‘Anyway, he was one of the first wave of overseas recruits, landing in Malaga in the autumn of 1936, and arriving soon after in Ronda. It looks like he was tasked with coordinating a local Republican militia run by a man called Santiago Espe-ranza who had been an active insurgent in the area.’ He shot Marina a wary look. ‘In particular, he was known for his antagonism towards the Mendoza estate.’

Marina frowned. ‘You mean to say my grandfather fought alongside a man who had actively targeted my family?’

Nathan hesitated, then nodded. ‘It’s looking like that, yes.’

Charlotte frowned. ‘So you think my grandmother left because she fell in love with a Republican?’

He gave an uncertain look. ‘Certainly it’s a possibility. It would have been a very volatile, if not outright dangerous thing to do. The political landscape back then was highly charged and inflammatory. The economy was dominated by agriculture, and the landowners – particularly those with estates the size of the Mendozas’ – were autocratic and conservative with a small “c”. They didn’t take kindly to the Second Republic’s radical reforms.’

‘Sorry, but this isn’t a period of history I’m familiar with,’ Charlotte interrupted, hoping he might look at her again. ‘What were their radical reforms?’

His eyes met hers, making her heart double-beat. ‘Giving women the vote, protecting workers’ rights, creation of trade unions . . .’

‘. . . Right.’

He looked back at Marina again. ‘The Mendozas were, predictably, staunchly Nationalist. Felipo Mendoza, your grandmother’s father, had close links with the military. His eldest sons Valentino and Montez briefly fought under General Franco in Morocco. Franco was a personal friend of his.’

‘That’s a mighty ally to have.’

‘Yes. But it still didn’t save him,’ Nathan shrugged apologetically.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Felipo, Valentino and Montez were murdered in the December of ’36.’

‘. . . Murdered – how?’

‘A group of rebels broke into the compound one night and dragged them from their beds. They were bundled up here, to where a crowd was waiting and –’ he nodded his head in the direction of the famous Puente Nuevo along the street – ‘they were thrown to their deaths.’

Marina gasped, sitting back with horrified eyes. The monumental eighteenth-century bridge famously straddled a 120- metre-deep gorge that split the town into two encampments. ‘. . . Was my grandfather involved?’

Nathan hesitated, then nodded. ‘I believe so, yes. It was widely understood to have been carried out by a group he was connected with, called Hijos de la Noche; they specialized in midnight raids.’

Charlotte looked down, stunned. If Marina’s grandmother had fallen in love with the man who murdered her family, it was little wonder she had stayed away all these years. Her betrayal was unforgivable.

‘And there was a crowd waiting? Like it was a spectator sport?’ Marina repeated, aghast. ‘I cannot believe my grandmother would have fallen in love with a man who tossed her father and brothers from that bridge! He was nothing more than an animal!’