“To be reassured, I suspect,” Armada said. “He is worried about something. I only hope we can figure out what it is before he has a chance to cover it up.”
Chapter Eight
Armada found the house without much trouble. Word was getting around that he was in town and the inevitable rumours had begun to swirl. Some believed he was there at the behest of the Inquisition, others that he was a spy for the king on the lookout for tax evaders, while a few even thought he was actually a French criminal, hiding out in Andalucía and masquerading as a member of the Brotherhood. It meant there was a degree of confusion and fear surrounding his presence, and few were willing to risk crossing him.
It was the part of the job he liked the least. It was an unavoidable task, making contact with the widow or widower of a murder victim. They were usually still struggling with accepting the reality of what had happened when he came to call. Their possible reactions to the personal questions Armada was forced to ask were wildly unpredictable. But no one could give a more complete picture of the victim than those closest to him.
Armada had greeted the old men who sat round the fountain in the main plaza that morning. Many were ex-soldiers like Armada, injured and too old to work, with little to do all day but sit on the stone wall and greet the people who came for water. There were four who showed up every day, with their tattered straw hats and walking sticks made from the twisted branches of ancient olive trees, and another five or ten who would come and go as their various ailments and illnesses allowed. But all of the old men were quite happy to meet someone who was interested in their experiences and could relate to the hardships of army life. Having come armed with a bit of tobacco, Armada soon soothed their wariness and found one of them knew the Rodriguez family and could direct him to Amparo’s home.
With the morning sun now blazing away on the back of his neck, Armada made his way north, past the bell tower and the church, and then down yet another of Salobreña’s steep inclines toward a part of town perched on the edge of a low ridge. At the top of this incline, Armada was treated to an unobstructed view of the snow-capped Sierra Nevadas, behind which lay a brilliant deep royal blue sky with just a few puffy whispers of clouds lazing about in the far distance. It was a tranquil scene, but Armada knew it was deceptive. Centuries of uprisings and rebellions had been sparked off by the fiercely-independent pueblos nestled in those fertile peaks, and every constable in Andalucía knew their trails well.
Armada made his way down the incline and felt the air become cooler. For here, low on a north-facing hillside and in the shadow of the castle, there was less light than in the rest of town. By midday, the sun would slip behind the horizon of the castle walls, casting everything into long shadows. By the late afternoon, while the rest of Salobreña still sweltered in the worst of the afternoon heat, this street would already be feeling the first cooling winds of the approaching evening.
For this was La Loma, where it was obvious the poorest of Salobreña’s labourers lived. Here, the houses were ramshackle, just one and two-room hovels cobbled together with whatever stones or broken bricks could be scavenged. There were no wooden shutters or doors here, just old linens hung in doorways and windowsills to keep out the flies and the harsh morning sun. Inside, these homes heaved with large families, whose lives spilled out on to this one street, which was thick with the noise of conversations and squealing children, many of whom ran about outside nearly naked with dirty faces and feet, and who gawked at the stranger who now walked amongst them. A visitor in this part of town was indeed a rare sight.
It wasn’t hard to find the door he was looking for. It was the only one made of wood, reinforced by thick oak planks and solid iron rivets, secured by an iron lock, offering only a small keyhole on the outside. As he studied it, Armada could feel countless eyes watching him closely, not bothering to be discreet about their interest.
“Señora Rodriguez?” Armada said through the door.
There was no response at first, then sudden footsteps and a shuffling sound. Was someone perhaps running out the back?
There was a loud clanking as someone unlocked the door, and then a young woman somewhere in her twenties appeared in the entry, her dark chocolate brown hair tied back and wrapped underneath a simple black coif. She had a face that was quite unassuming, with a small nose, pursed, lightly-coloured lips, and eyebrows so light you could hardly see them. She had unnaturally long, spidery fingers which she now wiped on the apron tied around her waist that nearly touched her ankles, covering a dark petticoat that matched the bodice, looking quite new and shaped by whalebone to be tight around her thin waist, with a small knotted neckerchief tucked into the high collar.
“Yes?” the woman said.
“Domingo Armada of the Holy Brotherhood. Madalena Rodriguez, I’m assuming?”
“That is me.”
“May I come in?”
Madalena stepped back so Armada could enter. Inside, he found a tiny house like all the others. Made of only one room, barely tall enough for him to stand in without his head touching the ceiling, with a small hearth in one corner, and a large, wood-framed bed with a soft feather mattress in the other. It looked quite new, and the craftsmanship was something far beyond what Amparo could have cobbled together. The bed was designed for an entire family to sleep in, and took up most of that side of the room. It had to have been made by a professional woodworker, something far too expensive for someone like Amparo to afford.
“My condolences on the loss of your husband,” Armada said. “I understand this must be a very difficult time.”
“Thank you,” Madalena said. She crouched in front of the hearth, her petticoat spilling all over the raw earth of the floor, and moved some brush from a sack in the corner into the hearth to start a fire.
“How are you getting on? Do you have everything you need?” Armada asked. “The Brotherhood is always available to help the victims of violent crime.”
“That is very kind. But it won’t be necessary.”
Madalena lit the fire and it began to crack and pop violently as the flames quickly gobbled up the tangle of brushwood and green stalks. Madalena then grabbed a large clay water jug and filled the cast iron pot that hung on a chain above the fire with water.
Madalena now took out a flat bit of wood and a carving knife, then reached into a cupboard and pulled out something wrapped tightly in a white cloth. She unwrapped the cloth to reveal the hindquarters of a pig, dried and salted until it was almost the texture of leather, just right for cutting thin slices. A jamon serrano, as it was called in Andalucía. And quite expensive. Most peasants, especially the day labourers of La Loma, would rarely lay eyes on such a luxury unless part of a village fete or the Romería procession in the spring. And here was Madalena slicing off large chunks to make an ordinary afternoon stew.
Armada glanced around the house. Usually, widows in a small town like this had few options when it came to making money. Unless they owned a shop or a bit of land, they were often relegated to working as a laundress or seamstress. In those households, one would usually find folded up piles of clothes or sheets lying about, waiting to be done, but there was no evidence of that here. It was unlikely Madalena owned a shop if she was here at home in the middle of the day. And if she owned land, why would Amparo have worked so hard helping Jose harvest his? Yet here she was, with her large goose feather bed, preparing a jamon stew.
It didn’t make sense. Where was her money coming from? Armada was tempted to push the issue further, but stopped himself. Madalena was not a suspect, which meant she should not be interrogated like one. He would have to let the issue rest for now.
“Were you and your husband both born in Salobreña?”
“Amparo was. But I’m from Malaga.”
“Malaga? That’s quite a large city. What brought you to the countryside?”
“It’s peaceful here. I like it.”
Madalena finished with the jamon and moved on to chopping an onion and a half a pep
per she’d saved.
“It is indeed. But everywhere in the countryside is peaceful. Why this town in particular?”
There was a hesitation. It was slight, and given away only by the pause in Madalena’s chopping, which she quickly resumed.
“It’s beautiful. Just look around you. Nowhere else looks like this.”
Madalena avoided his gaze. Armada had to back away or he risked her getting defensive. But about what?
“I agree. It is one of the most stunning towns anywhere on this coast. Did you meet your husband after moving here?”
“I met him in Malaga, actually. He was there looking for work. We got married and came here.”
Armada was very confused now. When asked what brought her here, her first response had been the beauty of the place. No mention of her husband. No mention of falling in love, and allowing this man to take her to a small town, so different than what she was used to, to start a new life.
“That must have been a difficult move.”
“Yes. We had very little money and had to trust in the kindness of strangers some nights. But we made it.”
Armada had been referring to the difficulty of adjusting to a new way of life.
“How was it getting used to how people speak around here? I find I still struggle with it occasionally, and I’ve lived in Andalucía for many years now.”
Madalena was in the middle of dumping the chopped pepper into the pot when her body went rigid. She turned to face Armada.
“Excuse me?”
“Have you not noticed? The people here tend to drop the ends off their words and speak very quickly. It’s a difficult dialect to get used to sometimes. Don’t you find?”
“I guess it was at first, yes. It was so long ago now, I hardly remember.”
“I know I would have been severely reprimanded by my tutors for speaking in such a way as a child,” Armada said. “I was taught to pronounce my words fully and to flutter the tongue on the proper occasions. I never was able to master it to my tutor’s expectations.”
“Yes, I remember. I suspect tutors are like that the world over,” Madalena said. Armada’s plan had worked and he could see out of the corner of his eye that she had relaxed and was continuing with her chores.
He had also confirmed what he was hoping to – Madalena had been educated with tutors. In Malaga, this would have been expensive and beyond the reach of most peasants, which meant she had grown up middle-class at least, perhaps even from a noble background. And yet she’d left with no money after marrying a peasant, suggesting a falling out with her family.
“What about Amparo? How did he feel about marrying a woman with more education than him? Some men would have struggled with that.”
“We never discussed it,” Madalena said. “I suppose he did not mind.”
She placed a wooden spoon in the pot and gave the stew a vigorous stir. It was boiling now, filling the house with the smell of meaty broth.
“Was Amparo happy as a farmer? It’s a very difficult life,” Armada said.
“I’m sure he was. He worked very hard.”
“I’m sorry for asking this. But I have to know. Was he ever unkind to you?”
“No. Never,” Madalena said without looking at him.
“What about others? He had a bit of a reputation. Was there anyone in town who may have had ill will toward him?”
“I don’t know,” Madalena said.
Armada believed Madalena, which was why he was left in such confusion. All of his previous questions, about Amparo’s thoughts and dreams were something a wife of twelve years should have been able to answer, or at least hazard a guess. And yet Madalena had proven she knew little of what Amparo was ever thinking, nor did she show much interest in it. It was as if she were describing a neighbour, or a distant relative.
Also, despite her husband having been brutally murdered the week before, her mood seemed serene. He sensed none of the usual grief, loss, and stress that most widows showed in such circumstances. Madalena was just getting on with life, slipping easily into a routine without Amparo, despite how much she had sacrificed to marry him and move here.
All of it baffled Armada, who sensed there was no more reason to be here. He stood up and walked toward the door.
“I can see you are about to eat, so I will leave you. Thank you, Madalena. You’ve been very helpful in this investigation,” Armada said.
“Are you sure you don’t want a bit of lunch?”
Nothing would have made Armada happier. The stew smelled divine and he was famished. But the invitation was not genuine, he sensed. Extended only for the sake of etiquette.
“Thank you for your kind invitation, but I will leave you for now. I will be in town for another few days if you’d like to take me up on the offer of assistance. Good afternoon.”
Armada went to the door and had to put a bit of muscle into twisting the large handle to get it to unlock. Once outside, he noticed a small group of women who had now congregated, wondering what he was up to.
Armada only gave them a mischievous smile as he walked past.
Chapter Nine
All morning, Lucas had told himself he was just on his way to the lavadero. He hadn’t yet washed the clothes he and Armada had worn during their trip, and they were still covered in grime. He also needed to do some shopping to prepare lunch in case Armada wanted to dine in the room, which was often when he was working on a case. There were also provisions to procure for their journey home. He would also have to feed the mule, and then there was the broken spoke on the cart’s left wheel to repair.
And yet here he was now, standing at the top of the road that the farmers used to get down to the delta, knowing that once he started off down that path he would be unable to justify what he was doing. He would, in the eyes of Armada, be blatantly disobeying him. Lucas had rarely done that before and he had no way of knowing what Armada’s reaction would be. He could even be risking his job, a job that had given him so much after his parents had been killed. In fact, everything he had now he owed to Armada.
That was what made this decision so difficult. He just wanted to take one quick look at the field. What could it hurt? If there was something there that could help the case, some kind of clue, then wouldn’t it be worth it?
Yet still Armada had told him no. The old man could be so stubborn sometimes. Lucas knew Armada was only worried about him. But Lucas could handle himself. He’d proven his mettle on many previous occasions. Yes, Armada had hired him on when he was just a boy. Barely eleven, frightened of the world after his parents were brutally taken from him, with nowhere else to go. Back then he’d needed protection. And for some reason, Armada refused to let that vision of Lucas go from his mind. In his eyes, Lucas was still that little boy.
But Lucas wasn’t that little boy. He was fourteen, a man by most people’s accounts. He could take care of himself. He’d been travelling with Armada for years now and knew what kind of danger to expect. All he needed was a chance to prove himself, and Armada wouldn’t allow it.
Lucas had always wondered if it was because of Marcello Riselo. He was an Italian philosopher and poet who had written an obscure book about the novel idea of applying scientific methods and principles to investigating crimes. Armada had a copy with him when he came to investigate the murder of Lucas’ parents, and one night Lucas had found it amongst the old man’s things. Lucas snuck the book to his room and spent the next few days reading it cover to cover, his young mind wrestling over ideas he barely understood, and foolishly believing it to be a practical guide to how Armada was approaching his inquiries.
Armada had caught Lucas reading the book one night and threw it across the room, saying the ideas it contained were nonsense and merely a passing fad. Murderers were people, and therefore finding a killer meant getting inside his head, he’d said. You had to learn how to read people, not books. The notion of using mathematics and theoretical reasoning to find killers was as silly as trying to use a cannonball to m
ilk a cow. That night, the old man had burned the book and considered the matter dropped.
It was a few weeks later when Armada had to admit to Lucas that he’d failed to find his parents’ killer. Ever since, Lucas couldn’t help but wonder if Riselo’s approach would have worked better. But Armada was adamant —he would always consider Riselo to be a charlatan.
Yet Lucas never forgot what he’d read in Riselo’s book and over the years had begun to subtly put some of the ideas into practice. A big idea Riselo had stressed was observation, taking note of the myriad of details that existed in the physical world beyond suspects and witnesses. Any one of them could contain a clue, which dovetailed into the idea of “deduction” — the process of figuring out which of these details were important and which weren’t. The more details one had observed, the better the method worked, so Lucas had decided long ago to learn to be an expert observer. As his powers grew, Lucas’ observations began to play a bigger role in the cases Armada was working on—once he even proved a suspect’s alibi to be wrong. Yet no amount of proof was ever good enough for Armada, who once told Lucas not to spend so much time looking at the “useless little bits and pieces of life.”
The thought of it made Lucas angry, although he never showed it. For months Armada had searched for the killer of Lucas’ parents, yet had come up empty-handed. Meanwhile a distraught Lucas had been passed around, staying with relatives and always for a short time, constantly feeling like a burden on families who could barely afford to feed themselves, and being increasingly isolated by their pity for his situation. It was awful, and perhaps could have been avoided if Armada hadn’t been so stubborn.
Increasingly these days Lucas felt the desire to try things his own way. Today, it meant going down to the empty field and seeing if he could find any kind of clue that would not only help the case, but prove his approach was right. Because Lucas had always sworn to himself that someday he would return to his home village and solve the case that Armada never could.
A Murder Most Spanish Page 5
