The Captain of the Provincial Guard settled himself into the seat opposite us in the horse-drawn carriage. As the vehicle set off, he leaned towards us with a knowing smile. “You know, you have picked an excellent time to visit the town of Santa Marta,” he cheerfully told us. “For tomorrow is a hanging day.”

     Michael and I swapped an uneasy glance. “Lucky us,” I murmured.

     “And not just any hanging day,” the Captain went on, apparently oblivious to any notion of sarcasm. “The man to be hanged in the Plaza tomorrow is One-Eyed Alfonso, key lieutenant and right-hand man to the one and only… Juarez.”

     He pronounced this last name in what I soon learnt was the customary fashion. This involved the speaker taking a slight pause and then releasing the name in a long, hushed breath. It had the effect of conjuring up a sense of awe mingled with a mixture of dread and/or admiration in whatever proportion most accurately reflected the speaker’s point of view.

     “Who’s Juarez?” Michael innocently asked.

     “Who’s Juarez?” repeated the Captain with a loud snort before bursting into vaguely hysterical laughter. “I’m sorry, you must forgive me,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “It is such a strange question for me to hear. There cannot be a man, woman or child in this province who is not familiar with the name… Juarez.” He stopped his chuckling abruptly and suddenly regarded us with a rather severe stare. “Juarez is the most notorious criminal in the county. The man they call ‘El Bandito’. A thief, a murderer, a vicious brigand, he is the scourge of every honourable, law-abiding citizen in the territory.”

     Michael and I swapped another uneasy glance.

     “But do not be alarmed,” continued the Captain. “Juarez may have caused us some trouble but the Governor has matters well in hand. The capture of One-Eyed Alfonso is only the start. You may rest assured that very soon it will be ‘El Bandito’ himself who is swinging from the end of a rope.”

     With this, the Captain eased himself confidently back into his seat, apparently feeling that the subject was now closed. I, however, was feeling far from reassured. In fact, I was beginning to have a bit of a bad feeling about this whole adventure and, as the carriage rolled on towards our destination, I couldn’t help fearing that Michael and I may have made a serious error in the way we were tackling it.

     When we had discovered that following up the next set of coordinates on the inter-dimensional travel drive would take us into early 19^th century Spanish California, it seemed like a smart move to rustle ourselves up an introduction to the Governor of Santa Marta. The papers themselves had not been all that difficult to produce. After all this time in the landscape we’ve become rather adept at conjuring up fresh identities to suit all occasions. A quick trip to our friendly local forger and the required invitation for a stay at the Governor’s mansion was all ours, complete with the offer of a personal escort from the Captain of the Provincial Guard for the last stage of our journey.

     At the time I’d figured that was the hard part over and done with. But bouncing along the rutted roads leading into town, listening to talk of bandits and hangings, I was beginning to think again. There was something in particular about the shiny, self-satisfied face of the captain that made me wonder if we wouldn’t have done better just to slip quietly into town under our own steam.

     Arriving at our destination, I saw little to lift my mood. The town of Santa Marta apparently consisted of one broad, dusty square enclosed by a tangled web of narrow, dirty streets. There was barely any sign of life – I caught only a few pinched and worn faces peering glumly at us from doorways as we passed. Perhaps the afternoon sun, which burned fiercely, was keeping everybody out of sight. Or perhaps the townsfolk were just a bit embarrassed. After all, it was probably hard to rustle up any kind of civic pride in a town whose main feature appeared to be the gallows set up in the centre of the Plaza in anticipation of the next day’s hanging.

     The buildings on three sides of the square looked every bit as pinched and worn as the faces I had glimpsed. The sole exception was the Governor’s hacienda – a large, richly-decorated mansion set within a high-walled courtyard that took up the whole of one side of the Plaza. I presume the elaborate architecture was meant to impress but in truth there was something quite pitiful about such a lavish building standing in the midst of such faded poverty. It had an air of trying too hard, invoking the kind of embarrassment you might feel for a party guest who has turned up in their best frock when everyone else is slumming it in jeans and a t-shirt.

     Our carriage completed a full circuit of the Plaza (presumably to grant us a chance to admire the gallows from every angle) before sweeping through the gateway up to the front steps of the Governor’s mansion. A row of smartly dressed people were already lined up on the steps waiting to greet us. As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop the Captain leapt down with a sprightliness which belied his portly figure and hastened to make the necessary introductions.

     “Don Miguel, Senorita Natasha, allow me to present His Excellency, Don Pedro de la Montoya y Avila y Mendoza, Most Noble Governor of this fine province,” he declared.

     The man at the head of the reception committee executed a sweeping bow. Dressed in spite of the heat in a thick black coat and elaborate cravat, he was tall and slender with a sharp, sallow face topped with slick black hair. The fact that he had chosen to adorn his features with the kind of waxed moustache and pointed beard generally favoured by the villains of Victorian melodrama did nothing to allay my growing unease.

     “It is a great honour to welcome you to the Americas,” announced Don Pedro as he emerged from his bow. “I cannot tell you how much we have been looking forward to the visit of two such distinguished personages. We are sadly starved of civilised company here in Santa Marta.”

     Michael responded with a rather impressive bow of his own and I mumbled a few words, all the while wishing we hadn’t got quite so carried away when it came to devising our credentials. In hindsight I could see it had probably been a bit of a mistake to make all the arrangements with the forger after a few drinks in the pub.

     Fortunately, Don Pedro did not seem to have noticed any awkwardness and had already moved on to introducing his family. Beside him stood his wife, Dona Elena. She was short and plump in almost comical contrast to her husband and greeted us with a weary smile. I might have ascribed her air of exhausted indifference to the dense dress and elaborate hairstyle with which she was forced to contend in the sweltering weather but as we moved along the line to her children another, simpler explanation suggested itself. There were seven offspring in total, three boys and four girls all between the ages of eight and twenty, which seemed to me to be a tally sufficient to wear any woman down. The boys all took after their mother, being uniformly overweight and red-faced, whilst the girls were all thin and sour-faced like their father. Each was brought forward to bow or curtsey in turn before the whole family was summarily dismissed with a curt flick of Don Pedro’s hand.

     “Now then, perhaps you would allow me to conduct you on a personal tour of the house?” offered Don Pedro. “That is, if you would not find it too taxing after your long journey?”

     I don’t know about taxing but I would certainly have preferred a quiet cup of tea in a shady room. However, it was clear that the Governor was itching to show off his mansion and it didn’t seem polite to deny him the opportunity. “Not at all, we should be delighted,” I graciously lied.

     Don Pedro led the way up the steps and through the grand doorway. I presume the Captain of the Provincial Guard had no need of a tour but he accompanied us anyway, apparently feeling it was his duty to trail around after the Governor, making murmuring sounds of approval at his every utterance.

     “It has taken a great deal of time and effort to get the house up to the standard you see now,” announced Don Pedro, standing back to allow us to take in the splendour of an opulent hallway. “Looking at it now, you would not believe the Governor’s residence that I inherited. I do not wish to speak ill of my predecessor but he was a weak man, not really suited to the challenges of his position.”

     “I expect the role of Governor is one that comes with many responsibilities,” Michael politely remarked.

     “You do not know how right you are, Don Miguel!” exclaimed Don Pedro, moving the tour along to a neighbouring reception room. “America is undoubtedly a land of opportunity but it takes a special kind of man to succeed here, among the wild beasts and savages, so far from civilisation. Either you conquer America or it conquers you.”

     Neither Michael nor I finding anything to say in response to this rather disquieting declaration, the Captain took it upon himself to fill the silence by announcing proudly, “The Governor is a conqueror through and through.”

     “The true gentleman will always rise above his surroundings,” declared Don Pedro. “Make no mistake, I do not lavish the wealth of the province upon this house merely for my own comfort. The mansion is a reflection of my position. The people of Santa Marta look at this hacienda and know that I am a man to be respected.”

     I looked at Don Pedro’s smug face and thought of the dilapidated houses lining the other three sides of the Plaza and I just couldn’t help myself. “Perhaps,” I conceded. “Or perhaps, and here’s an idea, the people of Santa Marta would respect you just as much, or maybe even more, if you lavished a little of the wealth of the province on doing up their houses as well.”

     Don Pedro stopped in his tracks and the room filled with an awkward tension. I was sure I had overstepped the mark but just as I was bracing myself for a sharp backlash the Governor punctured the atmosphere with a sharp laugh. “I see that you are blessed with the tender heart that is the natural affliction of your sex, Senorita Natasha,” he chuckled. “But you should not waste your sympathies on the natives of this land. They are a brutal, ignorant breed and any attempt to treat them with kindness only serve to encourage their indolence. One soon learns that they respond much better to the stick than to the carrot.”

     If I didn’t immediately tell Don Pedro where he could shove both his stick and his carrot it was only because I was so taken aback by his offensive arrogance that for a moment I was stuck choking on my own indignance. By the time I had recovered the power of speech the Governor had already swept on to the next room of the tour. Before I could go after him, Michael held me back with a warning hand and gave me a look that was as clear as day.

     Yes, I completely agree that Don Pedro is clearly an offence to humanity, it said, but if we indulge in the luxury of telling him what we think of him we’re going to put ourselves in a very tricky position. Think about the hidden door that we need to find.

     I could only respond with a frustrated glare, the frustration brought about by a reluctant acknowledgement that Michael was probably right. Pissing the Governor off before we’d even started our search was not going to do much to help our cause.

     Michael withdrew his arm with another cautionary nod and we moved on to where Don Pedro and the Captain were waiting in the centre of a garishly over-decorated dining room.

     “Now, this room I have had styled in exact imitation of a famous salon from my old family home in Valencia,” Don Pedro declared, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “All the furniture was shipped over from Europe at great expense.”

     I could feel Michael’s anxious eyes upon me as the Governor waited for a suitable response. It took just about all the self-control I possessed to finally mutter, through gritted teeth, “What a beautiful chandelier!”

     The tour proceeded from there in much the same fashion. Our host became in no way more palatable as we progressed and continued to pepper his every statement with the casual racist superiority of the unapologetic colonialist. As we progressed from floor to floor even Michael’s legendary acting ability struggled with the strain of meeting the constant barrage of unpleasantness with a politely benign countenance. Fortunately, Don Pedro, being thoroughly imbued with the customary arrogance of the aristocracy, remained entirely oblivious to the effect he was having.

     His tour was certainly thorough. Having covered every inch of the ground and upper floors he insisted on dragging us through his wine cellar which housed a collection so valuable that it apparently required several members of the Provincial Guard to watch over it. Or perhaps the surprising number of men in uniform we discovered loitering among the wine racks was simply due to the cellar being a cool, quiet place to escape from the boiling sun. I’ll never know cos I’m afraid I had rather zoned out a bit by this point and missed most of Don Pedro’s lengthy lecture on the provenance of his finest vintages. I’m sure that viniculture is an interesting topic to some but, given that my budget generally obliges me to do most of my wine-shopping from the bargain bin at Asda, I’m afraid the finer details of terroir are rather lost on me.

     Even the wine cellar didn’t prove to be quite the end of our torture for as we climbed the steps Don Pedro announced, “Now there is one last thing that I really must show you. If you would like to accompany me to the stables…”

     Unable to resist, we followed him out of the rear of the house and into a large courtyard that was completely surrounded by a high wall and patrolled by yet more members of the Provincial Guard. There were a number of outbuildings dotted across this space but Don Pedro directed his steps towards a squat, flat-roofed building close to the house on the left-hand side. A pair of guardsmen stood sentinel over the heavy wooden door. They swiftly unbarred and opened it upon a nod from the Governor.

     It took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight of the courtyard to the darkened interior. A broad corridor ran down the length of the building, flanked on either side by a row of enclosed horse boxes. I was expecting a lengthy lecture on the quality and breeding of the horseflesh contained within these walls but Don Pedro entirely ignored the rather magnificent-looking beasts that gazed haughtily out at us from the first few boxes and instead made his way directly to what at first appeared to be an empty box in the middle of the row. It was only as I drew closer that I realised that this particular pen was home not to a horse, but to a man, who we discovered lounging on the straw. At our approach he slowly rose to his feet and glared sullenly at us.

     “Don Miguel, Senorita Natasha, allow me to introduce the other guest we have currently residing with us at the hacienda,” announced Don Pedro with a sly smile. “They call him One-Eyed Alfonso.”

     The man standing before us was rather short but had a tough, wiry figure that suggested a strength beyond his size. His long, grey-streaked hair was pulled back into an untidy ponytail and he wore a black cloth tied across his right eye. His left eye flicked suspiciously from Don Pedro to Michael and I but he said nothing. I was rather at a loss for something to say myself, the usual pleasantries seeming a touch inadequate to the occasion.

     Don Pedro seemed to rather enjoy the general air of discomfort. “Do not concern yourselves too much with formalities,” he told Michael and I with a chuckle. “Poor Alfonso will not be with us for long. He has a date with the gallows tomorrow.”

     Alfonso’s one eye narrowed slightly but still he did not speak.

     “Unless, that is, the notorious… Juarez can pull off another of his infamous escapes,” added Don Pedro. “I think we’re both rather counting on an appearance from ‘El Bandito’, are we not Alfonso?”

     One-Eyed Alfonso held the Governor’s gaze for a moment longer before his eye flicked briefly to a spot just down the corridor. Turning to follow his glance, I noticed a heavy wooden door set within the floor of the stables. If the captured bandit was harbouring hopes of somehow escaping through this trapdoor, I was afraid he was likely to be disappointed for Don Pedro clearly noticed the glance too and responded with a sly laugh.

     “Come, let us leave our friend to ponder his fate,” Don Pedro eventually declared, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

     To my relief, the stable block did at last represent the final stop on the Governor’s tour. Returning to the house, Don Pedro excused himself, pleading business to attend to, and retired to his study. The Captain of the Provincial Guard also pleaded work and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Michael and I to return alone to the rooms that had been assigned to us where we could rest and get ready for dinner.

     “Bloody hell, what have we got ourselves into?” I complained as we climbed the stairs. “Who on earth thought it would be a good idea to present ourselves as best mates to the Governor?”

     “You did,” retorted Michael sharply. “You were determined to secure us an invitation to avoid having to put up with, and I quote, ‘yet another poky, flea-infested local inn’.”

     “I only said it would be nice to stay somewhere that had a vague conception of plumbing for a change,” I protested.

     “Well, your desperation for a hot bath appears to have landed us at the home of Dick Dastardly. Let that be a lesson to you, Everingham.”

     “Oy, you’re not pinning this one entirely on me,” I objected. “You were more than a little bit keen on comfort yourself, if I remember rightly. You certainly spent enough time moaning about the state of the beds in Verona.”

     “It was just that they were all so short,” complained Michael. “It’s very difficult to get a good night’s sleep with your feet dangling over the edge the whole time.”

     “See what I mean?”

     “Alright,” Michael conceded with a sigh. “I suppose we can at least both now agree that there are worse things than having to rough it for a night it or two.”

     “True. But what are we going to do about this place?”

     “I don’t see that there’s anything much we can do,” replied Michael. “Whatever accommodation we had chosen I suspect we would have had to get the Governor onside sooner or later to make a proper search of Santa Marta. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to tolerate strangers poking around in his territory.”

     “I guess not,” I ruefully conceded.

     “We’ll just have to grit our teeth and get on with it,” advised Michael. “The sooner we find the hidden door, the sooner we can move on.”

     “Well, at least we’ve already covered the Governor’s mansion,” I suggested. “That tour was pretty comprehensive and I’m fairly sure there were no unexplained or unexpected doors lurking anywhere along the way.”

     “Then the next job must be to check over all the outbuildings in the courtyard,” said Michael. “After that we move onto the Plaza and work our way out from there.”

     “Hopefully we can avoid the Governor as much as possible while we’re at it,” I suggested. “I guess we’ll have to show our faces at dinner but as soon as the meal is done, we’ll make our excuses and slip out for a tour of the grounds.”

     “Good idea,” agreed Michael. “You never know, if we get really lucky, we might just find the door in time to skip tomorrow’s hanging.”

To be continued…