by Babs Horton
Now he knew the truth, but it was too late to make amends. He trembled with the enormity of the knowledge imparted to him.
Piadora hadn’t had a baby at all! She’d never been pregnant. It was all a pack of lies! The fact that she’d had a liaison with some chap was just used as an excuse. It was Isabella who had given birth to the child! She had hurried Piadora away to her younger sister Augusta, who must have been in on the deception. At the time Isabella’s husband had been out in South America so it had been easy to cover up.
Months later she had returned to the Villa Castelo with the baby but Piadora had not returned with her. Piadora had been left, banished, blamed and ignored. Bad blood would out! Isabella’s blood!
May she rot in hell! He grew red in the face as he climbed the track to Santa Eulalia. Isabella hadn’t told him who the father of the child was. She had told him, however, that she had not left the monastery to the brothers as she had promised Brother Anselm. Brother Francisco sighed; Santa Eulalia was breathing its last. Now he had to impart the news to the monks. They would have a few months at the most before they were asked to leave.
Brother Anselm watched Padraig avidly as the boy bent down to inspect the statue thoroughly. His hands shook and he had to grasp the binoculars tightly to keep the boy in his sights. He was a clever little devil this one, that was for sure; poking his nose into things that didn’t concern him.
Brother Bernardo had told him earlier how lovely it was that the boy had been so interested in those damned frescoes. But he wouldn’t get his hands on Anselm’s treasures, not if he had anything to do with it. He’d made damned sure that that other meddlesome Irishman Leary had stopped snooping about. A couple of pot-shots had laid him low and dampened his curiosity.
The boy looked up at where Brother Anselm stood at the window and as he did the monk drew back inside the room. As the boy climbed the path and got closer he trained the binoculars on his face, watching him until he turned the bend and was lost to sight.
He remained at the window for some time until eventually he saw Brother Francisco toiling doggedly up the track. As he got closer, Brother Anselm saw the expression on his face and he knew without being told that as Isabella Martinez had approached death she had needed to confess. He wondered with a shudder just how much she had told Brother Francisco.
He swivelled now and looked to his left out across the meadows. As he steadied the binoculars he noticed the small man standing motionless in the long grass. Brother Anselm knew that the man was looking back at him and a tight knot of fear twisted in his guts.
When Nancy Carmichael failed to appear for lunch and by late afternoon still hadn’t arrived back at the monastery, Father Daley began to get worried. He sent Padraig off into the grounds to look for her while he looked round inside the monastery. Although Padraig searched among the barns and in the kitchen garden there was no sign of Nancy anywhere.
Padraig and Father Daley walked down the track towards the hamlet calling out her name as they went.
“Where on earth do you think she’s gone to? I mean there’s no shops or anything around,” Father Daley said.
“The thing is, Father, she’s been acting a bit odd lately.”
“How do you mean, Padraig?”
“Well, she drinks wine for a start, and Miss Drew and her were always preaching about the evils of the demon drink back in Ballygurry.”
“I suppose.”
“And,” said Padraig, “she has taken to going without her stockings; now, that is very odd, don’t you think?”
“Is it?”
“Of course! Have you ever seen Miss Carmichael’s bare legs before?”
“Er, no, not that I’ve noticed.”
“And she laughs more.”
“That’s true.”
On the side of the riverbank they found her lace-up shoes and a folded handkerchief but there was no sign of Nancy Carmichael.
It was cool and dark in the monastery chapel. Brother Francisco entered quietly and found Brother Anselm and Brother Thomas near the front of the chapel on their knees, heads bent in prayer.
Brother Francisco kneeled beside them breathing heavily, his heart beating rapidly. Brother Thomas smiled across at Francisco, got to his feet and left the chapel.
When Francisco was sure that they were alone he said, “Don’t beat about the bush, Anselm. You knew Isabella Martinez well for many years. Tell me the truth. Did you know about the baby?”
Brother Anselm turned round slowly to face Brother Francisco.
“I did, God forgive me,” he said and lowered his eyes.
“And you did nothing?”
“What exactly did Isabella tell you?”
“That she was pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband and the only way she could save face was by pretending the baby was Piadora’s, to save her marriage. It was a despicable, disgraceful thing to do to her own child.”
“That’s true, Francisco, but her husband by all accounts was a very jealous man. He would have gone berserk if he’d known the truth, probably killed her. She was a desperate woman, you understand.”
“Well she pulled the wool over your eyes all right. A jealous man! He was a wonderful man, a gentle, sensitive soul.”
“I didn’t know,” Brother Anselm stammered. “She told me that he was a monster of a man.”
“A monster! The only monster in this sad story was Isabella. And she sacrificed her own daughter, let her husband believe that Piadora had given birth to the illegitimate child. Her husband was away in South America for almost a year while this was all going on. The poor man died not long afterwards, believing all those lies. God knows what sort of life Piadora’s had living with her Aunt Augusta, never being allowed home…and now to cap it all she’s run off somewhere, so there isn’t any way of contacting her.”
Brother Anselm was trembling and his chest creaked with the effort of breathing.
“Do you know who the father of this child was?” Brother Francisco asked.
Anselm shook his head.
“Did Isabella mention the will, Brother Francisco? Did she say what might happen to us here at Santa Eulalia?”
“She did indeed.”
Brother Anselm held his breath.
“All the money, the estates, including Santa Eulalia, have been left to her younger sister Augusta. Of course they would have been left to her twin, Therese, but she’s been dead for years.”
Brother Anselm stiffened, let out a low moan of pain and buried his head in his hands.
“It was a payback to Augusta, I suppose, for keeping her grim secret for all these years. It looks, Brother Anselm, as though we are finished.”
Brother Anselm held back a sob. She had promised him, promised him faithfully that she would leave the monastery to the brothers! He should have known not to trust her.
“Maybe we could buy Santa Eulalia back from the sister?” he said hopefully.
Brother Francisco snorted.
“What with? God knows we have barely enough money to keep going from day to day.”
Brother Anselm smiled wanly. There might just be a way of saving the monastery if only that nosey little bastard of a boy didn’t go and spoil everything.
By late evening Father Daley and Padraig were beside themselves with worry over Nancy’s disappearance and contemplating getting up a search party.
Then, just before dinner time, a dishevelled and shoeless Nancy Carmichael waltzed into the refectory and took her place at the table. She seemed more than a little tipsy and kept giggling and hiccupping, but was completely tight-lipped about where she’d been. Father Daley and Padraig had to make do with the unlikely explanation that she’d kicked off her shoes, walked too far downstream, fallen asleep and not woken until it was dark and had to run all the way back barefoot.
As they ate, Padraig took sly glances at her across the table. Her hair looked as if it had been washed and dried in the sun. The face paint and powder were gone and the bloody awful pink lip
stick too. The sun had turned her face a pale-golden colour and emphasized the blue of her eyes. There was a looseness about her neck and shoulders that hadn’t been there before and a twinkle in the once down-turned eyes. It was as if Nancy Carmichael had walked out this morning as one woman and come back as another.
After supper Padraig took Nancy to the Great Hall to show her the fresco.
“Ifs great, isn’t it? Imagine, ifs been hidden for maybe hundreds of years and then suddenly ifs found again. It looks as if ifs telling a story, doesn’t it?”
Nancy Carmichael looked up at the fresco, humming cheerfully to herself.
“What’s that tune, Nancy?”
“Padraig, shame on you! ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’, of course…”
Padraig gasped.
“Padraig, what’s up?”
“Nothing. Just an idea. Miss Carmichael, you know Mr Leary has a problem with his eyes?”
“I do indeed, which is why he wears those thick pebbly glasses. Come to think of it, he looks a bit like that fellow there who’s squinting,” she said, giggling and pointing at one of the monks.
“Well, why does he have a problem like that with his eyes?” Padraig persisted.
“I couldn’t tell you, Padraig, I suppose ifs one of those things, hereditary.”
“Like three-legged dogs?”
“Padraig, what in God’s name are you going on about?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m thinking, that’s all.”
“Me too, but not about frescoes, I can tell you. You want to give that brain of yours a rest. Too much brain work can be bad for you. Anyhow, I’m off for an early night before that Brother Anselm comes looking for me again.”
“Brother Anselm? Why is he looking for you?”
“He’s a most peculiar old thing. This morning he kept pestering me to death, asking all sorts of questions. Where do we come from? How long are we staying? And all about you; he seems quite taken with you, Padraig. Do you know he even asked if I was your mother. Fancy that!”
“He was the one that shot Mr Leary, you know. You want to be careful; I don’t like the look of him myself.”
“Padraig, your imagination is running away with you. I’ll see you in the morning. And for goodness sake, Padraig, get those fingernails scrubbed, look at the state of them!”
Padraig looked down at his blue-paint-stained nails.
“Nancy, did you put a prayer down at the statue’s feet?”
“I did.”
“And did it get answered?”
“Oh, yes, Padraig.”
And with that she winked, hiccupped and was gone.
Padraig took a last look at the fresco and sighed, then he went upstairs to his room where he stood at the window looking down into the valley far below. The river was a silvery ribbon coiling and twisting its way down towards the distant sea, the moon was high and full and a million pinpricks of stars were scattered across the sky.
He listened carefully; he was sure that he could hear the sound of someone giggling down below on the track. He leaned out of the window just in time to see two shadowy figures slip down past the Blue Madonna.
Padraig went across to the washstand, poured water from the wash jug into the bowl and picked up a bar of soap. Reluctantly he washed his face and the back of his neck and watched the water in the bowl grow scummy. Then he scrubbed his filthy nails with a nailbrush and soon the water was streaked with blue.
Father Daley was still down in the refectory talking with Brother Francisco and Brother Bernardo and probably wouldn’t be up for a while, so Padraig put a chair against the back of the bedroom door while he was on his own. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, but the noise of it moving would warn him; he didn’t like the thought of Brother Anselm being only a few doors away down the dimly lit corridor.
Padraig undressed and got into bed and lay for a long time thinking about everything that had happened since they’d left Ballygurry. He remembered how angry he’d been when Nancy had accused him of stealing the things from her trunk. Blimey, back then he would never have called her Nancy. He giggled as he thought about Miss Drew hurtling naked through the roof of the stable. He hadn’t been sorry to see the back of her!
He remembered too his disappointment when Father Daley prised open the lid of the chest that had fallen down beside Miss Drew. He’d been really excited, hopping up and down, urging Father Daley to hurry. He’d conjured up thoughts of long-hidden treasure, gold coins and jewels and silver goblets, but all that the chest contained was an old moth-eaten suit and a filthy mackintosh with a faded tartan lining. At the bottom of the trunk was a leather-bound notebook, and Padraig’s spirits had soared; it was bound to contain a map and coded instructions that would lead them to buried treasure or maybe even the Irish virgin.
Sefiora Hipola had lifted the clothes out gingerly and put them aside for burning, but only after she had slyly gone through all the pockets on the look-out for loose change. Seeing Padraig running his finger down the leather cover of the book she had told him to take it if he wanted it, and he still had it in his suitcase.
Sefiora Hipola couldn’t remember whom the trunk had belonged to, some careless traveller, no doubt, who had stayed there over the years and forgotten it.
It didn’t seem like he was going to find the statue of the Irish virgin. It must have been stolen; the jewels had probably been picked out of it and the gold melted down, after all it would be easier to get rid of small amounts of gold rather than humping a great big statue around.
Then he set to thinking about Brother Anselm’s painting and who would be daft enough to pinch it. He remembered Brother Bernardo telling him that Brother Anselm knew a lot about art. Padraig thought that he might know a lot about it but he couldn’t create it for the life of him.
And whatever had got into Nancy Carmichael, running about barefoot and without her stockings and staying out for hours like that on her own and coming back half cut? She wouldn’t get away with throwing wine down her throat in Ballygurry, she’d be the talk of the place.
He wondered what it was that she had asked the Blue Madonna for when she laid her request at her feet. He thought that maybe he would write out a wish himself and ask if he could stay in Spain for ever and never go back to St Joseph’s.
He slipped his suitcase out from under the bed and undid the clasps. Sifting through his clothes, he found the leather-bound book and opened it It smelled strongly of mildew and the blank pages were stained as though at some time they had been soaked through. He turned the pages but there was nothing written on any of them. Towards the back of the book two of the pages were stuck together. Maybe someone had hidden a map between them?
Excitedly he tried to prise them apart with his fingernails but they were stuck fast Reaching for his small penknife, he tried to insert it carefully between the pages. He worked patiently away for a while and finally made a tiny opening, slipped the point of the blade between the pages and wrenched them apart…
A piece of paper slipped out Bugger! It was just a piece of boring old card. He turned it over and read the faded writing.
Mr and Mrs Egbert Brennan cordially invite you to the marriage of their daughter Vera Mary Brennan to…
He sighed, tossed the stupid card back into his suitcase and climbed into bed, where he fell asleep thinking about the pictures of the monks on the fresco. He didn’t hear the door scrape against the chair as Father Daley stumbled into the room, nor did he hear him giggle and fall into bed as the door clicked shut.
He woke in the darkness several hours later to the sound of shouting and someone hammering on the door.
Before Padraig could rouse himself, Father Daley was out of bed and hopping across the room. When he opened the door Padraig saw Brother Bernardo standing there, his ashen face illuminated by the glow of a candle that he held in a shaking hand.
“Father, I need your help. Someone has broken in and stolen another painting, but the worst thing is Brother Anslem has gone missing
and so has one of the guns.”
“Stay there, Padraig, and don’t move out of the room. Wedge the door with the chair.”
Padraig was trembling as Father Daley dressed hurriedly and followed Brother Bernardo down the corridor.
He was too afraid to stay in the bed so he got up, wedged the chair back in place as Father Daley had told him, and sat upon it. For a while he could hear raised voices downstairs, then a door slamming shut and a dog barking excitedly. And then a terrible quivering silence settled over the monastery.
Every creak made Padraig flinch. His ears ached with listening too hard for the slightest sound. His nerves were raw, his teeth ached and the hairs on his neck tingled with fearful expectancy.
He wondered whether Nancy was asleep in her room or was she, like him, sitting on a chair pushed up against the door? He was half tempted to tiptoe along the corridor to her room, but as he put his ear to the door he was sure that he could hear the sound of someone breathing heavily. Was Brother Anselm lurking outside in the darkness of the corridor waiting for him to make a move? Padraig hugged himself tight with his arms, felt his heart squeeze up with fear. His knees were knocking and his ears pounded with the rushing of his blood. His mickey had shrivelled like a slug under salt.
Eventually, unable to bear the tension any longer, he got up off the chair and tiptoed across to the window. Down near the hamlet he could see lanterns bobbing in the darkness. He watched them moving along past the dilapidated houses until they were sucked up by the night. Padraig left the window and made his way silently back to the chair. A floorboard creaked outside the door and he chewed his fist with fear.
Suddenly the sound of a single gunshot fractured the silence. The noise loosened the bones of his skull, lurched his belly up painfully between his ribs, as it echoed on the chilly air. Padraig stood up and made his way unsteadily back across the room to the window and peeped warily out. He could see the frantic bobbing of lanterns down near the Blue Madonna and hear someone calling out in pain.
