Текст книги "The Golden City"

Автор книги: Kathleen Cheney

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER 23

Joaquim and Inspector Gaspar got along well, although on occasion Duilio noted Gaspar aiming a narrow look at Joaquim when Joaquim wasn’t attending. Given that Gaspar was a Meter, it made Duilio itch to know what the man saw when he looked at his cousin.

They went through the details of the case, starting with the very beginning. Duilio made his decision early on: he was going to trust Inspector Gaspar. So he told the truth about Erdano’s complaints about the taste of death in the water near The City Under the Sea. He told Gaspar how his gift had warned him that Lady Isabel was dead, and delineated most of the steps they’d taken since. He even admitted he’d kept the journal and had Miss Paredes reading it. Joaquim followed his lead, volunteering his rather copious notes, including what he’d gleaned the previous day from the Amaral servants.

“So, your Miss Paredes was clearly the target, rather than her mistress,” Gaspar said. “This Maria Melo must be our saboteur or working with him, but there have to be a thousand women with that name in this city. Likely a false name anyway. Is there anything more you can tell me about her?”

“Frequents The White Rose, although I suspect she’ll hear about my inquiries and stop doing so. Dark hair, dark eyes,” Joaquim read from his notes. “Always wears black—good-quality cloth, though. That would make her an upper servant at the least. Moderately tall, with a nice figure. Heavy eyebrows were the only distinguishing characteristic anyone could give me.”

Gaspar puffed out his cheeks in disgust. “I suspect that’s a dead end. I’ll post an officer there and see if she shows up again.”

“An officer of the Special Police?” Duilio asked. “Can you trust them?”

“My associates have vetted a dozen of them so far. They’re not working with the Open Hand and admittedly have Liberal leanings, so we’re safe using them.”

“Your associates?” Duilio echoed.

“You haven’t met Inspector Anjos or Miss Vladimirova yet,” Gaspar said. “They’ve been working their way through the ranks while I was off hunting Mata.”

Although Anjos was a Portuguese name, Vladimirova sounded Russian to Duilio. “Are they witches, like you and . . . the Lady?”

“Yes. You’ll probably meet Anjos later, but you’d rather notmeet Miss Vladimirova.” Gaspar smiled grimly, not showing his teeth. “Unfortunately, they haven’t turned up anyone associated with this floating-house business. With so many officers to question, it may take them weeks to root out the right men, and the ones whose names we did have all disappeared as soon as Commissioner Burgos gave us permission to start questioning them.”

Duilio didn’t doubt that. “What about Mata?”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, Mr. Ferreira. I have no doubt he’s still after you, but is keeping his distance because he’s seen me.” Unfortunately, Gaspar was difficult to miss in a country with relatively few representatives of its former African colonies.

Duilio licked his lips. Joaquim wasn’t going to like this. “Silva spoke of using Miss Paredes as bait, Inspector. Why not use me that way?”

“No,” Joaquim said immediately.

“I’m not suggesting standing in the middle of a plaza all day to be shot at,” Duilio told him. “Just doing what I would be doing anyway.”

Gaspar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

Duilio shot a glance at Joaquim. “Miss Paredes mentioned that Espinoza was raised in Matosinhos. I could go there and ask around about him.”

Gaspar looked intrigued, but Joaquim wasn’t placated. “Mata is not going to get on the tram out to Matosinhos with you,” Joaquim pointed out. “You know what he looks like.”

It was about four miles out to the town of Matosinhos on the Marginal line. “No, he’ll know he has to take the nextone, try to catch the steam tram out of Boavista, or find some other means of transportation.”

Joaquim sat back, a scowl twisting his lips.

“I’ll head up to Matosinhos,” Duilio said. “I can ask a few discreet questions about Espinoza, and that should give Mata time to follow me. Matosinhos is small enough that he should be able to find me if he tries.”

Joaquim sighed heavily. He didn’t like it, but Duilio knew he understood. If this man hadkilled Alessio, Duilio wanted him brought in. “Start with Father Barros at the Church of Bom Jesus,” Joaquim suggested. “He’s been there forever and knows the parish better than anyone else. He can tell you whom to talk with about Espinoza.”

One of Joaquim’s teachers from his days in seminary, no doubt. “I’ll do that.”

“And watch your back,” Joaquim added.

Duilio patted the pocket where his holster was clipped, his Webley Wilkinson revolver quiescent within. “I’ll stay on my guard.”

* * *

Mr. Ferreira showed up at the house near lunchtime, evidently wanting to change clothes. He came into the front sitting room, where Oriana sat on the couch, poring through the journal he’d left with her, gesturing for her to stay seated as he entered. “Miss Paredes, I hope you were able to get some sleep last night.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Your mother is still abed, and Felis is reading to her, so I thought I would give this a try.”

He settled in a chair across from her, much as he’d done the day before. He seemed to have forgotten their . . . closeness . . . of the previous evening. Or he was pretending so to set her at ease. It was a pretense she was willing to join, as discussing the issue would surely be embarrassing for him. “Rough going?” he asked. “From what I glimpsed before I pocketed it, it looked fairly technical.”

“I’m not mathematical, sir,” she admitted. Languages, history, and literature: those all made more sense to her than this confusing tangle of numbers and symbols. “A great deal of this is calculations and plans that mean nothing to me.”

“I’m more curious if there’s anything useful in there. Names?”

“Not a one, I’m afraid. He’s very cagey about the people he’s working with.”

Mr. Ferreira sighed heavily and sat back in the chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers over his knee. “Then we’re wasting your time.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’ve noted, for example, he doesn’t mention the victims in his calculations. Or the table on which the spell was inscribed. Those had to have been added later in the process.”

“That would throw off all his calculations,” Mr. Ferreira said. “For buoyancy and weight, I mean.”

She nodded. “Also, the houses aren’t wood, as everyone thinks. The wood is a veneer, over cork. That’s what actually makes them float. If the chain broke on any one of them, it would probably pop to the surface like a rubber ball.”

He shrugged. “I wastold those charms on the top were useless.”

She told him then what she’d read about the patron who’d made it all possible, but didn’t have a name for the man, which made the information useless. “I’ll read more this afternoon, sir. Perhaps he’ll say who’s paying for his creation.”

He nodded, his lips pursed, and then cautiously asked, “Does the name Maria Melo mean anything to you?”

It was a common name, but Oriana didn’t actually know anyone who bore it. “No, sir.”

“Have you ever been to a tavern called The White Rose?” he asked then.

That tavern was frequented by servantsfrom up and down the Street of Flowers. Carlos had once suggested she meet him there, although at the time she’d thought it a joke. And it was one of Heriberto’s favored haunts. When her master wasn’t on his boat, he could often be found there. “I’ve never been inside,” she said. “Can I assume that Mrs. Melo has?”

He looked grim. “My cousin talked to the Amaral servants yesterday. Both the first footman and the lady’s maid said they met her there. They said she asked after you. How you were faring, how you liked the household. The maid thought Mrs. Melo was your cousin. Do you haveany cousins here?”

Oriana laid one mitt-covered hand over her mouth. How should she answer that? He’d met Nela and so must suspect about the exiles, so it was a logical question, but her father was her only direct kin. No, the woman had to be lying. And given it was a tavern Heriberto frequented, he had to figure into this somehow. Oriana dropped her hand back to her lap. “She’s your saboteur, isn’t she?”

“We don’t know that,” he said swiftly, as if to reassure her again. “But if she is, then she had to know you’re not human.”

“ Youknew,” she pointed out, and then felt guilty for withholding information he might need. “My master frequents that tavern, as well. It’s possible he gave her that information, although I can’t think why he would.”

Mr. Ferreira pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would your master willingly put you in that position? In the floating house?”

Oriana thought of her father speaking of paying Heriberto more money. If Heriberto was willing to stoop to extortion, what else might he be willing to do? “He might,” she admitted. “I’m not one of his favorites.”

“And you livedin one of the houses in question,” Mr. Ferreira said. “Are there other spies like you in comparable positions? Or some of your people who chose to live here? I don’t need specifics—just a general idea whether you were one of a hundred or the only choice.”

Oriana knew of six other spies currently in the city, none of whom worked on the street of the aristocrats. Of the exiles, the only one she knew who frequented the street was her own father. He visited the Pereira de Santos mansion often, but that house had already appeared in the water, so he’d been bypassed. He didn’t actually live in that house anyway. “I may have been the only choice,” she whispered, a sick feeling swelling in her stomach.

Mr. Ferreira pushed himself out of his chair and came to loom over her. He set a hand lightly on her shoulder. “I meant what I said last night, Miss Paredes.”

She looked up at him. No, he hadn’t forgotten last night’s extraordinary discussion either. She could see it in his eyes, an awareness of her as more than a servant. He looked at her like she was a woman, perhaps even a lover. But opening that door would only lead her to pain. She wasn’t the sort who could take a lover and then go on her way. She just . . . wasn’t. Her scruples wouldn’t allow it. Even for a male as fascinating as Duilio Ferreira. It would break her heart, and she refused to do that to herself. She nodded jerkily. “I know, sir.”

His lips pressed together, possibly in vexation. She wasn’t quite certain how to read that expression. Then he stepped back and left without another word.

* * *

As the tram drew closer to Matosinhos, Duilio could see the port of Leixões to the north. The port was an unfinished work that must either be considered art or an eyesore, progress brought to a standstill. The builders had begun constructing two stone “arms” intended to stretch out into the sea to act as breakwaters to protect the ships that would someday sail up the Leça River into the port. Silhouetted against the horizon, two Titans of iron and steel waited—giant steam-powered cranes that ran on rails to the ends of those breakwaters. One sat on each abandoned arm, capable of going back to work and moving giant blocks of stone . . . as soon as the prince should deign to give his permission. Duilio doubted that would happen while this prince was alive.

Not for the first time, Duilio wondered if it wouldn’t be better for Northern Portugal if the seers were correct and the prince wasdoomed to die. Somehow Miss Paredes had changed the odds of that prophecy coming true. Not through her own choices, of course. She’d been forced into that position. He hated the price at which that had come. He sighed and returned to surveying the passengers of the tram.

The man in the dark suit was the one who concerned him. When he’d gotten on the tram at Massarelos, a prickle had gone down Duilio’s spine. He’d settled a couple of seats behind Duilio and pulled a folded newspaper from under his arm. He didn’t appear to be an immediate danger, but Duilio felt sure the man had no other business there other than to watch him.

Duilio dug into a pocket for his watch, flicked the lid open, and held the case to one side, trying to get a glance at the man’s face in the mirror secreted inside the lid. He didn’t look familiar. In his midthirties, dark-haired, and average in size, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Duilio studied him a moment longer while the man perused a copy of the Gazette. He closed the case then and slid the watch back into his pocket.

While at the house Duilio had changed into a more casual suit—one that Marcellin found plebian. But it would be better for running should he find that necessary. He’d changed into less-formal shoes and picked up a spare gun, just in case. If this man intended to chase him down, he’d make it difficult.

When the tram reached the end of the line, Duilio got off and began ambling toward the ships that bobbed on the river. He’d been to the area a few times in the past year, but wasn’t nearly as familiar with it as he would have liked. The man in the dark suit followed in a desultory manner, confirming Duilio’s suspicions.

The Church of Bom Jesus rose majestically in the midst of a public park. Duilio walked up the steps, stopped at the threshold of the church, and crossed himself. He’d been especially lax in his devotions since his brother’s death, one of those things he occasionally resolved to change, usually following one of Joaquim’s lectures. He waited a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and wondering if someone would come to renounce him. The lack of any divine rebuke reassured him.

He stepped forward into the gold-encrusted nave and spotted a fair-haired priest speaking to an elderly black-garbed woman. The priest nodded toward Duilio as if asking him to wait, so Duilio settled on one of the pews, determined to be patient. The young man eventually left the woman’s side and came to lend his priestly ear to Duilio.

“Are you Father Barros?” Duilio asked without preamble.

“I’m Father Crespo. How can I help you today, my son?”

Duilio hoped his expression didn’t show his amusement at being called my sonby a man who must be younger than himself. The priest couldn’t be much older than Cristiano. “I need to speak to Father Barros. Where might I find him?”

The young man’s brows drew together. “I believe he’s closeted with the books, but I’ll inform him he’s needed here.” He scurried off toward the sacristy, much to Duilio’s relief.

Not long after that, another priest emerged from the sacristy, an older man with graying hair and a stern visage. He presented himself to Duilio. “How can I help you today, son?”

This time sonmade more sense. “I’ve come to make some inquiries,” he admitted. “Inspector Joaquim Tavares suggested you might be able to help me.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”

Well, he couldn’t fault the man’s caution. “I am his cousin, Duilio Ferreira.”

“Hmmm . . . you certainly resemble him,” Father Barros said. “Tell me, then, why did he not enter the priesthood after seminary?”

If that question was meant as a test, he was about to fail miserably. Joaquim turned stubborn at times, refusing to discuss certain issues, even with family. He had an overdeveloped desire for privacy. “I honestly don’t know, Father,” Duilio admitted. “He’s never told me.”

“He’s never told anyone, so far as I know. I thought perhaps . . .” The priest shrugged. “Here, Mr. Ferreira, come with me. I’ve not had luncheon yet. Let’s walk into town.”

Duilio followed the man back through the nave and along a path that led to the back side of the church, away from its chapels and statues. They headed toward the town’s center, walking along the narrow cobbled streets among the noontime press of carts and pedestrians. Much like the streets around the Ribeira back in the Golden City, these buildings were old and packed together, with painted walls and iron-railed balconies. The priest led him to the front of one building, its pink facade decorated with only a sign marking it the Restaurant Lindo. “My cousin owns the place, so we can sit in the back as long as you need. Is that man in the dark suit following you?”

“I believe so,” Duilio said without turning to look. “Not being terribly discreet, if you noticed him as well, though.”

Father Barros laughed and pointed out a table in a dark corner of the room. “I wasn’t always a priest, son.”

There had to be a story behind that short statement. If he weren’t pressed for time, he would have liked to get to know the priest better. Duilio headed back toward the corner and picked a chair situated so that he could see out into the street. The man in the dark suit passed the front of the restaurant as Duilio settled at the table. He moved on without pausing. Duilio felt gooseflesh prickle along his arms, but his gift seemed unconcerned at the moment, so he shook off the odd feeling. He could deal with that problem later.

The priest settled across from him. “So, how does Inspector Tavares think I can help you, Mr. Ferreira?”

Duilio looked about for a waiter. He’d only had time to grab one of Mrs. Cardoza’s meat pies at the house. He was still hungry. “We have a case that we’re working on, and I’m gathering background information.”

The priest set his chin atop laced fingers. “About what?”

“ The City Under the Sea,” Duilio said.

Barros sat back, shaking his head. “Ah. Gabriel Espinoza’s creation.”

A chubby man with a white apron tied over his garb finally bustled over and offered to tell them the specials. “Thank you, Eusebio,” Barros said. “We’ll need some privacy, if you please. Just bring us whatever the cook has prepared, and . . . tea.”

The waiter cast a curious look at Duilio but took himself away promptly.

“So what about a bunch of floating houses could catch your interest?”

Duilio pressed his lips together, trying to decide where to start. “We know for certain a young woman was trapped inside the house that went into the river recently.”

“Inside?” The priest leaned forward, sounding incredulous.

“Yes, tied to a chair. She was grabbed off the street, drugged, and placed inside the house while still unconscious. She had no chance of escaping alive once the house went into the water.”

“You think Gabriel Espinoza did this?” Barros shook his head firmly. “No. He may be rather single-minded in the pursuit of his lofty artistic goals, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

Duilio stared at the priest, weighing the conviction in his tone. The man believedEspinoza’s innocence, so any mention of necromancy would get a similar appalled reaction. But given what Miss Paredes had said about Espinoza’s calculations not accounting for the victims, it seemed that aspect of the artwork wasn’t his doing at all. Duilio tried another tack. “When was the last time you spoke to Espinoza?”

“January, right after Epiphany.” Barros frowned. “He came back to his parents’ home after some disagreement with his patron, and he came to see me. I’m not his confessor. It was just talk, but he was quite upset.”

That had promise, and if it wasn’t a confession, Barros was at liberty to discuss their conversation. “Upset?”

“Something about the artwork. He didn’t want to tell me. And that his patron wanted to move him somewhere out of the city, away from prying eyes and . . . nosy writers, I believe he said. They had an argument that got out of hand. Espinoza even showed me a cut on his forehead where they’d fought over it.”

Duilio recalled that dark spot on the floor in the apartment’s dressing room. “He had a fight with his patron?”

“Well, not the patron himself. The man the patron sent to check up on him. I haven’t seen him since he told me that, so he must have given in and moved out of the city.”

That would put Espinoza’s disappearance in early January, about the time the fifth house had gone into the water. About when he’d stopped giving interviews. So something had changed abruptly then. Perhaps Espinoza had learned about the victims and objected. “Father, did Espinoza tell you who his patron was?”

The priest mulled that over, his lips pursed. “He said the work was being funded by the government, the Ministry of Culture.”

“I thought there was a single patron,” Duilio said.

“I believe the Marquis of Maraval was personally overseeing the artwork. Espinoza considered him the primary patron.”

The Marquis of Maraval? The Ministry of Culture performed functions like the installation of sculptures in the Treasury Building and the restoration of tile facades in older parts of the city. They kept a finger on what newspapers published. But they had no control over the Special Police. Duilio didn’t see how the minister could be involved. “I see. Have you ever heard of a group called the Open Hand?”

Barros sat back. “Espinoza mentioned them once, although I wasn’t clear who they were.”

“In what context?” Duilio asked.

“It didn’t make sense.” Barros sighed. “Espinoza saw something. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it made him think they were subverting his work.”

That was an odd choice of word. “Subverting?”

“Yes. It sounded insane, but he truly believed it. Somehow they intended to use his work of art to make the prince into the king of all Portugal.”