The Day of Atonement Read online

  Chapter 16

  This time I did not trouble to announce myself. When the boathouse door opened, I forced myself inside. I didn’t know if it was the same young man who had admitted me before. I didn’t look.

  I walked at a steady clip along the slick wood, entered the adjoining house, and climbed the stairs. At the top, I pushed open the door. I was prepared for anything, my senses alive and tingling, and yet I was hardly aware of any of it. The part of myself I most recognized was gone, hidden deep within my rage.

  Inácio was sitting on a chair, a very young girl, no more than thirteen, on his lap. Her dress was unlaced and falling about the shoulder, and on seeing me she pulled it up and fled the room.

  Inácio’s expression was cold and hard. He remained seated. “I know we are old friends, but you test my patience.”

  I took a deep breath, struggling to pull myself free of the tendrils of anger. I would at least hear what Inácio had to say before I acted. “You lied to me,” I said, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Did I?” Inácio asked. “I don’t recall doing so.”

  “Gabriela. You told me she was dead.”

  Inácio’s eyes widened, a pantomime of surprise. He leaned forward. “And she is not?”

  “She’s married to Nobreza, the man to whom you sent me. Am I to believe that is just a coincidence?”

  Inácio now rose from his seat. “You may believe what you like. I heard she was dead. I also heard Nobreza was a desperate man. I am pleased to learn she is alive, however. She was always very pretty. And have you done well with Nobreza?”

  I unclenched my teeth. “Yes.”

  Inácio shrugged. “Then I have done well for you. I put you in the way of business, and I accidentally, but happily, found your lost love. I think you should be thanking me, not barging in here, offering me insult.”

  I took a step closer.

  Inácio held out his hand. “I have told my men to treat you kindly, but if they suspect you mean to do me harm, it will not go well for you. I am sorry I gave you wrong information. I never meant to. You can believe that or not.”

  Had I made a mistake? It had felt so much like a contrivance, but now I began to wonder. My anger so unbalanced me that I found it impossible to tell what was reasonable and what outrageous. For what possible reason would Inácio have lied? The man was a scoundrel and, apparently, an abuser of children, but our friendship surely appealed to the best part of him. Even if resentment had led him to lie to me about Gabriela, even if he had been motivated by pure spite, why would he have sent me to her husband?

  “How can I know you are telling the truth?” I asked. I felt more in control, yet the idea that Inácio toyed with me buzzed within my ears like a mosquito.

  “I cannot prove that I am,” Inácio agreed. “There are many false stories that circulate in Lisbon. You need to decide if I deliberately chose to lie to you or merely passed along something I believed to be true. If you see only what you expect to see, you will miss what is before your eyes.”

  How had I let myself fall prey to my anger? It was the very reason I had come to Lisbon, and now here it was again, poisoning everything I touched as it had back in London.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I mumbled, and turned to leave the room.

  “Wait,” Inácio said.

  I paused and looked back.

  Inácio stood with his hands by his sides, palms out. “I am not so blind that I can’t see why you are angry. You loved her, and then you thought her dead, and then you find her married. Of course this is a terrible blow. I do not want you walking away from here thinking you have broken our friendship.” Inácio grinned, and the scar on his face seemed to glow in the candlelight. “I have also, from time to time, let my passions rule.”

  I sighed. “Thank you, Inácio.”

  “This incident never happened, so it requires no forgiveness. But if you avoid me hereafter, that shall be another matter.”

  He held out his hand, and I shook it. I did not entirely trust him now, but I did not entirely mistrust him either. I did not know what to think. Both Inácio and Roberta had said I was a poor judge of people, and perhaps it was so. Perhaps it was even good. Maybe this uncertainty was the very state of equilibrium which I sought. I could not say I liked it entirely.

  When I stepped inside my rooms at the Duke’s Arms, I found the curtains drawn and several lamps burning, a pointless waste of oil, for it was not yet fully dark. I was about to call out to Enéas to scold him, but then I saw a man sitting in the dim light of the room, apparently waiting for me. I straightened my back. My muscles tensed, and my breath came slow and deep. Weapons, exits, advantages. I took it all in. And yes, the opportunity to strike at someone felt like a balm. Inácio was—perhaps—guilty of nothing, but the rage was still there, seeking an outlet.

  The man sat at my writing desk, with his feet propped up, and a glass of my wine in his hand. One of the lamps rested but a few feet away, illuminating half his face, making his features twist and contort with the flames.

  It was Azinheiro.

  No doubt he expected groveling and obeisance. I should now genuflect, make certain his wine was sufficiently full. Perhaps he would like some bread and cheese. Might I call for some cold meat?

  Let him menace another man if he wanted that. The only courtesy I would show him was forbearance from breaking his neck. “What are you doing here?”

  Through the curtains, the last of the day’s light began to dim. Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, would soon begin, and I stood talking to a priest of the Inquisition.

  “I am told you took dinner this afternoon with the merchant Nobreza,” said Azinheiro.

  I said nothing, waiting to see if he knew about my detour to visit Inácio.

  “Your meal was, I hope, productive for your business,” the Inquisitor pressed.

  “It was,” I said. “And now I am eager to return to my work, which is why I rushed home.”

  I grabbed the bottle of wine off the writing desk and poured myself a glass. The sun had not set, so the Yom Kippur fast had not yet begun. I swallowed my drink and counted off all the reasons why I could not kill this man right now. Chief among these, of course, was that murdering an Inquisitor would interfere with my ability to help Charles Settwell. There were others too. I would become a wanted man, and fleeing the country would be difficult. It had all seemed so simple when I first conceived the notion: Get Azinheiro alone and kill him. Well, here we were, alone. A thrust of a blade or a twist of the neck. It hardly mattered. But then, what of poor Mariana? What of Gabriela? What of the man who had betrayed my father? That simple plan had built itself layers and complexities.

  There was no helping it. There was nothing to do but drink more wine with a murdering Jesuit. I poured another glass for Azinheiro and handed it to him, wishing it were poisoned.

  “I do not like you coming here uninvited,” I told the priest. I did not know if it was dangerous to be so blunt or if it helped preserve my disguise, but I wasn’t worrying about a little breach of decorum.

  “I am sorry to displease, but there are matters that require my attention. You have me to thank for the invitation to Nobreza’s home after all.”

  “It is true that your appearance at the taberna set these events in motion,” I said, “but I cannot engage in trade if you wish to oversee my every movement.”

  “I have no interest in doing so,” the priest said. “For now I am interested in making certain that you are dependable.”

  “What can I do to prove it?” I asked.

  “Something rather simple,” Azinheiro assured me. “You are going to help me discover evidence against Eusebio Nobreza.”

  I was so startled I took a step back. Perhaps striking now was not so terrible an idea after all. I needed to keep Azinheiro occupied and happy for the time being, but I would not betray another man, another New Christian, not to preserve my disguise or further my revenge. And I especially would not betray Eusebio, whose wife mig
ht well be caught in the ensuing vortex.

  “Evidence of what?” I demanded. “I see no sign that Nobreza is guilty of anything.”

  Azinheiro appeared unaware of my tone. “You are to find evidence of Judaizing.”

  Rather than be tempted to hurl my glass at the priest, I set it down. “Nobreza is no Judaizer, I assure you.”

  “Because if he were, you would have noticed? Do not be naïve. These people are clever and secretive. They have had generations to learn to hide their rituals and satanic observances.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll offer no assistance in this.” And remembering to find a credible context for this position, I added, “I have spent weeks trying to find a New Christian who will extend me credit. I do not see why I should work to see ruined the very contact I have labored to cultivate.”

  “You will see the value if the arrest comes after he has lent you money but before you have repaid it,” Azinheiro said with the mischievous grin of a man who has just outwitted his interlocutor. “You see, I will order things to your best advantage. That is one reason to do as I say. Another is because you have no choice if you wish to remain in Portugal. What should the Factory men think if they were to learn that you were secretly of the true church? You would have no future here. No present, perhaps.”

  This was what the Inquisition did. It knew how to corner men like beasts, to deprive them of options. Azinheiro had no idea who I was or what I intended, and yet he managed to outmaneuver me all the time. I could not betray Eusebio to protect my scheme, could I? For a moment I considered how convenient it would be for him to vanish into the Palace prisons, and for Gabriela to find herself without her unworthy husband. Maybe it would not be too difficult to arrange for her safety in my agreement with the priest. She was a beautiful woman, and Azinheiro would not question my motives.

  And then I could set about murdering infants and pregnant women! Why not? Sink part of the way, then there’s no point in resisting the urge to become a complete and irredeemable wretch. No, it was unworthy even to consider such things. I hated that the Inquisition’s poison had even tempted me. Yet I could not help anyone by refusing to cooperate. For all my will to defy the Inquisition, I knew Azinheiro could easily find someone else perfectly happy to advance his own career by destroying a New Christian. If he wanted Eusebio, then he would have him. Perhaps Gabriela would only face ruin and shame, but more likely she too would be charged and imprisoned. If she did not then betray enough of her friends, she would be subject to torture. I had no choice but to appear to cooperate with the Inquisitor until I could devise a more permanent solution to this problem.

  “I don’t care for it,” I said.

  The priest shrugged. “It is life in Lisbon.”

  Time, then. It was what I needed. I had to secure my deal with Eusebio, lure in the Carvers, steal their money, and get Settwell and his daughter free. I had to do all that before Pedro grew impatient. As of this moment, time was running out.

  “I see I have no choice but to obey.”

  “Then you see clearly enough,” the priest said. “Now, let us catch a Jew.”

  Chapter 17

  It took a frustrating week of intermittent meetings with Rutherford Carver, who always had some other place he needed to be, but at last I was able to secure the details for the exchange. Roberta and I now went to great lengths to avoid each other, and when we were in the same room, we stood apart, trading furtive glances, but risking no more.

  I would use my false claims of lands in England to provide a surety from Eusebio for two thousand pounds, an amount equal to what the Carvers themselves would provide. For this plan I did not actually need the money, simply the guarantee that it was to come so I could convince the Carvers to keep gold in their vault at the goldsmith’s. I hoped that once their next shipment came in they would have more than just the two thousand, but the lesser sum would suffice. A man might live very easily upon that amount.

  With a sense of grim satisfaction, I realized that after so many weeks I was prepared to bring my dealings with the Carvers, the Nobrezas, and Settwell to a close. Then all would be easy. I saw myself on a ship’s deck, sailing from the Tagus to the open sea, my arm around Gabriela’s waist. Where in this picture was her husband? Overboard, perhaps. Where, for that matter, were the agents of the Inquisition, who might find themselves perturbed when they discovered the death of one of their own? These were, I supposed, important details—but the thought of the sea air, the idea of Gabriela so close, tempted me to indulge in the fantasy. Reality would impose itself soon enough.

  I turned these thoughts over and over, circling them endlessly until I grew angry with myself and then, as a consequence, everyone and everything else. I forced myself to do arithmetic problems and Latin declinations, but the moment my concentration wandered, I returned to Gabriela on the deck of that ship, and the wind and the sun and the fluttering fabric of her gown, and it would all begin again.

  This had gone on for several days before Enéas began to notice. “The senhor is not himself,” he observed, “and when a man is this distracted and sleeps this poorly, there can be but one explanation. The senhor is in love!”

  We were walking to a meeting with the Carvers, and I answered only with a glower.

  “It is the Senhora Carver, is it not?” Enéas said. “The fiery red hair, the creamy white skin. I have seen many men desire her, but she desires only you, senhor.”

  “Thank you for your opinion, Enéas,” I said. “I am lucky to have an advisor such as you in these matters.”

  “And how could she not love you?” he cried. “A handsome man, and a courageous one! A man of action and one of principle! A man who rescued poor Enéas from a life of misery and want. That she loves you proves the worth of her mind, and yet you push her away. It is most curious. Perhaps it is not Senhora Carver, then. Perhaps it is—”

  I set my hand down hard on the boy’s shoulder. “It is not your concern. I would prefer not to speak of it.”

  Enéas nodded, and the grave look upon his dark features suggested he understood he had escaped something terrible. “I will be more careful to mind my tongue. I never wish to offend the senhor. I am grateful for all the senhor does.”

  “That is good,” I said. “But I don’t need expressions of gratitude. I need only loyalty—and, perhaps, some privacy.”

  “And you deserve such things. I will respect your wishes. Even so, I will say only that though I am young, I know much of love. A great deal of love. I am very much, in my own way, an oracle of love, and the senhor need only ask for advice, and I shall give it.”

  “You still appear to be talking.”

  Enéas studied me. “What is strange to me is not that you resist her beauty, for there are many beautiful women in the world. What is strange to me is that you resist her nature, for you and Senhora Carver are very much alike. Very well suited, I think. That is strange to me.”

  “What is strange to me is that you are still speaking of this,” I said.

  “And to me too!” Enéas agreed. “I cannot imagine why I don’t stop. My loyalty prompts me to speak the truth even if the senhor does not wish to hear.”

  “I should very much like it if your intelligence would prompt you to be quiet before the senhor administers a beating.”

  “The senhor has not beat me in all these weeks. I think it unlikely he would begin now,” Enéas said. He glanced at my face. “Though certainly not impossible.”

  Three hours later, I sat at my desk in my rooms, going through my correspondence. There was a damned lot of it for a man only pretending to engage in trade. I could not imagine how much there would be if I sought to make money in earnest.

  I had shoved my papers aside in disgust when I heard the knock at the door. I knew it was the boy before I called for him to enter. Turning and sighing, I was about to warn him against offering any more advice, but then I saw Enéas’s pale complexion, his trembling lips.

  “What is it?”

&nb
sp; “It is Senhor Franklin,” Enéas said.

  “Is he hurt?”

  Enéas shook his head. “I saw him upon the street, senhor, speaking with the Jesuit, Father Pedro.” On saying the Inquisitor’s name, Enéas crossed himself.

  “Go on.”

  “I could not hear what they said,” the boy explained, “but the priest gave Senhor Franklin gold.”

  “You’re certain?” I asked.

  Enéas nodded.

  I thanked the boy and sent him away. I returned to my desk and closed my eyes. So Franklin was an informant. I had liked him years before and now, though the man had become somewhat ridiculous, I liked him still. I knew that men did what they must to survive in Lisbon, but it was one thing to give the Inquisition information under duress, quite another to receive money for it.

  Franklin knew who I was, but I’d not yet been arrested. That could only mean he’d taken money for promising to keep an eye upon me. Perhaps he might grow desperate later and pretend to have then discovered my true nature, but it seemed to me more likely he would continue to sell innocuous details of my comings and goings.

  This changes nothing, I decided, though I was now determined to keep a careful eye on the innkeeper.

  When I left my rooms that afternoon, I found Franklin waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. “Mr. Foxx, how go your ventures?”

  “Very well, thank you,” I said, making a point to meet the man’s eyes and smile.

  “I should very much like to discuss them with you,” Franklin said, hurrying after me as I made my way to the door. “I know I don’t appear to be much these days, but once I knew the Factory as well as any man.”

  “I should like that myself,” I assured him, hardly slowing my pace.

  “Just name the time, sir,” Franklin said.

  “I shall do so,” I replied.

  I headed out to the street, Enéas trailing behind me. I did not look back, but I felt certain the innkeeper watched after me until I was well out of sight.