Free Three-Cornered Halo by Christianna Brand Page A

Rome was brought to recognise what, to so fervent a student of the Diaries as herself, was but self-evident truth. Juanita had been a saint, had poured forth the exquisite aspirations of her sanctity in words which she, Winsome, alone was to translate to the English-speaking peoples and these words, these writings, these torrents of purple ink would remain unknown, an irreparable loss to a world never more sadly in need of such exhortation, until the College of Cardinals pronounced the verdict which would launch them on a flood of religious fame. “It would have to be something very simple, of course,” said Winsome, coolly, “and nobody must know.”
    â€œNo one might know, Senorita, but every one in San Juan would suspect.”
    â€œAs long as nobody in Rome suspected,” said Winsome, “that needn’t matter either.” And after all who, she said, could Rome suspect?
    â€œEveryone in San Juan,” said Tomaso, with simplicity.
    That Winsome Foley at this stage contemplated for one moment actually taking part in any fraudulence on Juanita’s behalf, or for that matter really believed that a fraud would be perpetrated, was of course by no means the case. But—there was a foolish excitement in pretending that it might, it was flattering after the rebuff of the earlier evening to be receiving the wide-eyed homage of this clever young man, in being the leading spirit in a pious conspiracy, half-laughing, half-eagerly earnest; in sitting with him like two conspiratorial children, upon the steps before Juanita’s glass coffin, in the flickering light and shade of her votive candles, and playing with ideas and plots. They strolled together, animatedly chatting, through the narrow streets leading back to the hotel. They passed his shop and he urged her to come in. “No, no indeed, I must get back to the evening collatione.”
    â€œThe collatione at the Bellomare, Senorita, is not until nine o’clock.”
    â€œWell, but it’s eight o’clock now; I really must go.”
    â€œCome then after dinner, Senorita: we will drink a Juanello together in my Joyeria, I will show you my treasures, we will enter into our conspiracy. It is naughty, but it is harmless, and it is fun.…”
    He was waiting for her, lurking in the shadows by the hotel gate; with Tomaso it was impossible simply to stand and wait, without creating an impression of being in hiding. But he stepped forward boldly and imprinted one of his chaste but florid kisses on her knuckly hand; and it was fun, it was flattering, it was above all a triumph over Cousin Hat with her bruising irritabilities. He had laid out a little treat for her in the Joyeria, tiny glasses, gold rimmed, for the Juanello, some of Lorenna’s little cheesecakes in a silver box: he had popped up to the Colombaia in the meantime to snatch a kiss from Lorenna and scrounge a few. She sat among the jewels and the trinkets in the shifting shadows of the single, swinging lantern, beneath the hanging bird-cages, gold and silver-gilt, each with its jewelled and enamelled singing-bird, feeling the soft, cool slither of pearls between her fingers, sipping her Juanello, closing herself in again with unreality. She had at his earlier invitation brought Juanita’s diary with her (Volume I), and they became almost hysterical with muffled laughter, hunting through it for some ‘reference’ to a miracle to be performed twenty years after the writer’s death. All the best saints gave notice of posthumous ‘signs.’ “Sœur Thérèse of Lisieux, for example, promised showers of roses.”
    â€œThe rose is the national flower of San Juan,” said Tomaso, thoughtfully.
    â€œStill, we’d better have something original. You wouldn’t like to go to the trouble of organising roses, and then find Sœur Thérèse of Lisieux getting all the credit.” She went off into gales of laughter at