He counted the number of doors along the hallway twice to make sure of his destination, firmly gripped the icy doorknob and turned it. Before him appeared a sumptuously finished room that as Elisa had told him adjoined another. The door between them stood open. Expensive furniture chosen to last forever gave the child’s bedroom a regal air. Like the chamber of some medieval prince, far too imposing for the antic existence of tiny Samuel the circus performer. The bedroom was scattered with toys, stuffed animals, fire trucks, and even a collection of toy motorcycles parked in a row along the dresser. It was obvious Samuel had slept with his mother ever since he was taken from the cradle. The traditionally furnished adjoining room was largely superfluous.
He located the display case on the dresser. On a blue silk cushion hung the ornate silver key set with sapphires around Samuel’s engraved initials. He touched it and felt a shiver go up his back. The key was as icy cold as the doorknob. He held it in the palm of his hand for a moment or two, admiring the beauty of the artistry. He contemplated the macabre reality that the object had been crafted with the idea it would eventually be buried it with its owner. He put it in his pocket.
Just as he’d done with the doors along the hall, he counted the drawers to make sure he didn’t open the wrong one. A black case was the only thing inside. He carefully unzipped it and found a sheaf of papers clipped together. Each bore the logo of a private clinic and provided a report of drug tests administered to Elisa Barreiro. They were in chronological order and went back to the final months of her pregnancy. The most recent was only a month old. The dowager marquess had been extremely demanding in her requirements, for Elisa had been tested for heroin, cannabis, cocaine, and even tranquilizers. All results were negative. He shut his eyes and heaved a sigh, feeling relief and a touch of shame at the memory of Elisa’s offended look the previous evening.
Once outside, he raised the hood of álvaro’s jacket to shield himself from the rain as he hurried along the tree-sheltered walk to the church. There he was shielded from any surveillance from the manor, at least until he got to the churchyard. He tried Samuel’s key in the lock of the massive wooden door of the church. At first it didn’t seem to catch, and he wondered briefly if perhaps the jeweled silver key was merely symbolic, not crafted for the ancient lock. He pushed it in as far as it would go; twisting it, he felt the antique spring mechanism move and heard the echo of the click of yielding springs. The door opened. Before entering he looked behind him and caught sight of a large black umbrella moving in his direction. Beneath it was Alfredo, the old gardener who’d served as gravedigger. The man raised a hand in a gesture that was both a greeting and a definite command to wait for him. Manuel tested the knob to make sure that it would remain unlocked. He slipped Samuel’s key into his pocket.
“Good morning, se?or,” the man called out as he approached.
“Please call me Manuel,” he responded and extended his hand.
The gardener took it in a firm grip. “All right then, Manuel. I was wondering if you could give me a moment.” He looked back toward the path through the trees and peered toward the high windows of the manor visible above the treetops. “I tried to say something on the day of the funeral when you were standing by the grave.”
Manuel nodded, recollecting. He’d had the impression the man was about to speak that day. It had slipped his mind afterward.
The gardener looked again toward the manor windows. “Perhaps we could have a word inside?” He jutted his chin toward the church door.
Manuel pushed the door open and gestured. It felt odd to be inviting someone into a place where he felt he himself had no right to be.
The gardener shut the door and made sure it clicked into place. Manuel played the host by inviting him to take a seat in the rearmost pew.
Perhaps the gloom inside the church called for quiet; the man spoke in a whisper. But his voice was firm. “I knew álvaro from when he was a little boy. Well, I knew all the brothers, but I had a particularly good relationship with him. Santiago is like his father. He treats others, everyone, as if they’re inferiors; and Fran, though he was a good boy, had his own ways. But álvaro always took time to chat with me; he’d even offer to help out when he saw I had a lot to do.”
Manuel nodded, beginning to feel that perhaps all the man wanted was the opportunity to present his condolences.
“I do all sorts of work here on the estate. Most of the jobs are fairly agreeable, but certainly the hardest of them is to serve as gravedigger. I don’t do it alone those times when unfortunately it becomes necessary. I call in several of the tenant farmers to help. But I’m in charge, and I make sure it’s done right. The day the old marquis was buried, Fran didn’t go back to the manor; he stayed there, sitting on the ground next to the grave as I filled it in, one shovelful at a time. I sent away the other workers and I stayed behind as long as I could, because I didn’t want to leave him there alone. He didn’t complain at that, maybe because he knew that I didn’t have any choice. I felt I had to be there. He didn’t cry. He’d stopped that the moment we lowered the coffin into the ground, but there was something in his expression that was a thousand times worse. I can’t really put it into words; it broke my heart.
“And then I saw álvaro come down the road. He sat down on the ground beside his brother, and for a few minutes they were quiet together. Then álvaro spoke. And the words he said to his brother were more beautiful than any I’ve ever heard. I’m no good at expressing myself; I don’t have his gift, and I couldn’t tell you exactly how he said it. But he spoke about what it meant to be a son, what it meant to hold a father’s hand, that love was greater than any other power, and about knowing it would never be lost, and he also talked about what it means to be a father. He said that life was offering Fran a new opportunity, that the child his woman was carrying was his chance to become a father, to create for that child the love and caring he’d received his whole life long. And he added that Fran’s child was a sign, a promise of good things, and an opportunity to do things right.”
Manuel nodded slowly, recognizing the words that Fran had repeated to Lucas just a few hours later.
“Little by little his expression changed as he listened to his brother. Then Fran said, ‘I think you’re right’; and he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here, álvaro, because I’m worried. Something terrible is happening in our family, and I can’t help feeling responsible, because I know that when all is said and done, I’m the one that brought the demon into our house.’ That’s when the rain started, and álvaro convinced him to go on talking here, in the church.” The man looked toward the altar, where despite the gloom and the scant leaden light that filtered through the tiny windows high up just beneath the ceiling, the chapel’s decorations of gold leaf gleamed. He turned to meet Manuel’s gaze. “I’m telling you this because I know you’re the head of the family now, and I believe you need to know that despite everything I’ve heard and whatever they may say, Fran didn’t kill himself. And álvaro had nothing to do with his death.”
Manuel blinked in surprise, taken aback. Not for a moment had it occurred to him that the suspicions about álvaro’s role might be so widely held.
“The day álvaro pointed the shotgun at his father, everyone on the estate was there and saw it. The worst part of it was that his own parents were the ones to spread the rumor the boy was dangerous,” the man went on. “What do you think happened after his own father called him a murderer in front of everybody?
“The old marquis adored Fran, but everyone knew his mother couldn’t stand the boy. And then when he came back with his pregnant girlfriend, you could see the smoke rising from her ears. You know what she calls her grandson?” Manuel closed his eyes and nodded in pain. “When after the old man’s death Fran started acting in such a strange way, we all thought his mother was bound to throw him out soon. Or even worse. An estate is like a whorehouse; there are no secrets. As for me, you’ll understand from what I’ve said that I’m long-suffering; I have sharp ears and an excellent memory.”