The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  Thomas had no recollection of teaching her anything about this thing he did that he wished he did not, but knew Lubna missed nothing and remembered almost everything. Whether he approved of her interest or not it was too late now to change it.

  “We need to know why, too,” he said, and Lubna nodded. Jorge appeared to have fallen asleep, but Belia’s eyes sparked with the excitement of the chase.

  “There will be the usual reasons,” said Lubna. “Jealousy, greed, hatred.” She wrote them beneath the line of times.

  “And sometimes there is no reason at all,” Thomas said. “Nothing but bad luck. It was like that with Mandana, no reason for the choice of his victims.”

  “Except you told me it was not him did the choosing,” said Lubna. “Didn’t he have a monk who went prowling for the vulnerable? It would be that man’s motives we would need to know.”

  “He took pretty girls,” Thomas said. “And we all know the reason for that.”

  “Tabado was a man of God,” said Lubna. “Do we know what any of the others were?”

  “We do not even know how many, let alone their names or professions, though I am sure Mandana said several were priests or men of God. But we cannot base a theory on a single victim.”

  “We could consider it, why someone would take men of God. I agree we do not have enough information yet, but if we throw our net wide who knows what might be caught?”

  “It is not just men of God though, is it? If the victims are taken in pairs only one of them is Christian. The others have been Jews and Moors. Unless we have not been told everything.”

  “Mandana will not have revealed everything he knows,” said Jorge.

  “He is a changed man, I hear,” said Lubna.

  “Pretending to be.” Jorge wriggled his shoulders, getting himself comfortable.

  “Go to bed,” Thomas said.

  “I am waiting for Belia,” said Jorge. “I no longer sleep alone.”

  Belia slapped the back of his head and Jorge smiled, but remained with his cheek turned to the table.

  “Supposing they were all men of God,” Thomas said, “and I’m not saying they were or that I accept such as a connection, why kill them?”

  “What if it was someone who hated their God. Someone like al-Haquim, or me, a Muslim. Someone who hated what their God is doing with these burnings?”

  The Inquisition was a strong argument, Thomas knew. The crowds who came to witness the burnings, who came to dance and jeer and take a perverse pleasure in the pain of others, were large, but still only a small proportion of the city. There would be others afraid, and fear could lead to hate and retribution.

  “There is another reason for murder,” Thomas said. “Jealousy. Sex, infidelity and jealousy.” He tapped the paper. “Put Theresa’s name down.”

  “You don’t suspect her, do you?”

  “Of course not. But she was Tabado’s lover. How do we know she did not have others before him? What if she has an admirer who is killing her lovers one by one?”

  Without raising his head Jorge chuckled. “Don’t you mean two by two? And doesn’t that challenge your argument? God’s teeth, how many lovers do you think she has taken?”

  “No, but suppose–” he started, only to be interrupted by a loud knock at the door. He sat up, as did Jorge, both men startled.

  “Are you expecting another delivery?” Thomas asked. “More furniture?”

  “Nothing,” said Belia.

  Another hammering at the door, louder this time, and Jorge rose to his full height, instantly awake. Thomas was first to the door. He nodded to Jorge, who took a position out of sight.

  When Thomas flung the door wide just as a third set of knocks sounded, the man with a hand raised took a sudden step back.

  “Are you Don Olmos?” The man frowned in recognition of Thomas, but knew he was not the one he sought.

  “Who wants him?” Thomas blocked the entrance, making himself wide.

  “I have a message.” The man held a sealed letter out, and when Thomas took it the red wax still held a hint of warmth. “It is important, he must read it at once.”

  “Is an answer needed?” Thomas asked.

  “None I know of.” The man turned and ran into the dark, the sound of his boots echoing from the houses on either side.

  Thomas broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  “That is for me,” said Jorge, coming out of hiding.

  Thomas shook his head and handed it across. “Then read it.”

  Jorge went so far as to take the letter and pretend to look it over before handing it back.

  “It’s in Spanish,” he said, as if that explained his lack of understanding.

  Thomas smiled, the smile fading as he read the contents. He shook his head. “It’s from the Queen,” he said. “She wants to see you in the morning. You and Lubna. She wants you both to visit her.” Thomas gave the letter to Jorge, who studied it once more.

  “Is this her hand?”

  Thomas glanced at the letter. “No, she has scribes to write her words. Her hand is finer than that.”

  “What does she want with me?” said Jorge.

  Thomas looked at him, shook his head. “How am I supposed to know that?”

  “She is your friend.”

  “Who has decided not to tell me what interest she has in you.”

  “And Lubna. Don’t forget Lubna.”

  “I’m not likely to. I think she likes Lubna. And her children like Will.” Thomas shook his head again, baffled at the way of the world. “Remember not to be late, Isabel rises early.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In the moment of slipping from sleep to awake Thomas had no concept of where he was. The splash of sunlight on the wall was wrong, as were the sounds coming through the open window. But the shape beside him was the same, and he remembered they had stayed in the house by the river, and that so long as Lubna lay beside him he needed little else.

  He swung his feet to the wooden floor and stood, stretching, a crack coming from the bones in his neck. A small hand clutched at his leg and he stepped away.

  “Come back to bed,” said Lubna, throwing the covers aside to show him what awaited if he did.

  He looked, smiled, and found his clothes. Will would be awake, and he didn’t want him annoying Belia or Jorge.

  “Don’t forget you have an appointment with the Queen.”

  Lubna made a noise and slipped from the bed as Thomas went barefoot down the wide stairs. The ground floor room came into view as he descended, Belia at the stove where water boiled in a pot. Segments of fruit were on a plate on the table, together with nuts and soft cheese. The perfume of baking bread brought saliva to his mouth.

  “Is he still in bed?”

  Belia turned, her face without expression, and Thomas wondered whether she had forgiven him or not. Most likely not, and he could not blame her for it.

  “I tried to wake him but he complained so much I thought coffee and warm bread might have more luck than I did.”

  “Has he forgotten the Queen wants to see him?” Thomas said.

  “No, he remembers, but he is lazy.” At last a small smile was offered. “He claims to be a great warrior but I am not sure I believe him. A great lover, perhaps, but a fighter?”

  Thomas picked up a fresh roll, tossing it from hand to hand, too hot yet to handle or eat. “Jorge claims many things, some of which have a basis in fact, most of which do not.”

  “Which should I believe?” said Belia. “I am not sure I have heard one that stands the light of examination.”

  “I am sure you have,” Thomas said, uneasy at the conversation. Despite knowing Belia the longest of them, he did not know her well or deeply, not like Jorge would by now.

  “Ah,” she said, “that one. Yes, perhaps so. Will you continue your investigation today?” She brought a steaming pot of coffee and set it on the table before pulling a chair out for herself. She too reached for a roll, her fingers more used to the heat
than his. She tore it into pieces and dipped one into a pot of oil.

  “I want to see if I can discover the names of more victims.”

  “It will be hard,” said Belia, one arm on the table, the other selecting a choice of foods with which to break her fast. “Scores a day die here, people go missing for a surfeit of reasons. Whole families take their goods and set out to escape the pestilence, others in fear of the Inquisition or the Ghost.”

  “You are still here,” Thomas said.

  “It is my home. And I am like you, I think, immune to the disease.”

  “I am not immune. I fell ill when I was young but lived. It is that which has made me safe, I think. If we could only infect everyone with a tiny piece of the disease perhaps it would work for all as it has for me.”

  Belia smiled, indulging his flight of fancy. “I never caught it, but still it avoids me. Perhaps I frighten it. I am not beautiful like Lubna or the Queen.”

  Thomas laughed. “If you were not beautiful Jorge would not be sharing your bed.”

  “Does he only sleep with beautiful women?”

  Thomas saw she was not seeking a compliment, she was genuinely curious. “No, but if he has a choice he will choose the one he can lavish the most love on. It is not how a woman looks to him but how much he can please her. He says… well, as we’ve already spoken of, Jorge says a lot.”

  “What does he say of love?” Belia bit into a ripe fig, wiped at her chin. Her dark eyes captured Thomas like a moth to a lamp, and he wondered how she could not consider herself beautiful.

  “Jorge claims to be able to release the full potential of a woman to her own pleasure.”

  A hint of a flush touched Belia’s cheeks. “Well, yes, as we have agreed, he does spout a lot of nonsense. I will help you today if you will have me. Or trust me.”

  “I apologise for my suspicions,” Thomas said, wondering how many more times he would have to say it.

  Belia’s expression remained unchanged, but when she spoke her voice was softer. “I understand your reasoning. I would have followed the same logic, no doubt, but I considered us friends, Thomas, and friends do not suspect each other of murder.”

  “I can say no more. I am sorry to the core of my being.”

  “It is because I know herbs and my husband was a surgeon, isn’t it?”

  “I saw the instruments at your house, clean as if used only the day before.”

  “They are kept that way to honour his memory.” She smiled. “And the occasional client who trusts me, a women, more than the butchers of this city. Do you want my assistance or not? There is enough to keep me busy here, but I believe I can help.”

  “In what way?” Thomas realised the words sounded harsher than he meant, but Belia held a hand up as he started to compose something softer.

  “I know everyone in this city who needs herbs. My husband knew even more. Men of science and medicine. Harridans who will scoop the child from a woman’s womb when it is unwelcome. Women who create potions of dubious purpose. Everyone. You say your killer is skilled with a blade?”

  Thomas nodded. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Jorge appeared, dressed only in a pair of linen pants.

  “Then I probably know who they are. Not who,” Belia said, “but I judge there are no more than thirty men in the city capable of what you claim has been done.”

  “And women?”

  “Only one.” She stared at Thomas, eyes black and deep.

  “How do we judge who might be guilty?”

  “I have a plan of great subtlety. You ask them if they are the killer. Hold them to the wall if you must, but the asking will be enough. You ask and I will watch. If anyone is guilty they will show it in some way.”

  Thomas smiled, then laughed. Yes, it was a plan – but subtle? He thought not. However, it might work, and he nodded as he reached across the table to offer his hand. Belia took it, her own a moth trapped inside his palm. She smiled, more forgiveness in the gesture than a thousand words.

  “Put her down,” said Jorge as he sat. “She’s mine.”

  Belia slapped him across the cheek and Jorge grinned. “Take care, the Queen will not be pleased if I come to her with a bruise to match Thomas’s.”

  “What does she want with them?” Belia walked beside him, not a foot behind as most other women who accompanied their menfolk on the streets. Her back was straight, head held high, black hair catching every zephyr of breeze to caress her face.

  “Lubna I can understand, Jorge not,” Thomas said. “Perhaps she means to question them about me. She wants me to live in Spain, to become her personal physician.”

  “I did not know, but it makes sense. You should accept. There will be riches and honours. Jorge tells me she loves you.”

  “But I am not of this place.”

  “You are not of al-Andalus either, but you live there. Though not for much longer, I judge.”

  “You are right in that. And maybe when that day comes I will return to her if she will still have me.”

  “She will have you. She would be a fool not to, and from what I hear she is no fool.”

  “No.” Thomas looked around. They had come to the north, almost to the city wall, and the houses here sat close together with only a few rising above a single storey. “What is your plan, Belia?”

  “We are almost at the first name, then we will work our way back to the south. It will be a long day and require much walking, if you are able.”

  Thomas did not consider an answer necessary.

  “What if we find no-one?” asked Belia.

  “Then we think again, but I am confident. Your idea is sound. Whoever is doing this possesses skills known to you and few others.”

  “What if they are not known to me?” said Belia. “People come and go all the time. These days it is mostly go, but you have seen the ships that come to the dock. Sevilla is the gateway of Spain. All goods land here, and all exports are carried from them. But if these deaths go back some time, which you claim, then the person responsible lives in Sevilla. And if as you also say he has specific skills, then we may catch him before nightfall.”

  “That would be good. Then I can find out what Jorge and Lubna are up to.”

  Belia smiled. “Forget them for now, we are here.” She stopped in front of a single story house with a sun-bleached door, some of the planks curling under the onslaught of the sun. She waited for Thomas to knock, so he stepped around her and rapped on the wood.

  Neither Jorge or Lubna were at the house by the river when they returned. Thomas could scarce believe they were still at the palace, but the rooms had an air of abandonment, too newly populated to hold the sense of a person for long. He would go to the palace, but first he wanted to write down what they had discovered, even what they had failed to discover.

  When he fetched a sheet of paper and sat at the table Belia said, “I have everything here,” tapping her forehead.

  “I am used to writing things down. It helps me think, to organise the information. Give me the names again, and remind me of who was not at home and who was, and those two who are possible suspects.”

  “No wonder you have to write things down if you cannot recall what we have done so recently.” But Belia sat across from him and spoke the names.

  Thomas wrote in two columns, one containing most of the names, men they had spoken to and dismissed. Some were drunkards incapable of the skill shown. Others too old. Others too soft – Jorge would have recognised the capability of each, but Thomas was learning, and Belia knew these men best of all.

  In the second column he ruled a line half way down. Below he wrote the names of those who had not been home, and Belia offered a judgement on their character which ruled them out, but Thomas knew he would still want to talk to them. Above the line were the names of the two who were both skilled enough and, in both their opinion, of a mind that might encompass murder.

  The first was a Moor by the name of Quys al-Amrhan, exiled from his homeland, the other of Jewis
h descent, named Ezera Salman.

  “Tell me about this one, al-Amrhan.” Thomas tapped the paper, careful not to smear the wet ink. The pot he had mixed sat in the middle of the table where it was safe from being tipped over. “You told me he was an exile, do you know why?”

  “Only rumour, and I don’t give credence to rumour.”

  “Neither do I, unless it is all we have.”

  Belia sighed. “Some say he killed an important man and had to flee for his life, others that he owed money. There are other tales, but none worth giving consideration.”

  “Who did he kill?” Thomas made a mark against the name, his writing small and precise.

  “It was not murder was the tale I was told. He was trying to excise a tumour and the patient died.”

  “That is not so unusual,” Thomas said. “I have lost patients myself the same way, more than I would wish, but it happens.”

  “I agree. The way it was told to me the man was important and his family blamed Quys.”

  “Where did this happen?” It made no difference, but Thomas was curious.

  “Malaka.” Belia used the Moorish pronunciation. “A fine city, other than for the flies.”

  Thomas smiled. “I studied there many years ago. I’m of a mind to take Lubna there to complete her training. But you are right about the flies.”

  “A female surgeon? She would not be accepted.”

  “Likely not, but trained she will be even more useful to me than she already is. Tell me about the other man, this Salman.”

  “Jewish and, as far as I know, still a follower of the old ways. A good surgeon, born in Sevilla.”

  “So why is he here,” Thomas tapped the side containing two names, “and not here?” the other side.

  Belia studied the table top, a short nail scratching at the surface. Thomas stared at the henna patterns that curled across her skin to snake into the folds of her robe, recalling the patterns Lubna had worn when she arrived but had since faded, those that had been applied for their wedding. It seemed year ago, not a few short weeks.

  “There is something about him, something cold. His patients have complained to me that he cares nothing for them, only for the displaying of his skill.”