(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (17 page)

"It is as I thought...."

I sat frowning down at the clear hurrying water and twisted a twig in my fingers until it snapped.

"So de Larra is now engaged in fetching rope and provisions. Where from?"

"Not from this village," Pedro said. "There is a monastery on the other side of the gorge, to the northwest, in the forest. If you will take
my
advice, Señor Felix, we will wait here comfortably until de Larra has spirited away his friend; then, without the least difficulty, we can remove the children."

"I have two objections to that plan."

"Which are?"

"First, there seems to be a child missing. In order to know what has happened to that one, it is needful for me to meet Manuel de la Trava, so that I can give an account of the matter to Doña Conchita."

"Two children or three," said Pedro impatiently, "what difference can that make? If one got lost somewhere, it is not our fault. Well? What is your other difficulty?"

"Such a simple solution is no part of Don Ignacios plan.
He
wants Don Manuel dead—and before his death he must be pronounced mad, so that his heirs may inherit his estate. That would not happen if he escapes to the Americas. So Don Ignacio is sure to try to prevent his escape."

Pedro chewed his thumb thoughtfully.

Then he said, "But Don Ignacio does not seem to be active in the matter."

"I am not so certain. How do we know what secret moves he may have made?"

For instance, I thought, where is the second man who was in the hall? Where is the fat man? What part does he play in this affair?

"Then," said Pedro, "
we
had better move without delay."

"That is what I think. How far to the castillo?"

"Oh, as the crow flies, not far. A couple of leagues, perhaps a little more. But—" Pedro's grin was not without malice—"if the Doña thinks she is going to get there in her carriage, even in a mule trap, she is due for a rude awakening. Firstly, the cart road comes to a stop where there is a rope bridge—"

"A rope bridge!"

"A rope bridge," said Pedro with satisfaction, "over a deep ravine. How our fine lady is to get across that, I leave to
your
brilliant wits."

"Is there no other way to approach the castillo?"

"I asked de Larra. He said, possibly, if one were to travel south from here, for several leagues, and take a small road that winds eastward up another valley, around the other side of the mountain. But then you would finish up on the wrong side of the ridge and might find there was no track over the top. He was not certain. Or, you can go on up the valley, a league or so, cross a footbridge, and come back on the other side of the river—but then you have to cross
two
ridges, and it is only a goat track through the forest."

"Well," I said, "it looks as if the lady will not be able to reach her husband's hideaway."

"If you ask me," said Pedro, "that is just as well. One of the first questions he asked de Larra was, had he seen Conchita, did he come from her? He hates her, it is plain. Only when de Larra swore he had had no dealings with the lady would Don Manuel even consider his offer."

I thought.

"Is there somewhere close to this rope bridge—a farm, cottage, barn—where the Doña could wait in shelter while I go on and try to see her husband?"

"Yes, there is. A foresters' hut." Pedro's sniff said, Not what she is used to.

"Good, then let us collect the women and set out."

We jumped across to the bank and had started back toward the houses, along the brookside, when, ten paces from the bridge, I heard a familiar voice.

"No,
hija
! I said, come back! I said, we must go into the house. Be a good girl now. You can do that another time. Do as Papa says—please,
querida
!"

And a shrill, angry little voice, replying, "But I
want
to do this. I want it very much!"

"But,
hija
! You promised that you would be a good girl. You promised. And we
must
go inside!"

"Why?"

"Otherwise we might be seen."

Pedro's eye met mine. Then, curious to discover what would happen next, I walked along to the bridge, and up onto it. The speakers had been beyond, out of sight, down by the water's edge on the far side. As we briskly and loudly walked onto the arch of the bridge, they moved under it, remaining out of sight.

When we had crossed the brook and passed the corner of a house that stood nearby, Pedro said in a low voice, "Why did you not accost him?"

"Because, now, he still thinks himself undiscovered."

He nodded, slowly. "And perhaps the fat fellow will betray himself. Very good. But it passes wonder why he should saddle himself in the wilderness with that spoiled pest of a child."

"No," I said, "don't you see—"

"See what, in mercy's name?"

"Where are your mathematics, Pedro? You who are so good at calculating? The child is the missing factor to the equation. On one side there is a child too few—on the other—"

"But why?"

"Hush!"

Doña Conchita was standing in the doorway of the bakery looking impatiently in our direction, tapping the doorpost with her black ostrich-feather fan.

"
There
you are! The omelette is quite ready!" she called. "Eat it without delay so that we can be on our way." And she almost pushed us inside, then demanded urgently of Pedro, "Well? Well? Did you see my husband? Is he there, in that castillo?"

While she interrogated him, I thought I caught the sound of hooves outside. Then I noticed that Juana seemed eager to catch my eye. Her glance was full of meaning, and I made a cautious movement of my head, indicating that I would speak to her elsewhere when occasion presented.

Pedro was bolting bites of omelette between replies to Conchita.

"Yes, señora, yes—I saw your husband—he is in the castillo. Yes, with the children—I saw them also, high, high up on the ramparts."

"Oh, then let us go to them at once—at once!" cried Conchita. "Poor little darlings—they are probably starved to death."

Yet then, in spite of her declared impatience to be off, she wasted a good half hour buying bread from the baker; she would not make do with the few loaves left: over in his tray from the last baking, but insisted on waiting until the new batch came out from the big wall oven, hot and fragrant.

"It will be so much nicer for the poor children like that," she said; though Pedro muttered in my ear that the loaves would be chilly enough by the time they had reached the children, if he knew anything of the matter.

While Conchita was making her wishes known in the bake house, I contrived to step out of doors for a moment with Juana. The mist had thickened; we had only to move a few feet away from the building to be out of sight.

"What is it?" I asked quietly.

She was frowning; I could see that she was troubled, embarrassed, angry even; could her anger be directed against me?

"Felix ... you will think me a spiteful busybody, I daresay—"

"Why should I do so? You are no such thing."

She had a rosary of wooden beads attached to her belt; these she twisted unhappily, looking down at her hands, not at me.

"I know that you like Conchita very much. And it will seem as if I am trying to spoil that liking—in a mean, petty way—"

She looked so like the troubled, sulky boy whom I had believed her to be on our former journey that words came from me of their own accord, "Come, Juan, how can you misjudge me so? I know that you could never in your life be mean or petty." And I added in the old teasing manner, "Fierce and savage, yes; I remember when you called me a hateful, infamous, tyrannical
pig—
"

At that she did turn startled eyes up to me. "Never! I am sure I never did."

"I can remember the very place. It was behind the blacksmith's forge in Licq-Atherey."

"Oh, well—" She blushed, remembering. "That was different! And I was much younger then. No, but listen. I
hate
myself for telling this—I would not do it—only I feel that, as I brought you into this affair—and it may be dangerous—"

"My friend, stop beating about the bush, and just tell me."

She drew a quick breath.

"Well then—the baker's wife knew that I was a sister—news of that kind travels quickly all over the country—and she iisked me to come upstairs to look at her baby, who is sick. While I was in her upstairs room I saw, through the window, that Conchita went out of doors and into the church."

"To say a prayer for her children," I suggested.

"No doubt." There was an indefinable inflection in Juana's voice, as if she were doing her utmost to be scrupulously fair, against considerable difficulty. "Presently Conchita came out of the church again and went quickly away; then, several minutes later—I was walking back and forth by the window, you understand, hushing the child in my arms all this while—a few minutes later, out came a fat man and a child. Out of the church."

"Ah. You knew the man?"

"No, I did not," said Juana firmly. "I had never laid eyes on him in my life. But the child I knew—very well indeed. I could not mistake—despite the fact that she had grown since I saw her last—"

"Yes?" I said encouragingly.

"It was that little demon, Pilar—Conchita's youngest. Nobody who had once met her could forget her."

"Can you describe her?"

"Thin—with her hair plaited up on top of her head—a little pointed face, full of self-will and petulance—"

"You need say no more. I, too, have met her. She resembles her mother, in fact, does she not? But," I said, "you are perfectly sure that you have never met the fat man who was with her?"

"No," said Juana, with reluctance and discomfort, "but I think I know who he is. When Conchita came to visit me with the children in France, the elder ones, Nico and Luisa, often spoke of a friend of their mother's, Don Amador de Castanos. He was very fat, they said—they made jokes about him as children will. Nico drew a p icture of him like a balloon. Then Conchita became angry and forbade them to mention him."

"But you think that might be he? The fat man in the church."

"It might be," she said, troubled, with a crease between her brows. I guessed that there might be more that she scrupled to tell me; gossip, hearsay from the children's nurse, perhaps. "The other two children said that he was very fond of Pilar—especially attached to her."

"Who or what is this Don Amador, do you know?"

"Guillermina the nurse told me that Don Amador was a cousin of Calomarde, the Minister of Justice, and that he himse lf held a government position in Madrid. That was where he met Conchita."

"In that case, it certainly is very odd to see him in a little mountain hamlet such as San Quilez."

"So I think also,"

"You did not see him
with
Doña Conchita—speaking to her?"

"No." Juana sounded relieved that this was the case. "No I did not. They came separately from the church—they might not even have noticed one another. It is dark in there. But it was so strange that he—that he was with—"

"Conchitas youngest child; who is assumed by everybody to be shut up with the others in the castillo."

"Yes!" she said, turning on me her clear dark-brown eyes with their coppery lights. "That
is
strange, is it not, Felix?"

"Oh well—I daresay there will turn out to be some very simple explanation," I suggested robustly. "
All
explanations are simple when you hear them."

"Do you think I should tell Conchita that I have seen Pilar?"

"Why not? It would be the natural thing to do."

Her face cleared. "Then I will do so. I hate deception. Bless you, Felix! You have relieved my mind of a weight." She spun on her heel and walked back inside the albergue.

Nearby I noticed one of the villagers, a man in a high conical Aragonese hat.

"Señor," I said to him, "have you by any chance seen a rather stout gentleman, well-dressed, with a little girl?"

He looked me straight in the eye, spat deliberately, then replied, "No, señor. I have seen no such persons. No such persons have been in this place."

Then he walked away, not slow, not fast. Humph, I thought, someone has greased
your
palm well, my friend.

When we were on our way again, with the females driving in the tartana, Pepe and Esteban in attendance, and Pedro and myself riding ahead, I noticed two things. One was that Conchita and Juana seemed to be on even more distant terms than they had been during die morning ride. Juana attended diligently to her driving, coaxing the mules along over the bad road with firmly set lips and knitted brow; while, beside her, Conchita sat bolt upright, looked straight ahead, and flicked her fan about in a displeased manner; neither of them seemed to address a single word to the ether.

Conchita does not believe that little Pilar was in San Quilez, I thought. Or chooses to pretend disbelief. Which?

I noticed, also, that Pedro had some news that he wished to communicate; his eyes were huge with it, and he could hardly contain himself until we had drawn away from the others along a couple of turns of the track, which he re, as we penetrated and climbed higher into the mountains, became increasingly narrow and rocky. The mist was too thick for any view in front, but the vast and cold presence of the High Pyrenees could be felt invisibly and forbiddingly around and ahead of us, like an army of huge granite ghosts. Dear Father in heaven, I thought—somehow it came more naturally to converse with God in such a place—dear Father, I presume You had some excellent reason for causing Manuel de la Trava to come and hide himself in these tremendous mountains. And I shall be greatly obliged if in due course You will divulge it to me.

Naturally I had a good reason, Felix, you ninny, came the chiding voice of God. From here, as the eagle flies, it is now hardly more than five leagues to the French frontier. The truth, my son, is always simple.