The Jade Dragon

by Nancy Buckingham

  I put out my hand to touch it and felt the chill of hard stone beneath my fingertips. “It looks so ... so savage,” I said and wondered why I felt impelled to speak in a whisper. “Yet in a strange way it possesses a kind of beauty, too. One can understand the Chinese reverencing jade. There’s something almost uncanny about this thing. It would not be difficult to convince oneself that there were magical powers locked away beneath that smooth, cold surface. Powers beyond the grasp of human understanding.”

  Vicencia’s hand was trembling as she held the candelabra, so that three demon figures danced on the wall of the alcove, each candle casting its own shadow of the dragon. “Elinor, you have seen what you came to see, so let us go now.”

  Her uneasiness was somehow reaching through to me, infecting me. But I refused to allow myself to be driven away by irrational fears. I forced a steadiness upon my voice. “I really don’t see how the Milaveiras can claim that the Jade Dragon has brought them much in the way of good fortune, Vicencia. From what you have told me of the family history, it could hardly be described as happy. Just think of the constant debts and all those arranged marriages—your husband’s father dying in poverty, the bitterness over my mother. And then there was the tragic way in which Stafford lost his baby son, and the mystery surrounding Luzia’s death—”

  “Come away, Elinor—please.”

  “Oh, very well then.”

  Turning, I saw that the doors through which we had entered were open, spilling light into the salon. A tall, motionless figure stood outlined in the doorway. “Stafford.” exclaimed Vicencia, as though she had been caught in something reprehensible.

  His voice sounded hollow in the lofty chamber. “I sincerely wish, Elinor, that the others could see things as you do. The Jade Dragon, far from being a blessing, is really a curse upon the Milaveiras, not because of any supernatural power it possesses, but because a stubborn belief in the legend enables them to close their eyes to harsh realities. They believe that however bad things might seem, they have only to sit back and wait and the Jade Dragon, by some miracle, will make everything come right. It’s nothing more than a form of Sebastianism.”

  “Sebastianism?” I queried. “What is that?”

  While he was talking, Stafford had come to join us. Now he stood where the candlelight fell slantwise across his face, leaving his eyes in shadow. “Sebastianism,” he said, “is a vision born of feebleness and despair, Elinor. A delusion that one day, without any effort being made, the Kingdom of Portugal will rise again to a position of dominance in the world. Three centuries ago the boy-king Sebastian led his armies to humiliating defeat in Morocco, but this fact is conveniently forgotten. Dom Sebastian is thought of as a kind of messiah. One day, the belief goes, he will miraculously return, and then Portugal will be restored to all its former power and glory.” Without moving his gaze from my face. Stafford added, “Is that not a fair summing-up, Vicencia?”

  “I ... I think you exaggerate, Stafford. Sebastianism is long since dead—if it ever existed at all.”

  He shook his head. “No, my dear, it is far from dead. It lives on in the secret hearts of thousands of Portuguese. It lives on here at Castanheiros in the form of that jade monstrosity. The Chinese emperor who presented the wretched thing to Henriques da Milaveira could not have forseen the harm it would do. Personally, I wish to heaven the Jade Dragon could vanish into thin air and never reappear. Then, and only then, we might get some sensible thinking about what is to become of this family to which we are all in our different ways connected—God help us.”

  As he finished speaking, his final words seemed to echo and re-echo, filling the salon with a sense of doom. Against my will, I felt nervous, and, like Vicencia, I wanted to hurry away and shut the door upon that menacing jade statuette, to leave it to the darkness. But I found I could not move. I felt rooted to the spot, and I stood gazing helplessly at Stafford.

  The tense moment of silence was shattered by a noise of splintered glass, followed by a cry of consternation. It seemed to come from the adjoining room—the library. Then we heard rapid footsteps hurrying away.

  Stafford snatched the candelabra from Vicencia’s hand and went swiftly to the communicating doors, Vicencia and I following. One of the doors, I noticed, was slightly ajar. Stafford flung them both open wide and held the candles aloft while we all stared round. I took a step forward, and something crunched beneath my foot. It was a fragment from an engraved glass bowl that had been dislodged from its place on a chiffonier.

  The French doors stood wide open, and clearly the eavesdropper must have departed that way. Instinctively, we all moved outside to the terrace, though whoever had passed through before us would surely by now have vanished, either melting into the darkness of the gardens or returning to the house by another entrance.

  Outside, the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, and no glimmer of starlight showed. I caught the sweet scent of summer jasmine, and high in a tree somewhere a nightingale was singing, its liquid phrases floating upon the air. A sudden freshening of the night breeze rustled the leaves of the oleander bushes and guttered the candles that Stafford held. Then, as if some unseen hand had descended, all three flames were snuffed out, leaving us standing in total darkness.

  * * * *

  Through a gap in the curtains I could see the sun’s rays gilding the tips of the pine trees that crested the hill. A glance at the clock told me it was still only half-past six, yet from the corridor outside came a sound of people hurrying to and fro. Doors opened and closed, and I could hear voices raised in excitement.

  I sat up in bed, puzzled, then rang for Maria. When the young maid entered the room a few moments later, her usual cheerful smile was missing. She looked flurried and anxious, and I mustered my limited Portuguese to inquire what was the matter. “O que e que se passa, Maria?”

  She burst into a torrent of excited words, so fast that I couldn’t catch the thread of what she was saying. But I picked out a phrase and pounced upon it. “O Dragao de Jade, Maria? What of it? Tell me what has happened.”

  The Jade Dragon was missing, she stammered fearfully. One of the housemaids, sent early to dust and polish in the Chinese salon, had suddenly caught sight of the empty pedestal. She rushed screaming from the room to announce the dreadful fact, and the entire household was now in turmoil.

  Maria’s fear, bordering on a state of panic, immediately communicated itself to me, and I felt my heart pounding against my ribs. I struggled to make myself intelligible. Were there no clues, no theories, I asked her. Was it believed to have been stolen or removed as some practical joke? Or what?

  But Maria shook her head helplessly, and I saw two huge tears form in her eyes and trickle slowly down her plump cheeks.

  “Oh, senhora, I am so afraid,” she sobbed. “What is to become of us all at Castanheiros, now that the Jade Dragon is gone?”

  Chapter 7

  Any thought of admitting defeat and returning to England was wiped from my mind now. Since the disappearance of the Jade Dragon a pall of suspicion had lain over the Quinta dos Castanheiros, and we were all in its shadow. I as much as anyone—perhaps even more so than the others, for was I not the newcomer whose true motive for coming here was still regarded as obscure?

  During the first couple of days the mystery was discussed interminably. To my amazement, though, neither Stafford nor Vicencia mentioned anything about our visit to the Chinese salon the previous night and the unknown eavesdropper who had vanished so swiftly into the darkness. More than once I was on the point of speaking out, but always at the last moment I held back. Those vehement words of Stafford’s kept returning to me, haunting me. Personally, he had declared, he wished to heaven that the Jade Dragon could vanish into thin air and never appear again.

  So might not the deed be laid at Stafford’s door? Was he hoping, perhaps, that by removing the Jade Dragon he would compel the family to think along lines of reason and logic, rather than be ruled by superstition?

  In which
case, Stafford was wrong, dreadfully wrong. If the Jade Dragon, as my grandmother insisted on believing, had so far exerted a benign influence upon the household, its influence now—by its very absence—was a wholly destructive one. Mistrust was in the air, and everybody, right down to the youngest kitchenmaid and newest garden boy, was tainted by it. The servants crept about their duties with downcast eyes, expecting imminent disaster to strike. As for the family, it seemed as if a thundercloud hung above our heads, as if a careless word from any one of us might trigger off the flash of lightning that would destroy us all.

  In the end, I plucked up courage to tackle Vicencia. “Why is it that both you and Stafford have kept silent about our visit to the Chinese salon the evening before the Jade Dragon disappeared?” I asked her. “It has troubled me greatly, and I have wondered if I myself should mention it to the others.”

  She laid a hand upon my arm. “No, Elinor, you must do no such thing.”

  “But why not? It might help bring an end to this poisonous atmosphere.”

  “But to speak out can solve nothing. Don’t you see, Elinor, it would only make matters worse. Perhaps if we wait,” she added hopefully, “the Jade Dragon will turn up again. But if it doesn’t, I expect the whole unfortunate incident will soon be forgotten.”

  “Do you really believe it will ever be forgotten?” I asked somberly.

  She shook her head in a helpless way, having no answer to give me. Looking at her as she fingered the gold band of her wedding ring, a thought came into my mind. Did Vicencia share my uneasiness that Stafford was responsible for the removal of the Jade Dragon? If so, she would be desperately anxious not to draw suspicion toward him. Vicencia had such a high regard for her brother-in-law. He mattered to her far more than any other member of the family. More even than myself, despite the close relationship that had sprung up between us.

  “I beg you to say nothing,” she implored me. “It can serve no useful purpose. We cannot hope to solve the mystery, so much better to leave well enough alone.”

  “Don’t forget there is someone else involved, Vicencia— the unknown person in the library who must have overheard everything we said. Why has he or she never come forward, I wonder. Perhaps that person was the thief.” Her gentle brown eyes had taken on a scared, piteous look, and suddenly it was beyond me to pursue the matter any further. “Very well, then. I won’t mention our visit to the Chinese salon—at least, not for the time being.”

  “Oh, thank you, Elinor.” she said gratefully. “I am sure it is the right thing.”

  She left me at once with some trivial excuse about household duties. Watching her hasty escape, I was struck by a new and startling thought. In begging for my silence, was it Stafford whom Vicencia was protecting, or herself? Could it be that, having heard his wish so passionately expressed that the Jade Dragon should disappear, Vicencia had determined to make the wish come true? It was a grave risk for her to take, for discovery would surely jeopardize her position at the quinta. But perhaps it was a measure of the devotion she felt for Stafford, a devotion that was understandable when one remembered the contempt with which she was treated by others in the family.

  After my conversation with Vicencia, she seemed more busily occupied than ever with her domestic duties. Though I begged to be allowed to help in some way, she brushed aside my offers almost brusquely. Perhaps Vicencia was afraid to relinquish any of the tasks that might be her only passport to a home at Castanheiros.

  I became restless doing nothing, so I decided to try my hand at some sketching. A walk into Cintra one morning provided me with pencils and a pad of cartridge paper. On my return I changed into a cool muslin dress and went hatless into the gardens, taking a parasol to shield me from the sun’s glare.

  With no fixed plan in mind, I strolled wherever my footsteps led me—along a flagged terrace with clumps of yellow iris edging a pool, down a stone stairway where alpine strawberries ripened on a sunbaked wall and honeysuckle tangled through a trellis, past an arbor of red and white roses, and by way of a curving hydrangea walk to a wood of sweet-chestnut trees. These, I realized, must be the trees which had given the quinta its name. They were ancient now, their giant trunks twisted in tortured spirals, their massive branches meeting above me, spilling a cloying sweetness from their creamy catkins.

  Then, as I came to an open glade of neatly clipped lawns, I was surprised to find a pavillion built in the style of a Chinese pagoda. I hesitated, half tempted to sketch it. My inclination, though, had always been for natural subjects, and as I wandered further down the glade, my fancy was taken by a tree that flaunted striking, flame red flowers. A rustic seat nearby provided a suitable perch, and soon I was busy with my pencil.

  I became so engrossed that when next I glanced up, I saw from the position of the sun that some considerable time must have elapsed. Afraid that I might be late for luncheon, I quickly gathered up my things and began to walk back the way I had come. While I was crossing the area of mown grass in front of the Chinese pagoda, I heard a murmur of voices—a couple of the gardeners, I presumed, taking a few minutes’ surreptitious rest. I glanced through the fretted entrance as I went past—and halted in surprise. One of the men was Stafford Darville, and with him was the young coachman Pedro, the brother of my maid Maria.

  Neither seemed to have noticed me, and I wondered whether to disclose my presence. But there was a curious tenseness in the manner of each of them that decided me against it. I had a presentiment that Stafford would not wish to be observed talking to Pedro like this. If they had been speaking in English, I was close enough to have caught the drift of what was being said, but in Portuguese I could not follow their muttered conversation. Except that just one word leapt out at me.

  Cascais....

  Cascais, I reflected, was surely the name of the fishing village that Stafford’s wife had visited just before her mysterious death by drowning. And it was Pedro, I knew, who had driven her there in the carriage that day. Walking on, I recalled how a few evenings ago Stafford had talked of his determination to find out more about the circumstances of Luzia’s death. Could that be why he was questioning Pedro now?

  Lost in speculation, I suddenly became aware of hurrying footsteps behind me. Stafford caught up with me beside a buddleia bush, where a cloud of peacock butterflies flitted among the sprays of purple blossom. He glanced at the sketchpad under my arm. “Is that a hobby of yours, Elinor? May I see what you have drawn?”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t very good. I don’t know if you’ll be able to recognize the tree and tell me its name.”

  He took the pad from me and studied my drawing, his dark head slightly tilted. Then he looked at me with a quick smile. “Unmistakably, it’s a romazeira, a pomegranate tree. You are far too modest, Elinor. A very pleasing composition and a nice firmness of line.”

  “Thank you.”

  We strolled on together past the rose arbor, and Stafford said idly, “I hear that you walked into Cintra earlier on.”

  “Yes, to buy pencils and paper. Vicencia said there was nothing suitable she could let me have.”

  “Did you manage to converse with the shopkeeper satisfactorily? I daresay you are able to understand a good deal of Portuguese by now?”

  I was about to reply that I was picking up the language faster than I had dared to hope, but I checked myself. I suspected there was some definite reason for Stafford’s question, apart from casual interest. Had he in fact seen me by the pagoda, and was he trying to gauge whether I could have understood any of his mysterious conversation with Pedro? I said warily, “I managed fairly well—if people are kind enough to speak slowly and distinctly.”

  “Pode honrar-me com cinco minutos de conversa?” Stafford said quickly in a somewhat muffled voice.

  I knew that he was asking if I would honor him with five minutes’ conversation in Portuguese. But I pretended not to understand, because I had an unpleasant feeling that he was trying to trap me.

  “I’m sorry, what was th
at you said, Stafford?”

  He smiled at me again. “Never mind, it was nothing of any importance. Look, there’s Vicencia. I expect she is coming to find us to say that it’s time for luncheon.”

  * * * *

  A curious relationship had developed between my grandmother and myself—a kind of intimacy without any real sense of closeness. I made a point of going to see her each day, even if she would only permit me to stay for a few minutes.

  One afternoon I found her sitting by the open window, stitching a canvas that was mounted on an embroidery frame. “What is it you are doing, Grandmama?” I asked, going forward to look.

  “This is a chair seat, and I am repairing it, Elinor. It belongs to a set of chairs that are over two hundred years old, but alas, the fabric has become very worn. I am determined to restore them all before I die.”

  “What very beautiful work,” I said admiringly. The design was an intricate one, depicting creatures in a forest. I pointed. “Isn’t that a dragon peering out from behind the tree there?”

  Dona Amalia was obviously pleased with my interest.

  “All the chairs have different designs, but the dragon features in every one of them,” she told me. “They were commissioned by Henriques da Milaveira’s great-grandson, Jorge, and he had them made in England.”

  I hesitated. “Perhaps I could help you with the work, Grandmama. I have always enjoyed doing embroidery.”

  “If you think this is simple, Elinor, you are very mistaken.”

  I silently thanked heaven that I was no newcomer to needlepoint. The drawing room at Harley Street held several examples of my talent. “I promise to be very careful and not to spoil anything,” I assured her. “Please let me try.”

  “Very well, if you wish. But mind you match the colors and the stitches correctly. Ring for Josepha, and she will fetch one of the other canvases They are already mounted and trammed in readiness.”