Three-Cornered Halo

by Christianna Brand

  “But now all that is over?”

  “No more of Jane Seymour’s little cheesecakes!”

  “And—the old man?”

  “The old man? Oh, the Archbishop.” He thought it over. “Very well, Senorita: you have done me a very great service today; and so, if it will please you, the Arcivescovo shall take his own time to die.”

  The silly tears filled her eyes again. “Thank you. Then all such debts as you owe me are quite wiped out.”

  “You must let me give you a pearl bracelet at least,” he said smiling. “We will rob another cat; I have dozens of cats.”

  “A pearl bracelet! Can you see me,” said Cousin Hat, “riding round Heronsford on my bike with a pearl bracelet worth a fortune on my arm?”

  “Well, then—something else. Come up to the Palatio tomorrow and select something from our treasures. Tomaso di Goya is their guardian, he will take you round—choose anything you please.”

  “No, no,” she protested. “I did wish for something and it has been granted. That’s enough.”

  “It is not enough for me. Make another wish. Come,” he said gaily, almost tenderly, “let me be the good fairy to you now, instead of the ogre. I will grant you three wishes. One you have had. Choose two more and whatever you wish shall be granted.”

  “Is that a promise?” said Cousin Hat, suddenly.

  He bowed delightedly. “A promise.”

  “I am to wish any wish …?”

  “Any two wishes.”

  “One will do for the moment,” said Miss Cockrill, “I am to wish any wish I care to think of: and it will be granted?”

  “Just speak your wish.”

  “Then I wish …” She raised her glass and took a sip of champagne, eyeing him beadily over the curve of the rim. “I wish … Any wish?” insisted Cousin Hat.

  “Any wish,” he promised, laughing.

  “Then I wish … I wish …” She got it out at last, all in one nervous rush, and then sat, struck dumb at her own temerity. “I wish you would tell me why it is,” said Cousin Hat, “that you won’t have Juanita canonised.”

  In the white and silver patio, meanwhile, there had been an upheaval. The Major, an old campaigner among the brandy glasses as elsewhere, was sufficiently experienced to know when ’nuff was ’nuff and, suddenly arriving—a little late—at the conclusion that that time had come, rose to his feet and announced abruptly that he must depart. The hotel had laid on a ferry service beginning at the half hour after midnight, and he must be at hand to shepherd his flock aboard if they did not care to stay longer. “Sorry-t’break-’pparty-’ckceckra-’ckceckra …” He bowed this way and that, flourishing the white linen hat.

  La Bellissima regretted. El Exaltida had hoped that they would spend the rest of the evening. Late nights were kept in San Juan on fiesta occasions, and they could all be taken home in the grand ducal barge. But Mr Cecil, was also of opinion that the time had come for the Major to depart. “You could go ahead with your party, no need for us to leave too.”

  Winsome was exhausted, she longed to be alone. “I think, on the whole, Mr Cecil, we should take the hotel boat.”

  Mr Cecil, however, was quite happy where he was; and would be even happier without Major Bull and Miss Foley. “If you’re tired, dear, you go on with the Major.”

  “Whackeroo!” cried the Major, throwing up the round linen hat.

  “Well, perhaps after all …”

  But Mr Cecil had had enough of the Major and of Winsome too. “Nonsense, ducky, the Grand Duke will excuse you, off you go!” He gave Major Bull a surreptitious prod with Miss Cockrill’s parasol and, his uncertain balance thus upset, started him off at a trot which he did not recover till he had too positively left them to attempt to reconsider. Winsome, after more protracted leave-takings, perforce followed him. A guard of four men closed in about them at a sign from the Grand Duchess and, like prisoners, they were marched down to the arena and thrust through the swing and surge and sway of the crowd. “By Jove, Winnie, like being hauled to the scaffold, eh, what?”

  “I think we’ve had enough of scaffolds for today,” said Winsome.

  “Well, I don’t know. Chaps cheering, girls chucking flowers, ‘sfar-far-better-thing-eckecekra-eckcekra. Go to th’ scaffold any day with you, old girl,” added the Major, ducking back nimbly into his role as adorer and throwing a heavy arm about her waist.

  “Major Dick—please!” She released herself from him with a horrified wriggle. Was this the sort of behaviour that went on with Cousin Hat? “I think you are mistaking me for—for someone else.”

  “Someone else? Who else could I be mistaking you for? Gloria Swanson, perhaps? Eh, what?” The Major went off into a loud guffaw. “Sorry-disappoint-you, old girl, but that cat won’t jump! No, no, poor old skinny-Winnie, nobody else, no such luck! Mind you, good girl, Winnie, damn fine filly, steel-blue, straight-blade, great Thingummy made my mate, ’cekra, ‘cekra; but couldn’t compare you with Swanson, old girl, don’t know where you got such an idea.” But still, old buffer—white—sarvice—couldn’taffordbep’tic’ler; the dancing crowds jostled them, despite the strong arms of the guard, and, pressed close together, suddenly and distressingly face to face, he seized the opportunity to implant a resounding kiss somewhat askew upon her upper lip. “Name-day, Winnie, happiest-of-men, never-mind-old-hen-pheasant, we’ll soon settle her.” The crowd swept them apart again, swept them together, caught up in some terrible, high-stepping, involuntary pavanne. “Whackeroo!” cried the Major, throwing up the round linen hat; and Oh, God! thought Winsome, will this dreadful day never end?

  It was a little dashing to find his party greatly disgruntled at his absence, Fuddyduddy waiting only to get back to the hotel to dash off a letter to the company demanding a refund, D. and V. in extremis, and the widows strangely inclined to rushing away looking white and desperate every time he turned towards them. Happy, however, in his consciousness as an accepted lover, nothing left now but the trifling task of disposing of Hat with a kindly word of explanation, he set about the task of conducting his grouppa home. His inamorata seemed disinclined to dalliance as the vaporetto puffed its way back beneath the stars, but the poor girl was doubtless dazed by her sudden happiness: a little overwrought. He hoped he had not been a bit rough with her, in his handling of that business of Gloria Swanson; but really, poor thing—what an illusion for her to have cherished! Much kinder and wiser to bring her down to earth eck dum! “Didn’t hurt your feelings, just now, old girl, did I? But really, you know, I mean, ’pon my word—Gloria Swanson …”

  “Oh, go to bloody hell,” said Winsome, “and take Gloria Swanson with you.…”

  Overwrought.

  The Vaporetto de Muerte was returning from her first trip back to San Juan, crawling like some slow, black, living creature down the silver path of the moonlight. She gave three blasts on her siren as she drew near the mooring-place—whoo!whoo!whoo …! ‘The obscure bird,’ thought Cousin Hat, paralysed with panic now, at what she had done, ‘clamour’d the live-long night …’ But the Grand Duke, after the first moment of startled amazement had burst into another of his tremendous fits of laughter. “Senorita—you are indomitable! You are magnificent! You are superb! And the courage …!” He shook his head, laughing at her with that air of indulgent admiration that she was beginning to recognise. “To think that so small a nut should hold such a kernel of resolution! She comes to my island, she marches with her small flag flying, into a stronghold of unopposed tyranny that has lasted two hundred years; she ticks me off as though I were a schoolboy, upsets all my arrangements and now demands to know state secrets that have been guarded throughout our history like the palace treasures themselves.…”

  “Well, I shan’t repeat it,” said Cousin Hat, a trifle stuffily.

  He sobered down a little. “No. This, Senorita, I implicitly believe; or I should be obliged to break my promise. To no one, ever, must one word of this be murmured. But I know that it is safe with you, without my eve
n asking; and so, Senorita, I must keep my promise, I must tell you the answer to your question. And when I have told you—then, Senorita, three people will know it, instead of two. I shall know it: Juan Lorenzo, El Illustre, El Splendore, El Magnifico, El Exaltida, Gran’ Duca di San Juan el Pirata—he will know it. El Patriarca—Don Luis Anselmo, El Beatitud, El Santo, etcetera, etcetera, Patriarca di Peurto de Barrequitas, in the island of San Juan el Pirata—he will know it. And Miss Cockrill, a lady visitor from a little country town in England—she will know it.” He went off into roars of laughter again. “It is superb! In all the world—only these three!”

  “Well, I don’t see what it can be,” said Cousin Hat, intrigued. “If you mean that you think that she wasn’t a saint at all …?”

  “Oh, no, no,” he said. “I make no secret of that!”

  “And yet you don’t want to apply to Rome?”

  “I do want to apply to Rome,” said the Grand Duke. “I want more than anyone else in San Juan, to apply to Rome. Not applying is bringing me endless trouble and will bring much more. Already it is being used against me among my people—there is a young hothead in Barrequitas, Tomaso di Goya, an ignorant, malcontent fellow—he is using it to inflame his followers.…”

  “Oh,” said Cousin Hat, startled. “You know about Tomaso di Goya?”

  “Of course I know; I know most things in San Juan el Pirata. And the Arcivescovo—whose life I have just granted to you, I know also that he is one of di Goya’s pupils and, having nothing to lose, a most dangerous old man. And the Gerente de Politio, who controls the only men trained in any sort of combat on this island.”

  “El Gerente is being fooled by the goldsmith,” said Miss Cockrill, loyal to her friend.

  “You, also, appear to know a lot about it?” said the Grand Duke, rather sharply.

  She remembered the conversation in the Joyeria on the first day of her arrival. “If they are dangerous to you—why don’t you remove them?”

  He shrugged. “Tomaso di Goya is a good goldsmith; his father knew my family heirlooms by heart, the son has inherited valuable knowledge, it would be a job to replace him. And El Gerente is at the centre of the smuggling business which brings so much profit to San Juan and keeps the people busy; to despatch him would throw the whole business into confusion. Besides …” Besides, his shrug said, it is beneath me to trouble to flick these poor insects out of the way. All the same … “Between the lot of them, I confidently expect to be murdered one day: and all because of this business of Juanita.”

  “Then, why not——?”

  He leaned forward and poured more champagne, his left hand supporting the cat, so that it should not slip forward and down from his shoulder. It remained, however, calmly snoozing there, its white head flattened like a snake’s against the folds of the black cloak. He straightened himself again, and lounged back in his chair. “Miss Cockrill—all England is dotted, is it not? with ‘monsters’ in ‘secret rooms’—inhuman creatures bred from generation to generation into the great families, kept by them, hidden away from the eyes of the world, the terrible secret passed on, at the eve of the coming-of-age, from father to eldest son. Such stories are told of the aristocracy of every country. Well …” He glanced round to be certain that no one was anywhere in earshot. “Well, Miss Cockrill—the fact is that San Juan has a monster too!”

  “A monster——?”

  “Oh, this time not a Thing in a hiding-hole; but a secret, nevertheless, handed down, as I said, from father to son; and to nobody else—handed down, now, for two hundred years, never in all those years, known to more than three people at any one time: to the reigning Grand Duke, to the Heir, when he attains his majority, and to the Patriarch as head of the Church. The Patriarch is told immediately upon his accession to that dignity. He is chosen for the post—by the Grand Duke—as being likely to accept the secret and to keep it. If later he shows signs of not doing so, he is liquidated at once; mortality among newly created Patriarchs is distressingly high. The present incumbent, however, has proved most amenable: we couldn’t have managed it with the Arcivescovo—my father promoted this man over his head, for that reason. The Obispo, however, is coming along very nicely. I shan’t have any trouble in my generation.”

  “And the secret?” said Cousin Hat, going quietly mad with curiosity.

  “The Roman Catholic Church,” said the Grand Duke, “rests on the foundation of the Apostolic Succession. Christ ordained Peter His first bishop: and those whom Peter ordained, ordained others and so on, down through the generations in unbroken succession. In the Catholic church, no priest ordained out of this chain of succession, is a priest at all. His Mass is no Mass, he administers the Sacraments and they are meaningless forms—he may become in his time a bishop and ordain other priests, but he is not a bishop and they are not priests——”

  “I see,” said Cousin Hat, slowly: beginning to see.

  “And what sort of priests and bishops, Senorita, do you think have flourished on my island, since Juan the Pirate first took shelter here? What sort of link do you suppose was formed in that great chain of succession, by whatever old rogue first wore a mitre in San Juan? No link, of course: and therefore the bishops he made were no bishops and the priests they made, no priests: and the sad fact remains, Senorita,” said the Grand Duke, roaring with laughter, nevertheless, “that Catholic San Juan, island-child of Catholic Italy and Catholic Spain, is no more Catholic than you are; nor, for two hundred years has anyone here been christened or married or shriven or buried in the rites of our Mother Church. And think what would happen if anyone found that out!”

  Cousin Hat thought of it, mulling it over in her mind, in her own straight, practical way. “It would be no fault of yours. You didn’t begin it. The deception, I mean.”

  “I continued it.”

  “Under an oath of secrecy.”

  “Dear lady—try telling that to the Juanese!”

  “And anyway, what does it matter? These things are in the mind, in the intention.”

  “Not in the Church of Rome. A Confirmation is not a Confirmation, let ten thousand people believe that they are seeing the real thing.”

  “Well, no. And come to that,” acknowledged Miss Cockrill, “not only in Rome. A marriage illegally performed is no marriage anywhere; however much the people concerned may believe in it.”

  “There has not been a legal marriage,” said the Grand Duke, laughing again, “in the island of San Juan for something like two hundred years.”

  “But the civil ceremony …?”

  “We have no civil ceremony; in San Juan, the state does not interfere.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Cousin Hat.

  “I should have to begin by explaining that the whole pious population was living in sin: that their fathers and mothers had lived in sin, that they themselves were bastards and their children were bastards too. You could not blame them,” said El Exaltida, “begging your pardon in advance for my language, if the people decided that their Grand Duke was the biggest bastard of all.”

  “And the Patriarca?”

  “El Patriarca, handles all business with Rome. The Archbishop and the Bishop confine themselves to home affairs. There is, of course, in fact no business with Rome. She has in the past made enquiries, but since we are really not part of the Church at all, she has no jurisdiction here. Any attempt at interference would be immediately put down, no missionaries of any sort are permitted on the island—you will have noted that our frontier arrangements are extremely exclusive. And the language difficulty is so enormous that nobody who did get here could do very much; nor are our people—for this very reason—encouraged to travel. Here again, the language difficulty helps; to the Italian and Spanish-speaking people, a grasp of Juanese is almost impossible and vice versa—much more so than with the French, German, English, etcetera, who learn it from scratch. So that the threat from Italy is not so great as would at first appear. Nevertheless,” said the Duke with another of his shrugs, “it must b
e admitted that we live on something of a volcano.”

  “And juanita——?”

  “May well promote the first rumble.”

  “I do see that you can’t very well in the circumstances apply to the Roman Church to canonise a saint who wasn’t her saint at all. But …” She reflected. “The Patriarch must, if you don’t mind my saying so, do a good deal of ‘business’ with Rome, which Rome knows nothing about. Couldn’t he, perhaps.…?”

  “‘Arrange’ the business of Juanita? It has been discussed. But it is too dangerous. The canonisation of a new saint is not a mere local affair: it is a matter of rejoicing through all the organisation of the Catholic Church and that is world-wide. Even my people would observe that there was a very odd hush regarding their own particular protégé—no visits from papal representatives, no gifts of blessings or ‘special indulgences’ attaching to the shrine—though most of that, I suppose, the Patriarch could attend to. But above all, no world press. No. It is tempting and, as I say, it has been discussed—it was talked over in my father’s day at the time she died—I, of course, was a schoolboy then—and it has been canvassed ever since. But the risk is too great. So there you are! You asked me a question and there is the answer: and if you were to betray me, Senorita, I think it would not be too much to say that the fate of my house, and the fate of this whole island people, would be in your hands. Why do I not apply to the Church of Rome for canonisation of our saint? Because for two hundred years our island has not been part of the Church of Rome at all!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN