The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6)

by David Penny

  “Not treason, but reason. I preach a chance to save at least something from this chaos. We are going to lose, but at least we can try to lose with honour intact.”

  Yusuf shook his head and set off along the track. Thomas glanced at Jorge, saw him watching without expression. Thomas wanted to say something but knew he could not. Rain came again, dashing across his face, and he started off and fell into step beside Yusuf. Ahead he saw the men had disappeared and wondered when that had happened, and where they had gone to.

  “What you say is logical,” said Yusuf. “As everything you say is. But I don’t know if I can embrace such an idea.” He held up a hand as Thomas opened his mouth to speak. “No, you have stated your case, and a strong case it is. I must think on it, tease through the implications and come to my own conclusions.” The tension flowed from his body, and his steps sped up. “Are you sure you will not stay the night?”

  “My thanks, but our families are waiting. You should come with us, for tonight at least. Lubna would be pleased to see you.”

  “And I her. But I cannot.”

  They came to a fork in the trail, and Thomas saw where Yusuf’s men had gone. They were waiting for their master on another track, even narrower as it cut through an almost vertical crevice in the hillside. Rain fell on them, water rose ankle high, but they ignored both.

  “This is where we must part, for now.” Yusuf pulled Thomas into an embrace, holding him for a long time. “I will let you know what I decide.” He hugged Jorge, then joined his men and trudged away through the rain.

  Thirteen

  “You haven’t talked to him yet, have you.” Lubna spoke of Diego, who continued to take any object that sparkled or drew his attention.

  “I will. Can I at least dry myself first and get something to eat?” Thomas let his wet robe drop to the floor where it lay like something dead, bleeding a puddle of water. “Or it might be better if Jorge tried.”

  “He already has, but he is too soft. It will be better coming from you.”

  “Am I not soft then?”

  *

  Diego would not meet Thomas’s eyes as he sat him down, hands clasped together in his lap. He had wanted Will to be with him but Thomas said the conversation was for the two of them only. So far it had not gone well. Not gone well at all.

  Diego claimed he had taken nothing. When Thomas showed him the wooden box filled almost to the brim with trinkets — knives for eating; a packet of salt; three of Belia’s potion bottles, two of which contained enough contents to kill a man — he had started to cry and held his arms out to be embraced.

  Thomas only stared at him, his face grim.

  “It has to stop. If you want something, ask, and most times we will say you can have it. But you have to remember it is not yours. This, for example.” Thomas reached in and pulled out a golden ring. “Do you know who this belongs to?”

  “Yours,” said Diego.

  “That’s right. It is the ring that marks me as husband to Lubna. It means a great deal to me.”

  “You never wear it,” said Diego. “I watch. I see. Lubna wears hers but not you.”

  “It is too big and I fear losing it.”

  “So Diego keep it safe.”

  “It is my ring.” Thomas reached out, took Diego’s right hand in his and spread the fingers. “Do all of these belong to you?” Thomas tapped the rings on each of Diego’s fingers.

  “Mine,” said Diego.

  “Or your parents’?”

  Diego pulled his hand away and wrapped it inside the other.

  “What is theirs is mine.”

  “And your brother? Might he not want a memento of them?”

  “He can ask.”

  Thomas reached for Diego’s other hand but it was pulled away.

  “Do not do that to me,” Thomas said. “You are part of this family now and that has responsibilities as well as benefits.” He held his hand flat. “Give me your hand, Diego.”

  The youth hesitated, and for a moment Thomas thought he had gone too far and Diego would run from the room. He knew it was a critical moment, but was determined not to weaken now, however much he felt sorry for him.

  He waited, staring at Diego, hoping his gaze didn’t carry too much of the coldness he was often accused of possessing and which he did not understand. Eventually Diego unwrapped fingers that were twisted tight together and extended his hand.

  Thomas took the wrist and held it firm when Diego sensed the tightness and tried to withdraw.

  “This one,” Thomas said, tapping a fine garnet set in a twisted silver band. “Where did you get this?”

  “Ma buy it. Diego in market and like. Say I want and she buy.”

  “It is expensive.”

  “Ma tell me never worry about money.”

  “And this?”

  The interrogation continued until Thomas tapped a gold ring set with topaz which had been jammed onto Diego’s thumb, too large for any other finger. As soon as Thomas touched it Diego snatched his hand away.

  “Present, from Pa.”

  Thomas reached out again, waiting, saying nothing.

  Diego stared at his hand, up to Thomas’s face, down to his hand.

  A splash of sunlight fell across them as the clouds parted. It lasted only a moment before fading. From elsewhere in the house conversation reached them as Belia prepared the evening meal and Lubna helped. Now and again Will would call out, and Thomas heard Jorge’s laughter. He did not begrudge Diego’s presence in their extended family, but knew this moment was important. He had to learn what was acceptable and what was not.

  More tears welled in Diego’s eyes, but he was captured beneath Thomas’s gaze. Slowly he unclasped his hands and extended the left one. Thomas gripped the fine ring and tried to pull it loose but it was fixed too firmly.

  “This is not from your father, is it?”

  “He was there. My new Pa. The one I find. He give me the ring.”

  “Is that true? He spoke those words to you?”

  Diego shook his head.

  “Because he couldn’t speak, could he?” Thomas felt a welling of excitement and pushed it away. “He was already dead.”

  “Diego was there. Diego afraid man will come back. I take so he cannot.”

  Thomas stared at Diego. “What man?”

  “One with knife. One who hurt Pa not Pa.” He moved his right hand in cutting motions.

  “You saw it all?”

  Diego nodded. “Close my eyes because I do not want to see. But I look sometimes. Cannot close my ears.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Looking for Pa. He go away and Ma sick. She miss him. So do I. So I went find him.”

  “But you knew he was dead. There was a funeral.”

  “They not let me go. I not believe them when they say. I go look. Know where he works. But there is another man.”

  It occurred to Thomas he hadn’t given enough attention to Diego’s real father.

  “What did he do?”

  “Pa?”

  Thomas nodded. Telling the tale seemed to be relaxing Diego. There was still the matter of his stealing, but for the moment the story he told was more important.

  “Scribe.” Diego made a motion with his hand, as if writing.

  “Who for? Did people come to him and he wrote for them, or did he work somewhere?”

  Diego snuffled, shook his head. “I say already. Diego went to find Pa where he work.”

  “Your father worked in that building?”

  A nod of the head. “Work for other Pa.”

  “Your father was clerk to the dead man?”

  “What is clerk?” said Diego.

  “Someone who scribes words for others. When goods arrive, when ships dock. A record must be kept of everything.”

  “Yes. Clerk. Pa clerk.” A soft smile. “He bring me things from the ships. Small things. Ma too, he bring spice and pretty stones. Pa love us.” Diego stared into space. “Pa loved me.” He twisted his han
ds together, then as if coming to a decision, pulled hard at the ring circling his thumb. His face creased from the effort but slowly the ring worked loose, came off in a rush and flew from his grasp. It skittered across the floor and came to rest in a corner.

  Thomas left it where it was.

  “Not mine,” said Diego. “Diego know not his. But so pretty.”

  “Was it on the man in that room?”

  A shake of the head. “No, no. Other man. Other man lost it.”

  “The man with the knife?”

  “No. Other man have knife. Man telling him to hurt Pa not Pa.”

  Thomas stared at Diego. “There were two men?” He held his fingers up, unsure if Diego understood the concept of numbers or not. Diego reached out and lifted a third finger.

  “Three?”

  “Pa not Pa too,” said Diego. “Big man and small man.” He raised a hand above his head, lowered it to his waist, no doubt both exaggerations. He began to nod, a movement that settled into a steady, odd rhythm, as if it offered comfort. Thomas allowed him the respite for a moment. How must it have been for him to watch the attack? No, not an attack, a murder. Thomas went to the corner and picked up the ring, slipped it into his pocket, not wanting to upset Diego further. With luck he might forget about it altogether. The mind was wondrous in the way it could sweep aside memories it did not want, and Thomas found those with different capabilities like Diego could at times do so more easily than others. They were the lucky ones, choosing to hold on only to the happy memories and expunge the bad. Thomas wished he could acquire the talent but knew it was not in his nature.

  “If you saw the men again would you recognise them?”

  But Diego only continued to nod. His mind had gone to some other place he would be difficult to extract from. Thomas knew he would have to come back to the subject another time so rose and left Diego to his thoughts. Outside he found Will playing with blocks and told him to go and comfort him. The others were in the big room, Lubna and Jorge sitting at a wide table. Belia stirred a pot whose aroma filled the air and brought saliva to Thomas’s mouth. The food in Ballix had been barely edible, and he wanted to sit and eat and talk of other matters. War might be coming, but for tonight it could be locked outside. They had made a good life for themselves here. He wanted to retain it as long as he could.

  He sat, pulled the ring out, and turned it in his fingers.

  “What have you got there?” said Jorge. “Has Diego been teaching you how to pilfer, too?”

  “It’s a ring worn by the killer. He lost it, and Diego found it.” He passed the ring to Jorge, who examined it, pulling a lamp close.

  “It’s valuable, but too gaudy. The property of a man who needs to shout his position to the world. I prefer more subtle adornment.”

  Thomas smiled, wondering why such a sentiment did not apply to Jorge’s choice of clothing. He had changed into a long robe of fine silk after bathing, red and gold, that shimmered and clung to his body. The sleeves were widely cut so they draped onto the table-top like pooled water.

  “There is something inscribed within,” Jorge said, holding the ring out for Thomas to see.

  He took it and peered at fine markings on the inner surface. He couldn’t make out what they said, or even if they said anything at all. They might be no more than scratches acquired over many years. He left the ring on the table and walked through to the room he shared with Lubna, searched through the boxes he kept there until he found what he wanted — a fine lens fashioned in Naples and imported at great expense. With careful use it could magnify an object tenfold.

  Returning to the table he set the eyeglass into the hollow of his right eye. Not scratches, but words. He moved the ring closer then away, farther away again. He reached across and drew the lamp close until it burned his hair and he jerked back.

  Lubna came and leaned on his shoulders, the scent of her enfolding him.

  “Can you read it?”

  “Not quite. It would help if I knew what language it was written in, but without reading it I can’t tell.”

  “Can I see?” She held her hand flat.

  Thomas continued to peer at the fine marks but knew his sight was not keen enough. He laid the ring in Lubna’s palm and handed her the glass. She had used such an instrument before, they were not uncommon among some physicians who wanted to examine a wound or mark more closely.

  Lubna sat beside Thomas and used her hip to push him along the bench until she was closer to the lamp. Thomas gripped her long hair and pulled it back so she didn’t burn it as he had done.

  After a long while, Lubna placed the ring on the table.

  “No, I cannot read it.”

  “Someone else, perhaps. Belia?” Thomas turned, but Belia shook her head.

  “Lubna’s eyes are better than mine.”

  “And I cannot read in any case,” said Jorge.

  “I cannot read it,” said Lubna, “but I can draw it. I can see the marks, I just can’t read them. They are not in Arabic or Spanish or Latin, or I would recognise the words. She bumped against Thomas again and smiled. “Go fetch me paper, slave.”

  Lubna’s face screwed up as she held the glass against her left eye. Her right hand moved slowly across a sheet of paper as she transcribed what she saw. Thomas, Jorge and Belia leaned close, watching as a pattern emerged, but after a while Thomas knew it meant something only to him.

  It took some time, but as the marks were joined together, he made out letters written in French, a language he had not read in many years and was not confident of reading accurately now. He leaned closer, his hand coming to rest on Lubna’s shoulder.

  She shook it off. “I’m not done yet. Wait, can’t you?”

  Thomas withdrew.

  The letters formed and faded in his mind, washed aside as Lubna added fresh marks, and he knew he must find something to distract himself until she was finished. He straightened, easing an ache in his back — too long in the saddle, too long in the rain.

  He found Diego with Will on the terrace, leaning out to watch the last of the setting sun, which painted vermillion glory across distant clouds. They were talking nonsense in a mix of Arabic and Spanish, both understanding each other even if no-one else could.

  Thomas sat on a wide bench and patted his lap. Will ran across and leaped onto him. Diego came more slowly, no doubt still not forgiving him for their conversation, but he sat happily enough and leaned against Thomas. One child on his knee, a second at his side, that is how it felt to him, but not how it would look to anyone outside of the house.

  “What have the pair of you done today?”

  It was Will who replied. “We played with Diego’s dice, then I showed him how to kill a man.”

  Thomas smiled. “Wooden swords, I hope.”

  “Pa! ’Course wood swords. Knives too. But Diego can never kill. He fights bad, and he pulls his blows.” Will stroked Thomas’s arm, drawing the sleeve of his robe up to look at a scar across his forearm. He touched it with a finger, a familiar game, even if he did already know the answer.

  “France,” Thomas said.

  “When you was nearly killed?”

  Thomas wondered if he had told his son too many stories of his past, but he wanted him to be both invulnerable and aware of the dangers of battle. The joys too, perhaps, for the fight held a cold, insidious joy he had indulged in at one time, when he was not so much older than the boy he held against him. Many of those memories brought a cold ecstasy he feared, knowing its siren call. He wondered if that was why he told stories to Will, to scare him, to make the wonder of men fighting men less fascinating.

  “When I was nearly killed,” Thomas said, smiling. “What about you, Diego? Do you like fighting?”

  A shake of the head, a nuzzling at his side, and Thomas lifted an arm to draw Diego against him.

  “That’s good. I often think my son likes it too much.”

  “Morfar says it’s good to fight,” said Will.

  “Yes, Olaf would. But
remember it is his profession, and he has dedicated his life to war. When you grow up, I pray there will be no more war.”

  “Morfar says war good.”

  “Morfar is not always right in everything he says.”

  Will laughed, put a hand over his mouth. “You tell him that?”

  Thomas returned the laugh. “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “It’s done.”

  Thomas turned to see Belia in the doorway. He nodded, kissed the top of Will’s head, gave one more hug to Diego, then extricated himself from their arms and legs and went inside.

  When he leaned over Lubna this time he wasn’t convinced the completed strokes were much better than when he had left. He rested his knuckles on the table as he studied what Lubna had transcribed. He narrowed his eyes to blur the image a little, and as he did so he could read what was written there.

  A mon frere bien amie E.

  To my dear friend and brother. An ornate E ended the short phrase.

  It meant nothing to Thomas, other than the original owner might have been brother to someone whose name began with an E. Was that person the killer, or someone the killer knew? It was just as likely he had stolen the ring. Except not the killer. Thomas tried to recall what Diego has said. Two men, one tall, the other shorter. One with a knife, the other in charge, issuing orders. And … yes, he was sure, Diego had said the ring belonged to the taller man. How had he come to lose such a valuable object?

  Thomas wanted to question Diego again but knew he could not, so instead he told the others what the words said. They looked disappointed, as though they had expected a sudden revelation placed before them.

  Lubna’s arms snaked around his waist, and she leaned her head against his side. “Did it belong to Diego’s father?”

  Thomas shook his head, reached out and picked up the ring, half surprised it didn’t burn with associated guilt. “I believe it belonged to the man who ordered al-Zaki killed. This ring belongs to one of the men we seek. Find him and no doubt we find the other as well.”

  “He is French?” asked Lubna.

  “Perhaps. But in England the nobility speak French more than they do English.”