A Murder Most Literate

by Jefferson Bonar

  “Come along,” Armada said gently, gesturing for them to leave the tavern. Lucas reluctantly followed, happy that at least they were not setting out to have one of their long, leisurely meals that took ages, ensuring he would miss everything tonight.

  Armada barely looked at him as they walked toward the university. Lucas began to get nervous. Was Armada not worried they would be seen? What happened to all the preparation to avoid this? Had the old man gone mad?

  But Lucas only sulked quietly as Armada took him across the main plaza where the market was in full swing, down the main thoroughfare of Rúa de San Martín and straight to the main entrance to the university.

  “Sir, what are we…?”

  “Don’t speak, Lucas. Just follow.”

  So Lucas followed as Armada took him up the stairs and down the long corridor, making it obvious where they were going.

  Armada stopped in front of the office door and pointed to it.

  “Do you remember this?”

  “Yes,” Lucas said, avoiding eye contact.

  “Tell me what it is.”

  What kind of game was the old man playing?

  “It’s the office where Gregorio Cordoba was killed.”

  “Yes. Well, at least you remember that.”

  Armada took a key from his pocket. “I’ve had it locked up since we got here and haven’t allowed anyone in to clean it. In case there were clues. And I made sure I was given the only remaining key.”

  Armada deliberately turned the key to unlock the door, then he pushed the door open, gesturing for Lucas to follow.

  Lucas didn’t want to. Already, the smell of rotting death was wafting into the corridor.

  “Come along,” Armada said, the gentleness fading from his voice. Lucas knew that tone. There was no way he was going to let Lucas ignore his instructions.

  Lucas followed Armada into the room and instantly felt ill. The odour was all-consuming and there were flies everywhere. Although the body had long been removed and buried, the blood that had been splashed about on the floor and the walls had been left behind. Flies were everywhere, buzzing about the desk and the floor beneath, each coated in blood that had rotted and turned black. The blood smeared on the walls and the knocked-over chairs in the back still had a red tint to it, as if to remind anyone what it once had been.

  Lucas felt he was going to be sick in the room and tried for the door. But Armada had shut the door already and was standing in the path. Armada grabbed Lucas by the collar and forced him back into the middle of the room, his shoes sticking to black goo on the floor and making him even more ill.

  “This is why we are here, Lucas. I want you to look. Open your eyes. Open your eyes!”

  Armada shouted at Lucas, frightening him. Lucas opened his eyes.

  “Look at what was done here,” Armada whispered. “The savagery. The brutality. This was no accident. This was no dispute that got out of hand. This was murder for the pleasure of it. And whoever did this has a thirst for death within them that cannot be quenched. And we are the only ones standing in their way of doing it again.”

  Lucas bent over and was sick in the corner, sending the flies in the room into a frenzy.

  “I know how it feels to be with those boys. It is intoxicating. I felt it too, with my garrison in Peru. It is a bond that feels deeper than friendship, deeper than family, deeper than anything you have experienced before. You may already feel as though you would lay down your life for them if they asked. Just as I did.”

  Lucas tried to calm his convulsing stomach by breathing steadily, but it only seemed to make it worse.

  “And someday, like me, you will see the foolhardiness of this. You will see how easy it is for them to use your loyalty against you for their own purposes. How corrupt such loyalty can make them. They will lie to convince you that your devotion to them must be absolute. That’s when you know to be wary.”

  “They wouldn’t lie to me…,” Lucas said.

  “The human voice is not like gold or silver; whether words are true or false, they sound alike,” Armada quoted.

  Lucas knew Armada expected his usual response of “Calderon, sir?” Perhaps, to return them back to a sense of normalcy. But there was no normalcy here in this room. Not now. Perhaps not ever again.

  “You cannot get too involved, Lucas. It is a lesson every constable must learn. We need our objectivity. The killer could be hiding amongst them, and they will kill again if we are too distracted by our loyalties to them.”

  Lucas felt the dream of attending university begin to melt away, crowded out by the thought of Julian possibly being a killer. Could there have been a disagreement between them? Could Julian have killed Gregorio over the issue? Lucas looked around the room again, trying to picture Julian being in such a rage as to do all this.

  It was just too easy to picture. Why? Armada had corrupted him in his own way. He had allowed Lucas a peek behind the curtain of life to see the wild beast that lay beyond. What had travelling with Armada done to his soul? He had been trained to suspect everyone he met of murder. There was hardly any chance of lasting relationships coming from that. So how long before darkness was all he could see in people anymore?

  Perhaps that’s why it felt so good to be with the Bartolome boys. It was a taste of what life could be without the knowledge of death. It was built on hope for the future, about trusting people with your very life, about being able to consider the best of them rather than always looking for the worst.

  But he wasn’t with the Bartolome boys, who were drinking and smoking and making a mess of the common room at the moment, their minds free from the weight of humanity’s impending mortality and its tendency toward savagery. No, instead, Lucas was here, standing in a room drenched with blood and making the horrific realisation that his stomach had calmed itself. Soon, he would be able to stand here as unaffected by the sight and the smell of this place as the old man.

  Perhaps it was never his fate to be one of the Bartolome boys. How could he, having seen what he’d seen, knowing what he knew? Who besides Armada could ever relate to that? Perhaps it was never his fate to live as carefree as they did, drinking all day and never worrying about their studies, safe in the knowledge that a comfortable life awaited them. The weight of his past would possibly never allow that. The man who killed his parents had perhaps sealed him off from ever having a life like this, and he should just accept it.

  “Julian knew Gregorio Cordoba,” Lucas said. “He was Julian’s favourite lecturer. Just before Gregorio was killed, Julian broke off all contact with him. He spent three days not talking to anybody. He was frightened of something.”

  “That didn’t come from Julian. Someone else told you that?” Armada asked.

  “There’s a graduate named Emiliano. I don’t know his last name, but he’s known Julian for years. Julian just hired him to bring in poor students from the local region to bolster the election results. And there’s one more thing….”

  “Yes?”

  Lucas took a minute to consider his answer. Although the effect of the smell wasn’t all-consuming anymore, there was the effect of the light coming in through the window, which reflected off the shiny tiles on the floor. It filled the room with an ambient light that was a mixture of the whiteness of the tile and the dark red of the rotting blood, casting a strange colour on Armada and, Lucas knew, his own face. It was as if the room was seeping into their skin.

  “Julian has a small barrel of gunpowder in his possession. I think it might be related.”

  “So, Julian did work for Gregorio…”

  “Gregorio was making gunpowder?”

  “It might be what this case is all about. Did he mention anything about where he got the serpentine? Or what he might be planning to use it for?”

  Lucas tried not to pause too long. “No.”

  Armada shook his head. “All right. Can you find out? Be discreet, of course, but we need to know. It would also be nice to know where he’s storing it, if you ca
n.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lucas knew he should be telling the old man about Julian’s plans. But was it not enough to tell him it existed? What could Julian’s plans for it have to do with Gregorio’s murder? Nothing, as far as Lucas could see. So why not give Julian and the boys the chance to win the election? If they ever knew Lucas had helped to stop them, it would mean the end of his time with them.

  And he couldn’t shut that door. He couldn’t completely let go of the dream of attending university. Not yet. It was just too tragic, too unfair. So much of this wasn’t his fault, so why should he be made to suffer? Why not indulge a bit of his desire to see Bartolome win the election? It still felt important, despite everything. That little bit of information was his own. It had been entrusted to him, and he would keep it safe. It wasn’t for Armada to know.

  The fresh air that filled his lungs when he and Armada finally returned to the corridor was nice. But it was also unnecessary.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Armada made sure the boys of the pupilaje were not in before approaching the front door of Ambrosio’s house. He walked round the building several times, slowly and carefully, listening through open windows for any signs of movement inside. He didn’t want any of them knowing what he was about to do. It would have raised too many uncomfortable questions and possibly put Lucas in danger.

  Armada was trying not to think about Lucas too much, as he had a case to be getting on with. But he couldn’t help it. There was a nagging thought that he should have already pulled Lucas out of the pupilaje, away from Julian and the other boys and all they promised. But he may have already waited too long. Armada could see the look in Lucas’s eyes when the subject of San Bartolomé came up. The boy was already being seduced by their charms and questioning his loyalties. It had always been a danger. He’d thought Lucas could handle it, that he wouldn’t forget all that Armada had done for him after his parents died.

  But it had been unmistakable. That little “V” shape cut into his forearm, the one that may never heal properly. It was a worthy symbol of what the boy was going through. Was that not a sign that Lucas had made his choice? It made Armada wonder, if one of the boys was the killer, would Lucas see it? Or would his loyalty to them completely cloud his judgement? He’d never tested Lucas in this way before. There was no way to know.

  Armada thought perhaps he should make his peace with the fact that he’d overestimated the boy’s resolve and pull him out anyway. Lucas wouldn’t want to go, but there were ways to ensure he did, including telling his new friends exactly who he was and why he was here. But Lucas would be angry at him in a way he’d never been before. It was something their relationship may never recover from.

  And Armada needed Lucas. He couldn’t imagine approaching a case again without his process-oriented mind, noticing all the dull little details in a case that Armada’s own mind found so hard to grapple with. Armada found himself resentful of Lucas’s weakness in the face of temptation.

  But perhaps it wasn’t fair to judge the boy so harshly. Armada had also been seduced once, when he was not much older than Lucas. Those early years in the army in Peru were ones of companionship. Even now, he remembered each soldier in his company by name and countless personal details about their lives, their fears, their dreams. And he had no doubt they still remembered him as well.

  But he wasn’t with them now, was he? He had deserted. A very serious crime. He had broken those bonds. Those men he left behind would never forgive him for what he’d done, not for the rest of their lives. Contemplating it all these years later still made him feel so lonely. It had taken him years to learn not to numb the loneliness with drink. He’d had to learn to confront it, to stare into the abyss of his soul, in order to reckon with the consequences of what he’d done. There was a good chance that loneliness would never leave him.

  Yet, he’d had no choice. The things he’d been asked to do during that time, for the good of the company, had destroyed his soul. To this day, the nightmares plagued him, the ghosts of all those innocent people he’d killed in the name of the Spanish empire. All the suffering and misery he’d caused simply because he was following orders. After a while, even the camaraderie of his friends wasn’t enough to soothe his troubled soul. He’d stopped sleeping, found it difficult to eat, and his hands had begun shaking. Desertion had been the only option open to him beyond taking his own life.

  Armada knew well the dangers of being in such a close group of friends. It wouldn’t be long before Lucas was asked to do something that made him question his own moral conscience. The boy was barely fourteen. He didn’t have the force of character yet to push back against such a force of will as Julian’s. And Julian must be well aware of that.

  Yet Lucas had done his job. He had given Armada valuable information that was only available to members of that group. If the killer were amongst Julian’s group, or was Julian himself, it was possible only Lucas could find out. But how much danger would that put him in?

  Armada was left confused and instead focused his thoughts on the house. It was obvious the boys were not in, so he walked through the front door and into the foyer.

  It was quiet inside, and his footsteps echoed in the tiled hallway as he made his way toward the back and up the stairs to Ambrosio’s room.

  Ambrosio was inside, swearing to himself as he gathered up large, unfolded linens and tried to get them into some kind of order.

  “Buenas, Ambrosio,” Armada called from the doorway, not wanting to get entangled in the mess of sheets on the floor.

  “Armada! I’ve been meaning to talk to you. That helper of yours is useless! He is the laziest boy I’ve met, and I meet a lot of them! Look at these sheets! I told him to sort them out three days ago, and he’s done nothing. Nothing!”

  Ambrosio’s voice, despite being permanently hoarse, still filled the entire house as he waved his short, stubby arms around in a frantic manner. He marched over to Armada, letting his face get uncomfortably close and giving Armada a whiff of the carrot stew.

  “I’m not paying him wages for this, Armada. You said he was a good valet. You said he would work hard. But he hasn’t worked at all! All he does is hang around with the boys here like he is one of them, getting drunk and leaving bottles in the corridors and going out at all hours of the night. He’s done nothing I’ve asked for days! He’s fired, Armada. Fired! You can take him back!”

  “I beseech you to give him one more chance, Ambrosio. I will talk to the boy. Let him know he is in danger of losing his job and that he has to change his ways. I will discipline him harshly, I assure you.”

  “You better take the cane to him, Armada. It’s the only way boys like that will listen. He just dismisses me like the other boys, thinking I am their slave. Well, I’m not! And I refuse to be treated like one by that disrespectful little rat.”

  Armada put his hand on Ambrosio’s shoulder in an effort to get him to lower his voice.

  “I understand, Ambrosio. And I promise by tonight he will be doing all that you ask. Now, I actually came here to ask you a favour. I need to search Julian’s room.”

  “Search it? For what?”

  “It’s part of my investigation. Don’t worry, he’s not a suspect. But he might have a clue that could help me. I just need a few moments.”

  Ambrosio hesitated at this. It wasn’t hard to know why. Ambrosio catered to the students of the wealthy and titled. One bad word from these boys to their parents would put him out of business. And his business was lucrative.

  “I will make sure Julian never knows I am there. I will be very discreet.”

  “Well, you’d have to be. His butler is in there now, cleaning up.”

  “Butler?”

  Armada didn’t wait for Ambrosio’s response. He raced down the corridor to find the door to Julian’s room open.

  Inside, an older man was tidying up the room, which was on its way to looking respectable again. The man was quite old, sixties or so, Armada guessed, an
d he moved about in an unhurried, graceful manner. His skin was bronze, his features suggesting his origins were North African, and his curly, once-black hair was now balding and cut very short. Together, with his brushed black coat and simple trousers that were much too hot for the weather, it gave an impression of a man obsessed with always appearing modest.

  “Excuse me.”

  The old man looked up. Upon seeing he was being addressed, he stood up straight and avoided direct eye contact.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Armada entered the room, looking about at the monumental job of tidying the man had already completed.

  “I am Domingo Armada, of the Holy Brotherhood. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Federigo, sir.”

  “Ambrosio said you work for Julian?”

  “His parents employ me, actually.”

  Armada could see Federigo did this kind of cleaning on a regular basis, which meant there could be few corners of Julian’s life this man didn’t know about.

  “And you live here in the pupilaje?”

  “Yes, sir. I have a small room in the basement.”

  “And you’ve been working here since Julian arrived?”

  “For two years now. Yes, sir.”

  “Then you would know quite a lot about Julian’s life, wouldn’t you?”

  Federigo gave no answer. Had Armada startled him? It was hard to tell. The man’s face was carved from granite, and about as expressive.

  Armada leaned against Julian’s unused writing desk under the window, trying to appear more relaxed.

  “How long was Julian working with Gregorio Cordoba?”

  “Who, sir?”

  “Gregorio Cordoba. The man who was brutally murdered in his office last week. The man who Julian admired for so long, the man who everyone in the university, including the boys in this pupilaje, have been talking about since it happened. How long?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  Armada sighed. The man was probably just protecting his job, but Armada was already losing his patience.