The Portuguese Escape (18 page)

‘What a time to come!' she said, as Dona Maria Francisca and the reluctant Luzia disappeared in the direction of the drawing-room. ‘How boring.'

‘He's a magnificent-looking man, isn't he?' Nanny observed, suspecting the veracity of Julia's last words. ‘If Luzia saw him I daresay she wouldn't keep on so about Mr. Atherley.' Julia laughed as she went upstairs.

‘My dear Hugh, what on earth is this in aid of?' she asked as she entered that bare English-looking schoolroom. ‘Dona Maria Francisca doesn't allow “followers”, and nor do I.'

The Major, justly provoked, replied by enveloping her in a vigorous and rather stifling embrace.

‘Hugh!' Julia protested, when she could speak—‘What on earth has come over you?'

‘Only you, my dear, as usual—except that I'm not usually as weak as I am at this moment.'

‘Why are you weak?' Julia asked, sitting down in one of the shabby armchairs.

‘Because I'm starving; because I've been waiting to see Atherley in that revolting Chancery for two mortal hours; and because I'm in a jam which I think only you can get me out of.'

Julia got up slowly, opened a cupboard, and drew out a tin of Huntley and Palmer's biscuits, which she handed to him.

‘That's all I can do about the starvation,' she said— ‘Now tell me about the jam.'

‘Oh, wonderful!' Torrens said, cramming Petits Beurres into his mouth.

‘Well?' Julia asked, after a few moments.

‘Do you suppose—I expect you'll think me quite crazy —but do you imagine that your employers could conceivably be persuaded to put Father Horvath up for a few days?'

‘Are you talking about the Ericeiras?—because they're not my employers any more.'

‘Damn you, Julia, don't be so pernickety! Yes, I do mean your
ex
-employers, the Ericeiras, as you know quite well.'

‘And who is Father Horvath? Hetta's priest I suppose. I thought she called him something else.'

‘What does it matter what she called him?' Torrens asked, with all the irritation of a hungry and worried man. ‘Yes. But do you think they would put him up?'

‘They're going away to the country tomorrow.'

‘I know. That's rather the idea.'

‘What's gone wrong?' Julia enquired. ‘I thought you'd poked him away somewhere here in Lisbon, to have meetings with a contact.'

‘So we had, but that's all compromised—don't ask me how! I thought it was cast-iron, but it isn't. They can't meet safely in Lisbon any more.'

‘So has the contact got to come to Gralheira too?'

‘Well that would be the ideal thing, of course; but I daresay he could put up somewhere close by.'

‘There's nothing “close by” at Gralheira; it's miles from everywhere. Look, Hugh,' the girl said, frowning a little as she thought it out—‘this is quite a large order, isn't it? Suppose you tell me a bit more. For one thing, who is the contact?—and why has Father What-not got to meet him?'

Torrens told her a great deal more, including the episode outside São Braz in the Alfama that very morning.
When Julia heard that Monsignor Subercaseaux was the ‘contact' she hooted with irreverent laughter—‘Him! Goodness, Hetti simply
hates
him.' But she registered with satisfaction the fact that the Monsignor was representing the Vatican—‘Of course that could mean a lot. You're
sure
about that?'

‘Quite sure.'

Julia continued to reflect.

‘I think I'd better talk to Nanny first,' she said. ‘Ring the bell, Hugh—by the fireplace.' Torrens got up, and gazed about for an electric button, in vain. ‘No, pull that trace thing,' Julia said, laughing a little—the Major obediently tugged on a broad strap of cut velvet which depended on the right of the grate.

‘Whose idea is this?' she asked, as he came back and sat down in the other armchair.

‘Atherley's really. But it seems that young Hetta rather mopped up the Duque at the Embassy this afternoon, according to him.'

‘Well, that may help. But the Vatican is the trump card.' A footman entered. ‘O Francisco, I desire to speak with Miss Brown,' Julia said. The use of the vocative is still current in Portugal, one of the many pretty archaisms in which the country abounds; it is really rather impolite
not
to say ‘O Manoel' or ‘O Francisco' when speaking to a servant.

Nanny, whose private apartments were on the same upper floor as the schoolroom, appeared almost at once.

‘Nanny, you saw Major Torrens while we were at dinner—Hugh you'd better meet Nanny properly; and until she gives you leave she's Miss Brown to you!' Nanny smirked; Torrens got up and shook hands. ‘Now listen, Nanny,' Julia pursued—‘The Major is in the English Secret Service.' Nanny looked wise. ‘And he's in a difficulty, and he wants us to help him.'

‘Well, if it's in any manner possible, Miss Probyn, we ought to, of course,' Nanny said, visibly if primly thrilled. ‘What is the trouble?'

Julia explained briefly what the trouble was: Nanny, a devout Catholic—there are quite a lot of them in Leicestershire—was even more thrilled when she learned that what
was at stake was nothing less than to promote a meeting between an important foreign divine and an emissary of the Vatican. ‘This Father Thingumy-jig has seen Cardinal Mindszenty quite lately,' Julia added at the end.

‘Not really? Well, I must say I should like to meet him. And it would be an honour to have a person like that in the house. I think I'd better speak to His Grace about it first,' Nanny said—‘he won't get upset.' Julia grinned— Dona Maria Francisca did get upset by anything unusual. ‘I'd better go at once; it's nearly time for the Rosary,' Nanny went on. ‘When would the priest want to come, Miss Probyn?' She got up as she spoke.

‘Well, that's rather the thing, Nanny. He ought to come
with
us tomorrow, with you in the second car—pretending to be Dom Pedro, you see. Everyone knows that we travel with a chaplain, so it would be a complete disguise.'

Nanny gave a discreet giggle.

‘And how is Dom Pedro to get up? Oh well, he can take his chance on the railway like another, can't he?—if he takes the slow train and gets off at Aveiro they can send the Land-Rover for him, and one of these other two priests can say Mass for us on Sunday morning, if he should be delayed. Is the gentleman from the Vatican to drive up with us too?'

Julia looked enquiringly at Torrens. The Napoleonic thoroughness of Nanny's strategy had taken her unawares.

‘If the Monsignor could drive up with you and Father Horvath in the second car, Miss Brown, it would simplify matters very much,' Torrens said at once.

‘Nanny to you, Major.'

‘Oh, thank you. Well, when you have spoken to the Duke, and if he agrees, let me know what time you start, and I will have them both here.'

‘We start at ten-thirty. But I had better see His Grace at once—you wait here.' She bustled out.

‘That's a remarkable woman,' Torrens said, taking another biscuit. He glanced at his watch—it was already after ten.

‘Poor Hugh! When will you eat?' Julia said. ‘I wish I could give you a bite, but that isn't so easy.'

‘Oh, I'll eat when the job's done. I'm quite accustomed
to Spanish hours, from Morocco,' Torrens said cheerfully. ‘I wish I could get onto the Monsignor, though, to make sure of his being in—if they really would take him up with them it would be a great simplification. Those thugs outside the church this morning will have registered his appearance in detail—probably taken his photograph. Anyhow no-one could miss his eyebrows!'

‘Elidio can get onto him for you,' Julia said, getting up and tugging at the huge velvet bell-pull. ‘There's an extension outside the chapel. I practically forced the Duke to put that in when I came to teach Luzia; I really couldn't go right down to the bottom of the house and scream in the pantry whenever I wanted to talk to my friends!'

Torrens laughed. ‘What an extraordinary set-up the whole ménage is! I wonder if there's anything like it left anywhere else in the world?'

‘Richard's description of Hungary sounded much the same, but I suppose that's all finished now,' Julia was saying, when Francisco appeared. ‘What's the Monsignor's number?' she asked—she dashed it down on a half-sheet torn from one of Luzia's exercise books.

‘O Francisco, take this number to Elidio. The Senhor Inglés desires to speak with the Senhor there—
um senhor ecclesiastico.
'

‘
Muito bem, Minha Menina.
'

‘Have you got a car?' Julia asked. ‘I suppose you'll have to flash out to Estoril to settle this—you'll hardly want to do it on the telephone.'

‘No, I can't do that. I haven't a car; I'm using taxis at the moment—less conspicuous.'

‘A taxi to Estoril will take aeons. I'll run you out when it's all fixed—if Nanny manages to fix it.'

‘Why did you leave it to her?' Hugh Torrens asked, rather curiously. ‘I thought they were so devoted to you.'

‘Devoted is a strong word,' Julia said slowly. ‘They are quite fond of me, I think, but Nanny has been here twenty years; she came for the little boy who died—such a tragedy—and stayed on to take over Luzia. Then the Duchess died too—poor Duque, he has had it hard!—and of course ever since Nanny has been an irreplaceable fixture. Dona Maria Francisca's a good old thing, but
she's a bit of a
beata
, the girl went on, using the admirable Spanish expression for an ultra-religious woman; ‘with all her limitations, Nanny has been the salvation of that child,'

‘Yes, I can imagine that. She's a remarkable woman,' Torrens said again—as he spoke the door opened, and the remarkable woman reappeared.

‘Everything's going to be quite all right,' Nanny said comfortably. ‘But His Grace would just like to have a word with the Major himself.'

‘All right for
both
, Nanny?' Torrens enquired.

‘Yes, Sir. Miss Probyn, you might as well come along too, and do the introducing; Dom Pedro's been in the chapel this last ten minutes, and Dona Maria Francisca will fret if I don't go.'

‘Half a second, Nanny, while I get a coat,' Julia said. ‘I must take the Major out to Estoril to fix up with the Monsignor.' She hurried away and was back in an instant, a loose tango suède jacket slung over her shoulders.

‘Bless you for this, Nanny,' Torrens said, as they proceeded along the endless corridors towards the big staircase.

‘We should be thankful to Almighty God if He gives us the chance to do a work of mercy, shouldn't we?' Nanny responded briskly. ‘And someone from the
Vatican!
'

Down in the shadowy hall, so vast that it was only faintly lit by the superb 18th-century chandelier which hung in the middle, Elidio stood waiting to inform Julia that he had got ‘0
numero
' for the Senhor Comandante— Julia told Torrens to go with the man and take the call in the pantry, and sat down to wait on a high-backed chair of Dutch marquetry upholstered in magnificent but rather threadbare brocade; a dozen of these stood round the walls, and even one would have added lustre to most museums. When Torrens returned Elidio led them into the Duke's study.

This apartment, which opened off the hall, was not only very large, but stuffed quite full of original Chippendale furniture: enormous glass-fronted bookcases along the walls, with cabriole-legged chairs standing between them; ‘occasional' tables, delicate and graceful; also two magnificent twin tall-boys, and a drop-front writing-desk from behind which the Duke rose to receive Torrens and Julia
as they entered. Major Torrens was furniture-minded in the English way, that is to say he knew and admired English period furniture, and was blind to any other—but he fairly gaped at the contents of that room. Being new to Portugal he of course could not know that when the English wine-shippers in Oporto built, in the year 1785, the Factory House there, in which to dine and entertain their friends, they caused Mr. Chippendale to fabricate their two colossal dinner-tables, and the lovely chairs which still stand round them, each bearing the hidden ‘C, the master's hall-mark. Presumably the Ericeira of that day had profited by the presence of these marvellous foreign craftsmen to furnish his own study; anyhow there it was, a room to stagger anyone.

There was nothing staggering about the Duke of Ericeira, except that he looked so very like a Scotsman. He was rather tall, with the same grey eyes as Luzia, iron-grey hair, and a deeply-lined rugged face which somehow also looked grey; he wore grey suits in Lisbon and greyish tweeds in the country—all made in London, and all with that indefinable appearance of being comfortably old from the moment they are first put on which is the special knack of London tailors. He greeted Torrens in perfect English, drew forward a chair for Julia, and then turned at once to the business in hand.

‘I am delighted, naturally, to receive these divines,' he said, speaking slowly, with a certain formal precision which was also rather Scottish. ‘I am familiar with some of Dr. Horvath's writings—in translation, of course. A very great man. Tell me, do you wish to bring them here tonight?'

Torrens was as much taken aback by the Duke's promptitude as Julia had been by Nanny's.

‘Well, upon my word, I hadn't thought of that, Sir,' he said.

‘Might it not be better? It is dark now, which always creates difficulties for watchers; and it will be unexpected. Then they can both leave with us in the morning quite naturally; Dr. Horvath can travel in the car with my sister and myself—and my daughter, of course—and Monsignor Subercaseaux can follow in the second car with my
secretary and Miss Brown, taking Dom Pedro's place.'

‘Dear Duke, don't tell me that Nanny remembered the Monsignor's name?' Julia put in irrepressibly.