The Devil on Her Tongue (78 page)

“What of Madeira?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

“I’ve heard there was some damage from the shocks in villages closest to the ocean, and a bit of trouble in Funchal Town from high water, but on the whole it survived well. I’m relieved to know that Kipling’s wasn’t affected.”

He looked over my shoulder, and I turned to see Dona Beatriz coming towards us. She held the scroll I remembered.

As she stopped beside me, I said, “Senhor Lajes. Allow me to introduce Dona Beatriz Duarte Kipling Perez.”

Senhor Lajes half smiled at me, then at Dona Beatriz, as if he imagined himself the victim of a hoax. Then he stopped smiling and looked back at me.

“She is Abílio Perez’s wife,” I told him. “The woman you met was not.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Please, Senhor Lajes,” Dona Beatriz said, “let us go to the salon.”

Once there, she extended her hand towards a settee. “I’m afraid I have bad news about Abílio. Sit, please. May I offer you something to drink?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you. I saw Abílio in Lisboa only a few days ago. He’s been hurt since then?”

“Abílio is not injured. It’s about your business transaction with him. As I said, please have a seat, Senhor Lajes.”

He sat on the settee, and she sat across from him. I stood behind her. “This is the official deed to all of the Kipling holdings,” she said, holding out the scroll. “It is signed and dated by my father,
Martyn Kipling, and authenticated by the legal counsel in Funchal. Abílio had no lawful right to sell anything. I’m afraid, Senhor Lajes, that my husband has played you for a fool.”

The only sounds were the children’s voices from the garden. Senhor Lajes’s face first paled and then flushed. He took the scroll and unrolled it and read. When he had finished, he sat with the paper held loosely in one hand, and looked at her.

“The documents Abílio had you sign were forged, by him and by the woman he called his wife. The wine lodge and quinta and this house are still mine. Of course, you will wish to consult legal counsel. I’ll be happy to be available for any discussion, and bring my own advisers as well.”

Apart from the clenching of his jaw, Plácido Lajes hadn’t stirred from the time he’d started to read the deed. Now he gave a small nod.

“Abílio came here a few days ago,” Dona Beatriz said. “I told him about the deed—he was unaware of its existence—and I don’t know whether he believed me or not. I refused to let him see it for fear he would destroy it. He informed me he was going to Oporto with his mistress, who is the woman you thought to be me. At least, that’s where he originally intended to go. But he may stay in hiding for a while, fearing that I spoke the truth about the deed. I don’t imagine he would want to face you.” She put both hands on her cheeks to stop the twitching.

Senhor Lajes stood and handed the deed back to Beatriz. His chest rose and fell, and the flush had grown darker, extending down his neck. “If you think Abílio Perez will not be found, you are wrong. I have a great deal of power and influence, and have many men working for me. He will be found, and he will pay back what he’s stolen from me. And more. His life may not be worth living when I’m done with him.”

“It appears Senhor Lajes has accepted the truth,” Dona Beatriz said once we were alone in the salon again. “Legal counsel will confirm
the authenticity of the deed. I feel he will not fight me on anything. His fight will be with Abílio.”

“I agree.”

“And so all will be as before. I expect you to continue at Kipling’s, and to live at the cottage.”

“Even though I didn’t do as you asked?”

She took a deep breath. “You were right to act as you did. The past is the past. I wish both our lives to move forward, and will deal with Abílio if and when I am forced to. I’ll keep Leandro safe. And I don’t believe Abílio is interested in Candelária. It was just a bluff.”

I nodded.

“So you will continue to work with Espirito at the
adega
?” she asked.

“Espirito has left.”

“He left? When?”

“Close to two months ago. Because Henry thought Kipling’s sold, he hired Espirito to— Oh, there’s so much you don’t know yet, Dona Beatriz.”

She shook her head. “Everything is in disarray. Espirito or Henry may have written while I was in Estoril, but I hadn’t had a chance to attend to the months of correspondence here before the earthquake. I’m worried about Henry. You said you saw him in Lisboa the night before the earthquake. I can only hope …”

“I know,” I said. “Soon we will be able to go into Lisboa and make inquiries.”

We sat in silence for a few moments.

“If Espirito is gone, then you must take on the role of overseer at Kipling’s,” she said, “and hire on whoever you like to assist.”

I sat straighter. “You would give me this responsibility?”

She tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t I believe you could do it? I would do it myself if I felt more adept in the intricacies of winemaking. I think my father had long hoped I would one day step in to run the operation. And maybe I would have, had I not married. How different everything might have been if Abílio Perez hadn’t come into my life.”

“Or mine,” I said, and we looked at each other, but then Leandro
ran into the salon chasing Candelária, their playful shrieks filling the room.

“Yes. How different our lives might have been,” Dona Beatriz said, and now we smiled as we watched our children. Neves followed, shushing them and trying to shoo them back outside.

“They can play here, Neves,” Dona Beatriz said, and Neves nodded and stood by the door, her hands folded in front of her.

“Don’t look, Mama,” Leandro said, and Candelária echoed, “Yes, Mama, don’t look. We’re going to hide.”

Dona Beatriz and I dutifully covered our eyes with our hands. There was rustling from the curtains, and tiny whispers and giggles.

“Look now!” Leandro called, and Dona Beatriz and I rose and exclaimed loudly as we searched the room for them.

Candelária’s voice rose from behind a long, heavy satin curtain. “No! It’s mine!” she shouted, and then scrambled out, swishing the curtain angrily.

I went to her. “Candelária, we are guests here. You must behave.”

“I should have it,” she insisted. “It’s my papa’s, not his.” Leandro hid something in his hands.

“May I see what you have, Leandro?” I asked as Dona Beatriz came over to us.

“I found it,” he said, “so I should keep it.” He opened his hands. Bonifacio’s heavy pendant with a cross, bearing the sign of the Jesuit, lay on his palms.

“Papa wore it on the ship,” Candelária said.

“He must have left it here,” Dona Beatriz said.

I took it from Leandro’s hand. “The leather thong is ripped. I suppose it could have dropped without him noticing.”

Samuel entered and announced dinner. “Samuel—” I said, turning to him, dangling the emblem from my fingers, but stopped as his skin turned ashy.

He backed away, shaking his head. Neves stepped up to him and put her hand on his arm.

“What’s wrong? What is it, Samuel?” Dona Beatriz asked.

“It’s Father Bonifacio’s. But I didn’t see it,” he said. “I didn’t see it.”

“What do you mean, Samuel?” she said, a little more sharply.

His chest heaved.

“Samuel,” Neves said under her breath.

“Neves, take the children to the nursery and bathe them before dinner,” Dona Beatriz said.

Neves looked at Samuel, concern on her face.

“Neves? Please take the children as I’ve asked,” Dona Beatriz said.

“Leandro won’t get to keep it, will he?” Candelária asked.

“That’s enough, Candelária,” I told her. “Go with Neves.”

Once Neves and the children left, Dona Beatriz said, “Sit down, Samuel. You look ill.”

The elderly man lowered himself onto the chair. “I knew it would be discovered. A sin such as this can never be hidden,” he said, crossing himself.

“Tell us what happened,” Dona Beatriz demanded.

“F
ather Bonifacio was here with the little girl, Senhorita Candelária,” Samuel said.

“When he asked for the money,” I said.

Samuel’s lips were dry. “Yes. And Dom Abílio said to him, ‘I don’t owe you anything more than I owe any of those who work for me. You will be paid at the final sale of the company, not before.’ But Father Bonifacio said, ‘No, I need it now,’ and again Dom Abílio refused. The Father said, ‘I will go then, to Estoril, and tell your wife what you’re doing.’ They had talked about you, Dona Beatriz, when Father Bonifacio asked where you were and Dom Abílio told him you visited your aunt.”

“Go on,” Dona Beatriz said.

“Father Bonifacio spoke of a paper, a paper that said Dom Abílio would never be allowed to sell Kipling’s. That it belonged to you, Dona Beatriz, and that the paper would stop Dom Abílio. Father Bonifacio then spoke of you, Senhora Rivaldo, of his wife Diamantina, and I didn’t understand how a Father could have a wife. But he said that you told him about this paper.

“At this, Dom Abílio laughed, and said to the Father, ‘You would believe anything your wife tells you?’ And then he said …” Samuel stopped, looking at me. “I’m sorry, Senhora Rivaldo. I cannot repeat what Dom Abílio said about you. It made the Father very angry, and he denied the accusations about you. And then … I don’t understand this part, Dona Beatriz. Dom Abílio took off his boots, and his stockings. I thought it must be because of his misery
with the gout, but for him to remove his boots in the presence of a guest … a Father especially.” Samuel raised his eyebrows. “And he didn’t tell me to bring him the footbath. Instead, he showed his feet to Father Bonifacio.”

Dona Beatriz was staring at Samuel, her face pale and fixed except for the twitch at the side of her mouth.

“What happened then, Samuel?” I asked.

“Dom Abílio said to the Father, ‘Look at my feet and tell me you don’t think your wife is …’ ” Again he stopped. “Once more he spoke harsh words about you, Senhora Rivaldo, and then he said to the Father, ‘So now you know the truth.’

“Father Bonifacio grew even angrier. ‘I thought she was my brother’s child,’ he kept saying. ‘I accused my brother, and lost all those years with him,’ the Father said. Then he again asked Dom Abílio for money, and when he was again refused, he said he would nevertheless go to you, Dona Beatriz, and tell you what Dom Abílio was doing.”

Samuel ran his hand over his face. “And then the Father turned to leave.” Samuel looked at a side table holding bottles and heavy crystal decanters. “Dom Abílio told him that he wouldn’t allow him to go to you, Dona Beatriz, but the Father kept going towards the door, and Dom Abílio … struck him.” Samuel swallowed and gestured at the decanters, filled with ruby and amber and mahogany spirits. “He struck him down,” Samuel repeated, looking from Dona Beatriz to me. “A Jesuit Father,” he finally said, in almost a whisper.

We sat in silence. And then Dona Beatriz said, “You must tell us what happened after that, Samuel.”

Samuel’s next sentences came out in a rush. “Father Bonifacio was on the floor, lying in the wine. He looked up at me, confused by the blow. He lifted one hand. ‘Help me,’ he said, and I went to him. But Dom Abílio shouted, ‘No, leave him.’ ” Samuel took a white scrap of cloth from his pocket and touched his forehead, his upper lip, his neck. “And then … it becomes worse, Dona Beatriz, Senhora Rivaldo. I don’t know how to tell you.”

“It’s all right,” Dona Beatriz said softly.

Samuel clenched his fists and beat them lightly upon his thighs. “Dom Abílio went to Father Bonifacio, and … and pressed his bare foot onto his throat. Father Bonifacio put his hands around Dom Abílio’s leg and tried to push him away, but he was already weak. There was so much blood spreading from under his head. I tried to pull Dom Abílio away. He still held the decanter, and he swung it at me, hitting me in the face.”

I remembered meeting Samuel the first day I arrived. His swollen eye and bruised cheekbone.

“I fell. As I struggled to rise, Dom Abílio pressed, harder and harder, on Father Bonifacio’s throat. I finally was able to stand, but Father Bonifacio’s face was growing dark as he choked, and his tongue … The blood was still coming from the back of his head, making a puddle with the wine under him, and then … he lay still.” Samuel’s eyes were wet, and he continued to pound his own thighs as if trying to drive away the image in his head.

I saw it too, and heard Bonifacio, choking and gasping as he died, with Candelária outside in the garden.

And then there was a rustle of silk, and Dona Beatriz was at the window, her back straight as she stared at the greenery.

“Dom Abílio said he had to get rid of the little girl quickly, and would take her to the convent.” Samuel wiped his eyes with the scrap of cloth. “The blood was there,” he said, pointing at the carpet. “I cleaned it, but I know it’s still there. I’ll always know it’s there. I stayed with Father … with the body of Father Bonifacio, until Dom Abílio returned from the convent. We left the salon, and he locked the door from the outside so none of the servants would come in, and when it was dark, and the other servants asleep, he came to get me. We wrapped Father Bonifacio in a blanket and together carried him out to the carriage house and put him in the small carriage. Dom Abílio told me to take the body to the Tagus and throw it in. I put a horse in the traces and wrapped burlap around its feet, so as not to make any noise as I left the carriage house. Then I went, slowly and quietly, to the river.” He rubbed his face with trembling fingers.