The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  Martin stepped away, turned and left the room.

  Thomas shrugged and looked to Olaf, who in turn looked around for what he knew he had brought to the room but not to the fight. He found a blade, honed to a wicked sharpness, and tossed it hilt first to Thomas. Who snatched it from the air and in the same movement thrust it between the soldier’s ribs to pierce his heart.

  “By Odin, Thomas, I heard tell you were a cold bastard, but did not believe the tales until now.”

  “Only when I need be. He said he was dead in any case. I have at least spared him the pain of his master’s questioning.”

  Olaf shook his head. “I hope I never cross you.”

  Thomas laughed. “The feeling is mutual, Fa.” He wiped the blade on the bedclothes and handed it to Olaf. “Good knife, by the way, but you’ll need clean sheets.”

  He found Martin sitting downstairs nursing a mug of wine. Thomas pulled a chair close and sat.

  “Why does Mandana want you dead?”

  “Did you kill him, the man upstairs? How can you do that, in cold blood?”

  “He would have done the same to you, to all of us given the chance.”

  “I can understand in the heat of battle, but to do it as you did? No.”

  “Why did Mandana send men to kill you?”

  “And it was kill, was it? Not capture, but kill?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “He didn’t know why?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “I can think of no reason. I don’t like the Abbot, and my feelings have been made clear to him, but many do not like him, most far more than me. It’s not a reason, otherwise half of Sevilla would be in danger.”

  “It will be something you know.”

  Martin gave a grunt. “I know many things, no doubt some of them a danger to me, but I know no secrets about the man that are not also known to Fernando.”

  “Who makes use of him,” Thomas said.

  “Against my advice. You cannot hold a serpent to your breast and expect it not to bite you, but he does not listen to all of my counsel. Was the fact they came tonight of significance or not?”

  “They knew you would be here, and more vulnerable than in the palace. I don’t think they expected to encounter anyone who would fight back, and certainly not someone like Olaf.”

  Martin barked a laugh. “Gods, I hope I never have to face him in battle. He’s an army in his own right.”

  “And well loved by his men. It would be better not to face him. Tell Fernando the same. You translated between them, what did they have to say?”

  “Sounding each other out, and then…” Martin smiled, sipped at his wine. “And then they spoke of family, their home lands, and their love of this land we all share. It was… strange… and rather beautiful. There was respect between them.”

  “And soon Olaf and the others must leave.”

  “It was a generous offer Fernando made, and it is only you he would have made it for. I can think of no other.”

  Thomas scowled. “I still want to know why Mandana wants you dead.”

  “So do I.” Martin looked across the room. “Do you want me?”

  Thomas turned to see Helena wrapped in nothing more than a silk sheet. She smiled – something he was still getting used to.

  “Theresa wanted to know if you were coming back to bed now we are all woken.”

  “I’ll be there soon,” Martin said. “We have finished here, haven’t we?” A glance at Thomas, who nodded.

  He watched as Helena turned and ascended the stairs. She had to know the bed sheet covered only the front of her body, but she was nothing if not flagrant in the display of herself, as he well knew. He looked at Martin, who also watched with eyes wide. Thomas wanted to warn him, but knew the man would ignore any words he offered, and he couldn’t blame him. Better to let him find out himself what Helena was like. He had to acknowledge she had changed over the last year, but his suspicious nature wondered if the change was genuine or not.

  When Martin had gone Thomas drank a cup of wine and refilled it. Beyond the windows the night was a curtain of darkness pricked only by lamps hanging from ships tied to the dock. Someone came clumping down the stairs and Olaf emerged, a man under each arm.

  “We need to get rid of these bodies. The river?”

  “I have a better idea,” Thomas said, rising. “Let me put on more suitable clothes and I’ll take one from you.”

  “I can manage both.”

  “I know you can, but there is no need. Besides, there are another two up there. And a lot of blood on the stairs. We should try to clean it before the rest of the household wakes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Thomas pulled a cart that stank of disease down the street toward Jorge’s house. The night was still dark, the moon hanging close to the horizon, its light peering between roofs and around buildings. He had found the cart on the river bank ready to be used the following day, together with a dozen others. Of the men whose task it would be to fill them there was no sign, and he realised how simple it would have been for the killer to take one to disguise his purpose.

  Olaf had brought all four dead soldiers down and stacked them inside the door.

  “I think I’ve cleaned most of the blood away. Lubna came to help.”

  “She is supposed to be resting after that blow,” Thomas said as he lifted one of the men onto his shoulder. He would need to wash thoroughly later, but Jorge had already installed a tub in one of the upstairs rooms.

  “She is my daughter, and there was work needed doing,” said Olaf.

  “Not all your daughters are the same though, are they.”

  “They each possess their own skills, and all love their father.” Olaf tossed a body in the bed of the cart and went back for another. “What are you planning to do with these? I still think the river is good enough for them.”

  “They will be discovered eventually and questions asked. I know a place they will never be found.”

  “I could do with somewhere like that,” said Olaf, and Thomas laughed, knowing he was not entirely joking.

  “Here, put this on.” Thomas handed across a dirty grey cloak and tall pointed hat that covered the entire face, before pulling the same onto his own head.

  He let Olaf pull the cart because it made sense, and Thomas was still tired. At least the influence of the hashish had faded and his mind was as clear as the star-painted sky. There was barely anyone on the streets, and those few they did encounter suddenly remembered they had forgotten something in the other direction. None came close enough to see the men they carried in the cart had not died of the pestilence. It was one more confirmation to Thomas that this was how the killer he sought must have moved his victims. No wonder he was called the Ghost – a ghost people deliberately looked away from.

  The wheels of the cart rumbled loud on the planks of the Barcas bridge.

  “What is the big place?” Olaf said as they passed alongside the towering walls of Castillo de Triana.

  “It’s where the Inquisition holds its prisoners, and where all the records are kept.”

  “What records?”

  “The Spanish are keen on keeping records.” He pointed to a side street that led between a shuttered inn and the riverbank.

  “They are like you, then,” said Olaf.

  “Yes, like me. Over there.” He indicated a pit dug in the ground. Ashes and streaks of pale quicklime marked the ground around it, and the stench of rotting bodies made the air almost unbreathable, but Olaf barely appeared to notice. Thomas lifted a body onto his shoulder. Olaf did the same with two others, and they carried them to the edge of the pit.

  “It will be better if they are well into the middle.”

  Olaf nodded and dropped his burden, took the shoulders of Thomas’s corpse. They counted down in Arabic and threw the body as hard as they could. It sailed through the air before coming down with a soft, damp thud, the sound almost worse than the stink.

  O
nce the others had been similarly dealt with Thomas returned the cart and clothing to where he had found them and led the way back through streets just beginning to turn grey with the coming of dawn.

  “Tell me something, Olaf, what does Muhammed do with himself these days?”

  “You know as well as me. He sits in his mother’s house on the Albayzin and plots his return to power, or he wanders the east of al-Andalus where people still think he possesses power.”

  “I have been gone a number of weeks, I wondered if anything had changed.”

  “Abu al-Hasan is fading fast. When he dies, and it will not be long, Muhammed will make a move.”

  “And you? Where will your loyalty lie?”

  “You know where. To whoever rules on the hill. I am the Sultan’s man, whoever the Sultan is. I served Muhammed before and will do so again if that is what is required.”

  “Al-Zagal has no plan to return? He would make a good Sultan.”

  “He would. But he has made his home in Malaka. He is reinforcing the defences because he knows the Spanish will come, likely next year when the fighting season starts. Take Malaka and you cut Gharnatah off from the sea.”

  “Gharnatah will not starve,” Thomas said.

  “No. But it would also cut off our supply of weapons and reinforcements. Gharnatah will need those more than food soon.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Me? I will fight. It is what I am good at.”

  “I meant when we lose,” Thomas said.

  “Ah, well, if we lose that means I will no doubt not have to worry about what to do, for I will be dead.”

  “Try not to be,” Thomas said. “I have grown fond of you.”

  Olaf laughed. “And I you, despite what I used to think of you.”

  Thomas walked on a moment, the question refusing to be ignored. “What did you used to think of me?”

  Olaf slapped Thomas on the back, almost sending him to his knees. “I have seen you fight and seen you heal men, and you are married to my daughter, so what I used to think is of no matter, no matter at all.”

  “You have no need to sacrifice yourself,” Thomas said. “Muhammed is not worthy of such loyalty.”

  “I have nowhere else to go. I will make my final stand in al-Andalus. As I know you will, but I hope you stay alive for Lubna’s sake, and the sake of the child she carries, not to mention Will.”

  Thomas smiled, and then, in a moment of insight he knew who wanted Martin dead, and it was not Mandana. He had only been doing the bidding of another.

  “If Muhammed comes to power, Olaf, I want you to kill him.”

  Olaf stopped in the middle of the street, his pale skin almost glowing in the rising light.

  “You know I cannot do such. I serve the Sultan.”

  “Do not serve this one. He is the one wants Martin dead. He will have sent money, or made some promise to Mandana in exchange for Martin’s head.”

  “Why would this Mandana do that? He has to live here afterward.”

  “Because the men he sent were meant to succeed. Meant to kill us all, more than likely. And dead men tell no tales. Martin has power over Muhammed and he wants him dead. For Mandana this was a convenience, and no doubt brought some funds or favour in return.”

  Olaf shook his head, not seeing it, but Thomas tapped his own skull. “In here, in his head, Muhammed is still the captive of Martin, who had him for almost a year. I saw how they were, how they still are. When Martin is in his presence Muhammed turns into a cringing coward. I do not know how it was done, only that it was. Martin owns that man heart and soul, and Muhammed wants an end to it if he is to be Sultan. And he does want to be Sultan. I believe Fernando wants him to be Sultan, too. Which is why you have to kill him.”

  Olaf let his breath out in a rush. “You ask a lot of a simple soldier, Thomas.”

  “I know, but you also know I speak the truth. Muhammed is not his own man. He belongs to Spain. That is what they did to him, turned him against his own people. Not that Muhammed ever had any love for his people, unlike his father. He will be their pawn in al-Hamra, and he will give up al-Andalus whenever they ask it.”

  A crash came from along the street where a trader dropped the shutters as he opened his store, and the scent of fresh baking reached them, sparking saliva in Thomas’s mouth.

  “At least consider what I say. Watch him closely, see whether I am right or not. Then make your own decision. I trust your judgement.” He turned and walked along the street, leaving Olaf staring after him.

  Thomas was glad for the weight of the sword hanging from his belt as he approached the cathedral square. As soon as they had disposed of the bodies his mind had turned to the events of the day before, and he knew he had been remiss in his duty. He understood the reasons why but they sat uneasy with him, hence his short journey across the city before it came fully awake. Before Lubna came fully awake if she had managed to find sleep again, which was unlikely. He worried at the thought of her sitting in Jorge’s house waiting for him, worried for the baby she carried. He was abandoning her again, he knew, but this had to be done. Thomas needed to be sure he had covered every eventuality, had missed no clue.

  The narrow doorway was locked for the night, but not to Thomas. It did offer information he filed away for later consideration. At what hour was the door locked, and who would have a key for it?

  The corridor beyond was dim, no lamps lit. Who came to light them, and why? What purpose did this curving passageway serve, and what purpose the small chamber where Cañate had been held? His eyes tracked the walls ahead as he climbed the staircase. There was only the one open chamber here, he knew from the day before, but not its purpose. As he approached his feet slowed as he caught a familiar scent. He stopped, listening, but heard nothing. Still he waited. If the man he sought was in the room he did not want to lose him again, but as moments passed no sound came to him and he knew there was no-one alive there. Whoever the killer was, he had been interrupted the day before, but had not finished. He had found two more victims, and it was their blood that Thomas could smell.

  He started forward, the sight that greeted him no surprise, only the sex of one figure causing a moment’s confusion. One man, one woman. So the attempt to take Theresa had been deliberate. Both were naked. Both cut, but not in the same way as before.

  Thomas went to the man first and leaned across him, as yet not touching the flesh. There was no hint of corruption, and he knew whoever the pair were they had been walking the streets of Sevilla the evening before. Even without that knowledge Thomas’s trained eye could see the freshness of the wounds. Blood had barely had time to thicken.

  This time the dissections were low on the chest where the ribs came to an end. Skin had been peeled back, layers of muscle cut and examined, the flesh held open by rounded stones. The same kind of stones he had seen at other killing sites.

  Thomas pictured the killer using his fingers, feeling for something, but what? That is what the sight reminded him of. He had done as much himself when searching for a tumour in the vain hope of cutting it away, the careful slicing, the slow act of discovery. But what was being searched for? And why cut so precisely? Different victims cut in different places meant the killer had not yet found what he was looking for. So why not cut his victims everywhere? Unless… Thomas fought the resistance of ignorance, forcing his way past… unless what the killer sought could only be found in a body while it was alive?

  He moved to the woman, but the sight of a lamp in an alcove made him step aside. He cupped his hand to the glass, which still held a trace of heat, and when he sniffed he smelled soot as well as oil. These two must have died even as he and Olaf were disposing of the soldiers. Had Thomas come here first he would have caught the man in the act, and this would all be over. He would know what reason lay behind the killings, and the man handed over to the authorities.

  The woman had been handsome in life, her skin darker than the man’s, her hair black, and when Thomas lifted an eyel
id the cornea that stared out was also dark. He stepped back and studied her, emotionless. Yesterday she had lived and laughed and loved, but now she was a puzzle to be solved, and Thomas trusted himself to do so. She was not a Moor, and certainly not of Africa, but not Spanish either. Sicilian perhaps, or from further east. He thought of Belia and the tint of her skin, which was close to what he now stared at.

  He approached her body and examined the wound, peeling back the layers as he had for the man. His eyes flicked from one to the other. Whoever had cut them was skilled, there could be no doubt of that. As skilled as himself, he wondered? He admitted they might be. Which was good, for there could be few with such attributes in the city, and they would be known. Not one of the physicians Belia had taken him to, so someone else. A stranger, like he was? And if so how would he discover them? He had no doubt he would, with the help of Jorge and Belia and Lubna. Thomas’s blood quickened. This could be the moment everything turned in his favour.

  The room was still cool, but it would warm once sunlight fell on the cathedral walls. The bodies would start to putrefy. Flies would gather, but they would not have had these two. One of them would have been disposed of, the other displayed.

  Thomas sat in the corner, propped up by the meeting of two walls, and pulled his knees to his chest. He waited for whoever had done this to return to dispose of the bodies, for return they would, and then he would have them, whoever they were. He gave no thought to going for help, confident in his own abilities. He rested his head against the corner and closed his eyes, the better to allow himself to think.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  When Thomas woke from a deep sleep a hand was on him and he drew his sword without thinking and struck out. When his eyes focussed he found Jorge standing before him, arms wide. The tip of Thomas’s sword was at his throat but had not drawn blood.

  “Remind me never to sleep beside you,” said Jorge. “How does Lubna cope? Are you this grumpy every time you wake?”

  Thomas lowered his sword, sheathed it. “What are you doing here?”