‘Now you know it would not,’ he chided gently. ‘I never allow a woman to drive me.’
‘Well perhaps you . . .’ She changed her mind, swallowed whatever misgivings were bothering her, and said: ‘Adiós.’
Her wave was utterly carefree and Dorcas thought she must have imagined that a shadow of unease had ever crossed her smiling face. Rose Ruiz’s concern could only have been about her husband’s health. Yet he looked in excellent form. His face was without strain. In casting off his dark business suit in favour of casual sweater and slacks, he had also cast off several years. Dorcas settled back to enjoy the journey.
They passed through farming country. Enrique Ruiz kept up an interesting commentary. ‘The sickle and the wooden plough have given way to the combine and tractor, but the water is still lifted from wells dug a thousand years ago by the Arabs. Observe the many trees. The tree is the farmer’s friend. It takes from the soil and it gives back its leaves which rot and enrich the ground below.’
The road began to climb. A thin haze danced over the soaring mountain tops. Dorcas darted fascinated looks down at the sea. Flights of stone steps, lined with trees, led up to villas. But no house looked down on doña Madelena’s.
Doña Madelena insisted on their staying for an unhurried lunch. It was five o’clock before they left. The last time Dorcas had experienced the perilous road down, Carlos had been at the wheel. In places the road skimmed dangerously close to the cliff edge and its sheer drop to the sea. She had forgotten how barbarous and beautiful this stretch of coast was, and how frightening. Except that she hadn’t been frightened that other time. She had felt perfectly safe and relaxed in Carlos’s competent care. Yet don Enrique was no less proficient a driver. He eased the car round the bends with a caution that Carlos would have scorned. Carlos still leapt at life with the arrogance and impatience of youth. Don Enrique, with the wisdom of years behind him, acknowledged that man was not invincible; old age was not achieved by chance. Dorcas should have felt safer with don Enrique. It was Rose Ruiz, with her funny unsaid fear that had put her on edge.
The town was reached without mishap. Dorcas relaxed. It happened swiftly and without warning. The child dashed out of an alleyway and ran straight into the path of the car. Don Enrique swerved to miss the child and slammed on the brake. The scream of the tyres mingled with the scream in Dorcas’s throat.
She pulled at the door handle, fell out of the car and hurried across to the child, a boy with huge shocked eyes and a pulled-down mouth which opened on a protesting yell as he began to cry in earnest.
‘You didn’t hit him. Thanks to that really superb piece of driving.’
It was the English girl Dorcas had seen about the town who had spoken.
Dorcas opened her mouth to reply, but something—relief?—had closed her throat.
She swallowed the lump down. ‘I . . . I . . .’ Her eyes flashed back to the car where Enrique Ruiz was curled over the steering wheel. Dear God, no!
‘See to him,’ said the English girl. ‘I’ll stay with the boy.’
‘Yes . . . yes of course.’ With the flat of her hands she pushed herself up off the ground where she had been crouching, and ran back to the car.
‘Señor . . . ? Don Enrique?’ she said, using the respectful but friendly form of address for the first time.
The crumpled shoulders lifted. ‘I am all right, niña. Go back to the muchacho.’
Dorcas stared into the shock-frozen features. ‘You didn’t hit him. He’s shaken up, that’s all. I’ve said I’ll come back. Right now I’m going to drive you home. Move over.’
‘I will not permit a woman to drive me. I am perfectly capable. But,’ with a slight, concessionary smile, ‘if it will please you, I will allow you to sit with me. Then, if you are certain you feel up to it, you may have the car to drive back and ensure that the boy has taken no harm. Find out his name and address. Inform the boy’s mama that I will call on her within a day or so to compensate him for his fright and satisfy myself all is well. Will you do this for me?’
Dorcas said she would, and settled herself in the passenger seat. What else could she do?
At the villa, she left it to don Enrique to explain to his wife, slid behind the wheel, turned the car round and drove back to town. A small ring of spectators marked the spot.
Tom’s fiancée was in charge of the situation. She had calmed the boy down. Her arm was round his shoulders and his skinny body was pressed close into her side. She was holding him not as a troublesome nuisance, but as a precious individual who had honoured her by accepting the comfort she was only too pleased to give. The warmth in her eyes, the trust in his, was really something.
‘I’ve promised to buy Pepe the biggest ham sandwich he’s ever seen. As soon as the shock has subsided and I’m reasonably confident he won’t be sick.’
‘Have you found out where he lives?’
‘Off the main square. But it’s no good taking him home yet because his mama works in that vegetable and flower shop next to the fish market.’ Giving the thin shoulders a squeeze, she said: ‘Isn’t he a pet. You don’t suppose his mama will let me keep him?’
‘No. You’ll have to get one of your own.’
‘I’ll order one by mail catalogue.’ Her bitter laugh and cynical tone embarrassed Dorcas. ‘Silly me! It’s the other male it involves.’
‘That shouldn’t present a difficulty,’ Dorcas said, puzzled.
‘That’s what I thought too,’ she said, looking pointedly down at her engagement ring.
Dorcas continued to look awkward and miserable. If things weren’t working out for Tom Bennett and his fiancée, she was the last person to want to probe.
She was greatly relieved when Tom’s fiancée smiled breezily and said: ‘Come on. Let’s buy Pepe that sandwich. By the time he’s eaten it his mama should be home.’
When Dorcas got back to the villa, Rose Ruiz told her that her husband was resting in his room.
‘I’m afraid he can’t stand shocks like this. I’m glad you were on hand, Dorcas. Did you get the details he asked for?’
‘It’s all written down here. The name of the boy and the names of his parents and their address. I’ve even jotted down where his parents work. Try not to worry, señora.’
‘The boy? Is he unharmed?’
‘Yes. You know what boys are. He’s already looking upon it as an adventure, and enjoying the fuss being made of him.’
‘That is good. You have done well, my dear.’ Her crisp, matter-of-fact tone was skimpy cover for her concern. ‘I’m so glad Enrique didn’t hurt the boy. It would have . . .’ She didn’t finish.
At the foot of the stairs she turned to face Dorcas. ‘I almost forgot. Carlos phoned while you were out. He was sorry to miss you. Your brother is in the sala. Why don’t you ask him to pour you a drink? You’ve earned it.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Dorcas, thinking a drink wasn’t much of a sop for missing Carlos’s phone call.
She joined her brother who wanted to know what she and the señor had been up to. She told him. Not wanting to dwell on the matter, she abruptly changed the subject.
‘Michael?’
‘Yes?’
Though of the same colour, there was a cloud in her eyes that was not repeated in the glass of sherry in her hand. ‘Last time we talked, you made certain inferences. I got the impression that you’d been talking to Carlos about me. I want to know what was said.’
‘What persistence!’ Michael’s handsome mouth curled up in a smile. ‘I said to him, now look here, Charlie boy, what are you going to do about my sister?’
‘I sincerely hope you are joking.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m asking, and getting precious little sense, too.’
To her shame she knew that her temper was in danger of snapping. She took a deep breath. Said calmly and rationally: ‘Try to explain it to me without the funny cracks.’
; ‘You’re making something out of nothing, Dorcas. But very well. I thought Carlos should have it straight that in saving Feli and the kid, you’d wrote finis to your dancing career.’
‘I already know that much. If there’s more, go on.’
‘He said he was very sorry and that he wouldn’t have had it happen for anything, but that dancing wasn’t the only fulfilment. He said a warm person like you would find greater satisfaction in a husband and children. I asked him if he was telling me something. He gave me a long, sort of thoughtful look and said, Do you know I think I am. Well, then I gave him my blessing and said that I was glad he was doing the right thing by you.’
‘Oh, Michael. Oh no! You didn’t! You couldn’t have! You’ve got this fixation that I’m owed something. I hope you know what you’ve done. You’ve only made it impossible for me to accept Carlos’s proposal. I can’t accept a proposal that’s been made at pistol point. She was right.’
‘Who was?’
‘The girl who said you weren’t a very nice person.’ He didn’t say it wasn’t a girl. He didn’t say anything.
‘Was it Isabel?’
‘No. Isabel thinks I’m a very nice person. Don’t meddle in my affairs, Dorcas,’ he warned in an ominously quiet voice.
‘Why not? You’ve meddled in mine.’
‘I’ve only tried to help.’
The frustrating part of it was, he thought he was helping. His motive was suspect, but not his sincerity.
Michael went out as usual that evening. Dorcas was glad. She couldn’t have faced him across the dining table. The meal was taken in quiet preoccupation. Don Enrique put in an appearance, but he was concerned with his own thoughts. Rose Ruiz was concerned for her husband. Her glance of quiet affection scarcely left his strained face. The household retired early that night.
Dorcas had not been asleep all that long when Teresa came to wake her.
The little maid urgently jogged her arm. ‘Wake up, señorita. Please, please wake up.’
Not only was Dorcas’s mind dulled by sleep, but she was slowed down by her limited knowledge of the language. Teresa was speaking much too quickly for Dorcas to follow. The words themselves meant nothing, it was the quality of Teresa’s despair that registered on her reasoning.
Amid the spate of Spanish she caught the word that told her someone was gravely ill. Her sleep addled brain skipped back to doña Madelena’s last exhausting day.
‘Oh no!’ she gasped. ‘I knew I was wrong to let doña Madelena put so much effort into her farewells. I’ve been expecting this.’
Teresa stared at her blankly. ‘No, no, señorita. It is not the old señora who is . . .’ This time Teresa did not say ill, she said . . . ‘dying.’
No, of course not. Now Dorcas remembered that she and don Enrique had taken the señora home and left her in good health and high spirits. So who . . . ?
‘The señor,’ Teresa was saying. ‘It is the señor.’ She was weeping and twisting her hands in agitation.
Not her kind señor! And it all came back to Dorcas. The shock of nearly running over Pepe had been too great for Enrique Ruiz. She remembered seeing him crumpled over the steering wheel of his car. She had been so terribly afraid that it had been too much for his heart. And obviously it had been.
She pulled back the single sheet and scrambled out of bed, his name on her lips. ‘Don Enrique, I knew it. I knew the strain was too much for his heart.’
‘No, no, señorita. You do not understand. It is not el señor jefe. It is the young señor.’
Dorcas’s heart tripped painfully on its beat. Carlos! His name whispered like a chill wind across her bitterly frozen brain.
Teresa was saying: ‘I wonder you did not hear the noise as they carried him to his room. There is so much blood. Blood everywhere. El jefe is on the phone to el señor doctor. The señora told me to come and tell you.’
‘Was it a driving accident? Carlos goes much, much too fast in his car. For pity’s sake, don’t keep me in suspense like this. Tell me, Teresa.’
Her words leapt into the air; died. Her mind was swept clean of all but the one fact. Carlos was hurt. It didn’t matter now. He was hurt and he was here in this house, and she was wasting valuable time.
CHAPTER NINE
Teresa caught her by the strap of her cotton nightgown before she reached the bedroom door. She held out a dressing gown to her, as if the proprieties had to be observed even at a time like this.
Teresa said so gravely and so sadly: ‘It is not el señor Carlos de Ruiz.’
‘No?’
Dorcas’s spirits lifted, soared like a bird. Someone was hurt and later she would sorrow about that, but at this precious moment she could only rejoice because it wasn’t Carlos.
‘It is your brother, señorita. Señor West.’
‘Michael?’
Remorse came quickly. It was all Dorcas could do to prevent her teeth from chattering. Making a huge effort, she thanked Teresa for the dressing gown, and fastened herself into it as she went.
Michael’s bedroom seemed to be full of people. Her eyes flew beyond them to the still figure on the bed.
‘What happened? Was it a car accident?’
Don Enrique had put a car at Michael’s disposal. She was obsessed with the thought that it had to be a car accident. Yet if Michael had been pulled out of a wrecked car, surely, in the condition he was in, he would have been taken straight to hospital? Teresa was right about the blood. It was everywhere. His hair was matted with it; it was on his face and his neck and richly spattered on his white shirt front.
She felt sick. A pair of hands reached out for her. One went round her shoulders. The other took and lifted her chin and she found herself looking into Carlos’s gravely concerned eyes.
She said idiotically: ‘How could you get here so quickly?’
‘I couldn’t. I completed my business a day earlier than anticipated. I had intended staying the one more night and travelling home in the morning when I was fresh. On an impulse, or a whim, I booked out tonight. I’ve only just got here.’
‘So it could have been you involved in the car crash.’
‘What car crash?’
His eyes reflected her bewilderment.
‘The one Michael was involved in. Teresa told me the young señor was hurt, and I thought it was you.’
‘Hurt, yes. Not in a car crash, but in a fight.’
Around about this time, Dorcas began to identify other people in the room. Enrique Ruiz and, of course, Rose, his wife. Two—no three members of the staff, and surprisingly the Spaniard Dorcas had met at Tom Bennett’s garage, Paco Garcia, whom she remembered was Alfonso Roca’s right-hand man.
The compulsion of her gaze made Paco Garcia look up. He was as surprised to see Dorcas as she was to see him. Dorcas brought her attention back to Carlos.
‘Who was Michael fighting? Why was he fighting?’
Carlos chose to answer the second question first. ‘It was over a woman. Isn’t it always? It was never meant to reach this stage. I can personally vouch that Michael’s opponent is not a violent man. But, things were said, tempers flared out of control. The mallet was there and . . .’
‘Mallet? What mallet?’
‘A chef’s mallet. The argument took place in a restaurant. The speciality dish of this restaurant is chicken with a rich seasoning, topped with foie gras and truffles. It is brought to the table in a sealed clay pot. With it comes a mallet to crack open the pot. The mallet can be quite a vicious weapon when brought down on a man’s head with force.’
‘Which is what happened to Michael. I know my brother can be the most infuriating person at times, but who would want to—who did such a thing?’
‘Paco Garcia. We don’t know Michael’s side of it yet, but knowing Paco as I do, the provocation must have been justified. It looks bad, I know. It’s true that Michael has lost a lot of blood, but he has youth and a healthy constitution on his side. He was in the peak of physical fitness when this happene
d, and that must stand him in good stead.’
Dorcas knew she should be grateful for the platitudes. Instead of having the desired calming effect, they irritated her. She wanted fact, however gruesome, not supposition, however comforting.
Fact: The doctor had been sent for. Where was he? Head injuries are always serious. The doctor should be here now. Fact: Michael and Paco Garcia had been fighting over a woman. What was her name?
‘I want you to look after Isabel,’ Carlos said. ‘Will you do this for me while I try to find out what is keeping the doctor?’
‘Isabel! Is she here?’ Dorcas said in surprise.
Her glance stretched round the room to where Isabel was sitting. She wore a glowing ruby gown with an insert of black lace following the swell of her breasts. Her black lace mantilla was supported by a high tortoiseshell comb. Dimly at the back of Dorcas’s mind was the thought that the mantilla, worn in this way with a high comb, was reserved for special occasions. Nothing enhances a woman’s beauty more than to have her face framed in black lace, with a black lace peak teasing down on her forehead. But what struck Dorcas more than Isabel’s beauty was her bird-like fragility. Her raven-black eyes pecked out troubled looks in her pale, trapped face. She thinks Michael is going to die, thought Dorcas.
Dorcas bit her lip hard and turned savagely on Carlos. ‘Why wasn’t Michael taken to hospital? If he’d been taken straight to hospital, he would have had instant medical attention.’
‘I agree. Don’t blame me. I wasn’t there, remember?’
‘No. Michael was there, and Paco Garcia was there. Presumably the woman they were fighting over was there?’
The question invited more than Carlos’s brief: ‘Yes.’ He added: ‘The details will have to wait. I’m wasting time. I must find out what is happening.’
The hand on her shoulder dropped to give her fingers a brief squeeze. Before he left the room, he paused to have a word with Isabel Roca. The Spanish girl immediately got up and came over to sit next to Dorcas.
‘Carlos has gone to hurry things up.’
‘Yes.’
Dorcas wondered where Isabel fitted in all this. She had already decided in her mind that Michael had made trouble between Paco and his woman. Had Isabel also been dining at the restaurant? If she had been there to see what happened, it would explain her being here. She looked, somehow, too young to be caught up in this unsavoury situation.
Dancing in the Shadows Page 14
