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  She said, “It is a most beautiful thing, François. He wishes you to sell it for his friend?”

  “Possibly.”

  “It will make a lot of money?”

  François shook his head. “Some—but only a fleabite compared with what it would bring if it were genuine. It is only a very fine copy of the real thing. It is not gold and none of the stones are genuine—but even so the workmanship is magnificent and there is only one man who could have done it.”

  “But François, you should have told Senhor Farley!”

  “Do you make a friend unhappy right away? While he drinks your wine and the morning is so beautiful? Bad news can always wait. Besides, ma chere, I would like to find out a few things about it first.” He smiled and rubbing the back of his hand against her plump cheek went on, “Also he is not sleeping with her.”

  “Then it is a pity. It is time he found someone.”

  * * * *

  The letter had come just after Richard had left to go to see François Norbert. It had a Cheltenham postmark and was franked on the envelope Private and Confidential. Sitting over her morning coffee Sarah read it for the third time. She vaguely remembered Arnold Geddy. He was her father’s solicitor and also had sometimes acted for her mother. A nice man, mild and kind. He had come out to the villa after her mother’s death to settle her affairs. Once or twice before that, too, he had been to the villa, always to see her mother. She smiled to herself as memory came back to her. Pooh Bear . . . that’s what her mother had called him. Not to his face, of course. The happiness in her made her giggle. Now Richard would not have to fuss about her circumstances, would have no excuse to avoid taking a gift from her.

  The letter was written on Mr Geddy’s private deckle-edged paper and in his own handwriting.

  My dear Miss Branton:

  I hope perhaps that I need not recall myself to your memory. But in the legal profession it is unwise to assume too much. I am your father’s solicitor and at times acted for your mother and for yourself I have, of course, through your father heard of the recent events which have led to your being in residence at the Villa Lobita. In the light of this change in your circumstances I have received certain instructions from your father, and from your aunt, Mrs. Ringel Fanes, to take legal steps to provide for your future. I will not go into these in any detail in this letter, but will say that they are generous and, I hope, will be welcomed by you.

  As a Mr. Edward Kerslake, a junior partner in our firm, is by happy chance leaving to take a short holiday in Portugal, I have taken the liberty of directing him to call on you so that he can explain the situation to you and put in train the legal formalities which must follow from the instructions of your father and Mrs. Ringel Fanes. On arrival in Lisbon he will telephone you to make an appointment to come and see you. I cannot give you an exact date for his arrival in Lisbon since he is flying first to Paris to conduct some business there for a client. But he should be in Lisbon within two or three days of your receipt of this letter.

  Finally perhaps, after all these years, you will permit me a warmer note? If at any time you should need personal or professional advice I would hope that, as your mother often did, you would not hesitate to write or to telephone me.

  My kindest regards,

  Yours sincerely,

  Arnold Geddy

  Taking the letter with her she went up to her bedroom and put it on the desk by the window. As she did so she saw the blue-suede-bound diary lying on the blotter where she had left it. Her mind tranquil with happiness that she now had an even stronger argument to make Richard accept a generous gift from her, she picked up the diary and saw for the first time that it carried in gold lettering on its spine the words Dialogues of the Soul and Body—Saint Catharine of Genoa. She smiled to herself. How like her mother mildly to protect herself against her own carelessness. She often had left her personal letters, papers and her jewels scattered carelessly around. Few people seeing the title would be tempted to open the book. She opened it now at random and read the first neatly scripted paragraph, the ink now faded to the soft brown colour of autumn oak leaves, translating easily to herself from the French in which her mother had made the entry:

  . . . Bellmaster came back in a thoroughly vile mood. His horse, Bold Greek, fell three fences from home in the Gold Cup and had to be destroyed. I am glad I was not there—not that I ever intended to be, Cheltenham in March has no appeal for me. We dined at the Savoy with Polidor, and his little wet black olives of eyes were on me all the time. Dear, dear . . . I hope Bellmaster doesn’t want to ask him to join us on the Lion de Mer . . .

  Her eyes moving at random to the opposite page, she read:

  Charming letter from Bo-bo Branton at Larkhill, enclosing a little love poem which rhymes but doesn’t scan. But he’s a dear, sweet man. Up to his knees in mud. Wants me to go down for some special guest night mess dinner. Shan’t—the military en masse bring me out in pimples. I like him by himself but with his brother officers he quite changes. Leading me around like a high-stepping filly in the ring, and as near as damn saying aloud, Look what I’ve got. Only he hasn’t.

  Smiling to herself Sarah closed the book. She could see and hear her mother, bright, brittle and outspoken. Some time she would settle down and read the diary. That clearly would be no disrespect to her mother. Clearly she had left it to her so that, if she wished, she could read it.

  At that moment she heard the sound of Richard’s car coming up the drive. She turned eagerly to go down to meet him. But as she reached the bedroom door, realising she had the diary in her hand, she paused briefly. To the right of the door was a small set of hanging bookshelves, almost full with hard and paperbacked books. She pushed the diary in amongst the books on the middle of the three shelves and hurried on down.

  She reached the hallway as Richard Farley came in through the door. She went up to him, put her hands on his arms and asked eagerly, “Well, what did he say? Tell me! Tell me!”

  He grinned. “Whoah—you’ll have me flat on my back. First I want a drink. Come on.” He took her by the arm and began to walk her towards the sun terrace.

  “Oh, Richard, how can you keep me in suspense!”

  “All right. Calm down. He’s going to value it. To do it properly will take a few days. And he said it was a beautiful piece of work. And I’ve got a raging thirst from the grilled sardines his wife cooked for us.”

  “And I’ve got news for you. Look—a letter that came from England just after you left. Now there won’t be any question of an argument between us.” She handed him the letter which she had received from Geddy. “Oh, I’m so happy, I can’t tell you.” Holding the letter in his hand, not looking at it, his eyes on her, he said without thought, “You really do go up in the air, don’t you? It beats me how you stuck that convent as long as you did.”

  Her face changed abruptly. She could understand why he had spoken so and it was no fault of his that his words had brought a swift pang of misery to her and, for the first time, even though she knew it would quickly pass, a sense of shame at her failure to be what she had wanted for herself. No amount of self-justification could alter the bald facts of her own weakness.

  Farley, seeing the change in her, leaned forward, kissed her briefly on the cheek and then said comfortingly, “Sorry—I spoke out of turn. It was very clumsy of me.”

  She shook her head, feeling tears coming to her eyes and said, “You go on and read the letter. I’ll get some ice from Fabrina.”

  * * * *

  Kerslake was met at the airport and driven to the Lisbon office. Jansen, who was the Lisbon section head, gave him a pleasant greeting. Aside from being pleasant, grey-haired and portly, Jansen was bored, and had been for many years. He longed for London and Birdcage Walk but knew that he would be in Lisbon until he retired in a few years’ time to a modest O.B.E. and a comfortable pension. For up and coming young Birdcage men he had no envy. Seven out of ten would end much as he was going to end. After the usual gossipy chat
and Kerslake had politely declined a drink, Jansen said, “As you know, we’ve broken off light contact on orders from London. I’ve got the man who was working it in here now. Thought you might like a chat with him. He’s yours, too, if you need him.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “His name is Gains. English father, local mother. He’s a good bloke when he works, but he can be effing lazy. He’s too fond of the two major pleasures of life. Good company, though.”

  “I’d like a word or two with him.”

  “Whenever you are ready. We’ve booked a room for you down there. Hotel just outside Monchique and about five kilometres from the villa. And we’ve a car for you, and an hotel here for tonight. You’re a Quint man, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “He’s all right. I came in . . . donkey’s years ago, under Warboys. He’ll live and serve for ever. They just put in new parts when he needs them.” He laughed and was unsurprised when Kerslake remained unmoved, no smile, no slightest frown. “Lese majeste—not enough of it around, I think. But opinions differ. No joking on Her Majesty’s Service.”

  “I started as a bobby on a beat. I never saw a great deal to smile about.” Kerslake suddenly smiled. “But then perhaps I wasn’t looking in the right places. Does this Gains have a car here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d like him to drive me to my hotel. I can chat with him there.”

  Jansen chuckled and wagged his head. “Very wise. I’ve been debating whether I’d keep the tap in the interview room on. Now happily I don’t have to make the decision. I’ll take you along and introduce you.”

  Ten minutes later, in Gains’ car, Kerslake turned to him and said, “Before we get to the hotel find a quiet place where we can park and talk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A little later Gains turned into an unmade road and parked under a row of trees opposite a building site where a block of flats was being built. There was no surprise in Gains. He had served too long not to know all the types. He could read this one. Wouldn’t have trusted his own mother. Still, at least you knew where you were with this type. They didn’t always work by the book if it got in their way.

  Kerslake said, “Smoke if you want to.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gains began to fumble for his cigarettes.

  Kerslake let the first trail of cigarette smoke eddy past him and then said, “How many times have you been in the Villa Lobita?”

  Gains, surprised, said, “I don’t understand, sir. My orders were light contact.”

  “I know your orders. But I asked how many times have you been in the villa?”

  With a shrug of his shoulders Gains said, “Twice, sir. The first time I couldn’t avoid it. There’s an oldish couple in the lodge and I used to chat up the man—Mario. One afternoon when the villa lot went out for a car drive he insisted on taking me round. Only the ground floor.”

  “Describe it.”

  Gains did in detail and Kerslake was impressed. His observations and his memory served him well. When he had finished Kerslake said, “And the second time?”

  Gains stared up at the scaffolding on the new flats.

  “Well, sir—I thought it might come in handy some time— like now, perhaps—if I saw the upper floor. After all, if a thing is going to grow and other people are coming in on it. . . well, the more you can tell them the better. Don’t you agree, sir?”

  “No, I don’t. But since it has happened I want to know about it. The upper floor?”

  “Mario let slip that the two of them were going out to dinner one night. So when they did and Mario and his old lady were in their lodge place I went in. One of the villa keys is always left under a small flower trough on the top of the steps, right-hand side.”

  As Gains went on with a description of the upper floor Kerslake watched a young woman walk past the flats. She was carrying a bundle of washing on her head and walked awkwardly on high platform shoes. A plasterer working late on the building shouted something to her and she made him a brief, insulting gesture. Two sparrows dust-bathed in the road at the far end of which he could catch a small glimpse of the sea. Suddenly he had a rare moment of tiredness and depression. People were disgusting and that included himself. . . snooping about bedrooms, probing into the smallest and most intimate details of others’ lives.

  Interrupting Gains, he asked, “Did you see a safe anywhere?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s hidden behind a three-shelved wall bookcase in one of the bedrooms.”

  “Ay, yes sir. I remember the case. It’s on the left as you go into her bedroom.”

  “Are they sleeping together?”

  “No sign of it, sir. After all. . .” Gains hesitated.

  “All what?”

  “Well, she’s not long out of a convent, is she, sir?”

  “What about him?”

  “Quiet, pleasant enough chap, he seems. He’s been around the Algarve for a long time. Well known—and liked I gathered. But I had no brief to go into him.”

  “Or the villa.”

  “That was different, sir. I hope you agree?”

  “Let’s say I’m not going to bawl you out for doing it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I always think that a little discreet initiative . . . well, some people understand and others don’t. Do you want me to come down with you tomorrow, sir?”

  “No.”

  Gains held down a smile and a sigh of relief, and said, “Senhor Jansen has put me at your disposal. I can be down in a few hours when you want me . . . if you should want me, that is, sir.”

  “We’ll see. What kind of look did you get of the parcel which Miss Branton collected from the Hotel Globo?”

  “Not too good.”

  “Well, give me some idea.”

  Gains threw his cigarette end away and frowned with pretended concentration of thought. They always liked something to go on so why not let them have it. “Well, sir, she was sort of cradling it in her arms. I’d say longish——” he spread his hands apart to indicate the length, “——rather than squarish. And not all that thick.”

  “I see. Do you know the hotel they booked me into down there?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll be comfortable there.”

  Kerslake was silent for a while. Birdcage had put a stop on any enquiries at the Hotel Globo. A wrong word or the raising of a moment’s unease might cause trouble. Discretion in that direction had been left to him. Knowing his man now, he finally said to Gains, “I want to know who runs the Hotel Globo and their past history. But I don’t want you to go near the place and I don’t want the Lisbon office to know anything about it. You’ll get a London bonus direct. Think you can manage it?”

  Gains, flattered by the confidence and the prospect of a bonus payment, disguised his pleasure with a thoughtful frown and then said, “I think it could be managed, sir.”

  “Good. If you can get it by tomorrow and phone me in the evening I’d be very happy.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” Why not. Making other people happy was a good Christian thing to do—particularly if you did yourself good at the same time. Odd, too. He had thought he was going to dislike this man with his uptight style, but he liked him. He was the kind who could eat two Senhor Jansens for breakfast and still be hungry.

  “Very well. Now let’s get to this hotel.”

  The only thing, he was beginning to think, was quietly to disappear. The trouble was that it would take a little time to organise and to decide where to go. He would have to stay until this solicitor had made his visit and gone. Charging off before that would put her in a state. And, anyway, he had to work out where the hell he should go—and also the money side of it. He had a little money left, and he had his hands and a few simple skills. He should be able to make out. He smiled ruefully to himself as he lay back in bed, his open book resting on the covers. Maybe there was a virtue in the situation. He had been in Portugal long enough. But where to go? Jesus, the whole thing had
started a long time ago. South Africa and a Kimberley mining office. Eighteen months tea-planting in Ceylon. Then England for a spell. . . farming in Kent, hops and apples, and then three years as a travel courier. Languages had always come easy to him through his mother—she was the only woman he had ever known who could speak Kikuyu idiomatically and accurately instead of the Kiswahili which most people used. He shut the thought of his mother from him. What the devil was he going to do? Perhaps, anyway, he was being too independent . . . sensitive . . . about the whole thing? Why not just take whatever she would want to give him? In a way he had earned it. Oh, Christ, he thought, here you go again Farley. You can never weigh the pros and cons of a situation or problem, make a decision and stick to it. She was dead set that he should be rewarded, and even more determined now that she knew her father was going to make a permanent provision for her. Still, what the devil would he do if he had money? There was nothing he wanted to do—literally. No ambition, no life dream. In fact, he had for some time realised that he had been secretly pleased when the ristorante had failed. It had been hard and interesting work, but it had also carried responsibility for other people and the ghastly compulsion of things having to be done when they had to be done. All that talk about a place in the Dordogne . . . just an evasion. Once, just once, he had known that the only thing he had wanted was Kenya . . . to go in with his father, take the farm and work it up . . . Oh, Christ, what did it matter? Perhaps the real answer was to sit on your tail and just wait for things to happen. That’s what he had been doing before she arrived. The simple answer was to go back to it. . . move in with Herman for a while. No, that would not do. She would come chasing after him, wanting to get her so-called debt to him off her conscience. Pity he was not like so many of the men he knew around here who never missed a chance of four legs in a bed if a pretty girl were willing. But the years had proved to him that he had long ago become a eunuch. Perhaps if he had taken himself to a head-shrinker he could have been cured. Impossible. The gekko on the wall unmoving . . . the night bird calling . . . and the two of them on the floor, naked and bloody . . . and the added shock of hearing his own primitive scream of rage and horror.