The Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  Miss Paredes nodded toward it. “What is this?”

  Duilio pulled the sheet of foolscap closer. “We’ve done our best to put together a chronological chart of every event pertaining to The City Under the Sea.”

  She nodded her head slowly, eyes still downcast. “I found much of this information in the newspapers. I just didn’t think to lay it out this way. It’s clever.”

  Duilio shifted closer to her on the couch. “This starts just over a year ago, when the first house, the Duarte mansion, was discovered in the water. And this,” he said, pointing, “in early September, was when we put together the reports of missing servants with the timing of the appearance of the houses in the water. Then we were ordered to close the investigation.”

  “And then it was the Amaral house,” Miss Paredes said softly.

  Duilio sat back. “Espinoza is the only person we definitely have connected to this,” he said, “so several of these entries pertain to our efforts to find him.”

  She touched a date shortly after the fifth house was placed. “Espinoza stopped giving interviews about this time. The papers said he tired of being hounded by the writers.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That sounds right.”

  “He lived in Matosinhos before he became famous,” she said, naming a town only a few miles north of the Golden City. It was on the Leça River, the site of the unfinished port of Leixões. “He must have come to the Golden City about two or three years ago, I think, but I didn’t find anything about where he lives or works now.”

  “He was renting a flat in Massarelos parish,” Duilio said, “but moved out about a year before the first house was placed. We’ve not been able to trace where he went from there. Not so far. He had to have had space to build the houses and a way to get supplies. But he’s essentially building small boats, and there are dozens of boatbuilders in this city and the neighboring ones. He could be hiding among those.”

  “They’re not boats,” she pointed out. “The house continued to float after it filled with water. The newspapers say there’s a charm on the top of each that keeps them floating. Could you hunt for the person who made those?”

  Duilio frowned. “The charms are of questionable effectiveness. They do nothing more than make sailors feel safer. And anyone can put together a charm, I’m afraid, Miss Paredes.”

  “Oh.” She looked back down to the timeline. “How many people do you think it takes to build these . . . things and submerge them? The newspaper articles said there must be dozens.”

  “I don’t think so. Keeping a secret with that many people is nearly impossible, and Espinoza has managed. I think we’re talking about one dozen at most. Unless there’s some cause they’re espousing,” Duilio added. “If they have a cause, they’re more likely to keep their mouths shut.”

  “What cause could this possibly serve?” Miss Paredes’ lips thinned, her eyes taking on the same hurt look he’d seen in the submersible. She’d shifted away from him, her black-clad hands clenched tightly in her lap. “What is the point of killing so many, and in such a manner?”

  She, more than anyone else alive, had the right to ask that question. Duilio just wished he had an answer. “Perhaps your meeting tomorrow night will give us that information. Did you not tell me that you had a sketch of the table?”

  “It’s not much,” she said. “I couldn’t remember any of the symbols in the inner ring, so what I have may not be useful.”

  “It’s more than we had yesterday morning,” Duilio assured her. He wanted to set her at ease, talk about something trivial, but he suspected this was better done swiftly. So he asked her questions about the coachman who’d accosted her and drugged her, about the man who’d drawn her into the boat with Silva, about the voices she’d heard from inside the replica, and even the rattling of the chains she’d heard. He tried to recall everything she’d said the day before in the bathroom, so as not to make her repeat herself.

  “How did you get out of the replica?” he asked. “Was there a door?”

  “No,” she said. “I kicked at the upper corner of the roof—well, the floor, since it was upside down—and it gave eventually. I managed to squeeze out. The damage wasn’t visible from the submersible, just a line of light from inside. From the table.”

  He hadn’t seen that damage, but he hadn’t known where to look either. “And you were wearing the housemaid’s costume.” That would be the “black and white” that Aga had reported.

  She nodded jerkily. “I’d lost the cap but I still had the apron on. I tore up the apron to bandage my hand once I was on the quay.”

  Bandage her hand? “Then what did you do?”

  “I don’t know how long I stood there.” She was being careful not to look at him, he noted, perhaps trying to keep her words impersonal. “Eventually I made my way to the Amaral house. I went in through the back. The butler found me there and sent for Lady Amaral. I told her that Isabel had been grabbed by someone, but I couldn’t tell her what had actually happened.”

  “She doesn’t know you’re a sereia?”

  She shook her head. “I told Lady Amaral I’d been drugged and dumped off a bridge. I said I didn’t know what had become of Isabel.”

  He could understand the lie. She’d had a lot to lose that night. “Did she believe you?”

  “I don’t know. She said I was a lying . . .” Miss Paredes paused. “She fired me and ordered me out of the house.”

  Without a care for her welfare, he surmised, even after more than a year of service. Lady Amaral couldn’t afford to act as if her daughter wasn’t safely married, so Miss Paredes had to be silenced. He suddenly liked Lady Amaral even less. “So, where did you go from there?”

  “I’d hidden my bag next to the coal room steps.” Her hands began to shake. “I stayed there, hiding down by the steps until after dawn, trying to plan what to do. I had a bit of money in my bag and some extra clothes. The first footman has a relative with a boarding house, so I went there.”

  Duilio couldn’t imagine what he’d do in the same circumstances, having watched a friend die, left on the quay after midnight with no family to turn to, unable to go to the police, and soaked to the skin. He hoped he would have acted with the same presence of mind.

  He reached over and patted her folded hands, hoping to reassure her. “That’s all I need at the moment,” he said. “I suspect I’ll come up with a dozen more questions by this afternoon. I usually stop into the library in the evening before I go up to my room. If you think of something you want to discuss with me, you could leave a note on my desk.”

  She nodded briskly, her posture still rigid. “Is that all?”

  She seemed eager to escape him, so he moved to the end of the sofa. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Should I go get that sketch for you?”

  “I would appreciate that,” he said.

  Miss Paredes rose, forcing him to rise also. She fell only an inch or two short of his height, tall for a woman but not shockingly so. He stepped to one side to allow her to pass. Her black skirt brushed his thigh as she did so. The contact, even unintentional, startled him.

  He found himself looking into her eyes. They glistened. In general, he didn’t react to women’s tears—they were too often a sham. But everything within him believed Miss Paredes in that moment. He wanted to talk to her, to comfort her somehow. He felt the urge to draw her into his arms, no matter how inappropriate that might be between master and servant. He shook his head to dispel that idea.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll be back directly,” Miss Paredes stammered.

  Duilio watched her go, wondering if sereia had any powers of attraction other than their call, the song that drew men to them. That sudden urge to comfort her, so very out of place for him, surprised him.

  Felis read on, her voice sibilant. The maid hadn’t looked in their direction, Duilio observed, and so probably h
adn’t noticed anything amiss. His mother hadn’t either, no doubt.

  He knew very little about Miss Paredes, but he could remedy that. He would love to spend a few hours talking with her—about something other than death. It was an enticing thought. But it would take longer than hours, he suspected, to learn all he wanted to know. It might take years.

  And he didn’t think they had that much time. She was a spy. She had her own agenda and was here in his house only until they found Espinoza. Sooner or later, she would be gone. So by the time she returned from her bedroom at the top of the stairs, he’d managed to quell his curiosity. Her eyes were red, making him suspect she’d allowed herself to cry once out of his sight, but she seemed composed now.

  He took the folded piece of paper she handed him with a grave nod. When he opened it, he saw the rings she’d described, with three words in Latin. “Me, however, and . . . house.”

  Something teased at the corner of his mind. He should know those words. There was something familiar about them.

  “Is that what they mean?” Miss Paredes asked. “Is it Latin?”

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s how the words translate, although I have no idea what they mean. I have to wonder what the other half said.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I couldn’t see anything on that side.”

  He was impressed she’d recalled all the small details she had. Not all witnesses were as useful. “We’ll figure it out, Miss Paredes. Now, I’ll be gone most of the day, but I’ll keep you apprised. I’m sure my mother will have preparations to make for the ball tomorrow night, so I’ll leave you ladies to your work.”

  Miss Paredes, silk-covered hands neatly folded in front of her, didn’t look at him this time. “Yes, of course, sir,” she said without emotion. “We’ll take care of everything.”

  A very professional answer, as if she, too, had reminded herself of proper demeanor while upstairs. The mask was necessary if she was to survive in the Golden City. How difficult it must be never to let anyone see who she truly was. She was a sereia first and a spy second, yet neither of those labels told him who she was.

  CHAPTER 13

  After Mr. Ferreira left, Oriana sat down on the sofa, letting Felis continue to read. She should be doing that herself, but her nerves were rattled.

  She hadn’t reckoned it would be so hard to discuss Isabel’s death again. It had been easier the first time. She’d been able to tell Mr. Ferreira the facts of what had happened then, without letting herself feel anything, perhaps because she’d been on the defensive after he’d uncovered her identity. This time, though, he had looked at her as if he felt compassion for her. That had almost been her undoing. She had managed to hold back the tears until she reached the safety of her bedroom, saving herself that embarrassment.

  Oriana wiped at her eyes surreptitiously with the tip of one finger, took a deep breath, and went to take over the reading. Felis looked old enough to be Lady Ferreira’s mother, but clearly had all her wits about her. Her hawklike eyes raked over Oriana, her attire, her too-narrow shoes, and then turned solicitously back to her mistress. “Lady, are you truly planning on going out Thursday night? I am pleased. It’s about time.”

  The lady nodded. “Yes. Will you pick something for me to wear? Something that would be appropriate. I’ll come see what you’ve picked out later.”

  Oriana hid her surprise. Isabel would never have let her maid pick out her garb, which hinted that either Lady Ferreira trusted Felis implicitly or that she didn’t care what she wore. The maid left swiftly, and Oriana spent an hour reading about the business of building boats. It calmed her nerves and, if nothing else, she would learn about boats while she was here.

  Despite the fact that she’d spent the past year dealing with Isabel’s fits and starts, entertaining Lady Ferreira did turn out to be more difficult than Oriana expected, just as Mr. Ferreira had promised. She spent the remainder of the morning trying to engage the lady in conversation. At first she read the newspaper aloud, but as soon as she’d completed a few sentences, the lady’s attention would wander back to the windows. Fortunately, Oriana was well schooled in patience. Isabel had been prone to dramatic fits of melancholy. Oriana had gotten plenty of practice cajoling her out of those. After a time, she hit on the idea of asking if Lady Ferreira wished to go out onto the second-floor balcony that looked out toward the river.

  That suggestion roused the lady from her daydreams. She settled an old-fashioned lace mantilla over her neatly twisted brown hair and accompanied Oriana up to the gallery that led out onto the balcony. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the light. She laid elegant hands on the wrought-iron railing, her eyes seeking the narrow band of water visible from that particular spot on the Street of Flowers.

  Oriana took a deep breath of the air, still humid from the previous evening’s rain. The sounds of traffic on the Street of Flowers and birds squabbling along the river’s edge touched her ears, but neither was as seductive as the distant rush of the water, barely detectable this far into the city. Perhaps it was only her desire that made her hear it. The water called her, always at the back of her mind and heart, the reason few of her people ever strayed far from the ocean.

  The lady’s eyes rested on the view of the river, gray under overcast skies. “My sons worry if I come out here alone,” she said after a time.

  Oriana cast a glance at Lady Ferreira’s lovely face. The woman had only one son now. Surely that was what the maid Teresa had told her. Alessio Ferreira had died well over a year ago. Some scandal had attached to the gentleman’s death, but Teresa hadn’t supplied any details. She’d shown Oriana a photograph of the man, though, kept on the mantel in the front sitting room in a well-worn silver frame. Alessio had strongly resembled his mother—strikingly attractive, more beautiful than handsome. Oriana decided he must remain alive in his mother’s mind, prompting her to speak of her sons. “Are they concerned you’ll take ill?”

  “No.” Lady Ferreira hugged her arms about herself. “I miss the sea.”

  Well, she certainly understood that. It made her think Lady Ferreira a kindred spirit. She touched the lady’s elbow. “Can you not go down to the water?”

  “Here in this house, Duilinho can keep me safe,” the lady said in a firm voice, almost a mantra. She ran her hands along the railing as if it were her cage.

  “From whom?”

  Lady Ferreira shuddered delicately. “That bastard Paolo. He would see my son dead.”

  Dead? Mr. Ferreira hadn’t mentioned that anyone wanted him dead. And who was Paolo? Oriana leaned forward, trying to read Lady Ferreira’s expression. “And what of your other son? Does this Paolo seek to kill him also?”

  Lady Ferreira looked up sharply and laid a slender hand on Oriana’s arm, her seal-brown eyes fearful. “Paolo mustn’t know about Erdano. That’s why I can’t go back to Braga Bay. He might follow me to Erdano, and then Erdano would die, too.”

  Erdano? Who was that? Oriana was certain Teresa hadn’t mentioned any Erdano. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  Lady Ferreira wiped one eye with the edge of her mantilla. “I only have my sons left now. I will do what I must to protect them, even if it means never going near the water again.”

  That didn’t clarify much. Clearly Erdano wasn’t another name for the dead Alessio, though. He must be yet another son, sired by a different man, perhaps a former husband. Even so, Oriana couldn’t imagine why the lady would go to Braga Bay to see him. There was no settlement at that secluded bay north of the city. It was tiny, more a cove than a bay . . . and only the seal people lived on that narrow strip of sandy beach beneath the cliffs.

  Oriana gazed down at Lady Ferreira’s worried face; her delicate, pointed features; and large dark eyes and something strange occurred to her. Unlike Oriana’s own people, the seals took human form—a completely human form—when they shed their pelts. Could it be?<
br />
  Mr. Ferreira had promised her that she would be safe in this household. Perhaps he’d felt safe offering that promise because his mother was as much at risk as she was. That would definitely need discussion when she could catch him next.

  • • •

  Duilio found Joaquim at the café nearest the police station in Massarelos parish. It was Joaquim’s usual stop for lunch when he had time—the Café Brilhante. The tables had elegant white cloths and shining cutlery but didn’t cater to an upper-class clientele. Duilio liked the place. He wended his way through the crowded café to the table near the back, where Joaquim sat. It was, rather predictably, in a corner with a good view of the entryway, but Duilio managed to sit down before a distracted Joaquim could rise to greet him. “What are you working on?”

  Joaquim straightened a handful of papers and slid them back into a folder. “Another case. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  Duilio translated that as meaning a case Joaquim didn’t want his aid on—not yet. Joaquim often investigated cases other inspectors had given up on, usually on his own time. He was too stubborn to quit. “I see. Have you ordered?”

  After learning that Joaquim had, Duilio waved over one of the waiters. It was noisy in the place, but everyone seemed inclined to mind their own business. At least he needn’t yell at Joaquim, as he must in some cafés. “Miss Paredes took the position as Mother’s companion.”

  The waiter arrived, and Duilio ordered coffee and a large lunch while Joaquim sat shaking his head. Once the waiter had gone, Joaquim frowned. “You hired her? Why didn’t you just bring her to meet me down at the station?”