Please be there, he thought, as he ran down the steps on to the perilously narrow walkway, collapsing against the wooden door with a thud. Almost instantly, it creaked open an inch to reveal the young woman. She took in Sam’s sweaty face, his heaving chest.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.
‘Nothing. I just … ran … to get here on … time.’
She looked at the suitcase in his hands.
‘Come in then.’ Her voice was quiet.
They walked through the overgrown gardens. With every step, the city outside the walls receded; the fumes and radio fuzz and traffic became a distant memory.
‘You look strange,’ the woman said, frowning at him as they approached the back door.
Sam realized he’d been staring fixedly at the house. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, though he knew he wasn’t. There was sweat coating his back that had nothing to do with the heat. Who was waiting for him inside? ‘Could I have a glass of water?’ he asked.
She shrugged and poured one from a jug on the sideboard, where a lace handkerchief kept off the flies.
He drank slowly, trying to calm himself.
‘Thank you,’ he said, handing the glass back. ‘It’s Zahrah, isn’t it? Your name?’
She nodded briefly. Today she was wearing denim shorts, a faded blue t-shirt. Her nails were stained yellow, as if she’d dipped her fingers into pollen.
‘Is Mr Langham …’ The words from the newspaper article nagged at him, like someone whispering in his ear, even as he tried to speak. ‘Is he your employer? Do you work for him?’
She half smiled. ‘Something like that.’
‘For how long?’ he pressed, his voice low. ‘I mean, how long have you worked here?’
‘About five years.’ Somewhere in the house, a door creaked. ‘Go on,’ she said, motioning to the corridor. ‘You’re expected.’
Sam hesitated. She seemed like a bridge between times, this woman; a real person in a place of shifting, unreal things. How did you come to be here? he wanted to ask. Who are you? Do you live here? What do you know about all of this? But she had turned her back and was clattering at the sink. She wouldn’t talk to him, he sensed, until he’d spoken to the person waiting in the study.
The man was standing at the window looking out on to the garden, his hands behind his back, twisting a ring on his middle finger around and around. For a long time, Sam just stood in the doorway, unable to speak.
The body has been identified by personal effects as that of a Mr Arthur Langham.
‘Did you bring it?’ a low voice asked.
‘Yes.’ Sam’s throat was dry, despite the water. ‘Yes, it’s here.’
He took a step into the room, then another. Finally, the man turned.
‘Good.’ His eyes flicked to the case. ‘A drink first?’
‘Yes,’ Sam said automatically before remembering Norton’s words about staying on guard. ‘I mean, no thanks, not just now.’ His face was burning, and he knew he must look awkward. Somehow, he couldn’t remember how to act normally. All he could think about was Mouad’s story and the words Englishman Drowns in Strait.
The man frowned at him. ‘You’re different today,’ he said. ‘Yesterday you were so full of questions. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing,’ Sam said quickly. ‘I mean, I’m just trying to get my head around all of this, you know, first the writing case, then you and this house …’ He trailed off, knowing he sounded false. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out the suitcase. ‘Don’t you want to see it?’
‘Of course I do.’ The man had a drink in his hand, and was moving stiffly towards his chair. ‘Of course. But you must understand, Mr Hackett, that you are bringing me the past, things which have lain undisturbed for a long time. A rusty knife can still be dangerous.’ He took a sip of the drink, and motioned to the case. ‘Show me,’ he said.
Hands trembling, Sam knelt down on the sun-faded rug and pressed the clasps of the suitcase.
‘It was locked when I found it,’ he murmured. ‘I opened it with the key that was hidden in the writing case.’ The man said nothing, his worn fingers gripping the glass tightly. With a breath, Sam pushed the lid open.
The case was in disarray. The linens and collars were jumbled together, the suit trousers balled up, the jacket half-inside out. The book had been shoved clumsily into one corner, its cover bent, the bottles and packets ripped from their holders. Sam stared at it all, horrified. He’d packed it carefully, just the way he’d found it, except for the passport, which he’d slid down one side.
Frantically, he began to search through the muddled clothes. It was not a big case; it should have been impossible to miss that smooth, green card. When his fingernails found only the suitcase’s lining, he felt a stab of panic. Had he left it in his room? No, he remembered packing it. The old man knew something was wrong, he was leaning forwards, the drink forgotten.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘The passport.’ Sam forced himself to look up. ‘It’s gone.’
The man’s eyes were hard. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The passport, belonging to Alejandro del Potro,’ Sam said, pushing hopelessly at the clothes. ‘I don’t understand, I put it in myself, this afternoon. I haven’t—’
I haven’t taken my eyes off it, he was going to say, but that wasn’t true. He had. He’d left it at Interpress, and Norton had been the one to fetch it from the back room … He let out a noise of frustration. ‘That bastard, he took it.’
‘Who?’ The man leaned forward.
‘Ellis Norton, a journalist from Interpress.’
‘A journalist.’ The man’s face was tightening with anger. ‘What have you told him about me? What do you know?’
‘What could I have told him?’ Sam shoved himself to his feet, his temper flaring, kindled by Norton’s actions, by the way his story was being twisted into something rotten. ‘I don’t even know who you are! Arthur Langham has been dead for fifty years. That’s why Norton took the passport. He wants to know who you are and what you had to do with Langham’s death. And so do I.’
The man stared. ‘I never said I was Langham,’ he spoke slowly.
‘But you let me believe it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Sam swallowed, trying to tamp down the anger. ‘So I would give you the case? It never even belonged to you.’
The man didn’t answer. He just stood, staring down at the suitcase, with its old, jumbled possessions.
‘What will he write about me,’ he said, eventually, ‘this journalist? How much information does he have?’
Sam sagged a little. ‘I don’t know. He wanted to talk to his bosses, start digging for more information about Langham. I asked him to wait until I’d spoken to you, but obviously …’ Sam shook his head. Despite everything, he felt guilty. ‘He thinks that Langham’s death wasn’t an accident. He thinks it might have been suicide. Or – or murder.’ He glanced at the man. For all he knew, Norton was right, and he was talking to a killer. ‘He probably thinks it will make a great story, get him the front page.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Why did you have to stir this up? You don’t know what you’ve done.’
‘Then tell me. Tell me what really happened, who you are, and maybe I can stop him. Please.’
For a long moment, the man held his gaze. There was defiance in that expression, and anger, and something else as well; a hint of resignation.
‘There’s brandy on the bar,’ he said.
Sam knew an instruction when he heard one. He went to fetch it, searching through the forest of bottles until he found one marked Fundador.
He turned to find that the man had pulled the case towards him. He was holding the book, The Gentleman’s Guide. Sam watched as it fell open.
‘If you want to play the game,’ the man said softly, ‘you have to learn the rules.’
Sam almost took a step back. The man’s voice had changed completely. It was lighter, softer
, an accent replacing the clipped British tones.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Are you A—’
‘Yes.’ The stranger looked up at him with a twisted smile. ‘For this story, I am Alejandro del Potro.’
Sangaree
Take a jigger of Old Tom gin and two teaspoons of sugar syrup. Shake with ice and strain into a chilled glass. Slowly pour over a pony of port wine so that it sinks, like blood in water.
My life at Dar Portuna began to change the night I dreamed about the Señor.
I dreamed that I stood beside his corpse, laid out on a slab as he had been on the floor of Elena’s room, the pink rug still stained beneath him. His head was tipped back; the ragged wound through which his life had escaped was dark as a wolf’s mouth. I approached, a step at a time, to peer into his still face, to touch his cheek and make sure he was dead. Only then did I realize something was wrong. His neck was still bleeding, a slow ooze at first, then more, welling up, splashing to the plinth, scattering droplets across my suit. The stench of Scotch came with it and I let out a cry but hands were seizing me from the darkness …
I opened my eyes. I was in my little room at Dar Portuna, pale light filtering through the window. A dream. Nothing but a dream. Nevertheless, the memory of blood remained, the faint scent of it. I stumbled from bed to push open the shutters and let the morning in.
The air was damp, filled with sea mist, not yet burned off by day. It clung to the roses that surrounded my ground-floor window. I breathed in deeply, and caught the smell of petroleum. Had Langham ordered the car already? Thinking about the previous night made my skin tingle with nerves. What would have happened between us, if Bouzid had not knocked on the door? What did I want to happen? Langham wanted me, I was sure, but as Alejandro. Would it be different if he knew the truth? And say I wanted him in the same way, say I allowed things to happen – what would that make me? Cook or servant or whore? Despite myself, my hand strayed down my body, past my waist, to touch the silk underwear.
My fingers came away tacky with blood.
I froze in utter horror. Then, in a rush, I realized what was happening. It was my course, my damn monthly course; the one thing I had forgotten about in my preoccupation. I swore and swore again, my eyes burning. The underwear was stained, my thighs streaked with dull red. I pulled back the sheet and saw a small rust-coloured splotch, soaked into the cotton. I ripped away the bedding and bundled it up. I would have to get rid of it, or sneak it into the laundry hamper, so the laundresses assumed that it was Lady Bailey’s.
Grabbing out a handkerchief, I wet it from the pitcher and began to scrub at myself frantically. At the inn I had been surrounded by other women, by their cramps and cravings, their drawers full of rags and lint, their belts and pins and girdles to deal with a monthly flow. Here, I had nothing.
I forced myself to breathe, to think calmly. I had to hide it. I couldn’t just stay in my room and feign illness until it passed. What if they sent for a doctor?
I found some of the old bandage I had once used to bind my chest and wadded it up, winding the rest around the tops of my legs and my waist. It wouldn’t do for long. I needed sanitary napkins, and pins, and for those I would have to go to town, into one of the Spanish farmacias. A young man, asking for such things … Would they even sell them to me? Perhaps I could say they were for Lady Bailey.
Lady Bailey. She would have something to deal with this. Her room was always in a state of chaos; she might not even notice that anything was missing. It was risky, but what choice did I have?
By the time I made it to the kitchen, dressed and wrapped in the kitchen apron, I felt as if I was going to vomit. Bouzid came in to tell me that madame would take some coffee in the garden. I nodded, and if he noticed that I was pale and sweating, he didn’t comment.
The fact that Lady Bailey was in the garden was good. She often sat out for a long time before it got too hot, listening to the birds, smoking endless cigarettes. Her room would be empty.
She was in her usual place, the bench by the lilies. I greeted her quietly, setting the tray down beside her. Between my legs I could feel a creeping dampness and I prayed to any god who was listening that I had tied the bandages well enough, that nothing would stain my beautiful suit.
‘He’s gone away,’ she said, opening one eye to look at me. ‘Left a note.’ She picked something up from the bench beside her. ‘Listen to this. “Gone to Gib. Taken the boat. Back soon.” Why would he go off to Gibraltar just like that? We usually go together.’
My hands were clammy in the warm air. Could he have gone to check up on my story?
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Did something happen, last night? He was odd after dinner.’
‘Isn’t that his business?’ I bit back the words as soon as I said them, too late. Lady Bailey’s face had hardened.
‘Do not presume to tell me what is and isn’t my business.’
‘Of course,’ I murmured. ‘I am sorry, madame. If you’ll excuse me.’
With every step towards the house my heart began to beat faster. She was more alert than I would like, her eyes had none of their usual torpor. I couldn’t help that. Surreptitiously, I made a circuit of the house. Bouzid was in the study; I saw him through the window, frowning over something on Langham’s desk. I let myself in through the lounge, and crept into the hallway. It was now or never.
Up the stairs, two at a time, thankful for the carpeted runner that dampened my steps. Lady Bailey’s door was open, as always. I slipped inside and shut it behind me, just in case Bouzid should pass. I could barely breathe in the perfumed air, especially with the tight brassiere squeezing my chest, but I forced myself to look about carefully. The wardrobe was a mess, silk and lace and linen garments sagging out of it. I checked the shelves in there, searching through bundles of stockings and garters and suspender belts. I tried the dresser next, listening for any sound outside.
I found what I needed at the back of the bottom drawer, shoved into a corner. A whole pile of padded white napkins, a jumble of safety pins, a garter to keep everything in place. I had to stifle a noise of relief as I scooped them up and stuffed them into my jacket.
I was about to push the drawer shut when I saw it: something made of smooth cardboard, stamped with red, hidden beneath the napkins. Whatever it was, I was almost certain it didn’t belong in a lady’s dresser. I couldn’t help myself. With one rapid glance over my shoulder, I pulled it out.
It was a file, covered in official-looking stamps. They were Italian, of which I didn’t speak much, but enough to recognize the word segretissimo.
Inside were dozens of typewritten pages. I flipped through them, trying to find something to tell me what this file was about; why it was in Lady Bailey’s possession. Finally, I found a page covered in drawings, strange angular parts, labelled with tiny numbers and letters. My eyes widened. It was something to do with the military.
I didn’t hear her footsteps until it was too late.
Lady Bailey stepped into the room. Her tanned face drained of its colour when she saw me holding those papers.
‘I knew it.’ Her voice was thick with shock. ‘I knew it.’
‘Wait.’ I dropped the file, holding my jacket closed with one hand, concealing the napkins beneath. ‘Wait, it is not what you think.’
‘Who are you?’ She was frightened, backing towards the door. ‘Who sent you here?’
‘No one.’ I took a step towards her. ‘Please, I can explain—’
‘Help!’ she cried, whirling around. ‘Bouzid!’
I threw myself after her, dragging her back with one hand, shoving the door closed and turning the key with the other. In the confusion, the bundle of napkins and pins fell from my jacket, scattering across the floor. She was struggling, shouting for Bouzid even as I tried to cover her mouth, shaking with panic.
‘Listen!’ I begged, over her shouts. ‘Please listen, I’m not – I’m a woman!’ I grabbed at her face, trying to meet her eyes. �
��I’m a woman. Look!’ I gestured at the floor.
For a long moment she only stared at me, breathing hard. Then her eyes flicked to the pins and napkins scattered about our feet. I was about to take my hand away when there was a hammering at the door.
‘Madame Hilde?’ Bouzid sounded alarmed. ‘Madame, are you all right?’
I looked into her eyes. Please, I mouthed, and released my grip.
‘I am fine, Bouzid,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Fine. I thought I saw a scorpion but it was only an old stocking.’
Through the door I could hear Bouzid’s breathing. He must have run up the stairs.
‘Are you sure, madame?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Quite sure, thank you.’
There was a pause. ‘Madame, I do not wish to trouble you, but I cannot find del Potro. I did not see him leave the house. Monsieur Langham was very clear that he—’
‘I sent del Potro to town.’ Our eyes locked as she spoke. ‘He is running an errand for me.’
‘Very well, madame.’ The reply sounded reluctant.
‘Thank you, Bouzid.’
Neither of us moved until we heard his footsteps retreat down the stairs. Then Hilde pushed me away. Her eyes were clear, her expression icy.
‘Explain.’
I swallowed down nausea.
‘I’m a woman.’ I forced the words out. ‘And I needed …’ I gestured at the sanitary napkins, my cheeks burning.
Her face didn’t change. If anything, it grew colder. ‘A fine story,’ she said. ‘If you’ve taken any papers, I suggest you give them back, now. You will not get another chance.’
I gaped at her. I’d confessed my secret and here she was, unmoved. ‘I don’t know anything about papers!’ She was turning towards the door again. ‘All right,’ I rushed, ‘I saw the papers, but I don’t know what they are. I don’t read Italian. I only looked at them because—’ The words stuck on my tongue. Because I want to know what I did for Cabrera. I want to know what you and Langham are involved in. ‘Because I was curious,’ I finished, knowing it sounded pathetic.
An Echo of Scandal Page 21
