The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6) Page 2

  Thomas walked back up the steps and took her hand, feeling a tremble there. “We saved his child, didn’t we? Besides, it is what we do. We help the sick and injured and despairing.”

  “I’m not sure saving the child was any favour. A man alone with an infant?”

  “Should I have let both die, then?”

  “No, of course not.” Lubna looked at the crowded street, her eyes searching. “Do you think he’s really going to kill those men?”

  Thomas released her hand. “If anyone harmed you or Will, I would pursue them to the ends of the earth. So yes, he will try, I suspect, and might even succeed. He gave me the impression he was a man capable of offering retribution.”

  Lubna shivered despite the heat. “Sometimes the world doesn’t feel safe. Not just Malaka — everywhere.”

  “Since when has it ever been different?”

  “It used to be, in Gharnatah. I thought so, anyway. Is there any place that is safe? Where we could live our lives in peace and not have to worry about war, or men killing each other or other men’s wives? This England you come from, is it safe there?”

  Thomas started to laugh until he saw the want in Lubna’s face. This was important to her, and he wondered how long she had carried the need without saying anything to him, and why she was raising it now. Was it the child she carried? His child and hers, the child she would bear this time.

  “That man, Guerrero, should not have left his wife unprotected. She was alone beyond the city wall, on the rocks above the sea while he went off in some rowboat. No wonder she was attacked.”

  “A woman alone beyond the city wall is fair game now, is she?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s what it sounded like to me.”

  Thomas went to put his arms around Lubna but she twisted away, sparking a flash of anger in him. They had both had difficult days, but it was Lubna who had lost a body. Or at least the Infirmary … he was sure it was not Lubna’s fault, though he was not sure she believed that.

  “You know who he reminded me of?” said Lubna.

  “Who?”

  “That man. Guerrero. He could have been Mandana’s double, separated by fifty years.”

  Of course, Thomas thought, the idea snapping into place in his mind like a lost answer that eludes capture.

  “Except without the beard, the grey hair, and with two hands.”

  “Except those, yes.” Lubna offered half a smile, and Thomas hoped it meant the start of forgiveness, but for what he wasn’t yet sure. “It might have been just his height, I suppose.”

  “No, you’re right, that’s who he reminded me of as well, but I couldn’t bring it to mind. Perhaps I didn’t want to.”

  “I like to forget about him, too,” said Lubna. “Isn’t he due to visit again soon? You know my feelings on the matter, but I am only your wife.”

  “I don’t remember. It’s some time since he last came, so soon, I expect.”

  “You should turn him away and let him die.”

  The vehemence in her voice surprised him, but she was wrong. A physician couldn’t decide who to treat based on whether they were good or evil.

  Thomas began to descend the steps again just as a ragged figure ran through the crowd below toward a group of musicians who had begun to play, dancers swirling, their voices lifting in ululations. As he came closer, Thomas heard people laughing and jeering and saw it wasn’t only the musicians who were being accosted but a well-dressed man he recognised as Ali Durdush, Grand Master of the Malaka Guilds, and almost certainly the richest man in the city, if not all of al-Andalus.

  “What’s going on?” he asked an onlooker.

  “It’s that idiot preacher, al-Antiqamun. Everyone is his enemy today. He has already torn Durdush’s cloak and now it’s the women he has it in for.”

  Thomas watched as the ragged-robed man, tangled hair falling almost to his waist, berated two female dancers. Four others tried to continue their dance, but the musicians were faltering. A few laid down their instruments and approached the altercation.

  Attention diverted from him, the rotund figure of Ali Durdush bustled away. He glanced in Thomas’s direction and offered a nod of recognition before moving on.

  When Thomas looked back at the preacher, he had grasped the arm of one of the women and was trying to force her to her knees. The others had stopped dancing and gathered around. Voices were raised. And then a knife appeared. Sharp light flashed from its blade. Al-Antiqamun staggered back and fell to one knee.

  Thomas pushed through the crowd. They had stopped laughing, but one or two now called threats. He reached the preacher and tried to find a wound, but before he could, one of the musicians pushed him aside.

  “Let me finish him. This crazy man has been following us for a week and I will have it no more.”

  Thomas watched the blade dangle loose in the musician’s hand, a drop of blood hanging from the tip. The man was short, slim, with corded muscle showing in his arms. His accent placed him from the north coast of Africa.

  “Leave him be.” Something in Thomas’s eyes gave the musician pause. Thomas turned back to the preacher and lifted sections of filthy robe until he found the wound. A slash to the arm. Nothing serious, but it would need binding and a salve applied to prevent infection. He saw older scars and knew this was not the first attack on the man. Al-Antiqamun had no-one to blame but himself.

  “I need to treat you.” Thomas steadied the preacher as he rose. He was tall, with a wild beard that matched his hair. His face was surprisingly intelligent, but his eyes were bright with madness or rage.

  “I need no heathen to mend me. Allah watches over his own.” He looked beyond Thomas and scowled at the musicians who were packing their instruments away, about to move on.

  “You should leave them in peace. They do no harm.”

  “Allah forbids it. Music. Dancing. Women wearing clothes designed to reveal their bodies. It is against what is written in the Quran.” He looked around. “And where did that fat fool get to? I’ve not finished with him yet.” His gaze returned to Thomas. “I know you, don’t I?”

  “Many do. And I know you, but not your true name.”

  “I am al-Antiqamun.”

  “That I know, but it is not your given name, is it.”

  “I am al-Antiqamun. I have no other name.”

  Thomas knew it was all the answer he would get, perhaps all the answer the man knew. The child he had once been was now lost amongst his visions of heaven and hell. Or vengeance. For that was what his adopted name meant in Arabic. Vengeance.

  “You are the stranger.” Al-Antiqamun’s eyes were calm now the dancers had moved away. “They call you the butcher, do they not?” He smiled. “When Allah’s fire cleanses this land of unbelievers, it will scorch the flesh from your bones, qassab.” His head turned as he sought new victims. His gaze fell on Lubna, waiting on the steps for Thomas. “But your wife is devout, so she will live.” Al-Antiqamun frowned as if considering whether such a gift was in his power to bestow. In his madness he no doubt believed it was.

  Thomas turned away. The man could bleed to death for all he cared. Those who were already dead waited for him, and there were times he considered those the fortunate ones — all the trials and tribulations of life lay behind them. Not that he felt death had much to commend it either, and offered the choice he would always choose life, however hard it had sometimes proven to be.

  He shook his head, annoyed at himself and his thoughts. He looked to where Lubna waited, patient, beautiful. Did she ever doubt, he wondered?

  Three

  The mortuary was as still and silent as only a mortuary can be. A single living man sat in an alcove writing in a ledger. He glanced up when Thomas and Lubna entered. When he saw who it was he rose, shaking his head.

  “She is still gone.” He indicated the empty pallet. There were others, also empty, but none that were meant to be currently in use. The ebb and flow of death in the hospital meant tha
t at times the room was often empty, at other times almost full. Now it was Spring and the weather was clement, there were none of the storms of Winter or the heat of Summer to accelerate a passing.

  “When did you last see the woman?”

  A shake of the head. “When Lubna brought her in. I do not make a habit of checking my charges. They have a habit of staying where they are left.”

  “Apart from this one,” Thomas said. “Did anyone else come?”

  “Physicians brought other bodies, but not so many. You know how it is.” The man was not young, into his fifties, and Thomas wondered if he had worked here when he first came to the Infirmary himself. If so he didn’t recall his face.

  “No strangers?”

  “A strange boy is all. He wandered in, lost I think. Not like other people. Brainless.” He tapped his skull, not in judgement, merely a statement of fact.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Something, but I didn’t understand him. He spoke Spanish and Arabic mixed together, and I only understand one of them.”

  “Was the woman here when he came?”

  The man frowned, stared off into a corner of the room. “Yes, I think so.”

  “And when he left?”

  “I think I would have noticed if he had carried a body out.”

  “You have been here the entire time since?”

  “Apart from —” The man glanced at Lubna, making it clear he would prefer not to state the reason he might have briefly left his station.

  “How many times —” Thomas started to ask anyway but was interrupted by a commotion from outside. Raised voices, male and female, and as he turned five individuals entered the mortuary. Two of them stopped as soon as they realised where they were and turned back. The clerk of records was one of those who remained, accompanied by two strangers, a man and a woman.

  “Ah good, Lubna, you are still here.” He turned to the couple. “This is the physician who attended your mother, she can explain the situation to you.” With that he made a hasty retreat.

  “Coward,” Thomas said, but too quiet for anyone other than Lubna to hear.

  “What have you done with our mother?” said the woman, hard-faced, her hair pulled tight in a severe bun. She was dressed so flamboyantly Thomas was sure Jorge would have approved, but dressing in such a way was not unusual in Malaka, where many different cultures rubbed against each other.

  “My wife has done nothing with your mother.” Thomas looked toward the mortuary clerk. “When you returned from your trips did you happen to notice her loss? Or the boy anywhere?”

  “Boy? What boy?” The woman glanced at the man, presumably her husband, or perhaps brother, though they looked nothing alike. “Has a boy stolen our mother’s body?”

  “She is not lost, merely misplaced,” said the clerk.

  Oh, lost is what she is, Thomas thought, but said nothing, knowing it was important to present a united front to the couple.

  “This boy,” said the man. “Was he really a boy or only appeared to be a boy?”

  “I thought him a boy,” said the clerk. “But he was tall.”

  “Diego,” said the woman, her face tight with a suppressed anger. “I told you he should have been taken away from them. Or drowned at birth.”

  “He is my brother,” said the man, who turned away from the woman to address the clerk. “Was he dark-haired, friendly, always with a smile? But difficult to understand unless you know him well.”

  “Possibly.” It was clear the clerk was unwilling to admit to anything until he knew what manner of trouble he might get into.

  “Who is this Diego?” Thomas stepped closer to the couple. He glanced beyond them for a moment, but their companions were nowhere to be seen. “Is he family to you?”

  “My brother,” said the man. “My youngest brother. He is not … as other men.”

  “How much younger?” Thomas judged the man to have close to forty years, not so far from his own age.

  “My mother had him when she was older than I am now. Too old. Everyone said she was too old, but they loved him all the same. Maybe loved him too much — more than the rest of us, anyway.”

  “They spoiled him,” said the man’s wife, for it was becoming clear that was who she was.

  “Where do they live?”

  “Has he truly stolen her body?” The man shook his head. “Diego might lack wits but he has a keen sense of right and wrong. He would never do such a thing. Though …” He ran a hand across his head, pushing back thinning hair. “It is true he has been distracted of late, as has my mother, ever since my father passed away. I am sure it was that which brought on her illness. Diego could not care for her, and she could no longer care for herself. We should have taken her in, but …” He trailed away with a brief glance at his wife.

  “Who brought her to the Infirmary?” Thomas directed the words mostly to Lubna, who shook her head.

  “The clerk of records might know,” she said.

  “I will not ask that man again. How long had she been your patient?” He touched Lubna’s arm and drew her away so their conversation would not be overheard by the son of the missing woman.

  “Four days. No, five. Do you recall I asked you about her the night after she arrived? I asked how to force someone to eat when they had no wish to do so.”

  Thomas didn’t, but there were times his own thoughts drove out everything else. He could converse, and even make a great deal of sense, but his responses were often automatic. No doubt he would have offered advice of some sort, though what it might have been he had no memory of.

  “Was it hunger that caused her death?” He might have given too little attention to Lubna before, but now she had all of it.

  “Not directly. She was sick in any case. I was going to ask for advice again tonight, but when I came this morning, she had died in the night.” Lubna wiped the beginnings of a tear from the corner of her eye. Watching the movement, Thomas wondered if she was not too emotional for the profession he had hoped for her and wondered if he had pushed her too hard to come to Malaka to study. Perhaps he should have been more sensitive to Lubna’s needs. Or at least spoken with Jorge about them, who knew far more of such things. Lubna, no doubt, would have discussed her fears with Jorge even if she could not with him.

  “It is possible this boy has taken his mother,” Thomas said.

  “Then the family will take care of it,” said Lubna, with a touch of relief. “It is no longer our responsibility.”

  “I feel responsible,” Thomas said. “Had I listened to you, the woman might not have died. And now she has, I’m duty bound to see the matter to an end.” He glanced at the man and woman. She was talking at him, her face inches from his. “Besides, I’m not sure it’s for the best that woman is involved if the boy is vulnerable, and from what I’ve heard, he is. We should fetch Jorge; he is better at handling these situations than me.”

  “I can manage,” said Lubna.

  “I want you there too, but I want Jorge as well. Indulge me in this.” Thomas didn’t want to explain his reasoning. He was worried the boy might become agitated if they uncovered his theft. After the loss of one child, Thomas knew he was over-protective of Lubna, but knowing it didn’t make it wrong. He would want her far away from any interrogation.

  Lubna turned away, unconsciously crossing her arms in mirror of the woman on the far side of the room.

  Thomas closed the distance to the couple. “Tell me where your mother lived.”

  “Near the Ataranzana. They have a house close to the other merchants. My father was clerk to the Master of Weapons until his death.”

  “Weapons?” Thomas said, but made an effort to stop his mind spinning off into creating some conspiracy theory. He waved a hand. “No matter. Can you show me where? I have someone I need to fetch first, but can you meet me here in an hour?”

  “I am not staying,” said the wife. “We have abandoned our children too long already.” She cast a glance of pure spite at the m
an and turned away. Thomas watched her go, her movements stiff with barely restrained anger, and he wondered how people could live their lives in such a way.

  When Thomas looked back at the man, he was shaking his head. “Two of our children have children of their own,” he said. “We left them all together. We live side by side with her sisters. Not near my parents, but a nice enough neighbourhood. Well, I think so, anyway.” He glanced at Lubna, as if wondering where he might find a wife as amenable, not to mention beautiful. Then he looked away, aware Thomas was watching. “Yes, an hour. I will find somewhere to pass an hour. Should we meet here?”

  “At the main entrance on Salinas street,” Thomas said. “An hour, no more.”

  Four

  The man brought Thomas and Jorge to a good-sized house situated at the residential end of Iron Street and left before they went inside, pleading urgent business. Cowardice, more like, Thomas thought as he opened the unlocked front door and called out. There was no response, but he hadn’t expected one. Although the house appeared deserted, he was relieved he had managed to persuade Lubna not to come.

  A staircase rose to a narrow gallery, all the visible doors closed. Thomas tried the first door to his right on the ground floor. It revealed a place for cooking, but there was no residue of the smell of food and nothing on the table or shelves. It was the third door, into a large room flooded with sunlight from tall windows, where he discovered what had happened to the missing woman.

  She sat almost upright in an ornate chair, cushions stuffed to either side to prevent her slipping. A blue tasselled rope was wrapped around her upper chest and tied behind the chair. A matching rope held back one of the curtains of a window, which offered a view along the street toward the tower of the Mosque and the heart of the city. Another corpse occupied a second chair, the two facing each other, as if their occupants had departed this life in mid-conversation. A notion soon disabused by the bindings holding each in place.

  “You didn’t tell me there would be bodies,” said Jorge. “All you said was you needed my help.” He started to turn away, a look of disgust on his face.