Three-Cornered Halo (17 page)

He was dismayed, heart-broken. All the fun would be gone out of it, if the Senorita withdrew. And since the Archbishop was enthusiastic, surely she need have no qualms?

If the alteration to the book were—discovered, said Winsome, refusing this consolatory side-tracking, there would be trouble, she supposed. But for them both. She repeated: for them
both?

Trouble! Good heavens! He threw up his hands to the soft night sky. Tampering with Juanita's writings—an act of sacrilege! Trouble would not be the word for it if the alteration to the book were ever found out. For himself … He shrugged. His lawyers would argue, no doubt, that there could be no possible proof that the addition had been written in by him—it was not of himself but of the Senorita that they must think. For not all the lawyers in San Juan could disguise that she, a foreigner, had had the sacred book in her care and had handed it over for the purpose of desecration.… And the law in San Juan, of course … At another time he would have been off on the hobby-horse again, and most legitimately so; but now he simply shrugged one of his enormous shrugs and allowed his face to grow preternaturally grave. No relative of Inspector Cockereel of Scotalanda Yarrrda could need very much prompting as to the horrors of crime and punishment on the island of San Juan el Pirata.

And really there was no earthly reason why it should be found out: if both of them kept their mouths shut, added Tomaso. Their original idea had been to draw attention to the ‘miracle': they were to ‘discover' the reference, to condition the island for the sign that was to be sent to them on the Day of Roses. This no longer, however, would be necessary; the Grand Duke had done it all for them by his challenge to Juanita to send them a sign that day. Now nothing need be mentioned of the reference in the Diary—when, in due course, it was recognised, all danger would have passed …

“I don't quite see why,” said Winsome. “If there is danger now—there'd be danger then.”

Tomaso permitted himself one small, ironical smile; but the danger, he assured her, growing florid, growing vague, flinging his hands about in dismissal of her anxieties, would be nothing after—after the next two or three days. By that time with her assistance—
with
her assistance—he would have rigged up the false bottom to the thurible, concealed the pellet, returned the censer to the Duomo: the trick would be played, the sign would be granted—there would be no more to fear.… It would all depend—on her giving him her assistance.

“I see,” said Winsome. She asked, dully: “What is it you want me to do?”

And after all, it was really very simple. He wanted her to bring the thurible—the base of it only, that was where the work would be—from the Duomo, where the Archbishop would hand it over to her, to his shop. “No one else but us three must know: to tell a secret to one is to tell it to all. But the Archbishop cannot be seen coming to my shop, I cannot be seen bringing anything from the cathedral, it will be best for me not to go near it; and for him and me for the next three days to keep far apart. If the Grand Duke were ever to discover that the censer had been interfered with …”

“But you say that the sliding door will be undetectable.”

“Certainly it will. But if he enquires and learns even that I have handled the thurible, if he only faintly suspects me—Senorita you do not know Juan Lorenzo!—I should die.”

“Oh, nonsense; you can't execute a man on a suspicion.”

Tomaso who had just arranged ignoble death for a cousin and friend on no suspicion at all, could hardly be expected to subscribe to this. “I tell you, it is certain, from the moment the faintest notion enters his head that I have touched the censer, my days are numbered. But you, Senorita—what danger is there to you? Who for a moment will suspect that an English tourista should involve herself in this?”

“Who indeed?” said poor Winsome, bitterly.

“You will go to the Duomo, an innocent tourist, interested as thousands have been before you in the Cellini masterpiece. An appointment has been made, frankly and freely before all the world, for the thing to be privately shown to you. There is nothing in that, it is not a show-piece always on view, it is a cathedral treasure in the Archbishop's keeping. The Archbishop will show it to you, he will hand you the base of it and put the rest in its case and lock it away. You will carry the base away in a large handbag common to all the touristi; you will call at my shop, preferably with a friend or two, you will place some small order: while you are occupied, I shall remove the base of the censer from your bag. Later you will come again, to collect your order, we will proceed in reverse; on your way home, you will slip into the cathedral to light a candle before Juanita's shrine; the Arcivescovo spends half the day there, at his prayers.” And she would be very careful—very careful, insisted Tomaso, not to drop or knock the censer on the way back. The—er—the pellet of scent might roll out of its position: it was of importance, enormous importance, that it should not. And then—her task would be done; from then, her role was finished, there would be nothing for her to do but to stick to her story: she had been, as a tourist, to see the treasure, she had looked, admired, rhapsodised, and come away. “What−ever may happen, Senorita, stick to this: and so shall I on your behalf and so will the old man. Whatever may happen.” He repeated it once again with a strange intensity. “Whatever may happen, deny all knowledge of the thurible.…”

But on the whole, thought Tomaso, it was not likely that the Senorita would be eager to broadcast her connection with what was all set to happen, three days from now.

From behind the belt of trees came the sound of music, the sound of voices and laughter, muted to sweetness; ahead lay the starlit mirror of the sea. A fleet of little fishing boats had come out and now crept by twos and twos across the dark water, the lamps at their prows throwing down twin circular patches of light that lay on the dark water like golden sovereigns on a cloth of black velvet. Under the split grey boughs of the olives the lovers lay whispering together unashamed and unshaming; over all lay the silver radiance of the moon. He rose to his feet and held out a hand to her. “Come, Senorita, I take you now back to your friends.” And as they walked back through the olive groves, he took her arm, leaned forward to peer, with quizzical laughter, into her frightened face. “Senorita, you are not smiling, you are not happy: is this not fun, our plan of naughtiness, will not much good come from it, for you, for me, for all of us, all San Juan, all the Christian world …?” He rallied her, laughing still. “There is no danger. It is an adventure, a frolic, you should be gay. Think how we shall smile behind our hands when the smoke goes up, the rosy smoke rising up from the golden censer, Juanita's sign! And for you—there is no danger; for me—ah! it is for me, if anyone, to pull a long, white, anxious face. But I do not, I am gay. And I have my plans. I have borrowed a speedboat from a friend on the mainland, it is hidden away in the reeds down on the shores of the Toscanita plain. I shall fill it with all my treasures from the Joyeria (not the snuff-boxes, the Grand Duke and his politio will be welcome to those); and if there is danger, I must cut my losses and fly away from San Juan for ever.” But he needed help, he said, pathetically, strolling along beside her, his brown hand at her horny elbow, helping her along. It was tricky work transporting his precious things to the boat, he must not be seen too often going down to Toscanita alone. “Could you not express a wish, Senorita, to see the Toscanita plain? It is beautiful down there: I would offer to escort you, we could stuff our pockets and bags with jewels, we could hide them away in the boat, making big pretence of a picnic, of seeing the sights—it would be
fun!
” She did not answer, only dumbly shook her head, stumbling on across the olive roots, across the rock plateau and down the steps, plunging into the crowds that rolled and danced between herself and her goal. And he smiled and murmured, teasingly, and followed her and at last brought her to where Miss Cockrill stood looking on at the dancing with the rest of the grouppa; and handed her over tenderly to the Major's care. “Sir, Senorita Cockereel, I bring back to you the Senorita: she has been lost in the crowd, they are rough and noisy, some perhaps are drunk … Poor lady,” said Tomaso, all impersonal concern, “I met her by chance and she begged me to conduct her back to you. She is distraught.” He bowed and flourished, kissed hands all round, bade them his florid, Juanese good nights. “And, Senorita—you will not forget? You have made an appointment tomorrow at the Duomo with the Arcivescovo. He is expecting you. Alas, after all, I cannot come with you, but I have arranged it. You will not let me down?”

“No,” said Winsome. She stood staring stupidly into his face, wearily twitching into place her disordered dress. “Tomorrow at eleven. Yes. I'll be there. I won't let you down.”

“What on earth have you been doing, Winsome?” said Cousin Hat. “You look like a demented hare.”

CHAPTER TEN

N
EITHER
Miss Cockrill nor, it must be confessed, the devoted Major, had been consumed with anxiety for Winsome during her absence. The Major and Cousin Hat had been bidden to spend the evening in exalted company and were wrapt in secret misgivings of their own. For a message had come from the Grand Duke. El Exaltida now learned for the first time, said the grey secretary, appearing suddenly before them, bowing obsequiously, that a sister of his excellent friend Inspector Cockereel was on the island. La Bellissima had requested that Miss Cockereel be invited for coffee and a liqueur after supper, at the pavilion. At the same time, said Tabaqui with more bowing, El Exaltida would be happy to entertain Miss Cockereel's niece (“Cousin,” said Miss Cockrill rather crossly: a humping great niece of thirty-eight was more than one cared to submit to—people were always making this mistake) and his friend Mr Cecil, and would be much gratified if Major Bull, representing the English visitors at present on the island, would care to join them.… Any anxiety for Winsome was therefore confined largely to whether or not she would return from wherever she might have got to, in time to avail herself of this invitation. On the whole, Cousin Hat secretly rather hoped she would not. A very little encouragement and Winsome would be rechristening her budgerigars Exaltida and Bellissima; and Cousin Hat remembered the slender creature sitting like a figure from a tapestry on the flower-bright bank of the little stream and knew that she could not bear that that clear-cut moment of romance and pathos should be smudged over with the vapourings of Winsome's sensibility. If only she would not get back in time! But here she was, white-faced, eyes popping, covered in olive leaves, and looking quite mad. “Well, come along, Winsome, you're just in time. We're invited up to the pavilion.”

Mr Cecil was in a bit of a taking. “One does wish one had known!” One would not have sported one's Juanese get-up, he said; the lavender flannels, perhaps, and one of the hand-made silk shirts (rumour had it that he ran them up himself, in the evenings, at home), and a madly chaste tie. The Grand Duke never wore Juanese costume unless, as on this fiesta occasion, he had to: and what would he think of Mr Cecil's having done it from choice? Major Bull looked down complacently at his own stubby legs, twin pillars of sartorial sobriety in their stout grey flannels; and at the well-controlled curve of brass-buttoned blue blazer above. Miss Cockrill pushed stray hairs up under the squashed straw hat and gave a twitch or two to the cardboard linen dress. “Do tidy yourself, Winsome, what on earth have you been doing? You look as though someone had been tumbling you under the olives.”

If only you knew, thought Winsome drearily; but, brushing aimlessly at the folk-weave skirt where still a few dry olive-leaves clung, she slightly amended the note within her own mind. If only you knew! Poor, plain, despised, whimsical Winsome, in league with a gay young man in a piece of nefarious nonsense that yet was fraught with the perils of—of blackmail.… If only Cousin Hat knew! Gone, at least, would be the superior smile. I wonder, thought Winsome, what you would say if you knew..…

But Miss Cockrill at present had other things on her mind. “Haven't you got rather more to be anxious about?” she said to Mr Cecil, walking with him along the narrow path cleft for them through the excited crowds, by the palace guards. “Than about your clothes, I mean. What about—when you called out this afternoon?”

Mr Cecil turned pale. “You
don't
think my voice would have been recognisable?”

Miss Cockrill privately thought Mr Cecil's voice would be recognisable piping up from the yawning graves on the Judgement Day. She said, however, only that there could not be many people on the island who would have remarked that the goings-on were not quite up to Wykehamist standards. “Though I respect you for it: you probably saved that old man's life.”