Every Secret Thing

  The first man was the friendliest. ‘Mr Deacon? My name’s Evans. I’m sorry if we’ve kept you waiting.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He took the offered handshake, and replied to the polite enquiries as to how his flight had been, and what he thought of Lisbon, but the better part of his attention, all the while, was on the second man. He was a taller man than Evans, in his early thirties, probably, with a neatly trimmed dark moustache and an impeccably tailored suit. The walking stick was his – from necessity, rather than affectation, judging by the way he held it – but his handshake was decisive, brisk, with no hint of infirmity.

  Evans, thought Deacon, was clearly the diplomat, the Embassy man, while the other, though he didn’t have the aura of officialdom, was something more important.

  ‘JL Cayton-Wood,’ was Evans’s introduction. ‘He runs things for us, here in Lisbon.’

  ‘Call me Jack.’ The man stood back, head angled as he took a look around the little courtyard. ‘I see you’ve managed to find one of the nicest spots in the Embassy.’

  Deacon nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve been admiring the azulejos,’ he said, using the proper name for the Portuguese blue-and-white tiles.

  ‘Ah, you know what they are, then,’ said Evans. ‘Yes, they are remarkable. Each tile bears the arms, crest and name of a past minister or ambassador. A chronicle, if you like, of British diplomats in Lisbon.’

  JL Cayton-Wood cut in, ‘I’m told you’re fond of gardens, Mr Deacon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then come, let’s take a stroll.’ He glanced pointedly back at the wide-open doors of the ballroom. ‘These walls are a little too close for my liking.’

  Evans led the way up the stone steps overhung by the pepper-tree’s branches, with Deacon behind him and Cayton-Wood labouring last, with his walking stick. The man’s frustration with the weakness of his body, with his limp, was nearly palpable, and from it Deacon guessed that it was not an ancient injury, but one he was still learning to adapt to.

  The steps came up onto a broad lawn, with beautifully kept gardens bordering the green and shade trees scattered round for elegance. It was unexpectedly large for what was, essentially, a private townhouse garden in a crowded street, and Deacon paused in silent admiration of the aspect.

  Cayton-Wood sent him a brief look, but his next comment passed over the subject of gardens and came to the point. ‘You’ll have been briefed on Ivan Reynolds.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Deacon.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve learnt.’

  He’d always done quite well at school, reciting facts. Putting his hands in his pockets, he answered, ‘His mother was Russian, his father American. They sent him to Paris for schooling; he chucked that and went out to Persia, to work in the oil fields. Came back a year later with shares in the company that would eventually make him his millions. He married,’ – he felt his own ring, without meaning to – ‘married a Spanish woman, who died in a fall from her horse a year later. Since then he’s had two mistresses; no children.’

  ‘Three mistresses, in point of fact. The third one isn’t common knowledge. Not that it’s a vital point. Go on.’

  ‘In 1936 he came to Lisbon, liked it, settled here, and since the war began has been an instrument in keeping our side well supplied with oil. He has also,’ Deacon said, ‘become a passionate collector of fine art, which is, I gather, why you’ve brought me into this.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Cayton-Wood. The effort of walking showed plainly on his face now, and he pointed to a stone seat by the parapet. ‘Let’s sit.’

  There wasn’t room for three men on the seat. Cayton-Wood sat, taking a slender cigar from his pocket and lighting it, while Deacon accepted the offer of a cigarette from Evans, who elected to stay standing.

  Cayton-Wood said, ‘He has been a problem for us, Ivan Reynolds. In the first place, he’s American; a friend of their Ambassador, which makes our operation rather delicate. And he moves in the highest of social circles. His money’ – Deacon thought that word was spoken with an emphasis that marked the condescension of a true-born member of the upper class for those who’d earned their wealth and rank more recently –‘his money buys him influence with people, and admits him to the confidence of several of our side’s top men.’

  Deacon said, ‘And you believe he’s passing on our secrets?’

  ‘There are indicators. We keep a close watch on radio transmissions coming out of Spain. Franco may have kept his country officially neutral, but he’s a Fascist through and through, and it’s no secret where his sentiments lie. He’d be part of the Axis himself if it weren’t for the fact he’s just finished his own Civil War – fighting communists left his finances too weak to support another military action, but still he’s been doing his part from the sidelines, and giving what comfort he can to our enemies. Recently, his agents have been sending out more information than they ought to know. One particular detail I know was discussed in Reynolds’s presence. In fact, there were only three men in the room at the time: myself, the Ambassador, and Mr Reynolds. Myself I can vouch for, and I shouldn’t think it likely the Ambassador would be involved in treason. Reynolds, on the other hand, still has connections with Madrid. One of his brothers-in-law has a position of some influence in Franco’s government.’

  ‘I see.’

  Evans, blowing smoke, remarked, ‘It’s purely circumstantial, of course. But we do think it merits us keeping a rather close eye on him.’

  ‘It’s my understanding,’ said Deacon, ‘you already have someone inside the company.’

  Cayton-Wood answered that. ‘Only a girl. She’s not technically one of our own – she’s engaged to a Portuguese chap on the Embassy staff. She can keep us informed, in a general sense, as to Reynolds’s meetings, and his correspondence, but we needed someone on a higher level, someone who could go behind closed doors with Reynolds, move within his sphere. You had the right credentials for our purpose.’

  ‘But I wasn’t married.’

  ‘Yes, well they took care of that for you in New York, I understand. Found you a suitable girl, did they?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, careful not to let his face or voice betray his feelings. He focused instead on the handle of Cayton-Wood’s walking stick, leaning beside him. A carved ivory dragon’s head handle, with red eyes that watched him back. Taking a hard pull on his cigarette, he asked in casual tones, ‘Why will Reynolds not hire an unmarried man?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Cayton-Wood.

  Deacon lifted his gaze.

  Evans said, ‘He’s a rather eccentric man, Reynolds. And notoriously stubborn. You may find working for him difficult.’

  ‘You’ll have help,’ Cayton-Wood said, turning in his seat to face the sound of footsteps coming up into the garden from the courtyard. ‘Ah, here he is. I wondered where he’d got to. This young man is Alvaro Marinho. He’s the chap whose fiancée has been our eyes and ears, so far, in Reynolds’s offices. He’s going to drive you to the flat where you’ll be living. I’ve no doubt you’d like a chance to settle in, and have a rest before you start.’

  Deacon rose, hand extended, to greet Alvaro Marinho, but he found that, as before, the better part of his attention remained fixed upon the tall man who stayed seated at his side. And he found that he was wondering why Cayton-Wood had felt the need to answer his last question with a lie.

  ‘Alvaro Marinho,’ I said the name over, when asked. ‘He worked for you in 1944.’

  The Embassy’s procedure for enquiries was distinctly British – fill out a form in reception, telling them the nature of your question; take a number; have a seat inside a smaller room, and wait your turn to talk in person to the two employees standing patiently, politely, behind glass, like tellers in a bank. Behind them, a tidy compact office space contained a few desks and computers at which three more people were typing.

  The whole set-up, small as it was, worked precisely, efficiently…one applicant up, the next down, one departing, and one coming in through the s
ilent glass door, while the two front-line staff in their neatly pressed shirts gave their answers through small speaker-windows set into the glass.

  My question was, apparently, the one that clogged the works.

  The young woman staffing my window said ‘Ah’, bent her head, and looked thoughtful. ‘You see, this is a problem. This man that you are looking for, you say he worked here very long ago. We wouldn’t have those records. You would have to try the Foreign Office, maybe, in London, and I’m not sure even they would know…’ She paused, and frowned, considering. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment, please? I’ll ask my colleague.’

  I waited while she walked my query back to a middle-aged man sitting at one of the desks. He stopped working, listened, then he too shook his head and, rising, came across to speak to me in person.

  This was apparently an unusual enough occurrence to draw a few curious looks from the other three people at work in the office, including the young man in charge of the next window over, who glanced up once or twice from his paperwork, as though he, too, was interested in what the older man might say.

  The speech, when it came, was disappointing. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, ‘but there were a lot of people working for the Embassy during the Second World War, and many more rendering service who didn’t actually work here. This man, by his name, he was Portuguese, yes? A locally engaged member of the staff?’ He shook his head, as though that clinched the matter. ‘Nobody kept records of such things, you understand. There would be no way of knowing where he came from, where he went.’

  My heart sank. I hadn’t expected this. My own experience with the British was that they kept quite meticulous records of everything, and I would have thought that someplace as official as an Embassy would—

  ‘I am very sorry that we cannot be of help.’ Returning my request form through the stainless-steel pass-through tray set in the counter, beneath the protective glass, the man sent me a courteous, dismissive smile intended to remind me of the other people waiting in the rows of seats behind me. But I could feel, without his help, the press of time. It was already nearly four o’clock – I only had, at best, an hour, before things started closing.

  Running into one wall made me seek another avenue. I held my ground a moment as I forced myself to think.

  The problem was, I knew virtually nothing else about the man who’d worked here but his name, and that he’d married Deacon’s secretary. There’d been nothing in the newspaper announcement Anabela had found as to where the newlywed Marinhos might have lived, but perhaps, I thought, in the official Marriage Register…

  I was about to ask where I might find Birth, Marriage and Death Registers from 1944, when the young man at work in the next window, having dealt with his customer, glanced over once again, his eyebrow arched.

  ‘There is a man who keeps the gate,’ he told me, ‘at the English Church. He had a job here, in the war. He might have known this man that you are searching for.’

  I looked at him with gratitude. ‘And where,’ I asked him, ‘is the English Church?’

  * * *

  The door looked less than promising. A double metal door, ornately barred and painted forest green, the only bit of colour in the long grey stretch of high stone wall, if you didn’t count the scrawls of red graffiti. Still, someone had taken the trouble to sweep the sidewalk where I stood – a tidy mound of leaves lay heaped against a curved place in the wall, where rain had puddled on the cobblestones…though cobblestones, I thought, was surely not the right word, conjuring, as it did, something large and rough-set. These were small stones, square-edged, smooth like marble and set with precision, like ancient mosaics. Above the heap of leaves, a thickly growing patch of vine with small white flowers tumbled down the wall to soften the graffiti and the bleak grey stone.

  A smallish silver plaque fixed to the door proclaimed, in stamped Art Deco lettering, that I had found the English Church and Cemetery. Beneath the plaque, an intercom and button sat in open invitation.

  I only had to push it once. Behind the door, I heard light steps on stone; heard the turn of a key in the lock. It was a woman, not a man, who swung the door back to admit me. An older woman, short and round and smiling, dressed in black, and carrying an umbrella, though the rain had tapered off now to a manageable drizzle. With the hood of my jacket pulled up, I was scarcely aware of the wet, myself.

  Neither were the birds, it seemed. The birdsong was the first thing that I noticed, once inside. The wall behind me blocked the sound of passing traffic from the street, and gave me the sensation I had stepped into a secret garden, sheltered and secluded. This was a place, I thought, much more alive than dead – richly green and private, with all manner of hedges and lush trees and flowering vines, and tree trunks softly furred with green, and twisted branches tangling overhead.

  The woman made a gesture to the sky and said something in Portuguese that might have either been an apology for the weather or a protest that I couldn’t have a proper look around when it was raining; but I only smiled back and said, in English, ‘Please, I’m looking for Joaquim.’ I carefully pronounced the name, ‘Jo-ah-KING’, as I had learnt it from the young man at the Embassy.

  The woman’s gesture, this time, was broader. She said something very quickly that I didn’t have a hope of understanding, though I caught the word ‘Igreja’, which I knew meant ‘church’, so I pointed in the direction that I thought she had been pointing and I said, myself, ‘Igreja?’ and she answered back and nodded. Then, having shown me how to lock the door as I was leaving, she trundled off towards a little mausoleum tucked to one side of the cemetery, just inside the wall.

  I went straight on, and took the main path, also paved with small square cobbles, edged with low box hedges underneath the arching cypress trees, and small green clearings either side that sheltered leaning tombstones. There were more stones crowded thick along the other paths that ran off left and right, and left and right again a little further up. It wouldn’t be a bad place to be buried, I decided, in this garden of a graveyard with the songbirds singing endlessly, unseen, from every corner.

  There seemed to be no uniformity to the stones, apart from their grey and white colours – plain, upright crosses stood alongside recumbent great monuments, cracking with age. It gave the place a warmly communal feel, actually…people who had likely been from different walks of life and different classes, sharing ground now in this little consecrated bit of England in a foreign land, united by a language and a faith.

  According to the young man at the Embassy, this graveyard had for three centuries now been the final resting place of choice for Protestants who died in Lisbon, including, he had said, the famous author Henry Fielding, who had come here in an effort to regain his health, without success.

  Had I been here on a holiday, I likely would have tried to find his tomb – I’d enjoyed reading Tom Jones at school – but I did not have time, today, to be diverted. The path by now had brought me to St George’s Church, a pink-walled building traced with lovely grey stone arches, and a large rose window rising over everything like some enormous rolling wheel whose motion had been stilled.

  There was nobody here, at this end of the church, and any doors that I could find were firmly locked. One of those doors, in a little side porch, looked as though it hadn’t been opened in a hundred years. It was a massive thing, of solid wood with elaborately wrought-iron hinges, and cold iron rings for handles – the sort of a door you expected to find in a medieval castle. I tried it, all the same, and knocked, and the sound echoed round in the small, cloistered space. There were windows here, but even they had a medieval feel – high and arching between carved stone columns, with small diamond panes of opaque, sea-green glass that let light come through softly. The columns were carved at the bottom to look like the waves of the sea, and their tops were wound round with stone thistles and roses and leaves. The walls had been plastered calm aquamarine, and combined with the pale greenish light from the tall leaded window
s the total effect was of quiet, and stillness.

  I could hear the rain pattering down on the leaves and the stone of the walkway outside, just behind me, but here in the porch I felt totally cut off, secluded.

  It was a jolt when, unexpectedly, the door before me opened with a creak of ancient hinges and a man stepped out…an older man, in working clothes. He looked me up and down and, with the sharpness of the woman in the Rua de São Domingos, pegged me as a tourist. ‘Yes?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Joaquim?’

  ‘Yes, I am Joaquim.’

  ‘I was sent here by somebody at the Embassy,’ I said. ‘The British Embassy. I understand you worked there in the war.’

  He looked at me more closely. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m looking for a man who worked there, too. You might remember him.’

  When I mentioned the name, Joaquim stepped fully through the door and swung it closed behind him with a clang. He was a tall man, though his shoulders had begun to stoop with age, and in his weathered face I thought I read a keen intelligence. ‘Marinho,’ he repeated, faintly frowning. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘He married a woman by the name of Regina Sousa. She worked for Ivan Reynolds.’

  At first I’d thought he might be having trouble with my speaking English, but his pause had been merely for thought. His use of the language, in actual fact, was quite effortless, as might be expected of someone who’d worked at the Embassy. ‘Yes, I remember him now, this Marinho of yours. I remember his wife. She was very pretty, very nice. The rest of us were envious.’

  My pulse gave an expectant leap. ‘Do you know what became of them? Do they still live in Lisbon?’

  ‘No. No, they left here not long after they were married. Moved away.’