The Day of Atonement (14 page)

Settwell ushered me into his sitting room, and soon the two of us were sipping wine together. It was a congenial but silent meeting, for Settwell said nothing. He smiled hesitantly, looked out his window, and drank more wine. Then he repeated the process. I observed that his eyes were red, as if he had been sleeping badly or crying or drinking far too much—possibly all three.

As he appeared to have difficulty in beginning the conversation, I chose to put him at his ease. “Sir,” I said. “I know well that it can be difficult to ask a man for money, even when he has offered it, so if you have invited me here
because you have made arrangements to depart, you need only name the ship, and I shall make certain your berth is secured.”

“It is not how I should most like to proceed,” said Settwell. He set down his glass of wine and rubbed his face vigorously, sending his wig slightly askew. Without troubling himself to correct it, he picked up his glass and drank deeply. “In fact I may not have need of your money. I have asked you here upon a more delicate matter. I hope you will indulge me by hearing what I would say.”

“Of course,” I said, somewhat surprised. “You need but tell me how I might serve you.”

“You know of my predicament,” Mr. Settwell began. Now, with one hand, he began to fuss at his wig. “You know I have been ill used and impoverished through treachery. I am at the mercy of vile men. Of course I want to take my daughter to safety, but how much safety will there be in England? I will be free of the Inquisition, but we will face poverty and want, and for a girl, someday a young lady, I think you know what that means.”

“You are not friendless,” I said. “There will be opportunities.”

Having, at last, pushed the wig into something like its previous position, he returned to clutching his drink with both hands. “I do not relish a life of depending upon charity.”

“I doubt that you asked me here so that you might bemoan your situation,” I said. “If you desire something of me, you need only ask it.”

Settwell finished his wine, poured himself another full glass, and then patted my arm. “You are a good man. I hope you will not regret these words.”

“I could not,” I said. “I owe you my life, and I owe you for giving my parents the knowledge that their son was safe. It must have been their only source of comfort in the last days.”

“Very well,” Settwell said, his voice now growing hard. “I despise that I must flee this city with my money in the hands of the thieves that took it of me. My daughter will be denied the comfort and freedom
that is rightly hers, a state of ease for which I labored all my life. When I lost my wife, I was able to take some solace in the knowledge that Mariana would do well. Now that too is gone, and I cannot endure it.”

My pulse quickened and there was a mild throbbing in my temples. I had come to Lisbon to free myself from my own worst self, to exorcise my darkness entirely, but I was yet in Lisbon, and if I could also punish those who had harmed my friend, then I would do so. Gladly. This very moment. I sipped from my neglected glass of wine. “Have you a plan?”

“I do,” Settwell answered, “but to succeed, I will need your help.”

“You shall have it.” I did not hesitate, and I did not lie. The thought of doing something for this man, who had done so much for me, was like a balm. Let him ask me to throw myself into the sea, and I would embrace the opportunity.

Settwell’s face lit up. “You are very like your father, Mr. Foxx. Very like him indeed. He, too, was nice in the matter of honor.” He took another gulp of wine to steady his nerves, and then began. “There is a pair of merchants, upstarts who have been in Lisbon for but three years and who have prospered beyond all reason. They have used some fair means, but mostly foul. The husband, Mr. Rutherford Carver, is but a straw man, agreeable enough, but not overly clever, I’m afraid. It is his wife who is the mastermind, and she is both cunning and lovely to look upon. Her beauty is such that there is not a man among the Factory who is not enamored of her, which explains, in some small part, why my accusations fall upon deaf ears.”

“And how did they cheat you?” I asked, finding myself growing even more eager. A chance to help Settwell
and
scoundrels to be punished. This was a balm indeed.

“The scheme was simple enough. I was in the process of arranging to trade port wines for English woolens. As you know, I’d already been at a disadvantage after my conversion to Catholicism, and much rested upon my success. The Carvers approached me and claimed
they could significantly increase my profits if I went into a venture with them. These sorts of joint operations are very usual, and the truth is, Roberta Carver can be quite persuasive. We invested our money, purchased port, and then sold it to an English merchant for woolens, dramatically increasing our profits by taking our payment in gold rather than negotiable notes. We were then to export the gold back to England. The Carvers made sure I understood the shipment was insured, so there was no fear of loss.”

“I suspect,” I said, “that all was not as it appeared.”

“There were no woolens. They bought the port upon my credit and then sold the goods to another merchant for gold. The gold was then warehoused. Using Mrs. Carver’s charms, they managed to falsify shipping manifests to make it appear that the gold was on a ship—a very ship that was then seized by Portuguese customs for the crime of exporting gold.”

I knew that it was, in theory, illegal to export gold from Portugal. The Portuguese customs agents generally winked at the offense, however, as their economy depended upon foreign, and especially English, trade. Nevertheless, from time to time such shipments were seized to remind the English that Portuguese laws had teeth and that foreigners thrived only by the grace of the Portuguese crown. Such seizures were rarely random, and only those out of favor with the crown ever fell victim.

“So, they claimed the shipment was lost, while they actually retained it in their possession. But surely it was insured. Were you not protected?”

“This is where Mrs. Carver’s influence is most pernicious. They have simply refused to pay me what they owe. They are not subject to English law as long as we are here, but to the ruling of the Factory and the consul. The consul dismissed my claim as nonsensical, and, in truth, I was not as careful as I should have been when reviewing that portion of the contract, for insurance in these matters is so standard that I failed to notice its omission.”

“Some of this you could not have prevented, and some you might have, but you now have no recourse?”

“That is the sum of things precisely.”

“And what do you propose?”

“It is all very simple,” said Settwell. He now leaned forward, and for an instant he appeared much like his younger self—energetic and enthusiastic, ready to take on the next great venture. “You have already come here in disguise as a young man of business. We shall take advantage of that. I ask that you present yourself as a man of property, but not liquid wealth, looking to make his way here. The Carvers will seek you out, and because you have no connections, you will have no allies. They will not be able to resist the scent of a naïve and eager young man. You will have to establish lines of credit with a New Christian merchant for this to work, but you are clever, and I do not doubt you can do this. Once you have their trust, they will offer you some kind of bargain, with enough truth to it that they will have to make investments of their own. That means they must accumulate gold. When they have it warehoused, you, sir, will steal it using the skills I know you to have gained in Mr. Weaver’s service. The Carvers will lose some portion of what they took of me, and I shall have the means to leave the country. I will not be as rich as I once was, but my daughter will not be a pauper.”

I wanted nothing but to kill the priest and be rid of this country, but I could not refuse to help Settwell, and, if I am to be honest, I liked the idea of assisting him with so involved and daring a scheme. More than that, it felt right. He had been harmed, and who was I to deny that he should have revenge? Better than revenge, in fact. Justice.

“How much do you hope to take of them?” I asked.

“Perhaps no more than five thousand pounds. Perhaps as much as twenty. I should prefer twenty, but five will do if it must.”

I snorted. “I should think you might hope to live well upon even so meager a sum as five thousand.”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Settwell answered with a sad smile. “I know it sounds like a great deal of money, but, believe me, they had far more than that of me.”

“This is a complicated plan, involving a number of deceptions,” I said. “With a fortune such as that in the balance, there will be many dangers.”

“Did you expect otherwise here?”

“Certainly not,” I agreed. Since learning of Gabriela’s death, I had felt nothing but the dull ache of resentment and loss. Now here was something about which I might actually feel enthusiasm.

I stood and took Settwell’s hand. “I came here to set matters right,” I said. “That is what I shall do. You need only tell me how we are to begin.”

Two days later, Enéas entered my rooms just before noon and set a letter, sealed in wax, on the table. The boy appeared shaken. The color had drained from his face and his hand shook noticeably.

“I was returning from your morning errands, and this was placed in my hand,” he explained. “By an
Inquisitor
.” This last word was whispered, the way a Portuguese might speak the name of the devil himself. He then crossed himself and muttered a prayer.

I held the heavy paper and ran my finger along the blotchy red wax. I could not decide how I ought to feel—I was neither afraid nor, despite having orchestrated this contact, gratified. I had set things in motion, and, to whatever extent I could, wished to control how events unfolded. This letter was equal parts promise and threat. I broke the seal and read.

The message was short and imperious.
You are summoned to the Palace of the Inquisition at three of the clock this afternoon.
It bore no signature.

“Is it ill tidings?” Enéas asked, crossing himself again.

“It is growing difficult for me to tell the difference between ill tidings and good.”

At the appointed hour, I approached the most dreaded structure in Lisbon. At the north end of the Rossio stood the great Palace, with its four towers and red roof, indistinguishable in many ways from any other large and splendid building in the city. In my mind I had seen myself standing before the Palace, gazing upon it, neck strained. In reality, I chose not to pause. It was, I decided, but another building.

I strode through the great twin doors, surrounded by priests of all orders, though mostly Jesuits, as they hurried about on their thieving and murdering errands. I moved purposefully, as if I belonged—another skill learned from Mr. Weaver—and made my way across the marble floors, past the great oil paintings and gilt statues and altars. So much wealth, bought with New Christian gold, acquired with New Christian blood. I pushed past it all, making note of doors and hallways and means of escape, into the open courtyard of the interior. The note had not said whom I was to meet or where in the Palace to go, but I was an Englishman arriving at the appointed time. I had no doubt the man who invited me would find me without difficulty.

I passed through a quiet garden with a fountain and several statues of saints. Birds sang and fluttered about. I sat on a marble bench, crossed my legs, and placed my hands in my lap. My wig, my velvet coat, my stockings, my silver buckles and buttons, and the lace on my sleeves all seemed so absurd in contrast with the stark Jesuitical black everywhere. No one stared, however. They presumed I had business. Who would enter the Palace if he did not?

So many of my people, my family, had been dragged into this place, put to the question, imprisoned, tortured, murdered. This place was the very heart of Lisbon’s evil, the machine that fed upon
human flesh and churned out ruined husks. If only, like Samson, I could tear it down. I would gladly suffer torment and blinding and destruction if I could take it all with me. But I had not that choice, and I would have to settle for the next best thing: blood.

I sat for no more than a few torturous minutes before a man in his midforties sat down next to me. He was well preserved, with a youthful face and a disarming smile. His eyes were large and brown and almost feminine. It was Pedro Azinheiro.

The priest had hardly aged since I had seen him last. I remembered Azinheiro walking about the streets of the New Christian neighborhoods, handing out sweets to children while he peered in windows and doorways. We had known many Inquisitors by sight, but this one was particularly notable because of his vanity. Azinheiro greeted the pretty young women with special interest, and he was known to delay or refrain from arrests in exchange for amorous favors. I recalled seeing him, years before, emerging from a neighbor’s house. The husband stood outside, his face pale and marked with tears. Azinheiro stepped out, bowed to the husband, his face a parody of seriousness, and then strode off, his posture straight, his head high.