Then, Armada saw the reports on the table. Reams and reams of paper, every thought about the case, every bit of evidence, every word spoken by witnesses and suspects. It was all written down. This man lived and died by reports and transcripts. He was a true letrado, not believing anything that hadn’t been written down and recorded at length.
Armada went over to the papers and looked them over. As he thought, they were mostly transcripts of his interview with the notary. And they were quite well organised. Armada shuffled through the paper, knowing the magistrate was getting annoyed at how messy he was getting them.
Then Armada found it.
“Here. Right here,” Armada said, pointing out one particular line of the transcript. “Aurelio Mar…Juan Mendoza…on our first meeting, he took me to the wall of the mill where his father worked and showed me the saltpetre he’d been collecting for Gregorio Cordoba.”
The magistrate picked up his spectacles and studied the report to verify what Armada was pointing to.
“If Juan Mendoza killed Gregorio to keep his secret, then why tell me his connection so quickly? It was our first meeting. I’d only asked if he knew Gregorio. He could have just as easily said no. But he didn’t. He told me all about how he was being blackmailed to work for Gregorio, thus giving him a connection to the victim as well as a motivation for killing him. Why would he do that if he was the culprit? It makes no sense.”
The magistrate ripped the spectacles away from his eyes, annoyed at how the sense of order he’d just gotten for the case was being torn to shreds by Armada, a constable, far from home, who didn’t even belong here.
“Guilt, obviously. He was confessing. He’d murdered two people in cold blood. He wanted it to all be over sooner for him,” the chief constable said.
“So why not actually confess? But he didn’t. He just said he was collecting the saltpetre. Why drag it out if that was his aim?”
“We cannot imagine what goes on in the mind of a killer. They are a mysterious beast, quite separate from the rest of us God-fearing men.”
“What did Juan say about his guilt when you brought him in? Did he confess then?”
Armada turned back to the reports. He shuffled through them, looking for any sign of a transcript of an interview with Juan Mendoza. His efforts were quickly blocked by the hand of the magistrate as it slapped down on the stack of papers to prevent him from shuffling them about any more.
Armada turned to the magistrate, who stared back at him as if wanting to continue their argument.
“No,” the magistrate said, softening his tone. “He claimed he was innocent.”
“Odd for a killer with a guilty conscience, then.”
The magistrate had gone strangely quiet. He looked over the mess Armada had made of his reports on the table. A look of resignation came over him and he made no effort to reorganise them.
“So, you’re saying Juan Mendoza had no idea Aurelio Martinez’s body was under the bridge?” Arturo suddenly asked.
“I’m not even sure he knew Aurelio Martinez was dead. There is a good chance he was an opportunist. A thief, yes. But not a killer.”
“Juan Mendoza must have known Aurelio Martinez was dead. How else could he be so confident in taking his name and his place at university?” the chief constable asked.
“I don’t know,” Armada said. The magistrate had gone back to organising his papers. He was losing him. “But there was one other person who knew about that chamber under the bridge. Julian de Benaudalla. And I think he was not only there, but knew the body was there, as well.”
“Julian de Benaudalla is the eldest son of the Duke of Frades, one of the university’s largest donors,” the magistrate said. “I didn’t appreciate your efforts at dragging him into this case, and I won’t have you smearing his good name and that of his father based on wild speculation in an effort to save your own—”
“Julian de Benaudalla mixed gunpowder with the victim,” Armada interrupted again. “Which means he knew where Gregorio Cordoba stored the sulphur, so there was no way he couldn’t have known the body was there. One of those two men killed Aurelio Martinez and stashed him in that chamber under the bridge. It’s the only explanation. Either it was Gregorio, whom Julian killed in retaliation, or it was Julian, who killed Gregorio to keep his secret. Either way, we need to speak to Julian de Benaudalla quickly.”
“We are not going to be speaking to anybody, Constable. Thank you for your help, but I believe chief constable Perez can take this case from here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“None of your concern. All you need to know is that you will be escorted back to your accommodation today and are expected to be outside the city walls by tomorrow morning. You are not welcome to return. Is that clear, Señor Armada?” Perez said, making it clear Armada’s title was of little consequence in this room.
Armada was sorely tempted now to give in to his rage. Was it Juan Mendoza’s fate to suffer the same end as Enrique Talavera? Neither death got anyone closer to the real killer. So, what was their sacrifice worth? And who was this man to force that sacrifice upon them?
But the magistrate was right about one thing—he had no power here. No jurisdiction. Anything he did now would be seen as a criminal act, subject to the same consequences as all the other victims of this case.
Seeing no other way at the moment, Armada reluctantly allowed Rodriguez the jailer to escort him outside and begin the short walk back to the university, back to his accommodation, and eventually back to Granada. He was angry about how the case had ended up, about how Juan Mendoza was about to become yet another innocent victim in this, just as Enrique Talavera, and at how much evidence he’d collected and was still no closer to finding the killer.
But that wasn’t what weighed upon his mind as the fresh air filled his lungs while crossing the busy Plaza de San Martin, getting further away from the stuffy room with the stuffy men and their stuffy ideas.
It was Julian, and how much of a hold he had on Lucas. And just how likely it was he was a cold-blooded killer.
Chapter Thirty-One
It was getting cold again. Lucas wrapped a blanket he’d found around his shoulders and slouched down further into the crevice in the wall he’d found two days ago. He couldn’t remember ever being so hungry in his life. The weather had been getting noticeably warmer during the day, but the chill in the air in the early morning hours had not yet been burned away by the approaching summer. That would come later, too late for Lucas.
He was beginning to feel foolish. He’d been wandering around this neighbourhood in a daze all this time. He knew he was becoming more and more like a vagrant. Did Armada even notice he was gone? Did he care?
Perhaps he was being foolish. Perhaps he’d gotten this all wrong and Julian wasn’t quite the man he thought. Had it all been a performance? Julian had seemed like a completely different person once he was back in his parents’ house. Had the other boys all seen him like that? Or perhaps they were like that as well, once they were back in the safety of their childhood home?
It was something Lucas couldn’t relate to. His own family home held no safety for him. To him, his own house meant death and memories of fear. It had been safer for him to get as far away from it as possible. He and Armada had no home, really. Armada’s flat back in Granada was hardly a replacement. Armada was rarely there, and when he was, he was always looking for an excuse to leave. It was dark and damp, with not enough furniture to be comfortable. It was not a place for security, it was a place for Armada to store his things and sleep during those odd intervals between cases. And Lucas’s bedsit down the road was shared with numerous housemates who moved in and out so frequently it was hard to get to know any of them. And that was during the infrequent times when he was there, as well.
Lucas’s only safety, the only place where he felt like nothing could hurt him, as Julian had described it, was with Armada. When they were camping, usually along the road out in the countryside somewhe
re. Armada always built a small fire with brush Lucas had gathered, perhaps cooking a bit of meat, and they discussed their latest case, or reminisced about previous cases. Sometimes Armada had a bit too much sherry and would drone on for hours about the theatre, quoting and detailing performances he had seen over the years. Lucas usually half-ignored these diatribes, pretending to listen while falling asleep. But there had always been something comforting about the sound of Armada’s excited voice, even if the words themselves became a blur. It meant Armada was relaxed, and if he was relaxed, there was nothing to worry about until the next morning.
But that was gone now. Lucas had betrayed that trust, ruining it forever. And the boy he’d betrayed it for showed no signs of helping him tonight. Oddly, there was still a bit of him, deep inside, that wanted to prove to Julian he could persevere. He had thoughts of making the most of his predicament tonight and be at Julian’s door when he came out in the morning, showing him how despite his harsh treatment, he never left and was ready for more. Julian would smile and say he was proud of Lucas for not letting his despair get the better of him, and that this whole thing had been a test. And now Lucas had passed that test and would be a San Bartolomé boy forever.
Lucas so badly wanted to believe that. But something within him told him it was a fantasy. He had seen the real Julian that night. All the charisma and charm and intelligence had been stripped away by fear, and what was left was the very core of his character. And what an ugly core it had been.
In contrast, he had seen the very core of Armada’s character many times. It was usually during those long, restless nights when his nightmares were so vivid they were on the brink of driving him mad. When Armada could no longer hold back the fear of losing his mind altogether, of surrendering to the ghosts that plagued him. He never kicked Lucas out. He never made wild accusations that Lucas was trying to hurt him. On the contrary, he was always grateful Lucas was there.
Lucas wondered what he had done. How could he have gotten it so wrong? He had found a small cove formed of the wall of one villa, and the other wall was the back of a shed to another. It provided a bit of protection from the winds that carried night’s chill, as well as cover from anyone who might happen past looking for a boy who would be easy to rob.
Every bone in Lucas’s body ached, making movement difficult. He’d done a bit of begging on the main road leading to the market, which was only an hour’s walk from here. But his injuries had made it seem much longer. What choice did he have? He needed to eat. A few mouthfuls of bread, a bit of water, it was all anyone had to spare. He’d heard of vagrants being given fresh fruit and money before, but here, where the richest citizens of Salamanca lived, the results of his begging were far less. His instincts told him he wouldn’t survive for long out here. He had to make a decision. But it was too early. He was still so confused.
For now, he would just focus on getting through another cold night. He’d found the rat-eaten blanket on the road the day before and it helped, although it was full of fleas, as a couple of stray dogs had been using it before him. Lucas planted his back against the wall and slid his way down to a sitting position, grunting as he went. Once he felt his bottom hit the ground, he let out a breath and tried to ignore the stabbing pains in his midsection, which were getting worse now. It was getting harder to sleep. His hunger mixed with his worsening injuries, which only spurred on his worried mind. Lucas felt like he was beginning to go mad.
All was quiet on the road just across from the Benaudalla villa, as it always was. It had gone dark now, leaving Lucas to wonder once again why he stayed so close. Perhaps hoping Julian would come outside, giving him a reason to speak again? But he hadn’t seen Julian leave the house since they’d arrived. Was he hiding?
The unusual sound of stumbling footsteps in the road wrestled Lucas away from his thoughts. It was directly across from Lucas, just in front of Julian’s villa. It was odd in that they were not the footsteps of someone walking normally. They were quieter, stepping lightly so as not to be heard. If Lucas hadn’t been sitting just across the road, he wouldn’t have heard them at all.
They stopped just in front of Julian’s villa. Lucas leaned forward. He could just barely make out the outline of someone in dark clothing standing there. It was hard to tell if the person had his back to Lucas, or if they stared right at him. Lucas held his breath, trying not to make a sound.
The intruder began to move, and Lucas could tell they had their back to him. They kept their focus on the house, looking over every corner of the wall and the gate, looking for a way in.
Lucas watched as the murky outline of the intruder then began to slink their way down along the stone wall toward the back of the property, where a small gate had been installed just near the garden shed.
Something was wrong with all of this. It was clear even from the street that there were candles burning inside. At times, Lucas could even hear the drunken cackling of Julian inside. It was clear there were people at home. And yet, this only seemed to spur the intruder on.
Which meant they probably weren’t here looking for an easy break-in. They had a more sinister agenda.
They must be here for Julian.
With the intruder now lost in the darkness in the back of the house, Lucas planted his cane on the cobbles and struggled to his feet. The soreness returned and radiated throughout his entire body, but he was getting used to it now. He could move his body in a sort of awkward, sideways shuffle and it seemed to allow him to move without hurting as much.
Dragging his cane over cobbles in the darkness was difficult, as the cane sometimes got wedged between them and nearly sent Lucas crashing to the ground. Lucas couldn’t help but pant for breath to overcome the pain and wished he didn’t have to drag his shoes quite so loudly over the gravelly stones, but he eventually made it to the wall and began to follow the intruder toward the back. If he did encounter them, Lucas wasn’t sure what he could do beyond shout and yell and frighten them off with the threat of attention. Assuming he didn’t get a dagger in the chest first.
The darkness in the back of the stone wall was almost complete and Lucas now stumbled about in the dark. But he wasn’t alone. There was the sound of someone grunting, their shoes scratching as they struggled to find grip. And the sound was coming from above his head.
The intruder had found somewhere to climb over the wall and was in the middle of throwing their body over.
“Hey! Hey, stop there!” Lucas called out.
The intruder swung their body over the wall and disappeared into the back garden of Julian’s villa.
Lucas had little hope of following and instead did his awkward, sideways shuffle back toward the road and around to the front door.
Lucas rapped on the door. “Julian! Julian! Open the door! Quick!”
Lucas held his breath, listening for any signs of movement inside.
Something was smashed on the floor from somewhere in the kitchen. Feet scuffled about and someone yelped.
Lucas took his cane and tried to pry open the front door with it, but the thick oak planks would not give. Lucas then turned his attention to the front windows that overlooked the road. They twinkled by the light of the stars, which meant they were made of glass.
Lucas’s cane made short work of them, sending most of one window to the ground in tiny shards. A few more blows took out the decorative metal grating that held it all up and soon Lucas had a way into the house.
But it wouldn’t be easy, as the window was quite high off the ground. If he was uninjured, a bit of a run and a jump could have gotten him up there. But that wasn’t going to be possible. Instead, Lucas had to grip the bottom of the windowsill and plant his feet on the rough brick wall outside, then push in order to heave his body inside.
After a few painful tries, Lucas managed to swing his body over the windowsill. He landed hard on the tile floor just inside the parlour. His body screamed in pain but he didn’t have time. He could hear the fight continuing in the back by the
kitchen and he struggled to his feet.
“Julian! Julian!” Lucas cried as he hobbled his way to his feet once more, decrying the fact that he hadn’t thought to throw his chair-leg cane into the window first. Lucas’s left ankle had begun to swell and was too painful to put any weight on, so he shifted his weight to his right leg and hopped across the parlour toward the kitchen.
Suddenly someone in black shot out of the kitchen and smashed into Lucas’s body, not expecting anyone to be in the parlour. They both fell to the floor. Lucas could hear the intruder jumping to their feet and knew he couldn’t follow. But he could make their escape more difficult.
Lucas reached out and grabbed their leg, holding it as firm as he could while the intruder attempted to kick him off. Lucas refused to let go and grabbed the other leg with his right hand, trying to drag them down to the floor.
The intruder kicked violently. One of the kicks landed in Lucas’s midsection, causing him to cry out. The intruder realised this and continued to rain blows into his stomach until the pain of his broken ribs was too much and Lucas let go. The sound of the intruder disappeared down the corridor toward the back bedrooms. He heard them go out the window and soon everything was quiet.
Lucas took a few minutes to recover and worried he might pass out. But the thought of what might be occurring in the kitchen spurred him back to his feet.
“Julian!” he called, but got no reply.
Lucas leaned heavily on walls and furniture as he went, hobbling his way along like an elderly man toward the back kitchen.
In the doorway was Federigo, his lifeless body lying across the threshold of the doorway, blood pouring from the back of his head.
Fear now numbed Lucas’s body. For there was no other sound in the room. Which meant only one thing.
Lucas moved past Federigo and into the back part of the kitchen, where only hours before Julian had accused him of betraying him.
A Murder Most Literate Page 21