Arturo lost himself in his thoughts and let his gaze drift out the window at the construction happening nearby. Some large stones were being moved about, kicking up lots of dust that drifted in through the office window and filled the room with a chalky powder that made it hard to breathe.
Arturo realised he hadn’t said anything for a moment and turned away from the window.
“He didn’t deserve that.”
“Deserve what?” Armada asked.
“What that monster did to him. I was here in the office the night it happened. The porter found me just after ten. I was getting ready to go home. He said something had happened in Gregorio’s office. His wife was there. She was hysterical. I ran down there as fast as I could. I wish I hadn’t…I wish I hadn’t gone in there and seen what I saw…you can’t imagine—”
“I think I can,” Armada said. “I’ve seen the aftermath of many murders.”
“No. Not like this. Gregorio wasn’t just killed. He was mangled, as if attacked by a wild beast. The blood, it was everywhere. What kind of a human can do this? You’ve never seen brutality like that before…at least, I haven’t…and I was a soldier once…not even in war do you—”
“So why call me?” Armada asked. “Bringing me here is quite expensive.”
“Money isn’t my worry, Armada,” Arturo said. He sprang up from the chair and went over to a cabinet that had been built into the book case along the wall. Inside was a brown bottle and a set of four small crystal goblets, two of which he grabbed with his fingers and dropped down on his desk. With practiced skill, he poured the brown liquid into them and handed one to Armada.
Armada sniffed it. Sherry, and quite high quality as well. He downed it in one gulp.
“The officials here in the city are fools,” Arturo said. “Damned fools! They think they’ve already got the man who did it. They’ve arrested him and will be hanging him soon. In their minds, that will be the end of it.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I know the man they’ve got in custody. Enrique Talavera. He’s a colleague of Gregorio’s. They were always competing with each other whenever a new post opened up. He’s not well-liked here, always complaining about how successful other people are. He’s a weak-minded fool if you ask me. But a killer?”
“Why do they think he did it?”
Arturo took a long swallow from his drink and refilled his glass. “He was there that night. Sitting outside Gregorio’s office, crying like a baby. The tonto wouldn’t say anything about what happened. He was too shocked. Who wouldn’t be, after seeing that…?”
Armada finished his drink and eyed the bottle, wondering if etiquette would be breached if he poured himself another. He decided to play it safe for the moment and simply gesture with his empty glass, hoping Arturo would notice.
“You haven’t answered my question, corregidor. Why go through all the expense to bring me into this? I have little jurisdiction here. The Holy Brotherhood is generally delegated to the towns and villages of the countryside. This is a matter for the city authorities. You should tell them of your doubts.”
“You think I haven’t tried that? They don’t care. They want this matter resolved. This university draws a lot of money from the local nobility. Tuition, housing, the market, the taverns. They all make a lot of money off those boys. If their parents were to decide it was too dangerous to send their kids here, they would send them to the universities at Alcala or Valladolid, or worse—France! This city’s economy is at risk here, so all they want is a nice, quick resolution. They want to be able to tell everyone they caught the killer and there is no reason to worry. Which is why they’re going to hang him next week.”
“But you’re worried.”
Arturo answered Armada with his eyes. Just a quick glance, showing the fear that had plagued his thoughts for days.
“What if it wasn’t Enrique?” Arturo finally said. “I just can’t see that little weasel doing something like this. And if I’m right, if it wasn’t him—”
“Then it was someone else.”
Arturo took a drink from his sherry, but he forgot about it halfway through, letting the sherry swish around in his mouth, distracted by his thoughts.
“What I saw in that room, Armada…that wasn’t someone just killing for one reason or another. They enjoyed it. They made a big spectacle of it. They’ll do it again. I know they will. And when they do, and everyone here realises they hung the wrong man and that the killer is still on the loose…well, they’re going to need someone to take the fall for that, aren’t they? I don’t have enough friends in the city to keep it from being me. It will all fall on me. They will blame me. and my career, my reputation…it will all be over.”
Arturo could have said he worried for the killer’s next victim. For they, like Gregorio Cordoba, did not deserve such a fate, nor did their grieving family. Nor did the thousands of people who would lock themselves in their homes at night, afraid to go out, when they heard of a killer on the loose.
Instead, like most men in his position, Arturo worried mostly for himself. Armada couldn’t help but notice the wedding ring he wore, along with the many others. And yet he hadn’t even mentioned being worried for them.
“I’ll be honest, Armada, jurisdiction is going to be a problem with this case.”
Armada didn’t need to be told that. In fact, calling it a problem was probably an understatement. Enforcing the law was a lucrative business in a city like Salamanca, and as such, competition amongst royal, city, and ecclesiastical law enforcement authorities could be intense and confusing. And none of them had any patience to compete with the Holy Brotherhood as well.
“So why bring me in at all?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone here. I need someone who doesn’t have a stake in this. That way, when you find evidence that Enrique is innocent, like I know you will, the officials here will have a hard time disputing it.”
“What if I don’t?”
Arturo took another sip of sherry and stared at his empty glass.
“You will.”
Armada put his empty glass down, then began to pace about the room as his mind began to work. “Does this Enrique Talavera have any kind of history of violence?” he asked. “Have there been complaints?”
Arturo was startled by Armada’s sudden movement, which broke him from his trance. “None that I’m aware of.”
“How long has Enrique been employed by the university?”
“Not long. Just over a year.”
“Had he and Gregorio had any conflicts in the past? Did they ever argue?”
Arturo hesitated for a moment.
“I need to know everything, corregidor. Even if it doesn’t help.”
Arturo sighed. “The night before Gregorio was killed, they were seen in a tavern having it out. From what I heard, they nearly came to blows.”
“Do you know what it was about?” Armada asked.
“I imagine it was about the election coming up. One of our university chairs is retiring. Gregorio and Enrique were both planning on running for it. I don’t think either had much of a chance, if I’m honest. Neither has the support of any of the colegios, who are usually the ones to decide these things. But I think they both thought they could win it. These kinds of disputes are common during elections, but they’re rarely fatal.”
Armada struggled to see how a simple election could lead to such brutality. “Would you say you were friends with Gregorio Cordoba? Did you know him well?”
“No more than with any of our other professors. I saw him at social occasions periodically, but he never stayed long.”
“How did Professor Cordoba get on with his students? Did they like him?”
“When he was there, yes. But he was always going off to Madrid, trying to make some connections there and secure himself a position on a council somewhere, or get an appointment as a judge. I told him several times it was too early. I told him he needed to work at the university for a while, bu
ild up some esteem, spend a few years teaching first. He also needed to get better at talking to people, especially important people who could help his career. He was too brusque with them, demanded too much too early. Didn’t know how to be diplomatic about anything. So, I told him to get himself a university chair position first. Then, once he had a bit more clout, he could go to Madrid with the other leeches and try and get something better. But he wouldn’t listen. He wanted it now, so he was always disappearing off. It’s not unusual, really. All of our more senior professors do it. It’s just the way of things. A university teaching post is just a step to bigger things.”
It didn’t make sense. If Gregorio Cordoba was trying so hard and failing, why would someone want to kill him over it? It was clear someone was being threatened by all this. And there was something else bothering Armada.
“What about his finances? How was Gregorio Cordoba doing for money?”
“You would have to ask his wife. But their house is paid for, and he doesn’t have any debts. He certainly wasn’t a gambler. In fact, I know he was putting a bit away for a dowry, although I think it was wishful thinking. That daughter of his is an odd one, and probably not the marrying kind. But it wasn’t my place to tell him that.”
Armada was struck by how well Arturo knew Gregorio’s finances, since he had admitted to not knowing Gregorio well. Armada couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection, perhaps to Gregorio’s wife. Who else would know the finances that well? Could it be that Arturo knew everything she did? In which case, the only explanation was if Arturo’s relationship with Elvira Cordoba was more intimate than it should have been.
Armada leaned against the desk, thinking.
“So? Will you take the case?”
Armada felt tired. He hated arguing about jurisdiction. He hated working cases that involved such brutality as this. He hated when he had to work under such a deadline. He only had until next week, and if he got it wrong, an innocent man could be hung by the neck. Conversely, he could pronounce a guilty man innocent and let a killer free. Why couldn’t he ever work a case where he actually had the time to do it properly? To interrogate each suspect and witness at his leisure, to be sure about them before moving on. To have all the pieces of the puzzle in place before doing anything.
“Of course,” Armada said. Then held out his glass to make it clear he wanted more sherry.
Chapter Three
It was always the smell that one noticed first. Armada and Lucas came back out through the main entrance of the university building, which deposited them back on the Rúa de San Martín. The traffic was merciless. One was constantly stepping out of the way of carts and wagons, all pulled by a succession of stoic-looking horses, donkeys, and mules that saw little reason to be quiet about it. Most were overloaded with a wide variety of goods, on their way to the daily market in the massive Plaza de San Martin just to the north. The air was heavy with a strange mix of fish, rotting meat, exotic North African spices, charcoal, and animal dung, all of which made Armada hungry and ill at the same time.
A donkey snorted behind them, and Armada and Lucas stepped aside to let it pass.
“Lucas, which way is it back to the stable? I’ve gotten a bit turned around.”
“We have to go west, sir,” Lucas said, pointing toward a small open plaza across from the university. “If we can cross through there, it might be a shortcut.”
They had left their cart in a stable just a few streets away, as they didn’t yet know where they would be staying. It had been easy to find their way to the university, as the large engraved façade that hung over the front entrance loomed high above most of the other buildings in the area. But finding their way back to the stables, which was lost in a sea of crumbling stone walls and clay-tiled roofs, would not be easy. At least, not for Armada.
Lucas led the way as they entered into a small plaza surrounded by low-lying university buildings. The only way out was an opening on the far side to the left, which Lucas seemed to believe would allow them a more direct route. Just through the opening, however, was a set of small arches, beyond which was a large courtyard surrounded by more university buildings. A sign proclaimed this the Patio de Escuelas Menores. It was a dusty, bare-earth courtyard meant for the students of the university who were not yet old enough to study for their graduate degrees in the main building.
There were no other entrances to this courtyard, so it would not work as a shortcut, as Lucas had hoped. Armada turned around to return to the Rúa de San Martín but could see that Lucas was not following. Lucas stood still, just under the arches of the entrance, gazing at some older boys who were kicking a ball about in the centre of the courtyard.
The boys looked to be in their twenties, much too old to be attending the classes given here. They must have come purely for use of the courtyard, as it was one of few places around that wasn’t crowded. The boys were draped in fine clothing that made it clear they were children of nobility, but they did little to protect these fine fabrics from the rigours of their game. They wore white shirts with flowing white sleeves that were becoming badly soiled with sweat and earth, breeches covered in dust, and velvet jackets with missing buttons and ripped embroidery that had been left for a servant to repair later.
Lucas watched their game closely, as if trying to work out the rules. Or perhaps that was what he was telling himself. In truth, Armada suspected, he was more watching the boys themselves. They played rough, and whenever one of them got hurt, a volley of taunts and insults would be hurled at them, followed by raucous laughter.
But also, affection. It always ended with one of them helping their injured friend to his feet, and the game would continue.
Lucas watched with a quizzical look. It must have all seemed so strange to him. He’d never really had friends in his life. At least, not since his parents were killed. It was the one thing Armada could never give him. Lucas saw so much of the world, more than most of these boys would ever see. The boy had travelled to almost every corner of every kingdom, met so many people, and seen things these boys couldn’t imagine.
And yet friendship had remained impossible. When the case was over, they always had to leave. He was never in one place long enough to form any lasting bonds. Armada remembered how important those bonds were when he was a soldier in Peru. His friends there kept him going during some very dark times. He couldn’t have survived that time without them.
Lucas had seen the horrors of the human heart as well, but there was no one there for him but Armada. The only friends Lucas remembered were back home in his village. But that seemed like such a long time ago, and they were already slipping from his memory. In fact, much of his life back then seemed so far away, yet it had only been about four years since it happened. The things Lucas had seen in those four years would freeze anybody’s heart, and Armada hoped it didn’t freeze his own.
“Lucas,” Armada said, not wanting to startle the boy.
Lucas whipped around, his trance broken.
“Yes, sir. Sorry. I don’t think this courtyard goes through.”
“Yes, I think you’re right.”
Armada expected the boy to run off again, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the game.
“I don’t understand, sir. I can’t figure out the rules. They just seem to be kicking the ball about randomly.”
Armada smiled. “That’s probably what it’s devolved into. It’s how these things go.”
“So, what’s the point? How do they win?”
“Winning isn’t really important here. It’s more about….”
Armada stopped. He knew how Lucas’s mind worked. All the explanation in the world probably wouldn’t satisfy the logic Lucas was looking for. He wanted there to be a clear end goal in a game that was designed not to have one. It was about having fun, Armada wanted to say. About being with your friends. About showing them who is the strongest and the fastest, and proving yourself to them.
But Armada had suddenly become aware of the time.
“I’ll have to tell you later. We need to get moving. There is someone I want to speak to today before it gets too late.”
“Yes, sir,” Lucas said, and then he led the way back to the Rúa de San Martín.
Lucas eventually found their way back, and they picked up their cart and took it to the accommodation the corregidor had arranged for them. It was a modest room in a house normally filled with students, but most has returned home for the summer holiday so it was now mostly empty. There were two beds: a large, wood-posted one in the corner, with a mattress of goose feathers and a set of freshly-cleaned linens; on the other side of the room, a smaller one with a broken leg and a flea-ridden mattress of straw that smelled like a donkey. The bed of a page boy.
“I’ll see if I can sort out something better, Lucas. This is—”
“It’s fine, sir.”
Not being sure how to argue the point further, Armada left Lucas and returned to the streets of Salamanca, trying desperately to follow the map that Arturo had scrawled for him showing where the house of the Cordoba family was. He found the parish of San Polo to be a busy place, as it stood just in front of the Puerta del Rio, the main gate in the town’s southern defensive wall through which much of the merchant traffic entered after crossing the old Roman Bridge over the Tormes River.
Careful to avoid the mountains of animal dung that littered the cobbled roads, Armada eventually found his way to a house set on the corner of two busy roads. The noise was deafening as he approached the door and beat on it a few times, unsure if the occupants inside could hear him.
A moment later, it was opened to a tall, thin woman with a gracefulness about her. Everything about her was slender, from her cheekbones to her shoulders, to her long fingers with perfectly manicured nails. She wore a long, flowing black dress to indicate she was in mourning, yet she still greeted Armada with a warm, hospitable smile.
A Murder Most Literate Page 2