By the end of the next day, whether it be a desire for a meeting or a hanging order, Armada didn’t care. As long as he could be let out of the cell. Staring out the window had long since lost its appeal. It was uncomfortable, as the window had purposely been built too high to reach easily, leaving little to view except empty sky and rusted bars. For a brief time the night before, the moon had been visible through it, casting silvery light through the entire cell to reveal just how many mosquitos were making a meal of him that night.
“You are wanted upstairs,” the guard declared. Armada stood up, feeling an ache in his back from dozing on cold stone the night before, and he walked out of his cell with as much dignity as he could muster.
He was taken up the stairs into the main foyer of the ayuntamiento building. At his feet was a mural of black and white tile in a vaguely Arabic pattern, in the middle of which was inscribed a Catholic blessing in Latin for the city of Salamanca. Armada was escorted, his wrists in irons, across this mural toward a staircase in the back, at the top of which was a large meeting room with nothing inside but a large wooden table surrounded by ten or twelve wooden chairs with high backs to convey the importance of those who met and decided policy here. A large window on the opposite side overlooked a well-tended garden, where the canopy of a fig tree waved lazily back and forth in the breeze.
At the far end of the table, amidst a pile of papers and reports, was a severe-looking man in long black robes. He had a long, thin nose upon which were perched a set of spectacles that magnified his eyes. They opened wide, although his brow was permanently furrowed into a well-practiced accusatory stare.
Sitting next to him was Arturo, who was wearing several layers of his own best clothing, and another man. Taller, more austere. This one had no reports in front of him and instead sat at the table while also wearing very expensive clothing, hands folded in front of him, staring at Armada with unblinking eyes.
Armada was led into the room and his irons were removed. There was no chair provided for him.
“Domingo Armada,” the other man said. He spoke in a slow, deliberate way, being sure to pronounce every syllable in a demonstration of the quality of his education. “Constable of the Holy Brotherhood chapter in Granada. You’re a long way from home, Constable.”
“There is a lot of travel involved in this job.”
The man’s eyes shot up at him, suggesting Armada had breached some kind of etiquette. Armada suspected the man wanted him to call him “sir,”, as everyone else in his life probably did. But Armada refused this. At least not until he identified himself.
“I am Don Carlos Avila Torrejón, the city magistrate who will be rendering the judgement for this case. This is Francisco Perez, chief constable of Salamanca, and I believe you know the corregidor of the university already.”
Armada bowed his head slightly. The chief constable and the magistrate did nothing to acknowledge this.
“You have travelled well outside your jurisdiction this time. What made you think you had any kind of authority to come here?” the chief constable said.
Armada glanced to the corregidor. Arturo looked back at him, pleading with his eyes. His career was at stake. He begged Armada not to make things worse.
“I thought I could help.”
“You understand, Constable, that this city already has enough law enforcement agencies of its own,” the magistrate said. “It hardly requires the assistance of the Holy Brotherhood. We’re not a pueblo full of poor farmers in the middle of nowhere. We are one of the largest and most prestigious cities in all of the Spanish kingdoms. We are capable of handling cases such as this on our own.”
“It wasn’t meant to be a judgement on the abilities of the city officials, Señor Torrejón.”
“Don Torrejón,” the magistrate corrected, emphasising the use of his title.
“My apologies.”
“I’ve asked you here for only one reason, Constable,” the magistrate said, getting to his feet. “I want to impress upon you how important it is that you leave this city at once. If you refuse, you will be imprisoned at once and charged with contempt. A long prison sentence will follow. I have no desire to wrangle over jurisdiction any longer, Constable. This is not your case. Nor was it ever. The only reason you are here is because of the cowardice of the corregidor, whose own contribution to the corruption of this case will be investigated at length.”
Arturo kept his eyes on the table, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.
“Can I ask what you’re going to do next?” Armada asked.
“It’s already done,” the chief constable interjected. “The killer has been apprehended, so your assistance is no longer needed.”
“I thought Enrique Talavera had already been apprehended?”
“And hung by the neck, yes. But as it turns out, as sometimes happens, new evidence suggests he was not the right man. It is unfortunate.”
Armada felt a surge at the magistrate’s lack of sympathy. It always happened when one wore the protective black robes for too long. It was too easy to disconnect from the horrors of crime and death, seeing them only as an endless series of reports rather than people. It made it easier that way. But people like Enrique, innocent people, sometimes became victims of men like Don Torrejón as much as they were victims of killers. The result was the same. So why was this man’s mistake so easily forgiven by those who allowed him to wear those robes?
Armada couldn’t get lost in such thoughts. The case wasn’t over. The killer was still out there. Armada couldn’t give in to such urges yet. He had to remain on this man’s good side as long as possible.
“Can I ask who the killer was? Purely for my own curiosity,” Armada said. He was trying not to let himself get frustrated. He felt an affinity with this case. It didn’t feel right to just hand it off to someone else halfway through and walk away. He wasn’t sure he could do it.
“Juan Mendoza,” the chief constable said, not able to hold back the curling at the corners of his mouth to show his pride.
Armada glanced at Arturo, confused.
“Who is Juan Mendoza?”
“The boy who was pretending to be the real Aurelio Martinez. Thanks to your discovery under the bridge, and the importance of the pin, we were able to ascertain that he had been an imposter all the long. It’s obvious he killed Aurelio Martinez in order to take his place at university. It seems Gregorio Cordoba somehow found out about his deception and was killed in order to keep it quiet. A very tragic affair, really. But one that thankfully now has a conclusion. Rodriguez!”
The door to the room popped open and Armada’s jailer stepped inside.
“You can escort the constable back to his accommodation now. Allow him some time to gather his things and make sure you personally see him leave the city gates. I don’t want—”
“It’s not him,” Armada said. “You have the wrong man.”
The magistrate frowned at him, finding it rude to be interrupted so blatantly.
“Do I?”
“The saltpetre…he wouldn’t have shown it to me…it doesn’t make sense….”
Armada had the attention of the room for the moment, but knew his time was short. The magistrate was already looking impatient with him. He had to make his point in a way that bought him some time. Armada was still working out his own thoughts, and if he was kicked out of this room now, it would be very hard to get back in. Impossible, even. As long as he was here, he still had a bit of power to influence this man’s opinion of what was going on. But how to get to him?
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 notar
y. 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 somewhere. 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.
The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set Page 73