The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set

by Jefferson Bonar

  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. Perhaps 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.

  But even then, she hadn’t said anything. After that, the chaos of their lives swept her up again and she’d all but forgotten it. Except for having to clean his shoes. He’d gotten some kind of strange yellow powder on the souls that smelled awful, and it had been quite a job cleaning it off. She had briefly pictured the powder coming from the floor of some House of Mancebía somewhere. But why would a prostitute need
a powder that smelled so bad?

  Elvira would soon find out. She had passed through the River Gate and was now standing at the entrance to the old Roman Bridge. The headless verracos stood at the entrance, their solemn, stony shapes now outlined against a bright orange sky that announced the sun was about to set. There was a lot of merchant traffic at the moment, most of it leaving the city and heading south, toward Santiago and the suburbs beyond, where most of the merchants lived.

  Elvira peered down at the arches below the bridge. It was hard to see them from the top and she would have to make her way into the riverbed to reach them. So, she walked to a small staircase that led down to the wet sand of the riverbed.

  Down here, little of the traffic noise from up top could reach. There was only the sound of the various screeching birds and gulls that circled about over the tops of the heaping masses of shrubs and bushes that lined the sandy bank. The Tormes was not a well-travelled river, and as such, much of it had been allowed to grow wild and natural without the usual pruning and dredging of other rivers. Nature was allowed to flourish here, and Elvira wondered why, in her entire life in Salamanca, she had never thought to climb down here. Or anyone else, for that matter, as she was all alone.

  Elvira turned her attention now to the stone arches that supported the underside of the bridge. There were twenty or so of them, but only the first two could be accessed without wading into the river itself. Each archway was ringed on the bottom with ledges just above the surface, designed for the workmen who built and maintained this bridge.

  The mud was deep and Elvira realised she had worn the wrong shoes, but she didn’t let that deter her. She stomped her way through the mud until she reached the first, and easiest, arch. She pulled herself on to the ledge and shook off as much of the mud as she could get by tapping her soft leather sandals against the stones.

  Elvira looked around as the scratching sound of her shoes echoed all about, frightening off some sparrows that had been looking for grubs nearby. There was no sign of anyone. And given how hard it was to reach, she wondered how any prostitute could ply their trade here. There was certainly no sign of anybody now.

  The next arch along was the only other one that could be reached without swimming, so Elvira hopped down into the mud and moved a little further into the riverbed. The mud was deeper and wetter, which meant the bottom of her dress would need laundering tomorrow.

  Elvira pulled herself up on the next ledge and, once again, found herself completely alone. There were no men here looking for prostitutes. Nor were there prostitutes. There was only Elvira and the birds, some of which were nervous at how close she was to their nests in the crooks of the ledge on the far side.

  Elvira was relieved, but also disappointed. Whomever had told Arturo what went on down here must have been making it up. She couldn’t see how it would be possible for this place to conduct such business. Which meant she’d been right: Gregorio hadn’t come here for women. And Elvira should have been happy with that.

  But she couldn’t help wondering—what had he come for, then?

  Elvira looked about but saw nothing. Perhaps to meet someone in a boat? But under this arch, the water wasn’t deep enough for most vessels. It didn’t seem likely. In fact, nothing did. Perhaps Gregorio had lied and hadn’t come here at all. It was all so confusing.

  A gale of wind blew through the arch, filling the air with sand from the riverbed. Elvira found she had to cover her face to breathe.

  That’s when she smelled it. That smell. That rotten-eggs smell. The same one she’d smelled on the soles of Gregorio’s boots that night. It was the only time she’d ever smelled anything like it.

  And it was here, under this arch somewhere. Which meant Gregorio had been here that day. But why?

  Elvira looked down at the ledge. It was the only place to step under this arch. She moved along the wall, examining every bit until she saw it. There, just in the middle. More of the bad-smelling yellow powder. Elvira knelt down and picked up a bit of the powder with her hand, holding it to her nose just to be sure.

  It was definitely the same stuff.

  Elvira went to stand again, using a jutting stone as balance, but felt it come loose under her weight. Elvira yelped and nearly fell over into the mud below, but managed to hold her balance.

  Upon closer inspection, she found the stone she held was just one of an entire section of the arch where the stones were not mortared very well. They were all loose. And going by the echo, there was a chamber just behind.

  Elvira attempted to peer into the chamber through the hole the stone had left, but she only saw total darkness beyond. The odour that emanated from it, however, was unmistakable. It was the same foul smell, but much more intense.

  Elvira was tempted to remove more stones to get a better look at her husband’s little chamber of secrets, but she became aware of another odour. It was very different from the yellow powder. It was heavier, more sour. It was a rotting smell, like the one from the stalls of meat sellers eager to sell their last few carcasses before the end of a long day in the sun.

  But this was no meat seller’s stall. Something about it sent chills down the back of her neck. This was the smell of death. Of something rotten and decaying, something forgotten. And it was so overpowering she was about to be ill.

  Elvira quickly shoved the stone back in the wall and found her heart racing. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to know anything related to that odour. She just wanted it to stay behind the loose stones of that arch and never come out. She regretted ever marrying her husband, or having kids with him, or meeting him. She wanted nothing more to do with his secrets.

  Elvira scrambled her way out from under the arch and fell down to the soft, sandy bank of the river. Giving little heed to her dress, she raced her way through the mud, back to the little staircase and back to the top of the bridge, where the merchant traffic was still flowing and many pedestrians innocently crossed the bridge, having no idea of the evil that was just below their feet.

  Evil that her husband, Gregorio Cordoba—whomever he was—had put there.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, Armada squeezed the reins, trying to get used to them in his hands again. They were rough and badly frayed from years of rotting in the open sun, except for in the two spots where his hands naturally held them. There, they had been worn smooth and greasy, having long ago turned black from hours of being gripped tightly in Lucas’s hands while riding on countless hot afternoons. Armada hadn’t remembered them being so smooth. Perhaps it was because Lucas’s hands were younger, stronger, and could grip them much tighter. His stroppy mule sometimes needed a lot of coaxing to go in the direction they needed. Armada wondered if he still had the energy for it.

  It was before sunrise and the air was stiff and cold, but it would be warm soon. The breeze still carried a hint of what had been a particularly cold winter, one still refusing to completely let go of its icy grip in the dark of the night. Armada knew he would have been warm enough, had he been able to stay dressed in his usual green shirt and leather waistcoat, which seemed to keep him warm on the coldest of nights. But those marked him as Brotherhood. And where he was going, such markings would mean his death.

  So, the trademark shirt and waistcoat were left behind, replaced by a scratchy wool tunic and hat, hastily bought the evening before from a shop on the outskirts of the city. It was a look much closer to that of Lucas’s, the model he’d used. For he needed to look convincingly like a poor farmer, on a long journey home through the empty countryside, eager to get back to his wife and children.

  Armada smiled to himself as Salamanca’s church spire, the tallest structure in the city, slipped from view behind the ridge behind him. The sun was threatening to peek over the crest of a hill to his left, granting him the gift of warmth and light. From that point, Armada knew it should be an easy ride. As long as he kept travelling to the northwest, he would be fine. And the sun’s position would help
him get there.

  The thought of a family made his chuckle. It was so hard to picture himself having such a normal life. He was about as likely to have a wife, child, and a working farm as he was to be crowned king of France. Both roles would be equally as strange. It was a joke, really. And one he had to laugh at, even though no one was around.

  The thought amused him for much of the early morning and midday as the cart bounced in and out of the deep ruts, precipitated by a braying of protest from the mule. They were going slowly. Armada couldn’t risk the mule hurting himself, but he was frustrated. He was stuck listening to his own thoughts, as he couldn’t indulge his usual habit of distracting himself with a bit of reading along the way. He wondered how on earth Lucas had done so many long journeys with the reins without going mad. What did the boy think about for all these hours?

  Or Teo, for that matter. For not only did Teo make this journey frequently by himself, but almost always in the dark and many times carrying several barrels of high-grade gunpowder. There were bandits and outlaws all over this country, most of whom would be happy to take his powder and bury him somewhere he would never be found. Even Armada was a little nervous, and couldn’t help scanning the horizon for any sign of approaching men on horseback. Once they spotted him there, would be no outrunning them, not with Armada’s stroppy mule. And not with this cart, loaded down as it was with the prisoner cage on the back.

  The Head of Diego Gomez. That was his destination. One strange pueblo name amongst many that Armada had come across in his travels. He had once stopped in a town near Almeria called Matagorda, which meant ‘Kill the Fat Woman’. He had also met a vagrant who claimed to be from a town in Galicia called Villapene, roughly translating to ‘Penisville’. But his particular favourite was the pueblo of Malcocinado outside Badajoz, a town that had essentially named itself ‘Undercooked’. He had stayed there for a few days to interrogate a witness and was struck how none of the residents there found the name odd, nor did anyone know the story behind it. It was just what their town had always been called.