The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set

by Jefferson Bonar

  Armada stroked the leather pouch, trying to contain his anger. How disrespectful for this woman’s body to be hidden away in a bag in an unmarked grave.

  “You realised Amparo hadn’t told anyone else what he knew,” Armada continued. “If he was gone, then nobody would know. So, you snuck down to Jose’s field that day, waited until he was somewhere where he couldn’t be seen, and stuck a knife in his chest.”

  Armada looked up at Ortega, who was smiling smugly at him. “Now, do I have that about right?”

  “That is quite a story, Armada,” Ortega said as he walked over to a shelf near the window. There were several bottles next to a small collection of books, one of which he took down and popped the top off. He poured a bit of the brown liquid into a glass, then took it in his hand, not bothering to offer any to Armada.

  “Now how about one that is truthful?” Ortega said. “My father died just after I married Ines. We were young and hungry to start a family of our own. My father had spent his whole life working that field. He could grow anything on it. Wheat, barley, cane, vegetables, you name it. And when I inherited it, I was all ready to live a nice, modest life on whatever that field could provide. It was all I needed to get by.”

  Ortega took a drink, rubbing the rim of the glass with his finger.

  “I knew Cristina’s husband. He was a nice enough fellow, but my father warned me he was one of those moriscos and therefore a bit lazy. The soil on his land was pretty poor and needed a lot of extra work and irrigation to keep it going. He and his wife envied Ines and me. And when he died, Cristina was left on her own to work those fields, and she hated us even more. So, one day she conjures up a bit of black magic and puts a hex on our field. Suddenly, despite our spring, we couldn’t get anything to grow on it. Nothing at all. And Ines and I are looking at starving through a long, cold winter.”

  Ortega spoke louder, as if he now wanted his wife to hear them. He even took a few steps toward the door.

  “I figured it was my duty to warn the rest of town what she was like, how vindictive. And that’s when she put a hex on Ines. Made it so she couldn’t have children.”

  Ortega went to comfort his wife, who looked rather embarrassed.

  “It’s all right, dear. Don’t worry about me,” Ines said, not seeming to want the attention. Ortega left her and glared at Armada.

  “Well, that was it for me. Amparo’s father and I marched down there and demanded she leave town. We made it clear we were not going to tolerate her kind in our God-fearing town any longer. She realised she was beaten, and the last I saw her she was on her way to Motril. I took her lands as recompense, really. Ines and I deserved that much after what we suffered at the hands of that woman. We never were able to have children, so to make up for it I worked hard for years to make Cristina’s old lands fertile again. The wealth that came later, well, we deserved that, didn’t we?”

  Ortega looked down at the pouch of bones.

  “I don’t know what lies Amparo’s father told him, but he hated me ever since. Never spoke to me again. I don’t know whose bones these are, Armada, or what they were doing in my field. But I had nothing to do with them.”

  Armada was feeling sick. Ortega had a gift for storytelling, and he’d used it to his own advantage throughout his life. He could twist facts and tell them back to you in a calm, educated tone that suggested he knew more about what was going on than you did. There was a warmth to his gravelly, baritone that came out when he was telling a tale, and he couldn’t help but use it even when speaking to someone who angered him as much as Armada. With someone like Ortega, a story’s usefulness was not measured in how factual it was, but in its ability to connect emotionally with the listener. It was little wonder this man had been able to convince so many in town of a conspiracy of moriscos, despite how utterly ridiculous an idea it was.

  “Then my next question should be an easy one for you,” Armada said. “Where were you the day Amparo died?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions, Armada. You’re not the constable on this case anymore.”

  “Where were you?!” Armada shouted.

  “I will sue, you understand? I have lawyers who will drag the case out for years, all the time soaking up court fees until you are completely dry.”

  “Where were you?!!” Armada shouted even louder.

  “I’m having you removed!” Ortega shouted. “Your job is over! And when I’m through with you you’ll be in prison as well. You are harassing me, and the corregidor will not…”

  “Where…were you?!!” Armada shouted again.

  Ortega seemed to realise that his threats were falling on deaf ears. He glanced back at Ines, who had at some point discreetly left the room and gone into the back bedroom, the door now shut.

  “Fine. Fine, just keep your voice down, for God’s sake. I was having a bit of fun, that’s all.”

  “Doing what?” Armada asked.

  “I like to have a game of cards occasionally. There’s usually a game going on most Friday afternoons behind the candle shop on the Medina. It’s the only one in the pueblo. Run by a woman named Luciana.”

  “And this Luciana will remember you?”

  “She should. I lost everything but the clothes I was wearing that night.”

  “I hope they do remember you, alcalde. For your sake. Because I will be going straight over there today to speak with her. And if she lies to me, I’ll know. And I will come straight back here and we will have this conversation all over again. And again. And again. As many times as it takes to get the truth.”

  Armada made a big gesture of glancing at the bedroom door, to impress upon Ortega that his cooperation in not telling Ines would end there.

  “Don’t threaten me, Armada,” Ortega said. “You have any idea what I’m going to do to you when this is over? Your career as a constable is officially over. Everything that has happened here today will be reported, I can promise you that. And another thing—”

  Armada realised the usefulness of his visit was over, and he grabbed the leather pouch, turned and walked toward the door as quickly as possible.

  “You’ll be sorry you ever came here, Armada? You hear me?!” Ortega shouted from the doorway as Armada walked down the street. “Those are all vicious lies and rumours! And shame on you for believing them! You should think about where they came from, and go after the real enemy! The real enemy!””

  None of this was aimed at Armada particularly. This was Ortega being fully aware that his neighbours had seen Armada go in and was now dramatically walking away. This was Ortega desperate to take control of the rumour mill, to begin spinning his own tale before anyone could make up their own version to spread. This was Ortega the storyteller, working his craft, the magic he’d used to become as successful as he had.

  This was Ortega, knowing Armada had gotten closer to the truth than he’d realised. And if nothing else, there was finally a bit of justice in that.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It sickened Miguel every time the cart went over a rut and he heard Madalena behind him cry out. But there was no way to avoid them. And they had to be quick. Jose had said the faster they got her to the cortijo the better off Madalena would be. But the faster he made the cart go, the more painful it was for her. Miguel didn’t know what to do.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the pile of hay in the back of Jose’s cart. In two places around the edges, he could see two small pools of blood, for a bleeding Madalena lay beneath that pile, thrown hastily over her in an attempt to hide her condition from anyone they might pass in the delta. No one could know what happened, Jose had said. It would only cause a panic. They had to get Madalena out of sight and to a place where they could take care of her.

  Miguel had been panicking to the point where he couldn’t breathe, but Jose had stayed calm, and gotten Miguel’s help wrapping Madalena in a sheet and quickly loading her into the cart outside. They had gotten away before any of the neighbours could tell something was amiss.
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  Miguel could sense Madalena was fighting to take her next breath, and fighting to stay conscious. Jose had said that was good. It meant she wasn’t done for yet. But they had to hurry.

  The plan was to take Madalena to Jose’s cortijo and wait there while Jose went back to his house to fetch Esmerelda. She was the only one he knew who could help Madalena and be willing to remain quiet about it. She would understand. Esme always understood, Jose had said. Miguel wasn’t sure she would help, given she had kicked Jose out of their home, but Jose said not to worry about that. He would sort it out.

  Jose took off on foot toward his house and Miguel picked up the reins and got the cart moving again. Suddenly, it was as if the roads were bumpier than they had ever been before. He hadn’t remembered so many potholes and boulders. The cart seemed stiffer, as if it were designed to rock back and forth as violently as possible, making it painful for Madalena every step of the way.

  Eventually, Miguel got Madalena to the cortijo and into the house, where he laid down as many blankets and soft things as he could find on the large table, then lifted Madalena out of the wagon as carefully as he could. Once on the table, he pulled it inside where she would be protected from the wind that was constantly buffeting across the delta, and wrapped her up in some warm wool blankets he’d found.

  After all this, she was still breathing, but wasn’t moving around as much. The amount of blood left behind in the cart frightened Miguel to the point where he no longer could look. Instead, he focused himself on taking care of Madalena, who asked for a bit of water, but said little else.

  It seemed an eternity before Jose arrived with Esme in tow. There was no time for greetings and formalities, and Esme rushed over to Madalena as soon as she saw her.

  “What happened?” Esmerelda said.

  “She was attacked last night. Can you help her?” Jose asked.

  Esmerelda peeled back Madalena’s blood-soaked blouse to have a look at one of her wounds. It was a small cut, just below the shoulder. She wiped it with a dishrag and for a moment the wound looked to Miguel like it was rather minor. But from the blood spurting forth, it seemed to run deep and was quite serious.

  “I’ll try. Get me some water. And the bandages from the back,” Esmerelda said. “Quickly!”

  Jose and Miguel ran off to the kitchen to gather the buckets for water. That was when Miguel caught Jose looking at him. For the first time since he’d known the man, he saw Jose frightened. It was a shock, almost as big a shock as discovering Madalena. Miguel hadn’t known that Jose was even capable of feeling scared. But he did. And it changed Miguel’s impression of him.

  “She’ll know what to do. Esme is good at this sort of thing. Don’t worry,” Jose said, but Miguel wasn’t convinced. Jose’s tone had wavered, as if he were more trying to convince himself.

  Jose and Miguel gathered the buckets and water and the bandages and all the towels they could find and raced them over to where Esmerelda was busy removing parts of Madalena’s clothing in an effort to clean the wounds and press towels to them. Soon the table was surrounded by blood-soaked towels and Miguel wondered just how much more blood Madalena could lose.

  Esmerelda found three of the biggest wounds, all just under Madalena’s right shoulder, and focused her efforts there. Washing and dressing and telling Jose and Miguel to press hard in certain places in an effort to stem the flow.

  After a while, the flow did stem. But Madalena had stopped moving, and soon she had stopped breathing. Esmerelda, who now had Madalena’s blood on her dress, her hands, and splotches of it on her face, bowed her head and everything went quiet.

  That’s when Miguel knew. She was gone.

  No one knew what to say at first. Jose went to comfort Esmerelda, who had begun crying, but Esmerelda pushed him away. Instead, she washed up as best she could with the water left in the buckets, then went into the back bedroom to be with her children.

  Jose watched helplessly. When he was finally alone with Miguel, he kicked the table hard and swore under his breath.

  Then he turned a suspicious look to Miguel.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “What?”

  “You found her. This morning, right? Why did you go back there? Eh, Miguel? Why go back?”

  Miguel expected to be intimidated by Jose. It was his usual response. So much of his relationship with Jose before had been about pleasing him, to avoid this kind of thing altogether, because he was too weak to handle it.

  But after seeing Jose frightened, everything had changed. Suddenly he saw Jose not as a confident man to be respected, but as someone who could feel hopelessness and despair. He felt about Jose the same as the drunkards his father used to drink with in the tavern. Jose was as flawed and weak as everyone else. He had no answers either. And like that, his power to intimidate Miguel was gone.

  “To apologise. For what we did,” Miguel said. “It was wrong. We shouldn’t have gone there. We shouldn’t have done that to her. It’s not right to threaten people.”

  Jose stepped toward Miguel as if he were about to hit him, but Miguel held his ground. He was done backing away.

  Jose looked even angrier, then went into the kitchen, presumably to grab a weapon. But Miguel didn’t care. He was ready for anything. After his treatment in the castle, he knew Jose could never really hurt him. No matter how Jose attacked him, he’d be able to defend himself.

  Jose came back with two glasses, filled with some kind of brown liquid that smelled vaguely of brandy. He handed one to Miguel, who was confused.

  “You are right, Miguel,” Jose said. “We shouldn’t have. I couldn’t sleep that night, you know. It tore me up inside. What was I doing? I was acting like a madman. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

  Jose looked over at the body of Madalena, splayed out on the table.

  “And we got it so wrong. That poor woman. She didn’t deserve this.”

  Jose raised his glass.

  “To Madalena, and Amparo. Whoever did this, may they rot in hell.”

  Miguel didn’t feel much like joining Jose as he watched Jose down his drink in one gulp. It didn’t seem a good thing to toast to.

  “We should bury her,” Miguel said.

  “I’ll talk to the pastor tomorrow,” Jose said. “We’ll find a way to explain this somehow that…”

  A cough erupted from the table and Jose and Miguel’s head swivelled round.

  Madalena’s body convulsed and she took a large gulp of air, then coughed it out again.

  “Madre mia,” Jose said rushing over to Madalena’s side. “Esme! Esme!!”

  Esmerelda appeared at the doorway and saw Madalena gasping for breath as everyone crowded round the table.

  Suddenly Madalena opened her eyes, panting, struggling to get her breath back, and this time being successful.

  Esmerelda made the sign of the cross. “It’s a miracle.”

  “No,” Madalena whispered, focusing her eyes on Esmerelda.

  Madalena cried out in pain as she struggled to sit up on the table, with a bit of help from Esmerelda.

  “You shouldn’t sit up. You should rest!” Esmerelda said.

  “No!” Madalena shouted, waving Esmerelda off and sitting up anyway. “This isn’t over.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  It didn’t take long for Armada to find it. He was standing on the edge of the Medina where the road emptied out. It was almost completely deserted now, in stark contrast to the last time he’d been here when it had been crowded with people during the monthly market. Now it was once more an empty, barren patch of soil bordered by a steep vertical drop-off on one side, and a small row of workshops on the other.

  Armada crossed the Medina and studied the shops. Most were little more than crumbling sheds, and far too small. So, the merchants here took advantage of the space available and allowed their work and tools to spill out into the square. The first on his right was a coopers, where an old man with thick spectacles and a soiled apron hun
ched over a circle of long thin slats of wood, hammering a metal ring around them. Soon, those slats would be turned into a water-tight barrel and added to the three others that stood nearby.

  Next along was a blacksmith, where a man stoked the fire in a small forge in the back while his two young apprentices stood out front, hammering away at pieces of metal held with long iron tongs, beating them into the shape of horseshoes, and filling the square with the sound of clanking.

  But it was the last shop that attracted Armada’s interest. It was the smallest of the three. Out front was a large iron pot suspended over a small fire emitting the smell of boiling animal fat. A wooden plank, cut into the shape of a long spoon was propped up against it, seemingly used to occasionally stir the fat as it slowly simmered away to eventually become tallow for candles.

  Inside, the space was barely large enough for a basic set of tools, and Armada saw a woman wearing a soiled grey dress and white apron, her hair tied back into a bun and loosely covered with an untied coif whose ties hung over her shoulders. She wore a bodice, also untied, and was entirely focused on pouring the tallow into long, cylindrical moulds. She then set them aside to cool and solidify before returning outside to check on the pot of boiling fat.

  It was here she met with Armada, who was inspecting the contents of the pot. She looked at his long green sleeves and stiffened.

  “Who are you?”

  “Domingo Armada, of the Holy Brotherhood. You must be Luciana.”

  The woman looked defensive and said nothing, the long wooden stirring spoon still in her hand. Armada could see she had dark brown eyes that looked almost black, with straight black hair that had grown so long it went below her waist and strong, broad shoulders from years of stirring tallow as it cooled into a thick syrup.