I was so pleased to learn on my return to Paris that you are married. Mr Escott did some excellent work on our drains at Briony Lodge. I often wondered whether he wasn't neglecting you in his intense devotion to plumbing. Why, he could scarcely be induced to raise his gaze from my S-bend when offered refreshment. Most unlike the typical British workman. Now at last he has grasped the treasure that lay within his reach, and I wish you both happiness with all my heart.
Your wedding was some little while ago now, so I feel I can omit the customary advice to a new bride. And working for Mr Milverton, you had ample opportunity to see the foolish things married people do, and to learn to avoid the consequent troubles. But my own experience since you and I last met (and you still have my undying gratitude for your help in that little episode) has been so remarkable that I must tell you about it.
As you know, dear Agatha, my beloved Godfrey and I left Paris three years ago and travelled to San Pedro, where I was booked for a season at the opera in the capital. I was able to keep us both in comfort, and Godfrey occupied in writing and study the time when I could not be with him. I was surprised, though delighted, to discover that my brother Daniel was also there, running the local agency of a Newark machine-part manufacturer. We invited him to live with us, and passed half a year contentedly.
Godfrey and Daniel shared an interest in politics, believing as men do that saying grand things in important voices is the way to change the world. I know, though I would never remind Godfrey of it, that I can achieve far more by my own means if I believe it's worth doing.
I was dimly aware that there was much in San Pedro that needed changing: a recent revolution had left in control of the country a group who claimed to be saving the people from tyranny. They and their friends revelled in the luxury from which the former rulers had been expelled, while grinding down the ordinary people with their demands, enforced with inhuman cruelty. But I did not feel I could influence this sad state of affairs without disloyalty to Godfrey, so I sang and enjoyed life, and was greatly relieved when I obtained an excellent booking in Manaus for the following season.
A few days before we were due to depart for Manaus, a most shocking blow fell. My brother was found murdered in his office. I was shattered with grief, and determined to leave as soon as possible, but Godfrey refused to come with me until he had tracked down the murderers. I knew he was fond of Daniel, though they had known each other for only a few months, but I sensed in Godfrey a stronger motive, a need to unravel every thread of wickedness in the world.
In the next days I came to admire him still more deeply, even as I feared for his life and my own. He pored over Daniel's papers, he talked to his associates and customers, he charmed or lied his way into banks and government offices. He would not tell me what he was doing, but the thrill of the chase was on him. Four days after my brother's death, he told me that he had discovered the whole truth, and that he would make a deposition before we left for Manaus the next morning.
I was so relieved I wept and became a little hysterical. But my relief was misplaced. That evening, I returned from a quiet farewell celebration with my friends from the opera to discover that Godfrey had disappeared. The house was empty. The servants had also vanished, and I could only assume that they had been instrumental in abducting him. There was no message, no trace of violence.
Whereas hope had made me weak, fear of the unknown made me determined to take control. I knew that I could not leave without Godfrey, and I guessed that I was almost certainly myself in danger. My course of action was clear: I must stay in San Pedro in disguise.
I reported Godfrey's disappearance to the British consul, and packed a final few things ready for the carrier the next morning. In a carpet bag I put a suit, several shirts, a tie and some underwear that had belonged to my brother, plus several rolls of bandage, a pair of scissors and a razor. The next morning I carried this myself into the carriage, and stepped immediately out of the opposite door.
I quickly re-entered the servants' part of the house. In one of the rooms there, I removed my travelling costume and in my shift cropped my hair using a small mirror. Having removed my shift and all traces of hair, I bound my breasts with the bandages -- with some difficulty, as I was used to the help of a dresser or maid in this task. I slipped on Daniel's underwear, shirt and suit, and tied the tie in a flamboyant knot. Then, as a final touch, I found a piece of soap, lathered it a little in cold water, rubbed the lather on my chin and nicked the skin with a razor before wiping the blood and soap off with a cloth. That would suggest adequately that my lack of facial hair might be due to a shave.
I was able to slip out of the house without being seen. As soon as I reached the main street, I began to stride exuberantly, bowing to pretty women and displaying disappointment when they would not linger and talk to me. Partly to confirm myself in my role, I acted out a pantomime of catching a glimpse of my appearance reflected in a shop window, starting in horror at the sight of my hair, and resolutely looking around for a barber's shop.
At this stage, I had no further plan than to get a proper haircut. But fortune and my own ingenuity charted my course. I strode into the barber's shop and demanded a trim, refusing a shave on the grounds that I was poor and could shave myself. The barber cut my hair very short at the back, but left it longer on top. It fell from a centre parting in the style affected by the younger members of the governing junta. The effect was quite winning.
An elderly man with a lined but friendly face was in the next chair. We began to talk, and I told him that I had just lost my job with a foreign couple who had left suddenly. He asked me at once if I would like to work for him. I did not know what he did, but such an immediate offer of a place would provide excellent cover for me. I accepted, and walked home with him to the state prison.
What followed was the most remarkable and difficult experience any woman could have. I lived as a man for almost two years, lodging in a small garret in the house of my new acquaintance. He was the chief warder and lived with his daughter within the prison grounds. I claimed to have a running sore on my thigh to explain why I needed to wash out the bandages. I dreaded my menses, not only for the need to deal with bloody rags or straw, but also for fear of the distinctive odour that can betray a woman's body at that time. I splashed a bay-scented lotion on my face to try to impart a masculine smell and nicked my chin or cheek again from time to time. And I pleaded poverty to excuse me from the drinking sessions with the other warders, because I knew that sooner or later there would be a pissing contest in which I could not compete.
Rocco, my employer, was a kindly soul, but he was kindest of all to himself and would do anything to avoid trouble. His daughter Marzellina was not yet twenty, and was cheerful and pretty in a commonplace way. She was officially engaged to a dim youth called Jacquino who also worked for her father, but she quickly took to me and became persistent in her attentions. After some time, I put expediency before honesty, and became engaged to her myself.
My position as son-in-law elect brought me further into her father's confidence. I discovered that as well as the legally held prisoners, there were others in secret cells whose identities and crimes were known only to the prison governor, Don Murillo. What could the prisoners there has done to justify removing every trace of them from the world? That was worse than death, or the vilest torture, where at least the executioner or torturers acknowledge your existence. And, though I dared not hope, I knew that my dear Godfrey too had disappeared without trace.
I determined to enter the secret cells, if only to witness the suffering of those held there and to try to offer a token of help or comfort. Rocco was naturally lazy, and resented the extra hours required at night to tend to these prisoners, so I soon persuaded him to let me help. We carried meagre portions of bread and jugs of water through winding tunnels, and shoved them through the opening of each door into the darkness within. I noticed that one cell often did not receive any food -- when one day I tried to deliver some bread there, Rocco stopped me. He told me that the prisoner within was particularly dangerous, and was being punished specially on personal orders from Don Murillo.
My heart bled for this prisoner. He was deprived not only of light and society, but also gradually of the basic workings of his own body. The complexity of my deceit was often vertiginous, but his plight made me joyful that I was still in control of my body and actions. I did not know what made Don Murillo treat this man in this way, but I ached to help him.
Yet it seemed that I would be unable to do so. The very next day, Don Murillo arrived at the prison unexpectedly and took the chief warder aside. When he had spoken to him, the old man came over wearily and told me that the prisoner was to die that night, and that I must help him dig a secret grave. Don Murillo had learnt that a visit from Don Fernando, the governor of the city, would occur the following day, and that the prisoner represented a breach of regulations that this great man would not tolerate.
Late that night, Rocco and I carried spades and shovels through the dark to an open area of earth in the depths of the prison. We began to dig, but neither of us was strong. I was afraid I would loose my nerve from weakness and exhaustion, but the old man had brought two bottles of wine. I supped from one occasionally to dull the mental pain. He, meanwhile, became completely drunk and very maudlin. Eventually he lay down on the pile of earth we had removed and began to lament the misery of his life.
I suggested to him that his life was bliss compared to that of the poor wretch whose grave we were digging. He began to cry and to say how sorry he was that he couldn't help him, and I seized my chance. I begged him to let me succour the poor man with a few drops of wine, and eventually he agreed and led me through the corridors to his cell.
My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, but entering the cell was like becoming blind. I could hardly tell which way was up. The prisoner moaned as we entered. I crouched slowly and reached gently around in the darkness until my hand found his arm.
A shock of joy and fear ran through me. The prisoner's response to my touch was a familiar and dear one that I had often felt before when, half waking for a moment in the night, I reached across the bed looking for an embrace. I suppressed a cry, and tried to discern my husband's face and form in the darkness to confirm my intuition. I could see nothing, but I gradually moved my hands over his arms, shoulders and neck. He was weak and barely conscious.
I took the lamp and wine bottle from Rocco, who was too befuddled to do more than mutter about regulations and not his fault. My eyes could barely focus as I searched for my husband's features in the dim light. Hunger and isolation had transformed him terribly, and it was not until I put the bottle to his lips and he raised his eyes in gratitude that my eyes confirmed what my heart felt. I could not tell if he recognised me, but the look mobilised his face and brought to it a gleam of its old intelligence and life.
Rocco suddenly became impatient, and told me to leave. He was afraid, he said, that Don Murillo would arrive and he would be in trouble. At the mention of Don Murillo, the prisoner almost snorted. I recognised at once Godfrey's "Now I've solved it" mannerism, and realised that he had not known until now who had caused his suffering. I burned to ask him what had happened, but guessed that Rocco would not remain sympathetic much longer. Instead I begged the old man to let me give the prisoner a piece of bread that I had brought with me. He told me to do it quickly, but the prisoner has scarcely eaten a mouthful when we heard the sound of clanging gates and footsteps.
Rocco dragged me from the cell and locked the door, then staggered back with me to the grave we had been digging. The sounds grew nearer. We had barely picked up our spades when Don Murillo arrived. He ordered Rocco to let him in to the secret prisoner's cell, and we retraced our steps again in the near darkness.
Rocco fumbled with the key, whether out of pity, fear or simple drunkenness I could not tell. In the few seconds I had to think, I realised that Don Murillo could have only one purpose. If he achieved it, Godfrey would die within the next few moments. I noticed Don Murillo grasp a concealed dagger only in the second that I drew my own gun and fired at him.
Don Murillo fell cursing. I had not killed him, but he was disabled. I knelt to remove the knife and felt a wetness that told me he was bleeding heavily. I quickly tied him up with some ropes that had tied our spades and shovels, and hastened to help Godfrey.
I was unsure what Rocco would do next. Being a party to an assault on Don Murillo was not the sort of thing that he would face rationally. But I did not need to worry. Very dimly, from the highest part of the prison, we heard a trumpet sound. This was the signal that Don Fernando was on his way, earlier than expected. Rocco started to berate me for getting him into trouble, but a few minutes later Jacquino came rushing down with the news that Don Fernando was at the gate. Rocco went anxiously off to meet him, leaving me at last with Godfrey.
Godfrey stood weakly outside his former cell and grasped my hands but still did not seem to recognise me. I feared for a moment that his suffering had made him mad. Desperate for reassurance, I looked him straight in the eye and said:
"I am your wife, Irene".
He fell into my arms, and for a few moments I held him up. Then, still too weak to stand, he drew me with him to sit on the ground with our backs against the wall, and began to whisper.
He quickly outlined what had happened: in the course of investigating Daniel's affairs, Godfrey discovered that a government official was extorting large amounts from businesses of all kinds, and also that his superiors were not receiving the share that they might expect, because of an ingenious system of accounting. Daniel resisted his extortion, threatened to expose him, and was murdered to silence him. Godfrey decided to publish what he had learned, then leave the country immediately in the hope that the greed of the official's superiors would ensure a form of justice for Daniel. Others had noted his investigations, though, and the night before we were to leave, Godfrey was kidnapped from our house. He guessed that there was some connection with what he had discovered. But until a few minutes ago, when he had heard that the governor of the prison was Don Murillo, he had not know what it was. Don Murillo was the corrupt official.
Godfrey had barely finished his story when a great noise began to echo through the bowels of the prison. Flames reflected from walls whose existence we had not noticed until then. The corridor gradually filled with a warm low light that grew brighter as the sound of marching grew louder and nearer. As our eyes grew accustomed to the light, we found ourselves surrounded by armed men carrying flickering torches.
A tall, elderly gentleman approached us from their midst, and spoke to us in perfect English:
"Mr Norton, I am Don Fernando, the governor of this city. You have been wrongly and cruelly held here. It must seem inadequate, but I can only apologise for what has happened, and do what I can to recompense you. I am only glad that this young man at least has had some concern for your well-being."
I saw Rocco cowering against the wall. From the surprised look on his face, I guessed that he had denounced me to Don Fernando for shooting Don Murillo. When I looked again at Godfrey, he bore a look of even greater surprise. He had only just realised how I was dressed, and the role that I had played -- the finest of my career, though I say it myself. He fainted in my arms again.
The rest is quickly told. Don Fernando, when he too discovered who I was, escorted us out of the prison, and made us welcome in his own quarters. He sent his housekeeper to get me a day dress and a travel costume (I never recovered Daniel's clothes that had done me so proud), and lent Godfrey a suit of his own. After bathing and sleeping, we were once again a respectable-looking couple.
But even in my joy at Godfrey's release, my heart bled for the other prisoners, especially the other secret prisoners of Don Murillo. When Godfrey and I both disappeared, the British and American embassies had been active on our behalf. A citizen of San Pedro had no such powerful advocacy. Godfrey sympathised with the prisoners more profoundly still. He sometimes awoke at night imagining himself to be in the clammy darkness of the secret cell, and to reassure him that he was free and with me, I had to hold him so tightly it hurt .
We stayed with Don Fernando, who was a cultivated and genial aristocrat, until our passage to Europe was arranged. One day, sitting with him in a cafe in the main square, we saw my fiancee Marzellina taking a turn with my hated rival Jacquino. There, at least, there was no real harm done.
Don Fernando came with us to the quay, and I shook his hand warmly and thanked him for all he had done for us. Godfrey's cooler thanks I took to be due to his tiredness. But on the ship, he told me that Don Fernando was the superior to whom Don Murillo had failed to pay his dues. I was most happy to have left San Pedro.
We have settled quietly in Paris again now. I take some singing pupils, and Godfrey continues to write and study. He is also in contact with the exiled popular government of San Pedro, who seem to hold permanent session in our apartment. We learned from the newspapers that Don Fernando was assassinated a few months after we left. Don Murillo (who had recovered from the wound I gave him and was generally believed to be responsible) became governor of the capital in his place, then engineered a coup d'etat which placed him in control of the whole country. In spite of my failure to appear as Fidelio at Manaus, I have been offered further bookings in South America, but prudence and distaste both persuade me to refuse.
I must admit, my dear Agatha, I am finally contented to live quietly like this. I no longer miss the audiences, the claques, the fame -- dear Godfrey is the only audience I need. Having lost him, almost for ever, I treasure every moment of his company. Though sometimes, very rarely, I do slip into the garb of a young man about town and stroll in the Bois de Boulogne...
Do give my best wishes to your dear husband. You are both very welcome to visit us in Paris,
with love,
Irene Norton