The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  “Then that is where you need to start looking before accusing your friends.”

  “I still want to talk with her,” Thomas said.

  “But not accuse. Please tell me you will not accuse her, not yet, not unless you are sure. I consider it impossible, but I have trusted in the past only to be disappointed. Jorge knows people better than anyone. He would have seen it in her, would he not?”

  “Unless love has blinded him, as he nearly blinded me.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. Jorge held back his blow otherwise he would have knocked you to the ground. He is strong now.”

  “He has always been strong, but managed to hide it well. The times we live in now are more dangerous.”

  “Or you attract danger, to both of you, to all of us.”

  “You would have me stop? To turn away from this riddle?” Thomas stared into Lubna’s eyes. “Say the word and I will. For you, and for Will, and for this one you grow within you.” He touched the swell of her belly and Lubna smiled.

  “And what if I did? You would prowl these rooms like a sulking bear. I know I cannot change you, but all I ask is that you be careful. You have other responsibilities now.”

  “I am always careful,” Thomas said.

  “Of course you are.” Lubna patted his cheek and he winced.

  “When you two have finished with your foreplay can we get this over with?” Jorge came to stand near. His anger appeared to have burned low.

  “Not yet,” said Thomas. “I have been thinking.”

  “Not again. Are you sure that is wise? Look what happened the last time.”

  “We should question the household of the victim we know about to discover what connections there are, if any.”

  “Connections with Belia, do you mean?”

  “With anyone,” Thomas said. “Can you not see why I suspect her as I do?”

  “No, I cannot.” Jorge’s body tightened and Thomas readied to stop a second attack, prepared this time. “We must talk with her first before we do anything else, so I can see your crazy notions dashed to pieces. Only then will I be ready to help.”

  Thomas knew he needed Jorge. The man was an essential part of what allowed them to track down the guilty. He saw things others did not, things Thomas would miss alone.

  “Let’s make it quick then. With luck she will prove her innocence and we can move on.”

  “Or she holds up her hands and confesses,” said Jorge.

  Where to start, that was the thing, and a knack Thomas knew he did not possess. This was what Jorge was good at, but he stood leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, staring at Thomas.

  “What is it,” said Belia, “is Lubna unwell?”

  “Lubna is recovered,” Thomas said. He steeled himself, wanting this done, pushing on against internal resistance. “I have been thinking on these killings, the ones we are working on, Jorge and I. Something came to me, about the perpetrator.”

  “Yes? Do you need my advice on something?”

  “Whoever is doing this knows the city and is known in it.”

  Belia nodded, and it pained Thomas to see the trust on her face.

  “They may know herbs to still their subjects, and they will know the art of cutting a body cleanly, in exactly the right place to open it without killing. It is a small pool of individuals who meet such standards.”

  “You,” said Belia, “and Samuel, of course, but you cannot suspect him, can you? I could name others, but no more than the fingers on both hands, myself included.” She had looked at her own hands as she spoke. Now she raised her gaze and her face changed. “I see.” She looked toward Jorge. “Are you here to arrest me?”

  “I told him he is an idiot,” said Jorge. “And I hit him.”

  “I can see someone has. Did you hit him hard?”

  Jorge nodded.

  “As hard as he deserved?”

  “I am not strong enough to have done so, but hard enough.”

  This is the attitude I would expect, Thomas thought, if Belia is guilty of what I accuse her: dismissal and derision. So far nothing was proven or disproven. He wanted gone from here but knew he was trapped until there was a resolution.

  “You have surgical instruments,” Thomas said, “I have seen them. Do you know how to use them?”

  “They were my husband’s,” said Belia, but it was not an answer.

  “Were? What happened to him?”

  “He died of the pestilence, not that it is any business of yours.”

  “When?” It was Jorge asked the question.

  “Four years.”

  “He was a surgeon?” Thomas asked.

  Belia nodded. “A good one, maybe even as good as you are claimed to be, maybe even better.”

  “You worked alongside him?”

  Another nod, telling him much, but it was not proof, and as time passed Thomas was coming to the conclusion his suspicions were unfounded.

  “You must have been a formidable team,” he said. “His skill with the blade and yours with herbs. Formidable indeed. Is that why you are close to Samuel?”

  “If you mean am I looking for a replacement husband, no. Besides, Samuel is not the marrying kind. If you mean am I looking for another surgeon to work with, my answer again is no. I am content with my lot. I have no ambition, it has been scoured from me.” She glanced at Jorge. “You know this to be true.”

  Jorge inclined his head but said nothing, his expression unchanged.

  Thomas tried to work through his own thoughts. Did he believe Belia or not? He still did not know. Could he make further progress until he was sure? He thought not. Better to do what he could and leave her to consider his accusation. If there was any truth to it she might begin to worry, might even flee, which would be all the proof needed. Even as the thought came to him he saw the truth behind it. Had he continued to suspect Belia he would not leave her in the house alone to continue killing. No, she had convinced him with her lack of any show of guilt. And then there was Jorge – Thomas could not believe he would lie beside a woman capable of murder. Jorge saw through everyone, saw direct to the truth at their core.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Is this the place?” said Jorge. They stood on a wide street not far from the north side of the Cathedral. Fine houses lined both sides but the one opposite was the finest by far. It rose three stories from the roadway with a wide balcony extending out at the top. A further floor below ground would be where the scurrying work was carried out, and Thomas saw a thin woman emerge, bent over by the weight of a basket of washing. She turned left and hurried as fast as her burden would allow toward the end of the street.

  “Should I?” asked Jorge.

  Thomas shook his head. “There will be time later, and others down there.”

  “Do we take the usual course? You with the owners, me with the servants?” Jorge smiled. “I know my place, you see.”

  Thomas lifted a hand to his cheek but did not touch it. “Perhaps this time we should reverse our roles. The wife will not speak to a man with a black eye.”

  “Whereas you will scare the servants. Good idea.” Jorge looked down at himself. “And I am dressed rather well today, so it might work.”

  “And your Spanish is better than mine,” Thomas said.

  “So it should be. I spoke nothing else until you unmanned me at twelve years of age.”

  “Not again,” Thomas said. “I saved your life, remember.”

  “Once more, my thanks. So, is that your plan?” Jorge’s tone indicated what he thought of the plan, and Thomas knew he should have come better prepared.

  “We need to find out how much the wife knew, and whether her husband had enemies.”

  “Do I ask about Theresa?”

  “Can you find out without being explicit?” Thomas said. “Ask about lovers in general. It’s possible he had others before Theresa, or even as well as.”

  “But not on Monday, Wednesday or Friday, unless he was extremely virile, which men of God te
nd not to be.”

  “You know all about men of God, do you?”

  “I know they are sour faced hypocrites,” said Jorge. He smoothed his clothes, brushed fingers through the hair which had been growing out for several weeks now. It had little effect but somehow Jorge always managed to look freshly emerged from the bathhouse.

  “It might be better not to mention that to his wife.” Thomas started across the street, heading for the small door that offered access to the basement, while Jorge climbed marble steps and rapped on an oak door reinforced with scrolled metalwork. Thomas descended the steps without waiting to see if he was offered admittance, knowing Jorge could charm his way anywhere.

  Thomas didn’t knock but pushed the door open and ducked inside. The narrow corridor he entered was only a little higher and he stooped as he made his way to where light, noise and scent told him the kitchen must lie. He rapped on the frame of an opening and a girl of little more than twelve turned, her mouth dropping open as her eyes widened. Thomas knew his eye would be nicely blackened by now. He didn’t think his appearance warranted such a reaction, but then he was an uninvited stranger.

  “Tell him to put the fish in the larder next to the ice.” The woman who spoke was obviously in charge but did not turn.

  “It’s not the fish man,” said the girl.

  The woman turned, wiping her hands on skirts already heavily stained. “What is it you want if you’ve got no fish?” She made no move to come forward, so Thomas took a few paces into the room. It was a little higher but his hair still brushed rough-cut beams. Fresh bread stood on a rack to cool, its scent making his mouth water.

  “My name is Thomas Berrington, physician to Queen Isabel. I am tasked with investigating the untimely death of your master.” He didn’t know if it would work or not. His name almost surely not, but the Queen’s more likely.

  “About time,” said the cook. She glanced at the girl. “Go and wait for the fish man.”

  The girl needed no more encouragement, pressing against the wall to avoid approaching Thomas any closer.

  “What happened to your face, did someone object to your questions?” The cook smiled, no malice there.

  “Your master was well respected, was he?” Thomas said. “Down here as well as up there?” He nodded at the low ceiling.

  “He was good enough as master’s go,” said the cook. “There are plenty worse.” She pulled up a stool and sat, offering that she had been on her feet since before dawn.

  “And the lady of the house?”

  “What of her?”

  “Is she also respected?”

  “For what? She was his wife so gets her respect by connection.”

  “Is this house owned by the church?”

  “We used to have one of those, a church house, but master bought this soon after coming to the city. He said Sevilla would grow to be the heart of Spain and good houses never go out of fashion.”

  “So your positions are all safe, both here and above?” Thomas said.

  The cook touched one of the loaves, misshapen where the last of the dough had been used. “As safe as anyone can be with this Ghost taking innocent folk, let alone the pestilence stalking the city. Are you hungry?” she said. “You look hungry to me.” It was an invitation of a kind, and Thomas nodded. He would have done so whether he was hungry or not.

  “Wash yourself and your clothes often,” Thomas said. “I believe it discourages whatever brings the death.” He saw the cook didn’t believe him, but at least he had tried. “What do you know of your master?”

  The cook cut a chunk of still warm bread and pushed it across the table. “There’s wine in the pantry and cheese if you want to fetch it. I know everything that goes on in this house. Servants always do. We are invisible to those who keep us, and when you are invisible nothing is hidden.”

  Thomas brought the jug of wine and a round of hard cheese. He looked around, found rough cups fashioned from yellow clay and placed two on the table. The cook filled hers and drained it before filling it once more, the network of broken veins in her cheeks testament to her love of wine. Thomas sipped at his, surprised how good it was. He cut a piece of cheese and chewed on it, finding that also good. This household did not want for the best.

  “You knew he took lovers?” Thomas said, when the pact between them appeared to be sealed.

  “Don’t all men? Even men of God are no different. And he was always discrete.”

  “Except amongst the servants.”

  “I already told you, we don’t matter, do we. He was a handsome man. Handsome boy, too.”

  “You were with him as long ago as that?”

  “His father employed my mother, her mother before that. He was a good master when he took over the household so I saw no reason to look elsewhere. He only took one lover at a time. He was thoughtful that way. And a good lover, too.”

  Thomas smiled at the cook’s confession, but suspected any liaison would be long in the past now. But memories could warm, too.

  “Did he have enemies? Someone who might want him dead?”

  A shake of the head. “Oh, enemies, I am sure. He was a man of substance, held a position in the church others thought should be theirs, but to kill him in the manner done? Nobody could hate someone that much.”

  “So you know what was done to him?”

  “I was sent to prepare the body. Took some work I can tell you, the way he was cut.”

  Thomas leaned forward. “Cut how? Is it painful for you to describe?”

  “I’ve seen worse, but never done to someone I was close to. It was bad for me, I admit, but if you can catch whoever did it I will tell you anything you want to know. Do you speak true, you are a physician?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Then you’ll have seen some sights too. They’d taken his eyes. Both of them. But not rough, whoever did it possessed skill. They had drawn them out and cut clean where they join behind. The eyes lay beside him where he lay.” She drank more wine, wiped her mouth.

  “Taking his eyes would not kill your master,” Thomas said.

  “No. But what they did behind them would. Something had been used to gouge into his brain and scoop some of it out.”

  “Where was he on the table?”

  “On his back,” said the cook.

  “I meant was he in the middle of the table or–”

  “To one side. He lay to one side.”

  “Was there space for a second body beside him?”

  The cook frowned, shook her head. “There was no other body, only the master.”

  “But was there space for another?”

  Her gaze sought the corner of the room. “Possible, I suppose, yes. But there was nobody else.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do? I put his eyes back in their sockets. Once that was done it was only the slashes to his cheeks needed some stitching, which was easy enough. I didn’t want the mistress to see him that way.”

  “Who did?”

  “See him? I don’t know. He was taken away by monks and buried the next morning. Everything was arranged. It was no big ceremony, not like it would be if it had been the Archbishop. The mistress went but the children stayed away.”

  “How old are they?” It didn’t matter, but Thomas was curious.

  “They have ten and eight years. Both girls, which is a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you need to ask, you being a man?”

  “When you went to him it was to the place where he died?”

  “Must have been.” The cook filled her cup again but did not drink yet. From the floor above footsteps sounded, those of a man and woman, one set heavier than the other, slower.

  “And where was this place?”

  “It was a house, nothing more.”

  “A house where?”

  The cook closed her eyes, thinking. Her fingertip moved on the table top as she walked the streets in her mind.

  “Not near, but not too far,” she said
. “An ordinary house.”

  “Belonging to whom?” It was like extracting thorns from a dog’s fur, one by one by one, except the dog would be snapping at your hand while this woman was passive.

  “It belongs to no-one,” said the cook. She reached for her cup but Thomas grasped her wrist before she could drink. She looked at his hand, at him, a first touch of fear showing. Thomas kept his expression cold, wanting this finished. Jorge’s footsteps sounded across the floor above the kitchen. They could belong to no-one else. He would be waiting outside with whatever had been found out.

  “Tell me why it belongs to no-one,” Thomas said, though he knew the answer already.

  “It is a plague house,” she said, “with a mark on the door.”

  “And you went inside despite that?”

  “Superstition, that is all it is. The plague comes on the mist, everyone knows that.”

  “Tell me, how do I find this house?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “The wife knew everything,” said Jorge as they walked across the city toward where the cook claimed she had found her master. “And she didn’t care. I suspect she is someone who finds sex inconvenient, or is simply not interested.”

  “Not so inconvenient she hasn’t managed to give birth to two girls,” Thomas said.

  “They are pretty things, too. The woman as well.”

  “So other than her knowing he took a mistress, did you discover anything useful?”

  “A list of those who might want him dead,” said Jorge. “Is that useful enough?”

  “Is it a long list?” Thomas slowed, ignoring the people who crowded around him, their conversation muted and excited in turn. There were rumours the Ghost had taken another victim, but also of more burnings.

  Jorge laughed. “Long enough. Twelve names.”

  “Do you remember them all? I will have to write them down.”

  “No need, I asked for that to be done. Her manservant did it as she brought them to mind. Most are churchmen, some of them important.” Jorge reached into his robe and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, handed it to Thomas.