A Murder Most Spanish

by Jefferson Bonar

  “I can’t remember another time in my life when I was so happy. This stuff brought us back to life. We stayed in that farmhouse for three days, until it was all gone. I was lucky. I stashed this bottle away in my bag before anyone noticed. Managed to smuggle it all the way back here. Every once in a while, I have a taste of it. Just to remember, you know?”

  Armada took another sip. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so harsh. There was a warmth he hadn’t noticed before, one that slid down into his stomach and seemed to help calm him from within.

  “You must have been posted to Catalonia,” Armada said. “The Pyrenees, I’m guessing?”

  “I commanded a company that was there right up until the end. We were fighting even after the treaty was signed. And we would have won too. The French were retreating. Then the King signs that treaty, and suddenly all our work, all our sacrifice. He just gave it away…”

  From the way Jose gripped his glass, Armada worried it would shatter in his hand. The man had felt betrayed, by king and country. Armada knew what that felt like. With some men, such a betrayal would make them turn selfish. It was where bandits and highwaymen came from, most of whom were ex-soldiers like Jose for a reason.

  “So…” Jose said, shaking himself away from his thoughts. “Where were you posted, soldier?”

  Armada wondered, probably like Jose, how much to reveal. A part of him wished to tell all, to drink the rest of what was in Jose’s cellar, to finally avail himself of all the pain and horror and suffering he had grappled with since he’d returned home. If anyone would understand, it would be a man like Jose.

  But Jose was still a witness. And now, possibly, a suspect. The game had to continue, for he still needed the truth from Jose. But to get it, he would need to reveal a bit more, but only just enough.

  “Peru,” Armada said.

  “New World?” Jose said, his eyebrows raised. “I’ve never met anyone who served there.”

  “Most men can’t afford to book passage home once they’ve done their duty. The king, sadly, does not compensate for that,” Armada said, finishing off his brandy. “Most men dream of returning home, but end up staying, getting married, and living out their lives there. For what else can they do?”

  “You made it, though…”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Armada said.

  “So what brought you home, soldier?” Jose asked.

  “The very same thing that brought you back to Salobreña, I imagine. Peru is so beautiful, but it isn’t home. Tell me, did you ever leave a man behind?”

  Jose flashed Armada an angry look. “What kind of a question is that?”

  “An honest one,” Armada said. “During my tour I had a lot commanders over the years. Some were good to the men, and others would sell us out for a bit of tobacco. I was only wondering what kind of…”

  “Of course not. I never left a man behind,” Jose said. The question had offended Jose, as it was meant to. Armada had to step carefully. For ex-soldiers, their entire identity was wrapped up in the experience of battle. To question their honour, or anything connected to it, meant possibly angering them enough to lose control. Armada had to anger Jose in such a way to forget his defences long enough to tell the truth. But push a bit too hard, and Armada risked Jose smashing the brandy bottle over his head.

  “What about when they committed a crime? Such as stealing brandy? How about then?” Armada asked.

  Jose laughed. “No. Not even then. Especially not then.”

  “How about if they killed a fellow solider in your company?”

  “That would never happen,” Jose said.

  “But it did,” Armada said. “Perhaps not in your company, but in your work crew. Are they not the same? You gave Miguel up to the Brotherhood. You gave Ortega a full statement, did you not? Does Miguel not count as one of your men?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it?”

  Jose bolted upright off the table, grasping the neck of the brandy bottle and turning toward Armada. Armada stiffened, ready to defend himself against the blow.

  But Jose instead poured himself more brandy into his glass.

  “I don’t know Miguel at all. He was only with my crew a few days. And there is no excuse for what he did. And he’s a morisco, so who cares? He wasn’t worth defending.”

  By the way Jose guzzled his brandy, it was clear there was little conviction in what he’d said. But even if there was, it didn’t fool Armada. A company commander who prided himself on how he treated his men, rather than boasting about his glory in battle, would never sell out a soldier in his company. Even if he’d only been there a single day. Commanders like Jose, of whom Armada had known a few, saw the company as a single entity, not a collection of men with varying degrees of worthiness.

  No, Jose was floundering for an excuse for his actions. There was guilt there, and Armada had only been able to see it behind the flashes of anger.

  “So what did you see, exactly?” Armada said.

  “You read the letter. You think I was lying?”

  “Yes. And here is your one chance, Commander, your only chance, to rectify that. Because if you don’t tell me the truth, right now, you will take that lie to your grave. As will Miguel.”

  Jose took a long swig of his brandy, then turned to face the ocean view.

  “You know, when you’re a commander as long as I was, you learn to read your men. You get lied to a lot, almost as much as a constable for the Brotherhood. You learn to see it in their eyes, by how they hold their bodies,” Jose said. “It’s why it’s not good to gamble with them. You know them so well, nobody can ever bluff. Now I haven’t known you long, Constable. But I can already tell you’re bluffing.”

  Armada said nothing.

  “Let’s start with a little truth from you,” Jose said, turning to Armada now. “Why did you really come home? And don’t give me that line about missing Spain. You only would have done that if you had family here. But you didn’t, did you?”

  Armada felt his hand tremble. His heart began to race, and the thin wall that held back the memories of that time began to heave and swell in his mind, as if a dam ready to burst.

  It was risky to delve into that. But if Armada wanted the truth, if he wanted to find justice for Miguel, there was no other way.

  “I deserted,” Armada said.

  Jose’s reaction was one of disapproval. In different times, Jose would have hauled Armada off to a prison cell with nothing more needing to be said.

  But these were not those times.

  “My company was assigned to protect a mission in the Andes that was being raided by a local tribe of natives whose land we’d stolen. We found out where the native village was and a company of us attacked it. We were supposed to take them all prisoner so the priest there could convert them all to the one true faith, with the hope they would join the mission and abandon their savage ways. To save the barbarians from themselves.”

  Armada took the brandy bottle from Jose and refilled his glass.

  “My commander had no intention of doing that. It was a massacre, done for his own glory. No prisoners were taken, no souls were saved that night. It was just death. Everywhere…death.”

  Armada let the memories come. Fire, screaming, blood. So much blood. His heart began to race and tears welled in his eyes. There was no stopping it now.

  “That night, I lost my faith. I realised I had been lied to, from the first moment I had put on the uniform. And I saw no other way.”

  Armada tried to drink his brandy, but his hand shook too much, and he set the drink down. No drink could calm him now.

  Jose watched him closely, but without the glare of disapproval. It had changed now, to one of empathy. He stared down at the brandy glass in his hand, the remnants of his drink still swirling on the bottom.

  “I didn’t see anything,” Jose said. “I got there too late. Amparo was already dead. I saw Miguel sitting next to him and he was pretty shaken. There was no one else around. It had to be
him. Who else could it have been?”

  “Anyone else. Anyone!” Armada shouted. He was having trouble reining in his emotions. He felt as though his own commander from that horrific night were standing in front of him, which was where the shouting was coming from. The line between the past and present was dangerously blurred.

  “I’m not proud of it,” Jose said. “But we are not in war time now. I have to think about my family. I have to think about the rest of my crew. And what about Amparo’s widow? You know what you Brothers are like. If I had left this case without a suspect, who knows who you would have accused. And once you accuse someone, that would have been it. You would have hanged them and moved on. Well I couldn’t let that happen! I grew up here, I know these people, this pueblo! And I can guarantee you none of them did it. I couldn’t risk you accusing the wrong person.”

  Anger was coursing through Armada’s veins and a single word burned in his mind so hot that he yearned to shout it out. Liar!

  This was not about protecting anyone. Jose had returned to lying about his motivations. If Armada had been in a different state, more in control, he would have pressed on.

  But it was too late. Armada didn’t trust himself. He had to calm down, to think clearly. Besides, he had gotten what he came for. An admission that Jose hadn’t seen Miguel do anything, which only confirmed Armada’s suspicions that Miguel was innocent.

  Jose put a hand on Armada’s shoulder.

  “Here, have another drink. I have two more bottles of this stuff. Let’s you and I finish them off, yeah?”

  Jose had lowered his voice to a soothing tone. He was going back into old habits, Armada knew. Jose was becoming the commander again. He saw one of his men was in trouble and was doing what he could to help.

  Armada backed away. He was not a soldier anymore. That time was long ago. The game was over. It was time to leave.

  “Thank you, Señor Padilla,” Armada said, hoping the sudden formality would return a sense of normalcy to their encounter, and might also help calm his racing heart. “I ask that you don’t leave town…not until…this ugly affair is resolved.”

  “Armada…” Jose said.

  But Armada was already striding away from the cortijo, arms wrapped around his stomach as it churned and gurgled away from the bad brandy, hoping he would soon be ill—anything to get it out of his body.

  Deep down, however, Armada knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucas returned to the room at the inn with an armload of sopping wet clothes, fresh from the lavadero. His heart was still racing from walking so briskly up the hill, as he was trying to get as much done as possible before Armada returned, in order to keep up the illusion that he’d been working at his duties all day. He still had so much to do. The mule needed to be fed, there were still provisions to sort out, and he needed to get to the baker’s for a couple of loaves of barley bread for dinner before they locked their door for the siesta, which would be very soon.

  But as soon as Lucas entered the room, his plans ended. Armada had come back, much earlier than Lucas had expected. He leaned against the windowsill, staring not at the plaza below, but at the horizon just over the rooftops on the opposite side. His eyes darted about, as if searching for something, and he breathed in long sighs, as if struggling for control of his breath. There was also a puffiness to his cheeks, something Lucas had only seen once before—on his mother at the time her sister had died. It had come from hours of weeping.

  “Ah, Lucas,” Armada said. He took a deep breath and wiped his face with his hand, wiping away his expression of sadness along with it. “You’re back.”

  “Yes, sir. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  “Well, I found myself getting a bit hungry, so I came back for some lunch. Did you manage to pick up those barley loaves?”

  “Um…no, sir. Sorry.”

  “No matter, I can just head to the tavern later.”

  Lucas had expected more of a reaction. If he hadn’t spent the majority of the morning sneaking around Jose’s field, he would have had more than enough time to finish his chores, a fact Armada was usually keenly aware of. And yet, Armada not only appeared not to mind, but seemed almost chipper.

  This was not surprising to Lucas. Over the years, Lucas had learned there was another task expected of him, one that was never spoken of. It was to distract Armada from the thoughts that sometimes plagued him. More than once had Lucas been woken up by an “accidental” loud noise in the middle of the night, only to find Armada there wanting to discuss a case at length, his mind running and bouncing about like a gazelle as he poured over every detail. Frequently, there was no new information or revelation to expound upon; Armada just needed a way to come back to reality. The conversation was an excuse to get out of his head, to plant himself in the present, and take back control of his mind from the demons that had plagued his sleep.

  Armada poured himself a sherry and began pacing, a sure sign his mind was off and running.

  “How did you get on, sir?” Lucas asked.

  “Not well. After an entire day of interrogations all I’ve managed to do is confirm my suspicions about Miguel Guillen’s innocence. It doesn’t get me any closer to knowing who actually killed Amparo Rodriguez.”

  “I heard some women talking about him at the lavadero today, sir. It seems like nobody in the pueblo liked him much.”

  “So I keep hearing,” Armada mumbled into his sherry. “But we have to be careful here. Holding disdain for a man is a long way from wanting him dead. His character may be distracting us and have nothing to do with his murder at all.”

  “So who would want him dead?”

  Armada took another sip of sherry and rubbed his chin. “Well, usually to answer a question like that it’s best to start with those closest to the victim. In this case, his wife Madalena Rodriguez, who seemed rather unmoved by the fact that her husband of twelve years had just been brutally murdered. If she were the killer, that behaviour would make sense. The odd thing was that she made no effort to cover up her apathy. She was perfectly content to let me see her lack of—what’s the word? Interest? I’ve never seen a widow not work to hide it before. It made this all the more perplexing. And then there’s the money…”

  Lucas had moved to the window now as Armada paced behind him, putting the washing out on the line that had been strung up outside. This was one of those moments when it was important to let Armada spout off, his mind working through all the details.

  “The dresses, the bed—all recent purchases. And despite the one wage-earning member of the family now being gone, she had surprising little concern for her financial future. Which means there is money coming from somewhere. Money that she trusts will keep coming. It can’t be from her family—she left them long ago without a real to her name. So where? And does it have something to do with Amparo’s death? And I still can’t figure why she married Amparo and came to Salobreña in the first place. The man was cruel, had no money, no prospects, nothing to offer her. So why give up a privileged life in Malaga to knowingly enter a loveless marriage with such a man, then come to live the hard life of a labourer’s wife? There is another piece to that story we don’t have yet.”

  Lucas was growing frustrated. Armada spent so much time going over the excruciating minutia of the people involved. What if he put this much effort into examining evidence instead? How much faster would the case be solved? Look at what he’d discovered today by a few hours spent wandering around an empty field.

  “So the next obvious question is those who were with him the day he died. Who was out in the field with our victim?” Armada said.

  “Enrique Talavera, sir. And his jefe Jose Padilla.”

  Armada hesitated.

  “Yes,” he said with a lowered tone. “Señor Padilla. There is someone else that makes less sense the more I think of it. On the surface, it would be easy to name him as the culprit. After all, he was there in the field that day. But without knowing w
hy he would want his friend of many years dead, it’s impossible to be sure. Besides, he couldn’t have been the killer. He was behind the fireline at the time. Jose would hardly have leapt through a blazing inferno twice just to kill a long-time friend. It makes no sense.”

  Lucas’ heart sank. He hadn’t thought of how much of a dilemma it would be for him that morning when he’d set off for the delta. Lucas didn’t expect to really find anything, so he hadn’t considered the ramifications of discovering something that could help the case in any significant way. If he had, he might have realised that to reveal what he knew meant revealing that he’d disobeyed Armada in a way he’d never done before. But it also meant possibly finding Amparo Rodriguez’ killer. There was no other way to do this.

  “Sir,” Lucas said.

  “I must speak to Enrique.” Armada was mumbling to himself. “He knew Amparo as well as anyone. There may have been something else going on we aren’t aware of yet. Perhaps…”

  “Sir,” Lucas repeated.

  Armada was still locked in his thoughts. “He was behind the fireline too, but he may have known something was…”

  “Sir!”

  “Yes, Lucas. What is it?”

  “I found something today, sir. A clue that might help.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. I…I was down in Jose’s field today, sir.” Lucas stared at the ground, finding it hard to look into Armada’s disapproving eyes for the moment. He hated this feeling. It took him right back to when he was seven, admitting to his father that it was he who had thrown the burning stick into his father’s favourite orange tree. He hadn’t meant to do it. He was just playing with his friends.

  His father had been unmoved by Lucas’ explanations and had only shot back a look very similar to the one Armada was giving him now. It angered Lucas. Armada wasn’t his father. What right did he have to look at Lucas like that? In all probability, it was Armada’s lack of flexibility in his approach to investigations that led to his parents’ killer going free in the first place.