“That letter was the next step,” I pressed on hurriedly, determined to omit nothing, however much pain it caused me. “There had been a disagreement between us at Miramar, and Stafford wrote to apologize. He asked me to meet him again at the quinta, suggesting a precise time, and even suggesting that I should get Pedro to drive me.” I caught my breath. “And when Pedro and I arrived there, Stafford was waiting concealed in the bushes, having sent the architect away on the pretext of looking at the water reservoir. Stafford had chosen a point on the driveway where he knew disaster would certainly follow if the horses took fright. It must have been an unpleasant shock for him to find that by some miracle I had survived.” Vicencia, still gripping the mantel, had turned away and was gazing down at the basket of flowers that filled the hearth. When she did not speak, I added, ‘There was something else, something Pedro said.”
“Oh?”
“It was just before we reached Miramar. I had been questioning him about the day he drove Luzia to Cascais, and he said ... he said that perhaps he had not been the last person from Castanheiros to see Senhora Dona Luzia alive.” I was puzzled by Vicencia’s curious lack of reaction to what I way saying. It seemed that she neither believed nor disbelieved me. “Even after the accident,” I continued, “I still clung to the hope that I had somehow misinterpreted the evidence that pointed so strongly to Stafford. But this afternoon, when I went to see Maria, she told me something Pedro had said to her.”
“And what was that?” Vicencia asked quietly.
“Apparently, Pedro told Maria that Senhor Darville had been talking to him and that as long as he did not tell what he knew, he would become a rich man.”
Vicencia lifted her shoulders. ‘The empty boasts of a country lad, nothing more.”
“But Pedro did have money, Vicencia, far more than he could have earned honestly as a coachman. He bought Maria an expensive silver pendant as a birthday gift, the very same kind that Julio wanted to buy us at the fair. And he promised to give her lots more nice things ---”
‘The imbecile.” Vicencia cried, spinning around to face me. “I warned him not to make a display of the money.”
I was stunned, not grasping the implication of her words at first. “You ... you knew about the money, Vicencia? But how—”
As I watched, she seemed to clench down her anger by sheer strength of will. Her smile returned, serene and untroubled. “What does it matter, after all?” she shrugged. “I couldn’t have concealed the truth much longer. The reason I knew about the money, you poor little simpleton, was because I was the one who gave it to Pedro. And since you know so much, you may as well know the rest. Pedro was able to blackmail me, you see, because he happened to have seen me in Cascais the day Luzia died. But until recently the significance of that fact never struck the stupid dolt. Not until Stafford started to question him in an effort to establish exactly what did happen that day.”
“So that explains them talking in the pagoda,” I breathed.
“I suppose so. However, Pedro was cunning enough not to reveal anything to Stafford. Then, when Stafford had left for Lisbon, Pedro came to me, acting the innocent. He said that Senhor Darville had begged him to remember every single thing he could about taking Senhora Dona Luzia to Cascais, but that somehow he had quite forgotten to mention seeing me there. Did I think he should tell the senhor? I knew at once what Pedro was up to, but I had no alternative—I offered him money to keep quiet. I dared not risk Stafford finding out.”
I was trembling so violently that even my voice was made jerky. “What ... what were you doing in Cascais that day? How were you involved in Luzia’s death?”
“Haven’t you guessed that yet? I killed her. It was childishly simple to arrange. I merely sent her a note—anonymous, of course—telling her that if she wanted to hear something of particular interest about her husband, she was to go secretly to Cascais and meet the writer by the Boca do Inferno. She was to dismiss the coachman in the village and walk up the cliff road alone. When Luzia got there, she was astonished to find that I was the one who had sent her the note, but I told her the need for secrecy would become clear when I explained. While we talked, I was able to maneuver her into a suitable position, then I pushed her into the sea. The currents there are treacherous—it is not named the Inferno for nothing.” Vicencia gave a sudden grimace that was pure evil. “I had taken the precaution of wearing a veil, so that only people who knew me very well could possibly have recognized me. It was sheer bad luck that Pedro had not returned home as ordered, but had been hanging around drinking at a tavern in Cascais, and he saw me go hurrying by.”
Vicencia sighed, then continued in that same level tone that gave a calm normality to the horrifying things she was telling me. “It was necessary for Luzia to die. She stood between Stafford and me. When they came to live here after the fire and Luzia was in such a demented state, Stafford and I were drawn very close looking after her. It was so obvious that he and I were the strong ones, while Luzia was just a weak fool who could give him nothing. Nothing. And I knew that he didn’t love her, only pitied her. But then, Luzia suddenly announced to me that she had decided to make a real effort to save their marriage. She babbled about realizing how wrong she had been before, and how she wanted to make things up to Stafford. She talked about finding another house in Lisbon and moving back there, and she even confided that she might have another child. It was intolerable, you understand, quite intolerable. I had to put an end to it—for Stafford’s sake as well as for my own.”
I had kept silent all this time, my throat seeming locked tight. But suddenly my voice broke free. “Then Stafford was not involved in Luzia’s death? It was you, and you alone?”
Vicencia laughed lightly. “I love Stafford with all my heart, Elinor, but I fear he would flinch from strong action of that kind, however necessary it was.”
“So what happened at Miramar wasn’t Stafford’s doing either?” I cried, with a sense of deliverance. “It must have been purely an accident after all.”
“No, Elinor, it was not an accident. You see, when you received Stafford’s letter and were so obviously enraptured, I made a point of reading what he had written. It was quite easy, because you carelessly left your purse unattended in your room. I realized you were becoming a real threat to me, a greater danger even than Luzia had been. I couldn’t allow that, and it suddenly came to me that your visit to Miramar was the perfect opportunity to dispose of both you and Pedro together, because Pedro’s demands were getting more and more outrageous, and I knew that sooner or later he would have to be silenced. So I seized my chance.”
“But how could you possibly have gotten to Miramar before us, when I heard you playing the flute here in the gardens just as Pedro and I were setting out?”
Vicencia’s eyes sparked in triumph at her cleverness. “You only thought you heard me playing the flute. Actually, it was Julio. He’s not up to my standard, of course. He has always concentrated on the violin, but he can play a number of instruments moderately well. I knew he was a good enough flautist to deceive people, should anyone doubt that it had been a genuine accident and questions were asked.”
My thoughts flew back to that afternoon. Just as I was getting into the victoria, Julio had emerged from the library as though by sheer chance. He had spoken to me for a few moments, then left me, saying that he was going to join Vicencia down by the grotto.
“So Julio was a party to your horrible plan?” I said, feeling sickened.
“He was,” she agreed, “but unknowingly. After the ‘accident’ Julio realized what had been behind my request for him to play the flute, which I’d presented to him as a little practical joke. He was furious about it, and that is why he left so hurriedly the next morning. When I first sent for Julio to come to Castanheiros, making out that he was asking if he could stay here for a while and that I didn’t like to refuse him—I remember how sweet you were, Elinor, in supporting me in this—my idea was merely to divert your attention from Staffo
rd. I knew that few girls can resist my brother when he sets out to be charming. And I warned Julio that it was essential for my future security—and for his, too, because many’s the time I have helped him out with money—that nothing should stand in the way of my marrying Stafford. But to my amazement, Julio really did fall in love with you, Elinor. I saw no harm in it, though—you would have made him a good enough wife. And I knew that once you were betrothed to Julio, you would no longer be a threat to me.”
“So you’re not all that confident of your hold on Stafford,” I said with bitter loathing.
I saw Vicencia’s eyes flicker, and a new thought leaped into my mind. I was almost afraid to voice it, lest my fragile hope be snatched away from me, but I asked her shakily, “Are you and Stafford really lovers, Vicencia? Have you ever been? Or is it merely what you long for and dream of?”
Her face changed, becoming dark and ugly. “Life is so unfair, so unjust. Why should Luzia have had Stafford? She was never a proper wife to him. I hated her, I hated her. She had Stafford, while I had nothing. Even when my husband was alive I had nothing.”
I looked at her with horror and disgust, but I couldn’t keep down the feeling of joy that bubbled within me. My dreadful suspicions about Stafford were melting into the air.
Vicencia was saying in this new, harsh voice, “I knew that I’d be able to win him. With Luzia out of the way, he’d soon have seen the kind of love I had to offer him. Then you appeared on the scene, Elinor. At first your presence didn’t give me any cause for concern, and I was thankful to have
someone at Castanheiros who was on my side. But soon the signs became obvious. I knew that you had fallen in love with Stafford. And much worse, that he was falling in love with you. I decided to put an end to it, an end to you, Elinor. Twice I tried, and
failed—”
“Twice?”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “You thought it was your grandmother walking in her sleep, didn’t you? Just as she’d done once before. It was not Dona Amalia, though, it was me. How was I to guess that you would be wakeful and out of your bed after taking the sleeping-draft?”
I was wakeful because misery and fear had outweighed the effect of the doctor’s sedative. Restlessness had driven me to the window, to gaze out across the moonlit gardens. Below me on the terrace Stafford had been pacing up and down, restless too. Watching him, wondering about the mental torment that kept him from sleep, I had remained at my window longer than I would otherwise have done. And held there, I had been spared the dreadful fate that would have overtaken me if I had returned to my bed.
“But you will not be so lucky a third time,” Vicencia was saying ominously.
“A third time. You don’t seriously imagine that I’m going to allow you to kill me?”
“You’ll be given no choice in the matter, my dear Elinor.”
I watched her warily, expecting, I suppose, some kind of physical attack. I felt nervous, but I wasn’t afraid of her. Vicencia might be strong, but then, I was no weakling, and I was younger and taller than she.
But when she suddenly moved, it was not to spring at me. Running to the dressing table, she snatched up the lamp that burned there and hurled it with all her strength at the wall between the windows. The porcelain bowl splintered into a hundred fragments, and oil was spattered around. In an instant, the flame licked up from the wick. It seemed to hesitate briefly, then with a sudden rothe long silken drapes were engulfed in a sheet of fire.
I could see at once that it would be impossible to quench such flames by myself. I’d have to fetch help. But as I turned to run from the room, I found to my horror that it was already too late. The door was closing behind Vicencia, and I heard her put the key in the lock and turn it, the very key I had myself asked to be provided to keep me safe. Desperately I wrenched at the handle, but the solid door would not shift.
The bell. As a rule, the servants answered quickly, and they might just reach me in time. But by now the bed curtains had caught fire, barring my path to the bell rope. I realized to my dismay that nearly everything in the room was flammable and would ignite at the merest spark. Soon the paneling of the walls would be ablaze, the chairs and tables, the heavy wardrobe—even the coffered ceiling was constructed of timber.
Coughing and choking from the acrid smoke, I shouted and pounded the door with my two fists. But nobody heard, nobody came. Stricken with panic, my eyes flashed around the room for some tool with which to attack the door. I spotted a brass poker in the grate and ran to snatch it up before a great blast of heat drove me back. With the poker I tried to prize open the lock, but almost at once I realized it was useless. Again I started battering at the door, this time using the weighty knob of the poker. My eyes were streaming and my head was spinning. I was desperately afraid that I’d soon be overcome by the heat and fumes and slip to the floor unconscious. And all hope of escape would be gone....
Then suddenly, unbelievably, I heard Stafford’s voice. “Elinor? Are you in there?”
“Yes,” I cried weakly. “Please open the door, Stafford. Quickly.”
“It’s locked. Turn the key, Elinor.”
“I can’t. It’s not on this side.”
“What?” he exclaimed, unable to comprehend. Then, “Stand out of the way, Elinor. Stand back.”
There was a heavy thud as he flung his full weight against the door, but it withstood his onslaught without yielding. Again Stafford hurled himself, and now there was a tearing, splintering noise. A third time he charged, and with a sudden crack and splitting of timber the door gave way. Stafford stared for a bewildered instant at the roaring inferno of smoke and flame, then gathered me into his arms. He paused only long enough to pull the door shut, and in seconds he had skirted the gallery and was racing down the wide staircase with me, shouting for servants to come and deal with the fire.
It was wonderful to feel the coolness of the night air outside, and I gulped it down into my burning lungs. Clinging to Stafford, I knew with wild relief that there was no need to fight any longer. I let myself relax against him, and as my ravaged senses went spinning into unconsciousness, his words reached through to me as if I were in a dream. “Oh, my darling, my darling Elinor. Thank God you’re safe.”
* * * *
As I began to revive, I was at first aware only of pandemonium all around me, a confusion of shouting voices and a menacing sound like the roaring of a great wind. I heard a thunderous crash that seemed to make the ground beneath me judder and jar. My eyes flew open. The scene before me was from hell itself. Demonic figures ran about in wild commotion, silhouetted by the fierce red glow of the flames that had turned Castanheiros into a raging furnace.
I was lying on a rug of some kind spread on the grass near the cypress drive, well clear of danger, and Stafford was bending over me. All about us were objects that had been rescued from the house, piled higgledy-piggledy—paintings and tapestries and carpets, pieces of furniture, and gold and silver plate.
“Elinor, my darling,” he murmured. “Are you all right?”
I coughed harsh smoke from my lungs and moistened my lips. “Oh, Stafford, how terrible. Is everyone safe?” I pushed myself upright and looked wildly around me. “Grandmama ?”
“Everybody is safely accounted for,” he assured me. “Dona Amalia was brought out by Affonso. I must give him due credit. He acted swiftly and bravely.”
“And Vicencia?” I asked in a thin voice.
“She’s around somewhere, probably organizing things. As you can see, the servants have managed to salvage some of the treasures, but it’s too late now to get anything more out. What happened, Elinor? The fire seems to have started in your room.”
“It ... it was Vicencia. She smashed a lamp, and the oil spilled out and caught afire—”
“Vicencia? But she wouldn’t have gone off and left you. And your door was locked, Elinor. Why was that?”
“Vicencia locked it,” I whispered. “She locked me in and took the key away. Oh, Staf
ford, she has been responsible for so many dreadful things. She murdered your wife—”
Stafford looked incredulous, and I knew what he was thinking—that those moments of terror, trapped in my room with a fire raging, had temporarily unhinged me. I had to convince him that I was sane and clearheaded, that what I said wasn’t just the babbling of a deranged mind.
I took a deep breath to try and steady my voice. “Please listen, Stafford—you must listen. It is true that Vicencia killed Luzia. She admitted it to me herself. And she has tried to murder me, too—this evening was her third attempt. First at Miramar, it was she who threw a firework and caused the horses to bolt. And then that very same night she came to my room to try to kill me, pretending to be my grandmother walking in her sleep. And it was all part of Vicencia’s plan to kill Pedro, as well. You see, he had recognized her in Cascais the day Luzia died, and he was blackmailing her to keep silent about it, because, when you started asking him questions, he realized the value of what he knew. So when it was arranged for Pedro to drive me to Miramar to meet you, Vicencia seized it as a golden opportunity to rid herself of both of us at once.”
I could sense Stafford fighting down his disbelief of the fantastic, incredible story I was telling him. “But what possible motive could Vicencia have had for killing Luzia?” he asked.
“Because she wanted your wife out of her way. She loves you, Stafford. She has loved you for a very long time.”
He shook his head, bewildered. “Vicencia is my sister-in-law, Elinor. We have been very close, but as for love—”
“She loves you obsessively, insanely. She will allow nothing to stand in her way.”
“And is that why she tried to kill you, Elinor—because you stood in her way?” How could I answer such a question? Stafford breathed softly, “So Vicencia realized that I’m in love with you, Elinor, is that it?”
I nodded my head and looked away toward the holocaust that had once been Castanheiros. Great roaring tongues of flame—orange, crimson, yellow—licked from every window, every doorway. The smoke billowed out through the roof, forming a dense cloud that hung above us in the still air, drifting slowly upward into the dark night sky and blotting out the stars. Every few seconds came the crash of falling timbers or masonry, flinging up great showers of white-hot sparks. When Stafford spoke again, the gentleness had gone from his voice. His face, caught by the glare of the flames, was set in harsh lines of anger. “Vicencia must be a monster—locking you in your room to burn to death. We must find her before she attempts God knows what other inhuman outrage. Elinor, I’m going to take you over by Dona Amalia and Carlota. Stay there with them, and I’ll get Affonso to help me search for Vicencia.”
The Jade Dragon Page 19