visit mean that you contemplate returning to us?’ the Ambassador asked, turning a quizzical blue eye on his Head of Chancery.
‘Not if you can spare me for another forty-eight hours, Sir. I came to beg you to do that’—he spoke with an earnestness so unusual that it rather impressed his chief. ‘And to apologise for rushing off the night before last.’
‘Oh! Have you really driven all the way down from Beira Alta just to say that?’
His shrewdness embarrassed Atherley.
‘Well no, Sir. I brought Monsignor Subercaseaux down, and I’m afraid I must take him back. But I can be in the Chancery by nine tomorrow morning if you wish it,’ he said, rather stiffly.
The Ambassador chuckled.
‘Had to bring him down to tranquillise the troublesome Countess, eh? I’m not surprised; she’s been making a terrible commotion. And where is that nice little daughter who cooks? Up at Gralheira? I don’t wonder she ran away.’
‘She’s on her way there,’ Richard said. ‘But she didn’t go off just to escape from her mother; she had a more valid reason than that.’
‘Oh, ah.’ The Ambassador, his eyes always gay and shrewd, picked at his thumb-nail. ‘Am I to be told the more valid reason?’
‘Well really, Sir, at this stage I think you had better know the whole thing,’ the young man said, rather desperately. ‘I tried hard to avoid getting involved in this, but that infernal Secret Service man simply dragged me into it. You see—’ and then he poured out the whole tale of Father Antal.
‘Oh yes, I know about that,’ the Ambassador said airily, still picking at his thumb, his eyes still amused. ‘The Duke of Ericeira really is a galant-uomo to take on the whole boiling like that, though of course all these ecclesiasticos are just his sister’s cup of tea! But why do you say the little lady is on her way to Gralheira? Didn’t she go there on Monday with her cavaliere servente?’
‘No, Sir; she never got there.’ Seeing how much the Ambassador already knew—probably from Campbell, Richard reflected sourly—he decided to tell the rest of the story. ‘At São Pedro do Sul the wretched American went to have a drink while she went to say her prayers, and in his absence she was pinched by some Communist agents and carried off.’
‘Good God! What a frightful thing!’ The Ambassador was startled by this development. ‘But how on earth was she recovered? I should have thought they’d have swept her straight off into Spain.’
‘They would have but for Luzia, that beautiful little girl of the Duke’s—do you know her, Sir?’
‘No, alas.’
‘Well, she prevented it. Everyone in São Pedro do Sul eats out of her hand, of course: she got an eye-witness account of the kidnapping, so Torrens rang up Colonel Marques and had the frontier closed.’
‘What a wonderful story!’ the Ambassador interjected, his blue eyes gleaming. ‘Do go on. Did the remarkable Luzia go after them and catch them?’
‘They went after them all right, and Luzia telephoned and caused some thug to give their car four flats before it crossed the frontier! But they got away in the local taxi.’
‘Ah, she probably rang up Martinez at the shooting-box,’ the Ambassador said reflectively. ‘Lovely country up there; and those wild goats give one some very sporting shots. But how was the little Hungarian recovered in the end? Where is she on her way to Gralheira from?’
‘Here, Sir. When the agents found all exits blocked they hived back to Lisbon; by God’s mercy their car was involved in a street crash yesterday morning, and Countess Hetta was found, and saved.’
‘It sounds as if there was another story there,’ the Ambassador said. ‘However, I won’t delay you by going into that now, since you have got to get out to Estoril and drive the Monsignor back to Gralheira. I know that the Duke likes to dine punctually! Just tell me this—how much did the little Countess give away?’
Richard blinked slightly at this further instance of the all-knowingness of his gay, bland chief.
‘Something, Sir, but we don’t yet know what. I’m sure we shall find all that out this evening; she will tell Miss Probyn—she trusts her.’
‘I think I really must meet this Miss Probyn; she seems to be a sort of lynch-pin in this whole business,’ the Ambassador said. ‘Very well, Richard; take your extra forty-eight hours of leave—let boy meet girl! You know your way out. Goodbye.’
And with this final shattering display of omniscience the Ambassador walked up the long room and went out by the farther door, leaving Atherley blinking after him.
Chapter 16
Mrs. Hathaway and Hetta, with their police escort, reached Gralheira soon after five. Dona Maria Francisca was dispensing prizes for needle-work at a local ‘Instituto Bom Pastor’, i.e. a rescue-home; the Duke, with Townsend Waller and Torrens, was off at the far end of the estate inspecting his forestry plantations, but Julia and Luzia, the latter bursting with curiosity, were out on the steps to greet the new arrivals. Hetta looked pale, Julia thought; she consigned her to Luzia’s care—‘I’ll see you later, Hetti.’ She turned to Mrs. Hathaway. ‘I thought you and I would have tea up in your room. Dona Maria Francisca was so sorry—’ She led her guest upstairs.
‘My dear child, what a wonderful house!’ Mrs. Hathaway said, her eye travelling round as she went. ‘And what a beautiful room!’ she exclaimed a moment later, taking in the carpet, the period furniture, the space and dignity, and the view from the two high windows.
‘Yes. We’ll have tea in here while Marta unpacks,’ Julia said, opening another door into a sitting-room. ‘This is yours too; you have a suite, all but the bath-room!’ While Mrs. Hathaway took off her hat and coat Julia explained about the only two Gralheira bath-rooms. Mrs. Hathaway was as amused as Major Torrens had been by these Victorian dispositions. Lying on a brocaded chaise-longue in the boudoir, drinking tea, she gave a little sigh of pleasure.
‘How nice this is! Really I am wonderfully lucky to be here, however it came about.’
‘Tell me every word,’ Julia said—and so Mrs. Hathaway did; to Julia she even admitted the agonising helplessness and distress of that first hour or two of her efforts to bring Hetta round. ‘But who is the little fat man who sent the car to bring us up here? He wouldn’t let me pay a penny! Is he something to do with the police?’
‘Yes, he’s the head of the Security Police.’
‘Well now, Julia my dear, I should like it so much if you were to tell me what all this is about,’ Mrs. Hathaway said. ‘You call this girl Hetti, but who is she?’
‘She’s Hetta Páloczy; a Hungarian.’ Julia told the whole story, ending up with Father Antal’s escape.
‘You’ll meet him at dinner; he’s the dearest old creature you can imagine.’
‘That is all quite fascinating,’ said Mrs. Hathaway. ‘But, Julia, I feel that you ought to go and see that poor child; she’s on thorns about something, and I know it’s you she wants to talk to.’
‘All right, I will. Just tell me how Edina is.’
‘Splendid, when I last heard. But do go to your Hetta. If I could just have a boracha I think I would lie down for a little. At what time do we dine?’
Julia laughed and kissed her old friend. ‘Boracha! You know the words already! Dinner is usually at eight-thirty; tonight it may be a little later because the Vatican contact has to get back from Lisbon. But Marta shall call you, and I will come and take you downstairs to meet them all. Oh, what fun this is!’
She found Hetta in Nanny’s sitting-room, lingering over an ample English tea and actually laughing at some nonsense of Luzia’s; at the sight of Julia, however, the gaiety left her face, and she sprang up, saying—‘At last there you are! Now, please, I must speak to you.’ She turned to thank Nanny and Luzia for ‘so delicious a tea’, and looked anxiously at Julia.
‘Come along to my room. Countess Hetta is next to me, isn’t she, Nanny?’
‘Yes, Miss Probyn. It’s rather small, really only the dressing-room, but I thought the C
ountess would put up with that for the sake of the communicating door.’
‘Perfect, Nanny,’ said Julia, who had in fact herself asked her hostess to put Hetta there. She glanced round as they passed through to see that Manoela had unpacked properly, and led Hetta on into her own room, which was big, and as much a sitting-room as a bedroom; Julia had organised this for herself during her spell as Luzia’s governess. The two girls sat down on a comfortable English sofa under one of the windows. ‘Now, Hetti, tell me what the trouble is,’ Julia said.
Hetta’s account was rather confused, to begin with.
‘Yulia, first I must tell you that when Richard would not say that he could bring me here when I asked, though he had promised, I was angry. There was a reason for that, but it does not matter,’ Hetta said, on a falling note of the voice.
Aha and oho, Julia thought to herself—enter Mme de Whatnot!
‘Well, never mind; go on,’ she said.
‘So then I asked Townsend instead, and he drove me up to this beautiful little town—but how beautiful all Portugal is! He wanted to drink wine; I did not, so I went into a church. That is always a nice way to spend time, and this is a beautiful church; I grew more happy. Then these horrible men come in, though how they can know I am there I cannot imagine!—they drag me out and put me in a car and drive away; a long way. At last we stop, and I see it is a frontier; I try to get out, and shout; but they pulled me back and held my mouth, and tied something over my eyes so that I should not see. Then the car is turned; I could feel it going backwards and forwards, so I knew that it had not crossed the frontier, and this was something.’
‘Indeed it was! And then?’
‘We drove, not for so long now, and presently stop while one of the men asks questions; then they bring me into a very small inn, first taking the bandage off my eyes. In this place they ate, bread and butter, and an omelette, and drank wine, but to me they gave nothing; I must sit and watch them eat!’ Hetta said indignantly. ‘And I was now very hungry, for Waller and I had taken lunch at one. But I would not ask for food!’