A Tear for the Dead Read online

  “I’m sure of it. The description Baldomero’s neighbour gave us matched her well enough. They spoke French. How many other French women can there be in Gharnatah who look like her? We know Baldomero worked in several countries, so it’s likely he learned her language—enough for a simple conversation, at least.”

  “Explain the connection to me again,” said Jorge. “I almost understood you.”

  “That is because you drink too much.”

  “Tonight we are both drinking too much. And did you say you have hashish somewhere? Do you also own a pipe?”

  “I do, but we have both had enough sweet oblivion for tonight.”

  “You perhaps, not me.”

  “That is one reason I’m convinced Eleanor is involved.” Thomas thought of the hashish he had in the workshop. It was there to ease the symptoms of patients and reduce pain, but it was true he had indulged himself in its pleasures over the years, though not recently. Perhaps it was time to partake again. He needed something to stop the jumble of thoughts that filled his head.

  “Hashish?” said Jorge.

  “Substances that change perception. Yves admitted to me, before he realised his mistake, that his mother is adept in their use as well as other herbs and potions. And it was me who first showed her the red and white mushrooms that grow in the woods. Me who made a mixture we used many times.”

  “What red and white mushrooms?” asked Jorge. “Would I be interested in them?”

  “I suspect your mind already works the way they make you feel. You are always talking about infinite love, but I will prepare some if you ask me to. For you and Belia. They are best taken with someone close. They can enhance lovemaking between a couple.”

  “That might be difficult to achieve.”

  “You may be right, but it is beside the point. Over the years, I suspect Eleanor has turned herself into an expert in poisons and healing herbs. Yves almost hinted at as much, and often enough a cure and a poison are the same thing in different doses. He let slip she has worked for many people over the years. We both know a poisoner can charge a great deal for their services and get away without suspicion. Someone as handsome as Eleanor would find it even easier.”

  “So Baldomero didn’t poison Theresa, Eleanor did?”

  “I believe she gave him the mushrooms, but remained at a distance herself. It is almost certainly how she works.”

  “How did she get him to agree?” asked Jorge.

  “We’ve both heard how his wife hadn’t been seen for some time before he went to cook for Isabel. I suspect Eleanor kidnapped her and held her captive to ensure Baldomero did what she wanted.”

  “And now? He was seen walking away with her. Why would Baldomero do that if they had returned his wife to him?”

  “There are many possibilities. The most hopeful is that his wife was freed and the two of them have fled until it is safe to return. The least that they are both dead.”

  Jorge stared at Thomas. He reached out and emptied the last of the jug into their beakers.

  “Who killed them?”

  “One possibility is Eleanor came for Baldomero and told him she was returning his wife. She invited him to her house and poisoned both of them.”

  “He wouldn’t be fool enough to eat anything she prepared.”

  “Unless they forced him to.”

  “Eleanor is not that strong,” said Jorge.

  “But Yves is. I took him to Aamir’s bathhouse today and saw him naked. He is strong enough. I want to believe he has nothing to do with any of this, but it is difficult to see how he cannot. In fact, I am sure he knows. Which disappoints me. I was starting to like him.”

  “A son you never knew about.” Jorge’s eyes were on the bulk of al-Hamra, the stone walls iridescent in the moonlight. “You are adept at sparking children, aren’t you? How many others are there, do you think?”

  “A few, possibly. As you have pointed out, I seem to have a talent for setting seed in a woman’s belly. There have been many women over the years. More so when I was young. Less so of late, as well you know.”

  “I would like a daughter,” said Jorge.

  “You have already told me that. As has Belia.”

  “And…?”

  “Ask me again when the war ends. All our lives might change then.”

  “Will you continue to work for Isabel? It makes sense. Siding with the victor is always a sound choice.”

  “What will you do with yourself when that time comes?” Thomas asked.

  “Whatever Belia wants.”

  “Will she want to return to her homeland?” Thomas didn’t want to think about what it would be like to no longer have Jorge at his side. He had grown used to his presence. His friendship.

  “She was born in Ixbilya, so she may want to return there, but I doubt it.”

  “Have you had the conversation?”

  “It is too soon. Who knows what the next year will bring?”

  “Gharnatah will fall before the end of this year.”

  “I don’t want to hear you say that, but whenever it does, I will have the conversation with Belia. She will be with child again by then if you have done your duty for me.”

  “Duty?”

  “I know it is a hard task I ask of you, but you have my permission to enjoy the act as much as you like. If there was any other way, I would seek it, but there is only one way to set a seed in a woman. It is only a pity you appear to find it such a hardship. When are you going to take Helena to your bed? I know you want to. I saw it as we ate tonight.” Jorge laughed. “I thought Yves was going to melt when you sat him next to her.”

  “He was besotted, was he not? They are of an age to each other, so perhaps I should encourage it.”

  “You told me you didn’t trust him.”

  “I don’t, but how much of that is because of what his mother has done? I believe I am starting to like the boy.”

  “He is no boy.”

  “You are right, he is a man.”

  “He looks a little more like you than he used to. He has lost the fine polish of a Count and grown rough around the edges. Though obviously not as rough as you. Do you think Helena would like more children with you?”

  Thomas rose and went into his workshop. He came out with a fresh flagon of wine. When he held it up, Jorge nodded and Thomas filled their cups.

  “You forget I still have no certainty she ever has had.”

  Jorge laughed. “Will is your son, there can be no doubt of it.”

  “I agree, but is that because he has been raised by me? It doesn’t prove he is mine.”

  “Ask her again, she may tell you the truth now.”

  The thought had not occurred to Thomas, not recently, though he had sought an assurance from her several times before. Jorge was right—he should ask again. Perhaps he should do more than ask. He was aware of the growing tension between him and Helena. The tension between a man and a woman before it breaks like a storm in a chaos of need and want. Except Thomas knew now was not the time for that storm to break. He had too much else to occupy him. Theresa’s poisoning was only one of those things. In the morning, he intended to climb the hill once more to see Abu Abdullah. He had a message from Isabel, and if the man agreed, there would be other arrangements to make.

  As he reached for his cup, he heard the door from the kitchen open. It had started to scrape on the floor and he knew he needed to ask Britto to look at it. There were other minor jobs around the house that also required attention.

  Thomas turned to see Belia step barefoot onto the terrace. She had drawn a robe around herself, but he imagined she had come straight from her and Jorge’s bed.

  “Is there any wine left?” She came across silently and sat beside Jorge, leaned over to kiss the side of his mouth.

  “I was about to come to bed.” Jorge poured wine into one of the empty cups left from their meal.

  “I did not come to scold you, but I woke and you were not there. Have you and Thomas been putting t
he world aright?”

  “Thomas has. I am a mere observer of his genius.”

  Belia cast a glance at Thomas. She smiled.

  “It was good you brought Yves here, Thomas,” she said. “Now both him and his mother know where you live.”

  “I have never brought Eleanor to this house.”

  “I know you haven’t. She came here…” Belia stared off into space for a moment, “…probably a month ago, perhaps more. Before you came back that first time.”

  “How did she know where my house is?” Thomas experienced a sense of unease.

  “All she had to do was ask anyone in Gharnatah. Even the Sultan knows where you live, but I believe it may have been Helena. Eleanor told me they had spoken about you in the palace.”

  “What did she want?”

  Belia shrugged. “At first, I thought only to know more about you, but then when we were in your workshop, she changed.”

  Thomas’s unease increased. “Changed how?”

  “She was curious about what you have in there. The books. The papers. The herbs and minerals. I realised as she continued to ask questions, she knew about almost everything you have. She was as curious about the items capable of killing someone as those that could heal.”

  Jorge laughed. “Well, if she does turn out to be your poisoner, I expect that’s your chance of another reconciliation gone.”

  Belia slapped her hand against Jorge’s belly, which only made him laugh harder.

  “Tell me what she knew. How skilled would you say she is?”

  “Not as skilled as me, but close. She knew everything you had in there, but I made no mention of the herbs I have. She asked to see the garden and I showed her that as well. She could be your poisoner, Thomas. She has the skill, but does she have the nature? If I had known of your suspicions when she came, I would never have let her in. What was she like when you first knew her?”

  Thomas drained his cup and refilled it. He thought he might need to get very drunk before he could tell Belia the story of him and Eleanor.

  “I had seventeen years. What does a boy of seventeen know about women, or life, or anything?”

  “But you were no ordinary boy, were you?”

  Thomas knew Jorge was watching the conversation and would take everything in. Jorge never judged. Jorge never revealed secrets that might be spoken of, or shame confessed to. Jorge forgave. That was his nature.

  “She was wild,” Thomas said. “As was I. I was not the person you know today. I was a long way from the person you know. You wouldn’t have liked me, either of you.”

  “But Eleanor did,” said Belia.

  “Yes, Eleanor did. I think beneath our skins, we shared the same dark hearts. I know mine was tainted, but I pretended I could justify it.”

  “Jorge tells me your father died in battle when you were young. That can darken the soul of a man, let alone a boy.”

  “I barely remember being a boy. I know I didn’t feel like a boy, even at thirteen. I had lain with a girl. I had almost killed another boy. And after the battle at Castillon, things grew only darker. For a long time, I lost myself.” He raised his eyes to meet Belia’s, then Jorge’s. All he saw in them was love and forgiveness, so he made a decision, whether it would prove right or not.

  “I killed men. I lay with women I didn’t love. Some I didn’t even like. I took money from a man to get his wife with child because he could not and took pleasure in both the wife and the money. A band of renegades captured me, and within a month I was their leader. That is how bad I was, how uncaring of others. We stole and cheated, and yes, sometimes when we had to, we killed. Then I found Eleanor. Finding her almost killed me, but if I had not, I would have died soon enough. It was not a way of life for anyone who wants to live to an old age.”

  “Has Thomas ever told you any of this before?” Belia asked Jorge.

  He shook his head. “He has hinted and teased, but no, he has not. It explains a great deal to me. A great deal.” Jorge reached out and took Thomas’s hand. He raised it and kissed the palm, then passed it to Belia, who did the same. It was their acceptance of who he had been, a confirmation of the love they held for the man he had become.

  For Thomas, it had been one chaotic ride through life, as if the madness both the mushrooms and Eleanor gave him had never ended. He shook his head and smiled. How strange his life had been from beginning to end.

  He pulled himself up short. Why was he thinking this was the end of his life? He accepted fewer years remained to him than he had lived so far, but those years still held a promise, and he knew he was a changed man. Whether it was working with Isabel that had made him so, or losing Lubna, or the love of these two and his children, not to mention a Gomeres mercenary and a dog, it made no matter. It felt like a new start. A second chance. He smiled. Perhaps even a tenth chance, his life had seen so many changes.

  He stood.

  “Don’t let Jorge get too drunk, I need him in the morning.”

  “I will try,” said Belia. She rose and embraced Thomas. Kissed his mouth. “Helena is in the room next to yours.”

  Which was where Thomas intended to go until there came a hammering on the door to the alley. When he unbolted it and swung the door wide, he knew what the message would be. He recognised a neighbour of Da’ud al-Baitar and held up a hand.

  “One moment, I need my bag.”

  When he came out from the workshop, Belia was waiting for him.

  “Is this what I fear?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I will come too.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Da’ud al-Baitar perched in a corner of his terrace on a pile of cushions almost as tall as himself.

  Belia went to him and took his hand.

  “Are you not cold out here?”

  “I do not want to die beneath a roof, my sweet. Out here suits me better.” His eyes sought Thomas and he offered a nod.

  Da’ud had faded fast in the weeks since Thomas had last seen him, and he wondered how much pain he was in. At least he could do something about that. He knelt at Belia’s side and reached into his leather satchel. It was the old one he had carried for more than half a lifetime, a gift from an old man in the northern mountain range separating Iberia from France. It had been his dying gift—that and a letter of introduction to the infirmary in Malaka.

  Thomas drew out a glass phial which held an oily brown liquid.

  “Is that it?” asked Da’ud.

  “How much pain have you?”

  “Enough to send for you, old friend. Give it me and I will drink it myself. I have no wish to make you responsible for my end.”

  “It will be my honour.” Thomas handed the phial to Belia, then drew out a second. This held a clear liquid, only a little more viscous than water. It was the last of the miraculous liquor he and Lubna had made years ago when Thomas healed the leg of Prince Juan. He knew he should make more, knew he should tell others of it, but could not bring himself to do either. It was his last connection to the wife torn from him. It was a fitting end that it would help Da’ud pass from this world to the next, for the man had been a good friend to Lubna.

  When Thomas saw Da’ud wince, he unstoppered the first bottle and poured a little into a cup.

  “Do you have wine?”

  “The fermentation of the grape is against the law of Islam.”

  “That is not what I asked.”

  “In the kitchen. Belia, can you fetch some?”

  After she rose and went inside, Da’ud caught Thomas’s shirt and pulled him close.

  “Keep me alive until dawn, old friend. I want to hear the muezzin call me to prayer one last time.”

  Thomas glanced at the sky. The moon that had bathed al-Hamra earlier had set. Only the spark of stars punctured the dark sky, and there was no hint of the coming day. Thomas had no idea how far off dawn lay, but knew he had no choice.

  “If I can.”

  “Then I will drink the wine. Ah, here she comes. The sight of a
beautiful woman will help me stay awake.” Da’ud tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough which almost brought a premature death.

  Belia wiped his face, then Thomas poured a little of the dark liquid into a cup and added wine. He handed it to Da’ud.

  “You know to take only what you need, so I will not offer any lecture. Not to you who taught me so much.”

  Da’ud drained half the cup, as if greedy for its promise of oblivion. Thomas watched his eyes close, but only in relief as the strong poppy and hashish mixture started to do its work. He reached out and took the cup from Da’ud’s shaking fingers.

  “I taught you nothing and you know it, my friend. You came to Gharnatah with more knowledge than I have ever seen, and you have only gained more as time has passed.” Da’ud opened his eyes and looked at Belia. “How is Jorge, my sweet?”

  “Being Jorge.”

  A faint smile tightened Da’ud’s mouth. “Then all is well. And your boy? I forget his name.”

  “Jahan. He has almost one year now and is as handsome as sin.”

  “Ah yes, Jahan.” Da’ud glanced at Thomas. “A miracle. A veritable miracle.”

  Thomas was uncomfortable on his knees, but knew Da’ud possessed no chairs. The man kept to the old traditions, even if few of the population of Gharnatah did anymore.

  “I want you to have everything that remains here, Thomas,” he said. “The house as well, if you wish it. Perhaps Jorge and Belia might like it.” He looked at Belia. “Would you like a house of your own?”

  “I thank you, Da’ud. I will ask Jorge. It is a fine house, and its position is more convenient than Thomas’s.”

  “He does insist on living high on the Albayzin. Perhaps he likes to look on the palace to keep himself modest.”

  “Then it has not worked,” said Belia.

  “I expect that is for the best. The world needs men of wisdom who are not afraid to express it.”

  “If I find one, I will ask him,” Thomas said as he reached out to touch Da’ud’s cheek. “Rest, old friend. Sleep a little. I will keep you alive and pain free until dawn, I promise. And then, once the muezzin has finished his call, I will help you pass to paradise.”