Then Gowder, as if he too felt the terror of his own deed, cried, “Away! Leave the murderer to the foxes and the crows. Away!”

And they all fled, leaving me hanging, praying that death would come quickly.

How long I hung I do not know. If you want experience of eternity in this life, Father, let yourself be hung from a cross. Perhaps this is one of the meanings of our Savior’s Passion.

It grew so dark I felt that death must be near. Then I heard a noise, and felt the touch of a hand against my body, and thought Gowder had returned to torment me further.

But the voice that now spoke was not Gowder’s. It was Jenny’s.

How she got me down from the tree I do not know. I had no strength to help her and as each of my limbs was freed the pain of being supported by the others alone was beyond bearing and several times I fainted, till finally I came back to my senses and found I was lying on the ground.

She had brought a blanket for my naked body and a bladder full of water with which she washed my wounds. She cried piteously as she saw the state of me, and all the time she declared, “I cannot stay. He will kill me too if I am found here. I cannot stay.”

But still she stayed till a glimmer in the sky warned that day drew near.

Jenny told me that Thomas was dead and Andrew believed, or affected to believe, I had foully murdered his brother when he caught me trying to ravish her, having first struck her on the head to render her defenseless.

I knew I must move from this spot and I knew also that I could not let Jenny stay with me. For her own safety she had to agree with the story that I was her ravisher, which would be hard to maintain were she found by my side. I asked for her help in getting upright. She fetched a pair of stout branches to lend my crippled feet support. And now I urged her to go, pretending my strength was greater than it was.

Before she went, she kissed me. I knew it was our last kiss. It was as bitter as our first had been sweet.

I began to move also, not caring where I went as long as I was away from that accursed place, and also knowing that wherever it was I halted for rest, there would I lie till either death or my enemies took me up.

I may have kept going for an hour, perhaps more. The sky was bright with spring sunshine when I finally collapsed among some gorse bushes. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again I was being nuzzled by a horse.

I saw its rider dismount. Convinced that my end must be nigh, I closed my eyes once more and began to recite a prayer to commit my soul to heaven.

I felt an arm around me. Then I was raised in the air and laid across the horse’s saddle and my senses fled once more.

The next time I awoke I felt sure I must have died and gone to heaven, for I was lying on a soft couch and a woman with gray hair and a kind face was washing my wounds. But soon from what she said and what I was able to see I became aware that God in his mercy had led me to the only place of safety I was like to find in this barbarous place. It was the lady’s son who had found me. Recognizing from my dying prayer that we were of the same true faith, he had brought me to his house rather than to the authorities. I had no strength then to tell my story as I am telling it to you, Father, but my fevered ramblings must have persuaded them that I was innocent of the desperate crimes Andrew Gowder was accusing me of.

After a time, I know not whether it was long or short, they said that they must move me, it was no longer safe for me to remain in their house, and I was taken at dead of night to another place. Half-conscious though I was, my fears all returned when I saw that I was being lowered into a dark pit beneath an upraised slab of stone. Did they believe that I had passed away and was I being consigned to the tomb? I tried to struggle and cry to warn them of their mistake but still they lowered me into the darkness.

But just as I was ready to abandon all hope, I saw a glimmer of light, and in that glimmer I saw your face, Father, and heard you speaking words of comfort to me in my own tongue, and I was able to close my eyes in peace once more.

“Mr. Madero!”

His name was accompanied by a banging at his door.

When he opened it, he found Mrs. Appledore standing there, looking out of breath and irritated.

“Siesta time, is it?” she said. “I’ve been shouting up the stairs for two minutes. There’s a phone call for you. A Mr. Coldcream, I think he said.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Appledore. Sorry,” said Mig.

He ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. The receiver lay on the windowsill. He picked it up and said, “Hello, Max.”

“Mig, my boy! How are you after your adventures? I’ve not heard anything like it since I stopped reading the Famous Five.”

“I’m fine,” said Mig. “You’ve looked at the document?”

“Indeed yes. This is a fascinating find. You’ve got no doubt about authenticity?”

“None. In my hand it feels right.”

“Good enough for me, but we can easily get some tests done for the sake of those who don’t appreciate your special talents as I do.”

“Fine,” said Mig. “But as I said, there may be a problem about ownership.”

“Yes. It’s a pity you had to fall out with the Woollasses,” said Coldstream. “On the other hand, there’s nothing that redounds to their discredit here. In fact, the reaction of Alice and her son was both charitable and noble. And Father Simeon comes out of it well too. Despite his own peril, he clearly took care of the boy, physically and spiritually. And even if the lad didn’t survive, he proposed making the effort to contact the family with news of his fate if he himself made it safe back to Spain.”

“Which he did. But he didn’t contact the family,” said Mig. “At least, there’s no record of it, which I’m sure there would have been.”

“Yes. That is odd. I keep forgetting it’s actually your family we’re talking about here. Sorry. This must be hard for you.”

“It certainly makes me more appreciative of the Woollasses’ sensibilities,” he said. “Gerald is convinced that my sole motive in coming here was to dig up dirt on Simeon. I suppose I could tell him everything, but I’m not sure if even that would convince him I’m not after producing one of those titillating historical pop-biographies.”

“Which of course you’re not,” said Max. “Are you? Sorry! Look, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always publish your translation in next week’s issue of CH and get it in the public domain that way, but then everyone would have access. Much better if you put on the Hispanic charm and mend a few fences. I gave Tim Lilleywhite a ring, by the way, and asked him to check out that thing you asked about Jolley. I think I see what you’re getting at. Bit of an ace in the hole if it comes up, perhaps. But let’s not jump our guns. Meanwhile, just start groveling! Adios!”

Madero replaced the receiver. Grovel before the Woollasses, he thought. He doubted if it would do him much good, though there was one member of the family he wouldn’t mind subjugating himself to.

He turned round and found himself looking at Frek.

She was standing just inside the kitchen. There was no way of telling how long she’d been there, but she was smiling in a friendly enough fashion.

“There you are,” she said mockingly. “A true historian. You come to our little village and within twenty-four hours you reveal to us what’s been lying beneath our eyes, or at least our feet, for centuries.”

He returned her smile and said, “More luck than judgment, I fear.”

“Luck? The same kind of luck that made you turn up your nose at our so-called priest-hole? I think there is something of the truffle-dog in you, Señor Madero. You sniff out what lies beyond the detection of mere human noses.”