The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set

by Jefferson Bonar

  “I wanted to ask you about the card game that takes place here on Fridays.”

  “Gambling? I don’t know anything about any gambling.”

  “I was told you run the only card game in the pueblo. Every Friday afternoon. Is that not true?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I’d like to know first if it’s true.”

  The woman was careful not to let too much show on her face, her body completely frozen. Only the hesitation in her voice gave away the fact that she was panicking.

  “I have some friends over sometimes. That’s all.”

  “Is one of those friends Pablo Ortega?”

  This time, Luciana could not hide her shock, but she quickly composed herself. “He told you there was gambling going on in my candle shop?”

  “Is there?”

  Luciana seemed to be taking time to think. “Yes,” she finally said, but with little conviction.

  “Just on Friday afternoons?”

  “That’s right.”

  Luciana put the long wooden spoon into the tallow, and gave it a good stir. Armada could see the white blobs of fat as they simmered away, releasing the smell of rotten animal carcass into the air. For those unable to afford real wax candles, these would be their only source of light during long dark winter nights, and the smell would be a permanent fixture in their houses.

  “Who attends these games? Can I speak with any of these friends?”

  “They come from all over,” Luciana said. “Most are just labourers, drifters who come here for the harvest. I don’t know any of them.”

  “And yet Pablo Ortega also attends?”

  “Sometimes,” Luciana said. There was a hint of disgust in her voice, as if someone were holding a knife to her ribs, forcing her to say these things against her will.

  “Was he here the day Amparo Rodriguez was killed? Sometime around midday?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’s important that you are exact. Can you remember if he was here that day?”

  Luciana put down her stirring spoon and returned to the inside of her shed to check on the candles. Armada knew the candles would not be ready yet, as it sometimes took hours for them to cool. Luciana just wanted some way to hide from him, to give herself time to think. But he wasn’t about to give it to her.

  “Yes. He was here.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe around six.”

  “How well did he do? Did he win?”

  “I don’t remember,” Luciana said, annoyed.

  “Didn’t you play as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you must have remembered. Did he win?”

  “I guess so.”

  “How much?”

  “How am I supposed to remember that?”

  “How much?”

  “A few ducats, maybe. It was a while ago now.”

  “Did he win those ducats from you?”

  “What difference does that make?” Luciana said. She cowered this time, her body revealing to Armada that she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  “It makes a big difference. Especially to a woman who is subsisting with only a small candle shop. A few ducats could make the difference between eating for a week or not.”

  “No. He didn’t win it from me. There were other people there.”

  “What other people? What were their names?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, they were just drifters. I don’t ask their names. And I don’t know where they are staying or if they are still in town. Or how much they won or from who. Now I’d like you to leave, please. I have work to do.”

  The woman was clearly frustrated, trying hard to focus on inserting wicks into the candles, which took a steady hand to get them to set exactly in the centre.

  But the cylinders had not yet cooled, it was too early. The wicks would not go in straight. The candles were by this time mostly ruined, but Luciana continued the pretence that they required her full, undivided attention.

  “Very well,” Armada said. “But I would like to see where the game took place before I leave.”

  “What?”

  “Show me the table that was used. And the room.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “It will settle my mind. And if it is settled, then I can leave here having received the answers I wanted. And never come back.”

  Luciana sighed and got up from her workbench, escorting Armada out of the workshop and around to the back. Here, a small room had been built, which contained only a single door and a window that faced toward the castle.

  This was where the woman seemed to live when she wasn’t working, and it was barely large enough for the both of them. Along one wall was a small shelf with a few books, and some stacks of clothing and fabric for sewing. On the opposite wall, a mattress made of hay was stuffed into two quilts sewn together and placed on the bare earth floor. The door took up much of the third wall, while some basic cooking implements lined up on a crooked shelf, along with an assortment of chipped jugs and broken pieces of pottery that made up the final wall.

  With the addition of a table in the middle of the room, there would be no room to walk about. Add chairs to that, none of which Armada could see, and it would be completely impossible.

  “I have a friend who is…borrowing the table…at the moment,” Luciana mumbled.

  “I see,” Armada said. “Well then, one final question and I will go.”

  “What?”

  “Show me the cards.”

  “The cards.”

  “The cards you use to play. I want to see the deck of cards. That is all.”

  “Why do you want to see those?”

  This time, it was Armada who allowed a long pause, staring at Luciana, letting her know what he was thinking.

  “Humour me.”

  Luciana didn’t move from her spot. She glanced about the room without saying a word.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t remember where I put them.”

  “Is it possible, Luciana, that there isn’t a game of cards that happens here every Friday afternoon?”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “I stopped by the tavern on the way here. I asked the barman about it. You see, every drifter, wanderer, and labourer who comes through here eats and drinks at that tavern eventually. So the barman would be the one man in town who knows about any card games, especially a regular one. And he knew nothing about a card game here. He told me it’s at the blacksmith’s next door. I can’t help thinking this is all a hoax. Is it not?”

  Luciana’s breathing quickened, her eyes darting around the room. “What are you going to do?” she asked with just a whisper.

  Armada let out a deep sigh. “Why, you?”

  “What?”

  “Pablo Ortega lied to me about where he was the day Amparo Rodriguez was killed. He needed someone to cover for him. And he sent me to talk to you. If you don’t run a card game here, then why would you do such a thing?”

  “He’s the alcalde. Anyone would do it for—”

  “No,” Armada said. “Very few in town would protect him like that. But you would. You were willing to lie to a constable of the Holy Brotherhood, knowing the consequences if you got caught. And yet you did it anyway. Why?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Well, it’s the truth.”

  Armada moved further inside. Luciana stood her ground, like a mother bear protecting her cub. And she was lying again.

  “Perhaps,” Armada said. He held his arm out and pressed his hand lightly to her, politely moving her aside.

  Luciana didn’t want to move at first, but she finally gave in and stepped toward the wall.

  Armada then focused on the stack of fabric. He moved a few pieces aside, then found something that didn’t fit. A black book, its cover unmarked with any title or engraving. He heard Luciana gasp.

  Armada ope
ned the book and recognised it instantly. A Quran. The Holy Book of the Muslim faith. And a death sentence for anyone caught in possession of one, assuming of course one was not handed the worse sentence of being turned into the Inquisition, where months of horrors awaited before being burned at the stake.

  And there was no doubt in Armada’s mind that Pablo Ortega knew full well about her faith. He wondered how he had found out, but it didn’t really matter. What was important was how Ortega was using that knowledge. This poor woman, living alone in a town brimming with anti-Muslim hysteria, was now dependent on someone as vile as Ortega to keep her secret. And Armada was fully aware of how she was expected to pay Ortega back for his kindness.

  Armada closed the book and put it back under the fabric, careful to place the stack exactly as had been with the book obscured.

  He turned to Luciana, who stared back at him with the first honest expression Armada had seen from her. She was frightened, and saw little reason to hide it now. Her eyes were teary now, but she did not cry. There would be no begging, no pleas for mercy. If she was to be executed, she would be one of the few Armada had seen that would keep her dignity until the end.

  “No more lies, Luciana,” Armada said. “Just tell me if Pablo Ortega was here last Friday afternoon. I don’t need to know more than that.”

  “Yes,” Luciana said.

  “When did he leave?”

  “Just before six.”

  “You are sure this time?”

  “He always tries to get home before Ines. She goes to Motril every week to shop and always gets back around seven. He doesn’t want her to know.”

  Ortega’s nervousness about Ines hearing their conversation earlier suddenly made sense.

  “And he was here all afternoon?”

  Luciana nodded. Armada suddenly felt guilty for forcing her to remember what must have happened on that Friday, or all the Fridays before that. He wished he could help her somehow. But there was little he could do at the moment, for his own freedom was now at risk.

  “Thank you.”

  Armada bowed his head, then walked toward the door.

  “You’re not going to…” Luciana began.

  “No. I won’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  Armada turned and walked back out to the Medina a defeated man. Pablo Ortega had an alibi. He wasn’t in the fields murdering Amparo. How could he be if he was here with Luciana? But it meant that although he had all the motivation in the world to kill Amparo, he didn’t. The possibility existed that he could have hired someone to do the deed, but then his alibi would be important to set up. But he was here with this woman instead, an alibi he couldn’t use without serious consequences to his standing in the pueblo. It meant he was probably here that day, not thinking about alibis and such, suggesting he had no idea Amparo was being killed in the fields at the time.

  So that left either Jose or Madalena, neither of whom he had any proof on other than speculation, and neither of whom he could arrest even if he did have proof. Bautista’s letter had been clear. His authority had been taken away. There was no reason to continue investigating.

  But that wasn’t what bothered Armada. It was that he felt in his bones that Ortega had been guilty. The man behaved just as a guilty man did. Was it possible that Ortega had behaved that way simply because he felt bad for cheating on his wife? Was that all it had been?

  If so, Armada had gotten it wrong. And he was back to the beginning. In fact, it was even worse than that: he was back to Granada.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Go on, soldier,” Armada’s commander urged him. And once again, Armada felt the arrow leave his hand. He watched as it arced through the air and nestled amongst the branches and twigs that made up the thatched roof of the hut.

  Glowing embers soon spread out in all directions, embers that quickly turned to flames, and suddenly the entire roof burned in glittery orange and red, sending up ashes and smoke in every direction.

  He heard screaming from inside. Natives began running, desperate to get away from the flaming roof as it sagged, and finally fell to the ground.

  From all around Armada heard the excited shouts of his fellow soldiers as they let loose a barrage of arrows and harquebus fire, picking off the natives as quickly as they could reload.

  Armada could only watch the slaughter happen in front of him, his entire body becoming numb. It started in the tips of his fingers in his right hand, where the feeling of the string from the bow still reverberated. Soon he couldn’t feel his hand, then his right arm, and the warm numbness soon spread across his shoulders, his chest, his back, and finally to his head.

  As he watched death explode all around him, Armada found he felt nothing. The soldiers around him soon broke the line and chased the natives who had escaped the fire into the bush. A few would make it, but not many. Most lay in lifeless heaps, littered about the landscape. Armada didn’t have enough in him to feel badly for each one. There were too many. He viewed them the same as the trees, or the stones, or the tufts of wildflowers. They were just part of the landscape, another part of this forest. Nothing more.

  Armada’s eyes were open and he became aware that he was staring at the cold, stone wall of his cell. Behind him, a dying torchlight threw a pale, flickering light into the room, a light that barely penetrated his eyes. It was hard to tell what was real anymore, the memories were so vivid. They had haunted him all night, exhausting his already tired mind.

  Armada tried to focus. He was locked in the castle in Salobreña. He tried to picture the town, with the castle on the hill overlooking the shoreline. This was where he was. This was what was real.

  But Peru always returned. Soon he was back in the Andes, back on the trail leading into the forest, surrounded by his company as he felt his heavy boots sink into the mud of the trail that led to the native village, thinking about the attacks the natives had been making on their men. How they needed to pay for the life they’d taken. And soon he was reliving the slaughter all over again, feeling the numb warmth envelop his body, trying desperately to hold it off, to keep his feelings, but failing. He always failed. He always went numb. It was the only way to survive.

  Armada had never felt so exhausted. His mind would not let him sleep, not until he solved the greatest mystery of his life —how to recompense for what he’d done.

  “Sir.”

  Armada had barely heard it, the sound of his memories still ringing in his ears. Then it came louder. A voice behind him, moving closer.

  Armada found he was sitting on the floor, his back against the bars of his cell. He was staring at the stone wall behind him, watching the shadows dance on over its bumps and ridges as the torch burned. He tried to turn to face the voice, but his neck was sore, as were his legs. How long had he been sitting like this? How long had it been since Bresson had tossed him in here like a sack of flour? A few hours? A few days? It was impossible to tell without sunlight.

  Armada managed to twist his body round enough to see Lucas’ face staring back at him.

  “Lucas…”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  It was morning! Although it was impossible to tell in this windowless room, Armada still felt a rush of relief.

  “Is it time, then?”

  Lucas looked behind him, which Armada found curious. No soldier had escorted the boy in here. Was he here alone?

  “Not yet, sir. I’m actually not supposed to be here. But I thought you might want to know. I spoke with Miguel this morning.”

  “Miguel Guillen?” Armada struggled to his feet, feeling the stiffness in his body forcing him to lean heavily against the bars. As he grasped them, he could see that his right hand was trembling quite badly. He gripped the bar, trying to make it stop. But it wouldn’t. It was impossible to hide from Lucas any longer.

  Lucas glanced at Armada’s trembling hand, but said nothing about it. “Yes, sir. He found me in the stables this morning while I was loading up the cart.”

 
Armada realised Lucas was whispering. He didn’t want the soldier to know he was here.

  “Miguel Guillen is free? Bresson has yet to find him?”

  “That’s right, sir. But that’s not what I came to tell you.”

  Armada felt a rush of relief. So, Miguel hadn’t yet been hanged. Bresson hadn’t even tracked him down yet. There was a chance, however remote….

  “Someone tried to kill Madalena Rodriguez last night,” Lucas said. “She survived, but she’s in bad shape. They have her at Jose’s cortijo at the moment. Miguel wanted me to tell you personally. He didn’t want Bresson to know.”

  The relief Armada had felt before quickly dissipated, replaced by exhaustion, anger, bitterness. And underneath all of that—helplessness.

  “What is it he expects me to do?” Armada asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. But it sounds like the killer has struck again.”

  Questions filled Armada’s head, but he pushed them away. “Tell Bresson.”

  “Sir?”

  “I said to tell Bresson what you have told me. He is the constable in charge. It is up to him to decide what to do.”

  “But he’ll hang Miguel, sir. And Miguel is innocent.”

  “That is not our determination to make, Lucas!” Armada shouted, not caring if the soldiers upstairs heard him. “I have been removed from this case. I have been given an order and I intend on following it. Now leave me until we are to return to Granada. I’ll be happy to be out of this damned cell!”

  Lucas didn’t hide his disappointment. “Sir, I thought we could at least find out what happened. I think I know a way I can break you out of here. It’s not difficult. There’s a passage way that leads—”

  “You are a child, Lucas,” Armada said, rage building up inside him. “A petulant child! And your naivety is exactly the reason why I’d been so foolish to send you to Motril, where you were almost killed. This is a world of men you are in now, Lucas. And men with honour respect their duty and follow their orders. And my orders were clear. To hand over jurisdiction of this case to Arnaud Bresson and return to Granada.”