The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set

by Jefferson Bonar

  Armada put down his empty glass and picked up his coat.

  “Sir,” Lucas said, catching Armada at the door. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Armada stared at the ground and sighed.

  “Of course not,” Armada said. “I feel ill from all the ale last night. My elbow is throbbing, which I can only assume was an injury sustained after being tossed from the tavern, an event for which I have no memory. I am embarrassed at the fool I made of myself and deeply regret having let you come along to see it all. I am, however, thankful you saved the shirt.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “It’s the only one I have left.”

  Lucas nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Armada then disappeared out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A short while later, Armada stood in front of the door to the Padilla home, ready for anything. On the other side was Jose Padilla’s wife Esmerelda, whose family Armada had just torn to shreds. In a small pueblo like this, rumours of Jose’s guilt could taint all of their lives for generations, no matter how the case turned out. Her children would be grappling with them, and possibly their children.

  And it was all because of Armada, who was now about to march back into the family home and ask more questions. It wouldn’t matter to Esmerelda; the damage had already been done. What possible reason would she have for cooperating with him now?

  But he had to try. If there was any possibility that Jose was innocent, then he needed answers, and Esmerelda just might have them. There was no other way.

  Armada took a deep breath and prepared to duck. It wasn’t unusual for a distraught widow to pick up the closest thing to her and fling it at his head in a moment of despair. It was fine if it was a wooden spoon, but not so fine if it was a carving knife. They rarely were out to kill, it was just an expression of grief. But one had to be ready.

  “Esmerelda Padilla? This is Domingo Armada.”

  “Come in!” came a bright, cheery voice from within. It hadn’t been what Armada expected and he wondered if it was a trick. Would there be a harquebus barrel waiting for him on the other side? Or had he perhaps gone to the wrong door?

  Armada checked the door. It was definitely the right house. So cautiously, Armada pushed the unlocked door open and peered inside.

  He could see Esmerelda Padilla inside in the back, sitting at a table with her two children. It was dinner time, and both children were tucking into wooden bowls filled with a steaming broth, with stains of broth on the sides of their mouth. The youngest girl grinned at Armada, showing how the broth had also stained her teeth and a bit had dribbled down the front of her dress. But Armada kept his eyes firmly on Esmerelda, waiting to see how she would react to his presence.

  “Señor Armada, please come in,” she said without malice. Esmerelda went back to negotiating a truce between her children, then stood to greet Armada as he entered. She was wearing a very modest grey dress with a white apron, a large white neckerchief tucked into the high collar of her dress, and her hair entirely covered in a veil tied behind her. None of these were items one typically wore during times of mourning, or great family upheaval. These were the clothes a woman would wear when nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.

  Armada walked in and gave the two gawking children a smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt your meal.”

  Armada kissed Esmerelda lightly on both cheeks as was the custom.

  “It’s no bother, really. We were just having a bit of lunch. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve already eaten.” Armada watched Esmerelda closely. Her body wasn’t tense, her tone was calm, and she seemed to have little trouble making eye contact with him. It was as if the events of the past two days had never occurred.

  “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by unannounced.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  There was no hint of darkness in Esmerelda’s expression. No seething anger underneath the sunny expression.

  “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your husband. If it’s not too difficult.”

  “Of course. Oh Isabel, please stop making such a mess.”

  Esmerelda tried to soak up a bit of the dribbled stew on Isabel’s dress as Isabel stared back at the stranger that had entered the room.

  “You don’t have to worry, Constable,” Esmerelda said, sensing Armada’s uneasiness. “I’m kind of glad you did what you did. It made me realise that perhaps I don’t know my husband as well as I thought.”

  “How so?” Armada asked.

  “Well, what if he did do what you say? I have my children’s safety to think about. So I’ve told Jose not to come around until this whole mess is sorted out. That goes for his family as well. You never know. I pride myself on being a very sensible woman. A mother has to be practical about such things. Isabel, please, stop messing about with your olives and eat them.”

  Armada was confused. This woman seemed to not blame him in the slightest for arresting Jose. She had just gotten on with the business of living her life.

  “Of course,” Armada mumbled. He was a bit flustered, for Esmerelda had the one reaction he hadn’t been prepared for—acceptance. Normally he would have left a grieving widow alone during a difficult time such as this, but he was sensing he was fast running out of time.

  “I did have a few questions that you might be able to answer for me. Do you mind?”

  “I’m happy to help.”

  Esmerelda smiled at Armada, then proceeded to wipe the spilled olive juice from the off the front of Isabel’s dress while Isabel continued staring up at Armada with awe, her mouth open.

  “Did your husband behave strangely at all in the days leading up to the murder? Did he seem particularly worrisome? Or prone to anger?”

  “Not that I can remember. He seemed normal.”

  “Did he ever mention anything to you about something he was worried about? Money, perhaps?”

  “Well, we struggle with money like any family. But nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “What about his relationship with Amparo Rodriguez? How did that seem to you?”

  “As contentious as ever, I suppose.”

  “Contentious?”

  “Jose and Amparo, they weren’t what I would call friends. Jose has known Amparo since they were children. Amparo used to follow him around everywhere, like they were brothers. Then after his father killed himself, that’s when Amparo turned sour, started bullying people, and Jose just stopped associating himself with him. Amparo was so unpleasant, nobody wanted to be around him.”

  Turned sour. Those words rang in Armada’s ears. Amparo had changed. He hadn’t always been the man everyone knew. What was the turning point, Armada wondered?

  “What was Amparo’s relationship with his father? Do you remember?”

  “They were very close, up until those last few weeks. That’s when they started fighting down at the tavern constantly, until they couldn’t be in the same room together.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe around the time that horrible Pablo Ortega started talking all that nonsense about moriscos returning to the country and getting their revenge for being expelled fifty years ago. Suddenly everything that went wrong in the pueblo was a big Muslim conspiracy. Well, I didn’t see anything of the sort, but Ortega managed to get people so wound up he ran that poor woman and her little girl out of town. It was a shameful time, I can tell you. Oh, Isabel, don’t do that. You’re making a mess!”

  Isabel was now digging her spoon into her soup and laughing while shaking it over her head, getting bits of soup in her hair that Esmerelda was now trying to wipe away with a wet rag.

  “Teodoro, please help your sister with her soup, will you? She’s getting it everywhere.”

  The older boy sighed and reluctantly took Isabel’s spoon to help her with it, all while giving Armada sideways glances.

  “Tell me about this poor woman,” Armada s
aid. “Who was she?”

  “Cristina, I think was her name. Cristina Lopez,” Esmerelda said. “And she had that gorgeous little girl with the cutest curls. Celestina, I think her name was. She was three or four at the time. Anyway, Ortega accused Cristina of being a morisco. And I’m embarrassed to say it worked. Some people became so hostile to her that they ran her out of town. And Ortega just took her land after Cristina left, citing some ridiculous old laws. He said it was legal, but people here knew he stole them. There was no other word for it. Ortega didn’t seem to mind the rumours, but poor Federico Rodriguez. It was too much for him. He hanged himself, and just after Ortega had secured him a spot on the council.”

  “So Ortega owns Cristina’s lands now? The one’s he is leasing out?”

  “Yes. That Ortega is not one to be trusted. I don’t know what that wife of his sees in him. Of course, no one ever knows. Ines hardly ever says a word. Maybe it’s because she knows her husband is a very shifty character. God knows how embarrassed I would be.”

  If only you knew, Armada thought. Now it made sense how Ortega went from being a poor farmer with one bad field to being a wealthy landowner and alcalde. He’d stolen it, and he’d done it in a very clever way— by using a set of old laws that few people remembered existed. While Felipe III was expelling the moriscos from the country earlier in the century, laws had been drawn up in each of the kingdoms that detailed how any land left behind by fleeing moriscos must be put up for sale, the proceeds payable to the local town council.

  Considering the expulsion of the moriscos had ended over fifty years ago, and the laws were long obsolete, Ortega’s claim to the lands was dubious at best. Any civil court judge at the Royal Chancery in Granada would have invalidated Ortega’s claim, had a lawsuit ever been filed. Ortega’s only chance to keep that from happening was to intimidate the woman so badly that she left without ever returning. For that, he would need the whole town’s help, which it sounded like he had received. Especially from Federico Rodriguez. It made Armada wonder if Pablo Ortega really did have a problem with moriscos, or if his hatred was just a part of his plan to leave the peasant life behind.

  “Where did Cristina Lopez go?”

  “Well, Ortega said he booked passage for her back to North Africa on a ship in Motril, but the rumours at that time were that she went to Motril, but never got on the boat.”

  “So she may still be there? Has anyone heard from her?”

  “Not that I know of,” Esmerelda said.

  “Did Jose know Ortega well? Did you ever see them argue?”

  “Jose had nothing to do with Ortega, as far as I know.”

  Isabel had her hand in the soup, dipping her fingers in, then jamming them in her mouth and licking the soup off while her brother distracted himself at the window. She then reached up for a clay jug full of water and pulled it off the table.

  It landed on the stone floor and shattered, throwing water everywhere.

  “Teodoro!” Esmerelda screamed, jumping to her feet and startling everybody. “You were supposed to be helping your sister! I know you heard me!”

  Armada saw fear in Teodoro’s eyes now as Isabel began to cry. Esmerelda hopped to her feet and grabbed a rag from a nearby table. She began picking up the broken shards of clay and wiping up the water.

  “Now look what you’ve done! Now I have to go out back and get another. We only have one left. Do you know how heavy these jugs are to carry all the way down here from town? Do you?!”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Teodoro squeaked as Esmerelda got on her knees to clean up the soup.

  “Please,” Armada said, sensing an opportunity. “Please, allow me. You go and get a new jug. I can clean this up.”

  Armada took the rag.

  “I can’t let you,” Esmerelda said, still breathing heavily from the sudden outburst.

  “I won’t hear of it. Go on.”

  Esmerelda nodded, stood up, and left out the front door.

  Armada picked up the last of the shards and wiped up the water. He made eye contact with the boy, who was too shaken to glare angrily at Armada any longer.

  “What about you, Teodoro? Did you ever hear your father and Amparo argue?”

  Teodoro stared quietly at the ground, not wanting to answer.

  “You can hate me, boy. Lots of people do. But just know if your father is innocent, I’ll be the only one who can prove it. I may be the only one who can bring him back. So help me. Help me find out for sure,” Armada said. “For both of us.”

  Teodoro glanced up at Armada. “Leave the past in the past. That’s what my father said to Amparo.”

  “The past in the past,” Armada repeated. “What did he mean?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Did they not discuss it?”

  “My father said something about a pacto de silencio. He warned Amparo not to break it.”

  A pact of silence. It was not the sort of agreement made between those who are innocent of wrongdoing. But was Jose referring to illegal canals? If so, what did that have to do with the past?

  Armada stayed with the children a long time, eventually cleaning up the mess and giving little Isabel a new bowl of soup. This time he gave her closely-supervised spoonful’s, which she enjoyed now that she was being fed by the stranger. Teodoro was now free to gaze out the window. It was likely that he wasn’t sure he could trust Armada. Possibly he never would. Armada didn’t feel he should push too hard. The boy would have to work all this out in his own time.

  Nearly half an hour went by and Armada left the children for a moment to go around the back to see how Esmerelda was getting on. He had grown worried for her, as she’d only come back here to grab a new bowl. It had been far too long.

  Then he spotted her, sitting in the far corner of the tiny patch of back garden on a wood stump. A hand over her face, sobbing quietly to herself.

  Armada wished now Esmerelda had hated him. She should have thrown things at him the moment he arrived. She should have rained blows on his chest with balled up fists, screamed insults, and kicked him out of her house while waving a harquebus. He had to admit he’d gotten a lot of valuable information from Esmerelda remaining calm and cooperative.

  But somehow, watching her now, it still felt wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Armada walked the road from the Albaycín, on his way back to the inn where he hoped to run into Lucas. He had a job for the boy and was eager to get started. After that, he would head up to the castle to speak with Jose once again and confront him with the new information he’d gleaned. Maybe Jose would talk, maybe he wouldn’t. But at least it would be clear to Jose how much more Armada knew about his curious relationship with Amparo, and that Armada would not stop until he found out everything, including what it was that Jose was so desperate to leave in the past.

  From this quarter of Albaycín, it was easier for Armada to return to the main plaza using a narrow little lane that led off to the left, which would save him having to backtrack all the way to the main road and take him to the far side of the church’s bell tower. However, as this lane took him past the back doors of many of the houses where numerous women were hanging out their washing, he garnered a lot more attention since this was a road that rarely, if ever, saw new faces.

  It shortened his trip considerably and soon Armada popped back out on the main road just a few steps from the main plaza. As he approached the fountain, however, he felt a hand grab him by the elbow and wrench him to the side. Armada swung round, ready to defend himself, when he saw the wide-eyed stare of Lucas.

  “Sir!” Lucas said, beckoning him to hide around a corner.

  Armada followed Lucas a short way down one of the many alleyways that fed into the plaza, before Lucas stopped and turned around to see if anyone was watching. At the moment, they were alone.

  “What is it, Lucas?”

  “Look, sir.”

  Armada carefully looked toward the main plaza where Lucas was pointing. Craning his neck, h
e could just see where a man on horseback had dismounted and was speaking to the innkeeper at the front door of the inn. He was a tall man, with a wide face and missing several teeth, which he attempted to hide with a large moustache that curled slightly at the edges. He was wearing a large brimmed cavalier hat with a feather in the band, one side of the brim curling upward.

  He also wore a sleeveless jacket, made of leather, just like Armada’s. And just like Armada, he too wore a green shirt underneath, marking him as a fellow constable of the Brotherhood.

  “Bresson,” Armada whispered. “What is he doing here?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But he’s already been to the castle. He released Jose Padilla. And now he’s asking about you.”

  Armada clenched his fist in frustration. If only the man had waited! He could have cleared up so much if he’d just gotten a chance to talk to Jose one more time.

  “You think Ortega wrote that letter to the majordomo of the Brotherhood?” Lucas asked.

  “I suspect that is exactly what happened,” Armada said. “And now Bresson has been dispatched, no doubt, to drag us off this case and back to Granada. What about Miguel? Have you seen him arrest Miguel?”

  “I haven’t seen Miguel at all, sir.”

  “Good. Hopefully the man has the good sense to stay out of sight until he leaves.”

  It was all so frustrating. Of all people for Bautista to send to collect Armada, it had to be Bresson. Arnaud Bresson was French, with a thick accent to his Spanish that he had never bothered to soften. The accent had been the instigator of countless fights in taverns, in which Bresson was only too happy to partake. He’d been a good soldier, having volunteered for the Spanish army when the French army had chucked him out for stealing from a church. And thanks to his service and his ability to track fugitives, the Brotherhood had been only too eager to recruit him after the war.

  But men like Bresson didn’t care who they fought for, as long as their wages were paid and there was an opportunity for a bit extra on the side. And he had quickly turned into a constable of the worst sort, taking bribes, and only too happy to hang people, or lop off limbs, if it meant getting to the tavern a bit faster. He was rarely interested in the truth of a case, which made him unpredictable. Armada avoided working with him whenever possible. Given that Bresson was also stationed at the Brotherhood in Granada, it was sometimes difficult. And he knew Armada only too well, and that it was not going to be easy to avoid him for long.