At that instant another door further down the passage opened and the Senhora de Arahna appeared. Turning his head for a moment, the Marquis snapped, ‘Anna, return to your room and lock the door. You can be of no help to me in dealing with this villain.’
Recognising Roger with Lisala behind him, and realising that this was an attempted elopement, Dona Anna wailed, ‘Lisala, what are you about? Dear child, think of your future. To leave your father’s roof with a man to whom you are not married would be a terrible thing to do.’
‘He wished to marry me,’ Lisala retorted angrily. ‘But Papa would not have it. ’Tis he who has driven us to this present pass.’
The Senhora turned on her brother. ‘Joaquim! Our reputation can yet be saved. Mr. Brook is of good birth and some fortune. Far better let them marry than have the name of de Pombal dragged in the mud by such an appalling scandal.’
‘Nay, Anna,’ the Marquis cried furiously, ‘that I will never do. Have you not realised that this Mr. Brook is no other than Colonel de Breuc, whom we met in Isfahan? For years, on his own admission, he has played a double game, either as a spy for Bonaparte or the English. I know not which, but it is unthinkable that I should give my daughter to such an unprincipled rogue.’
It was Lisala who caused the already boiling pot to run over. With equal fury she shouted back, ‘The choice is not yours. He has long been my lover, and I am now carrying his child.’
The Senhora gave a gasp, ‘Dear God! What have we done to deserve this tribulation!’ Putting her hand to her head, she slid to the floor in a dead faint.
De Pombal gave a sudden hiss. Seething with rage, he raised his sword and came at Roger, rasping, ‘I’ll kill you for this! I’ll kill you!’
Roger threw himself on guard, parried the Marquis’ first thrust and cried, ‘My Lord, I implore you to desist. I am accounted one of the finest swordsmen in the Emperor’s army; and I am twenty years your junior. To have to wound you would distress me greatly, but if you continue to lunge at me, I’ll have no alternative.’
Ignoring Roger’s warning, de Pombal continued like a maniac to thrust and cut at him. Such wild strokes could be dangerous; but from years of sword-play, Roger found no great difficulty in warding off the attack. For a good minute their blades clashed, slithered and threw out sparks. Suddenly, Roger felt his right ankle grasped, there came a sharp pull upon it which sent him off balance. He lurched, made a wild effort to recover his stance, failed and crashed to the floor face down.
It was Dona Christina. Bleeding and battered she had crawled out from Lisala’s room unnoticed, while the terrific altercation was taking place. Thrusting an arm past Lisala’s feet, she had grabbed Roger’s ankle and jerked it towards her with all the strength of which she was capable.
Catching sight of her duenna’s outstretched arm, Lisala stooped, seized the old woman by the hair and banged her head viciously against the wall, until she became unconscious.
As Roger hit the floor, his breath was driven from his body, and his sword jerked from his hand. He needed no telling that he was now in peril of his life. Still fighting to get air back into his lungs, he managed to swivel round his head and look up. The Marquis towered over him, his eyes gleaming with intense hatred. He had drawn back his sword, so that it now pointed downward, and was about to thrust it with all his force through Roger’s body, pinning him to the floor.
Only just in time, Roger jerked himself aside. The point of the weapon passed within an inch of his side, pierced the woven matting along the passageway, penetrated an inch deep into the floorboards, and remained quivering there.
Frustrated but undefeated, de Pombal flung himself down on Roger’s prostrate body, grasped him with both hands by the throat and strove to throttle him.
Roger seized his wrists and endeavoured to tear them apart. For what seemed an age, the awful struggle continued. Although getting on for sixty, the Marquis had kept himself in good condition. His tall, slim figure was almost entirely bone and muscle. With the strength of a madman he clung on to Roger’s neck, forcing his nails into the flesh until blood began to seep from the wounds.
Squirming, kicking and striking at his attacker’s face, Roger, half strangled, fought desperately to wrench himself free. Suddenly the Marquis gave a long, agonised groan. His grip relaxed and he collapsed inert on Roger’s prostrate body.
It was the best part of a minute before Roger got his breath back sufficiently to pull de Pombal’s now limp fingers away from his throat and push his unresisting form aside. He could only suppose that this unexpected ending of the conflict was due to his adversary’s having had either a heart attack or a haemorrhage of the brain. Still panting, he sat up, then wriggled round on to his knees. As he did so, his glance fell on the Marquis’s back. The light was dim, yet sufficient for him to see that a narrow object about five inches long was sticking up from it. Next moment, petrified with horror, he realised what it was.
The roads being dangerous, it was not unusual for ladies in southern Europe, when going on a journey, to wear a stiletto under their skirts, strapped to their leg. Lisala evidently followed this custom. She must have whipped out the weapon and driven the long, thin blade up to the hilt through her father’s back straight down into his heart.
Staggering to his feet, Roger stared at her. With her eyes half closed, her lips drawn back, she returned his stare, and whispered in a hoarse voice, ‘I … I had to do it.’ Then, with a sudden change of manner, she burst out defiantly, ‘He would have forced me to take the veil. I’d kill a dozen men rather than live buried alive as a nun.’
Roger swallowed hard, picked up his sword and muttered, ‘What’s done is done. Come! We are not yet out of the wood.’ Lisala’s aunt still lay where she had fallen, in the doorway of her room. She had not come out of her faint, but showed signs of doing so. Stepping over her legs, he led the way downstairs.
Normally he would not have been afraid of the slaves, as for one of them to give a white man even a surly look could lead to a terrible thrashing, and to lay a hand on one meant certain death. But Baob was of a different kidney and, having betrayed him, would have good reason to fear retribution if Roger got away. It was an unpleasant possibility that, on the excuse that Roger was carrying off the Marquis’ daughter against her will, Baob might induce the others to attack him.
There were, too, the Portuguese servants de Pombal had brought with him: a valet, a cook and the Senhora de Arahna’s personal maid. Their quarters were in a separate wing of the house, on the far side of the staircase. As Roger came down the hall, he found them crouching there together, apprehensively. The valet, Miguel, was holding a pistol; but his hand was trembling.
Roger now displayed the resource which had so often saved him when in a tight corner. In a harsh voice, he cried:
‘Get you upstairs. Tragedy has stricken this house. I came here late tonight to transact secret business with your master. Above us we heard a commotion. Going up, we found that Baob had put a ladder up to the Senhorta’s window. He was in her room, and about to assault her. We fell upon him, but he fought savagely. As M. le Marquis bent above his fainting daughter, Baob seized on the dagger she keeps at her bedside, and stabbed him in the back. I then succeeded in driving Baob from the room, out of the window and down the ladder. It may be that to save himself he is now persuading the other slaves to mutiny. Go up to your master and do what you can for him. My first duty is to convey the Senhorita to a place of safety.’
His story was thin. Dona Christina and Dona Anna had both seen him, sword in hand, quarrelling violently with de Pombal; but neither had actually witnessed the murder of the Marquis. It was Baob’s shouts that had aroused the household; but he might have done so in an attempt to cover up the fact that his own act had triggered off the whole awful business.
In any case, Roger’s rapid explanation of his presence there was readily accepted by the Portuguese servants, and he had implicated Baob in the investigation which was certain to ensue.
> The Marquis alone knew the whole truth about what had taken place, and he was dead. It could be argued that Dona Christina and Dona Anna suddenly awakened, had not grasped the full significance of what was happening, and both had become hysterical. Lisala could be counted on to swear that when attacking her duenna, she had, in the dark, believed that she was fighting off Baob. In Rio, there was one law for the white and one for the black. Whatever view a Court might take of the affair, even the suggestion that the big Negro had attempted to assault his master’s daughter was enough to ensure him a very painful death.
Without another glance at the trembling servants, Roger walked to the front door, pushed back the bolts, turned the key in the lock and swung over the thick, swivel bar. Opening the door, he peered out. The moon had risen, and its light enabled him to see for some distance. There was no sign of movement. Turning, he beckoned to Lisala. With a calm and resolution that filled him with admiration, she followed him out.
Frowning, he murmured, ‘Having told these people that I drove Baob out of your window, what they will make of my saying that I am taking you for your safety from the house, God alone knows. But, at least, for the moment I have muddied the waters. When the story of this awful night’s work becomes common property, no-one will know what to believe. Now we have to get hold of the horses and, as Baob was to have had them ready for me, that may be far from easy.’
Together they walked very quietly round to the back of the house. Screened by a clump of bamboos, they could see both its windows and the yard. The windows were now lit, and the sound of wailing came from them. In the yard the Negro slaves were squatting, talking in low voices and, now and then, looking up to the lighted windows. Baob was not among them.
Taking Lisala by the hand, Roger drew her away and round to the back of the barn. To his relief, the two horses were still tethered there. Roger sheathed his sword and extended the palm of his hand. Lisala put her left foot in it and vaulted into the saddle of the nearer horse. He freed the animal’s reins and gave them to her. Standing alongside the other horse, he was about to put his foot in the stirrup when there came a sudden rustle in the nearby undergrowth.
Baob leapt from it, holding on high a murderous machete, with a razor-sharp blade of which the slaves on the plantations hacked through the thick stalks of the sugar-canes. Swinging round, Roger bent double, at the same moment whipping out his sword. Agility had always been his best card when fighting duels. Now, with the swiftness of a cat, he leapt aside and, in one clean thrust, drove the sword straight through the big Negro’s stomach.
With an awful groan, Baob collapsed, falling on his back. Roger put his foot hard on the Negro’s groin, then drew out his blade. As he did so, he said:
‘Why you should have betrayed me, I cannot think. Now you have received your just deserts. Owing to your treachery, the master who was good to you has been killed. Had it not been for that, I would have driven my sword through your heart, and you would have had a quick death. As it is, you will be dead by morning, but will first writhe in agony for several hours. May your own strange gods have mercy on your black soul.’
Bending down over the prostrate, gasping giant Roger rifled through his garments until he found the twenty-five guineas he had given him. Putting the coins in his pocket, he mounted his horse and said to Lisala:
‘It is as well for us that he was lying in wait here to kill me. By killing him I have eliminated another witness to this night’s events. When a Court is held, it will be more mystified than ever as to how your father met his death.’
As they rode side by side down towards the harbour, Roger badgered his wits for a plausible account of what had occurred, to give Captain Jackson.
No-one, other than Lisala, had actually seen her father and Baob killed. Only the two Senhoras could testify that Roger had been in Lisala’s room and that she had declared herself to be eloping with him because her father had refused to consent to their marriage. As against that, the Portuguese servants believed that Roger had come to the house to transact some secret business with their master, and that it was Baob who had broken into Lisala’s room.
After furious thinking, Roger reconstructed a version of what might have taken place. He and de Pombal had been downstairs discussing business. They had heard sounds above and had gone up. Baob, alarmed by the sound of their approach, had slipped out of Lisala’s room, and crept to the head of the stairs. Dona Christina had emerged from her room, failed to notice Baob behind her, and gone into Lisala’s. Rendered hysterical by Baob’s attempted assault, Lisala, in the semi-darkness, had believed the duenna to be the Negro renewing his assault, and so attacked her. Roger and the Marquis, the latter leading, had then come up the stairs. Baob had sprung out from the dark corner of the landing and, evidently gone berserk, stabbed de Pombal in the back. Roger, whipping out his sword had then driven it through Baob’s stomach. In spite of the wound, Baob’s great strength had enabled him to reach the window and get away down his ladder. Roger had not realised that the wound he had inflicted was mortal, so feared that Baob, knowing his life to be already forfeit, might induce the other slaves to mutiny. He could not have defended all three ladies from an attack by the slaves, so had decided that his first duty was to get Lisala away to safety.
Parts of this story, contradicted by the two Senhoras, might be suspect; but in the main it would be difficult to refute. Roger gave it to Lisala and made her repeat it so that she should have clearly in her mind what to say if she was questioned. During their ride she had remained silent; owing, Roger supposed, to shock and remorse at her awful deed. But now she replied to him quite calmly, so he told her that, when they went aboard the ship, she must show great distress. A quarter of an hour later they reached the shore.
Mobo, squatting on his haunches, was dozing near the fountain. Roger gave him a small packet he had prepared, containing money enough to keep him for a couple of months, then told him to take the horses back to the inn.
As soon as the slave had disappeared, Roger walked with Lisala along the shore in the direction of the Arsenal. Tied up there were scores of boats of varying sizes. Selecting a dinghy, Roger helped Lisala down into it, cast off and rowed out to the Phantom. On the way, she dipped her handkerchief into the sea, so that the wet rag would give the impression that she had been crying into it.
The terrible affray that had followed Baob’s betrayal had occupied no more than a few minutes and, although it seemed difficult to believe that so much had happened in a single hour, it was only a little after one o’clock. The officer of the watch had been warned to expect them at about that time, and took them aft to Captain Jackson’s state-room.
The Captain received them most politely, complimenting Roger on his lady’s exceptional beauty. Roger wondered grimly what the gallant sailor would have said had he been aware that the sylph-like young creature who was dabbing her wonderful eyes as she curtsied to him had, some fifty-five minutes earlier, murdered her father. He could only thank his gods that he had been the sole witness to that awful crime.
Anticipating that his guests might be hungry after their midnight elopement, the Captain had had a cold collation prepared for them. As they were about to sit down to it, Lisala groaned and, lurching against Roger’s shoulder, pretended to faint. Jackson exclaimed:
‘poor lady! It is most understandable that, having arbitrarily left her parent, she should be overcome with emotion.’
‘She has far greater cause than that, Sir, to have become distraught, as I must tell you,’ Roger replied quickly. ‘But before I speak of it, could we not get her to a cabin?’
‘Indeed, yes. One has been made ready for her.’ Together, they supported Lisala out of the state-room along to a single-berth cabin. There, knowing there would be no women on board to assist her, she appeared to recover sufficiently to assure them that she could look after herself.
Only too well Roger realised that he now had to take one of the stiffest fences he had ever encountered. Unless he c
ould persuade Jackson that he and Lisala were entirely innocent, the Captain would put them ashore, and they would have lost their chance of getting back to Europe.
When they returned to the state-room, he gave Jackson an edited version of the night’s events, upon which the Captain became extremely worried.
Roger asserted firmly that, although his real reason for having been in the house had been to carry off Lisala, no-one could prove that he had not gone there on business at the invitation of the Marquis; that his arrival and Baob’s attempted assault on Lisala had been only a most unfortunate coincidence, and that no charge could be brought against him other than having driven his sword through, and probably killed, a slave who had, a few minutes earlier, slain his own master.
‘ ’Tis a terrible business,’ Jackson said glumly. ‘A full inquiry is certain to be held and you will be called on to give evidence.’
‘That I will do,’ Roger agreed, ‘but only here in this ship to a magistrate sent aboard by the Portuguese authorities. Should I go ashore to attend a Court, ‘tis certain they’ll detain me for further questioning. That would mean my losing this chance to return to England, and that I will not do. As a British subject against whom no serious charge can be brought, I claim the right of sanctuary in this ship.’
Jackson scowled at him. ‘You can be charged with having abducted the Senhorita. I want no trouble with the Portuguese. If they insist on your appearing before a Court, I must hand you over.’
Roger banged the table with his fist. ‘Sir! You will do so at your peril. I have a second identity. I am also Colonel le Chevalier de Breuc, aide-de-camp to the Emperor Napoleon. For many years Mr. Pitt accounted me his most valuable secret agent. Mr. Canning and others in the present Ministry are old friends of mine. God forbid that I should have to take such a step against one of my father’s former officers; but do you abandon me to the Portuguese, I vow I’ll have you broken.’
Evil in a Mask Page 37