‘Before we leave the nave, I must tell you: when King Philip II of Spain visited the Chapel of Saint Jerónimos, he was so taken by the saint’s terracotta likeness that he exclaimed “No me hablas, Hieronimo?” Won’t you speak to me, Jerome? And so, follow me and I will show you this wonder.’
Unless Jerónimos was about to give up the name of my would-be assassin, I wasn’t interested. The tour moved to the next room, and I melted away.
There was work to do.
*
I had been in Portugal for less than two months, and to my knowledge at least, I hadn’t blown my cover, irked, or threatened anyone enough to eliminate me. Sure, there were people who didn’t like me – the nasty Spanish countess Laura, Bertie’s old housekeeper Mrs Willoughby – but there was a fair distance between not liking someone and wanting them dead.
What about that old battleaxe who worked in Matthew’s office? What was her name? Nicola something-or-other. Langston. Had she confirmed that there was no Mrs Sinclair at Marconi and deduced that I was a spy? And what was to say my assassin disliked me? Maybe they didn’t know me. Or maybe they pretended to be my friend. Claudine? Gabrielle?
There was no need to limit the list to women.
There was the grey-haired man, of course, but I was certain he was Gestapo. Killing from a distance wasn’t their style. And with a handgun? In a monastery crowded with tourists? No. Whoever it was was an amateur. Someone like Rupert Allen-Smythe? Or someone I had won money from on one of my trips to the casino?
My head was pounding when I spotted Julian’s car parked outside Claudine’s house. It wasn’t alone; several other cars were parked along the road and the gate was open. It was too early for a party, but this was one curiosity that was easy enough to figure out.
Instead of the maidservant, Julian stood by the door.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’
‘Who were you expecting? The Pope?’
He stood back to let me in, his face unusually dour.
‘Why not? Everyone else is here. And dare I say, you seem to be in a foul mood, Madame Verin.’
From his expression, I guessed I wasn’t the only one.
‘What happened?’
‘The police came this morning. They’ve found Christophe.’
‘Ah.’ My temper melted away, leaving me with displaced remorse and little to say. ‘Where?’
‘In the mortuary.’
‘Oh hell.’ My shoulders dropped and I rubbed my eyes. My hunt would have to wait, at least for a few days. ‘What happened?’
‘His body was spat up by the Boca do Inferno.’
The same place Graf had taken me for lunch, that first time. I remembered the angry roar of the waves attacking the black rocks below. It was a beautiful and frightening place. There wouldn’t have been much left of him to identify. I wasn’t fond of the man, but not even Claudine’s husband deserved so ignoble a death.
‘I’m so sorry. How’s Claudine taking the news?’
‘As you’d expect. The well-meaning souls in there are helping her drink herself into a stupor.’
‘So glad she’s surrounded by friends,’ I murmured, staving off a fresh panic at how close I’d come to joining Deschamps in the mortuary.
With a quick hand at the small of my back, Julian prevented my escape.
‘Come in, Solange. Join the circus.’
‘Were they able to confirm . . . ?’ What? How he died? Who killed him? How I was going to prevent myself from saying anything untoward? I fluttered my hand in vague clarification. ‘Were they able to confirm what happened?’
‘The coroner is doing the post-mortem tomorrow, but with two bullet holes in the back of his head, even the locals should be able to figure that one out.’
An execution, and professionally done. Christophe had clearly been involved in something way over his head, but what? And with whom?
‘They’re certain it’s Christophe?’
‘Claudine identified the body.’
I cringed. ‘Ah, Julian. She shouldn’t have had to see that.’
‘She identified him by his wedding ring. That and a scar on his leg. The face? Unrecognisable.’ His blunt words only underlined his sorrow, and not for Christophe, I was certain. ‘Come inside, she’ll be glad to see you.’
He escorted me into the parlour with the piano. Its cover was down and a group of men sipped cognac around it, while Gabrielle and two other women fussed over Claudine. She shook them off as she saw me.
‘Solange.’ She held her hands out to me.
I stepped through them and hugged her.
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Let me get you a drink,’ she insisted.
I wanted to tell her to sit down, but remembered how I was after the news of Philip’s death reached me – the manic urge to keep moving, to focus on other people so that you didn’t have time to think of your own loss. I nodded.
An older man in uniform waylaid her en route to the sideboard, whispering something in her ear. Maybe he knew the right thing to do, or say, because I didn’t. All I could offer was my presence, and hope it would be enough.
Julian pressed a glass into my hand. A sickly-sweet cherry-flavoured swill oozed down my throat, and I struggled not to spit it out.
‘Are you trying to kill me, you mad Irishman? What the blazes is this?’
‘Ginjinha.’ He maintained a straight face. Barely.
‘And people enjoy this?’
‘Not all, apparently. Your man is in the library, by the by, if you’re looking for him.’
‘My man?’
If he was referring to Schüller, I’d thump him.
‘The Herr Major is in the library with the other Herr Major.’
Julian enunciated each word, as if talking to a stupid child. His nostrils flared a bit, highlighting the distaste in his voice – perhaps for Eduard, Schüller, or the two of them hiding away during a condolence call. Most likely the latter.
‘Really?’ I cleared my throat, grateful for an excuse to leave the parlour. ‘What’s he doing in there?’
‘Why ask me?’ He shrugged, smirking as my empty stomach
