‘I’m glad,’ Harry said. ‘It must have been a hard time.’

‘You do not know, señor, the things they did to us. It is as well you do not. We want to rebuild the churches in La Latina and Carabanchel.’ The priest looked at Harry seriously. ‘The people there need a beacon, something to cleave to.’

‘There’s a burned-out church near where I live, at the top of La Latina,’ Harry said.

The monsignor’s face hardened. ‘Yes, and the people who did it need to be shown they could not destroy the authority of Christ’s church. That we have returned stronger than before.’

Goach nodded. ‘Quite.’

A burst of harsh laughter made Monsignor Maestre frown. ‘It is a pity my brother invited Millán Astray. He is so inculto. And a Falangist. They are all so irreligious.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘We needed them during our war, but now – well, thank God the Generalísimo is a true Christian.’

‘Some of the Falangists would make him their God,’ Goach said quietly.

‘Indeed they would.’

Harry looked between them. They were both being very outspoken. But they were all Monarchists here, except for Millán Astray. The crippled general was holding forth to a group of cadets now; they seemed to be hanging on his every word.

The monsignor took Goach’s arm. ‘George, come with me, I’d like you to meet the bishop’s secretary.’ With a nod at Harry and Tolhurst, he led Goach away, red skirts billowing around his feet. Tolhurst took a swig of wine.

‘I thought he’d never stop. How did you get on with the señorita?’

‘She wanted me to take her to the Prado.’ Harry looked over to where Milagros was talking to her friends again. She caught his eye and smiled uncertainly. He felt guilty, his sudden departure must have seemed rude.

‘Lot of little cats.’ Tolhurst wiped his glasses on his sleeve. ‘I suppose I was a bit stupid, making fun of their names. I don’t know, I can’t seem to get on with girls, not socially.’ He swayed slightly, more than a little drunk. ‘You see, I was in Cuba so long, I got used to tarts.’ He laughed. ‘I like tarts, but you forget how to talk to respectable girls.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Señorita Maestre not your type, then?’

‘No.’

‘No Vera Lynn, is she?’

‘She’s young. Poor girl, she’s scared for the future.’

‘Aren’t we all? Listen, there’s a chap in the press office, knows this little brothel near Opera—’

Harry nudged him to be quiet. Maestre was approaching again, smiling broadly.

‘Señor Brett, I hope Milagros has not abandoned you.’

‘No, no. She does you credit, general.’

Maestre looked across to where the girls were deep in conversation with some more cadets. He shook his head indulgently. ‘I am afraid they cannot resist a young officer. The young all live for the day now. You must forgive them.’ He must have thought Milagros left me, Harry thought.

Maestre took a drink, wiped his little moustache and looked at them. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You both know Captain Hillgarth, yes? He and I are good friends.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tolhurst’s face was immediately attentive.

‘He should know there is a lot of annoyance in the government over Negrín. It was not a good idea for England to give asylum to the Republican prime minister. These noises in the British Parliament annoy our friends.’ He shook his head. ‘You English, you let vipers into your bosom sometimes, you know.’

‘It’s difficult, sir,’ Tolhurst said seriously. ‘I don’t know how the Commons got wind Sir Samuel recommended Negrín be asked to leave, but it’s got the Labour members hot under the collar.’

‘Surely you can control your Parliament?’

‘Not really,’ Tolhurst said. ‘It’s democracy,’ he added apologetically.

Maestre spread his hands, smiling in puzzlement. ‘But England is not a decadent republic like France was, you have a monarchy and aristocracy, you understand the principle of authority.’

‘I’ll tell Captain Hillgarth,’ Tolhurst said. ‘By the way, sir,’ he added quietly, ‘the captain was asking how things are going with the new minister.’

Maestre nodded. ‘Tell him there is nothing to worry about there,’ he replied softly.

Señora Maestre appeared. She tapped her husband’s arm with her fan. ‘Santiago, are you talking politics again? This is our daughter’s ball.’ She shook her head. ‘You must forgive him.’

Maestre smiled. ‘You are right, my dear, of course.’

She smiled brightly at Harry and Tolhurst. ‘I hear Juan March is in Madrid. If he has returned to stay, he is bound to be doing some entertaining.’

‘I heard it was just a short visit,’ Maestre replied. Harry looked at him. Juan March again. The name Hillgarth had told him to forget, along with the Knights of St George.

Señora Maestre beamed at her guests. ‘He is Spain’s most successful businessman. He had to leave under the Republic of course. It would be good if he returned. You cannot imagine how grey life was in the Nationalist zone during the war. It had to be that way, of course. And then when we came back—’ A shadow flitted across her face.

‘This house was half ruined,’ Maestre said. ‘Good furniture used for firewood. Everything broken or damaged. The families the Republic put in here could not even use the toilet, but the worst was our family things, photographs sold in the Rastro because they were framed in silver. You can see why Negrín being given a home in London angers people.’ Maestre looked across at his daughter, his face full of tenderness for a moment. ‘Milagros is a sensitive child, she found it hard to bear. She is not happy. I fear she is too delicate a plant to flourish in Spain now. I sometimes even think she might be happier abroad.’ He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘I think we should start the dancing, my dear. I will ask the chamber orchestra to come in.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘Only the best for Milagros. I will tell her she must give you a dance. Excuse us.’ He led his wife away.

‘Hell,’ Tolhurst said. ‘I’m awful at dancing.’

‘This Juan March,’ Harry said in neutral tones. ‘He’s quite an important man, isn’t he?’

‘I’ll say. He’s got millions. Gigantic crook, started as a smuggler. Lives in Switzerland now, took all his money out before the Civil War started. Pro-Monarchist. Probably just come to sort out his affairs.’ Tolhurst spoke lightly, but Harry saw a watchfulness come into his face. He changed the subject. ‘Terrible about the Maestres’ losses, all the upper- and middle-class families suffered dreadfully. One thing about this regime, at least they protect people of – you know, our class.’

‘Yes, I suppose they do. Our class. You know, I was thinking. In a funny way, I think the fact we’re both Rookwood old boys means more to Sandy than to me now. He still has feelings about it, even if it’s only hate.’

‘And you?’

‘I don’t know any more, Tolly.’

Four men in dinner jackets carrying musical instruments appeared with Señora Maestre, followed by a group of the kaftaned servants pushing a little wooden stage. The guests clapped and cheered. Harry saw Milagros waving her fan at him from the other side of the room. He raised his glass. Beside him, Tolhurst sighed.

‘Oh lor’,’ he said. ‘Here we go.’