Vendetta in Spain ddr-2

by Dennis Wheatley

  The shouts of 6 Viva el Rey! Viva la ReinaF were now deafening. On both sides of the street there was a sea of waving hats and a cascade of blossoms being thrown into the roadway where the coach would pass. The King was leaning out of its left-hand window acknowledging the roar of acclamation that was going up from the stand, and at the same time pointing out to the Queen the old church of Santa Maria that towered up behind it. To see the church better his lovely golden-haired wife, her face radiant with excitement, was leaning right across him. At that moment, from a high window in a house opposite, a big bouquet of flowers was thrown and came swishing down towards the coach.

  As the bouquet landed there came a blinding flash, an explosion like a crash of thunder, and a blast that sent nearby troops and people reeling in all directions. A great cloud of black smoke billowed up, so dense that for several moments the coach was hidden in it. Angela was only one of scores of women in the stand who gave a piercing scream, but for once de Quesnoy ignored her.

  The cream Andalusians, terrified by the explosion, were rearing, plunging, whinnying. They had already dragged the coach several yards forward and threatened to bolt with it. In an instant de Quesnoy had leapt over the low front of the stand, thrust his way through the panic-stricken people, and was out in the roadway. Flinging himself at the near leader he seized its nose-band, dragged down its head and brought it to a halt.

  As the smoke cleared he saw that the English officers in Mr. Young's house nearby had not been less prompt to act than himself. Followed by the British Ambassador they had rushed from the house and Colonel Wyndham was the first to reach the now white-faced Queen who, with the King's arm about her, was standing in the roadway.

  He saw, too, that the bomb had exploded under the off-wheel horse, shattering its legs and ripping open its belly. Had the coach not been brought to a halt at the very moment the bomb was thrown it must have been hit and blown to pieces; and, even so, had the Queen not leant right over to look out of its left-hand window she would almost certainly have been struck by several of the splinters.

  The royal couple had escaped by a miracle, but the bomb had disintegrated into a hundred deadly fragments, one of them actually cutting in two the gold chain of Carlos III that the King was wearing round his neck, and the others had caused appalling havoc. The coachman had tumbled from his box and lay groaning in the road. Two soldiers lay dead near him and a dozen spectators had been killed or wounded. The Major of the Escort had been thrown from his horse and was smothered with blood, the gilded front of the coach was now dripping red with gore, smears of it showed crimson on the white satin shoes and train of the Queen. There was blood everywhere.

  After the first shock she showed great bravery; putting her hand to her heart she even managed to give the horrified crowd a reassuring smile. Don Alfonso, too, displayed the personal courage for which he was already renowned. With perfect calmness he immediately took command of the situation. As his brother-in-law, Don Carlos, came running up he told him to go back to his coach at once and assure the two mothers in it that the Queen and himself were unharmed. Then, as the Crown coach could no longer be used, he kissed his wife and led her forward, shielding her as far as he could from the sight of the dead and wounded, to the empty Coach of Respect, so that they could resume their drive to the Palace in it. At the sight of his calmness the crowd temporarily stunned and murmuring angrily, suddenly broke into renewed cheers, mingled with cries of blessing and thanksgiving.

  Having handed the Queen into the coach, the King ordered that it should continue its journey at a slow pace, and got in beside her. De Quesnoy waited until it moved off, then returned to the stand.

  As he mounted the steps at its end he saw that a little knot of people were standing bunched together at the place where he and Angela had been sitting. A moment later he joined them. They were facing inward looking down at something and talking in hushed voices. He heard a man among them say, 'And such a beautiful woman, too.' Then, peering between their heads he saw what it was at which they were looking. It was Angela.

  She was lying back limply in her own seat against the tier of seats above. Her mouth hung open and the brim of her big hat with the yellow roses now stobd up at a grotesque angle owing to the back of it being crushed beneath her head; but someone had reverently crossed her hands upon her breast. A little lower down there was a small jagged hole in her satin dress, a broken strip of corset whalebone protruded from it and its edges were stained with blood.

  Transfixed by horror de Quesnoy stared down at her. He had seen death too often not to recognize it on sight. In vain he strove to persuade himself that he was the victim of some ghastly nightmare out of which he would soon struggle with a gasp of relief. The death and bloodshed in the street from which he had just come made the truth only too plain. Barely a second before he jumped from the stand a fragment of the accursed bomb had hit Angela. The thing he stared down on with the gaping mouth in which the tongue lolled back was not his beautiful Angela. She was gone, and with her had gone the child that was to bring them so much joy.

  A voice near him said in English, 'Count, I cannot find words to express . . . I, er . . . was seated just behind her. At least she can have felt little pain. As you leapt into the street she gave one cry and fell back. It was all over almost instantly.'

  Turning his head slowly de Quesnoy recognized Sir Derek Keppel, who had come over in the suite of the Prince of Wales. Another voice said in Spanish, 'It was so, Senor Conde. I, too, witnessed this tragedy from close by. Look, there are ambulances now arriving in the street. Let us summon one of them to take the poor lady to the hospital.'

  'No.' De Quesnoy found his voice suddenly, although it came only as a hoarse croak. 'I'll not have my wife's body exposed in a public morgue.' Stepping forward he picked Angela up in his arms, but then gazed round with haggard eyes, apparently uncertain what to do next.

  Another Spaniard spoke. 'Permit me to recall myself to you, Senor Conde. I am the Marques de la Vera. My carriage is waiting behind the church. Allow me to place it at your disposal.'

  Glancing up, de Quesnoy recognized a short, fair-haired man to whom he had been introduced at a reception a few nights earlier. With an effort he blurted out, Thank you, Marques. Please . . . show me the way to it.'

  With murmurs of sympathy the little crowd parted. The Marques led the way, first up the stand then down a staircase behind it, through a narrow alley that ran along one side of the church and so into Madrid's oldest and most picturesque square, the Plaza Mayor. Parallel with the shady colonnades on all its four sides private carriages were lined up waiting for their owners. The Marques gestured towards one and cast an anxious glance at de Quesnoy, fearing that he must succumb under the weight of his burden. But the Count's slim figure was deceptive; his muscles were iron hard and he was immensely strong. At the moment he was not even conscious of the weight of the body he was carrying but, still half dazed, was saying bitterly to himself over and over again, 'Never again. Never again.'

  When they reached the carriage and he had laid Angela on the front seat the Marquds ordered the hood to be put up and said, 'You are staying with the Cordobas, are you not?'

  On de Quesnoy's nodding, he ordered his coachman to drive to the Palacio de Cordoba. The Count, Sir Derek and the Marques settled themselves on the back seat. The little group that had accompanied them, several of whom were openly crying, bowed reverently and crossed themselves; then the carriage pulled out of the line and drove off.

  Slowly, for now that the crowds had broken up even the back streets were filled with strolling people, they circumvented the Puerta del Sol and the Calle Alcala, crossed the wide Paseo del Prado and reached a narrow street running parallel to the Calle Serrano. In it was situated the early eighteenth-century Palacio with its long rows of windows from each of which bellied out an ornamental iron grille. Behind the Palace was a spacious garden and beyond that a more modern block facing on the Recoletos, just below the Plaza de Colon, in which the
Coralles banking business was conducted.

  The Palace was almost deserted, as the two Condes with their wives and de Vendome had been bidden to the State luncheon at the Royal Palace and the servants had been given leave to go out to see the procession. The elderly janitor, who was still in his box, roused from his siesta as de Quesnoy passed him carrying Angela's body; but as he was not called on he assumed that she had only fainted from the heat, and promptly returned to his basket chair.

  De Quesnoy, still with his mind repeating, 'Never again. Never again,' had automatically murmured his thanks to the Marques and Sir Derek, and now he carried Angela across the hall of the Palace, up one side of the great horseshoe staircase, through the lofty picture gallery and up further flights of stairs to the suite they had been given. In its bedroom he laid her gently on the big four-poster bed, then sank down in a chair beside it, burying his head in his hands.

  Meanwhile at the Royal Palace the earlier arrivals knew nothing of the attempted assassination until later ones, who had been within hearing of the bomb's explosion, told them about it.

  When the Sovereigns made their appearance everyone crowded round to express sympathy for them in their ordeal, and relief at their escape. The King waved the episode aside as the act of a madman and declared that the extraordinary enthusiasm shown by the crowds all along the route was ample proof of the loyalty of the Spanish people, and that they had taken his beautiful Queen to their hearts. He then decreed that the celebrations should continue as if nothing unusual had happened and, soon after one o'clock, he and his guests went in to lunch.

  The Cordobas did not get back to their Palacio until well on in the afternoon, then, after a belated siesta, they had to dress and go again to the Royal Palace to attend the State banquet. The Infanta, her husband and de Vendome went by right of her position as the King's aunt; Conde Jose and his wife because - apart from the Coralles' millions, which had been brought into the family two generations earlier, making him one of the most powerful men in Spain - he was the head of one of its most ancient families and, as the de Cordoba, entitled to address the King as cousin.

  Besides the de Quesnoys they had a number of other guests, mostly relatives who lived in the country, staying for the celebrations. These dined in the Palacio then went out to see the fireworks and illuminations. By midnight, tired but cheerful, they returned and congregated in the great drawing-room, from the walls of which tall paintings of past Cordobas by Velasquez, Zurbaran and Goya looked down. They were joined soon afterwards by their host and hostess, the Infanta, Conde Ruiz and Frangois de Vendome, and settled down with nightcaps to talk over the events of the day.

  De Vendome was helping himself to a brandy and soda from the table of drinks near the door, when his eye was caught by the Major-domo who was standing just outside it. Setting down his glass he stepped over to the man and asked,

  4 What is it, Eduardo?'

  The elderly white-haired servant nervously fingered the silver chain of office that he wore round his neck, and replied, 'Your Highness, I am worried about the Count and Countess de Quesnoy. They did not appear at dinner and none of the staff I have questioned has seen them since they went out this morning. Yet they are upstairs in their suite. Agusto, the footman who is valeting the Count, and the maid who is attending on the Countess, went up to lay out Their Excellencies' evening things. The dressing-room was empty and the bedroom door locked. On their knocking the Count called to them in an angry voice to go away and not come back. Fearing they must be unwell, or perhaps overtired, I went up myself after dinner and offered to bring them something up on a tray, but with the same result. What can possibly have caused them to refuse food and lock themselves in? I am afraid there must be something wrong.'

  The Prince's young face showed swift concern, and he said, 'I fear you are right, Eduardo. I'll go up and find out.'

  Ten minutes later he re-entered the drawing-room, now white to the lips and with his hands trembling slightly. His mother was the first to catch sight of him, and she exclaimed in a loud voice:

  'Whatever is the matter, Francois? You look as if you had seen a ghost.'

  He stared back into her plump face with its fleshy Bourbon nose, then gazed helplessly round at the others. The two Condes, resplendent in satin knee-breeches and full court dress, were standing together: Ruiz was slim and elegant with a pale face and dark side whiskers; Jose was more strongly built and had a ruddier complexion partially hidden by a flowing moustache and black spade-shaped beard. It was the latter who broke the sudden hush that had fallen, by saying with, for him, unaccustomed sharpness:

  'Come, boy! Don't stand there gaping. Tell us what has upset you.'

  'It's Angela!' de Vendome gasped. 'She was struck by a fragment of the bomb and ... and killed. De Quesnoy brought her back here and carried her up to their room. He's been sitting beside her body all these hours. He . .. he's utterly distraught. I fear for his reason.'

  'Dios! but this is terrible,' cried the Infanta. 'We must. .

  The rest of her sentence was drowned in a chorus of exclamations of horror. De Vendome had burst into tears. Every face in the room showed shock and distress, with one exception. The beautiful Condesa Gulia was seated in a low chair a little behind the others; her magnificent eyes had narrowed slightly and she was smiling.

  One of her guests - an aunt of her husband - happened to turn and catch sight of her expression. Giving her a puzzled look, the old the aftermath

  lady said tartly, There is nothing to smile at in this, Gulia. To weep for the poor Count would be more fitting.'

  Instantly the smile on Gulia's full red lips disappeared, and with a surprised lift of her fine eyebrows she replied, 'Did I appear to be smiling, Dona Ines? I certainly was not. It must have been the shadow thrown on my face by those flowers between us and the lamp standard that deceived you. No one could be more upset by this tragedy than myself.'

  But she was lying. She had neither particularly liked nor disliked Angela as a person, and, as she was not an evil woman, she would not have wished her dead. But she was an intensely passionate one and, quite unconsciously, de Quesnoy had aroused in her an emotion that went to the roots of her being.

  She had been thinking, Tt was because of his devotion to his wife that he would not even look at me. And now she is dead . . . dead. It will take him time to get over it, but when he has I'll make him look at me with seeing eyes. He'll become my lover then. What bliss that would be. For that I'll risk anything - even Jose's learning about us and throwing me out into the street.'

  2

  The Aftermath

  The state of mute despair in which Frangois de Vendome had found de Quesnoy had certainly given the young man grounds to fear for his friend's reason, but, in fact, the Count was much too well-balanced for even so terrible a shock to affect him permanently. Nevertheless it was not until several days after Angela's funeral that his manner again became anything approaching normal.

  During them he spent most of his time in a small sitting-room that de Cordoba had offered him as a sanctum; and, in order not to depress the other guests, had asked to have his meals served there. De Vendome had brought Father Tomaso, the Cordobas' chaplain, to see him and urge upon him the consolations of religion, but he had politely declined them on the grounds that, although nominally a Catholic, he had long since ceased to be a practising one. However, Angela had become a convert to the Roman faith before her first Carriage, so he willingly accepted the good Father's offer to make arrangements for her burial.

  21

  The bomb had killed thirty people and wounded over a hundred. On the afternoon of his wedding the King had visited the injured in hospital and he had then ordered that a State funeral should be given to the dead. The majority were conveyed to the cemetery on nine enormous hearses through weeping crowds, but a few of the bereaved families preferred to arrange private interments, among them that of the Marquesa de Tolosa. She had been seated on the second floor balcony of the house from whic
h the bomb had been thrown and, as her family were friends of the Cordobas, Father Tomaso arranged that a Requiem Mass should be celebrated for the Marquesa and Angela together.

  While de Quesnoy remained mainly in seclusion he found his greatest solace in his host, who devoted much time to sitting with him. The backgrounds of the two men could hardly have been less similar. De Quesnoy's had been an open-air life of travel, soldiering, war and sport, whereas the Conde had never been outside Europe, neither hunted, fished nor shot, and spent most of his time immersed in his banking activities, his only outdoor interest being as a naturalist with the finest collection of butterflies in the country. Yet they had certain things in common. Both of them came from ancient families and were passionately convinced Monarchists; both were well read and particularly interested in history and ancient religions; and both had a wide knowledge of international relations. So, after a day or two, by coaxing de Quesnoy to discuss these subjects, the Conde found that for a while he could take his guest's mind off his bereavement.

  At the end of the week's wedding celebrations the Cordobas' other guests left for their homes and de Quesnoy raised the matter of his own departure; but, as he had not been able to bring himself to make any plans, the Conde insisted that he should stay on, at least for another week or two, and he gladly accepted.

  It was no small part of his affliction that with the loss of Angela he had become completely rootless. When writing to break the news of her death to her parents he had also written to his agents instructing them to break off negotiations for the house near Berkeley Square as, now that he had become a widower, it would have been much too large for him. Moreover, although his relations with her family were pleasant enough and he knew they would willingly continue to accept him as a member of it, he found most of them distinctly dull, and without her to make it tolerable he felt most averse to condemning himself to the pointless social life they led.