Authors: Roderic Jeffries
‘It is my wife’s cousin who is the wife . . .’
Braddon expressed himself in terms which made Letitia wince, then continued: ‘From the beginning, you’ve done all you could to string me along. You never told me that the court case had to be actually started within the ten years; you said that just writing to the other side was good enough. I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on so I showed your letter to a friend this morning and he said that if I didn’t start things actually rolling inside the ten-year period, I wouldn’t have an action and now there are only days left. You’ve tried your damnedest to make certain I can’t sue the bastards. But you won’t get away with this. I’ll speak to the College of Solicitors and tell ‘em precisely what’s happened; I’ll see you’re struck off the Rolls.’
Although his expression remained the same—suggesting concern that Braddon should be under such an unjustified misapprehension—Roig was amused. Did this pompous little man really believe that any complaint of his would carry weight? If every foreigner’s complaint against his solicitor was acted upon, who’d be left to carry out the necessary legal work?
Casa Gran, as was suggested by the name, was the largest home for many kilometres and it was set in grounds of a hundred and fifty hectares; any local farm of three hectares was considered to be of a good size. For over two centuries the estate had been owned by a Barcelona family but, despite their great wealth, they had supported the Republicans in the Civil War and all their property had, sooner or later, depending on the tides of battle, been confiscated. The island having declared for the Nationalists, the house was used as a barracks and inevitably had suffered considerable damage; after the war, it had been abandoned.
The two-room casita in which Roig had been born lay six kilometres to the south and on a clear day it had been possible to see Casa Gran from there; he could clearly remember, when young, standing in front of his mean, crude home and looking across the land. In identifying the big house for what it represented, he experienced the first surge of ambition that was to drive him forward and upward through life. At that time, however, such ambition had not reached so high as to envisage actual ownership of Casa Gran; that had come years later.
Eventually, the estate had come up for sale and he’d bought it. He’d spent a fortune on restoring the house to its former glory, satisfied that no one could mistake its new owner for anyone but a man of position and power. Often he would stand outside and look south and with deep satisfaction would once more reassure himself that it was impossible, even with the aid of glasses, to pick out the casita in which he’d once lived.
It always amused him that Elena had no idea he owned Casa Gran or to what use he put it. She was a woman of limited knowledge and even more limited curiosity. She had only three interests in life—her two children, traditional island crochet, and soap operas on television.
He parked the Citroën BX 19GT in front of Casa Gran and climbed out into the harsh sunlight, to Stare up at the three-storey, stone-built house. Twenty-seven rooms. How many other men owned houses with twenty-seven rooms?
The entrance was traditional to the period, but unusual by modern standards; instead of a main doorway, there was an arched passageway which gave direct access to the inner courtyard, or patio, and off this there was on either side a tall, heavy wooden door, each of which led into an entrance hall. The courtyard was enclosed and so part of it was always in shade. In the centre was a fountain with a three-foot-high jet of recirculated water which dampened and freshened the air; radiating out, like the spokes of a wheel, were beds in which grew citrus trees and flowering bushes.
He entered the house through the right-hand doorway. Julia.’ There was no answer. He called again. This time he heard her noisy approach as heels rapped on a flagstone floor.
She’d spent most of her working life in the fields and her long, narrow face was heavily lined, her skin dry and rough; she looked years older than he, yet was the younger by two months.
‘Didn’t you hear me call the first time?’ he asked curtly.
‘I was in the far room, cleaning,’ she answered, in a flat, expressionless voice.
‘A friend will be here soon; make certain everything’s ready.’ He wondered what were her thoughts concerning the women who visited him; but then perhaps she didn’t really think about anything much? When they’d been young, they’d often played together if able to snatch time from working in the fields. Then, her family had owned the land they worked, whereas his had been sharecroppers. That had made her socially superior to him. He hoped she remembered those days so that she could fully appreciate the irony of the present ones. ‘You can bring up a bottle of white wine and put it outside for me now.’
He went up the wide, curving staircase, with intricate wrought-iron banisters, to the landing, where he turned down the right-hand passage. The large, high-ceilinged bedroom was delightfully cool, even though the temperature outside was nearly 40°C. All the antique furniture glowed from recent polishing and the ancient floor tiles had been newly scrubbed; she might be little more intelligent than a cow, but she knew how to keep a house.
He changed out of his lightweight suit. In the summer, few Mallorquins wore coats, let alone suits, but he had been told years ago by an Englishman that one could always distinguish an educated gentleman not by the way he behaved—a gentleman laid down his own standards of conduct—but by the way he dressed. He had never forgotten that. He put on a newly laundered cotton shirt and linen trousers, looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the door of the huge wardrobe; smart and trim, he decided with complacent pride.
He returned downstairs and went out into the courtyard. A table and two chairs had been set out on the shady side, near a tangerine tree on which the fruit was now the size of peas. He sat and poured himself a glass of wine. The grapes had been grown on his land and had been pressed in his press, the wine had matured in his cellars. A man of much property. He looked at his Breguet—Raquel would soon arrive. She hadn’t been to Casa Gran before, so she was in for a big surprise; a surprise that would assuredly bring to an end her conquettish hesitations. He knew the growing excitement of expectation; as Julio Benavides had written, novelty was the sharpest of aphrodisiacs. The reverse was equally true. Eulalia should have remembered that. She’d really believed he’d divorce his wife to marry her. As if he could ever be such a fool as to lose all chance of gaining possession of the properties his wife retained in her own name with all the fervour of a miser! He remembered Eulalia the last time he’d seen her, made ugly by the tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to remind him of all the promises he’d made when intent on seducing her. Was she really as naive as she behaved?
It was comforting to be certain that Raquel would never subject him to such ridiculously emotional scenes. She knew the score. But as sophisticated as she might believe herself, he’d soon identified her weakness. She yearned to lead the kind of luxurious life which trashy reading and viewing had persuaded her the wealthy lived. So it hadn’t taken many dinners at the most expensive restaurants in Palma, or visits to the Casino, to stop her pointing out the difference in their ages. . .
He heard the crackling sounds of an approaching motorized bike of some sort and he vaguely wondered who this could be? Someone to speak to Julia, perhaps, but certainly not Raquel; Raquel would never use so plebeian a machine . . .
Julia came into the courtyard. ‘There’s a man who wants to speak to you.’
‘Who is he?’ he asked irritatedly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Why the devil didn’t you ask?’
She made no answer.
‘Find out who he is and what he wants.’ She really was stupid, but if he sacked her that would be to forgo the pleasure of employing her.
She returned. ‘It’s Carlos Vidal.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He says he wants to talk to you.’
‘Is he a local?’
‘He’s a forastero,’ she replied, using a term which signified that he was a foreigner, not in the sense that he was not a Spaniard, but that he did not come from the island.
‘He can make an appointment to see me in the office.’
She left.
He watched a humming-bird hawk-moth hover in front of a lantana in flower as he planned the course of the seduction. One glass of wine and then he’d suggest a tour of the house. She’d wonder if that was really wise, but finally would agree. And in the master bedroom, he’d placed a small piece of jewellery on the dressing-table . . .
‘Señor.’
Startled, he looked round. Framed in the archway stood a young man in faded shirt and patched jeans. ‘What d’you want?’ he demanded roughly.
‘The great favour of a word with you, señor.’
Andaluce, he judged immediately because of the way in which some of the words were slurred; a judgement confirmed by the jet-black hair, hawkish features, dark complexion, and last but not least, by his manner, which was one of insolent equality despite the poverty of his dress. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’
‘The señora very kindly told me I should make an appointment at your office. But, señor, what I have to say is not for an office.’
‘Then clear off.’
‘You have been a friend of Señorita Eulalia Garcia, have you not?’
‘That’s none of your damned business.’
‘She needs help. I am here to tell you that you must give it.’
For a moment, he was too surprised to speak; then the words came in a rush. ‘Must! I must! A tattered gipsy comes here and tries to tell me what I must do!’
‘Señor, she is very distressed . . .’
Roig shouted: ‘Julia!’
She appeared so quickly that it was clear she had been close by, listening to what was said.
‘Show him out.’
She spoke to Vidal in a low voice. He shook his head. She spoke again, with more urgency, gesticulating with her hands. He shook his head a second time. She shrugged her shoulders and was silent.
‘Señor, I beg of you to understand . . .’ began Vidal.
‘Tell Pedro to come here and throw this bloody man out,’ Roig shouted.
‘Señor, you are making a very serious mistake.’
‘I’ll tell you something, it’s you who’s making the bad mistake; as you’ll find out soon enough when Pedro gets here.’
‘I have tried to speak with you, señor.’ Vidal’s manner remained courteous. ‘It is not my fault that you are too stupid to listen.’ He bowed briefly, turned, and left; his back was proudly straight, as if he had just been awarded two ears and a tail.
Roig turned off the main Llueso/Puerto Llueso road on to a dirt track and the Citroën lurched into and out of potholes, despite its forgiving suspension. Just as well, he thought, that he wasn’t in the Porsche 928 which he’d so nearly bought from a German who’d run into financial troubles in his business because of bad legal advice. As beautifully made as they were, they weren’t for this kind of chassis-wrecking surface. Yet what a temptation it had been! The smart and the rich had been running Porsches for a couple of years, ever since it had become easier and cheaper to own a foreign made car . . . Yet he was a clever man who could recognize that there were times when it was wiser not to appear too smart or too rich. Now was such a time. In recent years, the system of taxation had changed from a levy on a group (with members of that group deciding what proportion of the total demanded each of them should bear) to individual assessment. Originally, every Mallorquin had laughed at this fresh stupidity from Madrid. But slowly it was becoming painfully clear that one really was going to have to provide figures which would be accepted by a beady-eyed, suspicious, vindictive, forastero tax inspector, or suffer very severe consequences. And if one were running a Porsche 928, how did one convince that man that one had virtually no capital and earned no more than a million?
He slowed as he came abreast of an ugly house. Almost there. And to his angry annoyance, he recognized that he was very reluctant to meet Oakley. Why? What had he to fear? He was just as clever, as he’d proved over the past few months. Or had he? Had Oakley somehow discovered the truth? Impossible. Yet, if Oakley had, then that hint of steel beneath the cheerful, friendly, ironic exterior, might come more sharply into focus . . .
He turned into a narrower and rougher track—almond trees to the right, orange and lemon trees to the left—and continued to the end where there was a turning circle, in the centre of which was an olive with gnarled, hollow trunk and a fan of branches which spoke of regular pruning. Beyond was an old stone farmhouse.
As he stepped out of the car, Oakley came through the doorway of the house. “Morning. Very kind of you to come along.’
Since it had been more of an order than a request, the word* could have been ironic; yet Oakley’s expression suggested only friendly gratitude. Roig never trusted people who could conceal their thoughts. ‘I had business at this end of the island in any case, señor.’
‘Good. Then I haven’t upset your working day . . . But do forget the señor. As I’ve told you before, I’m Gerald or Gerry; provided, of course, that it’s spelt with a G.’ He smiled.
Roig couldn’t understand the significance of that and had the uncomfortable feeling he was being mocked.
‘But let’s move, out of the sun. It really has been too hot these past few days, even for me. Yet according to the BBC this morning, in London it’s overcast and cool. If only we could swap a little of our sun for a little—and only a little —of their cool.’
The farmhouse was typical of its period, built long before foreigners had come to live on the island and basically owing everything to need and nothing to aesthetics; the walls were of stone, bonded by Mallorquin cement which powdered, the shallow roof was supported by timber beams, the windows were small and originally had had solid wooden shutters which had done away with the need for glass. In the past few years it had been reformed and the work had obviously been done under the supervision of someone with taste and intelligence.