But why did it have to be foreign ground, asked the ever-resourceful Manuel? Could not the meeting take place in Enrico’s own home?
In front of his wife and his mother? Enrico shuddered at the thought. But then, gradually, came round to the thought. He himself wouldn’t have to do anything (always a welcome idea, that). The meeting would be completely private — he could tell them to get out of the house while the meeting was going on, couldn’t he? Of course, he could, said Enrico confidently.
Chapter Eight
And over-boldly: for, when Seymour entered the room with Manuel, he found mother and wife sitting there, very much in occupation.
Manuel looked at Enrico, Enrico looked back at Manuel and shrugged. And so the meeting went ahead.
‘This is an English Senor,’ said Manuel. ‘He has come not on his own behalf but on behalf of a grieving father who has lost his son.’
‘Poor man!’ said Enrico’s mother, much moved.
‘Poor man!’ echoed his wife. ‘Just think, Enrico, if we had lost our Simon!’
‘Where is the little bugger?’ said Enrico. ‘You’ve made sure that he is staying out of the house?’
‘He is playing with Ramon.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
Enrico turned to Seymour.
‘So, Senor,’ he said, a little uncertain of himself in this strange situation and therefore belligerent. ‘What can I do for you? I cannot take long. I’m a busy man.’
‘This will not take long. I want to know how the poison got into the cell.’
‘Poison!’ said Enrico’s mother, crossing herself. ‘You did not tell us that, Enrico!’
‘How was I to know it was poison?’ protested Enrico. ‘I thought it was just a dainty. Something to give the prison food a bit of flavour.’
‘You’ve always said that the food there is terrible,’ supported his mother.
‘Well, it is. And he’d been in for a few days and wasn’t eating anything. The last two meals I had taken him he had just left.’
‘That goes to show!’ said Enrico’s wife. ‘If a man is hungry and still can’t eat it, that tells you what the food must have been like.’
‘I thought I was doing him a good turn,’ said the warder.
‘And so you were!’ said his mother warmly. ‘So you were.’
She frowned, however.
‘If it’s that bad, Enrico,’ she said anxiously, ‘perhaps I ought to put something in a pot? Then you could take it in and give some to everybody.’
‘No, I couldn’t!’ snarled Enrico. ‘This is a prison, not a bloody hotel.’
‘Our Lord bids us to take care of all those in need,’ said Enrico’s mother piously.
‘Look, I’m just a warder, not the bloody caterer!’
‘There’s no need to swear at me!’ said his mother severely.
‘Even the beasts of the field,’ said his wife, timid but supportive, ‘need their food.’
‘Animals now, is it?’
‘So, Enrico,’ said Seymour, intervening swiftly, ‘when you were given the food to take in, you did not know it was poisoned?’
‘Of course not! Do you think I would-’
‘My son would never do a thing like that!’ said the warder’s mother, shocked.
‘No, no. I didn’t mean-’
‘Enrico’s a good man,’ said his wife indignantly.
‘What was it?’ said Seymour. ‘A pie, or something?’
‘Yes, with a good crust on it.’
‘That the way I do them,’ said his mother approvingly.
‘Enrico likes a good crust,’ said the wife.
‘Look, can you keep out of it?’
‘I’m just wondering, you see,’ said Seymour quickly, ‘how it was done. For the poison to work, he’d have to have taken quite a lot of it. So the dish must have been tasty-’
‘Oh, it was!’
His wife looked at Enrico suspiciously. ‘How do you know that, Enrico?’
‘Well, I tried a bit, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, Enrico, you might have been poisoned!’
‘So I might! The bastards! They should have known I might have a taste.’
‘But, Enrico, it was not your pie!’
‘He was always putting his fingers in,’ said his mother fondly, ‘even when he was a child.’
‘I didn’t put my fingers in! I just took a bit of the crust.’
‘It was a mercy you didn’t.’
‘And there was nothing unusual about the taste?’ asked Seymour.
‘A bit sour, perhaps.’
‘He always likes it sweet,’ said his wife.
‘Or about the smell?’
‘Not that I noticed. Mind you, you wouldn’t notice, not with the general stink in there.’
‘Do you collect the plates afterwards? How was he then? Did you notice?’
‘He was sleeping. At least, that’s what I thought. I don’t collect the dishes straight away, I go in a bit later. And there he was, huddled up in a corner.’
‘Poor man!’ said his mother, sympathetically.
‘He wasn’t in there for nothing, you know,’ said Enrico. ‘So let’s not bother too much about him.’
‘How was the food actually given to you?’ asked Seymour.
‘She gave it me that morning as I was on my way to the prison.’
‘She?’
‘Yes.’
‘A woman?’
‘That’s usual when it’s a she. She had talked to me the day before. As I was on my way home. She stops me and says, “You’re Enrico, aren’t you?” “That’s right,” I say. “And you work in the prison?” “I do,” I say. “On the third floor?” she says. “You’ve being doing your homework,” I say.
‘She smiles. “Maybe I have,” she says. Then she holds a hundred peseta note up in front of me. “I’ve got a brother in there and I don’t think he’s eating enough. So I wanted to get something to him. Something that would tempt him, you know. If I gave it you, could you see that he gets it?” “Well, I could,” I say. She smiles again, and waves the note. “A hundred now,” she says “and two hundred afterwards.”
‘ “For your brother?”
‘ “That’s right,” she says. “Cell number five.”
‘And then I knew she was lying. Because I knew who was in the cell, and it was an Englishman. And she was speaking Spanish, so he couldn’t be her brother,’ said Enrico triumphantly.
He shrugged. ‘But what the hell did I care? Spanish or English, as long as the note was all right.’
‘I expect she was in love with him,’ said his wife.
‘Perhaps she was his wife,’ said Enrico’s mother.
‘Not his wife,’ said Enrico.
His mother clicked her tongue reprovingly.
‘I expect she loved him passionately,’ said his wife, brooding.
‘Well, that’s as may be-’
‘I expect there was a file in that pie. So that he could file through the bars.’
‘Look, there aren’t any bars. There isn’t even a window.’
‘She would do anything for him. She would lay down her life-’
‘Yes, well, she didn’t, did she? She laid down his.’
This checked her. But only for a moment.
‘She loved him,’ she said, softly. ‘She loved him passionately. And then he betrayed her.’
‘Look-’
‘And so she killed him. As I would kill you, Enrico, if you betrayed me.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that
‘What about Conchita?’
‘Conchita?’
‘She’s always standing at the corner waiting for you.’
‘No, she’s not. She’s just on her way to the baker’s to get a loaf for the evening meal.’
‘She makes eyes at you.’
‘The shameless hussy!’ said his mother indignantly.
‘I should be so lucky!’ said Enrico: mistakenly.
‘Ah! So it’s not just on her side? You’ve had eyes for her, too?’
‘No, no-’
‘I shall kill her!’ cried his wife.
‘Quite right!’ said his mother.
‘Hold on a minute-’
‘You don’t love me!’ cried his wife. ‘You have betrayed me. I will kill her!’
‘Now, look-’
‘Let’s leave Conchita out of it,’ said Seymour, mistakenly, too. ‘Let’s go back to this other woman-’