The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6)

by David Penny

  “Is it far?” asked Jorge. They had left the house, following Diego’s reluctant instructions.

  Diego shook his head. Pointed.

  Thomas looked in that direction. A wide street with well-appointed houses. At the end of it a narrow gate through the wall stood open to admit people in and out to the rocky ledge that lay beyond, and the sea.

  “If you are good now, Belia will make you a special cake. What would you like?”

  Diego looked at Jorge, clearly unsure of the bribe. Then he made his mind up. “Honey and sugar. But Ma say I can’t have it all the time. As a treat.”

  “Then Belia will make you a honey cake,” said Jorge.

  Diego nodded.

  “After you show Thomas where you found the man.”

  Diego pulled away, but strong as he was, Jorge was stronger.

  “It will not take long,” said Jorge, his voice hypnotic, calming. Somewhere a dog began to bark, out beyond the city wall, and Diego flinched as another joined in, then another until it seemed every dog in Malaka was howling.

  “Think of the cake,” said Jorge. “Belia will make it sticky so you will have to lick your fingers. Sweet with honey and sugar. Is it this house?”

  Diego shook his head. “There.” He pointed. “Yellow, next the wall.”

  The house rose three stories so the upper windows looked out across the wall. To one side, away from the road, it merged into the Ataranzana building. Jorge began to move, slowly at first, dragging Diego alongside him so he had no choice but to move his feet.

  “How did you find him?”

  “Noise,” said Diego. “The scream.”

  Jorge stopped walking.

  “What screams?” Thomas asked.

  “One scream,” said Diego.

  “What man?”

  “The other man, man with the knife. Hurting Pa not Pa.”

  “When was this?”

  “Early. I come early because nobody at home and Diego hungry.”

  “Why did no-one else hear the scream?”

  “Early!” said Diego. “I tell you, it was early. Light only just come but Diego hungry. All the city asleep.”

  Not true, Thomas thought, for in Malaka there were always those who worked, or lay awake with worries, or came strolling home after a night spent in illicit pleasure. Someone else would have heard, but just as the city never slept it could also ignore sounds it did not want to hear.

  “The small man cut Pa.”

  Thomas stared at Diego. “You saw this?”

  A series of nods.

  “And the man with the knife, you saw him too?”

  Another nod.

  “Show me where.”

  Diego pulled free from Jorge and strode toward the yellow house. Thomas ran to catch up, afraid he might escape, but Diego came to a halt in front of an arched entrance. This was no ordinary house but some place of commerce.

  “You went in here?” Thomas asked, and again Diego nodded. Thomas held out a hand, and Diego took it, but it was Thomas had to lead him through the entrance. “Show me where it was.”

  He felt the tension in Diego’s body, his reluctance, glad when Jorge followed close behind. Diego led the way to a flight of stone steps, hesitated again, and Thomas began to ascend them, pulling the boy along.

  “How much honey cake can you eat?” Jorge asked. “Do I need to ask Belia to make a big one?”

  “Yes.” Diego nodded. “Big one. Diego like cake.”

  He slowed as they came to the third floor, and Thomas knew they were close to where the killing had taken place. Diego hesitated once more, then appeared to steel himself and stepped forward, walking fast as if he needed the momentum to get him where he knew he needed to be. Which was what appeared to be an office. Thomas looked along the corridor before entering, saw that the building they had entered extended into the much larger Ataranzana where the majority of Guild trade was conducted. This was no private house, but open to anyone who wanted to enter.

  Thomas went into the office. “Is this where it happened?”

  Diego shook his head and kept doing so, incapable of stopping.

  “Where?”

  The shaking turned to a slow nod toward a connecting door that stood partly open.

  “In there?”

  Nod. Nod. Nod.

  Jorge went to Diego and put his arm around him.

  Thomas went to the door and pushed it open, went into the next room. It was as near identical to the other as was possible. Each had a narrow window that looked west across the Wadi al-Medina, beyond it the dark-sand shoreline, behind it rich farmland that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  “In here?” He looked back to where Diego remained unmoving. His head began to nod again.

  “Where in here?”

  Diego looked at Jorge, who smiled and drew him closer to the door. Diego came, resisted at the entrance, then came two feet inside. He pointed at a corner to the left of the window. Thomas went to it and knelt, his fingers steepled against the wooden floor.

  There was a faint stain as if of spilled blood, but it looked as if someone had tried to clean it up, and he wondered if whoever did it had been suspicious or not.

  He glanced at Diego. “Did you do this? Try to wash the stain away?”

  Nod …

  “Tell me what you saw. Where were you — not in here. In the next room?”

  Another nod. Thomas wanted to question Diego harder but knew it would be a mistake.

  “Can you show me? You and Jorge?”

  Diego gave a half-smile. It had become a game. He dragged Jorge forward and stood him beside the desk. Then he went to the other door that gave into the corridor, turned and came back into the room. He began to gabble, nonsense words designed to hide the reality of what had happened here from himself. He pushed at Jorge, who yelled back and Diego grinned and pushed again until Jorge was caught in the corner of the room. Then Diego stepped back until several yards separated them.

  Thomas frowned. “Then what?”

  Diego crouched, came back toward Jorge. He stuck out with his hand, punched Jorge on the side of his chest. Once only.

  Thomas watched as Diego moved back again, drew himself to his full height, and approached Jorge once more. He made a strange gesture with his right hand, a sudden flicking motion that appeared to mean nothing. He looked at Jorge and frowned.

  “Down,” he said, and Jorge lay on the floor. Diego nodded, satisfied. He stood for a time, then turned and walked to the door and out into the corridor.

  Thomas caught up with him before he could descend the steps and brought him back.

  “And then you took him to your house?”

  “Later. After the man came back and went again.”

  “What? The man who killed him returned? Why?”

  “Diego not know.” He wrapped both hands together.

  “Had he left something behind?”

  “Diego not know.” The fingers curled around each other, squeezing so hard the flesh turned white.

  “We will look after you,” Thomas said. “The bad man can’t hurt you now, not with me and Jorge to protect you.”

  “And Will,” said Diego.

  “Yes, and Will.”

  “Will is good fighter. He will save Diego.”

  Thomas suppressed a smile. “Yes. I want you to go with Jorge to the house. Tell Belia you want honey cake and she will make it for you. I need to stay here for a little while, but I’ll be home soon.”

  “Danger, Thomas,” said Diego. “Danger come soon.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Thomas walked to the top of the steps and watched them descend. Diego laughed at something Jorge said, but there was a tension in the sound, and for a moment he looked back at Thomas standing at the top of the steps.

  Thomas turned to the office, wanting to examine it more closely, and almost lost his balance as it seemed the floor moved beneath his feet. There was a moment of disorientation, then he shook his head, dismissing it as a lack of s
leep.

  The room where Diego had witnessed the killing was one of several identical offices. Each contained a chair and desk, shelves that were empty. Thomas knelt and ran his fingertips over the floorboards where the faint stain marked them. He glanced at the connecting door and realised he should have had Diego show him exactly where he had been, how he could have witnessed the killing without being seen in turn. But the other room contained shadows and Thomas knew it might have been possible, particularly if whoever was here had been close to the window, their eyes adjusted to the brightness.

  Outside a deep rumble of thunder sounded. Thomas glanced at the window, but the sky remained a cloudless blue. He knew he needed to find out who the victim was, which might offer a clue as to why he was killed. Then he shook his head. The man had been here, in this room. No doubt it was his office. All he had to do was find someone else in the building who would know his name.

  He glanced around the room, unsure if it could tell him anything more. He thought about what Diego had shown him. Two men, it came to him then. That was why Diego had hunched over before he struck the blow. There had been two men, one taller than the other. One to kill, one to argue. That was what Diego had been doing when he babbled — arguing with the dead man.

  Thomas walked to the window and leaned on the sill, staring out at the city wall and, beyond it, a sea that roiled as if a large shoal of fish swam beneath the surface.

  “Thomas!” Diego’s cry interrupted his thoughts. “Thomas, come away!”

  Footsteps sounded loud on the floorboards and then Diego ran inside and careened into Thomas, arms snaking around his waist. But it was no embrace, rather an urging.

  “Thomas, fast, come now. Now!”

  Jorge appeared, breathing hard. “Sorry, he got away from me. The dogs started barking again and he slipped away. Better do as he says or he’ll get upset again.”

  Thomas scowled. They couldn’t continually bow to Diego’s disability. It would be like walking on eggshells and would do him no good either. He was about to say so when the sense of disorientation he had felt on the street returned. He put a hand to his head, afraid something was wrong with him until he saw Jorge do the same.

  “Out!” shouted Diego, and this time he went, staggering down the steps and out onto the street as beneath his feet the ground shook. The sound of thunder came again, but now he was outside, Thomas recognised that it came from beneath his feet, not the sky.

  He had experienced shaking of the earth before. Not often, but the land between Gharnatah and Malaka harboured hot springs that came from deep underground, and Thomas knew they were a sign of a weakness in the earth where the fires of hell rose close to the surface. Even as the explanation came to him, the earth gave a heave and he staggered to his knees. A keening noise filled the air, and only slowly did he realise it was Diego screaming. Thomas stayed where he was as the ground heaved again and another rumble came, accompanied by a loud crash as behind him a wall buckled. The building where the man had died tilted, a great crack running down one wall, and then in slow motion the walls folded inward in a great cloud of dust.

  Nine

  “Diego knew what was going to happen,” said Jorge. He and Thomas sat on the wide terrace, the rest of the household asleep. Their own house was undamaged, but as they made their way through the streets of Malaka they saw others that had not been so fortunate. There would be dead and injured, but Thomas trusted someone else would be caring for them. He needed to think about the murder.

  “As did the dogs,” he said. “And the birds. Most people listen to their minds too much. Diego doesn’t.”

  Wine had been acquired and drunk, and he was considering whether to open another flagon. Beyond them the shape of Malaka could be made out from the lights arrayed on the city wall. Small darker areas marked where houses had once stood. Beyond, the dark sea was over-arched with uncountable stars, a crescent moon just starting to emerge in the east.

  “He insisted we turn around. And I don’t mean just the earth moving. He knew you would be killed if we didn’t come back. He knew, Thomas.” Jorge was uncharacteristically insistent. He rose and disappeared into the house. When he returned it was with the other flagon of wine. He twisted the cork free and poured into both their cups before taking his seat. “That boy knows things.”

  Thomas thought of what Diego had done with the dice, then dismissed the idea forming in his mind as ridiculous, unscientific.

  “We all know things. Even you.”

  Jorge offered a smile of blissful mockery. “Make little of it if you will, but the boy has an ability the rest of us lack.”

  “I won’t argue the point, but I didn’t witness it, only the result. For which I am profoundly grateful.”

  “So, where to in the morning?”

  Thomas had told Jorge of the little he had gleaned from his interrupted examination of the office. The next matter was to find out who the victim had been. Word had been sent but nothing had come back as yet. The slowly decomposing body lay in the cool room of the Infirmary awaiting collection. If no-one claimed it by the end of the next day it would be cremated, together with the other unclaimed bodies.

  “Until we hear word who the dead man is, we can do little,” Thomas said.

  “So I can sleep late.”

  “You always sleep late.”

  “Then I can sleep late with an easy conscience. Why do you continue to pander to Mandana, Thomas? Belia told me she will refuse to make his lotions again.” The expression on Jorge’s face showed what he thought of treating the man who had once tried to kill them both. Except Thomas believed Abbot Mandana had changed. He was still driven, still a weapon used by the Spanish King, Fernando, but something in the man was different. Since seeing that difference in Ixbilya almost two years ago, Thomas had treated Mandana’s wounds once a month if the man found himself close to Malaka. The rest of the time he roamed the countryside with his small band of warrior monks, each of them half mad, on whatever mischief Fernando had set them.

  “Have you considered the coincidence of Mandana being near Malaka when this man was killed?” said Jorge.

  “Of course. But he is not the man he once was. Besides, what kind of business would bring him to kill a stranger here?”

  “That is what we need to find out,” said Jorge.

  “We?”

  “Are we not a team?”

  Thomas smiled. “If I’m lucky, someone will kill him before another forty days passes and we will all be content.”

  “Oh, you are never that lucky. Only today, when Diego came back to save you.”

  Thomas sipped his wine, dark ruby red, rich in his mouth. Such treats were easily obtained in Malaka. Any weakness a man might indulge was easily obtained in Malaka.

  “We should go to our beds,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, we should, once we have finished this flagon.”

  “I am drunk already.”

  “Good, because so am I.” Jorge turned to stare at Thomas. “Will Lubna keep the child she carries this time?”

  It was an impertinent question, far too personal, but from Jorge it was to be expected, and accepted.

  “I believe so. She is healthy, the baby moves with vigour, and our life here is easy compared to Ixbilya. The journey you brought her on was hard, and there was plague.”

  “There is always plague. And the journey was so she could be with you.”

  “I know, I know. I meant no blame.” And then, before Jorge could say anymore, as Thomas saw he wanted to, he said, “It was not your fault. None of what happened was your fault. I should have taken greater care of her.”

  “Like you did the Queen.”

  “Yes. Something like that.”

  “I sometimes wonder if Belia would like a child. Or more than one.”

  “Has she said so?”

  “No … but I still wonder. If she does I will ask you to lie with her. Lubna will allow it, I am sure.”

  Thomas laughed. “Oh, she is not as for
giving as you might think. And Belia might want a say over who lies with her. What if she wants a handful of babies?”

  “Then you will be a very lucky man. She is…” But Jorge stopped, realising what he had been about to say was perhaps too much even for him. He drained his cup then filled both.

  Thomas’s eyes followed the line of the city wall, noting gaps in the torches where stone had tumbled as the earth shook. In the morning, masons would begin work. Malaka was a city of trade, a crossing point for all of the known world, and trade could never be interrupted.

  Thomas eyed his half full cup and put it down.

  “I’m going to bed. I will leave you to sleep late tomorrow.”

  Jorge nodded, quiet for once, staring out across the invisible sea.

  Thomas looked in on Will, and because he and Diego now shared the room, checked on both of them. Will, tall as he was for his age, looked small beside his new friend, but they had become inseparable. He stared at Diego, the softness of his features, the thatch of dark hair on his head pointing every way but the right way, and wondered what mysteries he was privy to that others were not. He believed Jorge, believed that Diego had foreseen the shaking, had foreseen Thomas’s death if he had not come to warn him. Thomas shivered, afraid of something he couldn’t understand.

  No-one had come to claim the body, but Thomas told the Infirmary not to dispose of it yet. He did what he had been about to do when the shaking of the earth interrupted him. He went to the Ataranzana and started at the other end of the puzzle.

  Diego had gone to the location where the man had been killed for a reason. Early that morning Thomas had teased that reason from him, and with Jorge’s help managed not to upset him too much. The office where the body had lain belonged to the man Diego’s father worked for. From that it was a simple matter. The Ataranzana had records which revealed that the dead man was Zufar al-Zaki, Master of the Weapons’ Guild. An important man, no doubt. A busy man. A wealthy man. A man with staff in his employ — one of whom had been Miguel Jiminez. It explained what Diego had been doing in the office next to the one al-Zaki was killed in. Unwilling, or unable, to believe his father dead he had gone in search of him.