At that moment, love was forging a path between two people who refused to acknowledge their inauspicious circumstances.
Afterward, I found out how the romance began: the timid Ramiro Alvar persuaded a nurse to deliver a letter for him. Estíbaliz read it with a mixture of surprise and curiosity:
Dear Inspector Ruiz de Gauna,
I’m very sorry things turned out this way due to my condition. Although I remember nothing from the hours or days my alter spent with you, I realize your feelings for each other were sincere. Alvar fell in love with you, and you with him. It doesn’t surprise me; Alvar is courageous and strong-willed. I think you were very special to him. He’s never brought any woman to the tower before. In fact, the man you spent the night with, in a sense, was a virgin. I’m now convinced he no longer exists, that he died in the fall. I haven’t suffered any more blackouts. This has encouraged me to believe I’m cured, that my private nightmare is finally over. I believe I can now lead a normal life. I realize that, for you, this constitutes a loss, because Alvar is no longer with us. I also understand that you must hate me, Ramiro Alvar, and that you see me as—how did you put it?—a “boring nerd.” To you I am Alvar’s tedious alter, yet I am the real person behind this split personality.
Kind regards,
Ramiro Alvar Nograro, XXV Lord of Nograro Tower
At the time, though, I knew nothing of the letter. All I knew was that without Estíbaliz, I felt unable to make headway in the investigation. Frustrated, I got into my car and drove to Ugarte. The book club wasn’t due to meet, but I wanted to find out more about Ramiro Alvar’s family background, especially his brother.
I headed for the village bar.
The place was half empty. A group of young men and women were playing foosball, while a group of senior citizens were busy tallying up their scores after a contested card game. I found Benita dozing in her wheelchair, a blanket draped over her knees.
“You can talk to her. She’s only pretending to be asleep,” said the young man running the bar. He winked at me.
“Benita, how are you today?” I asked, sitting beside her and warming my hands in front of the stove.
“Ah, the detective!” she said sardonically.
“Inspector, actually. I missed the book club last week. Any news?”
“I’ll say! Four more locals signed up: Aurora; Nati, the mayor’s wife; and the Ochoas—mother and daughter. Women who’ve never shown any interest in listening to someone read aloud before…”
“I’m glad it’s getting more popular,” I said. “This seems like a close-knit village, with everything that entails—good and bad.”
“Well, you know what they say: ‘Small town, big hell,’ ” she drawled.
“It’s curious you should say that. The other day, your son made a comment that I found shocking. He said Ugarte was a town full of bastards. Surely the people here aren’t that bad?”
“He didn’t mean it in the way you’re thinking. Words change over the years; they acquire different meanings, but nuance is important. My son meant it literally. There are the legitimates, children born to lawfully wedded couples. And then there are the illegitimates, children born out of wedlock. We know a lot about them here in Ugarte. We probably have a few whoresons and daughters, too. Of course, there are the naturals, children born to an official mistress who was faithful to her man. I expect we have a few of those, too. Then there are the ‘abominations,’ children born of incest—an offense against God, don’t you think? That shouldn’t be allowed to happen. And we mustn’t forget those born to concubines.”
“Concubines?”
“Women who cohabit with Catholic priests,” she explained. “Let’s see, who’s left? The nuns…Did I mention the abominations? Yes, I think I did. And last of all are the cuckoos, children born to an adulterous woman whose husband brings them up as his own. We’ve had more than one of those.”
“Cuckoos, you call them. My grandfather would describe it as a fox bringing up a litter that isn’t his.”
“It’s as old as the hills, isn’t it?” she said cheerily.
“Does that cover everyone?”
“I think so. People here don’t talk about these things. If they did, we’d find one in every house—and nobody wants that. That’s why they tolerate one another, suffer in silence and then send their children away so there’s no inbreeding. God forbid.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve said quite enough for today, Mother,” Fidel broke in. “I’m taking you home.”
I was so absorbed in my conversation with Benita that Fausti’s shy husband seemed to appear out of nowhere to wheel his mother away.
* * *
—
First thing the next morning, Milán called. It was still dark and I was naked, leaning out of the big window overlooking the square. The wind was already whisking through the streets.
“Kraken, we got a call about an aggravated burglary in Quejana. It’s bizarre.”
“What do you mean, ‘bizarre’?” I said, irritated.
“Somebody broke into the Conjunto Monumental de Quejana. The elderly priest who looks after the place has been injured.”
35
QUEJANA
UNAI
October 2019
What the hell? I thought as I listened to Milán.
“Should I come get you?” she asked.
An hour later, with dawn just breaking, we parked outside the abandoned Dominican convent at Quejana, in north Álava.
Other than an ambulance, the cobbled yard was deserted. Leafy trees bordered the yard, their boughs entwined above us, reaching into the red sky.
We walked past the deserted buildings. Unsure where to go, we instinctively made our way toward the fortified palace with its four huge, square towers.
Cautiously entering through a big wooden door, I called out, “Is anybody there?”
A rather tall young man in a paramedic’s uniform came out to greet us.
“Follow me. A man has been injured in a fall—we suspect he’s fractured his hip. We’re taking him to the hospital.” He led us to the inner courtyard, which was lined in wet flagstones and boasted pots of well-kept shrubs. Mounds of leaves had been swept into the corners. Clearly, someone was keeping the place more or less alive.
I saw the old priest sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by paramedics. He was wearing striped pajamas and had covered himself as best he could with a black jacket.
“Did you call the ambulance?” I asked him.
“Lázaro Durana, at your service. I’m the parish priest here at Quejana. I live in the old chaplain’s house. Late last night, I was awake reading—I only ever sleep for a few hours—and I heard noises. I’m alone here, so I realized it must be somebody up to no good. When I came down, I found that someone had broken into the chapel.”
“What did you see?” Milán asked him.
“Not much. The door to the Nuestra Señora del Cabello chapel was ajar, and I saw the beam of a flashlight inside. As I got closer to the chapel, I yelled, ‘Who’s there?’ Nobody answered, but I heard more rustling. I didn’t want to confront the thief alone, so I called the police from my cell phone. The thief must have heard me because the light went out, and then I caught a glimpse of a figure running out of the chapel. He pushed me aside, and I fell on my hip. It’s terribly painful. And I seem to have lost my glasses. Could someone find them for me, please?”
Milán and I scoured the yard, as though we were processing a crime scene: I divided the area into four, and we examined each section, moving counterclockwise, spiraling from the outside in.
I finally found the glasses in the far left-hand corner, approximately four yards from where the priest said the collision had occurred.
“They’re over here,” I shouted. “The lenses are intac
t, but the frame’s a bit bent. Did your attacker touch them, do you think?”
“No, he just knocked me over and ran off.”
I took several photos of the glasses—a close-up, one shot from medium range, and another from far away. Based on where we found them, the priest was telling the truth: the intruder must have burst through the chapel door and collided with the old man exactly where he had said.
I picked up the glasses and returned them to their owner.
“That’s better,” he said, “now I can see your faces.”
“Do you think you could identify your attacker?” Milán asked.
“No, it was too dark.”
“Was there anything specific you remember about him? Did he give off a particular odor, perhaps?”
“Just sweat. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing cologne.”
“So you believe it was a man?”
“I’m not around many women, but judging from the person’s build, I’d say it was a man. Could you check to see if he broke into the convent chapel as well? It’s over there,” he said, waving his hand toward a gloomy area on the far side of the courtyard. “We keep a rather valuable chalice in the sacristy.”
Milán walked over to the small chapel, slipped on some gloves, and tried to open the door.
“It’s locked, and it doesn’t look like the door’s been tampered with. I don’t think he came over here.”
“Thank heavens for that.” The priest sighed. “Would you take a look in the main chapel and see what he was doing in there?”
“Of course, that’s what we’re here for. Is there anything of particular value we should be looking for?”
“The tomb of Chancellor Pero López de Ayala and his wife, Leonora de Guzmán. On the wall is an altarpiece. It is a reproduction; the original is in the Art Institute of Chicago. I hope he didn’t defile the tomb with graffiti. Please check, would you?” the priest insisted. He grimaced and clutched his hip.
The young EMT frowned at us. “We’re taking him to Vitoria,” he said.
The old priest nodded meekly and pulled a bunch of keys from his threadbare black jacket.
“Would you please lock the main door when you’ve finished, and bring the keys back to me at the hospital?”
“I’ll make sure you get them, Don Lázaro, don’t worry,” I assured him. “Does anybody else have a key?”
“I usually lock up. The maintenance crew occasionally prunes the trees in the parking lot, and they make sure the outside looks tidy, although we don’t get many visitors. In the summer, they hire seasonal workers, usually locals. I suppose there must be a few keys circulating, but that’s a matter for the diocese and the Quejana Council.”
“We need to take him now,” the paramedic insisted.
“Of course,” I said. “Don Lázaro, I’ll bring the keys to the hospital as soon as I can. In the meantime, I have some homework for you. Will you write down the names of anyone who worked here recently?”
“I’m not sure I’ll remember.”
“Just do your best. And one more question: Is this the first break-in you’ve had?”
“I’m glad you asked me that. A while back, I noticed the lid of the chancellor’s tomb had been moved. I informed the diocese, the historical heritage department, but they weren’t interested because nothing had been damaged or stolen. I wanted to go to Vitoria to report it to the police, but my superior dissuaded me. In the end, I paid to have the lock changed. I did it for peace of mind, out of my own pocket. I live here alone, and I felt exposed. There hasn’t been another incident since then. Oh, come to think of it…I did have to make copies of the keys for the council.”
“When did that happen?”
“I can’t really recall….A year, a year and a half ago?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we really need to get this gentleman to the hospital for treatment,” the EMT said, helping the old man into a folding wheelchair.
“Of course,” said Milán. “Go ahead.”
With that, the paramedics whisked away the injured priest. Milán and I looked at each other. What had the intruder wanted to steal from the chapel?
The courtyard was dank and still. Not the coziest place to live year-round.
I put on gloves before entering the chapel. Milán looked at me impatiently. She thought this was a waste of time. So did I.
Was it a prank? Was the attacker a vandal who had been caught in the act? If the intruder had been a burglar, wouldn’t he have broken into the sacristy at the convent chapel, where he might find valuables he could grab and sell fairly quickly?
The fact that the priest surprised the intruder in the chapel with the tomb suggested that whoever it was hadn’t done their homework and had simply stumbled through the wrong door.
But it didn’t matter. We were here now, and we had to go in.
The chapel was a small oblong space, roughly five hundred square feet, with a few pews, and a wooden latticed choir stall above our heads. The reproduction of the famous altarpiece was on the wall facing us. It depicted men and women in medieval garments, mostly kneeling in prayer. At the center of the painting was an empty throne.
Milán and I weren’t looking at that, though. We were staring at the huge recumbent white sculpture.
“Shit, are we dealing with a crazy person? Is this a grave robber?” Milán whispered, shaking her head.
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure just what we were dealing with yet.
The tomb, a huge alabaster slab, was a marriage bed for the chancellor and his wife, where life-size statues of the couple slept together in death. Both the man and the woman at his side had a dog at their feet. A symbol of faithfulness, I supposed.
Fidelitas, Maturana seemed to whisper to me from beyond.
The heavy slab supporting the two stone figures had been moved. The act would have required superhuman strength. The sun was now rising, and a ray of light seeped through the crack in the door. It illuminated the gloomy chapel, and we witnessed the unthinkable.
I leaned over the open tomb of the López de Ayala family’s most illustrious son: author, diplomat, chancellor. A renaissance man well revered even five hundred years after his death.
But there were too many bones in that sacred space, more than those of the husband and wife. I counted six femurs.
Who did the third body belong to, and why had the thief uncovered this secret?
36
EL PORTAL OSCURO
DIAGO VELA
Summer, the Year of Our Lord 1199
“Could he have fallen asleep somewhere outside the town walls? In a barn, perhaps?” suggested someone behind me.
“Maybe he got distracted catching frogs in the River Zapardiel, and by the time he returned, the gates were closed.”
Anglesa, Pero Vicia, and Sabat were in a huddle, murmuring.
“If that were the case, he would have returned this morning,” I reasoned. “Yesterday, his uncle gave him his first colt. He was eager to ride him again. Keep looking. Search every hedgerow, behind the walls surrounding every garden.”
After a night spent calling Yennego’s name, I doused my torch in a puddle.
The gates opened at cockcrow, and those who had joined the search now went straight to their workshops or set up the awnings at their stalls.
I went to find Nagorno. He had been searching for Yennego within the town walls, in gardens and workshops, anywhere a mischievous young lad might have hidden.
I heard a commotion and realized something was happening. I looked around and saw an angry-looking crowd beneath the Portal Oscuro.
My brother had seized one of the Isunzas by the neck and had the point of his dagger pressed against the man’s throat. A dozen or so others, including the Ortiz de Zárate brothers and the Mendozas, had formed a circle around them.
“Let every family in Villa de Suso and Nova Victoria weep until my nephew is found. If any man here is holding the lad hostage, it’s not too late to release him. As long as he’s alive, no questions will be asked,” he declared. I knew he meant what he said.
I walked up to the group. Several of the men turned around, and some raised their hands to their belts, reaching for their weapons.
“Let him go, Nagorno. This won’t help Yennego.”
“Yes, it will. If someone is trying to avenge what happened to Ruiz de Maturana, they will pay. I’ll enter each of your houses, and you will all die. No one will be able to stop me.”
“Drop him at once!” I cried. “That’s enough.”
Nagorno grudgingly let the man go. With that, the whole group ran off, and within a few seconds the street was empty.
“You’re a fool, Brother. That won’t bring Yennego back,” I rebuked him.
Nagorno was beside himself. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing my brother lose control like this.
“And what do you propose, hm?” he replied angrily. “You’ll let them spill our blood and do nothing?”
“I came for you. We’re leaving for the fortress at Sant Viçente. We’ll enlist the lieutenant’s best men to help with the search for my son.”
We walked through the Angevín district until we came to the South Gate, where we found the lieutenant saddling his horse.
“No sign of him then?” Martín Chipia inquired as we approached.
“No,” I replied, staring through the gate.
Alix was still searching outside the town. She had refused to return without Yennego.
“Children get into mischief, they sleep under the stars….He’ll be back. He can’t have gone far, not with his leg—”
“Yennego hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s been taken,” I cut in. “I found a broken length of yarn—the amulet his great-grandmother gave him. He would have picked it up if it had just fallen off; he would not have wanted to hurt her feelings. No, Chipia, I plan to assemble a search party with some of your best scouts. My son has been taken from the town, and I fear that, by now, he is far from here.”
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