A Murder Most Spanish

by Jefferson Bonar

  “Did he…did he do…this?”

  Madalena groaned again. Miguel scrambled to his feet and was about to race out the door. He would shout in the street if he had to. He couldn’t be alone here anymore. It was too frightening.

  “Get…Jose…” Madalena said.

  Miguel stopped at the door.

  “You want me to bring Jose here?”

  Madalena had to take a moment to work up the strength to speak again. She nodded.

  “No…one…else…” she whispered.

  And Miguel raced out the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Armada stood staring at the smooth oak planks that made up the door in front of him. They fit together well and were sanded until smooth, then painted. Iron rivets had been used to lash together the outer structure, and each one was forged with the design of a small rose. Very intricate work that could only be done by an expert blacksmith, and one that was well-paid at that.

  Armada was stalling. He knew that. On the other side of this door lay a future that could lead to being discharged from the Brotherhood, as well as his incarceration. Nobody knew he was standing here. He was on a quiet street in the middle of Albaycín, just around the corner from the main road that led up to the plaza. No one had seen him yet. He could just walk away, head back to Granada, and there would be no consequences. It was a tempting thought.

  But something had led him here, to stand in this spot, and contemplate his future. He had come here in anger, which he was now trying to quell. It was an anger that usually came from conversations with Arnaud Bresson, the Frenchman. He’d spent nearly an hour that morning trying to convince Bresson of what needed to be done next in this case. Even showing him the bones of Cristina Lopez, proof of what Armada had suspected, didn’t sway him. Bresson seemed intent on hanging Miguel Guillen for a crime he didn’t commit, and Bresson’s drunkenness was the only thing keeping Miguel alive at the moment. As was usual for Bresson, he began by visiting the tavern far more than he should first. But once his wages ran out, and the drunken fog would clear, he would set to work and probably have Miguel in his clutches within hours. How much money did Bresson have left to drink away? There was no way to know.

  Armada had argued his case in every possible way. He’d tried appealing to Bresson’s inner sense of moral purpose. Failing that, he’d argued the glory of it all that would come with exposing a criminal such as Pablo Ortega, and with solving a crime that had happened so long ago.

  But Bresson had remained unmoved as he stuffed his face in the tavern, barely giving Armada a passing glance as he passionately argued his case. It had only frustrated Armada more, which was the point. He had known Bresson for five years now, and given he was a constable working out of the same office of the Brotherhood as Armada, their paths crossed quite often.

  Bresson had told him about his years spent fighting in the army all over Naples, Sicily, and then ending up in the Dutch Indies. War was all he’d known since he was a boy, and after the Treaty of the Pyrenees finally ended the last of Spain’s conflicts the previous year, he spent a short time as a hired mercenary, where he performed deeds that he chose not to discuss in any great detail, even when Armada pressed him. Bresson had lived a long time in a world where people were savage, corrupt, and self-serving. And this was why, Armada figured, he chose to keep them away. Bresson had few friends Armada was aware of, and only knew women in brothels. The man wore a permanent scowl, designed to intimidate everyone around him. But it was only a mask, Armada knew, that hid a great loneliness that was not uncommon in most ex-soldiers.

  But Bresson had given up his lonely life of wandering and joined the Brotherhood, a surprising move for a man of his character. And since then the Brotherhood had given him no end of headaches with its ethics, its paperwork, and mind-numbing bureaucracy. But five years later he was still there, which made Armada suspect somewhere under that battered, grizzled old exterior beat the fragile heart of a man who still dared to hope.

  It was this heart Armada had spent the morning appealing to, but to no avail. Even when he’d shown Bresson the bones of Cristina Lopez as proof, Bresson would not be moved. Instead, Armada received the threat of being chained up in the castle if he didn’t return to Granada that afternoon. Armada had then agreed.

  But it was just to buy time. There was too much at stake. He couldn’t leave now. And this was why he now stood at the door of Pablo Ortega, contemplating his future. The consequences of going inside would be severe. He could be sacked, possibly even incarcerated, and his long-time friendship with his majordomo Eusebio Bautista would also be at stake. Eusebio was one of the reasons Armada had stayed on with the Brotherhood for so long. The two men shared a dedication to finding justice for those who needed it most, even if it meant ruffling the feathers of the elite with their wealth and titles. It always fell to Eusebio to smooth those feathers, something at which he’d become quite adept.

  Eusebio Bautista was also getting older, and had six children to feed. Majordomos in the Brotherhood were expected to keep themselves fit for when the occasion called for them to join their constables in the field. But Bautista was a large man and only getting larger as he got older. He was a few years older than Armada and soon many would see him as too old for the role. Although he rarely said so, Armada knew Eusebio worried for his future. His family depended quite heavily on his wages. As a young man, he could afford to be reckless and to anger the Pablo Ortegas of the world to follow his ideals. But when a man got older, such decisions became harder to make.

  This was why Armada couldn’t blame Eusebio for sending Bresson to replace him.

  It must have been a very difficult decision for him, and one made only with his children in mind. And this meant Ortega was well connected indeed if he could follow through on the threats he’d made to Armada after he’d first arrived.

  But none of that made it easier to walk away. Armada wasn’t sure there was anything he could do to stop Bresson from hanging Miguel, but he had to try. And even if he failed, there would be at least some degree of justice in letting Pablo Ortega know that he knew the alcalde’s secret. And that soon everyone in town would know what he did. His crime would remain buried no longer, whatever the consequences for Armada.

  “Pablo Ortega!” Armada shouted through the door.

  The door swung open to reveal a short woman with a kind face who looked a bit startled.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Domingo Armada, constable of the Holy Brotherhood. You must be Señora Ortega.”

  The woman leaned in so Armada could lightly kiss her on each cheek. “Yes, but you can call me Ines. None of this Señora nonsense for me.”

  “Very well, Ines. Is your husband Pablo here?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid Pablo has gone to a meeting with the council at the ayuntamiento.”

  The woman smiled warmly at Armada in a way that suggested she felt genuinely bad for his predicament. She was a bit older than him, somewhere north of sixty, the same as her husband, with greying hair that was tucked up neatly underneath a small black coif with only a few strands left to blow wild in the breeze. She wore a long flowing dark blue dress in a modest style, with a sheer black wrap just over her shoulders, and a white neckerchief tucked into the neckline, and brown mule shoes with red socks. She made an attempt to dress modestly, but those efforts were not enough to hide the wealth that stood out in a town like this.

  “When will he return?”

  “I’m not sure. A few hours perhaps. He sometimes goes to the tavern afterward, so it might be quite a long.”

  “Is that Armada?” came a voice behind her.

  Ines’ face suddenly turned red, but she kept her hospitable smile.

  Pablo soon appeared at the door behind her. “Thank you, dear. Sorry, Armada. But sometimes I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m working.”

  Ines smiled at Armada one more time before turning and going back into the house. Pablo kept his own smile until she was out of earshot, t
hen his expression darkened.

  “Whatever you came here for, you’re not going to get it,” Ortega said. “Now I suggest you do what that Frenchie constable said and get out of town. Quickly.”

  “I found her,” Armada said.

  “Who?”

  “Cristina Lopez.”

  “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” Ortega asked.

  Armada struggled to keep down the anger that was already brewing. He was tired of the lies. Tired of the secrecy.

  “Yes. The woman you had murdered.”

  “Murdered? What are you suggesting? I don’t know this woman, and I certainly didn’t have anything to do with any murder. And you can rest assured I’ll be bringing charges against you for even suggesting that.”

  “Is everything all right, Pablo?” came Ines’ voice from inside.

  “Yes, everything is fine. Don’t worry, dear.”

  “Very well,” Armada said, not hearing anything that surprised him yet. “If you’re going to bring charges, then we might as well make it count for something.”

  Armada pushed his way past Pablo and found a small house that was lavishly decorated with rugs, expertly-crafted furniture, and even a crucifix made of pure silver mounted on the wall.

  “What is this? Get out of my house!” Ortega said.

  “You won’t be saying that when I show you what I’ve brought,” Armada said and took the pouch off his shoulder. He opened it and let the contents slide out on to the floor.

  Ortega’s eyes widened, hardly able to contain a small gasp while his wife said nothing.

  On the floor were the bones of Cristina Lopez, including her crushed skull that now smiled back at them in that sinister way all skulls did.

  “What the hell is this?” Ortega asked.

  “This is what you’ve been so worried about lately. The bones that Amparo Rodriguez, Jose Padilla, and Miguel Guillen found on your land that fateful night when they were attempting to dig a canal to divert your spring water. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  Ortega gave his wife a worried look. “Go on, dear. Go in the bedroom. I’ll take care of this.”

  “I’d prefer to stay,” Ines said quietly, and calmly sat in a decorative chair in the corner of the room. Ortega made no other attempt to convince her to leave and turned to Armada instead.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but I want you out. Right now!”

  “Not until I get the truth,” Armada said. “What happened to Cristina Lopez?”

  “I don’t know who that…”

  “The truth, Pablo! I’m not leaving here without the truth! Tell me what happened the night you and Amparo’s father murdered Cristina Lopez and I will leave here willingly.”

  Ortega let his gaze drift a bit toward Ines, but didn’t look directly at her, as if embarrassed. Ines had no reaction, at least none that Armada could see.

  “I hired a cart to take Cristina Lopez to Motril and booked passage for her on a galleon bound for Algiers. I hired a man to take her away and she left. That was the last I saw of her.”

  “That man was a cart driver in Motril,” Armada said. “Don Pedro was his name. He remembered that job. And he remembered very distinctly you not needing his services after all and paying him to keep his mouth shut. Try again.”

  Ortega smiled. “You’re a resourceful one, aren’t you Armada?”

  “I don’t like being lied to.”

  “All right. The truth is I don’t know what happened to that morisco woman. I just figured someone in town took it upon themselves to eradicate a bit of vermin from our town. But I have no idea who that could have been.”

  Armada stooped to pick up Cristina’s skull and cradled it in his hand.

  “Let’s try this another way,” Armada said, interrupting Ortega. “I’ll tell you what happened and you just nod if I get it right. You were a poor farmer with a bit of land you couldn’t grow anything on because it was too salty. You were ambitious and wanted to move up in the world, tired of starving through drought after drought with all the other labourers in town. You wanted more.”

  The skull was fragile, and a tiny bit broke off in Armada’s hand. He held it more delicately this time, out of respect.

  “Somehow you learned about the laws that dictate the taking of lands vacated by moriscos who had been expelled by His Majesty’s father decades ago. Laws that were long obsolete, but still technically in effect. So you picked a woman, a widow, someone who could do little to defend herself, and began rumours that she was a morisco, inventing an entire conspiracy around how they were secretly returning to Salobreña. Some in town believed you, some didn’t. It didn’t matter. You only needed the suspicion to exist.”

  Armada put the skull back in the leather pouch and began cleaning up the rest of the bones as he spoke.

  “Once the rumour took root, you went out one night with plans to scare her into leaving her lands. You even enticed your friend Federico Rodriguez to come with you with the promise of purchasing him a lucrative government appointment if all went well. You told him with Cristina gone, you could claim she was a true morisco and seize her fields. Who would dare contest it? Lest they be accused of being a morisco as well? But Cristina didn’t want to leave, did she? Something happened, and you and Federico ended up killing her. Perhaps you hadn’t intended to. You had already paid Don Pedro to take her away, after all. But what was done was done, so you buried her in your field and sent her daughter off to live with friends in Malaga, and both went ahead with your plan anyway.”

  Soon all the bones were back in the bag, and Armada tied it closed.

  “And it was successful. After taking possession of Cristina’s lands, you leased them out and got very wealthy, even buying yourself a post as alcalde to increase that wealth and status even more. Amparo’s father became a member of the council, but the guilt became too much for Federico and he ended up hanging himself. Which meant the only witness to your crime was gone and you had gotten away with it. Until the day Amparo Rodriguez approached you and said he had found Cristina Lopez’ body. He had the bones now, hidden safely away where you couldn’t find them. Federico had told him everything. So, you paid Amparo to keep your secret. But he got greedy, didn’t he? He started asking for more and more and now he was threatening to leave you penniless.”

  Armada stroked the leather pouch, trying to contain his anger. How disrespectful for this woman’s body to be hidden away in a bag in an unmarked grave.

  “You realised Amparo hadn’t told anyone else what he knew,” Armada continued. “If he was gone, then nobody would know. So, you snuck down to Jose’s field that day, waited until he was somewhere where he couldn’t be seen, and stuck a knife in his chest.”

  Armada looked up at Ortega, who was smiling smugly at him. “Now, do I have that about right?”

  “That is quite a story, Armada,” Ortega said as he walked over to a shelf near the window. There were several bottles next to a small collection of books, one of which he took down and popped the top off. He poured a bit of the brown liquid into a glass, then took it in his hand, not bothering to offer any to Armada.

  “Now how about one that is truthful?” Ortega said. “My father died just after I married Ines. We were young and hungry to start a family of our own. My father had spent his whole life working that field. He could grow anything on it. Wheat, barley, cane, vegetables, you name it. And when I inherited it, I was all ready to live a nice, modest life on whatever that field could provide. It was all I needed to get by.”

  Ortega took a drink, rubbing the rim of the glass with his finger.

  “I knew Cristina’s husband. He was a nice enough fellow, but my father warned me he was one of those moriscos and therefore a bit lazy. The soil on his land was pretty poor and needed a lot of extra work and irrigation to keep it going. He and his wife envied Ines and me. And when he died, Cristina was left on her own to work those fields, and she hated us even more. S
o, one day she conjures up a bit of black magic and puts a hex on our field. Suddenly, despite our spring, we couldn’t get anything to grow on it. Nothing at all. And Ines and I are looking at starving through a long, cold winter.”

  Ortega spoke louder, as if he now wanted his wife to hear them. He even took a few steps toward the door.

  “I figured it was my duty to warn the rest of town what she was like, how vindictive. And that’s when she put a hex on Ines. Made it so she couldn’t have children.”

  Ortega went to comfort his wife, who looked rather embarrassed.

  “It’s all right, dear. Don’t worry about me,” Ines said, not seeming to want the attention. Ortega left her and glared at Armada.

  “Well, that was it for me. Amparo’s father and I marched down there and demanded she leave town. We made it clear we were not going to tolerate her kind in our God-fearing town any longer. She realised she was beaten, and the last I saw her she was on her way to Motril. I took her lands as recompense, really. Ines and I deserved that much after what we suffered at the hands of that woman. We never were able to have children, so to make up for it I worked hard for years to make Cristina’s old lands fertile again. The wealth that came later, well, we deserved that, didn’t we?”

  Ortega looked down at the pouch of bones.

  “I don’t know what lies Amparo’s father told him, but he hated me ever since. Never spoke to me again. I don’t know whose bones these are, Armada, or what they were doing in my field. But I had nothing to do with them.”

  Armada was feeling sick. Ortega had a gift for storytelling, and he’d used it to his own advantage throughout his life. He could twist facts and tell them back to you in a calm, educated tone that suggested he knew more about what was going on than you did. There was a warmth to his gravelly, baritone that came out when he was telling a tale, and he couldn’t help but use it even when speaking to someone who angered him as much as Armada. With someone like Ortega, a story’s usefulness was not measured in how factual it was, but in its ability to connect emotionally with the listener. It was little wonder this man had been able to convince so many in town of a conspiracy of moriscos, despite how utterly ridiculous an idea it was.