So, thought Sam. A wannabe priest. No wonder she hadnt liked the look of him.
Will you be leaving today, dear? Mrs. Appledore went on.
Not sure, said Sam. Can I let you know later? Or do you need the room?
The woman hesitated, then said, No, not yet. But if you could let me know soon, in case someone turns up. Id appreciate it.
Sure, said Sam. Thats great.
She went outside. A black Mercedes SLK with a small crucifix and a St. Christopher medallion dangling from the rearview mirror was parked alongside her Focus. No prizes for guessing whose it was. She looked across the bridge to Stanebank. That track looked pretty steep. Best to take some provisions in case she walked off the toast too quickly.
She went to her car, unlocked the door and took her last Cherry Ripe out of the glove compartment. Her Ray-Ban Predators with the red mirror lenses were there too. These were a present from Martie which Sam had accepted with the ungraciousness permitted between friends, saying, Thanks, but its Cambridge, England, Im going to and they say youve more chance of seeing the sun in a rain forest. To which Martie had replied, Its not the sun Im worried about, girl, its those basilisk eyes of yours. Howre you going to try out the Pom talent when a single glance from you reminds most men theyve got an urgent dental appointment?
What the hell? she thought. This may be the only time I really need shades.
She put them on and straightened up to discover that once again the pussyfooted Madero had contrived to follow her without making any noise. He was carrying a black briefcase and standing by the Merc, looking dubiously toward the humpback bridge.
Very fond of black, our Mr. Madero, thought Sam. Or perhaps hed just made a big investment in the color when he was trying for the priesthood.
She strolled across the road on to the bridge where she paused to peer over the parapet. The Skad was no longer tumbling along like brown coffee flecked with milky foam, but moving much more smoothly with nothing but sun starts breaking its surface. She watched for a moment then turned to walk on. There he was again, right behind her.
You following me, or something? she said.
No, he said, surprised. This is Stanebank, I believe, which Im reliably informed I need to ascend to reach my destination. It doesnt look a sensible road to take my car up, even if it got over this bridge without scraping the exhaust.
Whyd you want to drive anyway? said Sam. Its only a step.
So Ive been told.
He nodded at her rather curtly and set off. After a few moments, Sam followed, already nibbling her chocolate. He was moving quite quickly but she didnt doubt her ability to overtake him. Bleeding townie, probably doesnt feel safe being more than a few yards from his car, she thought.
But as the track steepened and she came up close behind him, she detected a slight unevenness in his gait. Mrs. Appledore said hed been ill and the poor bastard was definitely favoring his left leg. Her own bruised hip gave a twinge as if in sympathy. She saw him switch the briefcase, which looked quite heavy, from one hand to the other as if to adjust his balance. All at once her plan to move smoothly by him, offering a nod as curt as his own, seemed pretty mean-spirited.
She fell into step alongside him and said, Great to see the sun, isnt it?
Yes, it is, he said.
He spoke evenly but she thought she detected an effort not to let her see he was breathing hard.
She said, Like a bit of choc?
He glanced at the bar and said, You did not get enough toast for breakfast?
Yeah, plenty. You were counting?
I tried but I lost count, he said gravely.
The bastard was taking the piss! At least it meant he was human.
As if regretting the lapse, he went on quickly, But thank you, no. It looks too dark for me. I prefer milk, English style.
You do? Id have guessed youd have gone for black and bitter.
Why so?
I dont know. The car. The gear you wear.
I see. By the same token you should perhaps be eating a half-ripe lemon.
Another joke?
Before she could pick her response he went on, Im sorry. I did not mean to imply your garments are anything other than attractive. Perhaps however we both err toward the episematic.
Sorry, youve lost me.
A zoological term referring to the use of color or markings to enable recognition within a species.
Like Im telling the world Im Australian? Why not? And what are you telling the world? That you run errands for God?
Shes been talking to our landlady, he guessed.
There are worse jobs. I understand you are trying to track down some ancestor here in Illthwaite, Miss Flood. That must be fascinating, discovering your origins.
Letting her know that hed been brought up to speed too.
More frustrating than fascinating so far, she said.
Things not going well? Will it trouble you a lot if your quest comes to nothing?
No chance of that, she declared.
Youre very confident. Its not given to us to know everything.
You reckon? she said, detecting a sermonizing note in his voice. Why not? Theres no such word as unknowable. We must know, we shall know.
That sounds suspiciously like a quotation.
Youre right. David Hilbert, German mathematician.
Interesting. I prefer, for now we know in part, but then we shall know even as we are known. St. Paul.
How was his math?
Better than mine, I suspect, he said. He did say, Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good. Hows that for a mathematician?
She considered then said, I like it. And there was a mathematical Paul who said that Gods got a special book in which He records all the most elegant proofs.
There you are then, he said, with a pleased smile. Its good to know our two Pauls had God in common.
Not so sure about that, she said. Mine was a Hungarian called Erdos. He usually called God SF, which stood for the Supreme Fascist.
That wiped the smile from his face.
You dont sound as if you approve of God, Miss Flood, he said.
I approve of mine. Dont have a lot of time for yours, she said.
He looked taken aback by her frankness.
He said, What form does your God take, if you dont mind my asking?
Why should I mind? If you really want to know something, askings the only way to find out. So lets see. Id say my God is the last prime number.
He did not respond to her definition, perhaps because he was pondering it, more likely she thought complacently because he didnt want to reveal he didnt know what she was talking about. Or maybe, she thought with a bit more compassion, it was merely because he needed all his breath to maintain an even pace up the hill whose steepening gradient was testing her bruises. But she didnt have far to go. A long low whitewashed house had come into view. At right angles to it stood a taller building, unpainted and windowless, with a broad chimney at the furthermost end from which issued the column of smoke Sam had observed earlier. Presumably this was the forge or smithy which gave the house its name.
A rough driveway to the house curved off the road. There was no formal gateway but the entrance was marked by a huge slab of sandstone on which was carved THE FORGE with underneath it in smaller letters Lasciate ogni ricchezza voi chentrate.
Whats that all about? wondered Sam.
Its English version is usually all hope abandon ye who enter here, said Madero. In Dantes Inferno its part of the inscription above the entrance to the Underworld. But here ricchezza, wealth, has been substituted for speranza, hope. I dont know why.
He sounded like a schoolteacher passing on information to a pupil.
Ill ask, said Sam. This is where I get off. You going much further?
Up to the Hall, which cannot be all that far.
Sam glanced dubiously at the road ahead which looked to get even steeper.
Why not rest your bones here a couple of minutes? Im sure Mr. Winander will be good for a cup of tea.
Ill ask, said Sam. This is where I get off. You going much further?
Up to the Hall, which cannot be all that far.
Sam glanced dubiously at the road ahead which looked to get even steeper.
Why not rest your bones here a couple of minutes? Im sure Mr. Winander will be good for a cup of tea.
He looked at her blankly for a moment, then said again with the polite formality of an adult explaining the grown-up world to a child, Thank you, but I must go on. I have an appointment, you see.
She opened her mouth, probably to say something rude, but was saved from herself by the sound of an engine. A Range Rover came bowling up the hill. It drew up alongside them. The driver was Gerry Woollass. Beside him sat a woman in a nuns headdress. There was another woman in the back but Sam couldnt see her properly.
Woollass got out and came toward them.
Señor Madero, is it? he asked, getting the pronunciation right.
Mr. Madero in England, corrected Sams walking companion.
Youre on your hour, Ill give you that. Im Gerald Woollass.
They shook hands, then Woollasss gaze moved to Sam.
Miss Flood, good morning, he said. And how are you this morning?
Fit as a butchers dog, she said.
You and Mr. Madero are acquainted?
Odd question, she thought. Maybe hes worried Im on my way to the Hall too, and doesnt like the idea of an awkward Colonial falling over his priceless antiques.
Nah, we just met, she said. Im on my way to see Mr. Winander, and Mr. Madero was kind enough to translate this inscription for me, but I still dont get it.
Woollass smiled. This was a first. He looked a bit more like the kind, well-meaning man that Edie Appledore had described.
He said, It means that if youre so foolhardy as to step into Mr. Winanders workshop, you will be lucky to emerge with any money left in your pocket. Mr. Madero, why dont you climb in? You might as well join us for the last bit of your journey.
Or if you prefer to walk, Ill be glad to stretch my legs and join you, said the nun, stepping nimbly out of the car. She was lean and athletic, in her thirties, with a narrow intelligent face. The headdress apart, she was conventionally dressed.
Sister Angelica, she said, holding out her hand.
Madero shook it. Sam was amused to see how he dealt with this dilemma. She guessed hed much prefer to accept the lift, but the nun had put him on the spot.