“Very well,” Armada said. “But I would like to see where the game took place before I leave.”
“What?”
“Show me the table that was used. And the room.”
“What good would that do?”
“It will settle my mind. And if it is settled, then I can leave here having received the answers I wanted. And never come back.”
Luciana sighed and got up from her workbench, escorting Armada out of the workshop and around to the back. Here, a small room had been built, which contained only a single door and a window that faced toward the castle.
This was where the woman seemed to live when she wasn’t working, and it was barely large enough for the both of them. Along one wall was a small shelf with a few books, and some stacks of clothing and fabric for sewing. On the opposite wall, a mattress made of hay was stuffed into two quilts sewn together and placed on the bare earth floor. The door took up much of the third wall, while some basic cooking implements lined up on a crooked shelf, along with an assortment of chipped jugs and broken pieces of pottery that made up the final wall.
With the addition of a table in the middle of the room, there would be no room to walk about. Add chairs to that, none of which Armada could see, and it would be completely impossible.
“I have a friend who is…borrowing the table…at the moment,” Luciana mumbled.
“I see,” Armada said. “Well then, one final question and I will go.”
“What?”
“Show me the cards.”
“The cards.”
“The cards you use to play. I want to see the deck of cards. That is all.”
“Why do you want to see those?”
This time, it was Armada who allowed a long pause, staring at Luciana, letting her know what he was thinking.
“Humour me.”
Luciana didn’t move from her spot. She glanced about the room without saying a word.
“Well?”
“I can’t remember where I put them.”
“Is it possible, Luciana, that there isn’t a game of cards that happens here every Friday afternoon?”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I stopped by the tavern on the way here. I asked the barman about it. You see, every drifter, wanderer, and labourer who comes through here eats and drinks at that tavern eventually. So the barman would be the one man in town who knows about any card games, especially a regular one. And he knew nothing about a card game here. He told me it’s at the blacksmith’s next door. I can’t help thinking this is all a hoax. Is it not?”
Luciana’s breathing quickened, her eyes darting around the room. “What are you going to do?” she asked with just a whisper.
Armada let out a deep sigh. “Why, you?”
“What?”
“Pablo Ortega lied to me about where he was the day Amparo Rodriguez was killed. He needed someone to cover for him. And he sent me to talk to you. If you don’t run a card game here, then why would you do such a thing?”
“He’s the alcalde. Anyone would do it for—”
“No,” Armada said. “Very few in town would protect him like that. But you would. You were willing to lie to a constable of the Holy Brotherhood, knowing the consequences if you got caught. And yet you did it anyway. Why?”
“We’re friends.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
Armada moved further inside. Luciana stood her ground, like a mother bear protecting her cub. And she was lying again.
“Perhaps,” Armada said. He held his arm out and pressed his hand lightly to her, politely moving her aside.
Luciana didn’t want to move at first, but she finally gave in and stepped toward the wall.
Armada then focused on the stack of fabric. He moved a few pieces aside, then found something that didn’t fit. A black book, its cover unmarked with any title or engraving. He heard Luciana gasp.
Armada opened the book and recognised it instantly. A Quran. The Holy Book of the Muslim faith. And a death sentence for anyone caught in possession of one, assuming of course one was not handed the worse sentence of being turned into the Inquisition, where months of horrors awaited before being burned at the stake.
And there was no doubt in Armada’s mind that Pablo Ortega knew full well about her faith. He wondered how he had found out, but it didn’t really matter. What was important was how Ortega was using that knowledge. This poor woman, living alone in a town brimming with anti-Muslim hysteria, was now dependent on someone as vile as Ortega to keep her secret. And Armada was fully aware of how she was expected to pay Ortega back for his kindness.
Armada closed the book and put it back under the fabric, careful to place the stack exactly as had been with the book obscured.
He turned to Luciana, who stared back at him with the first honest expression Armada had seen from her. She was frightened, and saw little reason to hide it now. Her eyes were teary now, but she did not cry. There would be no begging, no pleas for mercy. If she was to be executed, she would be one of the few Armada had seen that would keep her dignity until the end.
“No more lies, Luciana,” Armada said. “Just tell me if Pablo Ortega was here last Friday afternoon. I don’t need to know more than that.”
“Yes,” Luciana said.
“When did he leave?”
“Just before six.”
“You are sure this time?”
“He always tries to get home before Ines. She goes to Motril every week to shop and always gets back around seven. He doesn’t want her to know.”
Ortega’s nervousness about Ines hearing their conversation earlier suddenly made sense.
“And he was here all afternoon?”
Luciana nodded. Armada suddenly felt guilty for forcing her to remember what must have happened on that Friday, or all the Fridays before that. He wished he could help her somehow. But there was little he could do at the moment, for his own freedom was now at risk.
“Thank you.”
Armada bowed his head, then walked toward the door.
“You’re not going to…” Luciana began.
“No. I won’t.”
“Thank you.”
Armada turned and walked back out to the Medina a defeated man. Pablo Ortega had an alibi. He wasn’t in the fields murdering Amparo. How could he be if he was here with Luciana? But it meant that although he had all the motivation in the world to kill Amparo, he didn’t. The possibility existed that he could have hired someone to do the deed, but then his alibi would be important to set up. But he was here with this woman instead, an alibi he couldn’t use without serious consequences to his standing in the pueblo. It meant he was probably here that day, not thinking about alibis and such, suggesting he had no idea Amparo was being killed in the fields at the time.
So that left either Jose or Madalena, neither of whom he had any proof on other than speculation, and neither of whom he could arrest even if he did have proof. Bautista’s letter had been clear. His authority had been taken away. There was no reason to continue investigating.
But that wasn’t what bothered Armada. It was that he felt in his bones that Ortega had been guilty. The man behaved just as a guilty man did. Was it possible that Ortega had behaved that way simply because he felt bad for cheating on his wife? Was that all it had been?
If so, Armada had gotten it wrong. And he was back to the beginning. In fact, it was even worse than that: he was back to Granada.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Go on, soldier,” Armada’s commander urged him. And once again, Armada felt the arrow leave his hand. He watched as it arced through the air and nestled amongst the branches and twigs that made up the thatched roof of the hut.
Glowing embers soon spread out in all directions, embers that quickly turned to flames, and suddenly the entire roof burned in glittery orange and red, sending up ashes and smoke in every direction.
He heard screaming from inside. Natives began
running, desperate to get away from the flaming roof as it sagged, and finally fell to the ground.
From all around Armada heard the excited shouts of his fellow soldiers as they let loose a barrage of arrows and harquebus fire, picking off the natives as quickly as they could reload.
Armada could only watch the slaughter happen in front of him, his entire body becoming numb. It started in the tips of his fingers in his right hand, where the feeling of the string from the bow still reverberated. Soon he couldn’t feel his hand, then his right arm, and the warm numbness soon spread across his shoulders, his chest, his back, and finally to his head.
As he watched death explode all around him, Armada found he felt nothing. The soldiers around him soon broke the line and chased the natives who had escaped the fire into the bush. A few would make it, but not many. Most lay in lifeless heaps, littered about the landscape. Armada didn’t have enough in him to feel badly for each one. There were too many. He viewed them the same as the trees, or the stones, or the tufts of wildflowers. They were just part of the landscape, another part of this forest. Nothing more.
Armada’s eyes were open and he became aware that he was staring at the cold, stone wall of his cell. Behind him, a dying torchlight threw a pale, flickering light into the room, a light that barely penetrated his eyes. It was hard to tell what was real anymore, the memories were so vivid. They had haunted him all night, exhausting his already tired mind.
Armada tried to focus. He was locked in the castle in Salobreña. He tried to picture the town, with the castle on the hill overlooking the shoreline. This was where he was. This was what was real.
But Peru always returned. Soon he was back in the Andes, back on the trail leading into the forest, surrounded by his company as he felt his heavy boots sink into the mud of the trail that led to the native village, thinking about the attacks the natives had been making on their men. How they needed to pay for the life they’d taken. And soon he was reliving the slaughter all over again, feeling the numb warmth envelop his body, trying desperately to hold it off, to keep his feelings, but failing. He always failed. He always went numb. It was the only way to survive.
Armada had never felt so exhausted. His mind would not let him sleep, not until he solved the greatest mystery of his life —how to recompense for what he’d done.
“Sir.”
Armada had barely heard it, the sound of his memories still ringing in his ears. Then it came louder. A voice behind him, moving closer.
Armada found he was sitting on the floor, his back against the bars of his cell. He was staring at the stone wall behind him, watching the shadows dance on over its bumps and ridges as the torch burned. He tried to turn to face the voice, but his neck was sore, as were his legs. How long had he been sitting like this? How long had it been since Bresson had tossed him in here like a sack of flour? A few hours? A few days? It was impossible to tell without sunlight.
Armada managed to twist his body round enough to see Lucas’ face staring back at him.
“Lucas…”
“Good morning, sir.”
It was morning! Although it was impossible to tell in this windowless room, Armada still felt a rush of relief.
“Is it time, then?”
Lucas looked behind him, which Armada found curious. No soldier had escorted the boy in here. Was he here alone?
“Not yet, sir. I’m actually not supposed to be here. But I thought you might want to know. I spoke with Miguel this morning.”
“Miguel Guillen?” Armada struggled to his feet, feeling the stiffness in his body forcing him to lean heavily against the bars. As he grasped them, he could see that his right hand was trembling quite badly. He gripped the bar, trying to make it stop. But it wouldn’t. It was impossible to hide from Lucas any longer.
Lucas glanced at Armada’s trembling hand, but said nothing about it. “Yes, sir. He found me in the stables this morning while I was loading up the cart.”
Armada realised Lucas was whispering. He didn’t want the soldier to know he was here.
“Miguel Guillen is free? Bresson has yet to find him?”
“That’s right, sir. But that’s not what I came to tell you.”
Armada felt a rush of relief. So, Miguel hadn’t yet been hanged. Bresson hadn’t even tracked him down yet. There was a chance, however remote….
“Someone tried to kill Madalena Rodriguez last night,” Lucas said. “She survived, but she’s in bad shape. They have her at Jose’s cortijo at the moment. Miguel wanted me to tell you personally. He didn’t want Bresson to know.”
The relief Armada had felt before quickly dissipated, replaced by exhaustion, anger, bitterness. And underneath all of that—helplessness.
“What is it he expects me to do?” Armada asked.
“I don’t know, sir. But it sounds like the killer has struck again.”
Questions filled Armada’s head, but he pushed them away. “Tell Bresson.”
“Sir?”
“I said to tell Bresson what you have told me. He is the constable in charge. It is up to him to decide what to do.”
“But he’ll hang Miguel, sir. And Miguel is innocent.”
“That is not our determination to make, Lucas!” Armada shouted, not caring if the soldiers upstairs heard him. “I have been removed from this case. I have been given an order and I intend on following it. Now leave me until we are to return to Granada. I’ll be happy to be out of this damned cell!”
Lucas didn’t hide his disappointment. “Sir, I thought we could at least find out what happened. I think I know a way I can break you out of here. It’s not difficult. There’s a passage way that leads—”
“You are a child, Lucas,” Armada said, rage building up inside him. “A petulant child! And your naivety is exactly the reason why I’d been so foolish to send you to Motril, where you were almost killed. This is a world of men you are in now, Lucas. And men with honour respect their duty and follow their orders. And my orders were clear. To hand over jurisdiction of this case to Arnaud Bresson and return to Granada.”
Lucas looked hurt, but Armada was too angry. He was so tired, his mind could barely function. He just wanted out of this jail, and a break from his memories. Armada removed his right hand from the bars, letting it tremble in front of Lucas. He wanted to show the boy, there was no hiding it now. He was too tired to continue the charade. It was time the boy understood something about mortality, for old age would visit him one day too.
“Sir, you can’t.”
“I must! It is my duty.”
“I thought your duty was to justice, sir. That’s always what you told me.”
The memories surged through Armada’s mind again. The floodgates had opened—there was no stopping them now. He eyes filled with tears as he relived them all over again in an instant, further exhausting him.
“No, Lucas…”
“But sir, if I had followed orders, I never would have found that path through the cane. We never would have learned about Amparo’s movements the day he was killed. We never would have found Cristina Lopez’ bones. No one would have ever known what had happened to her.”
“Leave me,” Armada said.
“Sir—”
“Leave me, you stupid little boy!” Armada shouted as loud as he could. Anything to get Lucas away from him.
Lucas’ sour look made it seem as though he was about to spit on Armada. Armada wondered if this was the end of their friendship. Lucas already blamed him for not catching his parents’ killer. Why would he not blame him for not catching Amparo’s as well? If Lucas were smart, he would give up on Armada and go off to find his own fortunes, and stop letting himself get weighed down by a tottering old man who was losing his mind.
“I’m not a little boy anymore, sir. And maybe I’m not a man yet, but I know enough to see that catching Amparo’s killer is all that matters. Not honour, not duty. Justice. Nothing else. I learned that from you, sir. From you.”
“Forget it, Lucas.
You’re too young to see….”
“See what, sir?”
Armada felt himself get angry again and he pressed his body against the bars. But the words were not there. Armada realised he didn’t have an answer to Lucas’ question. He struggled to find something to say, some way to release the rage he felt at the boy at the moment, to shout one more hurtful thing before Lucas stormed away from him, possibly forever. His fury had reached a boiling point and he wanted to lash out.
But he wasn’t angry at Lucas. Armada was angry at himself, for not admitting Lucas was right. What use was there in following orders now? It only meant certain defeat. It meant giving up on justice, giving up on what he’d devoted his life to after all he’d sacrificed to return to Spain all those years ago.
His mind rolled back to Peru. What if he hadn’t followed his command then either? What if he had been that naïve little boy who thought he knew better? Who was brazen enough to follow his own instincts, even if it meant court-martial or death at the commander’s hand?
Armada’s anger turned to ashes, replaced by an overwhelming sense of failure and helplessness. Justice was what he’d come back to fight for. He’d told himself it was to recompense for what he’d done in Peru, some small way to repay God for his sins. But over the years, it had become more than that. So much more.
Armada realised his right hand had stopped trembling.
“See what?” Lucas repeated.
“How easy it is to make a fool of oneself,” Armada said. “That failure, and doubt, and regret will always be your constant companions, no matter how far you travel. And that sometimes, even as a wise old man, you always have much to learn.”
Lucas looked confused now, and Armada couldn’t blame him.
“You are correct, Lucas. Justice. That’s what we have to fight for. And if it means being foolish and immature, then that’s what we must do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“However, leaving here seems to be a bit of an obstacle.”
“Actually, sir, I’ve already thought about that,” Lucas said, holding up the key he’d stolen on the way in.
A Murder Most Spanish Page 24
