The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6)

by David Penny

  “He was always a fool for a pretty face. I was beautiful once.”

  “You are still a handsome woman.”

  But it is not the same as beauty, is it.”

  “Did the first of them come while you lived under this roof?”

  “Two. Zufar claimed it as his right under law. That a man — a man of influence, a man of wealth — was entitled to many wives. But they were never wives. They didn’t love him.”

  “And you did?”

  “Once.”

  “And now?”

  “It is difficult to love a dead man.”

  “Where is your companion? Did she come here with you?”

  “She is getting food for us. The two of us. What those … those things do is up to them.”

  “What happens if you don’t get what you want?”

  “I will. This is my house. His money is mine. Those stupid girls haven’t a brain between them.”

  Thomas smiled. “These all sound like reasons why you would want your husband dead. A woman cast aside without a diram to her name.”

  “A dead husband can’t pay me what he owes,” said Gracia, her voice tight with controlled anger. “I didn’t want him dead. I —” She stopped abruptly, pressing her lips tightly together, and Thomas watched her attempt to regain some measure of control.

  “Did you ever love him?” Thomas leaned forward in mirror of her. “Everything you say is what a guilty woman would proclaim.”

  “I did not have him killed. But nobody would blame me if I did.”

  “Oh, I think the Guild might have something to say on the matter, and they have their own guards who would be only too pleased to take you into custody. Do you know what happens to handsome women in prison?”

  “You would betray me?”

  “If you had him killed it would not be a betrayal, it would be justice.”

  “Then it is fortunate I did not, even after all he did to me, the way he treated me.”

  “Can you prove you didn’t have it done?”

  Gracia laughed, gave a shake of her head. Only a trace of her anger remained. “I can prove I haven’t left Ballix in a year — is that good enough for you?”

  “You would have no need to leave Ballix. All it would require is knowing someone who could do the deed on your behalf. Such men are not in short supply.”

  “And how would I pay such men? You have seen where we live.”

  “And yet here you are, sitting in a fine house you claim belongs to you. When do you go to talk with the Guild? Not with Durdush, I’m sure.”

  “They have those who administer the law, and a divorced woman is entitled to half her husband’s wealth. I have an appointment first thing tomorrow.”

  “Surely a widow is entitled to her husband’s entire wealth if she is still married to him,” Thomas said. “I have little knowledge of the law, but if he did not pay you what you were entitled to does that not make the divorce void? Do you remain his wife, heir to all of this?”

  Gracia’s smile was tiny, sly. “And you claim to know nothing of the law?”

  “It doesn’t help me though, does it?”

  “I did not kill him, I tell you. I did not have him killed. I don’t see how I can prove it to you other than for you to find the man who did.”

  “Will you help me do so?”

  “Me? I would be no help at all.”

  “In that you are wrong. Your husband was not chosen at random. What did he know that might have caused someone to kill him to keep it quiet? Who were his enemies? Men get killed in fights on the street, but this was planned, deliberate.”

  Gracia looked aside, and Thomas saw she didn’t want to continue with the conversation but suspected she was aware if she left now it would only make him more suspicious. He was already convinced she had nothing to do with her husband’s death, but she might have some idea who had struck the blow.

  “If he had secrets, why would I know them? Is that not the nature of a secret?”

  “I have secrets,” Thomas said, “but I am sure my wife can tell you every single one of them, even those I am ashamed of.”

  “And if you had lived apart for years would she know what your secrets were now? No, the same as I know nothing of Zufar’s life anymore. I have my own to lead, with Olivia.”

  “And the girls.”

  “They will be going soon. I have made that clear.”

  “After you discover whether this house belongs to you or them.”

  “He never married any of them so if it’s not mine it belongs to no-one. It will be claimed by the city.” She frowned. “Would the Guild do that to me? Take my house from me?”

  “I don’t believe the Guild is vindictive. If you have a case, make it and they will hear you out. If this house truly does belong to you then they will let you stay.” Thomas stared into Gracia’s eyes, trying to understand what it was she was hiding behind her show of confidence. “Tell me what secrets he had when you lived with him. Were there things he kept from the Guild?”

  “I doubt it. He was a man driven by lust and honour both.” Gracia turned as if to study something in the corner of the room, as if a memory sat there. “He was a boastful man, too. He would make extravagant claims, trying to impress us.” Her gaze returned to Thomas. “He said so many things I made no effort to remember them, but I will try. Perhaps there is something I can recall which will offer a clue for you.”

  “You saw him recently? And you said us — do you mean you and Olivia?”

  Gracia nodded. “Zufar was a man who craved to lie with as many women as he could, even at his age.”

  “So you have left Ballix in the last year. Why did you tell me you hadn’t?”

  “Because I haven’t. He came to us on occasion, always on the pretext of business, claiming he was simply passing by and wanted to know how I fared. He would … bring us a little money, out of guilt I suspect.”

  “And did he talk as well?”

  “Yes. He liked to talk. Perhaps only with us, I don’t know.”

  “But you will try to think of what he said, if there is anything that might be a cause for someone to kill him?”

  Gracia nodded and stood, strode from the room as if glad to finally escape.

  Nineteen

  “Men boast of their prowess all the time,” said Jorge. “Apart from you and I, because we have no need to. Do you think she will remember anything useful or not?”

  They had come to a stall to eat, three low tables placed in what shade there was to be had. The food was good, but Thomas pushed his plate aside, no longer hungry. He waited for Jorge to finish his own food.

  “I think not. She didn’t like me questioning her, and if she does know something she will no doubt keep it to herself or try to use it to her own advantage.”

  “Do you believe her involved in his death?”

  “No. That makes no sense. Dead her life only becomes more difficult. She told me al-Zaki visited them now and again.”

  “Them?”

  “I asked her that too and she said yes.”

  Jorge smiled. “So, apart from knowing he was a man with some stamina, we have no more information than we did. We should question the other masters. Probably it was a falling out over money or some such.”

  Thomas laughed. “Some such, yes. There, you have solved the mystery for me. People kill for many reasons, sometimes for little more than another man looks at them strangely, but —”

  “In that case I’m amazed you’re still alive.”

  “But,” Thomas said, “usually for reasons that make sense. Love. Greed. Fear. Envy. Revenge. Religion. Anger.”

  “And war.”

  “Yes. And war.”

  “And which of these do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. Which is why I want to question the Guild Masters. I have an address in the street of Spice, and as it belongs to a woman, I will let you ask the questions.”

  Thomas stood to one side as Jorge spoke with Narjis al-Ishraq,
Mistress of the Spice Guild. She had admitted them to her offices without question, offered coffee and small, sweet cakes as they sat on cushions around a low scrolled table inlaid with shards of ivory. From beyond the room came the soft buzz of female conversation where her staff worked on sifting and measuring spices from all over the known world. The scent of them filled the air like a rich perfume.

  “I knew Zufar only a little.” She smiled. “It is not likely our paths would cross with regard to trade, and he was not the sort of man who had much to interest me. But I cannot think of any reason why someone would want him dead. Perhaps you need to look into his past. At one time he made weapons for anyone who would pay him, though that was all some time ago.”

  Her gaze flickered toward Thomas, as if she knew he was the one behind the questions but was far too polite to ask. She was a handsome woman in her forties, slim, dressed in fine silks with her hands marked by henna. She kept her hijab across her face at the start, but loosened it as she grew more comfortable in their presence.

  “And you have heard no talk, no rumour of anyone asking questions they shouldn’t? Anyone seeking either al-Zaki or some other master or mistress?”

  “If a stranger came they would go directly to the Guild. It is there that all negotiation takes place. As a mistress I am concerned only with my own business, the same as we all are. The Guild controls what wealth I hold, the wealth everyone holds in common.”

  Her reply sparked something in Thomas’s mind. “So he had no wealth of his own?” he asked.

  “Oh, some of course, we all do. Guild Masters are paid well for their service, and a portion of the entire profit of the Guild is distributed twice a year based on what proportion we contribute. But the bulk or what we make is passed over.”

  “What proportion would al-Zaki make to these funds?”

  “Weapons are in demand, particularly now, so theirs would not be the lowest contribution, but it pales into insignificance against others.”

  “And spice?” Thomas asked.

  “Is much in demand, even by the Spanish these days.” A frown troubled her smooth brow for a moment. “In fact I think one of my girls said a Spaniard had been here only recently asking questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “I didn’t ask. Do you want me to fetch her?”

  “Later. How many people do you employ?”

  “A score, even, all girls — well, I call them girls, but some have sixty years. Each hand-picked for their sense of smell and taste.” She called out, waited until a figure appeared at the open arch. “Fetch two of those sample pouches, and ask Ayesha if she can come here for a moment.” She turned back to Thomas. “A small gift for each of you. You have women who cook for you?” A glance at Jorge. “Or perhaps you cook yourself?”

  Jorge laughed. “Not me. Thomas has been known to, but I have never tasted his cooking and suspect I am fortunate not to have done so.”

  Narjis’s laugh sounded like the sweet cry of an exotic bird. “No. He doesn’t look like a man with time for the finer things of life, unlike yourself.” She spoke to Jorge but fixed her eyes on Thomas. “He is not a Moor, is he, despite how he dresses.”

  Thomas didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted. He dressed for practicality and comfort, with little care how others viewed him. Unlike Jorge, who dressed to impress and even now wove his usual spell. And once again, however hard Thomas studied him, he could see nothing he did that he might not do himself. It was something innate in the man that others responded to. He closed his ears to the conversation as Jorge offered a compliment on the smoothness of Narjis’s skin and the lustre of her hair, but then she said something that made Thomas lean forward.

  “Now I think a little more on it, I did witness something, most likely the man who questioned Ayesha.”

  Jorge too leaned close, his eyes capturing hers and for a moment. Thomas caught the merest glimpse of the magic he could weave as he touched the back of Narjis’s hand with a single finger.

  “A man? A stranger?”

  “A stranger, yes.” Her eyes flickered from Jorge to Thomas, back to Jorge like a moth to a flame. “Like him. Not a Moor nor a Spaniard. But not like him. He dressed like the men of France or Naples. I see them come to conduct trade all the time, but this one was different.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Not me, to Ayesha. He was asking about me, but when he discovered I wasn’t a man he lost interest.”

  “How foolish of him. But if you didn’t talk to him how can you describe him?”

  “I was standing upstairs. I had only recently risen and was in no state to meet with anyone, but there are always girls to conduct trade.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I was up here so did not see his face, but he was tall. Well dressed. Dark hair.”

  “How tall? Taller than Thomas, taller than me?”

  “He was on the street, so it is difficult to say. But …” She thought a moment. “He was looking down on Ayesha, so he was tall, but how tall in comparison to either of you I could not say.”

  “Is there anything else? Did he have a beard? Wear a sword?”

  “He was clean-shaven, I think.”

  “Clothing?”

  “As I said, they were well made but looked old. He wore dark breeches and boots to his ankles, and had a sword on one side, a knife on the other.” She gave a delicate shiver, as much for show as in memory, and Jorge stroked her hand, cupping it inside his, and she smiled. “Your friend reminds me of him a little. Do you think he had anything to do with what happened to Zufar?”

  Thomas spoke before Jorge could. “I cannot tell, not for sure, but it is possible.”

  “Do I need to take care?”

  “Everyone needs to take care.”

  “Then perhaps I should employ a man, someone tall and strong like you.”

  Thomas sat back, trying not to laugh.

  Later, after Jorge had spoken with Ayesha, who had also seen the man, and they were making their way toward the Infirmary, he said, “You did the same thing with both of them.”

  “What thing?”

  “Your thing. They would have thrown themselves to the ground and let you ravish them.”

  Jorge smiled. “Only because they knew I wouldn’t. Apart from which Ayesha wasn’t interested in men, not really. She is like her employer.”

  “How can you tell? They looked more than interested in you.”

  “Which is why you couldn’t tell. You should watch more and talk less.”

  This time Thomas couldn’t suppress his laugh. “Me? Talk less than you? The entire world talks less than you.”

  Jorge walked on, saying nothing, as if to prove a point. They passed the end of the street where the market stalls still remained, the African dancers and musicians close by, and Jorge stopped to watch.

  “So tell me, what did this man say to Ayesha?” Thomas had stood aside while Jorge questioned her, knowing two of them might feel threatening, also knowing Jorge would be able to get far more from her than he ever could.

  “He wanted to know if her mistress ever worked with the Weapons’ Guild. In particular its master, Zufar al-Zaki.”

  “He said that name?”

  “He did. Ayesha paid it no heed. She said it was little more than an excuse to approach them. He kept looking past her, as if more interested in the building and who worked within.”

  “Did she say when this was?”

  “A month ago, perhaps a little more. We should go and ask Narjis for confirmation.”

  “You would like that, wouldn’t you.”

  “There are worse things in the world than talking with a beautiful woman.” Jorge shook his head in wonder. “Ai, look at that dancer. Is she not wondrous?”

  “What else?”

  “She can dance like no-one I have ever seen.”

  “Ayesha,” Thomas said. “What else did she tell you?”

  “He could not speak Arabic and his Spanish w
as poor, so most likely he is of France, as Narjis said. A Sicilian would have Arabic and his Spanish would be better.”

  “And she is sure she can identify him?”

  “You will have to capture him first, but yes.” He glanced at Thomas. “He scared her, she said. He did nothing, made no threat, but she said there was something about him, that he would not hesitate to kill her in a heartbeat. Excuse me, I must, I simply must.”

  Jorge stepped away, his feet transforming from something plain into a vehicle for delight. The dancer he had been watching turned toward him, her arms stretched to either side, and Jorge spun around her, the silk of his robes flashing and swirling iridescent in the late sunlight. The woman laughed, nodded in admiration, and began to match him step for step. She was the more skilled, but Jorge possessed enthusiasm. As Thomas watched he realised he had never seen this side of his friend before and wondered where he had hidden such magic, for Jorge was a skilled dancer. Not as skilled as the woman, because this was her profession, but he matched her movement like for like. The pair of them had eyes only for each other. The musicians gathered close, amused, raising the tempo of their drumming, the fingers of the lyre player a blur. The deep sound of North Africa echoed from the walls of the buildings until it seemed to be the only sound in the world.

  Thomas stood transfixed, all thought of the killer he pursued forgotten. And then, like all moments of wonder, it came to an end. The woman continued to dance, faster and faster, and Jorge stumbled, losing the rhythm.

  She ululated a high cry that turned into a laugh and twirled around Jorge before embracing him and kissing him full on the mouth. Then she pushed him away with disdain, as if unworthy of her talents.

  “You’re a constant surprise to me,” Thomas said.

  “Is that a good or bad thing?” Jorge’s breath came in gasps. “Oh, but I tell you, for a moment there I was transported.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I must dance more often. I will teach Belia, and Lubna too if you wish, then you can dance with her.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”