Lucas had always wondered if it was because of Marcello Riselo. He was an Italian philosopher and poet who had written an obscure book about the novel idea of applying scientific methods and principles to investigating crimes. Armada had a copy with him when he came to investigate the murder of Lucas’ parents, and one night Lucas had found it amongst the old man’s things. Lucas snuck the book to his room and spent the next few days reading it cover to cover, his young mind wrestling over ideas he barely understood, and foolishly believing it to be a practical guide to how Armada was approaching his inquiries.
Armada had caught Lucas reading the book one night and threw it across the room, saying the ideas it contained were nonsense and merely a passing fad. Murderers were people, and therefore finding a killer meant getting inside his head, he’d said. You had to learn how to read people, not books. The notion of using mathematics and theoretical reasoning to find killers was as silly as trying to use a cannonball to milk a cow. That night, the old man had burned the book and considered the matter dropped.
It was a few weeks later when Armada had to admit to Lucas that he’d failed to find his parents’ killer. Ever since, Lucas couldn’t help but wonder if Riselo’s approach would have worked better. But Armada was adamant —he would always consider Riselo to be a charlatan.
Yet Lucas never forgot what he’d read in Riselo’s book and over the years had begun to subtly put some of the ideas into practice. A big idea Riselo had stressed was observation, taking note of the myriad of details that existed in the physical world beyond suspects and witnesses. Any one of them could contain a clue, which dovetailed into the idea of “deduction” — the process of figuring out which of these details were important and which weren’t. The more details one had observed, the better the method worked, so Lucas had decided long ago to learn to be an expert observer. As his powers grew, Lucas’ observations began to play a bigger role in the cases Armada was working on—once he even proved a suspect’s alibi to be wrong. Yet no amount of proof was ever good enough for Armada, who once told Lucas not to spend so much time looking at the “useless little bits and pieces of life.”
The thought of it made Lucas angry, although he never showed it. For months Armada had searched for the killer of Lucas’ parents, yet had come up empty-handed. Meanwhile a distraught Lucas had been passed around, staying with relatives and always for a short time, constantly feeling like a burden on families who could barely afford to feed themselves, and being increasingly isolated by their pity for his situation. It was awful, and perhaps could have been avoided if Armada hadn’t been so stubborn.
Increasingly these days Lucas felt the desire to try things his own way. Today, it meant going down to the empty field and seeing if he could find any kind of clue that would not only help the case, but prove his approach was right. Because Lucas had always sworn to himself that someday he would return to his home village and solve the case that Armada never could.
Lucas started down the road. His heart raced with panic on the first few steps, but the further on he went, the more he relaxed. He had committed to this decision. There was no going back now. He might as well focus on the work ahead.
Lucas crossed the delta as the day got warmer. The air was a heady mixture of smoke and cool sea air, as billows of black sullied the otherwise clear blue sky above him. Having studied the landscape from the top of the road, Lucas had a good idea of which direction to head in and gingerly navigated through the overgrown wagon tracks and tiny walking trails that sliced their way through the dense forests of uncut cane.
He soon came to the edge of a field that had been mostly harvested. Instead of the usual thicket of cane stalks, there was only open land and a thick carpet of cane leaves that crunched under his feet as they dried in the sun. These leaves would soon break down, fertilizing the soil below which was covered in countless lumps of roots that would have grown new cane stalks by this time next year.
He could see in the distance where Jose and his crew were working to finish up the harvest. They had begun that day in the north and were working their way south, meaning the site of the murder was probably left intact for now. If Lucas could get there fast enough, and without being seen, he would hopefully be able to see it before any usable clues burned away in the fire that was on its way.
Staying out of sight, Lucas made his way along the southern boundary of Jose’s field along a narrow trail overgrown with weeds on both sides. To his right lay Jose’s neighbour to the south, the last field before the sand of the shoreline just beyond. It had been left to grow fallow long ago and was covered in massive tufts of spikey, dark-green weeds, a few clumps of wild cane, and various purple, orange, and turquoise-coloured thorny weeds, many of which were coated in layers of abandoned spider webs that glistened in the sun.
Lucas reached the uncut cane in Jose’s field and made his way in. From the description he’d read in the letter, the site of Amparo Rodriquez’ murder was somewhere near where Miguel had been working, which was the south side of the fireline. The fireline had been easy to establish, as the fire had been doused just after the murder occurred. Pushing his way through the cane in concentric circles, it wasn’t long before Lucas came upon a strange clearing.
It was a few strides wide and the ground was covered in cane stalks that had been broken but not yet cut, all of which were now leaned over in one direction, as if something had fallen against them.
Those in the middle had a peculiar brown stain in the middle of them, which was oval-shaped and about the size of someone’s head.
It was blood.
Lucas felt a tingle shoot through his body. He had found it! The exact spot where Amparo Rodriguez had been murdered, looking just the same as it had that fateful day when he died.
Lucas did a quick search of the local area, peering through the stalks that covered the ground but found little of interest. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but figured no one does. It was all a matter of luck, really.
Nearly an hour later, he got lucky. A small thicket of cane, just past the edge of the clearing, was pushed over, just wide enough for a man to shove his way through. And beyond that, another bit. And another bit. Someone had pushed his way through this cane to reach the clearing, possibly Amparo, or possibly the killer.
Lucas felt he was getting close to something, although he wasn’t sure what. Whomever came through here, he knew, was trying to stay out of sight. For it would have been much easier to reach the clearing by going around the fireline, or down to the trail along the edge of the field first. Instead, someone had ploughed his way through the middle, the one place in the field a person could move about without being seen.
But who? Would it be possible to ascertain this by following the trail?
Lucas was already following it, keeping his eyes on the ground, always looking for that next little clump of pushed-over stalks. Step after step, they were quite easy to follow and seemed to be heading north. It would make sense that this was how Amparo had reached the clearing, but why had he wanted to not be seen? Was he hiding from Jose?
He pushed further and further north, excitement driving him all the way. And that’s when he saw it —one of the stalks ahead. It too was stained brown. And just beyond that, more brown staining. More blood.
Was it possible? Could Amparo have been stabbed where he was working, and then dragged along this trail toward the clearing? It meant he wasn’t killed where everyone said he was.
Lucas’ mind raced with possibilities.
Then panic.
A wave of warmth swept over Lucas’ cheek. He was suddenly surrounded by noise, a violent crackling, spitting and popping, which brought with it more waves of searing hot heat.
Lucas could hear talking a short distance away. No shouting, just casual conversation.
It was Jose’s crew. The one tending the fire. Lucas had wandered too far north and was now in the path of the fireline.
Knowing how fast fire burned through d
ried cane, Lucas knew his life was in danger. He turned to run away. He had to get south. But the only way through was the way he came, and his progress here had been slow. Certainly much slower than a fire could burn.
With little choice, Lucas launched his body toward the path he’d followed, struggling for places to plant his feet on the root-entangled ground, knowing that a shoe becoming wedged at the base of the cane roots could mean his life.
The fire had caught up with him and he could feel it burning his hair and warming his clothes. The flames were now on either side of him as he raced back toward the clearing. There was shouting from the other side of the fireline. He’d been spotted. Someone on Jose’s crew shouted at him to run toward him. Lucas knew it would mean being singed for a moment as he dashed through the flames, but he would probably survive it. Yet it would quickly become obvious who he was and why he was there. And he would be alone in the middle of a field with a group of men who might want to keep what he’d learned a secret.
Lucas pushed on, panicking as the flames shot past him and began to encircle the cane in front of him. The heat was becoming unbearable, the air full of smoke, and he struggled to breathe. For a few moments, Lucas realised he might not make it. The fire was too fast, the heat too much. He was getting dizzy, at risk of passing out. If that happened, there would be little the other men could do.
Then suddenly, he felt a cool blast of air on his face as he popped out of the edge of the cane field, the fire turning the tips of the cane above his head black and spewing ash into the wind. Lucas stumbled on to the narrow lane and nearly fell over. But he had to stay on his feet. He wasn’t out of danger yet. He had to get away before the men saw him.
Lucas dashed straight into the middle of the fallow field, hearing the men shout behind him. He couldn’t tell if they were angry, or just concerned for his well-being. He also didn’t know if they were chasing him. There was no time to find out. Lucas had to keep running.
Suddenly his foot became stuck in some mud and he toppled over, his left hand planting itself in the middle of a prickly weed, his palm exploding with pain. Lucas wrenched his foot free and without bothering to look behind him, scrambled back to his feet and raced across to the beach.
It wasn’t until he was on the far side of Salobreña that he finally stopped to catch his breath. He saw the men had given up the chase long ago and for the moment, he was out of danger.
A sense of triumph coursed through Lucas’ veins as he plucked the tiny, silver thorns from the palm of his right hand. He’d done it! He had proven his approach was right and found a clue that might help. But to tell Armada meant also admitting what he’d done today, a dilemma he hadn’t considered in his zeal to prove himself.
Now the question was—just how “useless” was what he’d learned?
Chapter Ten
All morning Armada had been wondering how much of what Madalena Rodriguez had told him was true. He pictured her saying the same words, yet in completely different ways. What if she’d been sobbing when she’d told him how much she didn’t know about her husband of twelve years? Or spitting with anger? Would he have believed her more then? The meanings of words could be so fluid—one had to look behind them, to the feelings that motivated them.
But Madalena had proven herself quite skilled at hiding her feelings. Her words had been carefully chosen, and she made sure to keep calm and in control. Hardly the behaviour of a mourning widow, which in Armada’s experience was exactly the opposite. Was she perhaps masking her pain from him for some specific reason? Was it there, below that calm exterior, only coming out in the dead of night when she was finally alone? Or was something else there, perhaps?
And did any of this make her a suspect?
Armada would have to look closer on his next visit. He was crossing through El Brocal on one of Salobreña’s larger thoroughfares, a clue that it was built sometime after the village was taken back from the Moors by Queen Isabel’s armies. The Moors tended to build their villages with extremely narrow, windy alleys crowded over by houses. Here, the houses were larger and set back from the road a bit more, with some even sporting second stories and roof terraces, as well as white plaster on the outside walls. Everywhere were wooden doors, and wooden window shutters, and other touches that made it clear the status of the people who lived here. These were not the houses of common labourers, but the homes of town councilmembers, business owners, landowners, and what Armada had come for—lawyers.
It didn’t take Armada long to find the house he was looking for. It overlooked the main road, its front door left open so he could hear the conversation going on in the small office just inside. A tiny painted sign hung by the door announced that this was the office of Gil Perez, solicitor. Inside Armada could see most of the office taken up by a large oak desk with a chair on either side sporting bits of paper, empty inkwells, and a candleholder covered in melted candlewax. It was the desk of a man who usually stayed up through the night, working by candlelight to write up or review contracts of all sorts, and getting paid quite well in the process.
On one side of the desk sat Gil Perez himself, who was standing and leaning over the desk to point out various aspects of a new contract he had just written up to the man in front of him, the man Armada had come to see.
Jose Padilla nodded along to Gil’s explanations of what appeared to Armada to be a seller’s contract for Jose’s crop of sugar cane this year, with the myriad of clauses and protections that most solicitors liked to include, if only to increase the price of their services, which of course were always paid by the word.
Armada remained outside until the men finished their business, shook hands, and Jose came walking back outside.
“Jose Padilla?” Armada said.
This startled Jose. His head whipped around and his eyes met Armada’s gaze with a wary glare.
“Domingo Armada, constable of the Holy Brotherhood,” Armada said, walking toward Jose and extending his hand. “I wanted to talk with you about Amparo Rodriguez.”
For a moment, Armada saw fear flash through Jose’s eyes. But this was quickly hidden and replaced by a warm smile.
“I heard you were in town,” Jose said. “You’re all anyone’s talking about in the tavern these days.”
Jose shook Armada’s hand and the two began wandering back down the large thoroughfare toward the church bell tower.
“How is business?” Armada asked. “Will you get a good price for your crop this year?”
Jose glanced at Armada, amused. “I think so.”
“That’s good. I’ve been hearing rumours that the summer was dry this year. Some are even saying drought.”
Jose seemed to find Armada’s attempts at talking about farming entertaining. Armada knew the state of his hands gave away the fact that farming had never been in his background. Jose would have noticed it the moment they shook hands. Although Armada’s hands were wrinkled with age, his fingertips were smooth, with none of the heavy callouses and scarring that comes from a life spent toiling in a field. His were considered the hands of a letrado, a man of letters who had spent his youth studying at university. If people had known what Armada had done with those smooth hands of his, it would probably change their mind.
But as it was, Jose plainly had little respect for him.
“Some farmers like to complain,” Jose said. “They blame their bad crops on the weather, the soil, or sometimes even black magic. But it’s actually because they are lazy, and not willing to do the work it takes to cope with drought.”
“Would you call Amparo Rodriguez lazy?”
“Amparo?” Jose said with a laugh. “He was the laziest man I’ve ever known.”
“Yet you employed him. For many years.”
“You can get any man to work with the right kind of encouragement. Something I learned in the army. Amparo and I both grew up here in Salobreña. I knew the man well. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what kind of encouragement he needed.”
“Whi
ch was?”
“A man like Amparo is always looking for a shortcut to wealth. I just had to convince him the work he was doing for me would make him rich and soon he’d never have to work again.”
Armada found it difficult to see what a man like Jose saw in Amparo as a friend. The two had such different values and work ethics. He wished he could have seen the two in a room together, watching how they interacted. It would help to clear up the nature of their friendship.
“What can you tell me about his relationship with his wife Madalena?” Armada asked. “How well do you know her?”
“Nobody really knows her. Madalena is a bit strange. She mostly seems to keep to herself. Doesn’t talk much at the lavadero, according to my Esme. And I don’t see her much at the village fiestas, or the Romería. Just church on Sundays and the occasional Easter procession. That’s all.”
“Did she and Amparo argue much?” Armada asked.
“Not that I ever saw. Strange, isn’t it? Every couple argues. Even Esme and I have our moments. But those two…they shared a house and struggled with money like everyone else. But never had a disagreement as far as I can tell. Not one. Their marriage seemed more like an arrangement to me, yet what Madalena got out of it is anybody’s guess.”
Armada agreed. Amparo’s marriage to Madalena was seeming more and more unusual. But there was something else he sensed in Jose’s answer—an interest in Amparo’s character. It was surprising. Jose worked hard to come across as a gruff farmer, seemingly interested only in his own affairs. Yet his observations of Amparo’s life were more acute than Armada expected. He was a man who observed his workers closely, who could read people on a deeper level. It was probably what made him a good jefe.
But it also meant Jose Padilla probably had more answers about Amparo and Miguel and what happened that day than he was giving.
“What about enemies? Do you know of anyone besides Miguel that would have wanted to kill Amparo?”
Domingo Armada series Omnibus Page 6
