The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  Thomas turned to see a narrow doorway set cornerwise to a pillar, which clearly offered access to the hidden corridors of the Cathedral, those places that provided access to workmen and others. He had started toward the door when Lubna called out to him.

  “We are expected,” she said, glaring.

  “I know, I know, I will be a moment and no longer. Go with Theresa to Jorge’s house and I will run. I may even be there before you.”

  Lubna looked as if she was not going to give way, but before she could object Thomas disappeared through the doorway, because it came to him where he had seen the man before. He had been the cart driver who had almost dismounted him on his arrival into the city. The cart that had contained victims of the plague, but also at least one body that had met its end by other means, and he wondered if al-Amrhan was not the man he sought after all.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The only light came from small windows set high in the walls. Almost immediately ahead a rough wooden staircase rose steeply, the treads narrow. It was possible to squeeze past on one side where the corridor continued on into shadow. Thomas looked up, looked past the stairs. If the man had managed to abduct Theresa, if indeed that had been his plan, which way would he have taken her? Theresa was slight, but strong. Would he have known this? He must have known she would fight, so which direction? To continue on would require them to go in single file. Thomas imagined her kicking out and breaking free. He turned away, ascended the stairs.

  The upper corridor, like the lower, was a means of access, nothing more, squeezed into the space between the rough stone of the outer wall and the finery of within. It reminded Thomas of another narrow passageway he had pursued a different killer through. A girl he had grown to like a great deal had died for him there. He didn’t want that to ever happen again.

  Here and there on the inner wall were small shelves holding unlit candles, and Thomas took the time to light every third one. As he moved forward he examined the floor for any sign someone had been this way but saw nothing. An alcove opened to the right, but when he glanced in there was only a tumble of cleaning instruments and some old stools with broken legs. He took a moment to take one of the legs to carry in his hand. He thought of going back and finding someone to accompany him, Olaf perhaps, before smiling at the thought of the man trying to fit into this space.

  The corridor curved ahead, any destination constantly hidden until Thomas saw a brighter light from where a room was set to the left. He tried to picture where he was from his knowledge of the outer wall. The room must project from the main cathedral but there were many small obtrusions along its circumference.

  As Thomas approached he heard a voice call out, high pitched with fear and panic and he ran, skidding into the room to discover a man tied to a wide table with torn bedsheets, arms and legs splayed wide. The man screamed at the sight of Thomas.

  “No, no, I am come to save you.”

  The man shook his head, eyes wild. He looked behind Thomas, who spun around, but there was no-one there. He went to the table and put his hand to the man’s chest, could feel his heart beating hard.

  “What is your name?”

  For a moment he thought the man would refuse to answer, then he must have recognised something in Thomas and shook his head. His chest deflated. The heartbeat slowed.

  “Cañate, Nicolas de Cañate.”

  “How did you end up here?” Thomas pulled at the knots, not well tied and soon loosened. Cañate raised one arm to rub at his wrist, but the flesh was unmarked and it was more for show than relief.

  “I do not know. I was at home going about my daily business when there was a knock at the door. I expected my servant to answer, but the knock came again. When I opened the door a man rushed inside. He pressed something to my face and when I woke I was tied to this table. I thank you, sir. I know not what would have become of me. What did my attacker want, do you think, money?”

  “It is possible,” Thomas said, though he knew money was no motive here. Whoever had taken Cañate had not wanted money. But something in the man’s tale sparked a memory and he leaned close and sniffed. Cañate moved back quickly, Thomas’s presence too close for comfort, but he had already recognised the scent. A chemical smell which was unique, and which as far as he knew only a handful of people were familiar with.

  Are you a Spaniard?” Thomas asked, and when Cañate nodded added, “And a Christian?”

  Another nod. “I am Christian now.”

  “Now? You converted?”

  A third nod. “Years since. And I am not like those devils they burn. I changed my name and embraced the one true God with all my heart.”

  “But you were not born so.”

  “It does not matter how a man is born, only how he acts now, and what he believes. Why your questions, sir?”

  Cañate was right, there were more pressing matters to ask.

  “The man, did you recognise him, see anything of his face?”

  Cañate sat up, dropped his legs to the floor and stood, unsteady. He held to the edge of the table. “He said nothing, and he wore a hood, a tall hood as the plague carriers wear. When I saw him, I was sure he had mistaken my house for somewhere else, but then he was on me and the world swam away. What was it he used? I have never heard of such.”

  “Do you have knowledge of medicines or herbs?”

  “Some. It is part of my work to make up tinctures for local physicians. If you ask you will discover the name of Nicolas de Cañate is well respected in Sevilla.”

  “But you did not know your attacker?”

  “I have told you already. Now if you will let me go I intend to report this kidnapping to the Hermandos.”

  “They will ask the same questions as I am,” Thomas said. “What about his clothing?”

  “I have already said, he was dressed as a plague carrier. It could be no-one I know for I do not mix in such circles.”

  “Do you know a woman by the name of Belia?”

  “Yes, I do, though I do not approve of what she does. Is she involved? It would not surprise me, not surprise me at all.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Answer me, or I have a mind to tie you back to the table and let that man finish what he had planned for you. Just as soon as he finds a second subject.”

  “You could try, sir, but I am not without resources now my strength is returning.”

  Thomas only smiled, his mind spinning theories one after the other, dismissing each as ridiculous only to conjure another ever wilder. This man was taken, and an attempt made on Theresa. A man and a woman? It was rare among the instances, but Mandana had mentioned it had happened before on rare occasions. Which meant this time carried no significance, unless the taking of Theresa, someone known to be close to the Queen, was the significance.

  “Where is your house?” Thomas said again, his voice cold. He planned on visiting Cañate again once this day was over and he could return to less frivolous matters.

  Cañate hesitated, but when Thomas took a pace forward he detailed the location and Thomas nodded. He knew the street, if not the house, and could find it. He would go there tomorrow with Jorge. More than likely after noon, for tonight would be a time of drinking and debauchery. At least he was sure that was what Jorge had planned. Cañate started for the corridor, but Thomas was not finished with him yet.

  “Wait. At what time were you taken?”

  “Time? Does it matter?”

  “It may.”

  “I had broken my fast and started work, so I would say at least two hours before noon.”

  “Did your captor say anything to you when you woke?”

  “He was not here. I was already tied to the table.”

  “And he did not return?”

  Cañate shook his head. “Can I go now?”

  Thomas tried to think what else he wanted from the man but knew his mind was spinning with too many other thoughts. He listened to Caña
te’s footsteps follow the corridor, then stop and return. For a moment Thomas thought he might have remembered something that would be of use, but he had merely gone in the wrong direction. He walked past Thomas and disappeared around the curving wall.

  Thomas went along the corridor in the direction Cañate had first taken, curious to know how the man had known it was the wrong way, and discovered the reason almost at once. The corridor came to an abrupt end against a wall of stone, small alcoves providing stands for religious statuary and miniature wooden crosses. It was not quite a dead end, but Thomas saw why Cañate would know he could not have been brought in this way. A set of ledges were set into the vertical wall, every few stones offset to provide a confident man the means of climbing to a higher level.

  He went back to the room and paced it, searching for what should be there and was not. One ledge held symbols of religion, on another a collection of rounded stones as would be found in a riverbed, but there were no instruments. Thomas lit another candle and held it over the surface of the table. There were stains etched deep into the wood telling him this place had been used before, and for the same purpose that had been planned on this occasion. He wondered why here, why the killer had changed location from the original plague house.

  Was this the new killing ground, the place where others had been subjected to a lunatic’s experiment? If so it pointed to someone who knew this room existed. It was not somewhere to be stumbled upon by accident, which meant the killer was familiar with the byways of the cathedral. A religious man? A priest? Is that why Tabado was killed – because he knew who his killer was? Which made it even more important to investigate the man’s background.

  Thomas sighed. The investigation grew more complex, and exactly what part did Mandana play, if any? It seemed scarcely believable the Abbot knew nothing of the matter, not if the killer was also a man of God. But it was impossible to question Mandana again, not after what had happened between them. Ixbilya was becoming a more dangerous place to be by the day, and for the first time in his life Thomas considered walking away from what was happening here. This was not his city, not his land, and these were not his people. What he could do was take his people away from pestilence and danger.

  The heat of the afternoon had driven people indoors, but a few sailors continued to unload cargo along the river bank, their movement slow. A score of ships were drawn up, rigging hanging limp in the still air. Thomas drew glances, making him realise he was too well dressed to be walking this area. He wished for a blade, but his own wedding had hardly been the place to carry one. He glanced along the eastern bank to where Jorge’s house lay hidden beyond the curve of the city wall. Ahead the wooden planks of the Puente de Barcas offered access to the far bank where the stone bulk of Castillo de Triana sat. Within those walls men and women were tortured until they admitted to a lie so the pain would stop. On the nearer bank stood the stakes where their souls would be seared from their bodies by flame. With a last look to the west, toward those who were expecting him, Thomas stepped onto the bridge. Half way across a woman accosted him, displaying her breasts and thighs, offering her body in exchange for a coin. Thomas kept walking, but stopped before reaching the far side. Violent tides of duty flowed through him, so strong he swayed and grasped at a wooden upright. The whore shouted at him, words that spilled past without meaning. The river ran deep beneath his feet and he wished it could carry away the violence of this place, but knew it was impossible. What happened on the far side of the river was the Queen’s doing, whether it was what she intended or not, and it was only she could bring it to an end. The man Thomas sought might be within the castle walls that housed the barbarity of the Inquisition.

  He washed a hand across his face and turned to see a cart emerge from the city gate and rattle toward the bridge. Sitting atop the front beside the driver was Abbot Mandana. Behind him Samuel clung to the wooden side. A dozen men and women were crushed into the back, heads lowered as if they did not want to view the ramparts they were being taken towards.

  As the cart moved on to the bridge the whore darted into an alcove built for the purpose. She opened her shirt more in hope than likelihood. Those at the front of the cart ignored her, staring ahead, those behind looking only at their feet. As the cart came close Thomas walked a few paces and followed the whore’s lead to step into a recess. He thought Mandana was going to ignore him, but at the last moment the Abbot turned, his face expressionless. Pale grey eyes bored into Thomas’s with a hatred that had always simmered beneath the surface and was now let loose. The man had not changed. The man would never change.

  Thomas turned to watch the cart as it reached the far bank to disappear through the gates of the castle. Then he turned and walked back to where his wife waited. As he passed he tossed the whore a coin and heard her scrabble on the boards before it could fall through a gap and be lost. Tomorrow. Everything would have to wait until tomorrow. He had a party to attend, and scowled at the thought.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jorge was drunk. Very drunk indeed. Thomas had seen him this way before on only a few occasions, but knew he was an amusing drunk, not prone to violence. The windows to the terrace were thrown wide and people Thomas did not know filled the room. The sweet scent of hashish and poppy mixed with the subtler scents worn by the women. Olaf was dressed uncharacteristically in a white blouse and dark pants, his feet encased in elegant shoes which must have been hand-made to fit him. Will sat on his shoulders, grasping Olaf’s long hair in his fists and grinning. He caught sight of Thomas and yelled, waved, and pulled harder at Olaf’s hair, wanting to be put down. Olaf reached up and swung his grandson wildly through the air and Will screamed in delight before running across the room into Thomas arms. He lifted him and set him on his own shoulders, only wincing slightly as Will’s hands twisted his hair.

  Lubna was talking with Theresa. When she looked his way he put two fingers to his lips, kissed them and tossed the message in the direction of his wife. She turned away, expressionless, and Thomas knew he was not forgiven. The promise of his wedding night might have to be postponed.

  Jorge lounged on a stack of silk cushions, Belia beside him, their limbs intertwined, but they each spoke to others who came to them as if they held court.

  Martin de Alarcón stood with a wine glass in his hand talking with Helena, whose entire attention was on him. Thomas knew what magic that attention could wreathe when she chose to use it, and smiled as he thought what secrets Martin might be introduced to as night fell. Thomas tried to recall if Martin was married. It was not the kind of conversation they had ever had, their talk leaning more toward weapons and tactics, or the best way to kill a man without being killed in turn.

  Will tugged at his hair and yelled, “Down!” and Thomas deposited him on the floor and went in search of something to drink. A table had been set up, barely able to contain the quantity of food, wine and ale weighing it down. Sticky nuggets of the finest hashish resin sat on a plate together with a pair of silver tongs to avoid fingers becoming stained. Thomas reached for one and popped it onto his tongue, the familiar sweet-tart taste flooding his mouth. He swallowed, seeking oblivion. He poured a cup of wine and drank it down before refilling it. When he turned Queen Isabel stood behind him, as if she had been waiting there for some time.

  “Thomas.” She smiled and touched his arm with her fingertips. He wondered had she been partaking of the wine too, but doubted it. Her eyes were clear, her skin unflushed. It was the party, he realised, the atmosphere in the house sparking a magic in almost everyone. Conversation. Laughter. Children running around chasing each other. The stern face of the Queen’s eldest daughter who stood to one side observing and not joining in. Juan lying on his back laughing while Will sat astride him.

  Thomas nodded, wanting to reach out to her as the wine and hashish sang in his blood, their tendrils already driving away his worries and inhibitions.

  “Where is Fernando?”

  Isabel withdrew her hand and waved it.
“Oh, somewhere. He is flirting with your courtesans, but he thinks I don’t notice.” She laughed, delighted at the world.

  “Not my courtesans. I believe Jorge considers them his.”

  Another laugh. “Is he as drunk as he looks?”

  “He may be, but he can be the drunkest man in the room and instantly sober if he wishes.”

  Isabel stepped closer, too close, but Thomas had stopped caring and so, it seemed, had she.

  “He is a eunuch.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “But women love him. All women, it seems, young or old, beautiful or ugly.”

  “Because he loves them in turn. He claims love is as infinite as the great western ocean that lunatic Columb wants to sail across.”

  “What does he mean by that?”

  For a moment Thomas was confused. He wondered if he should have eaten only half the nugget of hashish, but it was too late now. Besides, this was his wedding night, and he had to admit the worries that had plagued him were beginning to slip from his mind.

  “Jorge? He tried to explain it to me once, and I almost understood. He believes it his duty to love women. And I have to admit he was born for the job, despite what I did to him.”

  “What you did?”

  Thomas realised he had never spoken to the Queen of how Jorge’s unmanning had been at his hand.

  “I made him what he is.” He smiled as he saw the expression on the Queen’s face. She stepped back half a pace and he was tempted to close the gap, his inhibitions eroded by the drug and wine sizzling through his veins. “He was lucky it was me, Isabel. I had created a method of making him what he is without more pain than necessary, and with a good chance of survival. I would not subject you to how the process was done before my method became common. I have performed many others since. Yes, it is cruel, but it is the culture of the Moors and it would happen with or without me.”

  “As would the pursuit of heretics in Spain.” The gap had closed again, but who had closed it Thomas could not recall. Isabel’s fingers once more lay against his wrist. He glanced to where Lubna continued to talk with her sister, ignoring him, deliberately or not he could not tell, but suspected deliberate. “Without a strong hand there are those who would inflict even greater suffering on the innocent and guilty alike. My court employs many Jews. Without them Spain would not flourish as she does. We all do things we might regret under other circumstances, but those circumstances do not exist, do they?”