The Golden City (13 page)

“We can’t be sure, but there are now twenty-five houses in the river.”

Oriana shuddered. That meant fifty dead servants out there. No,
forty-nine
. It was a huge number to have slipped pa
st
unremarked, showing a damning disregard for the lower classes of society. “That means we only have about a week left to
st
op him before he kills again. I should have gone dire
ct
ly to the police. I didn’t realize . . .”

“No,” he said softly. “Turning yourself in wouldn’t have benefited anyone. When we went to the commissioners for permission to pull up one of the houses and open it, we were ordered to drop the inve
st
igation altogether.”

She licked her lips, wondering at his use of
we
. “You work for the police?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Surely you aren’t sugge
st
ing a gentleman would work for money?”

She preferred a dire
ct
answer. “Do you?”

“I
consult
for them,” he said, dipping his head.

Semantics. “
In what capacity?”

He shrugged. “I have access to levels of society where the police are not welcome.”

Ah
. The police were using him to access society, ju
st
as she’d used Isabel. “But if the inve
st
igation was
st
opped . . .”

“As a private citizen,” he said, “I can ask the que
st
ions now forbidden to the police. We’re hoping that, given enough evidence, we’ll be allowed to reopen the inve
st
igation. Right now we have no
proof
. We can’t even get the newspapers to inve
st
igate. They fear being accused of spreading conspiracies by the Mini
st
ry of Culture, and supposedly the prince likes the artwork. They don’t want to offend him and get shut down. However, the fa
ct
that someone other than a mere servant was killed might prove the tipping point.”

Far too late to do Isabel any good
. “So you sought me out. Why ask me to come here, if you could simply ask me your que
st
ions and send me on my way? You could have had them arre
st
me.”

“You are a vi
ct
im in this,” he said, a
ct
ually sounding regretful, “not a criminal. And you’re the only witness we have, the be
st
lead we have in finding the man who’s doing this.”

“And when we have
st
opped Espinoza, will you then turn me in to the Special Police?”

He smiled wryly and shook his head. “No. You’re safe here. I have never found it reasonable to fear any of the sea folk. And I do not intend to reinforce the prince’s fears by exposing an a
ct
ual spy. Heaven forfend.”

He made it sound light, but he could easily send her to her death. “Thank you.”

“You are a spy, aren’t you?” he asked, as if needing verification.

“Yes,” she said. “I am a spy.”

He nodded once. “I assume you have a ma
st
er to whom you report. Do you need to do so?”

No, she wouldn’t tell Heriberto. He would not like this development at all
. Oriana shook her head. “I’m avoiding him for now. I will find Isabel’s killer fir
st
and face him later.”

One of Mr. Ferreira’s dark brows quirked upward. “That’s brave.”

“I have my reasons,” she said. “So, what do I do now?”

“Well, to
st
art, try to entertain my mother a little, which will be harder than you expe
ct
.”

Given her earlier interview with the woman, she
did
expe
ct
that to be difficult. “Should I not speak to the police? The a
ct
ual police, I mean.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think it would be wise for me to drag you to one of the police
st
ations. If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit down tomorrow, perhaps after breakfa
st
, and go over everything you can remember. I need every detail you can dredge up. Then I’ll talk to my police conta
ct
s, find out what we need, and we’ll go on from there.”

“Is that all?” She suspe
ct
ed her fru
st
ration came through in her tone.

He pushed away from the vanity where he’d been leaning and added, “I intend no slight, Miss Paredes. I believe you will be key to
st
opping Espinoza and his cohorts. But we need time to assess your information. Give me one day, please.”

He took her free hand—the one not clutching the towel—and pressed two brass keys into her palm. The sight of the webbing between her fingers didn’t seem to give him pause. “The butler’s copy as well, so you can have some privacy here. And one of these tins,” he added, ge
st
uring toward the jumble of gilded boxes on the vanity table, “probably has sea salt in it.”

He let himself out of the bath, the scent of his ambergris cologne tickling her nose as he brushed pa
st
. Oriana locked the door behind him and re
st
ed her back again
st
it.

He had apparently known she was a sereia for some time. That was a humbling revelation. She’d always been so careful, hiding her gills and hands. Isabel would never even have known if she hadn’t
st
ormed back into the back rooms at the dressmaker's and caught Oriana with her hands bared. For two years, no one
had
noticed her. Even so,
he’d
known.

At the same time, Mr. Ferreira had utterly fooled her. On the submersible, she’d believed his endless chatter. She’d thought him empty-headed and harmless. He was far more deceptive than she’d ever guessed, and clearly more successful at it than she was. She’d never heard a whisper of his involvement with the police. Society would be livid—and unforgiving—if that ever became public.

She let out a sigh and contemplated the cool water in the tub. After a week without a proper bath, her gills could certainly use more time in the water. And she needed desperately to unravel everything she’d ju
st
learned and plot a new course of a
ct
ion.

As she did her be
st
thinking when wet, she went to find that promised box of sea salt.

D
uilio waited alone down in the kitchen. Mrs. Cardoza and her helpers had finished with the after-dinner cleaning. Gu
st
avo Mendes, one of the footmen, was playing his twelve-
st
ring guitar down in the workroom and singing a mournful song whose notes drifted to the empty kitchen. The music brought back memories of Duilio’s university days, of drinking more
Vinho Verde
than was wise and li
st
ening to fado in the taverns of Coimbra far too late into the night.

While Gu
st
avo was a talented singer, Duilio had quickly discovered after his return that the young man’s true desire was to become a police inspe
ct
or, like Joaquim. Gu
st
avo had proven to be a help when Duilio had needed to observe someone, break into a house, or be in two places at once. He could have asked Gu
st
avo to wait here, but . . .

Duilio checked his watch again—it was ju
st
pa
st
ten—and almo
st
missed Miss Paredes slipping down the servants’
st
air. He rose when he saw her walking along the narrow hallway toward the back door of the house. She wore black again, a skirt and shirtwai
st
shabby enough to cause him to speculate as to whether it might be what she’d had on that night. “Miss Paredes?”

Her head snapped about. “Mr. Ferreira. What are you doing down here, sir?”

Judging by her tone, his presence wasn’t wanted. “I thought if you needed to go out, I might accompany you.”

She came down the two
st
eps into the kitchen, her jaw clenched. She looked
trapped
. “I was not to take up my duties until tomorrow, I thought.”

He caught her implication immediately. “You are an employee of this household, Miss Paredes, not a prisoner. I’m not here to
st
op you, but as you are our mo
st
important lead in this case, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you on your own out there.”

She’d li
st
ened with her lips pressed tightly together. “Mr. Ferreira, I have been in this city for two years and have never run into trouble.”

Duilio felt his brows creeping upward.

Miss Paredes shook her head. “That was a
st
upid thing to say. But truly, sir, I am only going over to Bainharia Street to see a friend. I won’t be gone more than an hour.”

Bainharia Street wasn’t far, but its short length was dark and shadowy, as was that entire area. It would be an excellent location for an ambush. And he was curious to see where Miss Paredes was going at this hour, so he continued to press her. “Are you armed?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, a motion he found
st
rangely appealing, as she adju
st
ed the pin holding on her
st
raw hat. “Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked in a tart voice. “There are plenty of
st
reetlamps.”

“And someone almo
st
succeeded in killing you before, Miss Paredes.” He felt bad for pointing that out. It wasn’t as if he’d never walked into a trap himself. “All I’m asking is that you let me follow you. I’ll keep my di
st
ance, I promise.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Oh, very well. You might as well accompany me, since it pertains to your inve
st
igation.”

“Thank you. I am honored you’re willing to tru
st
me that far,” he said. She ca
st
him a doubtful glance, but didn’t prote
st
his
st
atement, so he ge
st
ured for her to precede him. When she walked up the
st
eps, he could see that her skirt had been torn in a couple of places, then neatly repaired. Hadn’t she said something about her skirt tearing when she escaped the replica in the river? Did it bother her to wear those same garments again?

She
st
opped at the back door and waited while he picked up his hat and an umbrella. Once outside, he locked the door and set off at her side. “You’d be
st
give me your arm.”

She hesitated, but then wrapped her hand about the crook of his arm as they walked in silence down the alleyway behind the houses. He led her along the alley and onto the Street of Flowers, heading up toward the palace. “Can I assume you have some expertise with weapons?”

“Yes. I lo
st
my dagger in the river, though,” she said softly enough that he had to lean closer to hear. “The man who dove in after me wre
st
led it out of my hand.” She glanced down at her right palm, covered by her mitt. “I need to replace it.”

The traffic on the Street of Flowers flowed all night, although there were far fewer carriages at this hour. Pede
st
rians kept their di
st
ance, moving along the line of fences in clumps. Duilio watched them, unwilling to risk her safety. “I’ve got a couple of spares. A gun?”

“I know how to use a gun, but the trigger guard can be tricky, so a blade is more reliable.”

He almo
st
st
opped walking, puzzled by that claim, and then realized that her webbing would make getting her finger through the trigger guard difficult. That prompted a dozen other que
st
ions in his mind, mo
st
pertaining to her people’s military—surely they had a navy—but this wasn’t the right time to be asking. In
st
ead he went back to an earlier que
st
ion. “This man who dove in after you. How did he catch you? Did he outswim you?”

“I’d hit my head on the side of their boat,” she said, sounding embarrassed by that fa
ct
, “and I was exhau
st
ed by then. I ju
st
wasn’t fa
st
enough.”

Her face turned toward him, but he was watching a group of apparently drunken young men
st
umbling in their dire
ct
ion. He maneuvered Miss Paredes over until they walked next to the fence and made sure he kept between her and the young men. Fortunately, the revelers were too busy insulting each other to bother Miss Paredes. Their chatter faded as they continued down toward the river. “And the other man,” Duilio said. “Silva? Did he say anything?”

She turned onto Souto, the narrow
st
reet that would cross Bainharia. It wasn’t much more than a cobbled alleyway, not wide enough for a carriage. A feeble glow came from a
st
reetlamp affixed to the side of one of the buildings that closed in on either side. “He seemed to think he was rescuing me,” she said. “He claimed he’d had a vision about me being in the water and came to save me.”

Duilio pursed his lips. He didn’t like Silva, but he didn’t want to bias her perception of the events of that night. He didn’t want to put ideas in her head.

It had been an unpleasant shock when she’d told him his ba
st
ard uncle had been the one to draw her out of the river. At fir
st
Duilio had assumed the boat was rowed by a collaborator of hers. When he’d realized Miss Paredes was a vi
ct
im, Aga’s mention of the two men in the boat had gone from under
st
andable to
baffl ing
. How had the small boat gotten out there, pa
st
the patrols? Hearing that it was Silva in the boat made it less improbable. The man had access everywhere, and could probably talk his way pa
st
any police patrol. But Duilio found his entry into her
st
ory disconcerting. “Did you see any other boats on the water nearby?”

“If you’re thinking of the boat that dropped the house into the water, it would have been long gone,” she said, shaking her head. “Silva and his man mu
st
have rowed out from the city.”

The City Under the Sea
was positioned out of the lanes of traffic, nearer the southern bank of the Douro River. It inhabited an area dredged out in the pa
st
decade, o
st
ensibly to create harbor space for naval vessels, but the navy had chosen to dock their vessels at the unfinished Port of Leixões, north of the Golden City, in
st
ead. That dredging had created a perfe
ct
situation for the artwork. It was ju
st
pa
st
a curve in the river, so the river’s outward current didn’t pull too hard on the houses, and prote
ct
ed from the incoming tidal currents by the southern breakwater that kept the sea at bay. It was about a mile from the quays of the Golden City over to that spot, giving it privacy. One had to be going there to end up there, so Silva’s appearance could not have been an accident. “Did you believe Silva? About his vision, I mean?”

She walked on for a moment without answering, her heels clicking again
st
the cobbles. “To be truthful,” she finally said, “I am not a believer in seers, Mr. Ferreira. I’ve always suspe
ct
ed they simply pretend to know what will transpire and only point out the times they happened to be corre
ct
. Anyone would be right half the time, don’t you think?”

Well, I’ve been put in my place
. Duilio smiled ruefully. “Logic tells us that
is
the case, Miss Paredes. So what do you think led him there, then?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But he said we’d meet again. That does concern me.”

It worried him too. Silva was the showy sort who would create a great fanfare when he revealed that he’d saved a young woman from drowning. Miss Paredes did not need her likeness in the newspaper. He only hoped that it took Silva some time to locate her.

They’d reached Bainharia Street and she ge
st
ured toward the dark windows of a druggi
st
’s shop in one of the fir
st
buildings. “This one. We’ll have to go up
st
airs.”

Beyond the wrought-iron guarding a narrow balcony, a light
st
ill burned in the second-floor window. Someone was waiting for Miss Paredes. She opened the door and slipped inside. A plain lantern hung from the ceiling, ca
st
ing the yellow walls in a sickly light. Duilio followed, climbing the narrow
st
air behind her. She knocked on the door of the apartment above the
st
ore.

An elderly woman opened the door and peered out. “Ah, good. You’ve come. I’ve had word.” She caught sight of Duilio waiting a couple of
st
eps down the
st
air. “Who is this?”

“My new employer—” Miss Paredes began.

The woman opened the door a bit wider and held up a wrinkled hand. “Don’t tell me, child. Heriberto came by this afternoon, trying to find out where you went, so I’d better not know any more. Give me a moment.” She closed the door, leaving them in the hallway.

Miss Paredes glanced at him, an apologetic expression drawing her brows together. Duilio shook his head. “I don’t need to know.”

The worry fled her features then. “Thank you.”

He
didn’t
need her to tell him. Heriberto was, without doubt, the name of Miss Paredes’ superior. That the man had visited the elderly inhabitant of this building hinted that the woman mu
st
also be a sereia, despite the evidence that Duilio hadn’t seen webbing between her fingers. That raised que
st
ions he would love to explore, but they could wait until Miss Parades tru
st
ed him more.

The door opened again, and the elderly woman passed out a square envelope. “She left this for you.”

Miss Paredes took it. “Thank you. I truly appreciate your help.”

The elderly woman waggled one finger at her, a finger that had an ugly scar running up each side. “Be careful out there, child.”

“I will,” Miss Paredes promised her.

The woman nodded and closed her door, an end to the interview.

Duilio heard the key turning in the lock. “Is that it, then?”

Miss Paredes chewed her lower lip for a second, ca
st
a glance at his face, and then opened the envelope and withdrew a fine, deckle-edged card. She read the words, her dark eyes flicking across the page. “I’m supposed to meet her at the Carvalho ball Thursday night.” Her eyes lifted to his face. “Do you know a way I could sneak in?”

Duilio didn’t ask whom Miss Paredes was expe
ct
ed to meet. Not yet. But if she’d asked his help, then this meeting was important to her. “Sneak in? No, Miss Paredes. You and I will walk in the front door. I’m invited.”

“I can’t accompany you,” Miss Paredes prote
st
ed, her spine
st
raightening. “I’m not . . .”

When she trailed off, he realized that she’d misunder
st
ood his intention. He
could
escort a young lady to that ball uninvited—he knew the Carvalho family well enough to get away with it—but that would attra
ct
more attention than he wanted at the moment. And it might prove awkward, since Mr. Carvalho had approached Duilio earlier in the year, hoping to arrange a marriage with his elde
st
daughter. But Duilio had a different plan in mind. “My mother is invited as well,” he clarified. “As her companion, your attendance would be unexceptional.”

“Ah. I see,” she said, her face lowering as if she might be blushing, although Duilio didn’t see any flush
st
aining her cheeks. “Is she well enough to go?”

“Despite her di
st
ra
ct
ion, my mother is made of
st
eel, Miss Paredes,” he said. “She can do anything once she makes up her mind. Shall we discuss it with her in the morning?”

Miss Paredes slipped the card back into its envelope. “Yes. Thank you, sir.”

Duilio offered her his arm. “Then let’s go home.”