“Are you saying you were unaware that Julian was going out at night to mix gunpowder with a professor at the university named Gregorio Cordoba, and that this man ended up murdered last week? Or that something happened between these two men just before Gregorio was killed that frightened Julian so much, he locked himself in this very room for three days without speaking to anyone?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“I hasten to remind you of the consequences of lying to a constable of the Holy Brotherhood. If I find out you are holding back information, I will take away a lot more than your job.”
The man wasn’t looking at him, just staring off with vacant eyes at the wall behind him. Federigo had been trained long ago never to look his employers, or other superiors, directly in the eyes, as a means of showing his submission to them. But it also meant Armada was having trouble reading him. Was Federigo truly so ignorant as to know none of this? Did he push these details from his mind, just as Julian must have told him to at some point?
Not likely. Armada knew servants. They listened to everything. They remembered everything. They always knew more about what was happening in their master’s life than their master. Armada could only shudder at what Lucas had gleaned about his own life over the years.
Federigo knew. He knew everything. But he was stubbornly loyal to his employers. Something Armada would have to break to get what he needed.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Armada slapped the writing desk to make his point. “This is a murder investigation! I’m trying to figure out why a man was savagely stabbed in his office by someone who is clearly dangerous and will do it again. Help me find him before that happens again. Whatever you tell me in this room remains in the strictest confidence. Your employers will never know you spoke to me, or that I was ever here.”
“I will know, sir.”
Armada’s mind began to strategize. There had to be another way around Federigo’s loyalty. There was always a way. He couldn’t let his frustration get to him. He had to take a less direct approach.
Armada thought about when he’d first entered the room. His questions were about money and quite mundane. Federigo had seemed open to answering those. Perhaps if he started there?
“Who pays Julian’s rent here? Julian’s parents?”
“The Lady takes care of all his expenses.”
“Does she give Julian the money?”
“No, sir. She pays it directly to the owner of his establishment.”
“And she pays you, as well? Directly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does she give Julian money to live on as well?”
“Yes, sir. I am tasked with giving him his weekly allowance.”
“How much is this weekly allowance?”
“A ducat, sir.”
Suddenly a few more pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. Only a ducat? In Julian’s world, that would make him quite poor, really. It was hardly possible to live the kind of lifestyle he was on such an allowance. It wouldn’t even cover the brandy bottles strewn about the room.
Which meant Julian was getting his money from somewhere else. And it had to be the reason he was working for Gregorio Cordoba, and where he got the barrel of gunpowder Lucas had told him about.
It also meant Julian was the key suspect in the mystery of what happened to Gregorio’s payment from the Portuguese. Could this whole thing have been over Julian being caught as a thief? Was Julian so desperate for cash that he would murder for it? Julian had to pay this man Emiliano with something in order to employ his services to swing the election. And whatever the price, it had to be more than a ducat a week.
But Armada needed proof to confirm he was following the right path.
“Have you noticed that Julian has had more money in the last few weeks? Has there been a change in his lifestyle?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“I’m not asking about what he did. I don’t need to know the secrets of what he gets up to at night. I only want to know if you, Federigo, have noticed a change. That’s all. You are very intimately involved in his life. You of all people would notice if there was say, clothes that were recently purchased, or an excess of brandy other than the usual. Things like that. No one will ever know that you said anything. I will make sure of it. A simple yes or no. Surely, you can give me that much.”
There was a hesitation. Was Federigo considering his bargain? Armada stared at the man’s eyes, but the stare was still not returned. His body remained stiff and rigid, unmoving. He did not twitch or do anything with his body that might suggest he was uncomfortable or troubled.
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Armada could see that he’d lost. Federigo would not budge. He had built his entire career, his identity, on absolute loyalty, and he wasn’t about to betray any part of it for the benefit of a constable in the Holy Brotherhood. Armada wondered, if the King himself were standing here, threatening him with removing his head, would Federigo then reveal his secrets?
Not likely. He was the perfect butler and would take his secrets to his grave. Whomever Julian’s mother was, she must have deemed herself quite lucky to have found such a specimen. Loyalty like that to one’s employers had almost completely disappeared from this modern world, where money now seemed so much more important than principles.
Armada thanked Federigo and left the pupilaje before the boys returned. He would have to speak to Lucas again. Although he hadn’t expected Lucas to keep up every aspect of Ambrosio’s regime, he had to make some kind of effort in order to keep his position. The case wasn’t over yet. He would have to talk to the boy.
But there was someone else he needed to speak to first. Someone who might be able to shed a bit more light on Julian’s wavering fortunes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In stark contrast to Ambrosio’s pupilaje, where San Bartolomé’s younger undergraduates lived and indulged their youthful appetites, the hospedería was quiet and well-kept. This was a house for graduates, for those who had received their degrees and made use of the Crown’s requirement that they be supplied with housing for two years following their graduation in which to find a post for themselves.
But given many of these men came from wealthy, well-connected backgrounds, the requirement that they leave after two years was rarely enforced. For many, they would remain in this house for decades, until such time that a post was given to them that offered more extravagant housing.
The house was a modest, two-storey affair with windows that overlooked a quiet lane and evidence of a little-used terrace on the roof. Armada rapped on the door and was greeted by the sour, aged face of a porter who was almost too tall for the doorway, still chewing the last bite of his lunch.
Seeing the green of Armada’s sleeves, the porter let him in and escorted him up to Emiliano’s room with little protest. After declaring Armada’s desire to see him, the porter opened the door for Armada to enter, and he was treated to the site of a small room, not much bigger than his flat back in Granada. It was tidy, with the shades open to let in the afternoon sunlight, an imposing dark Cherrywood wardrobe in one corner, and a matching bookcase in the other that overflowed with legal volumes. There was a writing desk with a silver candleholder and an expensive quill and ink set that looked as though it got a lot of use. A goose feather bed was shoved into another corner, whose mattress looked expensive and well-worn, covered in silken sheets.
Armada could see the man was living on modest means, but made full use of the room that had been supplied to him at a rate far below the market value for the city. Emiliano enjoyed the luxurious things in life, but only the bits of it he could afford.
Emiliano himself was standing in front of the writing desk he’d just been working at, startled at the sudden appearance of a constable in his room.
“How can I help you, Constable?” Emiliano asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering.
“I am Domingo Armada, of the Holy Brotherhood. You
are Emiliano Fajardo-Solucio?”
“I am.”
“How long have you lived here?” Armada asked.
“A few years. I moved in just after I graduated.”
“What did you study?”
“Canon law.”
Armada began to wander the room, peering closely at the furniture and into the dark corners, giving Emiliano a sense that there was nowhere to hide here.
“And what do you plan to do with this degree?”
“I’m…hoping for a post at the university. I’d like to lecture here.”
“A common path for a letrado. Do you have bigger ambitions, beyond the university?”
“I suppose. But I have to become a junior professor first. What is this about?”
Armada ignored the question and continued strolling about the room, lifting books, shifting a vase aside, and moving a bag on the floor about with his foot. The bag was full of laundry, which he knew instantly, but he shifted it about anyway.
“A junior professor. A lecturer. And after that, what? A university chair position, perhaps? Then a few years later, a world of opportunity opens to you. A post on the Royal Council, perhaps? Or a title? This is a world where a man like you has every opportunity for advancement.”
“I hope so,” came Emiliano’s reply. His tone was shifting, becoming more annoyed. The man knew he was being played with.
“But there are a lot of other men on this same path with you, aren’t there? You need a way to stand out. You need those above you to owe you something, so they will pull you up with them as they advance themselves. It’s how these things work, is it not?”
Emiliano gave no response. Armada was letting his own tone get a bit more accusatory, letting Emiliano feel the heat.
Armada had now cased the room completely and stopped, turning to look Emiliano in the eye.
“Someone like Francisco Vergara, perhaps? If he were to win this election tomorrow, and he felt it was due in part to your efforts, it could really help a man like you to get what you want. Couldn’t it?”
Armada was now standing slightly too close to Emiliano, just enough to set him off balance.
“Yes,” Emiliano said.
“And should you advance, then when it came time for Julian de Benaudalla to get his first teaching post, you would in turn help him with that. For was it not him that introduced you to Francisco Vergara?”
“Yes.”
“But it works the other the way, doesn’t it? If Vergara got the sense that you had somehow ruined his chances of winning this election, he could make sure your career ended before it ever began. Just a few whispers in people’s ears and your name would be slandered forever. You would have little hope of ever getting a post of any merit, at any university. And the hope of being on the Royal Council, or getting a title, would die.”
Emiliano didn’t respond to this either, but it didn’t matter. His expression told Armada he had him where he wanted him.
“And I imagine one of the ways that could happen was if Vergara was charged with attempting to defraud the election by a constable of the Holy Brotherhood. Could it not?”
Emiliano glared back at Armada, keeping his body stiff.
“Now that we’re clear what is at stake, I want to ask you a few questions about Julian. The first, and most important, is how much he is paying you to help swing the election in Vergara’s favour.”
“I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s all legal. Those students are poor, but they are on the rolls. They have every right to vote. They just don’t tend to bother, because they’re poor. We’re just paying them as a way of inspiring them to come out and—”
“That’s not what I asked. How much is Julian de Benaudalla paying you? I want an amount.”
“I told him a hundred ducats at least, possibly more depending on how many show up.”
“And he has already paid you?”
“The first hundred, yes. Most of the students demanded payment up front.”
“And where did Julian get this hundred ducats from?”
“He’s rich.”
“His parents are rich. Julian is supposed to be living on a strict weekly allowance of a ducat a week. Which means the money he paid you came from somewhere else. And I want to know if that money had anything to do with Gregorio Cordoba.”
There was a flash of surprise in Emiliano’s eyes. The firm conviction Emiliano had been speaking with began to melt away, replaced with a quiet desperation.
“All I know is that Julian worked for him sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know. I never asked. It was obvious Julian didn’t want to talk about it. So I left it.”
“Did the other boys in San Bartolomé know?”
“I don’t think so. The only reason I knew is because I saw him wandering around down by the Arroyo de los Milagros one night. He confessed to me that he had a night job, but he was really embarrassed about it. He cursed his parents for not giving him more to live on. It was all to keep up the pretence of wealth, he said. Julian didn’t want the others to know he was so broke. It would have been humiliating. So he asked me to keep it a secret from the others.”
Armada was tempted to ask what Emiliano himself was doing wandering around down by the workshop at night, but given how many prostitutes plied their trade in that area, Armada felt the question unnecessary.
“Did Julian ever tell you when he started working for Gregorio Cordoba?”
“Since our first year. Cordoba was his favourite professor. I’m not sure why. I didn’t think his lectures were particularly brilliant. But Julian adored him and starting talking to him after lectures. It wasn’t long after that he started working nights for him.”
Armada, feeling a bit bad for the pressure he’d heaped upon Emiliano before, gave the man a bit of space and leaned against the writing desk now. The veneer of secrecy had been broken. To continue his tactics now just seemed cruel.
“So, what went wrong?”
“I don’t know. Things seemed to be going pretty well up until a few months ago. One night, Marco came by and said Julian had holed himself up in his room for the last three days and wouldn’t come out. I went over to try and help, but Julian wouldn’t let me in. I had to get Ambrosio to unlock the door. Julian hadn’t eaten that whole time, hadn’t drunk anything, and looked quite pale. We were all worried for him. I asked him what was wrong. He’d mentioned they’d found something, that’s all. But he didn’t tell me what it was. Julian just said he was done working for Gregorio. After that, he seemed to just come back to life. But he stopped going to Gregorio’s lectures. I never saw Julian talk to him again, or even mention him.”
“Three days in his room?” Armada wondered out loud. “How did he seem? Frightened? Ill? Angry? What was his overall feeling?”
Emiliano considered the question carefully. “Frightened. At least, I think it was fear. I’d never seen him like that before. Or since. It was very strange.”
“And he never gave you any clue about what might have happened between him and Gregorio Cordoba?”
Emiliano shook his head. “No. Nothing. Although when I left his room that day, Julian was mumbling to himself. But it didn’t make any sense.”
“Which was?”
“He said he was going to kill that little thief, Aurelio. Over and over again. I’m going to kill him.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Armada wasted no time. He made his way across town to the home of Aurelio Martinez as quickly as he could, ignoring his rumbling stomach as he passed several bakeries and fruit sellers. It would have only taken a moment to grab something to eat along the way, but even that would have been distracting. His mind was furiously going through several scenarios, trying to see how Aurelio could possibly fit into the story of the breakdown of Julian and Gregorio’s working relationship. He’d never thought to assume Aurelio had been there for the incident. It raised so many questions.
“You should leave,” a man
said, standing firm in the doorway.
“I’m here to speak to your son,” Armada replied to the man, who had introduced himself as Aurelio’s father, Pepe. He was holding a boot he’d been in the middle of cleaning and leaning awkwardly against the door, as if his body couldn’t quite hold up his own weight.
“She’s just put the baby down. It’s not good to disturb her now.”
Armada wasn’t sure if he meant Angeles or the baby.
“I don’t need to disturb anyone but Aurelio.”
“I said no.”
Pepe pulled himself back inside and went to shut the door, but Armada blocked it.
“It is imperative that I speak to him. And I know Aurelio is home, I can see the candle burning in his bedroom window upstairs.”
Pepe tried several times to shut the door, but Armada held firm. Finally, the door was wrenched open as Pepe checked the corridor behind him.
“Please,” he said, his eyes pleading. “You don’t understand. This whole thing has been very hard on her. And she doesn’t handle it well. Just leave. Please….”
Pepe leaned closer to Armada to make his point, at which point Armada could see an old scar at the bottom of his neck, poking out just underneath his shirt collar. There was another, a tiny nick, above his eyebrow, and another along the back of the hand holding the boot.
“Pepe? Who is there?” came Angeles’s voice from behind him.
There was a moment of panic in Pepe’s eyes, then he smiled.
“No one important. Just Silvia. She wants—”
“It’s Domingo Armada,” Armada called loudly. “I’m here to speak to your son.”
Angeles went to the door, not having to say anything to move her husband out of the way.
“As my husband said, he isn’t here.”
“I know you want to protect him,” Armada said. “But there is a killer on the loose in this city, a killer who knows him. If I don’t catch the man, your son might be in danger, as well.”
A Murder Most Literate Page 15