The Jade Dragon (23 page)

“Today, just before luncheon.”

“It’s really intolerable,” I burst out. “Poor Grandmama must be imagining that I’ve turned my back upon her just when we seemed to have reached a new understanding. She will be feeling terribly hurt. The instant I get back, I must go and tell her that it’s all been a mistake.”

“Why bother to do that?” said Carlota, in a voice of sweet reason. “Dona Amalia obviously accepts the fact that you will be going home very soon, so why not just leave quietly while she is resigned to it?”

“But it’s important that she does not feel I’m deserting her,” I said doggedly.

“I think you are behaving in a very foolish way, Elinor. A childish and selfish way. I ask you to think again.”

That was what Vicencia had said.
Think again.
For once the two women were in accord—both of them wanted to be rid of me.

“I shall not change my mind, Carlota,” I insisted quietly. “I intend to stay at Castanheiros.”

Affonso flicked me a glance over his shoulder. “You should listen to your aunt, Elinor. Her advice is for your own good.”

Fortunately, we had now reached the main square of the town, so I was spared further pressure from my aunt and uncle. Climbing down, I thanked them politely for the ride and turned away.

The bakery, I already knew from my wanderings in Cintra with Vicencia and Julio, was up a flight of steps near the Misericordia, next-door to an apothecary’s. A large black dog lay stretched across the threshold, sleeping in the sun, and I was obliged to step over him as I entered the tiny, tile-lined shop.

Maria was at the counter wrapping a pile of cheesecakes into little packets with squares of white paper. Seeing me enter, her face lit up in a sad, shy smile. “Oh,
minha
senhora, it is kind of you to come.”

I took both her hands. “I felt I
had
to
come, Maria. I am
so
very sorry about your brother.”

She led me through to the stuffy parlor where her mother and two aunts sat behind closed shutters, three grieving women in black shawls. I talked to the mother, murmuring polite, complimentary phrases about her son. With tears in her eyes, she insisted on showing me treasured relics of Pedro’s babyhood, his baptismal robe, a carved wooden rattle, a tiny pair of shoes in kid leather. Her husband, a short, swarthy man whose face was scarlet from the heat of the ovens, was called in from the bakehouse. They pressed me to accept some refreshment, producing a bottle of astringent red wine and some sweet almond cakes that had been baked that morning.

When I finally left, Maria said she would walk a little way with me. I was touched by the concern she showed for me, asking repeatedly if I were really and truly quite unharmed. What a dreadful experience it must have been, she kept saying over and over again.

I closed my eyes, trying to blot out the horror of it—the horror and the fear that had followed in its wake as I came to understand the cause of the accident. “How I wish I had never gone to Miramar that day,” I said fervently. “Then your brother would still be alive, Maria.”

“Oh,
minha
senhora, Pedro was wonderfully good and kind. And so clever. He would not have remained a coachman for much longer.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked, suddenly alert. “Did he say something to you about having other plans?”

“He could have done anything he wanted,” she said with pride, and I noticed her hand straying to her throat, where I guessed the silver pendant hung beneath the black crepe of her mourning. “Pedro told me he would soon have plenty of money, senhora—as much money as he pleased, because of the things he knew.”

My heart quickened. “What did he mean, Maria—because of the things he knew?”

Her smooth olive brow creased into a puzzled frown. “I do not know. Pedro did not explain to me.”

“Somebody must have thought very highly of Pedro to be willing to pay him so much money. I wonder who it was?” She shook her head helplessly. Clearly, she had never thought to question whatever her beloved brother told her.

I endeavored to keep my voice light and casual. “I suppose it must be somebody living at Castanheiros. But who? Did Pedro give you no clue at all?”

“I am sorry, senhora,” she said, distressed that she was unable to tell me what I wanted to know.

In my desperation, feeling so near a final unveiling of the truth, my sense of caution went to the winds. “Think Maria. For heaven’s sake, think. Your brother must have said
something
to you.” Her gentle brown eyes misted with tears, and I knew I was being unkind to the poor girl. But at the moment, Maria’s feelings had to take second place. “Now go over in your mind all the things Pedro said to you in the past few days, from the time he gave you the pendant. When he told you about having a lot of money, Maria, he surely said something about the reason he was going to be paid it?”

“Oh, senhora, you do not think Pedro was doing a wrong thing?” she cried in alarm.

I had gone too far. I was putting new and disturbing ideas into poor Maria’s mind. “No, no,” I lied quickly. “It is just ... just that I want to find out who the other person was— for reasons of my own. You have nothing to fear, Maria.”

Her face relaxed, and I could see she was trying hard to recall some piece of information that would please me. Suddenly, she stopped walking and gave me a quick, darting look. “Pedro did say one thing. It was the day before ... before he was killed. Senhora, he had drunk some wine, I think, and I did not take too much notice.”

“Never mind that, Maria. Just tell me what Pedro said.”

She screwed up her face, remembering. “He said ... he said that Senhor Darville had been talking to him. Pedro said that as long as he did not tell anyone what he knew, he would become a rich man.”

I gave an involuntary gasp, causing Maria to look at me curiously. Up till this moment, Stafford’s involvement had been merely a dark suspicion in my mind. Now here was
proof.
My knees seemed suddenly to be giving way. Luckily, just a few feet further on, there was a stone bench under a weeping pepper tree, and I drew Maria toward it. Otherwise, I believe I would have fallen.

“Try to remember every single word your brother said to you, Maria,” I begged her. “It’s very important for me to know. You need not be afraid. No harm will come to you or your parents.”

Maria dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her black dress. “There is nothing else, senhora. When I asked Pedro what he meant, he just laughed and said he would buy me lots of other nice presents if I was a good girl. That is all he would say—I swear that is all. Please, senhora, may I go home now?”

“Yes,” I said absently. “Yes, of course. Go home to your parents, Maria.”

Long after she had left me I remained sitting beneath the pepper tree, sunk in despair. By questioning Maria, I’d hoped that she’d be able to tell me something to clear Stafford of all suspicion. But instead, she had done just the opposite. With every single word she had given further confirmation of what I’d dreaded. Stafford had been responsible for his wife’s death by drowning, and somehow Pedro knew of it—perhaps he had even been Stafford’s agent in carrying out the terrible deed. Pedro, subsequently, had extorted money from Stafford as the price of his silence, until Stafford finally decided to rid himself of the blackmailer. And to rid himself of me, too, because of whatever I might have overheard of their conversation in the pagoda.

And so the accident at Miramar had been planned with care and calculation. Stafford Darville was a ruthless, devious man who would stop at nothing. I closed my eyes, remembering how I had loved him, remembering how I had been swept away in a dream of delight when he held me in his arms and kissed me. Even now, if Stafford were to kiss me again....

I had despised Vicencia. I had been sickened by her story of a sordid, selfish love. Yet such was Stafford Darville’s power over women that perhaps I’d been too quick to condemn Vicencia. She loved him with passionate abandon, heedless of the harm it did to others. But if she knew the sort of man he really was, the extreme lengths to which he would go to remove obstacles that stood in his way....

Vicencia must be told, I decided. She had been my friend—as far as her possessive love for Stafford permitted her to be any woman’s friend. She must be warned about him.

I rose to my feet, but at once I felt overcome with faintness and swayed alarmingly. Near me, two small urchins were playing with pebbles in the dust. I opened my purse and held out a vintem, asking them to go and fetch me a carriage from the square. Their eyes stretched wide at the sight of a whole penny, and they ran off delightedly. Within a few minutes I was seated, in a rather dilapidated coupe, jogging along the tree-shaded lane on my way back to Castanheiros.

The house was enveloped in its usual mantle of silence as I entered the great hall. A footman had been alerted by the arrival of the hired carriage and was there to bow me in, but it was a relief not to see any of the family. I needed to be alone. I needed time to think.

“Where is Dona Vicencia?” I asked the servant.

“She is in the gardens, I believe, senhora. Do you wish me to take a message to her?”

“Oh ... no, thank you. There is no need.”

With leaden footsteps I began to mount the marble stairway. I had wanted to inquire where Stafford was also, but I was afraid that he might get to hear I had been asking about him. I was thankful, at least, that so far today he had kept out of my way.

Upstairs in my room I laid aside my hat and parasol, drew off my gloves, and tossed them down. I walked to the window and stood gazing out across the gardens, peaceful and somnolent under the burning sun. I could not hear the strains of Vicencia’s flute, but she was somewhere out there, strolling in the shade of the trees or resting on one of the sculpted seats. With a sudden pang, I wondered if Stafford were with her. There were so many secluded arbors where they could safely rendezvous.

I came away from the window and sank down upon the chaise longue, leaning back upon its velvet cushions. But I was restless and could not relax. I tried to concentrate, to decide what I was going to do now that I had proof of Stafford’s guilt. But my mind was a tangle of confusion and constantly I found myself returning to those moments with Stafford on the belvedere at Miramar, when he had held me in his arms.

Surely, I told myself bleakly, I had no choice but to warn Vicencia about him? It was my Christian duty to warn her. Yet, having loved Stafford---part of me loving him still despite everything—I shrank from repeating the terrible things I had discovered this afternoon. And did Vicencia deserve any such consideration from me? Did she deserve consideration from anyone, when she herself had abandoned the decencies of civilized life? At one point I recalled my intention of hastening to reassure my grandmother that I was not planning to desert her and return to England. But how could I say that now with any certainty? Regretfully, I concluded that I must postpone seeing her for the present.

Time went slowly by, and no one came to disturb me. In the end, coming to a sudden decision, I left my room and went in search of Vicencia. I found her by the door of the
sala de jantar,
talking to the butler. She broke off at once, and he discreetly withdrew. “Elinor,” she began, smiling at me tentatively. “I was just coming to ask you if you would dine downstairs this evening. You see, Stafford will not be here. He’s been out all day at the
adegas
and is dining at the steward’s house.”

So that explained why I had not seen anything of Stafford. Evading Vicencia’s suggestion, I said, “I’d like to talk to you— privately.”

“I’m afraid I cannot come just now, Elinor. As usual, Carlota has demanded some last-minute changes to the menu. She can be very trying.”

“Then will you come to my room immediately after dinner?”

“If you wish it.” She glanced at me with concern. “You look so pale. Are you feeling unwell? Should you not be lying down?”

“No, I’m all right. Just come, Vicencia, please—as soon as you can.”

I returned to my room and tried to contend with my impatience. Now that I had made up my mind to talk to Vicencia, I was eager to get the painful scene done with. It seemed an interminable wait before my dinner tray arrived. The daylight was fading by then, and the footman inquired if he should light the lamps and draw the curtains. I nodded absently. As he left me, I turned my attention to the attractive dishes sent up for me, but I found that I lacked an appetite. I poured out a glass of the rich red Collares wine and sipped it slowly, hoping that perhaps it would give me courage.

The servant came to take away the tray, and still I waited. At long last, I heard Vicencia’s knock. “I’ve been so puzzled, Elinor, wondering what you could want to tell me that is so important. I hope and pray, for your sake, my dear, that you’re going to say you have decided to return to England after all.”

I shook my head. “No, it is something else altogether. These past two days there has been a suspicion in my mind, a terrible suspicion. And this afternoon I received confirmation from Maria that what I suspected was indeed true. So I have to warn you, Vicencia—warn you about Stafford.”

Her velvet brown eyes widened, and she stood very still, her hands clasped together. “Am I to understand, Elinor, that you have been gossiping about Stafford with a servant?”

“But Maria didn’t appreciate the significance of what she was telling me, Vicencia.”

“And what
did
she tell you?”

“Enough to make it certain that her brother was black mailing Stafford, because of something Pedro knew about Luzia’s death.”

I saw a tremor pass through Vicencia’s slender body, and her face paled beneath her olive-tinted skin. She moved to the fireplace and put a hand on the mantel, as though for support. “You had better tell me everything you know, everything you suspect. Do not spare me.”

“It is all so confused in my mind,” I said unhappily, “but you must prepare yourself, Vicencia. I am certain, as certain as I possibly can
be, that Stafford was responsible for his wife’s death. Somehow Pedro knew about it, and he was demanding money as the price of his silence.”