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  Contents

  Margaret Pemberton

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Margaret Pemberton

  Tapestry of Fear

  Margaret Pemberton is the bestselling author of over thirty novels in many different genres, some of which are contemporary in setting and some historical.

  She has served as Chairman of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and has three times served as a committee member of the Crime Writers’ Association. Born in Bradford, she is married to a Londoner, has five children and two dogs and lives in Whitstable, Kent. Apart from writing, her passions are tango, travel, English history and the English countryside.

  Dedication

  To the memory of my mother-in-law,

  Marjorie May Pemberton,

  who enjoyed life even more than Miss Daventry.

  Chapter One

  “I have a surprise for you,” Pedro said. “ Miss Daventry, an Englishwoman. She is an old, old friend of mine. Whenever she is in the Basque country she stays in my inn. You will like her. She is …” he searched for the words, then said with a beaming smile. “She is one of your English eccentrics!”

  Intrigued I followed him into the tiny inn. It only had two guest rooms, with waxed wood floors, white-walled and spartan. A single stone staircase divided the dining-room and kitchen from the bar where Pedro spent most of his time, shouting orders to Jaime, the good natured barman, and to Maria and Carmen who did the cooking and cleaning. He was a typical Basque. Large and jovial, his face the colour of tanned leather, with drooping black moustaches and a large apron tied around his ample figure. He had been overjoyed at my ability to speak Spanish and taken great pride in introducing me to the local fishermen who crammed his tiny bar.

  He flung open the heavy oak door that led to the dining-room, introducing me with a flourish. Miss Daventry was easily in her seventies and looked rather formidable. She was tall and angular with a no nonsense approach about her. Wisps of steel grey hair escaped from a bun at the nape of her neck and she wore a straw boater on her head and a pair of heavy binoculars and a camera slung crosswise around her neck.

  “Sit down, sit down,” she said as Pedro hurried off towards the kitchen. “ Really, if I’d known the man was going to make such a fuss of me I’d have given Miguelou a miss and gone to Africa instead.”

  “You travel a lot?” I asked, pouring myself a drink of water.

  “Well of course child, what else is life for?” then, without waiting for an answer. “I’ve just finished touring Hungary and the Carpathian mountains, such interesting places still to be found in central Europe. Little villages quite cut off from the modern world. Before Hungary I visited Syria and did a little digging in Antioch. There’s always something to be found there. Mosaic pavements and bits of this and pieces of that. Of course the archeologists aren’t at all pleased by amateurs, I find them such a selfish group of people … and there is Daphne, once so licentious and now nothing but a laid out garden. Such a pity,” she said wistfully. “It must have been much more interesting before.” She paused for a few minutes, absorbed in the past days of Daphne, and then said with renewed vigour: “ I didn’t feel like continuing down into Palestine, or Israel, or whatever else you now call it. The whole area is dreadfully spoilt, not like it used to be, but it’s the same everywhere. This part of Spain for instance, hardly recognisable these days. Thank God Miguelou’s been left alone, if it hadn’t I’d have gone south again. Africa … I really should visit Africa.…”

  “Pedro tells me you are old friends,” I said, as the prospect of Africa clouded her eyes.

  “Friends?” she said with a start. “Oh good heavens yes. I’ve known Pedro for years, but of course it was all a long time ago … during the civil war.…”

  Before I could ask any more Carmen came in with two steaming plates of caldeirada. Miss Daventry beamed at her.

  “So you are Antonio’s daughter. Sit down while we eat and tell me how your father is keeping. Pedro tells me he is in Madrid.”

  Carmen nodded shyly. Miss Daventry patted the seat of a wooden chair.

  “Come on, sit down, there’s no need to be shy. How old are you, eighteen, nineteen?”

  “Eighteen,” she said, sitting down beside us.

  “And what is this about Domingo? Pedro tells me he is in Carabanchel.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, her fingers playing with the hem of her apron, and with horror I saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

  “Domingo is a politico.”

  “A politico?” I asked, mystified. “What does that mean?”

  “A politico,” Miss Daventry said, “ means he is a political prisoner. Carabanchel jail is in Madrid.”

  I put down my fork. The caldeirada no longer tasted pleasant.

  “What has your brother done?” I asked.

  “He is a separatist. The police caught him distributing leaflets …”

  “ETA is the name of the Basque separatist movement. Nearly all the men in Miguelou will be members,” Miss Daventry said as Carmen’s tears began afresh.

  “They allow him to write two letters a week,” she slipped her hand and brought a creased envelope, its contents obviously read and re-read over and over again. “Perhaps soon he will be home …” Her lips trembled and she stuffed the letter back into her pocket and hurried from the room. Silence hung heavily for a few moments and then Miss Daventry sighed: “They never give up. There was a meeting in the bar this morning and you can bet your life it was political. Pedro was cooped up with Javier Mendez, the local romeo, Alfonso Cia, the local delinquent, Angel Garmendia, the local madman, and the village priest, Father Eustacio Calzada.”

  “Sounds an interesting assortment. I met Javier Mendez and Angel Garmendia in the bar last night. Javier wanted to show me the night life in Zarauz, he was quite persuasive.”

  “Javier is all right. But have nothing to do with Garmendia. He was shot in the head two years ago during riots in Bilbao. Pedro says he has been a man to fear ever since.”

  “Then why was he cooped up in the bar with him this morning?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to. I’ll go and have a word with him now.”

  I finished my wine and then followed her out of the room, going upstairs for my swimming costume. The heat was uncomfortable and I had seen a nice little bay half a mile to the north of Miguelou that looked perfect for swimming. I spent the rest of the afternoon alternately swimming and sun-bathing, completely at pea
ce and blissfully unaware how soon that peace was to be shattered.

  That night an uncanny silence hung over the inn.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked at last.

  “I’ve no idea. I couldn’t get any sense out of Pedro at all. I think I’ll have an early night. The feeling in the bar is distinctly inhospitable.”

  She was right. When I pulled the bead curtain aside the men fell silent and even Jaime was unwelcoming. Puzzled I let the curtain fall and went upstairs to my room. The monotonous rhythm of the water splashing against the harbour wall soon lulled me into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  It was shattered abruptly. Out at sea there came the throb of an engine and as I padded across to the window and looked outside, I could see a speedboat racing across the bay, arc lights crossing and re-crossing the ocean. Then, just beyond Miguelou’s headland, silhouetted in the searchlight, I saw the pale grey of a fishing boat ploughing through flying clouds of spray, and running figures. Above the noise of the speedboat’s engine came a new, terrifying sound as gunfire ripped into the fishing boat and there came the distant sound of screams and cries. Horrified I stared as the speedboat thundered down on the fishing boat. The searchlight illuminated the scene grotesquely and I could see uniformed figures and then the curved arch of a man as he dived from the now captured fishing boat into the blackness of the sea. I cried out as a uniformed figure took aim and fired again. In the glaring ring of light another body dropped, sinking into the darkness of the water. Within minutes the fishing boat had been boarded and then the speedboat turned, its engines revving as it bore down towards the harbour.

  I wrenched myself from the window, running for Miss Daventry. At the sound of my approach she wheeled round, her fingers to her lips.

  “They shot them.…” I gasped painfully.

  “Sssh,” In the distance came the sound of running feet. “ Into bed. Quick! You heard nothing and saw nothing, understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, understanding all too well.

  I was trembling violently as I clambered back into my own bed, every nerve stretching to catch a new sound, a fresh movement. I heard the inn door open and the sound of harsh breathing and racing steps and I clenched my fist against my mouth. In the distance I heard the speedboat as it roared into Miguelou’s harbour, and then all hell broke loose. There were shouts and screams and the sound of pounding feet and breaking glass. With difficulty I controlled my breathing as loud knocking shook the tiny inn and I heard Pedro opening the door, his voice raised in protest as the police swarmed past him, throwing open doors and mounting the stairs towards the bedrooms.

  My door was flung open and the brilliant glare of a torch dazzled my eyes. For a second as I sat there, the covers clutched in my hand, eyes blinking against the light, he said nothing, the torchlight swept the walls and floor and then swung back to my face.

  “What is happening? What is the meaning of this?” I said in English, my voice unnaturally high.

  “Your passport,” he ordered curtly. Indignantly I wrapped my dressing-gown around me and walked across to where my handbag lay on the dresser. He examined it carefully and thrust it back at me. Next door Miss Daventry’s voice rose loud and clear.

  “How dare you! I am a British citizen. I shall report this to the Embassy tomorrow. Do … you … understand? The British Embassy. Yes, that is my passport and I will have it back please. Can the man speak no English? I am British and the Embassy will have something to say about this!”

  Her voice carried on, outraged and dignified as they disappeared downstairs.

  Miss Daventry said: “ Stay in your room, Alison. I’ll come to you in a little while.”

  There came the sound of Pedro bolting the door after his unwelcome guests and Miss Daventry descended the stairs, stern and resolute.

  It seemed an eternity before she returned. She turned the oil lamp up and sat on the edge of the bed, her face grim.

  Chapter Two

  I waited. She said sombrely: “The boat trying to reach Miguelou’s harbour was the reason for all the tension today. The men on board were Basque separatists trying to smuggle guns and ammunition into Miguelou from Bayonne, in France.”

  “To Angel Garmendia?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “No wonder there was a strained atmosphere tonight.”

  “Apparently everyone was in on it, Pedro included. The idea was that the village men would distribute the weapons to all the local ETA units.”

  “Were any local men on board?”

  “Four. Among them Luis and Jose Villada. Jose is Carmen’s fiance.”

  My stomach turned an unpleasant somersault. “Are they dead?”

  She shrugged despairingly. “No-one knows. Pedro was on the beach with the rest of the men waiting for the boat to land. He managed to escape and get back to the inn before the police arrived, but some of the others stayed, in case any survivors should reach shore. The police have arrested them all.”

  “And Jaime?” I asked. “Was Jaime on the beach?”

  She nodded. “ Pedro says he wouldn’t leave, one of the men on board the boat was his cousin.”

  I reached for my dressing-gown.

  “And where do you think you are going?”

  “To Carmen.”

  She laid a hand on my arm restrainingly. “There is no point in going to her room, Alison. She is missing. Pedro doesn’t know where she is. There is nothing we can do tonight. Try and get some sleep.”

  She went out, shutting the door quietly behind her. I lay in the darkness, remembering again the clarity of the man’s body as it hung in agony before sinking down into the foam flecked depths of the sea. I wondered if Carmen had seen it too, and recognised it. Was that why her room was empty? Sick at heart, I turned over, burying my face in the pillow, waiting for morning.

  It took a long time to come. The early morning sun slowly lightened my room, but the usual sounds from the street below were absent and the inn remained still and silent. Then I heard steps on the stone stairs, and Pedro’s voice, low and dull, and I dressed hurriedly. As soon as I saw his haggard face, my heart sank.

  Miss Daventry was standing beside him at the semi-circle of wood that served as his desk, she turned as I approached and said simply: “Jaime is dead.”

  Pedro pushed a glass into my hand, saying brokenly. “ Six men have died, six … and the police have taken nearly every man that remains away for questioning.”

  “What about Javier?”

  “Javier is missing. And Angel and Alphonso. Angel will be like a man demented.…”

  “His brother was shot and killed on the beach.” Miss Daventry said bluntly.

  Pedro turned his back to me, leaning heavily on his desk. Miss Daventry took me by the arm.

  “Someone wants to see you in the kitchen.”

  “Carmen? She’s back?”

  Miss Daventry nodded. “Yes, she’s back, and refusing to talk to anyone but yourself. You had better have a word with her.”

  She was sat at the scrubbed table, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She sprang to her feet as I parted the bead curtain, her face tense and strained, dark circles beneath her eyes. Her skirt was dirty and damp, the hem thick with mud, her legs scratched and bleeding. She grasped my hand urgently: “You saw what happened?”

  “Yes. I saw everything. But where have you been?”

  “Will you help me? You must help me. Before I tell you where I have been, promise you will help … for if you don’t there is no-one else.…” her voice broke off in a strangled sob. “Pedro says the police know I was missing last night, that they have not arrested me because they are watching me … wanting me to lead them to.…” She pressed her fist to her mouth, and took a deep, steadying breath. “Please. Without your help Luis and Jose will die!”

  “They’re alive?” I asked incredulously.

  She nodded. “But they are injured and I dare not go to them again, for Pedro says I will be followed.”

  “
Where are they?”

  “I can only tell if you promise to help!” I nodded, her hand gripping mine so tight that her nails dug in my flesh. “ They swam ashore last night and I was waiting. I knew they were on the boat and I had to go down to the beach. Luis has been shot in the leg and Jose in the shoulder. While the police searched the village we crept along the beach and then took two of old Manuel’s donkeys and climbed to Maria’s cottage.”

  “You mean they are here? In the village?” I asked aghast.

  She shook her head. “ Maria only works here when Pedro needs her. She has a cottage of her own on the slopes of the mountain. Miss Daventry knows where it is. She has been there often. You must take them food and bandages.…”

  “But.…”

  “You must! Otherwise they will die! I will get the things now!”

  “Maria.…” but she had already gone.

  Miss Daventry came in, saying: “ Well?”

  “Carmen’s fiance and his brother are hiding in Maria’s cottage.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s not good at all,” I said bad-temperedly. “Both of them have been shot and Carmen says it is impossible for her to go and help, or anyone else in the village, as the police would follow. And that without help they will die.”

  “And did Carmen have a solution?”

  “Yes. That I should.”

  “What a sensible idea, and with me to help.…”

  “I don’t happen to have any sympathies with terrorists, Basques or otherwise.”

  “But the men are dying.” Miss Daventry protested.

  A long minute went past.

  “If I go. I go alone.”

  “You don’t know where the cottage is.…”

  “Then you will go?” Pedro asked eagerly. I nodded and his face flushed with excitement. “ Then you must speak to Father Calzada.”

  Minutes later the black robed priest held out a thin hand to shake.

  “You are going to help us? I am grateful. If God is good, the Villada’s will be in France in twenty-four hours. A boat will sail from Bayonne tonight. It will pass Miguelou and wait in the bay a little to the north. There it will pick up the Villada’s.