The Golden City

The man had pinched both the pelt and a strongbox from the desk in the library. When Alessio had located the footman’s apartment, the strongbox and the pelt were already gone. And they couldn’t question that false footman about it. He’d been strangled to death. That made it likely he’d merely been hired to find the pelt and steal it. Whoever hired him had probably killed him to keep him quiet.

Duilio’s father had continued the search for the pelt, but one damp night while out hunting, Alexandre Ferreira contracted a chill that all too quickly became pneumonia. He died before Duilio could make it home from Paris. In the intervening year, Duilio had reconstructed every last step his father and brother had taken in their searches, with no more success. His gift had proven singularly unhelpful in this particular quest.

The thief hadn’t destroyed the pelt; Duilio knew that much. His mother would have died if that were the case. No, it was secreted away somewhere, an item of indescribable magic. Without it she would never be whole again. If she were to answer the call of the sea, she would be as vulnerable to the waters as any human. She fought that desire constantly.

After one rueful look at his mother, Duilio headed to the door to collect his things from the long mahogany table in the front entryway. He hadn’t found her missing pelt yet, but perhaps he could find one missing servant.

The butler, an elderly man who had served the Ferreira family his entire life, bustled up the hall in time to hand Duilio his gloves. “I’ve heard your sleep was disturbed last night, sir. I am so sorry . . .”

Duilio tugged on the kid-leather gloves and shook his head. “No need to worry, Cardenas,” he said reassuringly. “It was an important message, and I was awake anyway.”

“I’m concerned about security is all, sir.” The butler handed over Duilio’s top hat. “I don’t like strangers in my house.”

“I do understand, Cardenas. I’ll ask Erdano again not to send others from his harem here.” He hoped that would placate his ruffled butler. He didn’t want the man worrying himself into an early grave. “Is the young lady still in the house?”

Cardenas blushed. “Yes, sir. In Mr. Erdano’s room.”

Duilio managed not to grin at the man’s vexed tone. His long-suffering butler tended to consider Erdano and his women a nuisance. Their presence invariably disordered Cardenas’ well-run house- hold. “I’m certain she’ll leave soon enough.”

The butler’s spine was ramrod straight. “She’s not alone, sir.”

Ah, that explains the blush. Well, it meant Joao hadn’t spent the night out at the quay, but that was permissible as long as he had all the boats in sailing shape when they were needed. “Be patient, Cardenas. I believe this morning is Joao’s half day anyway,” Duilio lied, giving the butler an excuse not to throw out the boatman. “Now, I’m off to meet with Joaquim. I’ll likely be gone past luncheon, so don’t hold the meal for me.”

“Yes, sir,” Cardenas said with a brisk nod.

Duilio headed out the door. Once on the flagstone steps, he heard the door lock behind him. As his gift had lately been warning him of impending danger, Duilio patted the flap pocket of his frock coat to verify that his revolver was there, then tucked his newspaper under his arm.

The Ferreira house was set back from the cobbled street by a small garden, the flowers all faded so late in the year. A tall fence of wrought iron about it warded away trespassers. An unpretentious manor of dark brown stone, the house had originally been built to adorn a quinta—a vineyard. The owner moved it to the Street of Flowers nearly a century before, stone by stone, but died with no child to inherit it. It had passed to the Ferreira family then, to Duilio’s newly wealthy grandfather. Although the house had been in his family for more than sixty years, they were still considered newcomers.

The traffic on the Street of Flowers was brisk that time of morning. While the broad avenue was forbidden to wagons and commercial carters, its width invited all other manner of traffic. Pedestrians bustled past the wrought-iron fences separating the street from the houses, either heading down toward the river or up toward the palace or the government ministries centered in what had once been the Bishop’s Palace. Finely dressed gentry and government officials shared the busy street with fishermen and boatmen.

A tram ran up the center of the road, the gold-painted car rattling by all day long. The line had been electrified at the turn of the century, eliminating vast quantities of mule manure that had required collecting almost hourly. Fortunately for the sanitation workers, the horses drawing private carriages and hired cabs up and down the street ensured that they still had jobs.

Duilio walked down to his gate and let himself out, standing back as a lovely lady in a stylish peach-colored walking suit passed him. Her poodle tugged on its leash, trying to get a better sniff of him, no doubt thinking him an oddly shaped seal. Dogs always found him perplexing. The woman cast him an appraising glance, smiled coyly, and slowed her pace, her hips swaying attractively. One of the demimonde, Duilio decided, hunting for her next protector. He admired her lush figure for a moment. She was tempting, but he nodded to the woman politely and resolutely walked the other direction, up from the river.

It was a steep climb. The Golden City rose from the north bank of the Douro River near where it fed into the sea, spreading across several hills. The Street of Flowers traversed the distance from the quay up to the palace itself. While it had once been a narrow lane occupied by goldsmiths and fabric sellers, less than half a mile long, businesses and churches and homes alike had all been demolished to make room for aristocratic newcomers. The country had been embroiled in a civil war, the throne claimed by two young twin brothers—or, rather, their advisers. The Liberals in the south pushed for political reform and a break from the Church, while the Absolutists in the north preferred the status quo.

But when an earthquake destroyed much of Lisboa in 1755, the war had fizzled out. The southern prince, Manuel III, threw all his efforts and his army into helping his city recover. In the north, Prince Raimundo refused to take advantage of his twin’s distraction. Instead his councilors set up a rival capital, cutting Portugal into two princedoms rather than a single united kingdom. Prior to that time, the Golden City had been modestly known as the Port, a city of commoners, although many would argue it had belonged to the Church instead. That was easy to believe, given the number of spires that dotted the hills, the tower that marked the city’s heights, and the grand cathedral that rose above the river.

Nevertheless, the aristocrats had come, along with their prince, and had changed whatever suited them, for good or for ill. They had moved their houses from the farthest edges of the city, from the resort of Espinho to the south, or from the countryside. Some homes, like that of the Queiros family two doors up from Duilio’s, were newer, built in the neoclassical style, with pillars and pediments, the marble imported from far away. Others had the whitewashed walls and red tiles common to the area about the river. It made a jumble of a street, the houses unmatched save for their arrogant consumption of space.

Duilio had always felt a touch guilty about living there. He didn’t believe that having inherited his home and wealth made him any better of a person than Joao, the young man who watched his boats. That was one reason he’d chosen to continue his work with the police, hoping to, in effect, earn what he’d been given.

He passed several more houses before reaching the crossing of Clerigos Street and the Street of Flowers. Clerigos had less traffic, so he turned west on it and began the steep walk up to the higher levels of the city. Built on one of the highest points, the baroque bell tower of the Clerigos church had long served as a landmark for sailors, a slender beacon of ornate gray granite. The thing also made the navigation of the old city’s narrow streets easier for those on foot. Once Duilio reached the heights, he walked along, keeping one eye on the tower as he unfolded his newspaper and hunted for the social page. He brushed past other pedestrians as he did so, but not sensing any danger on the streets that morning, he didn’t worry.

The social page listed the normal comings and goings of the aristocracy—who was seen where and with whom. For those readers unfamiliar with the persons listed, the significance of the entries was limited. The news that Lady X had visited Lady Y at her home meant nothing if one didn’t know of the long-standing feud between the families. But as Duilio acted as an interpreter of these affairs for the police, it was his business to keep apprised of all the foolishness of the upper crust. He read through the first column of entries, making mental notes as to what needed further investigation. Nothing in particular jumped out at him until he reached the second column.

He stopped in the midst of the foot traffic, causing a portly gentleman in a brown tweed suit to bump into him. Duilio apologized to the equally apologetic gentleman and stepped back against the wall of the building to his right to get out of others’ way. Then he read the notice in question again.