‘He is there,’ Sofia said. ‘My uncle.’ Her shoulders sagged. Harry put his arm round her. She felt so small, so delicate.

She pulled away again. ‘We must go to the watchman,’ she said quietly.

The man rose from the bench as they approached. He was old, short and stocky, wearing an ancient greasy suit and threadbare shirt. He studied them with sharp blue eyes, his seamed face hostile and distrustful.

‘You are from Luis, the brother of Agustín?’ he asked Barbara.

‘Yes. You are Francisco?’

‘I was told to expect only one Englishwoman. Why are there three of you?’

‘The arrangement changed. Luis knows.’

‘Agustín said one.’ His eyes darted anxiously between them.

‘I have the money,’ Harry said. ‘So. Is it safe to wait, to bring our friend here?’

‘It should be. There is no evening service today. It is cold, no one has been in this afternoon except Father Belmonte’s sister.’ He nodded briefly at the memorial. ‘With flowers. He was one of those martyred for Spain,’ he added pointedly. ‘When priests were murdered and nuns raped for the pleasure of the Reds.’

So he’s a Nationalist, Harry thought. ‘We have the three hundred pesetas,’ he said.

The old man held out a hand. ‘Then give it to me.’

‘When the man we came for is here.’ Harry made his voice clipped, authoritative, an officer’s voice. ‘That was the arrangement.’ He reached into his coat pocket and showed the old man the billfold, angling his body so he caught a glimpse of the gun as well. His eyes widened and he nodded.

‘Sí. Sí.’

Harry looked at his watch. ‘We are early. We will have to wait a little.’

‘Wait then.’ The watchman turned and shuffled back to his bench. He sat watching them.

‘Can we trust him?’ Barbara whispered. ‘He’s very hostile.’

‘Of course he is,’ Sofia replied sharply. ‘He supports them. Do you think the church recruits Republicans?’

‘Luis’s brother must trust him,’ Harry said. ‘And he could be shot if this goes wrong.’

They went and sat on a bench that gave a view of both the watchman and the door. ‘It’s six ten,’ Harry said. ‘Sofia, how long does it take to get to the bridge from here?’

‘Not long. Fifteen minutes. We should wait another quarter of an hour. I will take you – we go round the back of the cathedral and then we are at the gorge and the bridge.’

Barbara took a deep breath. ‘Leave me there and come back, Sofia. He’s expecting me to come alone.’

‘I know.’ Sofia leaned forward and squeezed Barbara’s hand. ‘It will be all right, everything will be all right.’

Barbara reddened at the unexpected gesture. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry about your uncle, Sofia.’

She nodded sadly.

Harry thought of the old priest put up against a wall and shot. He wondered if similar pictures were going through Sofia’s mind. He put his arm round her again.

‘Sofia,’ Barbara said quietly. ‘I wanted to say – I’m so grateful to you, for coming here. Neither of you needed to do this.’

‘I did,’ Harry said. ‘For Bernie.’

‘I wish I could do more,’ Sofia said with sudden fierceness. ‘I wish there were barricades again, I would take a gun this time. They should not have won. Even my uncle would not have died if they had not started the war.’ She turned to Barbara. ‘Do I seem hard to you?’

Barbara sighed. ‘No. It’s difficult for someone like me sometimes, to realize all you’ve been through.’

Harry squeezed Sofia’s hand. ‘You try your best to be hard but you don’t want to be, not really.’

‘I have had no choice.’

‘It will be different in England.’

They sat without speaking for a little while. Then Sofia slid Harry’s sleeve up to see his watch. ‘Six thirty,’ she said. ‘We should go.’ She glanced at the watchman. ‘You stay here, Harry, keep an eye on him. Give Barbara the rucksack.’

He didn’t want to leave her. ‘We should all go.’

‘No. One of us should stay here.’

Harry released her hand and the two women stood up. Then, with his back to the watchman, he took out the gun.

‘I think you should take it. In case of trouble. Not to shoot, just to threaten.’ He held it out by the barrel but Sofia hesitated; she seemed reluctant to take it now. Barbara reached out and grasped it gingerly.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said. She put it carefully in her pocket. Harry passed her the rucksack. She smiled wryly. ‘Funny, it does give you a sense of security.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Come on, Sofia.’

The two women walked to the door. It creaked open and closed again behind them. Harry felt the separation from Sofia like a physical pain. He looked at the old man. He could feel his hostile eyes.

OUTSIDE IT WAS ALMOST dark. Barbara shifted the rucksack with the clothes and food inside to the centre of her back. It was heavy. The beggars had gone from the steps. Clouds hid the moon but the weak streetlights had come on. Sofia led the way into a narrow alley running along the side of the cathedral. It led to a broad street with the back of the cathedral on one side. On the other, beyond a stone parapet, the street fell away into a broad, deep canyon. Barbara looked across the chasm. She could just make out the outlines of hills against the sky, a white line of road running along the bottom. A little way ahead a footbridge supported on iron struts spanned the gorge.

‘So that’s it,’ Barbara said.

‘Yes. The bridge of San Pablo. There is nobody guarding it,’ Sofia said eagerly. ‘The authorities cannot know he has escaped yet.’

‘If he has.’

Sofia pointed at the hills. ‘See, that is the Tierra Muerta. He will come down from there.’

To her right Barbara saw lights shining from houses built right on the cliff edge, balconied windows hanging out over the yawning drop.

‘The hanging houses,’ Sofia said.

‘Extraordinary.’ Barbara tensed suddenly at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from a side road. A man in a long black cloak appeared, a slash of white at the throat. A priest. He was young, about thirty, with glasses and a round gentle face under red hair almost the same shade as hers. His expression was preoccupied but he smiled when he saw them.

‘Buenas tardes, señoras. It is late for a walk abroad.’ Hell, Barbara thought. She knew priests could question women out in the streets, order them home. Sofia dropped her eyes demurely.

‘We were just returning, señor.’

The priest looked at Barbara curiously. ‘Forgive me, señora, but are you from abroad?’

Barbara put on a cheerful tone. ‘I’m English, sir. My husband works in Madrid.’ She was conscious of the heavy weight of the gun against her side.

‘¿Inglesa?’ He looked at her intently.

‘Yes, señor. Have you been to England?’

‘No.’ He seemed about to say something more, then checked himself. ‘It is getting dark,’ he said gently, as though to a child. ‘I think perhaps you should both be getting home.’

‘We were about to go back.’

He turned to Sofia. ‘Are you from Cuenca?’

‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I came to see the memorial in the cathedral. My friend brought me from Madrid. I had an uncle here, a priest.’

‘Ah. He was martyred in 1936?’

‘Yes.’

The priest nodded sadly. ‘So many dead. My daughter, I can see from your face you feel bitter, but I think we must begin to forgive if Spain is to be renewed. There has been too much cruelty.’

‘That is not a sentiment one hears much,’ Sofia said.

The priest smiled sadly. ‘No,’ he agreed. There was a short silence, then he asked, conversationally, ‘Where are you staying?’

Sofia hesitated. ‘The convent of San Miguel.’

‘Ah. So am I. Just for tonight. Perhaps I shall see you at dinner later. I am Father Eduardo Alierta.’ He nodded to them and turned into the street leading to the cathedral. His footsteps died slowly away. The women looked at each other.