I walked over to one of them.
“Those are the privileges and concessions granted to Lord Nograro by Ferdinand the Fourth in 1306,” he explained. “You see that metal insignia? That’s the royal seal: a quartered shield emblazoned with two castles and two lions rampant. On the back is a figure in relief. It’s difficult to see, but it’s the king on horseback. It’s only a copy. Documents this old are extremely valuable, so the originals are kept in the Historical Archives of Álava, in Vitoria.”
I tried to decipher the text.
“Is this Spanish? I can’t understand a word of it.”
He smiled timidly.
“It takes practice. For example, this passage says: ‘To guarantee the lineage will pass to men of honor, I may be neither imprisoned nor condemned.’ This is our private family library. It’s where I keep all our records: wills, prenuptial agreements, dowries, concessions, proof of nobility, lawsuits, disputes, and grievances. But enough of that. Will you tell me the reason for your visit?”
“I’m friendly with the editor at Malatrama. He told me you two collaborated once. An exhibition at the Town Hall in Ugarte or something?”
“Yes. They needed permission to reproduce some images, and he asked for my help. Pruden publishes a lot of this kind of material. Did something happen to him? Is that why you’re here?”
“On the contrary, he’s in perfect health. No, Alvar, that’s not why I’m here. I’ll be honest with you. The author of The Lords of Time sent Pruden the manuscript under a pseudonym, and, because you are well versed in the medieval period, he thinks you might be the author. What do you say to that?”
“It’s Ramiro. Ramiro Alvar,” he corrected again. “And I can assure you, I didn’t ask him to publish that novel. I swear on my family’s honor that this is the first time I’ve seen this or any other copy of the book. I don’t deny having read some of it today or that I’m familiar with the events, and some of the characters, described. But I didn’t write it. What makes him think it was me? There are hundreds of authors or historians who could have written the book.”
“I’m going to be up-front with you again,” I said, “because I don’t like lies. Pruden received an e-mail with the manuscript attached, and our technical team traced the message to this tower.”
“What?”
I could see his incredulity, his bewilderment. His expression bordered on primal fear.
“Did you send him the manuscript?”
“Of course not. I didn’t write the novel, much less ask him to publish it. I don’t—”
“Yes, I know, you don’t need the money, that much is clear,” I cut in.
“That isn’t what I meant, it’s not about money, that’s not my excuse.” He sighed in frustration. “It’s just that I would never publish that particular story. You have to believe me.”
He shrank back into his blanket. I wanted to fire a barrage of questions at him: Don’t you remember going out last night with my colleague? Why aren’t you wearing a cassock? Why are you suddenly sensitive to the cold? Of all the lies you’ve told, which weighs heaviest, which is the most ludicrous, which is filling you most with guilt?
Yet I chose to leave him be, to let him contemplate whatever it was that had scared him so much. I wanted him to guide me through his labyrinth of lies. I wanted to see what questions he chose to ask me.
“Inspector Unai…”
“Unai. Call me Unai,” I said.
“Why would a police inspector come here to ask me about the authorship of a book? Has someone made a complaint? Is there a problem with the copyright?” he ventured.
“I don’t think you understand. I’m with the Criminal Investigation Unit. I’m a profiler.”
“You’re a profiler….Are you also a psychologist?”
“I have a degree in criminal psychology, but I’m not a psychologist.”
“I did a correspondence course in psychology. I also hold a number of degrees—in history, law, and economics. They are subjects I thought might help me in handling my family legacy. I try to manage the day-to-day running of the estate. And I think I do a good job. I enjoy it. But that’s not why you’re here. Criminal Investigation? What happened?”
“A few days ago in Vitoria, a businessman was killed. The cause of death was very unusual: he was poisoned with cantharides, a medieval aphrodisiac. Yesterday, two missing sisters were discovered walled up in an apartment in the Old Quarter of Vitoria. The elder sister died of starvation. Her younger sister is in intensive care.”
Ramiro Alvar doubled over, clasping his stomach.
“Two young girls? I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to kill two young girls?” he whispered. The question wasn’t even directed at me. “I’m sorry, death sickens me. You’ll have to bear with me a moment….”
“Naturally.”
I waited patiently. For a few seconds, he was lost in grief. I would have sacrificed all twenty-two of my daughter’s teddy bears to see inside his head just then. I wanted to take his picture, but I couldn’t think of an excuse to pull out my phone.
“So someone is murdering people using medieval methods,” he said at last.
“That’s one angle we’re pursuing,” I conceded.
“All I can tell you is that I didn’t write the novel, I didn’t contact the publisher, and I didn’t kill anyone. I imagine you’ll need me to provide an alibi, which could be difficult. I basically work alone here. I don’t know when the deaths occurred, but Claudia will be able to account for my whereabouts during the times she was here. I have occasional visits from relatives, who might also be able to assist with your inquiries. Then there’s the mayor, the councilors, and my neighbors in Ugarte….I don’t know. You’re welcome to whatever you need.”
“All right. I’ll come back in a few days, and we’ll clear up all these questions. That’s all for today.”
He nodded with relief, and we went downstairs in silence. He seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his dark-red blanket.
“Unai,” he said when we reached the entrance, placing his hand on my forearm. It felt more like a cry for help than a gesture of complicity. “I’m sorry, deeply sorry about these deaths. I wish you good luck with the investigation.”
This Ramiro Alvar bore little resemblance to the impish priest Estíbaliz had gone carousing with. His mouth was taut, his lips pressed together to suppress secrets he feared he might blurt out during our casual conversation.
He had day-old stubble when the day before he had been clean-shaven. And that soft voice—it apologized for existing, for taking up space. I thought I saw a pleading look when I left, as though he were saying, Don’t abandon me here alone. I’d never seen anyone so vulnerable.
To this day, I’m still not sure if what I saw in those blue eyes was a cry for help or a warning.
As I walked back to my car, I was aware of his eyes on my back. He was watching me from his lookout. I sat behind the wheel and dialed my partner’s number.
“Estí, are you okay to talk?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed out all night. I’m at the hospital with Nieves and Grandfather. She’s doing fine. She asked about you.”
“I’m on my way. Can you step outside the room for a minute? We need to talk about work.”
I heard the sound of the door closing and Estíbaliz’s agitated breath as she walked along the hallway.
“Okay, I’m alone now. Where were you this afternoon? You weren’t picking up your phone. Did you have any interesting interviews?”
“Very. I’ve been with Alvar in his tower. But first I wanted to ask, did you get anything out of him last night? Did he take any drugs?”
“Not as far as I know. I only lost sight of him when he went to the bathroom. And he didn’t seem to know anybody, so it’s clear he doesn’t normally go out in Vit
oria.”
“Did he drink?”
“A few glasses of wine. To appease me more than anything.”
“Just a few?”
“Just a few,” she repeated.
“Is he a habitual drinker, do you think?”
“No. He drank lots of water and made several trips to the bathroom. I think he wanted to be in control at all times, although he played along whenever I offered to buy him a drink. But I never saw him drunk or even tipsy. He was always in control. Constantly on alert, observing everything.”
“Just to be clear,” I forced myself to ask, “you did this for work, right? Are you luring him out of his comfort zone to see if he’s behind these murders? Or is this personal? Should I not butt in?”
“Are you?”
“Am I acting like your big brother? No way. You can take care of yourself, and I’m not going to question your taste. I realize he has…”
“Charisma?”
“He’s the king of charisma, and he’s also handsome, seductive, attractive,” I said.
She snorted. “Should I book the two of you a room with a view?”
“Don’t be stupid. All I’m saying is that I can see why you might be attracted to him.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Will you tell Alba?” she asked.
“As a friend, she’d understand. As your boss, she might think you were being unprofessional because we’re in the middle of an investigation. But no, I don’t want to give her more to worry about, she’s got enough on her plate with Nieves, and the case.”
“So you’ll keep my secret for now?”
“Even if it means lying to my boss, my partner, and the mother of my child?”
“Yes,” she said vehemently, although there was a touch of guilt in her voice. Guilt was present in our whole conversation. We both felt it.
“You already know the answer. Yes, of course I’ll keep your secret,” I said eventually. “But only because it’s you. I don’t want to lie to Alba, but I’ll do it for you. Just don’t make a habit out of putting me in this position, because I hate this feeling.”
“You still haven’t told me what you were doing at the tower.”
“Finishing what you started, observing him in his own territory after you enticed him away. What would you say if I told you he doesn’t remember anything about last night, or yesterday? In fact, he didn’t even recognize me.”
“You’re kidding me!” she exclaimed.
“He wasn’t wearing his cassock. He looked dreadful, puffy eyes, five-o’clock shadow. He said he was tired. I swear he thinks he had a bad night’s sleep. And he was puzzled about the novel. He didn’t remember me leaving it behind yesterday; yet he seemed reluctant to return it. I almost felt sorry for him, because he kept looking at it like it was a holy object. He became quite upset when I told him about the deaths, but, curiously, he didn’t ask the victims’ names. I’d say the incident with the two sisters bothered him the most. Oh, and by the way—he’s a genius. He has degrees in law, history, economics, and…psychology. Interestingly, he said everything he studied helped him manage the family’s legacy.”
“Hold on, Kraken, stop bombarding me with information. I’m a little slow today. I can’t take it all in. Are you saying our suspect is an amnesiac?”
“I have no idea, Estí. No idea whatsoever.”
15
SAINT AGATHA’S EVE
DIAGO VELA
Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1192
Night was falling by the time I passed through the North Gate and hurried toward one of the oldest houses on Rúa de las Pescaderías.
People were making merry amid the hustle and bustle of the snow-sprinkled cobbled streets. Young maidens wearing cone-shaped wimples collected eggs from the chicken coops to place in their baskets.
The young men laughed as they rehearsed their songs, tapping their long hazel canes on the cobbles, as if the sticks they’d plucked from the hills would give them the courage they needed for Saint Agatha’s Eve. They were even more excited and eager than the young women.
I rapped on the old, studded wooden door with the knocker, but there was no answer. When I grew tired of waiting for someone to bid me enter, I pushed the door open and whistled. She would already know it was me. I’d climbed those stairs many times. I shook the snow from my boots and stepped inside.
The corners of the stairwell were full of shadows, and once again my hand went to the dagger at my waist, an involuntary gesture from my time as a soldier.
She was sitting in a corner next to the window, watching the celebration in the street below. Her toothless mouth curved in a smile when she saw me.
“Grandmother Lucía…”
“Diago, Diago, my boy,” she murmured.
Her voice was faint and it trembled. She had aged over the past two winters, and that worried me. Each time I saw her, I wanted to believe time had stood still, but that wasn’t true. I remembered her with gray hair and crooked teeth, but both her hair and her few remaining teeth had fallen away, like leaves from a walnut tree after the first frost.
Her back was even more bowed, forcing her head almost to her stomach. She was spinning on a finely crafted wheel made for her by Lupo, the cabinetmaker. The sum of her possessions were the wheel, a narrow bed, a chair, and a trunk where she kept her meager trousseau—a summer petticoat perhaps, or a pair of sandals for when she wanted to venture out.
I went over to the empty chair Grandmother Lucía always kept next to her.
The townsfolk of Victoria visited her almost every day. They brought her apples and turnips, and she listened patiently and sympathetically as they shared their problems and disputes, sins they wouldn’t speak of even in the confessional. They knew that she had seen too many things in her hundred and fifty years to pass judgment.
“I’ve brought chestnuts from Héctor. I’ll roast them while we sit,” I said, drawing near the hearth. I leveled the coals with a poker, pulled out my dagger, and began to prick the chestnuts before placing them on the embers.
“I’m the only one who never believed you were dead,” she said joyously, her mottled hands holding mine in a firm grip.
“The warmth feels good, Grandmother,” I declared, sitting back down beside her.
She wasn’t my grandmother, yet she had always been there for me. There wasn’t a single person in Villa de Suso who didn’t think of her as Grandmother.
“Are those lardy cakes I smell?” she asked, cooing as though I were a child.
Instinctively I raised my head. The sweet aroma of yeasty dough wafted up the staircase, reminding me of all the comforts I had missed in my two long years away.
“It’s me, Grandmother Lucía!” a voice called from downstairs.
“Tell her to come up. I get hoarse if I have to shout.”
The feeble light coming from the hearth and the candle at the window weren’t sufficient to illuminate the shadow bearing the delicious-smelling cake.
“Are you roasting chestnuts?”
“Alix de Salcedo?” I asked, looking at the three peaks of her wimple. One steeple was for married women, two were for those twice widowed. Three were for women who had buried three husbands.
I rose to offer her my seat, and she accepted.
“Don’t tell Grandmother that I sometimes remove my wimple,” she whispered, smiling as she walked past me. Then she spoke up so the old woman could hear: “Sire, will you join our feast? They say the more the merrier.”
How could I decline? I pulled up the trunk and sat opposite them.
“Is Grandmother Lucía really your grandmother?” I asked.
“My grandmother’s grandmother, actually. She says she was a girl when they built the town walls, during the reign of Alfonso the Battler. By my count, she
is more than a hundred and sixty years old.”
“Jaun Belaco, your great-grandfather,” Grandmother Lucía began. She smiled, and I could see the cake in her toothless gums. “He paid for the wall using money from the forge. He hired two stonemasons from Estella, along with forty laborers and ten women. Carpenters, herdsmen, journeymen…They were hired by the day. Those who brought a beast earned twenty-two ducats; those who didn’t were paid only seven. I brought water from the well, and they paid me four ducats for it, as a maid. The wall took ten years to complete. Many of the workers settled here, and Villa de Suso swelled in numbers—Graciana de Ripa, Pero de Castresana, Bona de Sarasa…Some of the youth who’ll court you tonight are descended from these men, Alix. What a pity the count died in his prime. I was a mere slip of a girl, but I was in love with him, and I wept bitterly when he passed. He cared for everyone; in those days there were only two hundred of us in the village, and we were all related. You look just like him, Alix. The same blue eyes, and the same nose.”
Alix lowered her gaze, holding back a smile when Grandmother mentioned her nose. If this was a joke, it was lost on me.
“Why do I have no recollection of you before I left town two years ago?”
“I was sixteen, sire, and a late bloomer. I’ve changed a good deal in two summers.”
“Two summers and three spouses?” I said without thinking, and regretted it instantly. “Forgive me. You must be weary of speaking about such matters.”
“Indeed, I know what they say about women like me: ‘A healthy widow should be married, buried, or immured.’ ”
“I’ve never approved of that saying. What fool mocked you for losing three husbands?”
“More than one, but no matter. And I suppose I’d prefer to tell you myself before you hear it elsewhere. I was married to Liazar Díaz, a young man my age. He owned the bakery on Rúa de las Tenderías and insisted on weighing out the sacks of rye himself, even though we hired a boy to do it. He was full of vigor, never grew tired. One morning I found him in the grain store, writhing on the ground as though he were possessed by a demon. It was Saint Anthony’s fire. I tended to him, and told no one but Grandmother Lucía. Then he started to see ships sailing in the streets and trees climbing Los Montes Altos. Your cousin Gunnarr tried to comfort me, explaining that the rye in the grain store must have been contaminated with ergot. He said he had seen some Norman warriors ingest it to become frenzied, have visions like the saints, and strike fear into the hearts of their enemies.” She gritted her teeth.
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