by David Penny
“You are still alive, aren’t you?”
“Thanks to you. But also thanks to you I have been injured and almost died. We should have brought Usaden.”
“We can manage between us, I expect.” Thomas hammered on the door again, the sound swallowed by the house.
When Jorge stepped past Thomas and tried the catch on the door, it opened to his touch.
“Oh no, not again,” he said.
“Many people leave their doors unlocked. I do.”
“Then you are a fool. Most people also answer their door when it is hammered on as hard as you have been doing.” Jorge stepped to one side. “You go first.”
Thomas sighed and stepped across the threshold. A hallway led to the far end of the house. An open door showed a large room where light spilled in from hidden windows. Two doors on each side of the hallway were closed. Thomas opened the first on the right to reveal a sitting room. It smelled of smoke. He went to the fireplace and put his hand over the ashes to discover them still warm.
There was no dead body in the room. Its lack would no doubt please Jorge, but there remained four other rooms still to check. Thomas opened the door opposite to find a large bedroom. The bed had been slept in, but not made. The room smelled of a man. There was also the faint scent left by a woman, but it was not recent. Only one side of the bed had been slept in. The other doors revealed a second bedroom, which appeared to be unused, and an office, but still no sign of the occupants, either alive or dead.
The room at the end was a kitchen. It stretched the full width of the house and was eight paces deep. A large open range sat against the left-hand wall, while a table as large as the one used by Bazzu filled the centre of the room. Shelves and workbenches took up the rest of the space. There was no sign of Baldomero de Pamplona, though it was clear he had been here not so long ago.
“Go and knock on doors,” Thomas said to Jorge. “Ask the neighbours when they last saw either of them.”
“What are you going to do? There is nobody here.”
“I am going to look for poisons. If this man tried to kill Isabel, then there will be evidence of it here.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“Go and ask questions.” Thomas turned his back on Jorge and crossed to the first of the shelves. Stoppered clay pots sat there, and Thomas removed the tops and looked inside. He used his eyes and nose, but found only spices, herbs, pepper and salt. He continued examining the other shelves, then went to his knees and opened cupboard doors. He found bags of flour and sugar, pots of dried fruit, but nothing that would kill a man or even make him unwell. Belia would be better at identifying what everything was for, but Thomas knew enough to recognise their benign nature. Which raised the question of whether Baldomero de Pamplona had poisoned Theresa or not? Except Thomas knew it must be him. He had made the mushroom pastries she ate. Pamplona was guilty. But where was he?
Thomas took one last look around the kitchen before returning to examine the other rooms. This time, he looked beneath the bed and opened every door, however small, searching for a body. He found none.
When Thomas eventually left the house, he saw Jorge standing on the other side of the street and three doors closer to the river. He was talking with a woman of indeterminate age, not that age ever bothered Jorge, and was using all his powers of promised seduction to draw from her every item of information she might possess. As Thomas approached, he saw her glance at him, and for a moment, doubt showed on her face.
Jorge turned. “Fear not, my sweet, he is with me. Do you not know Thomas Berrington?”
“The physician?” asked the woman. “Only by name. We have always used Da’ud al-Baitar, but he is unwell, so I may call on your friend in the future. If any of us have one. What was it you asked me?”
“Whether you saw Baldomero returning home two days ago.”
“Two days? I heard him come home last night, but two nights since? I cannot recall. I may have, I may not have. Is it important?”
“I don’t know,” said Jorge. “Ask Thomas.”
“Is it important?” she said again, turning to him.
“It is never possible to know what is important and what is not until the whole picture is revealed.” Thomas caught Jorge’s smile and knew he had set him up, having heard him say the same thing often enough before. Except it was true. “At what time does he usually return?”
“Often late,” said the woman. “Sometimes close to midnight. He does most of his work in the evening. He cooks for people, anyone willing to pay. He told me he cooked for the Sultan not long since.”
“How long ago?”
The woman gazed off into space, her lips moving silently as though she was counting.
“Two weeks?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Two weeks,” she said with more certainty. “He said he had to buy special spices because he was preparing a meal for the Sultan’s important guests. Turks, he said. He told me he knew their food and wanted to impress them with the range of dishes. He gave me some of what was left the following day, but it was not to my taste. Perhaps it was them he was arguing with last night.”
Thomas stared at the woman.
“He was arguing with someone last night?”
“He was.”
“When were you going to tell me this?”
“I just have, haven’t I? It is you asking the questions. You asked if I saw him, not whether he was arguing with someone. Do you think something has happened to him?”
“That is what I am trying to find out. After midnight, you said?”
“Perhaps closer to dawn. The sky was beginning to lighten.”
“Do you always rise so early?”
“I did last night because my husband snores so loudly. I punched him on the arm and he stopped, and that is when I heard the shouting from the street. I went to the window and Baldomero was out here arguing with two men. There was a woman standing at a small distance, watching them.”
“Are you sure it was Baldomero arguing with the men?”
“There was enough light to see his face. Yes, it was him.”
“And the men, did you see their faces?”
“One of them. The other was turned side-on to me.”
“Would you recognise the man again?”
“Do you know who they are?”
“Not yet, but if I find them, it would be good to have confirmation of who you saw arguing with Baldomero.”
“I might recognise them, I am not sure. The light was poor. But I could hear them well enough.”
“Were they speaking Arabic?”
She looked off into space again before shaking her head.
“No. They spoke the tongue of Castile.”
“Are you sure?”
“I hear it often enough in the city these days. Everyone wants to speak it because they know what is coming.”
“Did you hear what the argument was about?”
“I did not. We have glass in our windows and I was tired. I watched them for a short while only, then went back to bed.”
Thomas could think of nothing more, so thanked the woman.
“Who else have you spoken to?” he asked Jorge once the woman had returned to her house.
“Everyone who answered their door, which is about a quarter of them. I have two more to try and that will be it.”
“Did anyone else hear an argument?” Thomas followed Jorge to the next house. When he knocked on the door, there was no answer, which left only one more.
“Not that they mentioned, but now we know there was one, it might be worth asking again. You are better at questions than me, even if people like me the more.”
As Thomas raised his hand to knock on the door, it was flung open by a woman in her twenties who stood there with an angry expression on her face.
“Why are you back here? Did my husband not pay his debt in full?”
Thomas stared at her. Before he could say anything, Jorge took c
ommand.
“I am sorry, but we are not who you think. My companion and myself are looking for a neighbour of yours, Baldomero de Pamplona.”
“Oh.” The woman looked from Jorge to Thomas, then back, liking what she saw there more. “What do you want to know about him? Baldomero is a good man.”
Thomas watched the tension leak from her shoulders and tried to hide his smile. Already Jorge’s charm was working its magic.
“Another neighbour of yours said she heard him arguing with two men last night. Or rather, early this morning before dawn.”
“I was asleep then. We were all asleep in this house.”
“Have you seen any strangers in the street? Apart from us, that is. And we are not really strangers, not now we have been introduced to such a beautiful vision as yourself.” Jorge smiled, and a flush of colour came to the woman’s cheeks.
“I do not spend my time peering through my windows like some. I have seen nobody.”
“Tell me what Baldomero is like,” said Jorge. “You said he is a good man. Has he lived here long?”
“My husband bought this house when we married eight years ago, and Baldomero was already living here. He brought us fine delicacies to welcome us to the street. I can still taste them on my tongue. I have tasted nothing like them. He prepares a meal for the entire street twice a year. On Eid Al-Adha, and again at the end of Ramadan when he prepares especially light foods so our stomachs can learn to eat again.”
“Baldomero is devout?”
“My husband says he has never seen him in the mosque, so I doubt it. Rumour has it he is Christian. He came from the north. Not that anyone holds either of those things against him, not these days. He prepares the food out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Is he married?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, to Cruzita. You should knock on their door. She no doubt knows where he has gone to. Baldomero is much in demand for his skill and is often away, sometimes for as long as a month. Though if he is to be gone long, Cruzita will accompany him.”
Thomas moved away. He had heard enough and knew Jorge would flatter any other minor items of information from the woman and then leave her unsettled. Her husband might enjoy her attentions more than usual tonight. Thomas returned to Baldomero’s house and opened the closet doors in the bedroom. He had searched it before, but then he had been looking for a body. Now he examined the clothes. One side held outfits for a man, the other for a woman. When he looked around the room, he saw small signs to show Cruzita had gone. A crumpled linen kerchief sat on a narrow table next to an empty bottle of scent. There was a clean patch on the floor beneath the clothes that might show where a bag had rested.
“Do you believe he has gone away, his wife with him?” asked Jorge as he entered the room.
“Does it not seem convenient for him to be called away only two days after he tried to kill Isabel? I need to know a lot more about the man. We should go back to Bazzu and have her tell us everything she knows.”
“Everything? I take it you are planning to do nothing else for a year.”
“Everything about Baldomero.”
As they reached the end of the row of houses, they almost collided with a man coming the other way, his head down in thought. Jorge skipped to one side. Thomas stayed where he was, forcing the man to slow.
“Do you live here?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“We are seeking Baldomero de Pamplona.”
“Another two wanting him, then. What has he done to be in such demand?”
“Another two?” asked Thomas.
“I saw him early today in the company of a man and woman, crossing al-Hattabin square.”
“A man and woman? Did he appear to be going with them willingly?”
“I would have gone with the woman willingly enough,” said the man, “for all that she was not young. She possessed that fire some women have.”
“And the man?”
“I gave no notice to the man. I hailed Baldomero and he hailed me back. He seemed willing enough, though not his usual self. Normally he would have stopped and chatted a while. He was like that.”
“Did you see in which direction they went?”
“They climbed the roadway on the far side of the square, but if they were going to the palace, I know not. Baldomero has cooked there before, so it is possible.”
After the man had gone, Jorge said, “We need to talk to Bazzu even more now, do we not?”
Chapter Eight
When Thomas and Jorge arrived back at the kitchens, Bazzu was busy with final preparations for the Sultan’s guests. Thomas had never seen her do any actual work before, but now he watched as she moved around the kitchen with surprising speed. Her role appeared to involve tasting and advising, but now and again she would add spice, salt or pepper to a dish until satisfied it was perfect. She caught sight of them standing in the doorway and hurried across to kiss Jorge on the mouth while her soft hand circled Thomas’s wrist.
“I will be some time yet. Jorge, take Thomas along the corridor to the room with the views. Wait there and I will join you as soon as I can.” She glanced at Thomas. “I assume you have returned with more questions?”
“I have.”
“Then wait and I will answer what I can. Did you find Baldomero?” She shook her head. “No, don’t tell me, I have no time now. Go.” She pushed them away.
Bazzu was true to her word. The chamber they entered possessed a magnificent view, at least as long as Thomas kept his eyes raised to the towering peaks that marched away to the south. Lowering his gaze, he saw the Castilian camp spread beyond the low rise where Ojos de Huescar sat. Smoke from a hundred fires rose in lazy spirals to be snatched away by a wind that did not blow at ground level. On the level plain between the opposing forces, mounted men rode backwards and forwards, distance lending them a sense of unreality. Thomas knew they would be taunting each other. Now and again one would advance, then turn away. At some point, the taunting would turn into a brief fight and someone might die. It happened every day, all day, and would continue to do so until the forces of Castile advanced on Gharnatah.
“Why do they just sit there?” Jorge asked as he came to stand beside Thomas.
“There are negotiations going on, and Isabel doesn’t want Gharnatah destroyed. She asks about the palace all the time. She wants to know what it’s like. How beautiful it is. The place is a minor obsession for her.”
“And Fernando?”
“He would attack tomorrow if he could, but so far, she has held him in check.”
“It will come to that, though, won’t it? Eventually she will grow tired of sitting there and let loose her dogs of war.”
“She will.” Thomas turned as a slim girl entered the room carrying a tray of coffee and cups.
“Do you know how long Bazzu will be?” Jorge asked.
The girl shook her head. “She said she will come as soon as she can.”
Jorge went to the table and inspected what she had brought.
“Come and sit, enjoy this excellent coffee. There is nothing we can do until Bazzu arrives.”
Thomas stayed where he was, conscious of the passage of time. A tension thrummed through his body, but he was unsure what its cause was. Theresa was on the mend, thanks to Belia. His children were safe. Baldomero de Pamplona had poisoned Theresa, but Thomas was sure the man had fled. The matter was closed. The conclusion might be unsatisfactory, but conclusion it was. He crossed to the table and sat, reached for a cup. It was halfway to his mouth when he stopped.
“I have already drunk it and I’m still alive,” said Jorge. “They prepared this in the palace kitchens. Bazzu would not poison us.”
Thomas finished the movement and sipped the hot, bitter liquid, its taste filling his senses. He had finished the cup by the time Bazzu eventually entered the room. She sat beside Jorge and poured coffee for herself.
“What do you want to know, Thomas? I do not have long, I have been sent for. Abu
Abdullah’s guests want to ask me about some of the dishes.”
“I need to know whatever you can tell me about Baldomero,” Thomas said. “He wasn’t at his house, but some neighbours said he had an argument with two people at dawn this morning. He was seen leaving in the company of a man and woman. I don’t suppose you have any idea who they might be?”
“Why would I know that? Baldomero is much in demand, so it could have been anyone. There are few cooks that can match him in certain cuisines. I still cannot believe him responsible for what you claim.”
“If we ever find him, perhaps he can explain what happened then, but I am sure it is he who crafted the poisoned dish. If he is as skilled as you claim, there is no way he could mistake amanita for ordinary mushrooms.”
“I expect you are right, as always. In which case he has most likely fled, and if he has fled, you have little chance of finding him. End your search and return to your queen.”
Bazzu’s words so matched Thomas’s own recent thoughts that they came as confirmation.
“You said Baldomero cooked for the palace recently. Did he do so often?”
“Often enough. Perhaps once a month, sometimes a little less, sometimes a little more.”
“Exactly when was this last time he cooked here?”
Bazzu stared off into space, her lips moving as if she was counting.
“I would say between two and three weeks, but I can check if it is important. I will have made a record of it.”
“No need. Abu Abdullah’s guests were Turks, you said?”
“They were. I met their leader when I was sent for.” She glanced at Jorge. “He was almost as handsome as you, my sweet, but with an air of danger to him you do not possess.”
“Was there anyone else?” Thomas did not understand why he was asking the question. The dinner was too far in the past to be relevant.
“Only the countess I told you about,” said Bazzu. “She came to see me a few days later wanting to know how to contact Baldomero. She said she had enjoyed the meal so much, she wanted him to prepare a meal for her and her son.”