The Spanish Daughter(11)

I’d never met a British person with a tan as deep as Captain Blake’s.

“Mrs. Lafont, please come in.”

By now, we’d become well acquainted with each other, but he still seemed reluctant to look me in the eye. He was the kind of man who was perfectly comfortable among other men, but terribly shy around women.

“How is the investigation going, Captain?”

“I’m glad you came, Mrs. Lafont, I wanted to talk to you about that. But please, have a seat.” He pointed at an ochre leather sofa in front of the desk. A distinctive scent of tobacco permeated the room.

I obeyed. “Did you find out who that man was?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.” He sat behind the cluttered desk; one side of his face partially covered by a globe. “We haven’t found a record of anybody that matches your description of that man. In fact”—his ears turned slightly red—“I’ve decided to close down the investigation and rule your husband’s death as an accident.”

“An accident? What do you mean?” I gripped the armrest. “I told you a man attacked me! Cristóbal was only trying to defend me!”

“And I believe you, ma’am, no need to raise your voice. But I’m afraid that with the lack of evidence I can’t do much. This investigation has already taken so much of my time and I have a ship to run and hundreds of passengers to tend to.”

“This is ridiculous. You’re going to lie, in writing, because it’s easier and more convenient for you?”

“I’m not lying. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence to prove me wrong.”

“Is there anyone else who can take over this investigation? The authorities in Ecuador?”

“No, ma’am, this is a British ship, with British jurisdiction, so the investigation should be handled by British authorities. If the . . . incident had happened after we arrived in Ecuador, then they could handle it.”

“Are you saying that I have to go all the way back to Europe to find my husband’s killer? That’s nonsense.”

“You’re welcome to file a claim with the British Consulate in Guayaquil and hire a barrister that may represent your interests in Britain.”

In Britain? How were they going to find Cristóbal’s murderer all the way there?

“I didn’t invent that man, Captain, he was real. He knew my first name.”

“Mrs. Lafont, I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear. I know you wanted justice for your husband, but my hands are tied. I regret I cannot be more helpful.”

I stood up, way too fast. Light-headed, I pressed my forehead with my hand.

“Are you all right? I can call Dr. Costa if you’d like.”

“No,” I said. “That won’t be necessary.”

I’d met Dr. Jaume Costa the night of the “accident.” He was a compatriot of mine, a Catalonian traveling to Colombia to help with the Spanish influenza, which had taken so many lives in the last two years. After they’d stopped the search, the doctor had given me a sedative, which helped me not to go insane knowing that Cristóbal was somewhere in that terrifying ocean.

The captain stood. “If you choose to return to Spain, ma’am, I can arrange for you to get on another ship as soon as we land in the port of Guayaquil.”

“No, thank you. I plan to continue my trip.”

“But—forgive me for insisting—as I understand it, you’ll be traveling to a small village on the coast of Ecuador. If I dare voice my opinion, I think a journey of that magnitude could be quite dangerous for a woman traveling alone.”

With all the commotion, I hadn’t given the rest of my trip much thought, though I’d dreaded the idea of working on a plantation without my husband’s help.

“The Americas are quite different from what you’re accustomed to, ma’am, especially the country. It’s not my intention to scare you, but I’ve heard stories of missionaries—men and women—who’ve been attacked in the jungle and on the coast. I won’t go into any details, but let’s just say that the women, especially, went through some harrowing experiences.”

My mouth went dry. After a moment, I found my voice.

“My father’s attorney will be at the harbor to greet me and take me to Vinces.” Harrowing experiences? Like what? “I thank you for your concern, Captain, but there’s nothing to worry about.”

I sounded more confident than I felt. The truth was I’d never met this lawyer, or had any references of him—of anybody there for that matter. I wondered about those women, those missionaries, the captain mentioned. Had they been raped? Were those the horrifying experiences Captain Blake hinted at? The captain had managed to make me nervous, but my pride didn’t allow me to show it. I’d come too far to go back to Sevilla now, empty-handed. I nodded and walked out of the office.

*

I was becoming a little maniacal about Cristóbal’s typewriter. For the last twenty minutes, I’d been cleaning every single key with a damp towel as if I could make them all shine. As if my husband would be coming back to finish his beloved novel. As if this would earn me his forgiveness. Once I finished with the bottom row, I started all over again from the top left corner. The letters and numbers got blurry. A tear fell on one of the keys.