by C. J. Sansom
‘We don’t want to seem too eager,’ Tolhurst interjected.
Hillgarth waved a hand impatiently. ‘We need that information.’ He rose abruptly. ‘I’ve got to go. See to it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He’s worried,’ Tolhurst said as the door closed. ‘Better fix another meeting with Forsyth pronto.’
‘All right. But Sandy’s sharp.’
‘We’ll have to be sharper.’
THE BALL HAD a Moorish theme. A pair of Moroccan guards flanked the front door, dressed in turbans and long yellow cloaks and holding lances. Harry looked at their impassive brown faces as he passed, recalling the savage reputation the Moors had during the Civil War.
Inside, the wide hallway was decorated with Moorish tapestries; guests circulated, the men in evening dress and many of the women in wide Andalusian skirts. A partition separating the hall from the salón had been pushed back, creating one enormous room. It was full of people. A servant, Spanish but wearing a fez and kaftan, took their names and waved a waiter across to serve them drinks.
‘Know anyone?’ Harry asked.
‘One or two people. Look, there’s Goach.’ The old protocol expert stood in a corner, talking earnestly to a tall red-robed cleric. ‘He’s a Catholic, you know, loves a monsignor.’
‘Look at the waiters in fancy dress. They must be hot.’
Tolhurst leaned close. ‘Talking of things Moroccan, look over there.’
Harry followed his gaze. In the middle of the room Maestre stood with two other men, like him in uniform. One was a lieutenant. The other, a general like Maestre, was an extraordinary figure. Elderly, thin and white-haired, he was talking animatedly, threatening to splash his companions with the drink he held in one hand. His other sleeve hung empty. His cadaverous scarred face had only one eye, a black patch screwed into an empty socket on the other side. He laughed, showing an almost toothless mouth.
‘Millán Astray,’ Tolhurst said. ‘You can’t mistake him. Founder of the Spanish Foreign Legion. Astray’s pro-Fascist and mad as a hatter, but his old troops love him. Franco served under him, and so did Maestre. Chief of the bridegrooms of death.’
‘The what?’
‘That’s what they called the legion. Make the French legion look like Sunday-school teachers.’ Tolhurst leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘The captain told me a story about Maestre. Some nuns from a nursing order came out to Morocco during the tribal rebellions. Maestre and some of his men met them at Melilla docks and presented them with a huge basket of roses – with the heads of two Moroccan rebel leaders in the middle.’
‘Sounds like a tall story.’ Harry looked again at Maestre. Millán Astray’s gestures had become even wilder and Maestre looked a little strained, but still bent his head politely to listen.
‘Maestre told Captain Hillgarth himself. Nuns never batted an eyelid, apparently. The legion had a bit of a thing about heads, used to parade with them stuck on the end of their bayonets.’ Tolhurst shook his head wonderingly. ‘Half the government are ex-legion now. It’s one thing that holds the Monarchist and Falangist factions together. A shared past.’
Millán Astray had put down his drink and was squeezing the shoulder of Maestre’s other companion as he went on talking animatedly. Even that hand, Harry saw, had fingers missing. Maestre caught Harry’s eye, and muttered something to Millán Astray. The old man nodded and Maestre and the lieutenant came over to Harry and Tolhurst. On the way Maestre whispered to a small plump woman in a wide Andalusian skirt and long white gloves and she followed the others over. Maestre extended a hand to Harry with a welcoming smile.
‘Ah, Señor Brett. I am so glad that you could come. And you must be Señor Tolhurst.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you for inviting me.’
‘I am always glad to welcome friends from the embassy. I should be circulating but I have been reliving old times in Morocco. My wife, Elena.’
Harry and Tolhurst bowed.
‘And my right-hand man from those days, Lieutenant Alfonso Gomez.’
The other man shook hands and bowed stiffly. He was short and stocky, with a stern face the colour of mahogany and keen eyes. ‘You are English?’ he asked.
‘Yes, from the embassy.’
Señora Maestre smiled. ‘I am told you were at Eton, Señor Tolhurst?’
‘A fine place.’ Maestre nodded approvingly. ‘Where English gentlemen are bred, eh?’
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘And you, Señor Brett?’ Señora Maestre asked.
‘I went to another public school, señora. Rookwood.’ He saw Gomez looking at him, weighing him up.
Señora Maestre nodded. ‘And what do your family do?’
Harry was taken aback by her directness. ‘I’m from an army background.’
She nodded happily. ‘Excellent, just like us. And you are a lecturer at Cambridge?’ Her eyes were keen, probing.
‘Yes. In peacetime. Only a fellow, not – senior.’
Maestre nodded approvingly. ‘Cambridge. How I loved my time there, as Señor Brett knows. It was there I got my love of England.’
‘You must meet my daughter,’ Señora Maestre said. ‘She has never met an Englishman. Only Italians, and they are not a good influence.’ She raised her eyebrows and gave a little shudder.
‘Yes, you young men go with Elena,’ Maestre added. As Harry passed him he touched his arm and spoke softly, his keen brown eyes serious. ‘You are among friends tonight. No Germans here, and no blue shirts, except for Millán Astray and he is an exception. He has little to do nowadays, we invited him as a kindness.’
Harry and Tolhurst followed Señora Maestre as she cut a path through the crowd, skirts swishing. At the far end three girls stood together self-consciously, nursing tall crystal glasses of wine. Two wore flamenco dresses; the third, short and plump like her mother with olive skin and a round face with heavy features, wore an evening dress of white silk. Señora Maestre clapped her hands and they looked up. Harry remembered for an instant the flamenco singers who had danced in El Toro when he and Bernie were there nine years before. But those had been dressed in black.
‘Milagros!’ Señora Maestre said. ‘You should talk to your guests. Señor Brett, Señor Tolhurst, my daughter Milagros and her friends, Dolores and Catalina.’ She turned quickly to a man who was passing by. ‘Marque«s! You came!’ She took the man’s arm and led him away.
‘Are you from London?’ Milagros asked Harry with a shy smile. She seemed nervous, ill at ease.
‘Near there. A place called Surrey. Simon’s from London, aren’t you?’
‘What – oh, yes.’ Tolhurst had gone red and was starting to perspire. A lock of fair hair fell over his forehead and he brushed it away, almost spilling his drink. Milagros’s friends exchanged glances and giggled.
‘I have seen pictures of your King and Queen,’ Milagros said. ‘And the princesses, how old are they now?’
‘Princess Elizabeth’s fourteen.’
‘She is very pretty. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes, yes she is.’
A waiter passed by, filling their glasses again. Harry smiled at Milagros, delving for something to say. ‘So, you are eighteen today.’
‘Yes, tonight I am launched on the world.’ She spoke with an undertone of regret, for her childhood perhaps. She studied Harry for a moment, then smiled and seemed to relax. ‘My father says you are a translator. Have you been doing that for long?’
‘No. I used to be a university teacher.’
Milagros smiled again, sadly. ‘I was not clever at school. But now that time is over.’
‘Yes,’ one of her friends said cheerfully. ‘Now it is time for her to find a husband.’ They giggled and Milagros flushed. Harry felt sorry for her.
‘I say,’ Tolhurst broke in suddenly. ‘Your name, Milagros. And yours, Dolores. They sound very strange in English – Miracles and Sadness. We don’t have religious names for girls.’ He laughed and the girls looked at him
coldly.
‘There’s Charity,’ Harry said awkwardly.
‘Are you a little hot, Señor Simon?’ Dolores asked maliciously. ‘Would you like a cloth for your brow?’
Tolhurst reddened even further. ‘No, no, I’m all right. I—’
‘Look, Dolores, there’s Jorge,’ Catalina said excitedly. ‘Come on.’ Giggling, the two girls walked off to a good-looking young man in a cadet’s uniform. Milagros looked embarrassed.
‘I am sorry, my friends were a little impolite.’
‘It’s all right,’ Tolhurst said awkwardly. I’ll – uh – go and get something to eat.’ He walked away, head lowered.
Harry smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t think he’s been to a big occasion like this for a while.’
The girl produced a fan and waved it gently in front of her face. ‘Neither have I, there have been no parties since we came back to Madrid last year. But now things are getting back to normal a little. But it feels rather strange after so long.’
‘Yes. Yes, it does. It’s my first party too, for – for a while.’ Since Dunkirk. Harry felt oddly apart, as though there was a glass wall between him and the partygoers. On his deaf side it was hard to make out any words in the cacophony of noise.
Milagros looked at him seriously. Harry turned his head so that his good ear was towards her. ‘How I hope Spain can stay out of the war in Europe,’ she said. ‘What do you think, señor?’
‘I hope so too.’
Milagros studied him again. ‘Forgive me asking, but are you a soldier? My family have been soldiers for generations; we cannot help noticing when a man stands awkwardly, like your friend. But you stand like a soldier.’
‘That’s clever of you. I was in the army until a few months ago.’
‘Papa was in Morocco when I was young. It was a terrible place. I was so glad to come home. But then the Civil War came.’ She smiled, making an effort to be cheerful. ‘And you, señor, were you in the army for long?’
‘No. I only joined up when the war started.’
‘They say the bombing of London is terrible.’
‘Yes. It’s a difficult time.’ He remembered the bombs falling.
‘It is so sad. And London is so beautiful, I hear. Many museums and art galleries.’
‘Yes. They’ve taken the pictures away for the war.’
‘In Madrid we have the Prado. They are putting the pictures back there now. I have never seen them, I should like to go.’ She smiled at Harry, encouragingly but a little embarrassed, and he thought, she wants me to take her. He was flattered but she was so young, scarcely more than a child.
‘Well, I’d like to go too, though just now I’m very busy …’
‘That would be so nice. We have a telephone, you could ring my mother to arrange it—’
Catalina and Dolores reappeared with a group of cadets crowding round them. Milagros frowned.
‘Milagros, you must meet Carlos. He has a medal already, he has been fighting the Red bandits in the north—’
‘Excuse me,’ Harry said. ‘I’d better find Simon.’ He made his escape, puffing out his cheeks with relief. She was a nice child. But just a child. He collected another glass from a passing waiter. He’d better watch how much he had. He thought of Sofia, as he had several times since the day before. She had seemed full of life, energy. He had said nothing to Hillgarth about the spy. He would keep his promise.
Tolhurst was standing in the middle of the room, talking to Goach, who was looking at him with slight distaste through his monocle. Poor old Tolly, Harry thought suddenly. With his big frame Tolhurst should have looked impressive but there was always something slouched and drooping about him.
Goach cheered up as Harry joined them. ‘Evening, Brett. I say, you’d better watch out. The general and his wife are looking for a good catch for Milagros. The general’s brother told me. Monsignor Maestre.’ He nodded to where the priest was talking to a couple of older women. Harry could see a resemblance to Maestre in the thin face, the authoritative manner.
‘You know him, sir?’
‘Yes, he’s quite a scholar. Expert on Spanish church liturgy during the Reconquista period.’ Goach smiled and bowed as the monsignor, hearing his name, came over.
‘Ah, George,’ the monsignor said in Spanish. ‘I have been getting some more subscriptions.’ His eyes flicked over Harry and Tolhurst, quick and sharp as his brother’s.
‘Splendid, splendid.’ Goach made introductions. ‘The monsignor’s head of an appeal for rebuilding all the burned-out churches in Madrid. The Vatican’s been a great help but it’s a huge task, needs a lot of money.’
Monsignor Maestre shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Indeed it does. But we are getting there. Though nothing can replace our martyrs, our murdered priests and nuns.’ He turned to Harry and Tolhurst. ‘I remember, during the darkest time of our war, some English churches sent us their church plate to make up for what we had lost. It was a great comfort, made us feel we were not forgotten.’
‘I’m glad,’ Harry said. ‘It must have been a hard time.’
‘You do not know, señor, the things they did to us. It is as well you do not. We want to rebuild the churches in La Latina and Carabanchel.’ The priest looked at Harry seriously. ‘The people there need a beacon, something to cleave to.’
‘There’s a burned-out church near where I live, at the top of La Latina,’ Harry said.
The monsignor’s face hardened. ‘Yes, and the people who did it need to be shown they could not destroy the authority of Christ’s church. That we have returned stronger than before.’
Goach nodded. ‘Quite.’
A burst of harsh laughter made Monsignor Maestre frown. ‘It is a pity my brother invited Millán Astray. He is so inculto. And a Falangist. They are all so irreligious.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘We needed them during our war, but now – well, thank God the Generalísimo is a true Christian.’
‘Some of the Falangists would make him their God,’ Goach said quietly.
‘Indeed they would.’
Harry looked between them. They were both being very outspoken. But they were all Monarchists here, except for Millán Astray. The crippled general was holding forth to a group of cadets now; they seemed to be hanging on his every word.
The monsignor took Goach’s arm. ‘George, come with me, I’d like you to meet the bishop’s secretary.’ With a nod at Harry and Tolhurst, he led Goach away, red skirts billowing around his feet. Tolhurst took a swig of wine.
‘I thought he’d never stop. How did you get on with the señorita?’
‘She wanted me to take her to the Prado.’ Harry looked over to where Milagros was talking to her friends again. She caught his eye and smiled uncertainly. He felt guilty, his sudden departure must have seemed rude.
‘Lot of little cats.’ Tolhurst wiped his glasses on his sleeve. ‘I suppose I was a bit stupid, making fun of their names. I don’t know, I can’t seem to get on with girls, not socially.’ He swayed slightly, more than a little drunk. ‘You see, I was in Cuba so long, I got used to tarts.’ He laughed. ‘I like tarts, but you forget how to talk to respectable girls.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Señorita Maestre not your type, then?’
‘No.’
‘No Vera Lynn, is she?’
‘She’s young. Poor girl, she’s scared for the future.’
‘Aren’t we all? Listen, there’s a chap in the press office, knows this little brothel near Opera—’
Harry nudged him to be quiet. Maestre was approaching again, smiling broadly.
‘Señor Brett, I hope Milagros has not abandoned you.’
‘No, no. She does you credit, general.’
Maestre looked across to where the girls were deep in conversation with some more cadets. He shook his head indulgently. ‘I am afraid they cannot resist a young officer. The young all live for the day now. You must forgive them.’ He must have thought Milagros left me, Harry thought.
Maestre took a drink, wiped his little moustache
and looked at them. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You both know Captain Hillgarth, yes? He and I are good friends.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tolhurst’s face was immediately attentive.
‘He should know there is a lot of annoyance in the government over Negrín. It was not a good idea for England to give asylum to the Republican prime minister. These noises in the British Parliament annoy our friends.’ He shook his head. ‘You English, you let vipers into your bosom sometimes, you know.’
‘It’s difficult, sir,’ Tolhurst said seriously. ‘I don’t know how the Commons got wind Sir Samuel recommended Negrín be asked to leave, but it’s got the Labour members hot under the collar.’
‘Surely you can control your Parliament?’
‘Not really,’ Tolhurst said. ‘It’s democracy,’ he added apologetically.
Maestre spread his hands, smiling in puzzlement. ‘But England is not a decadent republic like France was, you have a monarchy and aristocracy, you understand the principle of authority.’
‘I’ll tell Captain Hillgarth,’ Tolhurst said. ‘By the way, sir,’ he added quietly, ‘the captain was asking how things are going with the new minister.’
Maestre nodded. ‘Tell him there is nothing to worry about there,’ he replied softly.
Señora Maestre appeared. She tapped her husband’s arm with her fan. ‘Santiago, are you talking politics again? This is our daughter’s ball.’ She shook her head. ‘You must forgive him.’
Maestre smiled. ‘You are right, my dear, of course.’
She smiled brightly at Harry and Tolhurst. ‘I hear Juan March is in Madrid. If he has returned to stay, he is bound to be doing some entertaining.’
‘I heard it was just a short visit,’ Maestre replied. Harry looked at him. Juan March again. The name Hillgarth had told him to forget, along with the Knights of St George.
Señora Maestre beamed at her guests. ‘He is Spain’s most successful businessman. He had to leave under the Republic of course. It would be good if he returned. You cannot imagine how grey life was in the Nationalist zone during the war. It had to be that way, of course. And then when we came back—’ A shadow flitted across her face.
