She wandered around the cemetery to give Anselmo’s friends and family time to get back to the fonda without being disturbed by her presence, still idly wondering about the quote from the Psalms. Few of the other family tombs had citations carved on them. She was about to leave when she saw a flat, simple headstone, placed a little apart from the other graves. Benigno Román Márquez, she read.
April 2, 1908–February 4, 1938
Our teacher and our friend
Your students and sister will remember you always.
“I am for peace. . . .”—Psalm 120
Jesús Montalbán’s epitaph had apparently inspired another. There were no other Románs in the cemetery. Elena remembered Father Bernardo saying that the teacher had been well liked, although not local. They gave him a decent funeral, she thought. Even though he was a Red, and it was wartime. She turned away, her eyes stinging with tears, and wondered what had become of Señor Benigno’s sister. Was she in prison? In exile? Had she joined the maquis?
Then she remembered Marta Santos saying, “Poor Señorita Laura.” Elena had wondered at the time what young woman among these farmers would earn the courtesy title “Señorita.” The teacher’s sister, Elena thought, with a wave of nausea. She came to the mountains as a foreigner, and the lieutenant of the Guardia fell in love with her and killed her brother and her lover when she refused him. That’s why the two epitaphs are similar. That’s why Potes doesn’t have a school. She shivered and began to make her way home as swiftly as possible, forgetting that she wished to avoid the gathering at the fonda. She managed to sneak upstairs without running into anyone when she reached home.
When Tejada came home that evening he found her on her knees, going through cartons of books. “Do we have a Spanish Bible?” she asked, in response to his astonished demand to know what she was doing.
“I think so.” He knelt beside her and removed a stack of books from her hands, instantly concerned. “Be careful, will you? Why do you want the Bible?”
“I wanted to read the Psalms.” Elena got clumsily to her feet and sank into a chair, content to let him search.
Tejada’s vague unease grew into alarm. “Are you feeling all right? Did something happen at the funeral?”
“No, nothing.” Elena sighed. “But there was a line on a tombstone that interested me.”
“I don’t think you should be reading tombstones in your condition,” Tejada said. “It’s morbid. Here, it was at the bottom of the pile.” He held out a black volume, one of the few books that had been his rather than hers.
Elena found the 120th psalm and read aloud: “In my distress I cry to the Lord, that he may answer me: ‘Deliver me, O Lord, from lying lips, from a deceitful tongue.’” She smiled faintly. “That settles it. Jesulín Montalbán was killed for a purely personal grudge.”
“Elena, for goodness’ sake, this isn’t good for the baby,” her husband protested. “And I don’t have the faintest clue what you’re talking about.”
“Jesulín’s epitaph,” Elena explained.
She summarized her morning in the cemetery, leaving Tejada with the uneasy suspicion that the funeral had been as upsetting as he had feared and that her anxious interest in death and decay would do some obscure harm to the baby. He regretted letting her go but she had been so fragile lately that he hated to remonstrate with her. “Were your friends the Álvarezes there?” he asked, for the sake of saying something more cheerful.
It was a mistake. Elena’s face fell as he spoke. “I saw them. But they didn’t talk to me.”
“It’s always hard to make small talk at a funeral,” Tejada said comfortingly. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to see them tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” Elena agreed softly, although the thought of facing Marta and Quico Álvarez after seeing the graves of the Guardia Civil’s victims was not totally appealing. She allowed her husband to change the subject, hoping that he would forget about his absurd plans to have her making social calls by the following day.
Unfortunately, Sunday afternoon was beautiful, clear, and sunny, with a hint of spring in the air, and Tejada renewed his efforts to be solicitous. “Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked after lunch. “You should get some fresh air.”
“To where?” Elena shrugged one shoulder, hoping that he would take her apathy for exhaustion.
“How about to Tama? To visit your friends there?” Tejada suggested, pleased that he could suggest a route that did not offer excessive climbing or transverse the path where she had found Anselmo Montalbán’s body.
“I don’t really want to go so far alone.”
Tejada smiled at her. “I do have the afternoon off, Elena.”
“I can’t take you to the Álvarezes.”
“Why not?” he demanded, stung by her tone. She gave him a look that clearly said that such a stupid question did not deserve an answer. He was annoyed. “Damn it, Elena, you have to get over this nonsense about the Guardia being some sort of plague. We are not lepers, we are not an occupying army, and—”
“Aren’t you?” she interrupted.
“No! And if we are it’s because of people with your attitude,” Tejada retorted, too irritated to be logical. “I’ve been a guardia for almost ten years now, and I promise you I’ve socialized with my neighbors off duty everywhere.” He heard the anger in his own voice and spoke more quietly, trying to sound reasonable. “It makes you look silly, you know, this going off on your own always. As if you were ashamed of your own husband.”
“I’m not ashamed of you.” Elena smiled at him a little ruefully. “But the Álvarezes were friends of Anselmo Montalbán.”
Tejada frowned. A small part of his mind longed to know why Elena was incapable of making friends with the mayor’s wife, or the head of the Women’s Auxiliary, or any number of people who would have proven his point that the guardias were perfectly socially acceptable. Because she wouldn’t be Elena then, he thought. Because she always picks the hardest route. Aloud, he said slowly, “I’m sorry about that. But Montalbán was killed almost accidentally. Márquez returned fire practically as his horse bolted. It’s hard to hit anything you aim at under those circumstances. And Montalbán was wanted. Márquez was within his rights.”
“Anselmo couldn’t have fired at Márquez,” Elena protested. “He didn’t have a weapon.” She swallowed. “Father Bernardo and I would have seen it.”
“According to Márquez and Carvallo, there were several men down by the river,” Tejada said gently. “Márquez fell, and Carvallo stopped to help him. By the time Márquez told him to go after the others, they were gone. And they probably took Montalbán’s weapon. They always have a use for guns.”
Elena still looked unhappy. “You can’t ask Marta and Quico Álvarez to believe that.”
Tejada sighed. “The man was a terrorist. He probably killed Lieutenant Calero.”
“He had good reason to!”
“There are no good reasons for shooting an officer of the Guardia Civil.”
Elena’s expression was stormy, but all she said was, “So it’s a closed case for you, then? The word of two guardias against a dead man’s, and his family and friends are just supposed to bury him and be grateful?”
Although this actually was more or less Tejada’s opinion, he did his best to be diplomatic. “I’m not claiming that Montalbán’s death was the best possible outcome. I’m just saying that you can’t blame an officer who’s attacked while on duty by a known criminal.”
Elena’s face was still drawn, but her tone was sad rather than angry as she said, “A shame they didn’t just hide in the bushes until the patrol went past. There’s heavy cover there, and I’m sure Márquez and Carvallo wouldn’t have noticed them if they hadn’t attracted attention somehow.”
One part of Tejada’s mind indignantly protested that if Montalbán and his confederates had not attracted attention, his recovery of the missing dynamite and the subsequent triumphs would never have taken place. But he was glad that Elen
a seemed to be calming down, and he had to admit that her point was well taken. They couldn’t have known who the guardias on patrol would be, he thought. But Elena’s right; if they were looking for specific men, all they had to do was stay hidden and no one would have known they were there. “I wonder if they had any special reason to ambush Márquez and Carvallo?” he said aloud.
Elena blinked, and her haze of depression lifted slightly as she saw that Carlos was actually listening to her. “Maybe one of them turned someone in during the war, like Calero did,” she offered, a little afraid that her husband would be annoyed by the reference.
Tejada heard her hesitance and smiled at her, recognizing that she was trying to make peace. “It seems far-fetched,” he said. “But you’re right; it’s odd they should have taken a risk for no reason. I’ll check the files tomorrow.”
He was rewarded by a real smile. “Thank you. I guess we could go for a walk now. But I’d still rather not visit the Álvarezes.”
“Then we won’t.” Tejada stood, relieved that Elena seemed to be more relaxed. Maybe she still needs to talk more about Montalbán to help her get over finding him, he thought as they headed outside. If I find anything in the files tomorrow I can tell her. It will make her feel better if she thinks that Montalbán and his friends had some kind of “just cause.”
Chapter 12
Tejada was not able to check the files the next day. Monday morning was market day in Potes, and all the guardias except Sergeant Márquez were out on patrol. The absence of a proper plaza meant that the market spilled into the little winding streets away from the river, and the open space between San Vicente and the Torre del Infantado was roped off to create makeshift pens for the herds of cows driven down from the hills. The town was crowded with people and animals, and the guardias’ presence was a necessity. Tejada was unsure how he felt about markets. Patrolling them was stressful, and the concentration of people always meant that there was an opportunity for conspiracy or rabble-rousing. On the other hand, Potes was a rather sadly dull little town when it emptied out, and the market lent it a certain liveliness.
He returned to the post around one o’clock, as the herds were beginning to leave the town, and found Sergeant Márquez waiting for him at the door. “I was on the point of going to look for you.” The sergeant greeted him in a low voice. “There’s someone waiting to see you.”
“He couldn’t talk to you?” Tejada asked, following the sergeant into the building.
“He wouldn’t.” Márquez made a face and then lowered his voice even farther. “He says it’s something to do with the bandits.”
“Where is he?”
“I put him in the office. But he’s nervous as a cat.”
“Informers usually are.” Tejada lengthened his stride with the happy conviction that one victory was about to lead to another. People liked being on the winning side. If he can tell us something about who stole the dynamite in the first place, he thought, we’ll be getting somewhere.
When Tejada opened the door to his office the man standing by Sergeant Márquez’s desk started. He was short and rosy-cheeked, with wispy hair the color of corn silk. He blinked near-sightedly at the lieutenant, and turned his cap in his hands. It was worn gray felt, and like his clothing, suggested a shepherd or farm laborer.
“How do you do?” Tejada hung up his cloak and spoke in a carefully neutral voice. “I’m the commander of the post here. I understand you wanted to speak to me.”
“Y-yes, sir,” the little man gulped. “I know where they are. The maquis. I mean the bandits. I mean, I know where they’ll be, tomorrow night. You could capture them.”
“Go on.” Tejada sat down without taking his eyes from the man’s face.
“Up past Argüébanes.” The man spoke jerkily. “You take the bridge over the Mancorbo, and head into the chestnut grove. There’s an old shepherd’s hut there that no one goes to anymore. They’ll be meeting there tomorrow evening.”
Tejada mentally located Argüébanes. It was only a few kilometers northwest of Potes, and mostly interesting for a very pretty ruined church. He had the vague feeling that he knew something else about Argüébanes but had no time to track down the memory. “How do you know this?” he asked.
The lieutenant’s guest shifted from foot to foot. “I was taking the flock down to the Mancorbo for water, and I saw them yesterday,” he explained. “They were getting water. I’m not one of them,” he added hastily. Márquez, standing behind the man, met the lieutenant’s eyes with a look of pure amusement, and for a moment Tejada found himself in perfect sympathy with his colleague.
“And they invited you to a meeting?” Tejada was politely incredulous.
“N-no, sir! It’s just—well, they saw I’d seen them, and Rafa and I went to school together and you can’t very well pretend you don’t recognize someone you’ve known all your life. So he said hello and I said hello and then he asked me if I was going to Potes on Monday and if I’d bring him back a carton of cigarettes and some stationery and a few other things if I was. And I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t want any trouble, and he said—” The man gulped. “He said not to worry about it, that he could make it worth my while, and that if I brought the stuff up to Marcial’s old cabin on Tuesday night we’d have a real party, because all the old crowd was going to be there.”
Tejada took a pen from the container on the desk and began to doodle thoughtfully. “They’ll be expecting you Tuesday?” he said.
“Y-yes, sir. I-I came to town today to buy the things he sent me for and then I came to see you but I have to go quickly or they’ll be wondering why I’m back late.”
“You’ll have to go to this party then, so they don’t get suspicious,” Tejada said. “Make sure you wait until they’re all inside, and then make some sort of excuse to get out.”
Tejada’s informer coughed anxiously. “H-how will you know it’s me outside, sir, instead of one of the others, before you move in?”
The lieutenant considered. “Take off your cap and wave it around your face as if you were beating off mosquitoes,” he said.
“Like this?” The little man flapped his free arm and hit himself in the face several times with his cap with the enthusiasm of a penitent.
“Fine. We’ll see you tomorrow night, Señor—?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.
“Santiago Roldán. Domingo Santiago Roldán.” The man filled in the pause quickly, as if he was eager to give his name.
“Señor Santiago.” Tejada opened his desk drawer and looked regretfully at the unopened pack of cigarettes lying on top of various pads and pens. “Here.” He tossed the pack onto his desk. “If you want to give that to your friends I’ll reclaim it tomorrow evening. Or you can keep it for yourself. Consider it a thank-you present.”
Santiago’s hands were shaking as he took the cigarettes.
“Thank you, sir. Also, I—I wondered—”
“Yes?” Tejada had been trying to figure out why Santiago had turned traitor, and he was genuinely interested in what the man was going to ask for as a reward.
“M-my brother’s in the Tabacalera.” The man’s fair skin colored painfully as he named one of Santander’s more notorious prisons. “A thirty-five-year sentence. I thought maybe a good word from the Guardia—”
“Also Santiago Roldán?”
“Yes, sir. José María.”
“José María Santiago Roldán.” Tejada leaned forward to make a note on the pad. “It’ll depend on what he’s in for. And how this operation goes. But I’ll see what we can do. I assume you’d be willing to do more jobs like this in the future, provided all goes well?”
Domingo Santiago looked haunted. “I-I guess.”
“Good.” Tejada stood and held out his hand. “It’s a bargain.”
The informer’s handshake was limp, and his eyes watered slightly at Tejada’s firm grasp, although the lieutenant’s grip was hardly tight enough to be painful. He left furtively, as he had come. Tejada was alrea
dy flipping through the filing cabinet when Márquez returned from seeing off their guest. “Do you know anything about Santiago?”
The sergeant shook his head. “No. He’s probably never been in trouble before.”
“Do you believe his story?”
“It’s plausible.” Márquez was neutral.
“It sounded good to me,” Tejada admitted. “We’ll have to organize a stakeout. You’re out of it, with that wrist. Do you think we can take Torres?”
“If you can trust him not to sneeze at the wrong moment,”
Márquez said dryly.
Tejada snorted. “We’ll risk it. If this place is near the stream we shouldn’t have to worry too much about silence. I wish we had more men. Do you think we could call for reinforcements from Panes or Unquera?”
Márquez nodded. “I’ll phone them this afternoon, sir. But I don’t know how many they’d be able to send.”
“The problem is that it makes it too obvious we’re going to move if they arrive in a bunch,” Tejada said slowly. “Of course, there’s always the Invincible Armada.”
Márquez laughed and reached for the telephone. “Good one, sir. I’ll call Unquera first.”
The rest of the day and much of the following one were spent in preparations for the raid. Tejada warned his wife Tuesday morning that he might have to work late. “Why?” she demanded.
“It’s paperwork about the dynamite,” Tejada lied. “The colonel wants it by the twentieth and—” He saw her face and stopped. “I’m sorry, Elena. It’s not that. But . . . I can’t tell you about it yet. Do you mind?”
“Yes,” Elena said. “But I mind more if you lie to me.”
The Watcher in the Pine Page 14