The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set
Page 67
And Armada needed Lucas. He couldn’t imagine approaching a case again without his process-oriented mind, noticing all the dull little details in a case that Armada’s own mind found so hard to grapple with. Armada found himself resentful of Lucas’s weakness in the face of temptation.
But perhaps it wasn’t fair to judge the boy so harshly. Armada had also been seduced once, when he was not much older than Lucas. Those early years in the army in Peru were ones of companionship. Even now, he remembered each soldier in his company by name and countless personal details about their lives, their fears, their dreams. And he had no doubt they still remembered him as well.
But he wasn’t with them now, was he? He had deserted. A very serious crime. He had broken those bonds. Those men he left behind would never forgive him for what he’d done, not for the rest of their lives. Contemplating it all these years later still made him feel so lonely. It had taken him years to learn not to numb the loneliness with drink. He’d had to learn to confront it, to stare into the abyss of his soul, in order to reckon with the consequences of what he’d done. There was a good chance that loneliness would never leave him.
Yet, he’d had no choice. The things he’d been asked to do during that time, for the good of the company, had destroyed his soul. To this day, the nightmares plagued him, the ghosts of all those innocent people he’d killed in the name of the Spanish empire. All the suffering and misery he’d caused simply because he was following orders. After a while, even the camaraderie of his friends wasn’t enough to soothe his troubled soul. He’d stopped sleeping, found it difficult to eat, and his hands had begun shaking. Desertion had been the only option open to him beyond taking his own life.
Armada knew well the dangers of being in such a close group of friends. It wouldn’t be long before Lucas was asked to do something that made him question his own moral conscience. The boy was barely fourteen. He didn’t have the force of character yet to push back against such a force of will as Julian’s. And Julian must be well aware of that.
Yet Lucas had done his job. He had given Armada valuable information that was only available to members of that group. If the killer were amongst Julian’s group, or was Julian himself, it was possible only Lucas could find out. But how much danger would that put him in?
Armada was left confused and instead focused his thoughts on the house. It was obvious the boys were not in, so he walked through the front door and into the foyer.
It was quiet inside, and his footsteps echoed in the tiled hallway as he made his way toward the back and up the stairs to Ambrosio’s room.
Ambrosio was inside, swearing to himself as he gathered up large, unfolded linens and tried to get them into some kind of order.
“Buenas, Ambrosio,” Armada called from the doorway, not wanting to get entangled in the mess of sheets on the floor.
“Armada! I’ve been meaning to talk to you. That helper of yours is useless! He is the laziest boy I’ve met, and I meet a lot of them! Look at these sheets! I told him to sort them out three days ago, and he’s done nothing. Nothing!”
Ambrosio’s voice, despite being permanently hoarse, still filled the entire house as he waved his short, stubby arms around in a frantic manner. He marched over to Armada, letting his face get uncomfortably close and giving Armada a whiff of the carrot stew.
“I’m not paying him wages for this, Armada. You said he was a good valet. You said he would work hard. But he hasn’t worked at all! All he does is hang around with the boys here like he is one of them, getting drunk and leaving bottles in the corridors and going out at all hours of the night. He’s done nothing I’ve asked for days! He’s fired, Armada. Fired! You can take him back!”
“I beseech you to give him one more chance, Ambrosio. I will talk to the boy. Let him know he is in danger of losing his job and that he has to change his ways. I will discipline him harshly, I assure you.”
“You better take the cane to him, Armada. It’s the only way boys like that will listen. He just dismisses me like the other boys, thinking I am their slave. Well, I’m not! And I refuse to be treated like one by that disrespectful little rat.”
Armada put his hand on Ambrosio’s shoulder in an effort to get him to lower his voice.
“I understand, Ambrosio. And I promise by tonight he will be doing all that you ask. Now, I actually came here to ask you a favour. I need to search Julian’s room.”
“Search it? For what?”
“It’s part of my investigation. Don’t worry, he’s not a suspect. But he might have a clue that could help me. I just need a few moments.”
Ambrosio hesitated at this. It wasn’t hard to know why. Ambrosio catered to the students of the wealthy and titled. One bad word from these boys to their parents would put him out of business. And his business was lucrative.
“I will make sure Julian never knows I am there. I will be very discreet.”
“Well, you’d have to be. His butler is in there now, cleaning up.”
“Butler?”
Armada didn’t wait for Ambrosio’s response. He raced down the corridor to find the door to Julian’s room open.
Inside, an older man was tidying up the room, which was on its way to looking respectable again. The man was quite old, sixties or so, Armada guessed, and he moved about in an unhurried, graceful manner. His skin was bronze, his features suggesting his origins were North African, and his curly, once-black hair was now balding and cut very short. Together, with his brushed black coat and simple trousers that were much too hot for the weather, it gave an impression of a man obsessed with always appearing modest.
“Excuse me.”
The old man looked up. Upon seeing he was being addressed, he stood up straight and avoided direct eye contact.
“Yes, sir.”
Armada entered the room, looking about at the monumental job of tidying the man had already completed.
“I am Domingo Armada, of the Holy Brotherhood. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“Of course, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Federigo, sir.”
“Ambrosio said you work for Julian?”
“His parents employ me, actually.”
Armada could see Federigo did this kind of cleaning on a regular basis, which meant there could be few corners of Julian’s life this man didn’t know about.
“And you live here in the pupilaje?”
“Yes, sir. I have a small room in the basement.”
“And you’ve been working here since Julian arrived?”
“For two years now. Yes, sir.”
“Then you would know quite a lot about Julian’s life, wouldn’t you?”
Federigo gave no answer. Had Armada startled him? It was hard to tell. The man’s face was carved from granite, and about as expressive.
Armada leaned against Julian’s unused writing desk under the window, trying to appear more relaxed.
“How long was Julian working with Gregorio Cordoba?”
“Who, sir?”
“Gregorio Cordoba. The man who was brutally murdered in his office last week. The man who Julian admired for so long, the man who everyone in the university, including the boys in this pupilaje, have been talking about since it happened. How long?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Armada sighed. The man was probably just protecting his job, but Armada was already losing his patience.
“Are you saying you were unaware that Julian was going out at night to mix gunpowder with a professor at the university named Gregorio Cordoba, and that this man ended up murdered last week? Or that something happened between these two men just before Gregorio was killed that frightened Julian so much, he locked himself in this very room for three days without speaking to anyone?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“I hasten to remind you of the consequences of lying to a constable of the Holy Brotherhood. If I find out you are holding back information, I will take away a
lot more than your job.”
The man wasn’t looking at him, just staring off with vacant eyes at the wall behind him. Federigo had been trained long ago never to look his employers, or other superiors, directly in the eyes, as a means of showing his submission to them. But it also meant Armada was having trouble reading him. Was Federigo truly so ignorant as to know none of this? Did he push these details from his mind, just as Julian must have told him to at some point?
Not likely. Armada knew servants. They listened to everything. They remembered everything. They always knew more about what was happening in their master’s life than their master. Armada could only shudder at what Lucas had gleaned about his own life over the years.
Federigo knew. He knew everything. But he was stubbornly loyal to his employers. Something Armada would have to break to get what he needed.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Armada slapped the writing desk to make his point. “This is a murder investigation! I’m trying to figure out why a man was savagely stabbed in his office by someone who is clearly dangerous and will do it again. Help me find him before that happens again. Whatever you tell me in this room remains in the strictest confidence. Your employers will never know you spoke to me, or that I was ever here.”
“I will know, sir.”
Armada’s mind began to strategize. There had to be another way around Federigo’s loyalty. There was always a way. He couldn’t let his frustration get to him. He had to take a less direct approach.
Armada thought about when he’d first entered the room. His questions were about money and quite mundane. Federigo had seemed open to answering those. Perhaps if he started there?
“Who pays Julian’s rent here? Julian’s parents?”
“The Lady takes care of all his expenses.”
“Does she give Julian the money?”
“No, sir. She pays it directly to the owner of his establishment.”
“And she pays you, as well? Directly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does she give Julian money to live on as well?”
“Yes, sir. I am tasked with giving him his weekly allowance.”
“How much is this weekly allowance?”
“A ducat, sir.”
Suddenly a few more pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. Only a ducat? In Julian’s world, that would make him quite poor, really. It was hardly possible to live the kind of lifestyle he was on such an allowance. It wouldn’t even cover the brandy bottles strewn about the room.
Which meant Julian was getting his money from somewhere else. And it had to be the reason he was working for Gregorio Cordoba, and where he got the barrel of gunpowder Lucas had told him about.
It also meant Julian was the key suspect in the mystery of what happened to Gregorio’s payment from the Portuguese. Could this whole thing have been over Julian being caught as a thief? Was Julian so desperate for cash that he would murder for it? Julian had to pay this man Emiliano with something in order to employ his services to swing the election. And whatever the price, it had to be more than a ducat a week.
But Armada needed proof to confirm he was following the right path.
“Have you noticed that Julian has had more money in the last few weeks? Has there been a change in his lifestyle?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“I’m not asking about what he did. I don’t need to know the secrets of what he gets up to at night. I only want to know if you, Federigo, have noticed a change. That’s all. You are very intimately involved in his life. You of all people would notice if there was say, clothes that were recently purchased, or an excess of brandy other than the usual. Things like that. No one will ever know that you said anything. I will make sure of it. A simple yes or no. Surely, you can give me that much.”
There was a hesitation. Was Federigo considering his bargain? Armada stared at the man’s eyes, but the stare was still not returned. His body remained stiff and rigid, unmoving. He did not twitch or do anything with his body that might suggest he was uncomfortable or troubled.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Armada could see that he’d lost. Federigo would not budge. He had built his entire career, his identity, on absolute loyalty, and he wasn’t about to betray any part of it for the benefit of a constable in the Holy Brotherhood. Armada wondered, if the King himself were standing here, threatening him with removing his head, would Federigo then reveal his secrets?
Not likely. He was the perfect butler and would take his secrets to his grave. Whomever Julian’s mother was, she must have deemed herself quite lucky to have found such a specimen. Loyalty like that to one’s employers had almost completely disappeared from this modern world, where money now seemed so much more important than principles.
Armada thanked Federigo and left the pupilaje before the boys returned. He would have to speak to Lucas again. Although he hadn’t expected Lucas to keep up every aspect of Ambrosio’s regime, he had to make some kind of effort in order to keep his position. The case wasn’t over yet. He would have to talk to the boy.
But there was someone else he needed to speak to first. Someone who might be able to shed a bit more light on Julian’s wavering fortunes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In stark contrast to Ambrosio’s pupilaje, where San Bartolomé’s younger undergraduates lived and indulged their youthful appetites, the hospedería was quiet and well-kept. This was a house for graduates, for those who had received their degrees and made use of the Crown’s requirement that they be supplied with housing for two years following their graduation in which to find a post for themselves.
But given many of these men came from wealthy, well-connected backgrounds, the requirement that they leave after two years was rarely enforced. For many, they would remain in this house for decades, until such time that a post was given to them that offered more extravagant housing.
The house was a modest, two-storey affair with windows that overlooked a quiet lane and evidence of a little-used terrace on the roof. Armada rapped on the door and was greeted by the sour, aged face of a porter who was almost too tall for the doorway, still chewing the last bite of his lunch.
Seeing the green of Armada’s sleeves, the porter let him in and escorted him up to Emiliano’s room with little protest. After declaring Armada’s desire to see him, the porter opened the door for Armada to enter, and he was treated to the site of a small room, not much bigger than his flat back in Granada. It was tidy, with the shades open to let in the afternoon sunlight, an imposing dark Cherrywood wardrobe in one corner, and a matching bookcase in the other that overflowed with legal volumes. There was a writing desk with a silver candleholder and an expensive quill and ink set that looked as though it got a lot of use. A goose feather bed was shoved into another corner, whose mattress looked expensive and well-worn, covered in silken sheets.
Armada could see the man was living on modest means, but made full use of the room that had been supplied to him at a rate far below the market value for the city. Emiliano enjoyed the luxurious things in life, but only the bits of it he could afford.
Emiliano himself was standing in front of the writing desk he’d just been working at, startled at the sudden appearance of a constable in his room.
“How can I help you, Constable?” Emiliano asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering.
“I am Domingo Armada, of the Holy Brotherhood. You are Emiliano Fajardo-Solucio?”
“I am.”
“How long have you lived here?” Armada asked.
“A few years. I moved in just after I graduated.”
“What did you study?”
“Canon law.”
Armada began to wander the room, peering closely at the furniture and into the dark corners, giving Emiliano a sense that there was nowhere to hide here.
“And what do you plan to do with this degree?”
“I’m…hoping for a post at the university. I’d like to lecture here.”
“I suppose. But I have to become a junior professor first. What is this about?”
Armada ignored the question and continued strolling about the room, lifting books, shifting a vase aside, and moving a bag on the floor about with his foot. The bag was full of laundry, which he knew instantly, but he shifted it about anyway.
“A junior professor. A lecturer. And after that, what? A university chair position, perhaps? Then a few years later, a world of opportunity opens to you. A post on the Royal Council, perhaps? Or a title? This is a world where a man like you has every opportunity for advancement.”
“I hope so,” came Emiliano’s reply. His tone was shifting, becoming more annoyed. The man knew he was being played with.
“But there are a lot of other men on this same path with you, aren’t there? You need a way to stand out. You need those above you to owe you something, so they will pull you up with them as they advance themselves. It’s how these things work, is it not?”
Emiliano gave no response. Armada was letting his own tone get a bit more accusatory, letting Emiliano feel the heat.
Armada had now cased the room completely and stopped, turning to look Emiliano in the eye.
“Someone like Francisco Vergara, perhaps? If he were to win this election tomorrow, and he felt it was due in part to your efforts, it could really help a man like you to get what you want. Couldn’t it?”
Armada was now standing slightly too close to Emiliano, just enough to set him off balance.
“Yes,” Emiliano said.
“And should you advance, then when it came time for Julian de Benaudalla to get his first teaching post, you would in turn help him with that. For was it not him that introduced you to Francisco Vergara?”
“Yes.”
“But it works the other the way, doesn’t it? If Vergara got the sense that you had somehow ruined his chances of winning this election, he could make sure your career ended before it ever began. Just a few whispers in people’s ears and your name would be slandered forever. You would have little hope of ever getting a post of any merit, at any university. And the hope of being on the Royal Council, or getting a title, would die.”