“We didn’t kill him!” Marco said. “We just wanted to initiate him. That’s all.”
“What’s the initiation?”
“It’s a drinking game. It’s harmless.”
“Keep going.”
“You get him to drink a few ales, then you hit him in the stomach a few times until he’s sick, then tell him if he doesn’t drink another, he won’t get in. The rule is if he takes a sip, no matter how small, he’s in. That’s it. Nobody was going to kill him. He was going to be one of us, for God’s sake!”
Armada suddenly began losing his rage. He didn’t see guilt in any of these boys’ faces. They were frightened, but no more than anybody would be when confronted by such accusations. They all knew they were a long way from the protective influence of their parents at the moment. They were alone in a room with a constable of the Holy Brotherhood, who could do as he liked before anyone could reach them. And each one of these boys was feeling real fear, probably for the first time.
But it didn’t make sense. If none of these boys did it….
“Who delivered the letter after Julian wrote it? Who gave it to Aurelio?”
“I did,” said the youngest boy, meekly raising his hand.
“So, what did you think when Aurelio arrived for his first day?”
“Um…that he was…a coward….”
Armada was suddenly confused. He’d been hoping to hear why the boy didn’t realise the Aurelio who showed up for his first day of class was a different boy than the boy he delivered the letter to. Cowardice didn’t factor into it.
“A coward? Why?”
“Because he never showed up,” Marco said. “We were here waiting for him all night. He never came.”
“But you still saw his face,” Armada said at the youngest one.
“I didn’t…I didn’t know what he looked like. All I knew to do was go to Alteatejada and just ask around. I told everyone I was a cousin who was visiting and this nice lady in the plaza told me where his house was. I saw his mother putting out the wash round the back, so I slipped in and put it under his pillow. It wasn’t hard to figure out which room was his. Then I left. That was it.”
“So, you never actually saw him before he arrived for that first day of lectures?”
“No.”
Armada’s heart sank again. Was all this only destined to leave him at a dead end once more?
“Did anyone else besides you boys know about the letter? Did you tell anyone else about it? Or show it to anyone?”
“No, definitely not,” Marco said. “Julian was clear about that. We were to tell no one.”
“Did you all keep to that rule?” Armada asked, casting his gaze about the boys. They all nodded back to him, including the youngest.
“And you encountered no one on your way to Alteatejada?”
“No. No one,” the youngest said.
The problem was that Armada believed him. But it left him with nothing.
To begin with, these boys had no motivation. They had no idea the Aurelio they had lived with was not the real Aurelio. There was a period of time, before Gregorio Cordoba and Julian de Benaudalla had found Aurelio’s body, when all was well within the group. The boys had accepted the fake Aurelio just fine. And why wouldn’t they? They had never met the true Aurelio Martinez.
Perhaps Juan Mendoza? Or his mother? But how could they have possibly known where Aurelio was going to be that night? His whereabouts were known only to San Bartolomé and he was moving about at night when he couldn’t be seen. They had motivation, but neither of the Mendozas would have had the opportunity to do so.
The thought of Enrique crossed his mind, but there was no connection that Armada could see to Aurelio’s death. It seemed extremely unlikely that Enrique killed Gregorio quite randomly, having no idea about Gregorio’s discovery of Aurelio’s body. There was no way those events were not connected, but Enrique had no knowledge of Aurelio. And his actions on the night of the murder made no sense, anyway. Why hang about outside such a gruesome crime scene? And then claim innocence? Enrique had the whiff of trickster about him, but he was no idiot. If he was the culprit, he would have fled the scene and never come back.
Which left Armada with nothing. The case had come to a halt on the one night when Armada most needed a solid lead. His inability to solve this case was now putting Lucas’s life in danger. It was happening all over again. For it was he who put Lucas’s life in danger in the first place by trying and failing to solve the murder of his parents. He was failing Lucas and didn’t know how to put things right.
And now Lucas would die as a result.
Before he knew it, Armada stood up and kicked over the table in frustration before letting out a growl. He couldn’t solve cases under such stress. It wasn’t how his mind worked. He needed to calm down. He needed a sherry. He needed rest. He needed to sort out everything he knew about the case, lay it all out and see if there was anything he missed.
He needed Lucas.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Armada knew it was mad. It would mean the end of his career. The end of his freedom. And if he’d gotten it wrong, a killer would go free. It was desperate, he knew. And rarely had anything good come when he’d acted upon his most desperate notions. But there was no more time. He no longer had the luxury of taking things slow and measured and following his moral conscience. In the next twenty-four hours, he would be ejected from the city and Lucas would lose his life. And then it would all be over.
Armada couldn’t let that happen. Despite what his instincts told him, he was already racing back to his room to enact his mad plan. But he had to be quick. He only had tonight to work with. A precious few hours of darkness. He had to make the most of them.
Armada arrived at the building he was staying at to find Rodriguez standing at the front entrance. No doubt with orders to take Armada into custody and escort him out of the city as quickly, and quietly, as possible.
Taking a small alley that led along the side of the building, Armada dashed into the back and entered through a small door he’d found earlier, creeping his way up the stairs toward his room. There was something he needed first, and he wasn’t sure where it was. It had gone dark, which meant he would have to find it mostly by feel, as he couldn’t risk lighting a candle to show Rodriguez he’d returned.
Armada opened his eyes, trying to take in as much of what little moonlight trickled in through the windows as possible. He kicked the leg of the sherry barrel stand and cursed himself quietly, then made his way toward the back wall where Lucas had organised their provisions.
Feeling the bags, Armada stuck his hand inside one to find it full of clothes, another with small sacks of fruit they’d brought. Then another with some of Armada’s writing supplies. He rooted around at the bottom of this bag, until his fingers curled around the sharp metal edge of what he was looking for. It had been wrapped in a bit of black satin cloth for safekeeping, a cloth that rarely came off. Armada pulled it from the cloth and tucked it away inside his jacket.
He left out the back door once again and, being careful to keep his head turned away, snuck down the road toward the Rúa de San Martín before turning north toward the plaza.
The plaza was empty and quiet, littered with debris from that day’s market, debris that wouldn’t be cleaned up until the next morning when the merchants returned once again.
There was no one about as Armada crossed the plaza toward the ayuntamiento. Thankfully, it had not yet been locked, suggesting there were councillors inside working late tonight. Armada went in to find there was no porter about, so he made his way to the back stairs that led to the jail below.
It was here his eyes finally found light. A bright flickering of torch light danced its way along the stone walls. There was a jailer there, seated on an old stool made of cracked, greying olive logs and leaning way back until his head rested on the wall, trying to doze a bit.
The sound of Armada’s footsteps woke the man and he was on his feet, eyes
popping open, as Armada approached.
“Buenas noches,” Armada said, smiling.
The jailer nodded. “You’re that Brotherhood constable. There are a lot of people looking for you.”
“I’m aware of that. But I have other business tonight.”
“Not here, I’m afraid. You’re not allowed to—”
The jailer stopped speaking after he felt the cold steel of Armada’s dagger at his throat.
“I do apologise for this. But my time is rather short,” Armada said, keeping his voice down. “I’m going to need you to release my page, Lucas.”
“What, the boy? He’s a murderer.”
“No, he isn’t. But I don’t have time to argue that right now. The keys, please.”
To make his point, Armada pressed the dagger until it almost drew blood.
The jailer clutched at his belt until he wrapped the keys around his fingers, as Armada pulled him away from the wall enough to get around the back of him. Then, both men shuffled their way down the corridor until they were standing in front of Lucas’s cell.
Lucas glanced at what was going on and was stunned to see Armada holding the dagger.
“Sir…?”
“Go on,” Armada said to the jailer. He could feel the man stiffening his back, possibly getting ready to make a move.
Instead, the jailer fumbled with the keys and opened Lucas’s cell door.
“What are you doing, sir?”
“Solving a case. Come along.”
“But sir, I’ll be a fugitive.”
“It’s better than being a dead man. Quickly!”
Lucas seemed unsure as he slid out of the cell. Armada pushed the jailer in, then took a few moments to clasp his wrists in irons behind him before finally tying up his mouth with the black satin cloth the dagger had been wrapped in, if only to give him a little more time before the jailer could attract anyone’s attention.
Armada and Lucas then dashed down the corridor, up the stairs, and out of the ayuntamiento. Once outside, Armada kept running. He needed to be sure, although he wasn’t clear what that meant. No one was chasing them. But still, he ran until his exhaustion made it impossible to continue.
They were at the head of a small street that curved around off the plaza, well out of sight of the front of the ayuntamiento. It was here Armada leaned against a wall to catch his breath, noting how there were no windows on this street. Just high stone walls giving them ample privacy for the moment.
“Sir, why did you do that?” he heard Lucas ask in the darkness.
“I need your help, Lucas. I’ve been unable to make any progress with this case. I have chased up every lead, every clue. And nothing fits. There is something I am missing.”
“But sir, I was going to get a lawyer tomorrow. Maybe there was some way they could delay it until I could—”
“There was no way you would be granted access to a lawyer tomorrow, Lucas. They wanted you hung so the case could be resolved in the eyes of the Duke of Frades. Nothing else is more important than that to men like the magistrate.”
“Then we should flee, sir. Let’s get the cart. I’m sure I can get us to Madrid by nightfall, and—”
“No, Lucas. That is not why I helped you escape.”
“What?”
The boy sounded hurt. And why wouldn’t he? Armada wasn’t sure what he’d expected Lucas’s reaction to be. He needed to see it from the boy’s point of view. Would Lucas feel betrayed by his reckless act? Armada had foreseen at least some measure of gratitude, but perhaps that was too much to ask for. Perhaps the boy was focused on his own fear of death, as anyone would.
“There is only one way to save your life. And that is to solve the case. Nothing else will do.”
“Nothing else will do, sir? They’re going to hang me!”
“I’m aware of that. And I’m trying to stop them. And this is the only way. Now concentrate. We need to go over the entire case—”
“But even if we solve the case, they’ll hang me just for breaking out of prison! How could you do this?”
Lucas stepped away. It was a small step, but it felt to Armada like the furthest Lucas had ever been from him.
“I have to go, sir. I have to get out of the city….”
Lucas turned to start running.
“And how far do you think you’ll get?” Armada said sternly. “Out of the city, yes. But then you’ll be out in the countryside. No food, no water. No money. You won’t have my provisions. Those are back in the room, which you don’t have time to collect. And they’ll send a tracker after you. A good one, like Bresson. How long do you think you’ll be able to avoid them?”
Armada needed to soften his tone. He didn’t want to argue with Lucas. That wasn’t going to help anything.
“Running away won’t help. And even if you do avoid the tracker, you will be a fugitive for the rest of your life. Always looking over your shoulder, wondering if someone will figure it out and turn you in. Knowing you could be found out at any moment. What kind of life is that?”
The boy wanted to run, but he didn’t.
“The only way you are ever going to be free is if we solve this case. We have only hours before the jailer is discovered, possibly less. If we are unable to, then perhaps it will help to know that I will most likely hang alongside of you. We are both in this together now. Just as we’ve always been.”
Lucas didn’t move. He needed time to think things over. Armada just wished he would think a little faster.
“I don’t want to die, sir,” Lucas said, his voice cracking.
“I’m as afraid as you are, Lucas.”
Armada stepped forward, placing a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas only nodded, signalling he was ready to help.
“What do we do, sir?”
“What you and that ridiculous Italian man do best,” Armada said.
Lucas smiled. He had spent so many hours in the past annoying Armada with quotes from Riselo’s book that espoused the value of using scientific methods in examining the physical world in criminal investigation. To Armada, Riselo knew less than lizards about how to find true killers. It ignored the most important aspect of investigation—the people. Armada had long been well served by focusing on the witnesses and suspects in any murder case, for were murders not committed by people? The more he learned about what motived them, the closer he got to solving the case. Examining all the useless little bits and pieces of a case, such as footprints or bits of clothing, just seemed like a lot of busy work that never got to the heart of things. Armada wasn’t sure where Lucas had found the book or why he was so fascinated by it, and normally he wouldn’t have given Riselo’s methods a second glance.
But he was desperate.
“So, where do we start?”
“As I’ve said before, at the beginning. Come along.”
Armada hurried from the alley with Lucas in tow and they raced toward the River Gate, just beyond which lay the old Roman Bridge and the stone verraco that greeted anyone wishing to cross it. Soon, they were halfway across, just beyond where the ornate Roman stonework gave way to the wretched wooden planks of the repaired section. The river lazily drifted past down below, glittering in the light of the moon that was nearly half now.
“This is it.”
“What, sir?”
“The very beginning of the case. Aurelio Martinez was murdered by someone who saw him crossing this bridge, on a night that looked very much like this. It was an opportunistic killing, and the murders of Gregorio Cordoba and Julian de Benaudalla were only a reaction to that original crime. If there are answers to find regarding this case, they will be here. So, what do you see?”
Lucas looked around the bridge.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Look harder, Lucas. Use those techniques that madman Italian taught you.”
“But sir, Riselo is usually talking about little details. Not big things. I don’t know where to start with all this.”
“What good is he th
en?” Armada said, losing his temper. It was suddenly too hot. There was no breeze at the moment, and he was sweating.
“We will have to keep walking, all the way to Alteatejada if we have to, until we can find some kind of clue as to how this murder took place.”
“But sir, I’m too sore. I can’t keep walking like this. It hurts too much.”
“Come, Lucas! We don’t have time for luxuries like pain!”
Armada marched his way across the wooden section of the bridge, hearing Lucas shuffling his way across as best he could behind him. They were back in Santiago now, back on the gravelly, rutted road that would take them further south. Armada wasn’t sure he would follow through on his threat to march an injured Lucas all the way to Alteatejada. It was cruel, he knew.
Behind him, Lucas came off the bridge and Armada could now hear his feet as they scraped along the gravel, making it sound as though Lucas were a leper, leaning heavily on a walking stick and pleading for alms. Armada was angry that Lucas slowed them down. It was irrational, he knew. But was Lucas not aware he was trying to save his life?
“Sir, this is mad!”
“Don’t tell me what is mad, Lucas! I have always…!”
Armada stopped as a woman walked by, smiling at them as she passed. She was elderly, sixties or seventies at least, and carrying a pile of washing on her head. It was hard to tell from her face how much of their argument she had heard. If she did overhear, she did not acknowledge it. She only softly chuckled while smiling in that way elderly Spanish women sometimes did when they were nervous around strangers. She shuffled past them, her shoes scraping along the gravelly path, but not slowing her speed as she passed. She had much more important things to do tonight.
Armada suddenly felt silly and tried to calm himself. The case was over. He was finding it hard to accept. And there were worse implications. More than the inevitable prison time and hanging, the smugness he was bound to get from that magistrate de la Fuente once he was in irons. Right now, that was the worst of it.
Armada then noticed Lucas was still staring at the old woman as she continued along a well-worn path that split from the one leading to the head of the bridge. The path veered off to the east and took her up a small rise overlooking the river.
The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set Page 76
