brother has visitors,’ remarked Julio dryly, and Christina felt her nerves stretch a little. The black limousine was familiar. It was the car which had passed her the day before on the road from Lagos. The car with the insignia on the side; the car which belonged to … She swallowed hard. He had not actually said it was his car, but …
Julio noticed her anxious expression, and smiled. ‘Do not look so anxious, Christina. It is merely the car of your brother’s—how do you say it—dono, senhorio?’
Christina frowned. ‘You mean—Bruce’s landlord?’
‘Ah, sim, that is the word I have heard Senhor Ashley use. Landlord!’
Christina’s nerves tightened. ‘But what is he doing here?’
Julio shrugged. ‘Who knows? Is it importante?’
‘I suppose not.’ Christina stiffened her shoulders and bidding Julio goodbye she crossed the road and walked past the magnificent Mercedes with its insignia and crest, the words of which she could read now: Fiel ate Morte—Faithful until Death.
The hall of the hotel was shadowy after the brilliance of the sunlight outside, but she could hear voices in the lounge. She would have liked to have walked straight past, but Bruce had seen her shadow and he came to the door of the lounge and said: ‘Come in, Christina. We were beginning to think you’d disappeared again.’
Christina hesitated in the doorway of the lounge, but the man who was standing in the middle of the floor talking to Sheila was not the scarred man she had met on the beach the night before. He was an older man, fifty at least, with greying dark hair, and rather nice brown eyes. He wore a dark uniform however, and carried a flat hat, and Christina realised that he was the chauffeur. Would he recognise her?
Bruce smiled at his sister now, and said: ‘This is Alfredo Seguin, Christina. Alfredo, I’d like to introduce you to my sister. She’s come to stay with us for a while.’
Alfredo Seguin looked at Christina and for a moment something flickered in the depths of his eyes, and then he smiled and said: ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Ashley. I hope you will enjoy your stay in the Algarve.’
‘Thank you.’ Christina’s reply was stilted.
‘And now I must be going.’ Alfredo was reluctant. ‘Thank you for that most excellent coffee, Mrs. Ashley. Ate logo, Miss Ashley—senhor!’
Bruce escorted the man to the door and Christina stood for a moment looking after them, biting her lips. Sheila, unaware of her sister-in-law’s discomposure, said: ‘Where have you been this morning?’
Christina gathered her scattered thoughts. ‘Oh—er—just down to the harbour,’ she replied honestly. ‘Who—who was that man?’
‘Alfredo Seguin? He’s chauffeur to Dom Carlos.’
‘Dom Carlos?’ Christina repeated the words slowly.
‘Dom Carlos Martinho Duarte de Ramirez, to be exact,’ said Bruce ceremoniously, from behind them. ‘Lord of all he surveys, and that includes the Hotel Inglês!’
Christina managed a smile. ‘I see.’
‘Not that you’re likely to meet Dom Carlos,’ remarked Sheila carelessly. ‘Alfredo, and another man—his estate manager, Jorge Vicente—they usually attend to his business affairs.’
Bruce glanced at his watch. ‘Time for coffee?’ he suggested.
‘You’ve just had coffee!’ stated Sheila coolly.
‘But Christina hasn’t. And I could surely drink some more of that most excellent beverage,’ her husband mocked her gently, using Alfredo’s words.
Sheila smiled faintly. It was the nearest she had come to good humour in Christina’s presence, and Christina felt an overwhelming sense of relief that some things at least were improving. After Sheila had left them, Bruce said: ‘Where did you go this morning, Christina?’
‘I walked down to the harbour. Tell me something, Bruce, this man—this Dom Carlos—where does he live?’
Bruce frowned. ‘Why?’
Christina shrugged lightly. ‘I’m interested, that’s all. It’s not every day one hears of such a person.’
Bruce seemed satisfied with her explanation, for he said: ‘He lives at the Quinta Ramirez. His estate.’
Christina ran her finger over the surface of the table. ‘I suppose that’s some distance away,’ she ventured probingly.
‘Not far. The estate begins just beyond the village. He owns most of the land hereabouts. The Quinta itself is quite a showplace, I’m told. Naturally I’ve never been there.’
‘Why naturally?’
Bruce smiled. ‘Men like Ramirez don’t mix with people like us. Besides, I believe he doesn’t encourage social callers.’
‘But you have met him?’
‘Oh, yes. At the time I leased the hotel, I met him at his office in Faro, and since I’ve seen him a couple of times. Why? Why this curiosity about a man you’re never likely to meet?’
Christina coloured. ‘Just feminine inquisitiveness, I suppose,’ she replied, realising she could not go on asking questions. But Bruce had not said the one thing which would have identified Dom Carlos once and for all as the man she had encountered on the beach.
Sheila returned with the tray of coffee and placed it on the low table and Christina suppressed all thoughts of the man. Besides, what did it matter? No doubt Dom Carlos, if that indeed was his name, had forgotten all about her by now.
During the afternoon, Bruce took Christina on her promised tour of the village, finishing at the harbour where Bruce’s boat, Fantasma, was moored. There were several tourists down at the harbour looking at the boats, but although this was the height of the season there was none of the commercialisation in Porto Cedro that could be found further along the coast. Christina wondered how long it would remain unspoilt, but when she mentioned her doubts to Bruce, he replied:
‘So long as Dom Carlos wants it this way, it will stay as it is. He owns the land. If he doesn’t sell, the developers can’t build their ghastly concrete monstrosities that they call hotels in Porto Cedro.’
Christina was tempted to use the opening to ask more questions, but something distracted her attention and the moment passed.
After the evening meal, she was glad to sit in the lounge of the hotel until bedtime. It had been an extraordinarily exhausting day and she decided to go to bed soon after nine o’clock. But although she was tired she could not sleep. Thoughts of the man from the beach haunted her. How did he come to be scarred so dreadfully? What kind of experience had been responsible for that disfiguration that was at once ugly and attractive? What kind of effect had it had on his life? His family? Was he married? Did he have any children of his own? He could have, quite easily. She judged his age to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, but it was difficult to be certain.
She
