A Murder Most Literate

by Jefferson Bonar

  A thought occurred to Lucas, but he was torn whether to say it. Julian seemed in a mood to reveal something personal, but Lucas didn’t want to push it too far. He could very easily imagine himself being shouted at, grabbed by the collar, and violently chucked out into the corridor, never to return.

  But Lucas had never seen Julian in such a reflective mood with any of the other boys, whom they could hear playing about in the common room just down the corridor.

  “Are you talking about Gregorio Cordoba?” Lucas heard himself say. “Did your…our…enemies do that?”

  Julian looked up at him with a flash of anger in his eyes. Lucas recoiled, ready for whatever came next. How could he have been so foolish as to ask that? What could possibly have driven him? Was Gregorio Cordoba’s murder really worth sacrificing so much? Lucas felt so confused all of a sudden. But something deep in the back of his mind wanted to know. And it was a part of his mind that wouldn’t be ignored that easily.

  “No….” It was all Julian said before returning his gaze to the floor.

  “Did you know him at all?”

  Julian looked up at Lucas, looking him over.

  “No, not really. He was just a professor whose lectures I never attended.”

  Lucas’s mind filled with more questions as Julian broke himself out of his trance, stood up, and held his glass aloft.

  “To the newest member of San Bartolomé!” Julian said loudly, as if trying to shout over the din of his own thoughts.

  Lucas held his own glass up, but before he could drink, they were interrupted by a loud banging on the door.

  “Julian! Is that lazy bellaco cleaning boy in there with you? I can hear you two talking!” Ambrosio’s hoarse voice shouted through the door.

  Lucas couldn’t help but leap to his feet. He had been neglecting his duties a lot lately and had no defence for it.

  There was a jangling of keys outside, and before they could do anything about it, Ambrosio burst in through the door.

  “There you are!” Ambrosio said, pointing one of his fat, stumpy fingers at Lucas. “Have you done anything today? Because the house is a mess and thanks to your not having gone to the shops, dinner will be late as well. If you want any kind of wages today, you’ll get back to work right now and not stop until everything you were supposed to do today is done!”

  “Venga, Ambrosio!” Julian shouted. “This place was a mess before he ever got here! It’s not like you ever did any of the cleaning. Look at my bed. When have those sheets ever been washed? I have to get Federigo to take them home to my parents to wash them, and they are supposed to be paying you to do it!” Julian said.

  “Also, your meals aren’t fit for a donkey and they are always late. Every night! So don’t go shouting at my friend Lucas for not doing something that you never did yourself. And if you keep it up, I’ll be telling my mother about you!”

  At the mention of Julian’s mother, Ambrosio stopped talking. The memory of the woman was not a pleasant one.

  “I’m employing you, boy. If you want your wages, you will get back to your duties,” Ambrosio said.

  “He will,” Julian said. “But today, he’s coming with me. I need him.”

  Lucas said nothing and just followed Julian out of the room, surprised that Ambrosio did nothing to try and stop either one of them. The power that Julian had was still amazing. No one ever seemed to question him. Were his parents really that rich and powerful?

  Soon, Lucas was out in the street with Julian.

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a friend waiting for me in a tavern on the other side of the cathedral. He lives in one of those hospederías where all the other graduates live while they’re waiting for their first post at the university. He’s San Bartolomé, like us. And is going to help us with the election. Venga!”

  Life had returned to Julian’s demeanour. The sparkle in his eyes was back and brought with it that sense that he was always in motion, always moving on to the next Big Important Thing. The drink that was starting to make Lucas a little dizzy had done little to temper Julian’s enthusiasm.

  Julian had already started up the street and Lucas had to race to catch up to him. They headed east across the main plaza and followed a road that took them around the back of the sprawling construction site that would someday be the new cathedral, which was oddly deserted at the moment. It was a part of town Lucas hadn’t been to before, and he stayed close to Julian, whose stride was fast and felt almost like jogging.

  They reached a tavern with a decaying sign hung over the door that read, “The Sheep Well,” and went inside. It took a moment for Lucas’s eyes to adjust, as the only light was the white-hot mid-morning sun that streamed in through the panelled windows that lit up the dusty earth floor. The tavern was massive, so big that the light from the windows didn’t reach into the furthest corners, leaving parts of the dining hall in darkness.

  Most of the tables were taken by men whose faces were covered in dust and grime and sweat. They gulped down the last of the weak ales that were served with the midday meal they’d come for. Few dawdled about with the business of eating, for they had little time. Lucas reckoned these must be the workmen from the cathedral, whose time here was probably closely watched by a foreman somewhere.

  With this many men, the din of conversation was quite loud, and he didn’t hear Julian, who had tried to tell him something and then began weaving his way through the tables. Lucas struggled to keep up, occasionally kicking the back of someone’s chair by accident and fending off annoyed stares as he tried to not get lost.

  Julian crossed the whole of the tavern into one of the darkest corners, where there was a table that had been squeezed in against the back wall of the kitchen into a space barely wide enough to fit the table and a few chairs.

  Sitting in the back of this table was a man a few years older than Julian. Although he was still young, his hairline had already begun receding to reveal a pinkish white forehead above a wide, flattened face, with deep set eyes and ears that seemed to erupt like geysers from the side of his head. The man had a pleasant, intellectual look about him, with nice clothes that had once been fashionable but were now ruined by patches.

  Julian and the man greeted each other, then turned to consider Lucas.

  “Lucas. That’s his name. He’ll be voting for us in the election as well.”

  “They get younger every year,” the man said. “I’m Emiliano.”

  For much of the next hour, Lucas watched quietly as Julian and Emiliano discussed a plan they’d hatched to help swing the election.

  “It all depends on how many you can afford, Julian. These boys are from all over the region, but some of them have to come a long way to get here. Not everybody stays in Salamanca after they’ve enrolled.”

  “But they are enrolled?”

  “I have a friend in the university’s registry office. I’ll confirm their enrolment before election day, so we’ll have an accurate count. I always ask them if they told the university they dropped out before I reveal anything. You have to be smart about these things. But it’s going to cost you.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” Julian said, giving a quick side glance to Lucas. “It will be there. I just want to know how many are going to show up.”

  “I can’t tell you that until election day. But it will be enough to make it worth the money. Trust me.”

  Lucas pieced together that Emiliano was a graduate who had left his name on the rolls just for the purpose of voting in elections like these, even though it was technically illegal. But what was more illegal was him rounding up local students who were too poor to live in the pupilajes around campus and giving them a bit of money to show up on election day and vote for the San Bartolomé candidate. It was election fraud, pure and simple. And apparently it was a given that Arzobispo would be using the same kind of trickery to get their candidate elected, so it was now a question of numbers rather than ethics.

  But Lucas could
also tell that these two men had known each other a long time. Perhaps Julian had been young once and it was Emiliano who had shown him around. There was a tight bond between them, one which Lucas could easily imagine between him and Julian once Lucas was old enough to attend university.

  After the details of the plan had all been discussed at length, Julian rose to get drinks for everyone, leaving Lucas alone with Emiliano.

  They sat in silence for a moment as one question began swimming about in Lucas’s mind. He wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the case. It was just curiosity, really. Something about not having the answer bothered him.

  “Is there anything about being in San Bartolomé to be afraid of?” Lucas asked.

  “Afraid of?” Emiliano asked, surprised. “The occasional Arzobispo boot to the face, but otherwise, no.”

  “Julian said that there could be. It was just after he gave me this.”

  Lucas rolled up his sleeve and showed Emiliano the V-shaped wound in his forearm.

  Emiliano found this strangely amusing. “From the look of it, you’ve already gone through the most frightening part.”

  Emiliano raised up his own sleeve to show the V-shaped scar on his shoulder, high up, where Julian’s was. “It hurt worse than any beating I ever got. But it was worth it.”

  “So why would Julian say that?” Lucas wondered.

  “Don’t let Julian get in your head. I think he’s just reeling from something himself. He probably forgot you were even in the room for a minute. He does that sometimes.”

  “Did something happen to him?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody does. All I can tell you is that there was a professor whose lectures he really liked. He was always raving about him. But about a month ago, Julian barricades himself in his room. Won’t talk to anybody. I finally convinced him to let me in, and he was as white as his shirt. Hadn’t eaten or drank anything for three days. He won’t tell me what was wrong or what happened, but I did notice that was when he stopped going to that professor’s lectures. A few days after that, Julian just seemed to return to normal. But you still see it sometimes, in his eyes. He’ll just kind of drift away for minute. But he always comes back.”

  Emiliano stood up from his chair and leaned over the table in order to look round the wall toward the bar area, where Julian was paying for the round of drinks that would be appearing any minute. Satisfied that Julian wouldn’t overhear, Emiliano sat down and leaned over the table so he could keep his voice down.

  “I did think it was odd, though, that a few weeks later, his professor ended up with a knife in his chest.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The shadows of the city were growing long. Elvira instinctively hopped over their edges a few times, letting off a bit of the nervousness that was rising in her throat. The children had been left in good hands. Maria was busy cooking hornazo at Elvira’s request. They were the children’s favourite, usually reserved only for special occasions, as they were quite extravagant with all the pork loin, chorizo, and hard-boiled eggs. The occasion itself was usually ignored by the children in favour of watching Maria roll out the flour to make the pastry, begging her for a chance to try it themselves. Maria, always the soft-hearted one, couldn’t resist but to let them have a go, which usually added at least half an hour to the preparation time. It kept everyone so busy they hardly noticed when Elvira briefly mentioned she was nipping to the shop to buy some candles and slipped out the back door.

  Elvira knew she had a bit of time before she’d be missed at home, but she hurried anyway, taking long strides down the Rúa de San Martín toward the university’s front gates. She desperately hoped she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew. She had no patience for idle chatting with neighbours or colleagues, most of whom were still swamping her with condolences and invitations to dinners that everyone knew would never be accepted.

  Elvira had work to do. She had something to prove this evening, and she couldn’t let anyone get in her way. It was a relief, in a way, to finally have something to do. She had grown weary of feeling so helpless in the face of such seismic events in her and her children’s lives. She’d had nothing to do with all the grief that she felt she’d been drowning in since Gregorio died. How long was she expected to sit about her parlour crying? The rest of her life? The prospect of it only made it all seem that much more tragic.

  She was a victim in all this. That she could not change, but there was one part of it all that wouldn’t sit right with her. If a lifetime of sadness and tragedy were her fate, then so be it. But not before she had proven something. To whom, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps just to herself. But she would prove it.

  Elvira reached the main entrance to the university to find Arturo sitting at a small table inside, attempting to light the candle that would illuminate the doorway through the long night he had ahead of him.

  “Buenas tardes, Señora Cordoba.”

  “Buenas,” Elvira said, letting Arturo kiss her on both cheeks.

  “How are you feeling? My condolences for Señor Cordoba’s passing. You should join my family for Sunday supper this weekend—”

  “Yes, thank you, Arturo,” Elvira said, cutting him off. “But there was something else I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Of course.”

  Elvira took a breath and realised she hadn’t thought of her words. How was she going to put this? It was a delicate matter and needed to be approached carefully.

  “Do you remember last year…when we spoke?”

  Arturo looked confused. Elvira knew she was fumbling. It was a deeply personal question, she realised. And she felt vulnerable asking it at such a busy doorway, next to such a busy road, where they were constantly surrounded by passers-by.

  “Last August. I came here on Saturday afternoon. I was upset.”

  “I’m sorry, Señora. I talk to a lot of people in this job, and—”

  “Gregorio had told me he’d gone to Madrid. I was out shopping and swear I saw him talking to you. Do you remember? I came over and asked you about it. I may have said some things that were…inappropriate….”

  Elvira could tell in Arturo’s eyes that he indeed remembered the conversation. It had been uncomfortable for them both.

  “Possibly.”

  “He was supposed to be in Madrid. But it was definitely him. I saw him. You tried to deny it at first, but then you admitted it was true.”

  “Why are you mentioning all this now, Señora? That was months ago. It shouldn’t matter anymore.”

  “It matters,” Elvira shot back, a little more aggressively than she’d wanted. “Because after he talked to you, I saw him walk down that way, toward the south gates.”

  Elvira pointed to the south just as a curious young couple of students entered the building. Arturo smiled at them and made a bit of small talk as they passed, interrupting Elvira’s conversation. It was all part of his job.

  But as soon as they were gone, Elvira picked up where she left off. She wouldn’t be deterred.

  “Gregorio walked down that way. I asked you where he said he was going. You said that I didn’t want to know. You said he was going to see a woman of the night. A prostitute. You said it was the only explanation for where he was going.”

  Arturo looked down at the guestbook he kept on the table, playing with a well-worn corner of the page that was nearly full of barely legible names, flipping it back and forth with his finger.

  “I know my husband, Arturo. I know it doesn’t seem like it, because there are all these secrets he kept from me, as it turns out. A whole other life. But I can judge people. I could not have gotten him that wrong. I couldn’t have! You don’t be married to someone for fifteen years only to be fooled so completely. I’m no fool, Arturo. I’m not!”

  Elvira slapped her hand down on the guestbook, frustrated that Arturo had been avoiding her eye contact for so long. The slap was loud and startled Arturo to look up at her again.

  “Gregorio would not have visited a woman of the night. P
erhaps he made a fool of me in a lot of other ways, but not this one. And I’m going to prove it. I’m going to go to wherever he went, I’m going to meet these prostitutes, and I’m going to find out for myself that I’m right.”

  “Señora, you can’t. It’s no place for a respectable—”

  “Don’t tell me where my place is, Arturo! Now, tell me where my husband said he was going that night. That’s all I want to know.”

  A small group of drunken students approached the entrance and gave Elvira lecherous looks. Normally Arturo would have gently reminded them that etiquette demanded they be respectful of a faculty wife, especially as she was now a widow. There would have been a friendly, but firm, bit of banter, and the point would have been made. She had seen Arturo do it countless times.

  But this time, he did not acknowledge them. He was staring back at her with sadness, which only filled her with contempt. Who was he to judge?

  “The bridge,” Arturo whispered. “He went down under the bridge. I’ve heard the only reason a man would go down there is to meet one of these…women. I don’t know. I’ve never been there myself. I just hear things. It comes with the job.”

  “And Gregorio said he was going down there?”

  “He asked if he could clean his shoes when he returned.”

  Elvira thanked Arturo and wondered if their relationship would be forever tarnished after this. He was a good man, she’d always thought. He had a house full of children waiting for him at home. Six, last she’d heard. It must be difficult on his wife to look after them all night, as he was almost always working.

  Elvira made her way down to the River Gate and couldn’t stop thinking about Gregorio’s shoes. A strange memory bubbled to the surface. He’d come home two nights later, claiming to have just returned from Madrid. She’d said nothing about seeing him in town, telling herself it was about not causing an argument in front of the children. She’d meant to mention it the next morning, in those precious few moments after they’d woken up, but before they got out of bed, just before the children realised they were awake. They had often discussed their plans for the day in those precious moments, as it was the only time during they could have uninterrupted conversation.