‘I come from a family of great readers,’ he explained. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’d like to ask you about the ownership of a building in-’

‘The tower house?’ the lawyer interrupted politely.

‘Yes.’

‘You know it?’ he asked.

‘I live there.’

Valera looked at me for a while without abandoning his smile. He straightened up in his chair and seemed to go tense.

‘Are you the present owner?’

‘Actually I rent the place.’

‘And what is it you’d like to know, Señor Martín?’

‘If possible, I’d like to know about the acquisition of the building by the Banco Hispano Colonial and gather some information on the previous owner.’

‘Don Diego Marlasca,’ the lawyer muttered. ‘May I ask what is the nature of your interest?’

‘Personal. Recently, while I was doing some refurbishment on the building, I came across a number of items that I think belonged to him.’

The lawyer frowned.

‘Items?’

‘A book. Or, rather, a manuscript.’

‘Señor Marlasca was a great lover of literature. In fact, he was the author of a large number of books on law, and also on history and other subjects. A great scholar. And a great man, although at the end of his life there were those who wished to tarnish his reputation.’

My surprise must have been evident.

‘I assume you’re not familiar with the circumstances surrounding Señor Marlasca’s death.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Valera sighed, as if he were debating whether or not to go on.

‘You’re not going to write about this, are you, or about Irene Sabino?’

‘No.’

‘Do I have your word?’

I nodded.

‘You couldn’t say anything that wasn’t already said at the time, I suppose,’ Valera muttered, more to himself than to me.

The lawyer looked briefly at his father’s portrait and then fixed his eyes on me.

‘Diego Marlasca was my father’s partner and his best friend. Together they founded this law firm. Señor Marlasca was a brilliant lawyer. Unfortunately he was also a very complicated man, subject to long periods of melancholy. There came a time when my father and Señor Marlasca decided to dissolve their partnership. Señor Marlasca left the legal profession to devote himself to his first vocation: writing. They say most lawyers secretly wish to leave the profession and become writers-’

‘Until they compare the salaries.’

‘The fact is that Don Diego had struck up a friendship with Irene Sabino, quite a popular actress at the time, for whom he wanted to write a play. That was all. Señor Marlasca was a gentleman and was never unfaithful to his wife, but you know what people are like. Gossip. Rumours and jealousy. Anyhow, word got round that Don Diego was having an affair with Irene Sabino. His wife never forgave him for it, and the couple separated. Señor Marlasca was shattered. He bought the tower house and moved in. Sadly, he’d only been living there for a year when he died in an unfortunate accident.’

‘What sort of accident?’

‘Señor Marlasca drowned. It was a tragedy.’

Valera lowered his eyes and sighed.

‘And the scandal?’

‘Let’s just say there were evil tongues who wanted people to believe that Señor Marlasca had committed suicide after an unhappy love affair with Irene Sabino.’

‘And was that so?’

Valera removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I don’t know and I don’t care. What happened, happened.’

‘What became of Irene Sabino?’

Valera put his glasses on again.

‘I thought you were only interested in Señor Marlasca and the ownership of the house.’

‘It’s simple curiosity. Among Señor Marlasca’s belongings I found a number of photographs of Irene Sabino, as well as letters from her to Señor Marlasca-’

‘What are you getting at?’ Valera snapped. ‘Is it money you want?’

‘No.’

‘I’m glad, because nobody is going to give you any. Nobody cares about the subject any more. Do you understand?’

‘Perfectly, Señor Valera. I had no intention of bothering you or insinuating that anything was out of place. I’m sorry if I offended you with my questions.’

The lawyer smiled and let out a gentle sigh, as if the conversation had already ended.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m the one who should apologise.’

Taking advantage of the lawyer’s conciliatory tone, I put on my sweetest expression.

‘Perhaps his widow…’

Valera shrunk into his armchair, visibly uncomfortable.

‘Doña Alicia Marlasca? Señor Martín, please don’t misunderstand me, but part of my duty as the family lawyer is to preserve their privacy. For obvious reasons. A lot of time has gone by, and I wouldn’t like to see old wounds reopened unnecessarily.’

‘I understand.’

The lawyer was looking at me tensely.

‘And you say you found a book?’ he asked.

‘Yes… a manuscript. It’s probably not important.’

‘Probably not. What was the work about?’

‘Theology, I’d say.’

Valera nodded.

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘No. On the contrary. Diego was an authority on the history of religion. A learned man. In this firm he is still remembered with great affection. Tell me, what particular aspects of the history of the property are you interested in?’

‘I think you’ve already helped me a great deal, Señor Valera. I wouldn’t like to take up any more of your time.’

The lawyer nodded, looking relieved.

‘It’s the house, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘A strange place, yes,’ I agreed.

‘I remember going there once when I was young, shortly after Don Diego bought it.’

‘Do you know why he bought it?’

‘He said he’d been fascinated with it ever since he was a child and had always thought he’d like to live there. Don Diego was like that. Sometimes he acted like a young boy who would give everything up in exchange for a dream.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, fine. Do you know anything about the owner from whom Señor Marlasca bought the house? Someone called Bernabé Massot?’

‘He’d made his money in the Americas. He didn’t spend more than an hour in the house. He bought it when he returned from Cuba and kept it empty for years. He didn’t say why. He lived in a mansion he had built in Arenys de Mar and sold the tower house for tuppence. He didn’t want to have anything to do with it.’

‘And before him?’

‘I think a priest lived there. A Jesuit. I’m not sure. My father was the person who took care of Don Diego’s business and when the latter died, he burned all of the files.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because of all the things I’ve told you. To avoid rumours and preserve the memory of his friend, I suppose. The truth is, he never told me. My father was not the sort of man to offer explanations, but he must have had his reasons. Good reasons, I’m sure. Diego had been a good friend to him, as well as being his partner, and all of it was very painful for my father.’

‘What happened to the Jesuit?’

‘I believe he had disciplinary issues with the order. He was a friend of Father Cinto Verdaguer, and I think he was mixed up in some of his problems, if you know what I mean.’

‘Exorcisms?’

‘Gossip.’

‘How could a Jesuit who had been thrown out of the order afford a house like that?’

Valera shrugged his shoulders and I sensed that I was scraping the bottom of the barrel.

‘I’d like to be of further help, Señor Martín, but I don’t know how. Believe me.’

‘Thank you for your time, Señor Valera.’

The lawyer nodded and pressed a bell on the desk. The secretary who had greeted me appeared in the doorway. Valera stretched out his hand and I shook it.

‘Señor Martín is leaving. See him to the door, Margarita.’

The secretary inclined her head and led the way. Before leaving the office I turned round to look at the lawyer, who was standing crestfallen beneath his father’s portrait. I followed Margarita out to the main door but just as she was about to close it I turned and gave her the most innocent of smiles.