bitterly. ‘I’ve already told that young man of yours everything I know. You should be out there looking for her!’ Her voice quivered slightly.
‘He’s out there looking,’ Pitt answered. ‘But we would do better if we knew more about Señora Delacruz.’
‘Better?’ she said scathingly. ‘Better than what? Better than nothing?’ Then she relented, perhaps realising she was wasting her own time as well as his. ‘You’d better come in, then. Come on!’ She stepped back and turned to lead him into the hallway where he had spoken with Ramon and Smith previously. She allowed the heavy front door to close itself.
Thinking of what Brundage had said about people’s need for faith, he followed her. She led him through the short passage into a small sitting room. The furniture was spare but meticulously clean. There were two hard-backed wooden chairs, a straight-legged table, three upholstered chairs, all well used and different from each other, and a sofa with thick cushions on it. The light slanted in through mullioned windows, but there was no view beyond except another, smaller yard.
Pitt sat down where she indicated. To him she was the most interesting of the three followers who remained here. It was difficult to tell how old she was, but he guessed her to be in her late fifties at least. She was tall for a woman, square-shouldered and lean, but in her youth she might have had grace, possibly even beauty. Her features were well-proportioned and her iron-grey hair was still thick. Now she glared at him out of coal-black eyes.
‘Why do you believe anyone would take her?’ he asked. ‘What have the threats been? What started them off?’
‘That’s obvious,’ she said impatiently. ‘New ideas always stir up passions. People won’t change if they are terrified of it. If you didn’t know that, what are you doing as a policeman?’
He decided to be just as blunt. Clearly she had no respect for authority, especially English authority, which had so signally failed to protect the woman she had accepted as her spiritual leader. He could not blame her for that.
‘What am I doing? I’m looking for an Englishwoman who has adopted Spain for her home, and created a new branch of religion that is stirring up powerful emotions. Some of her followers think she is a saint, other people that she is deluded and dangerous at a time when the whole world is on the brink of chaos. If she has been taken violently there is no sign of it, no evidence, and no one has made any demand for ransom. If, on the other hand, she went willingly with someone she knows . . .’
Henrietta’s face hardened in lines of anger and she drew in her breath to interrupt him.
He ignored her.
‘. . . and was then tricked, or held against her will,’ he went on. ‘Then I need to know a lot more of how people feel about her, about faith in general and in particular, if I am to find her before she is badly hurt, perhaps even killed.’
Gradually she relaxed, but her eyes never moved from his. ‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.
He sat back more comfortably in the chair. ‘Mr Brundage listened to Melville Smith speak yesterday evening. He said it was good, but Sofia’s message had been considerably blunted, made easier to follow. Is that true?’
Her reaction was instant, but so masked that had he not been watching intently he would not have seen it. There was contempt, disgust, and a shadow he thought was fear. Fear of what? The discovery of something? Of Smith’s involvement in Sofia’s disappearance? Or of losing the faith she herself needed? He understood how that might mean more to her than worldly comfort or safety. She was a fierce woman, with a past he could not guess at. Was she a weary idealist who had at last found a faith she could believe?
‘Was Mr Brundage wrong?’ he demanded of her silence.
‘What can I tell you?’ she returned, still challenging, evasive.
‘You can tell me if Mr Smith is now saying
‘He’s out there looking,’ Pitt answered. ‘But we would do better if we knew more about Señora Delacruz.’
‘Better?’ she said scathingly. ‘Better than what? Better than nothing?’ Then she relented, perhaps realising she was wasting her own time as well as his. ‘You’d better come in, then. Come on!’ She stepped back and turned to lead him into the hallway where he had spoken with Ramon and Smith previously. She allowed the heavy front door to close itself.
Thinking of what Brundage had said about people’s need for faith, he followed her. She led him through the short passage into a small sitting room. The furniture was spare but meticulously clean. There were two hard-backed wooden chairs, a straight-legged table, three upholstered chairs, all well used and different from each other, and a sofa with thick cushions on it. The light slanted in through mullioned windows, but there was no view beyond except another, smaller yard.
Pitt sat down where she indicated. To him she was the most interesting of the three followers who remained here. It was difficult to tell how old she was, but he guessed her to be in her late fifties at least. She was tall for a woman, square-shouldered and lean, but in her youth she might have had grace, possibly even beauty. Her features were well-proportioned and her iron-grey hair was still thick. Now she glared at him out of coal-black eyes.
‘Why do you believe anyone would take her?’ he asked. ‘What have the threats been? What started them off?’
‘That’s obvious,’ she said impatiently. ‘New ideas always stir up passions. People won’t change if they are terrified of it. If you didn’t know that, what are you doing as a policeman?’
He decided to be just as blunt. Clearly she had no respect for authority, especially English authority, which had so signally failed to protect the woman she had accepted as her spiritual leader. He could not blame her for that.
‘What am I doing? I’m looking for an Englishwoman who has adopted Spain for her home, and created a new branch of religion that is stirring up powerful emotions. Some of her followers think she is a saint, other people that she is deluded and dangerous at a time when the whole world is on the brink of chaos. If she has been taken violently there is no sign of it, no evidence, and no one has made any demand for ransom. If, on the other hand, she went willingly with someone she knows . . .’
Henrietta’s face hardened in lines of anger and she drew in her breath to interrupt him.
He ignored her.
‘. . . and was then tricked, or held against her will,’ he went on. ‘Then I need to know a lot more of how people feel about her, about faith in general and in particular, if I am to find her before she is badly hurt, perhaps even killed.’
Gradually she relaxed, but her eyes never moved from his. ‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.
He sat back more comfortably in the chair. ‘Mr Brundage listened to Melville Smith speak yesterday evening. He said it was good, but Sofia’s message had been considerably blunted, made easier to follow. Is that true?’
Her reaction was instant, but so masked that had he not been watching intently he would not have seen it. There was contempt, disgust, and a shadow he thought was fear. Fear of what? The discovery of something? Of Smith’s involvement in Sofia’s disappearance? Or of losing the faith she herself needed? He understood how that might mean more to her than worldly comfort or safety. She was a fierce woman, with a past he could not guess at. Was she a weary idealist who had at last found a faith she could believe?
‘Was Mr Brundage wrong?’ he demanded of her silence.
‘What can I tell you?’ she returned, still challenging, evasive.
‘You can tell me if Mr Smith is now saying
Similar Books
