A Murder Most Spanish

by Jefferson Bonar

  “I could go to Motril, sir,” Lucas finally said.

  “You? I don’t think so, Lucas.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re much too young. You’re hardly able to travel by yourself safely.”

  “I’ve been travelling around with you for years, sir. I know how to do it.”

  “Yes, but alone? That is far too much responsibility for such a young boy.”

  “Sir, I know how to do it. I could find Cristina Lopez. If she’s there. I’m good at finding people.”

  Armada knew that was true, but he couldn’t bear the thought of sending Lucas alone to a city as shady as Motril.

  “I know you think I’m too young, sir. But I’m fourteen now. I can handle myself. And what if I can do it? What if I can bring her back with me? Or at least talk to her? What about the case?”

  “Lucas,” Armada said. “I’m not letting you go and that is the end of it!”

  Lucas went quiet, but it was a rebellious quiet. He had not acquiesced. Far from it. Armada could almost hear Lucas forming his next argument in his head. Why wasn’t Armada’s word good enough anymore? Why couldn’t Lucas just listen to him? Why did everything these days have to be such a fight?

  “Besides,” Armada said, trying to diffuse the tension. “Who would speak to you? Who would answer your enquiries? You have no authority. You’ll simply be ignored.”

  “Not if I was wearing one of your shirts, sir.”

  “No one would believe a fourteen-year-old was a constable.”

  “I could say I was an apprentice. All they have to believe is that I’m somehow connected to the Brotherhood. They’ll be too afraid not to speak to me.”

  Armada had tired of Lucas’ reasoning. The boy could make anything sound logical with enough time to argue it.

  “Lucas, what I would prefer you do is head back to our room at the inn and see if you can steal back some of blankets along with our provisions. I have a feeling these caves will get cold tonight.”

  “What about the case, sir? Can you solve it without talking to her?”

  “That’s not for you to worry about,” Armada said with an angry tone. “All you should be concerned with now is doing as I have told you. And not enraging me further!”

  Lucas shot to his feet, barely able to bring himself to look at Armada. His body tensed, and he hunched his shoulders as he always did when he became frustrated. Armada felt himself tense as well as his mind continued their argument on its own. Why was Lucas so ungrateful lately? Had he not provided Lucas with clothes? Food? Wages? And yet when he asked the boy to do something that was an expected part of his job, why did he resist?

  Strangely, as Lucas began to slowly make his way along the slippery, wet rocks that would lead him to the beach, Armada felt his anger drain, as if the haze of rage suddenly subsided and allowed him to see things clearly.

  Perhaps the boy had a point. Could he solve the case without talking to Cristina Lopez? What if he never found out what had happened to her? Could he still piece this altogether? There was a chance she had little to do with this, but the timing of everything just coincided too perfectly.

  And it was the timing of it all that bothered Armada more and more. All the important events in the past seemed to have happened simultaneously. Twenty years ago, the balance of power in Salobreña had gone through a seismic shift, the reverberations of which eventually led to Amparo’s murder. Everything was connected, all the way back to a single point twenty years ago, a point where Cristina Lopez was at the centre. This was a case about the past, about history that had bubbled up somehow into the present, and a failed attempt to bury it once again.

  And that past seemed to start and end with Cristina Lopez.

  “Lucas,” Armada said just before Lucas slipped out of view.

  Lucas stopped, but did not turn around.

  “If you can manage it, try to grab my extra shirts, and a few loaves of bread from the bakers.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because you’ll need something to eat if you’re going all the way to Motril. It’s half a day’s ride. You’ll get hungry. And the shirts, well…”

  Lucas turned around and stared at Armada in shock.

  Armada still felt reluctant, but now that he’d said it, realised there was little he could do to take it back.

  “Get going!” Armada said.

  Lucas smiled, then nipped out of view, leaving Armada alone at the cave entrance with his thoughts. Thoughts that, without sherry, would probably hound him throughout the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Miguel was in the middle of a dream when the shouting started. A woman, with long blond hair, tied back with a scarf and wearing a blue and grey dress, had slipped through the cane. She was less a vision, and more a glimpse from the corner of his eye. And he tried to hold on to that image as his sleep became interrupted and he was dragged back to reality.

  This took a while, as Miguel found he had been sleeping quite deeply. After a few nights in the stable, he had moved the hay around until it made a sort of bed in the corner. The mule, after some initial nervousness, had gotten used to his presence and had actually formed a bond, preferring to kneel down at night and sleep on its side in order to be closer to Miguel.

  It had been a quiet few days like this. Miguel subsisted on whatever he could steal at night from the nearby orchards, and occasionally sneaking into town for a bucket of water. Then he spent much of his time locked away in the stable, waiting for news that the case was over and he could go home. Although he felt badly that Armada didn’t know his whereabouts, Miguel also felt safe, and that was the most important right now. He would check in with Armada soon, and see if it was all right to return home.

  It was sometime before sunrise when he was awakened by the sound of approaching footsteps, crunching over the loose soil and pebbles toward the stable door. Something deep within Miguel knew he should quickly hide himself, but it was too late. A moment later, he was discovered by a startled old farmer, who began shouting at him.

  Miguel and the mule both scrambled to their feet while the farmer found a large stick and waved it at Miguel. Miguel made his way out of the stable to the sound of the old farmer’s shouts of morisco and ladron. Miguel couldn’t understand why the farmer thought he was a ladron; he hadn’t stolen anything.

  Once Miguel was out of earshot of the man, he realised he was hungry. He had no money and no way of getting any. He considered begging, but thought of his father, who was a very proud man and had taught Miguel never to beg, it being beneath a man’s dignity. There was always a way to eat if one was hungry. Then Miguel thought of Armada and his page Lucas, who seemed like decent people. Perhaps they could spare a bit of bread.

  Miguel began making his way up the hill back toward town. He kept his head down, not wanting to catch the gazes of the farmers who were just starting to come down the hill, their shoulders loaded with farming implements and large cutting knives, ready for another day’s harvest.

  Instead he kept his focus on the weeds that lined his path. They grew just on the edge of where the path had been worn into a smooth, hard crust by years of farmers walking it every day. Many months ago, these weeds would have been green and lush, bursting with life, with bushes of little purple-and-blue flowers that were Miguel’s favourite. But the summer heat had killed them off weeks ago, as it did every year, and they now waited for the spring rains that would come in a few months to bring them back to life again.

  Miguel reached the main plaza, but saw it was still quite early. He didn’t want to wake the constable quite yet. But he knew that the longer he stayed, the more he risked being noticed by the townspeople who were now crisscrossing the plaza as they went about their morning business. It was mostly farmers on their way down to the delta, but there were also a few of the wives holding large baskets of linens on their way to the lavadero and giving him cursory sideways glances as they chatted to each other. A couple of the more elderly men in town were
already sitting on the wall next to the fountain, which was where they sat every day, as they were far too old to work and hobbled about town leaning heavily on walking sticks. Every town had a collection of these men, who would greet people they knew as they passed through the plaza, and complained amongst themselves about the changing face of the pueblo, or the sorry state of the kingdom as a whole.

  These men now eyed Miguel as he stood in the plaza, feeling ill at ease and unsure what to do. His stomach rumbled again and he knew he had to eat. Seeing no other choice, Miguel went to the fountain and dipped his hand into the pool of water under the rusted iron spigot where the water perpetually trickled out from some unseen underground spring.

  The water was sweet, and quite cold. Miguel took several handfuls and continued drinking, ignoring the glares of the old men. He could hear them whispering “morisco.” It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t asked for any of this. He’d just come to Salobreña to work. And now he was being treated like a criminal, though he had done nothing wrong.

  “Miguel!” came a voice from behind.

  Miguel whipped his head around to see Jose.

  “How are you?” Jose asked.

  Miguel didn’t know what to say. He did not express anger well. It was an emotion that didn’t fit him, like a pair of shoes that were too small. But he was angry with Jose. It was because of him that he’d been locked away in that castle. He would have preferred to hide his anger, but it was impossible. Jose was too smart.

  “You can hit me if you like,” Jose said. “I deserve it.”

  Miguel considered the possibility, but couldn’t work up the nerve.

  “You wouldn’t be the first today,” Jose said, cautiously stepping closer. “Esme slapped me so hard this morning my cheek still stings. I told her I was innocent, but she started screaming about the children and how could I let everything get so out of control. I’ve never seen her so angry. So, I guess I’m staying in the cortijo for a while.”

  Miguel still felt thirsty and went back to drinking from the fountain, not knowing what else to do. Jose sat next to him, staring off at the horizon.

  “I want to apologise, Miguel. You didn’t deserve to be accused like that. It’s my fault. I was a coward. When Amparo was killed, I thought the Brotherhood would come here and start stomping around that field and they would figure out what we were doing out there —you understand why I got worried. But I still shouldn’t have done what I did.”

  Miguel felt his anger toward Jose start to melt away, but didn’t want to quite let it all go. Not yet. The memory of those long nights in the castle were still too fresh. He said nothing.

  “I was impressed with you, Miguel. All those nights spent in the castle, and you didn’t say a word. Just like I asked you. Most men don’t have that kind of courage, especially when they’re sitting in a prison cell. And because of that, not all is lost. The Brotherhood still doesn’t know anything, and we can still take care of this situation ourselves, the way it ought to be done.”

  Miguel was intrigued enough to let himself make eye contact. Jose had a twinkle in his eye, a realisation that he’d finally gotten Miguel’s attention.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” Jose said. “You must be famished. Come on, I’ll buy us a couple of menu del dias.”

  And before Miguel knew it, he was walking with Jose to the tavern, sitting at a table across from him, eating a plate of food Jose had paid for. He felt his anger subside, gradually replaced with the more familiar desire for Jose’s respect. Miguel wondered if he should stay angry with Jose. Perhaps never talk to him. He’d seen feuds between families back home that went on for years over much less than this. Is that what he was supposed to do here? Was he disrespecting his family by talking to Jose again?

  At the tavern, they both gobbled down their meals. Jose talked about his wife and how unfair it was that she still refused to speak to him. Miguel heard about the early, turbulent times in their marriage and how Jose felt Esmerelda judged him too harshly. When the children came along, it only added to the pressure, as well as to the pressure of making money with his one field. Miguel felt privileged that Jose chose to confide such personal things, but it also frightened him. His mother had told him for years that he should take a wife of his own. Yet from the sound of it, marriage was hard even at the best of times.

  After nearly an hour, the only other men in the tavern had paid for their ales and departed, leaving Miguel and Jose alone, with only the barman who seemed distracted with counting something in the back. Jose then went quiet, his mood darkening.

  He leaned over the table.

  “Tell me honestly, Miguel. Did you tell anyone else what you saw when Amparo died? Anyone at all?”

  Miguel shook his head. He was becoming nervous now.

  “Good. Then I think it’s time we did something about it, don’t you?”

  “But I told you, I didn’t see their face,” Miguel stammered.

  “It doesn’t matter. We both know who it was, don’t we?”

  Miguel just wasn’t sure. And he worried about what Jose was planning to do. That horrible day when Amparo had died, when he’d reached the edge of the clearing, his first glance had been to Amparo. Lying on his back, the knife having just been sunk into his chest, and gurgling his last breaths.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen the dress. Blue and grey. Worn by someone with long blond hair, disappearing into the cane like a flash, too fast for Miguel to have seen anything else. Then the shock of seeing Amparo dying had sunk in, and things got blurry, including that horrible moment when Jose thought Miguel had done it.

  It was only days later, when Jose had come to see him in the castle, that he told Jose what he’d seen.

  Say nothing, Jose had said.

  Not even to her.

  Back then Jose had seemed so sure of who it was. But he’d said he wanted to find out on his own what it was all about. He had to know before they said or did anything. As long as he and Miguel were the only two who knew what the killer had been wearing, they had control of the situation. They could keep it within the pueblo, which was all that mattered.

  Then the constable had shown up and made everything complicated.

  Only I can protect you, Jose had said.

  Now Jose was staring at him, his efforts to find out more having come to nothing. That part of it all seemed over now and Miguel could tell he had something more sinister in mind.

  “It’s time we took care of things.”

  “But we don’t know if it really was her. Why would she kill her own husband?”

  “You don’t know Madalena like I do. Amparo warned me about her. He told me what she was like, that she might try something like this. She is cunning, he’d said. Very cunning. But I didn’t think she had it in her to do such a thing.”

  Miguel realised he had a difficult choice to make. No one he’d ever known had ever faced such a dilemma. And now, with nothing to guide him, Miguel had to choose whether to run away and try to get back home as quickly as possible, or to stay and help Jose. This could mean hurting someone, but doing it to protect others.

  It was all so confusing and Miguel wished he had more time to think about it. If only he were smarter. Didn’t Jose realise that he didn’t think as fast as everyone else? He wasn’t ready to tackle this. Not yet. Maybe in a few years, but not now.

  “What should we do?” Miguel asked.

  “Let’s have another round of ales and talk about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was getting toward afternoon when Lucas arrived at Motril’s bustling shipyards. In stark contrast to the serenity of Salobreña’s shore, Motril was awash in a noisy, crowded hive of activity, which Lucas found quite exciting. He’d only ever been to dockyards like this once, in Huelva many years ago, and had been frightened the whole time. He’d heard about sailing captains taking part in something called a “press-gang,” where they abducted unsuspecting boys like himself, forcing them to be a part of their crew.
Ever since, he’d avoided going anywhere near the docks, despite Armada’s assurances that such things only happened in England.

  Now that he was a bit older and wiser, Lucas had little fear of press-gangs. He steered his mule along the road that hugged the shore, which was covered in a tangle of piers and docks, each crowded with small fishing vessels waiting to unload their catches, as well as two towering galleons moored next to large piles of provisions for some transatlantic trip, and the wood skeletons of several ships still under construction on the far side.

  Racing about these ships were a variety of fishermen, sailors, dockworkers, excise men, and security officers, filling the air with the sound of shouting, mixed with the glop-glop of the waves thrashing against the piers, and the creaking of the ship hulls as they bobbed about, endlessly stretching and relaxing their mooring ropes. Overhead was the constant sound of screeching seagulls, hoping that a bit of fish would fall out of a crate.

  All of these ships, Lucas thought, were going somewhere far off and exciting. Some were perhaps just going to Sardinia, or Naples, or perhaps north to the Netherlands, but the galleons were probably going further afield, perhaps to Africa to the Canary Islands, or about to make a transatlantic crossing to the New World. It was all very exciting to Lucas, who would have loved to go to any of those places. Travelling through the Spanish kingdoms was great, but he was hardly likely to find a lost city of gold in Andalucía. Armada had tried to convince him that a life at sea involved long hours spent performing tedious tasks like mopping and cooking terrible food, with the constant threat of storms, shipwreck, and scurvy hanging over one’s head. But Lucas didn’t care; he could only imagine a rip-roaring adventure. Certainly not every book he’d read about sailing the seas could be wrong.