Domingo Armada series Omnibus

by Jefferson Bonar

  Chapter Fifteen

  The colour drained from Jose’s face, something Armada had been looking forward to all morning.

  “Jose Encinas?”

  “Yes?” Jose said as he stood in the doorway of his house, shifting his weight back and forth.

  It was early enough that the night chill hadn’t yet left the air, and the sun had just begun fading the dark blue of twilight.

  Armada had been sure to leave off his jacket so the green of his sleeves could be seen. He wanted to catch Jose off guard, to intimidate him so he would be too rattled to think clearly and have time to make up a story about the events of the night before.

  “Domingo Armada of the Holy Brotherhood. May we speak?”

  Armada barged his way into the house to find it was quite a lot colder inside. The house was small with few windows and had a smell of damp coming from the back. The cold of the tiles on the floor seeped through Armada’s shoes. His breath puffed from his nostrils, which Armada regulated with long, slow blasts to resemble that of a dragon.

  The effect worked. Jose was frightened, although he tried to hide it. But Jose was no actor. He was quite tall but with a long face with large eyes built for communicating fear. His mouth hung open, and he was always darting his head about when he talked, as if looking for a way out. But Armada wasn’t about to give him one.

  “Where were you last night?” Armada asked.

  “Um…at the…tavern.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t at a small shack down by the beach? One filled with barrels of contraband brandy?”

  Jose sighed and shifted his body back and forth. It was what Armada had hoped to see—resignation.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  Armada found himself feeling bad for Jose Encinas. He was easily manipulated and wouldn’t have had the force of will to resist someone in authority like Martin Figueroa. Jose was being used to do Martin’s dirty work, but did that work extend to killing?

  “Yes,” Jose whispered.

  “There are four barrels missing. What were you doing with them?”

  “Dumping them. Into the sea.”

  It explained the lack of a pirate ship last night, which meant the soldiers had been telling the truth.

  “Dumping them? Why? Brandy can be quite expensive.”

  “Martin said I should. So no one in town would be tempted by them.”

  “Does no one else in the pueblo know about the shack?”

  “No! We made sure. Please…please don’t tell Martin.”

  “Where did those barrels come from?”

  Jose kept his head low, avoiding Armada’s gaze. “I don’t know. Smugglers probably.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “They just…showed up there one day. I don’t know. The shed has always been empty. My father was the fisherman, not me. I can’t catch fish. I can farm, though…wheat mostly…but sometimes onions…if…if the weather’s good.”

  Jose was stalling, perhaps formulating an answer in his head. Which suggested he was lying about something. But what?

  “How long have those barrels been in there, then?”

  “I don’t know. A year maybe…”

  “And you’re saying some unknown smugglers just put them in there, not knowing who the shed belonged to?”

  “I told you, I don’t fish. I never use it.”

  If anything of what Jose was saying was true, then the raid didn’t make sense. If the barrels belonged to the pirates, they would have been taken during the raid. If they didn’t, then perhaps the brandy was what had attracted the pirates to La Herradura. But it didn’t answer the question of why come in under the nose of the watchtower. The brandy was worth a lot but not enough to risk a landing in a town with an army garrison. Plus, loading those barrels would have taken time, which wasn’t something the pirates had during the raid.

  “So why did you try to kill my page last night on the ridge above town?”

  Jose’s head shot up to meet Armada’s gaze, his eyes ever wider. “That was your…page?”

  “Yes, and I’m quite upset about it if I’m honest.”

  Jose held his hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry. Please forgive me…please. I didn’t know…”

  Jose sank to his knees and buried his head into Armada’s stomach. “I didn’t want to kill him. I swear I didn’t!”

  “You shot at him with a harquebus.”

  “I was just trying to scare him, that’s all. That’s all.”

  “Get up!” Armada barked and dragged Jose back to his feet.

  Tears had appeared in the man’s eyes, and Armada was losing his patience. What sympathy he’d had for this man was draining away. It was obvious he’d been exploited and felt guilty for it.

  “Why were you trying to frighten him? Why not speak to him?”

  “I thought…I thought he might have been one of the pirates. You know…maybe they came back to get their brandy. It’s the raid. Everyone’s nervous because of the raid. Especially at night. I didn’t know who he was.”

  “Have any of these pirates attempted to contact you? Ever?”

  Jose took a while to answer. He stared at the ground again, avoiding Armada’s gaze. “No.”

  “What about Martin Figueroa? Has he had any contact with them?”

  “No! Never. I swear, never.”

  “What about Esteban Marañón? Did you know him? Was he involved in this somehow?”

  “No…no,” Jose whispered. It was hard to tell if that was his answer to Armada’s question or if he believed his life was about to end.

  Armada decided he needed to change his tactic. Despite the pressure, Jose still seemed reluctant to give up his secrets. This man must respond to manipulation, not force. It was how Martin Figueroa must have done it.

  Armada found a chair in the corner of the room and sat, bringing his eyes level to Jose’s.

  “Tell me, Jose,” Armada said, relaxing his tone. “How do you feel about Martin? Would you call him a true friend?”

  Jose seemed confused by the sudden shift in tone and looked back at Armada with blinking eyes. “Um…no. Not really.”

  “You seemed friendly last night. Is he not someone you could rely on? Someone you would invite round to your house for a Sunday meal? Or go hunting with?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just the alcalde. He’s a good man. I’ve known him a long time. I…I always wanted him to come hunting with me. He’s a good shot. He caught the largest wild boar in these hills anyone has ever seen.”

  “But he’s not a true friend,” Armada said.

  Jose shook his head.

  “How about your wife?”

  “She’s not his friend either,” Jose was quick to say.

  “I mean to you,” Armada said. “Do you love her?”

  Jose stared at him.

  “There are those who are married but do not love their spouses. Many marry because of unexpected children or for a sizable dowry or for land. There are those who tolerate their spouse without feeling anything for them. I’m asking if your marriage to your wife is genuine.”

  “I…I love her. I always have.”

  Armada could see that. There was affection there. And real fear. Jose made it clear he had no desire to discuss his wife any more than necessary. He didn’t want her involved, as Armada suspected.

  “Where is your wife now, Señor Encinas?”

  “Staying with her sister. She isn’t…speaking…to me.”

  “If you love your wife, then why would you risk your relationship with her to do a favour for a man who you say is not a true friend?”

  Armada rose now, regaining his looming presence over Jose.

  “You let your wife believe that you were seeing another woman, that you were violating the sanctity of your marriage, and that you were doing so frequently as well. You told her you were seeing a gypsy woman who was squatting in your shed. You humiliated her in front of the
entire pueblo. And for what?”

  Jose was crying now. “Martin…Martin said…it was better if no one knew…”

  “You said Martin was a good man. And this good man asked you to risk your marriage to dump those barrels for him. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes…yes,” Jose said between sobs.

  “You are lying, Señor Encinas. A good man would never do that. What else are you lying to me about?”

  “Nothing…please…”

  “Tell me the truth, Jose. Why were you dumping those barrels the other night? Why ruin your marriage over them?”

  For a moment, Jose sobbed so loudly Armada worried the entire pueblo would hear. But Jose soon composed himself, keeping his eyes locked on the ground as conviction spread across his face.

  “Martin said…”

  Armada stood there in silence, waiting for more, but Jose said nothing. The silence soon became deafening.

  Armada knew there was no point in pushing any further. He had pushed Jose to his breaking point.

  “Thank you, Señor Encinas.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Armada returned to the army camp with a vague sense that he was missing something. It was in Jose’s eyes. There was a feeling there that wasn’t quite right. But the instinct was too vague to be of any use at the moment, which was trying. Armada brought his thoughts back to the real world to find he was starving. Not useful to the case, but at least it was an instinct he could identify.

  He arrived at the camp to find Lucas huddled in their shelter, staring at the horizon. None of his chores for that day had been done, which Armada was tempted to be annoyed about. He had been looking forward to a hot meal.

  But it was unusual for Lucas not to have done anything. How long had he been sitting there?

  “Lucas…” Armada said.

  “Yes, sir…oh!” Lucas snapped out of his thoughts. “Sorry, sir.”

  Lucas scrambled to his feet. “I was supposed to cook lunch.”

  “It’s all right. Forget about that. What were you thinking of just now?”

  There was a hesitation. “Nothing, sir. Just daydreaming.”

  “You told me you were all right after last night’s adventure,” Armada said. “I wouldn’t blame you for needing a few days’ rest.”

  “I’m fine, sir. Thank you.”

  Armada knew that was a lie. But he had no idea how to get the boy to talk about it. The conversation would devolve into a flurry of “yes, sir” and “no, sir,” and he wouldn’t get anywhere. It was the boy’s way of resisting him, and he hadn’t yet found a way through it. So he had to let it go for now.

  “Just a bit of bread and olives, please, Lucas.”

  Lucas gathered together a lunch from their provisions, and soon they were eating in the inadequate shade given off by a young oleander bush growing in the corner of the camp.

  “So you think there is something wrong with what he told you about the barrels?” Lucas asked.

  “It’s the timing of it. If what Jose says is true, those barrels had been in that shed for a year. So why the sudden urgency to get rid of them now? What’s changed?”

  “Maybe they just didn’t want you to know about them, sir.”

  “Why not? Finding someone else’s lost contraband isn’t a crime. No, it’s too much of a coincidence that Martin is having Jose dump those barrels now just after Esteban Marañón was killed. There has to be a connection. Besides, there was something else that was unsettling this morning…”

  Now that Armada had put words to that vague instinct he’d had it somehow made it clearer.

  “Jose was afraid. More than he should have been. I understand everyone is a bit nervous when a brother of the Order arrives. But this was something else. Jose was desperate enough to sacrifice his marriage, as if his very life were in danger. And I couldn’t pinpoint where that desperation was coming from.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Armada caught something moving inside his biscuit, and he put it down. He rose and walked out from under the oleander to gaze upon the whole of the southern horizon. It was a clear, sunny day, and the Mediterranean Sea was a brilliant shade of dark blue. The waves were calm, with a slight breeze blowing past Armada’s cheeks.

  “There is another question—how did those barrels get there in the first place?” Armada said, more to himself.

  “They could not have just anchored in front of the watchtower, spent hours unloading them via longboats, and then sailed off again without being seen. Someone must have seen something. And why not come back for them? Thirty barrels of nontaxed brandy. It’s pure profit. Nobody would just unload them and forget about them. Not a shipment that large.”

  “Maybe it was those pirates, sir,” Lucas said. “They could have shown up that night to pick it up and decided to raid the town instead.”

  “Picking up their contraband would have been far more profitable. No, it seems much more likely that they came looking for that brandy and never found it. And they came on a night when Esteban Marañón fell asleep, which seems convenient...”

  “You don’t think he was really asleep, sir?” Lucas asked.

  It was a question Armada had been trying to avoid. He wanted to believe Esteban was a good person. It was a habit of his with every case. It gave his job more purpose somehow when the victim didn’t deserve their fate. The countryside was full of innocent people who just wanted to live their lives. Yes, they had disagreements with each other, but they never turned to murder to sort them out. It was for them Armada had taken this job, to give them a voice, to protect them, and to give their families some sense that justice would be done.

  It was inevitable that he sometimes looked into cases where the victim was a criminal themselves. For those, he had to tell himself it was about stopping the perpetrator rather than honouring the victim. But it was a lie and did little to keep the feeling at bay that he was wasting his time. He’d promised himself long ago that he would not judge those he encountered in his investigations, a promise he had broken many times.

  “Perhaps Esteban was asleep. We may never know for sure, Lucas. But what we can know is his state of mind on the night of the raid just before he went into the watchtower. It may provide some insight.”

  “Can we, sir?”

  “Oh yes. All we have to do is ask the mother of his child.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lucas waited until Armada was out of sight of the camp before putting their dishes down. The washing could wait. He wanted to keep his mind on the case. It seemed to help somewhat relieve the weight of fear that felt like a massive boulder crushing down on his thoughts. Everything seemed to remind him of last night, clutching the hillside, and then to being in that bedroom when he was eleven. The memories were so vivid it was like he was back there again, and they crushed every other thought out of his head. Lucas wondered if he had injured his mind somehow and would spend the rest of his life trying not to go mad.

  The darkness in his head had spread to his body that morning. Armada had found him sitting in the shelter because Lucas was finding it hard to breathe. Whenever he tried to do his chores, it was as though someone were standing on his chest and he was about to pass out. Lucas gave up after a while and sat, but it left his mind free to contemplate the night before, which made it worse until he felt like weeping.

  But talking to Armada about the details of the case had helped in a way nothing else did. He found if he focused his thoughts on how the killer got out of the watchtower, his fears subsided.

  He had to focus on the case and not let his mind wander. That was the answer.

  With renewed zeal, Lucas approached the watchtower and looked over every bit of it he could see from the ground. Salinas was on duty at the moment and had pulled up the ladder. But he had left the door to the entrance open in order to maintain a view to the east. It also served to let in the fresh ocean air, for Pedro had told him it was quite damp and musty inside thanks to the thick stone walls.

&nbs
p; The only unusual feature was a small stone parapet built just above the entrance where barrels of hot oil could be placed to discourage enemy soldiers from climbing up the ladder to invade. Given no one could remember the tower ever being attacked or besieged, this medieval defence tactic had never been used.

  The rest of the tower was a pile of smooth stone and mortar, built in a cylindrical shape so it couldn’t be scaled by anyone without wood or rope assistance. At the very top, Lucas could just make out the ramparts that faced out to sea. Pedro had said there was a cannon up there, but the barrel had cracked years ago, and it would never fire again. But there were still some old cannonballs amongst their other provisions.

  Lucas walked round to the other side, where the only other feature was a small observation port to allow the inhabitants to see the western shoreline. Far in the distance, one could just make out the hazy outlines of the next watchtower along the coast in a place marked on the map as Ponte Torres. All the watchtowers were built so they could see each other’s signal fires so warnings could be spread across the whole of the Andalusian coastline should the Moors decide to send a sizable fleet to retake their old kingdom.

  At least, Pedro had said, that was the thinking. In reality the towers were enshrouded in fog, and large fires were difficult to maintain on the rooftops because of the wind. So it was unlikely the system of towers could ever work as intended.

  Despite how little detail there was to see from the ground, Lucas got excited. It was possible. But he needed proof.

  “Señor Sanchez…Señor Sanchez,” Lucas whispered as he shook Pedro’s shoulder.

  Pedro opened his eyes. “Lucas? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to you about the tower. I need more information.”

  “What? Now? I was on duty last night. I need to sleep…”

  Pedro rolled over to go back to sleep, his eyes squinting in the harsh daylight pouring in through the open door of his shelter.

  “I think I know a couple of ways how the killer might have gotten out of the tower. But I need to know some things to see if they are true.”