“Yes, sir,” Cardenas said with a brisk nod.
Duilio headed out the door. Once on the flagstone steps, he heard the door lock behind him. As his gift had lately been warning him of impending danger, Duilio patted the flap pocket of his frock coat to verify that his revolver was there, then tucked his newspaper under his arm.
The Ferreira house was set back from the cobbled street by a small garden, the flowers all faded so late in the year. A tall fence of wrought iron about it warded away trespassers. An unpretentious manor of dark brown stone, the house had originally been built to adorn a quinta—a vineyard. The owner moved it to the Street of Flowers nearly a century before, stone by stone, but died with no child to inherit it. It had passed to the Ferreira family then, to Duilio’s newly wealthy grandfather. Although the house had been in his family for more than sixty years, they were still considered newcomers.
The traffic on the Street of Flowers was brisk that time of morning. While the broad avenue was forbidden to wagons and commercial carters, its width invited all other manner of traffic. Pedestrians bustled past the wrought-iron fences separating the street from the houses, either heading down toward the river or up toward the palace or the government ministries centered in what had once been the Bishop’s Palace. Finely dressed gentry and government officials shared the busy street with fishermen and boatmen.
A tram ran up the center of the road, the gold-painted car rattling by all day long. The line had been electrified at the turn of the century, eliminating vast quantities of mule manure that had required collecting almost hourly. Fortunately for the sanitation workers, the horses drawing private carriages and hired cabs up and down the street ensured that they still had jobs.
Duilio walked down to his gate and let himself out, standing back as a lovely lady in a stylish peach-colored walking suit passed him. Her poodle tugged on its leash, trying to get a better sniff of him, no doubt thinking him an oddly shaped seal. Dogs always found him perplexing. The woman cast him an appraising glance, smiled coyly, and slowed her pace, her hips swaying attractively. One of the demimonde, Duilio decided, hunting for her next protector. He admired her lush figure for a moment. She was tempting, but he nodded to the woman politely and resolutely walked the other direction, up from the river.
It was a steep climb. The Golden City rose from the north bank of the Douro River near where it fed into the sea, spreading across several hills. The Street of Flowers traversed the distance from the quay up to the palace itself. While it had once been a narrow lane occupied by goldsmiths and fabric sellers, less than half a mile long, businesses and churches and homes alike had all been demolished to make room for aristocratic newcomers. The country had been embroiled in a civil war, the throne claimed by two young twin brothers—or, rather, their advisers. The Liberals in the south pushed for political reform and a break from the Church, while the Absolutists in the north preferred the status quo.
But when an earthquake destroyed much of Lisboa in 1755, the war had fizzled out. The southern prince, Manuel III, threw all his efforts and his army into helping his city recover. In the north, Prince Raimundo refused to take advantage of his twin’s distraction. Instead his councilors set up a rival capital, cutting Portugal into two princedoms rather than a single united kingdom. Prior to that time, the Golden City had been modestly known as the Port, a city of commoners, although many would argue it had belonged to the Church instead. That was easy to believe, given the number of spires that dotted the hills, the tower that marked the city’s heights, and the grand cathedral that rose above the river.
Nevertheless, the aristocrats had come, along with their prince, and had changed whatever suited them, for good or for ill. They had moved their houses from the farthest edges of the city, from the resort of Espinho to the south, or from the countryside. Some homes, like that of the Queirós family two doors up from Duilio’s, were newer, built in the neoclassical style, with pillars and pediments, the marble imported from far away. Others had the whitewashed walls and red tiles common to the area about the river. It made a jumble of a street, the houses unmatched save for their arrogant consumption of space.
Duilio had always felt a touch guilty about living there. He didn’t believe that having inherited his home and wealth made him any better of a person than João, the young man who watched his boats. That was one reason he’d chosen to continue his work with the police, hoping to, in effect, earn what he’d been given.
He passed several more houses before reaching the crossing of Clérigos Street and the Street of Flowers. Clérigos had less traffic, so he turned west on it and began the steep walk up to the higher levels of the city. Built on one of the highest points, the baroque bell tower of the Clérigos church had long served as a landmark for sailors, a slender beacon of ornate gray granite. The thing also made the navigation of the old city’s narrow streets easier for those on foot. Once Duilio reached the heights, he walked along, keeping one eye on the tower as he unfolded his newspaper and hunted for the social page. He brushed past other pedestrians as he did so, but not sensing any danger on the streets that morning, he didn’t worry.
The social page listed the normal comings and goings of the aristocracy—who was seen where and with whom. For those readers unfamiliar with the persons listed, the significance of the entries was limited. The news that Lady X had visited Lady Y at her home meant nothing if one didn’t know of the long-standing feud between the families. But as Duilio acted as an interpreter of these affairs for the police, it was his business to keep apprised of all the foolishness of the upper crust. He read through the first column of entries, making mental notes as to what needed further investigation. Nothing in particular jumped out at him until he reached the second column.
He stopped in the midst of the foot traffic, causing a portly gentleman in a brown tweed suit to bump into him. Duilio apologized to the equally apologetic gentleman and stepped back against the wall of the building to his right to get out of others’ way. Then he read the notice in question again.
Lady Isabel Amaral and her companion left the Golden City for Paris Thursday night via train, following the evening departure of Mr. Marianus Guimarães Efisio. Friends of Mr. Efisio expect they will be married in Paris within the week.
Duilio frowned down at the page. He should be shocked that Efisio had eloped with a woman other than his meek betrothed, Pia Sequeira. But that wasn’t what troubled him.
Miss Paredes had been in the river at midnight last night, but if he recalled correctly, that train left for Paris via Lisbon at ten in the evening. She couldn’t have been on that train.
He felt a chill, not simply because of the cold stone wall behind his back. Had his gift been wrong? For a moment Duilio stared up at the tower, realizing only then that he was in the square before the church itself, the baroque facade of the building looming almost as if in accusation.
Fortunately, the Church in Northern Portugal didn’t hold his natural talent against him. Here the prince himself employed seers, and it was common knowledge that the Jesuits had many witches within their ranks. Not so in Spain, where seers and healers and any other stripe of witch were made to disown their gifts or be imprisoned.
Duilio had more than once considered trying to disavow his gift, trying to ignore it, not using it at all. But his gift was a part of him, just as his mother’s pelt was a part of her. Now was not the time to start doubting it. He closed his eyes for a moment, arguing with that inner voice. It insisted again that Aga’s mysterious web-fingered woman was his Miss Paredes.
Opening his eyes, he glanced down at the paper clutched in one gloved hand. He read the entry again as a group of young girls walked past him, whispering among themselves. He pondered the disparity for a moment and a horrible possibility occurred to him. What if Isabel hadn’t been on that train either? He closed his eyes again and asked himself a different question: Will Isabel Amaral marry her Mr. Efisio?
His gift told him that Lady Isabel Amaral was not to marry Mr. Efisio. That she was never to marry Mr. Efisio. That she was never to marry at all. She was already dead.
Duilio opened his eyes, the sense of urgency in him rising. From the beginning there had been something wrong with those damned houses in the river—they stayed afloat long after they filled with water. There were buoyancy charms carved on each house, but after Duilio and Joaquim had begun investigating the houses, Cristiano had told them that such charms were next to useless. That revelation had led them to the disturbing conclusion that the missing servants were being sacrificed to keep the houses floating, that the taste of rot the selkies found so objectionable came from slowly decaying bodies hidden inside those houses. What if they’d been wrong?
What if a new house had been added to the artwork while he’d slept fitfully? That house might have held Lady Isabel and her companion. What if one of the two had been alive at the time? Or both had?
He had wondered why Miss Paredes was seen out by the houses at midnight. His mind had spun out several different scenarios, most involving her people’s government investigating the artwork. Now he felt certain that wasn’t the case at all. He quickly searched the newspaper’s front page, hunting for any mention of a new house being added to The City Under the Sea, but didn’t find any. It usually took a couple of days for the news to trickle out. And if Aga had witnessed that happening last night, she hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she’d simply arrived too late.
Will I learn that Oriana Paredes escaped from inside one of those houses? he asked himself. The answer his mind gave him sickened him. Yes.
Jaw clenched, Duilio folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. He headed on out of the square, settled in his intention to hunt down the mysterious Miss Paredes, who was not on her way to France, no matter what the paper had to say.
CHAPTER 5
A short while later, Duilio stood before the threshold of the small apartment Joaquim Tavares rented on Restauração Street. The tall, narrow house was well maintained by grace of the elderly widow who owned the building and kept a hawklike eye on all her tenants.
Duilio knocked on the door and heard a request called back to wait a moment. Only a second or two passed before the door swung open, revealing a half-dressed Joaquim, still buttoning his shirt cuffs. He wore a matching waistcoat and trousers in a beige check—a casual suit. He seemed surprised to find Duilio waiting in the narrow hall. “What are you doing here?”
Although a cousin, Joaquim was closer to Duilio than either Alessio or Erdano in both temperament and appearance. They had the same height and build, and their faces bore the stamps of the Ferreira family: square jaws and wide brows. But what made for pleasant features on Duilio’s face translated to handsome in Joaquim’s case, possibly because he had inherited his Spanish mother’s darker coloration. Duilio smiled ruefully at Joaquim’s apparent annoyance. “Who were you expecting?”
“Mrs. Domingues, bringing a pastry for my breakfast.”
Duilio rolled his eyes at the idea of such a skimpy morning meal. “Are you going to invite me in or not?”
Joaquim grabbed Duilio’s shoulder to draw him inside. “Yes, but I’m about to leave for the station.”
“I’ll walk with you.” Duilio closed the door while Joaquim went to fetch his suit coat. The apartment was furnished in items cast off from other houses, either the Tavares or the Ferreira home. Two worn armchairs, one upholstered and one covered in leather, waited near the single window in the front room. The leather one had been in Joaquim’s room in the Ferreira house as a child.
Duilio felt as much at home here as he did in his own library. He turned to peruse the mismatched bookshelves that lined the wall next to the door. Joaquim had always had an interest in history and philosophy, which showed in the selection of books neatly lining those shelves. After laying his folded newspaper on one shelf, Duilio ran a finger along the rows, hunting for the requisite volume of Camões that must lurk there.
“A woman was seen out near the houses last night,” Duilio called in the direction of the bedroom. “I need to find her.” Joaquim had a talent for finding lost people, one of the many skills for which the police valued him.
“Which houses?” Joaquim returned.
“The City Under the Sea.” Duilio located the book he was looking for, the epic poem studied by every Portuguese schoolboy wherein the author detailed the voyages of Vasco da Gama.
Joaquim came back into the room, tugging on his loose suit coat. “Doing what?”
An inspector’s pay didn’t afford him the same quality of garb he’d had as a child in the Ferreira household, but Duilio knew better than to comment on the coat’s poor fit. He could afford a fancy valet like Marcellin to turn him out in fine frock coats and silk waistcoats. In fact, he could easily afford to pay for a valet for Joaquim, but his cousin was prickly about money matters, so Duilio didn’t interfere. He pulled out the book he’d located instead. “She was in the water. . . .” he answered.
Reaching for the tweed hat on the shelf nearest the door, Joaquim paused. “Swimming?”
“Yes. That’s not what’s important. I think she was in one of the houses.”
Joaquim cast a perplexed look in his direction.
“She was meant to be a victim, Joaquim. I think she escaped from it.”
Joaquim went still as he worked out the ramifications of that. They’d assumed the victims were sacrificed to keep the houses floating, but such a use of necromancy would have to be enacted before the houses were placed in the river. The possibility that the victims had been put into those houses while still alive had never occurred to them. “If that’s true, we need to find her. How did you find out?”
“Aga saw her and told me.”
Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face, a sign of frustration. “Aga?”
Starting at the beginning would take too long. “One of Erdano’s girls. The thing is . . . I think I know the woman she described to me. It’s Miss Paredes, who’s companion to Lady Isabel Amaral.” Duilio slid the folded newspaper off the bookshelf and pointed to the questionable item on the social page. “Rumor says Lady Isabel eloped last night, in that same companion’s company, with Marianus Efisio.”
Joaquim perused the notice, a doubtful expression crossing his features. He set the paper back on the shelf. “If she eloped, how would the gossips already know?”
Duilio shook his head. That wasn’t the point. “Lady Amaral must have spread the rumor last night herself. To stave off her creditors, I’d expect.”
Joaquim rolled his dark eyes. “Oh yes. I recall the woman now.”
Duilio resisted repeating anything he’d heard of the impecunious noblewoman.
“So, what makes you think this companion was in one of the houses,” Joaquim asked, “if she’s supposedly off eloping with two other people?”
Duilio dropped into the upholstered chair, the one he usually took when visiting, and continued flipping through the book. “She wasn’t eloping with them. He went ahead. The companion was probably going along as a chaperone until the wedding.”
Joaquim settled in the other chair. “Get to the point, Duilio.”
“If I’m correct,” Duilio said, “the Amaral house was added to the artwork sometime last night, and we’ll find out that Miss Paredes wasn’t the only one who didn’t get on that train.”
“You’re suggesting that Isabel Amaral was in that house as well.” Joaquim’s fingers tapped loudly on the leather arm of his chair. “We knew we were about due for a new house to show up.”
New houses had been appearing in the artwork at roughly two-week intervals. Duilio found the passage he was looking for, stuck a finger in the book to mark the place, and closed it so he could focus on Joaquim. “My gift tells me that Isabel Amaral is dead, no matter what the newspapers claim.”
Joaquim closed
his eyes and made the sign of the cross. Duilio’s gift had been passed to all males of the Ferreira line. A cousin on the distaff side of the Ferreira family, Joaquim didn’t have the gift, but having grown up around Duilio and Alessio, he knew very well how it worked.
Duilio went on. “The only thing that makes sense of her companion’s appearance in the water at midnight is that neither of them reached the train station. To find out exactly what happened, I have to find Miss Paredes.”
“Won’t she return to the Amaral household?”
As soon as Joaquim asked, Duilio shook his head. “No. I don’t think Lady Amaral would take Miss Paredes back once she told her what happened. That woman needs people to believe her daughter alive to keep her creditors at bay. She would be more likely to hide the truth.”
Joaquim nodded slowly. Apparently, he too believed the woman would put concern about her creditors over concern for her daughter’s fate, a sad commentary on the woman’s priorities. “Then the police,” Joaquim said. “Surely your Miss Paredes would have taken her story to the police if her employer was killed.”
No, that was one place she wouldn’t go. They would ask how she could have survived if Isabel hadn’t, and Miss Paredes couldn’t reveal that. “She will not go to the police,” Duilio said firmly. “We’re going to have to hunt her down.”
Joaquim frowned. “Is that your gift speaking, too?”
How could he answer that without lying to Joaquim? He wasn’t ready to hand over all the truth yet, not until he was sure she was a sereia. “I have reason to believe she won’t go to the police.”
Joaquim’s expression showed he recognized that evasion for what it was. “I’m not supposed to be investigating this any longer.”
That had never stopped Joaquim before.
“I’ll go talk to the submersible captains,” Duilio told him, “and ask if they’ve seen a new house in the water.” A handful of entrepreneurial captains had invested in submersible crafts that could be attached to their ships, pumping air down into vessels that would allow their passengers to go underwater and view the artwork. Despite the cost of maintaining what were essentially oversized diving bells, the investment had reportedly paid off. Their tours of the artwork were filled by the idle wealthy and the curious. Duilio had even gone down in one of the vessels a couple of times himself. He tapped his fingers on the chair’s arm, weighing what he most needed from Joaquim. “Could you put together a list of places an upper servant might go if left on her own? Between positions, perhaps. Not a lot of money. A hotel or apartment?”
The Golden City Page 6
