The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  Thomas scanned the list. “Did she think any of these might have killed him?”

  “I don’t think so. I suspect there is some measure of revenge in the drawing up of the names. Do we question them all?”

  Thomas refolded the paper and put it into his own pocket. “Some of them are in senior positions, I don’t think we will be allowed to.”

  “Would Mandana help?”

  “Mandana?” Thomas shook his head. “You want us to recruit him now? We could never trust anything he told us. Besides, his name is on this list too, is it not? Should he question himself?”

  “I dislike the man as much as you,” said Jorge, “but he is not behind these killings, not this time. He is up to something, we both know he is, but of this he is innocent.”

  “Then it is probably the only thing he is innocent of.” Thomas started off again, pushing against men and women who knocked into him. “Damn these crowds.”

  A red mark still adorned the thin wood of the door, as if the symbol might protect those not yet touched. Thomas pushed open the unlocked door, for who would want to enter here, and called out. He expected no response and received none.

  “Did she say where it happened?” asked Jorge.

  Thomas pointed along the dark corridor to where another door stood closed. “At the end, through there.” He led the way, knowing Jorge would be looking around, taking in the mean furnishings, the smell of something foul that clung to the air.

  “I trust there will be no sign remaining,” said Jorge.

  “With luck there will. But stay out here if you wish, this shouldn’t take long.” He pushed the door and entered a room that spanned the width of the house and half the depth. Despite that it was a small room. A window showed a yard, bordered by the rear of another house which allowed neither sunlight nor breeze to penetrate. Another door offered access to the yard, but for what reason Thomas could not see. Nothing would grow there and any clothes hung to dry would remain damp two days later.

  The table where Tabado’s body had lain stood square in the middle of the room. A blackened hearth showed where cooking would have been done, but all sign of cooking pots were gone, as were any chairs. It was a depressing place to have died, and Thomas wondered how much of it Tabado had been aware of. Had he been conscious when his eyes were drawn clear of their sockets and cut loose? What would that be like, to have your sight suddenly stolen away? Thomas shivered at the thought and leaned over the table to distract himself. The cook had told him the body was on the left hand side as she came through the door, so that was where he started. He saw no sign to indicate anything abhorrent had taken place. There were no blood stains, but he would expect to see none so long after the act. He moved to the other side of the table and examined every part of it, with no better result. Finally Thomas knelt and crouched beneath the table itself, examining the legs until he found what he was looking for.

  The marks were faint, but to someone who expected them they showed as bright beacons. Pale lines ran across three of the legs. The fourth was unmarked, but that might only mean the rope had not been tied so tightly there. Thomas lay on his back and stared at the underside of the table, his mind projecting backward to when two men might have lain side by side on it, their bodies immobilised by hemp rope. Was it hemp, he wondered, reaching out to where a fragment of something was caught in a splinter. Yes, hemp, and he tossed it aside to stare once more at the underside of the table, but nothing more revealed itself and he slid from beneath.

  Did they die together or was it one first and then the other? There would always be one to die first, of course, but had the agony been drawn out for the second victim? Was he made to listen to the other’s screams, knowing the same fate awaited him?

  Thomas wished he knew who the other person had been. A man most likely. Samuel had said there had only been a few women chosen. A name might offer more information, a clue to the motive. He touched his pocket, feeling the crackle of paper. He doubted the list would tell him anything. If he drew one up of those who hated him it would be three times as long, but there were few who would want him dead. He smiled. Well, perhaps a few, but most who had wanted to take his life were dead themselves now, several at his hand.

  He heard Jorge moving around upstairs and started to turn away. He had gleaned all he could from the house. It was inanimate, closed to him, and he knew the answer lay not in objects but people, and for that he would need Jorge even more.

  On a whim Thomas looked around until he found a chair leg which had broken in half and discarded in one corner, a dozen rounded stones scattered there as well. A rag lay across two of the stones and without knowing why Thomas picked it up and turned it over in his hands. A piece of linen, nothing more. He examined it more closely for marks of blood, but there was nothing. He lifted the cloth to his face and breathed deep, not sure what he was expecting to find, but any residual scent, if there had ever been one, was gone. All the cloth offered up was dust and damp.

  “What have you got there?” Jorge stood in the door, his examination of the rest of the house finished.

  “Smell this,” Thomas said, holding the cloth out and Jorge stepped away.

  “What? Keep that dirty rag away from me.”

  Shaking his head Thomas prowled the single room again, not exactly sure what he was searching for that he had not already found. He stirred the ashes in the fire but nothing unexpected showed. He was about to give up when Jorge, being the taller of them, reached up to a shelf Thomas had missed before and took down a clay bottle stoppered with a rag. He held it out, a smile on his face at how clever he had been.

  Thomas scowled and took the bottle. Shook it, but if it had ever held anything it was now empty. Even so he worked the rag loose from the neck, which was harder than he thought. When it finally came free he was rewarded with the faintest scent. He lifted the bottle to his face and breathed it hard.

  “Smell this,” he said, offering the bottle to Jorge.

  “We have already done this. No.”

  Thomas shook his head. “This is how he manages to subdue his victims. Perhaps even keeps them subdued while he does his work.”

  Jorge stepped closer and reached out. He sniffed tentatively.

  “What am I meant to smell? There has been something sweet stored here, sweet and acrid at the same time. Oil and lemon, perhaps, though there is something there I do not recognise at all.”

  “When I went to Qurtuba to heal Juan I brought liquor Lubna and I had prepared. Do you recall it?”

  “Only the bottles you told me not to touch. Why, is that what I can smell?”

  Thomas nodded, taking the bottle back. “It is. But why is it here? No – I know the why. How is it here? There are only a handful of people even know of its existence, and even fewer who could distill it.”

  “Theresa knew of it, did she not?” said Jorge.

  “Yes. I taught her how to administer the liquor. But Theresa is not our killer.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say it. Or surprised. I wonder is there anyone you do not suspect?”

  “I told you I was mistaken in suspecting Belia,” Thomas said. “Is that not enough?”

  “We should question the neighbours to find out if they saw or heard anything.”

  “It is a while since, and there would have been little noise if this rag truly was used to hold my liquor.”

  “People don’t forget strange occurrences,” said Jorge, turning to start the task.

  But by the time they came to the end of the street nobody claimed to know anything, other than one old man who said there had been a plague cart pulled up. Thomas dismissed his tale, knowing people had died in the house before the murders. Of course there would be a plague cart.

  At the end of the street he looked both ways. “Doesn’t Belia live not far from here?”

  “You never stop, do you,” said Jorge. “Or do you want me to punch you again?”

  “If you feel the urge can you try for the other side, this one
is sore. She does though, doesn’t she?”

  “Four or five streets in…” Jorge frowned, turned a full circle before pointing, “that direction, I think. And Samuel two streets beyond that.” Another frown, “Or two streets this way. When do we go back to Gharnatah, Thomas, this place depresses me and the women are ugly.”

  “Then you have found one who is not, as you always do. Al-Haquim’s house is no more than five hundred paces from Belia’s, isn’t it? How far are any of those houses from Tabado’s? Damn, but I wish I knew who the other man was.”

  “It would be good to have fewer suspects, not more,” said Jorge.

  “I already told you I am discounting Belia.”

  “So am I. Do you think one of these others are involved?”

  “Samuel has the skill,” Thomas said, “and I’m sure Mandana has access to those who could provide it.”

  “Or they are working together,” said Jorge. “If you suspect them that would make more sense.”

  “There is that. But we don’t know enough to make accusations, not yet. We need proof of some kind.”

  “And how exactly do we get your proof?” Jorge started along the alley, heading to where a splash of sunlight lit a cross street like a welcome beacon. Thomas did not know the answer to his question, but knew eventually he would.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thomas and Jorge were not the only ones busy that day. By the time they had gone to the palace to fetch Lubna and Will night was falling, and Belia had spent her time acquiring more furniture. The house had lost its air of abandonment, and the scent of a richly spiced meal greeted them. Will ran through to hug Belia’s legs and she bent to kiss the top of his head. Thomas watched, wondering what had possessed him to suspect her. Jorge’s instincts were good, and Thomas had relied on them in the past. He vowed he would not make the same mistake again.

  A table big enough to sit ten stood in the middle of the wide room that acted as both a place to cook and for relaxation – or that was how Belia had chosen to interpret it. Plates and fine glassware were laid, as well as jars of heavy red wine. Jorge poured a glass and handed it to Thomas.

  “Boats, Pa,” Will said, tugging at Thomas’s shirt. He ruffled his son’s hair and opened the windows so the boy could go onto the terrace.

  “But no wandering off again,” he said, and Will nodded, but whether he meant it or not was an unknown. All it would take was something interesting and he’d be gone. Thomas stood beside him for a while, understanding Will’s curiosity. Lamps were set on tall poles, others hanging from ship’s rigging as men worked to unload cargo from a caravelle docked almost directly opposite. Figures swarmed across both dock and deck, the ship’s master watching from a position on the foredeck, and Thomas narrowed his eyes, leaning across the railing in an attempt to see better. He laughed, making Will look up and Jorge to appear at his side.

  “Did Will say something funny?” asked Jorge.

  Thomas pointed. “See the man on the foredeck?”

  “The well-dressed one?” Jorge said.

  “Do you not recognise him? It’s that madman Columb, the one who wants to sail across the western sea to discover China.”

  “China is already discovered,” said Jorge.

  “I told you, he is a madman.”

  Will tugged at Thomas. “Is madman bad, Pa?”

  “What? Yes, a madman is someone who’s mind doesn’t work right, Will.”

  “Bad?”

  “Not bad, no, just misguided.”

  Will tried the word on his tongue, failing to manage it but taking the failure in good spirit. “Morfar say mad good.”

  “Olaf told you that?”

  Will nodded, suddenly serious.

  “When?” But Thomas knew when, knew he would have to talk to Will’s grandfather about his idea of training a boy for the world.

  “Fight,” Will said, taking a stance as if he held a shield and sword. “Morfar say mad good in fight.”

  “Yes, he would. But so are brains.”

  “Brains?” Will held his palm in front of his face and smacked it against his forehead. He grinned. “Yes, Morfar say brain good too.”

  “Are you going to talk to him?” asked Jorge.

  “Columb? Why would I want to do that?”

  “What are they unloading?”

  “I don’t know that either. Does it matter?”

  Will stood on the railing, half hanging over, and Thomas picked him up by the back of his trousers and set him on his feet.

  “He’s not a slaver, is he?”

  “Not as far as I know.” Thomas glanced inside to where Lubna and Belia sat at the table, heads together like the oldest of friends. “Come on, let’s go and eat.” He picked Will up again and carried him swinging inside, the boy laughing all the way.

  Later, when Will was asleep, curled on a settle beside the fire, Thomas pulled out the now crumpled sheet of paper Jorge had obtained and smoothed it on the table top. He had drunk too much wine and his belly was tight with good food, but he wanted to discuss his findings with the others while he still could.

  Lubna came to stand behind him, wrapped her arms around his chest and rested her chin on his shoulder. The house was quiet, but the calls of the sailors and workers continued to come from beyond the open window, as well as flies and moths that batted against the lamps, causing their light to shimmer.

  Lubna reached around and put a finger on the list of names, most now crossed through, including that of Mandana, but that had been Thomas’s decision and not a result of their enquiries. It had been a hard day, with many difficult conversations. As he had said when the list was handed to him, many of the names were of men important in the city. His initial fear was they would be unable to question them or their households. Jorge had stilled that fear when he suggested they pretend they were on the Queen’s business. He had made up a story that she wanted to appoint a new Bishop in Cadiz, and sought their advice. Now only four names remained and Thomas held little hope they could tell him anything more than he already knew. He hoped those they had spoken to would keep the conversation confidential, as asked. He might have doubted it, but the way each had subtly dismissed their rivals while putting themselves forward made him think self-interest would keep them silent. At least until they discovered there was no such post available in Cadiz.

  Belia stacked plates to clear the table, set them aside and returned to her place beside Jorge.

  “So,” she said, “exactly what do you know so far? Other than I am your main suspect?” But she smiled when she said it.

  “I apologise,” Thomas said.

  “You are not forgiven, but I am working on it. Tell us what you know so far, and let us see if we can help.”

  “Jorge knows it all.”

  “And Lubna and I do not, unless you think women cannot cope with such ideas.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Lubna has helped before.”

  “But you do not know me,” said Belia.

  Thomas almost asked Jorge if she was always this spiky but stopped himself in time. Belia had a point. Keeping the information to themselves meant something might be missed.

  Jorge refilled their glasses as Thomas started. He laid out what they knew, what they could guess, and tried to explain what they did not yet know. They remained silent while he went through the explanation and when he was finished he picked up his glass, drained it and held it out for more.

  Lubna had come to sit beside him, her hand in his resting in his lap. Belia and Jorge sat opposite, their shoulders touching, and Thomas had a sense of contentment he wasn’t sure he had ever experienced so deeply before. The four of them here in the scented night, the sound of workmen outside, in a place they might call their own, if only for a time. It felt right. Only one thing spoiled the effect – this was Spain, not al-Andalus. But was that such a bad thing? Al-Andalus was doomed, Thomas knew, and in Spain he was a trusted friend to both King and Queen. A blessed individual.

  “You need a
nother list,” said Lubna. “Of the victims.”

  “We don’t know enough about them,” Thomas said, “or even who most of them are.”

  “But you know some things. Here.” She turned the paper over, got up to search for something to write with. When she came back she said, “Tell me what you know. Who is the one you are sure of? You mentioned a name before.”

  “Tabado,” Thomas said. “Filipe Tabado, Deacon to the Archbishop.”

  Lubna wrote the name down in Arabic, right to left. Thomas reached out and stopped her.

  “Let me, otherwise Belia will be unable to read it.”

  Lubna gave up the quill.

  “I can read it,” said Belia, “let her continue.”

  “He was married, wasn’t he?” said Lubna.

  Thomas gave her the details.

  “Do you know who her father is?”

  He shook his head, glanced at Jorge.

  “I didn’t ask. I could try going back but doubt she will talk to me again. She didn’t like being questioned the first time.”

  “Even you? I thought you could charm any woman,” Thomas said.

  “It would be a dull world if such were so,” said Jorge, and Thomas saw both Lubna and Belia smile, knowing he had long since captured both their hearts.

  Lubna rapped a knuckle on the table. “When, when, when.”

  “Two weeks before I arrived, as near as I can judge, so the middle of August.”

  “And the body you saw when you arrived?”

  “Ten days, something like that.” He tried to remember how much time had passed since Martin led him into the city. Ten days was near enough.

  “And now it’s the middle of September.” Lubna drew a line and marked the days off, then extended it to the other side of the paper. “Now we need to find out when the others were taken.” She ticked tiny marks, each representing a day.

  “To what purpose?” Belia leaned across to look at what Lubna was doing.

  “Thomas knows there is usually a pattern,” said Lubna. “He has taught me that much over the years whether he meant to or not, and I am nothing if not a good student.”