The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6) Read online

  “I still do. There is a boy here somewhere.”

  “And two dead bodies.” Jorge sniffed the air. “One of which, if my senses do not lie, has been dead for some time.”

  Thomas frowned, studying the male figure. Had the clerk of records not said the woman’s husband died a month ago? Which meant this man could not be him. So who was he? “ Dead at least four days, I would judge,” he said.

  “You would know about that better than anyone,” said Jorge. “I still don’t like it.”

  “I don’t expect you to like it, I expect you to help me. Once you have talked to the boy you can go. If it makes any difference, I didn’t expect the second body either.”

  “Just as long as this isn’t another of your mysteries.” Jorge looked from one chair to the other and pulled a face. “It looks like one of your mysteries. Didn’t you say the father had died not so long ago? Could this be him?”

  Thomas had barely glanced at the man’s body. It too occupied a chair, this time tied with an orange cord. No doubt they would find its match on a curtain somewhere in the house. The man’s skin was beginning to darken as putrefaction took hold. The windows filled the room with both light and heat, and Thomas knew four days might have been an over-estimation.

  “The father was claimed by the family and laid to rest beyond the city wall in the Christian burial ground, at least a month since. Who this man is I have no idea.”

  “Someone must be missing him,” said Jorge. “We should try to find out who he is.”

  “See, you can investigate perfectly well without me.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, but it is common courtesy to try.”

  “Hm.” Thomas looked around the room. Fine wall hangings. Expensive tables, and chairs of dark wood. A house in the Spanish style. It might be unusual elsewhere in al-Andalus but not in Malaka.

  When he stood still and listened, he heard nothing. Or, not nothing, for noise entered from outside, at times rather a lot of noise. Raised voices, the cries of a trader. But within the house there were only the sounds that all houses make. A faint whistle as the constant wind from the sea caught at a corner. A creak as wood expanded or contracted. Nothing human. No boy, if boy he was. His brother had brought them here and made some excuse about being too busy to enter.

  “We should at least inform the authorities,” said Jorge. “Have the bodies taken away.”

  “The family will take the woman. As for the man … you’re probably right, we should ask questions. And much as it pains me to say it, you are also right, there will be someone who misses —” Thomas broke off. Held a finger to his lips.

  Both of them stilled, listening. There had been a sound, faint, almost not there at all, but someone had moved in the room above. A creak of a floorboard. The scrape of a shoe against wood.

  Thomas motioned Jorge to walk softly, turned, and made his way to the door, hesitated a moment then began to ascend the staircase, testing each riser before allowing his full weight to settle.

  Another sound came. Two, perhaps three footsteps, louder now he was closer. And then a whimper, as of someone afraid.

  Behind Thomas a stair creaked loudly as Jorge’s extra weight pressed harder than his own had. Whoever was hiding above heard it too and abandoned all pretence at stealth, as did Thomas. He caught the figure as it reached the upper corridor, moving away fast, but not as fast as Thomas. Whoever it was proved stronger than expected. Not a boy, not a boy at all, but a youth of near twenty years. As Thomas turned to him he discovered a figure that rose to near his own height. He saw an expression of outright fear on the youth’s face, masked by the softness of a mind troubled by little other than when his next meal might arrive.

  “We are friends, Diego,” Thomas said, assuming this had to be the woman’s son, but the youth continued to writhe and try to pull away. There was a strength under Thomas’s grip, and he was grateful when Jorge arrived to add his own, the youth clasped between them.

  “Ah — ah — hurts!”

  Thomas hesitated and loosened his grip, but only a little, waiting to see if the boy tried to flee. Instead his body softened and went slack.

  “Diego?”

  A fast nod. “Where are they?” His voice was slurred, the words hard to decipher, harder still because as the mortuary clerk had said some were in Spanish, others in Arabic, as if the two languages had become one. Perhaps, for this individual, they had.

  “Your mother?”

  Another nod. “And Pa. Ma and Pa. They do nothing. Sit there. All they do is sit.” A look of helplessness crossed his face. “I have hunger. So much hunger.” He glanced from Thomas to Jorge, back to Thomas, and then away, finding Jorge the less frightening. “Ma cooks,” he explained. “But she … she just sits.”

  “You took her from the hospital?”

  A nod. “Saw here taken there, too.”

  Thomas wondered how to explain in a way that Diego might understand that the two individuals downstairs were dead, but suspected there was no need. He must know they would no longer wake.

  “Who is the man?”

  A look away. “Pa.”

  “Your father died a month since. I have spoken with your brother, they took him away and had him interred.”

  Another nod. “Diego bring back.”

  “That man isn’t your father.”

  “He is a man. Pa gone, so Diego find another Pa. They are so quiet.” A tear gathered and spilled. “I talk, ask what for dinner. But no words. So quiet.”

  “He is someone else’s father. Don’t they deserve to know where he is, Diego?”

  “Nobody miss him. What happens to me?” More tears. “Ma and Pa, both gone.”

  “I will talk to your brother. Perhaps he will take you in.”

  A shake of the head. “No. Wife don’t like Diego. Afraid I hurt little ones. Diego never hurt little ones. Diego love them.”

  Thomas released his grip and took half a pace away, watching for any sign Diego might try to flee again. His running might make life easier for everyone else, but not for Diego himself.

  “This is Jorge,” Thomas said. “He is a friend.”

  “Big.”

  “Yes, he is big, but so are you. Almost as big as Jorge.”

  Diego frowned. “No. Diego small.” But he looked at Jorge and perhaps noted there was truth in what Thomas said. In turn Jorge looked back, and Thomas watched as his face composed itself and turned into that thing he found impossible to emulate. Jorge became someone it was impossible to dislike. And Diego responded. He reached out a hand. Jorge took it.

  “I have a friend who makes good food,” said Jorge. “Would you like to meet her?”

  Despite the mixing up of languages when he spoke, Diego appeared to understand Arabic without any problem.

  “Diego has much hunger.”

  “Then I will take you to meet Belia.”

  “Belia? A name?”

  “She is my woman.”

  “Ma?”

  “No. Like a wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Like a wife.”

  Diego nodded. “Yes. Your wife. Diego know about wife. Is she pretty?” A sly smile crossed a face too guileless to hide it.

  “She is beautiful.”

  Another smile.

  “And Thomas’s wife is beautiful too.”

  “Thomas?”

  Jorge nodded to where Thomas stood, forgotten. Diego didn’t turn, not yet forgiving him for his capture.

  “Good food?” he said.

  “Very good food.”

  “And Ma and Pa?”

  “Thomas will take care of them.”

  “Diego love Ma.” More tears filled his eyes, emotions racing through his mind displayed unfiltered on his face.

  “I know you do. Thomas will take care of her. He is a physician. The best physician in al-Andalus.”

  Diego sniggered and shook his head. “Nobody that good.”

  Not as stupid as his brother had made out, then, Tho
mas thought. He waited, silent, as Jorge led Diego toward the stairs. When he heard the front door close he descended to the room that carried the taint of death. He untied Diego’s mother and lifted her to the ground. There would be sheets and blankets somewhere, and he would cover her before fetching the family. He checked the body briefly, because Lubna had come to ask his opinion, and he believed he owed her at least a cursory examination. The woman was not young, well into her fifth decade, and her arms and legs were stick thin. Lubna had said she was admitted with a head wound, and Thomas saw it clearly, the bruise now yellowing. It was a bad enough blow, but not enough to kill, and Lubna had said she was responding to treatment.

  He rolled her onto her front but found nothing else until he lifted her thin hair to discover a dark, fresh bruise on the back of her skull.

  Thomas wondered if Diego might have attacked his mother. But as he peered closer he decided the bruise was more likely caused by an accident, a fall of some kind, and almost certainly what had led to her eventual death. He would ask Lubna if she had observed the mark, but there would be no blame if she had missed it. And no blame over the woman’s death. She had no doubt bled into her skull, and no surgeon in the world could have saved her. It was strange the bruise was less advanced than the other, and he wondered if she had tried to get up and fallen while in the Infirmary.

  And her first fall, if that had been what caused the initial wound, was it the same as her husband? Both of them? It seemed too great a coincidence, and Thomas wondered if he had been too quick to trust Diego. Had he pushed them both down the stairs? Thomas let the thought work itself to a conclusion and shook his head. He couldn’t see it. It was clear Diego had loved both his mother and father.

  He rolled the woman over again and turned to the man, ignoring the stink that rose from him as he pulled the corpse to the floor, long used to such and worse. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he examined that body as well. Which is when he discovered what had killed him. No fall this time, but a knife, thrust into the man’s chest from the side, no doubt piercing his heart. Thomas removed the man’s clothing until he lay sad and naked beneath his gaze, but no other wound showed. A single blow. Either lucky, or administered by someone who knew what they were doing. Not an accident, but deliberate murder.

  Thomas pushed a hand to clear the hair that had fallen across his face and sat on his heels. Why had the man been killed? And why had Diego brought the body back here? Had he witnessed the killing? Did that put him in danger too? Thomas knew he would have to report the man’s death to the authorities but also knew nothing would be done about it.

  He dressed the man again and rose to go in search of blankets. Lubna wouldn’t be pleased, he knew, because now there was a mystery, and questions that already scratched at the back of his mind.

  Five

  Diego slept. Belia told him the man-boy had eaten at least three full meals then fallen asleep with his head on the table. By the time Thomas returned to the house, which for now they called home, perched beyond the city walls on a low rise overlooking Malaka, Jorge had put Diego to bed in Will’s room, and now Thomas stood beside his friend on the wide veranda. To the west, a wide plain was dotted with trees and scattered fields growing rice, sugar cane, and an array of vegetables and crops. Sheep and cattle grazed small clearings, and reflected sunlight glittered from irrigation channels. This was a rich land, a good land, well cared for and well cultivated. Testament to those who lived there.

  Thomas wondered if he lived here now. This fine house was meant to be temporary, but the longer he spent in it the less that seemed to be the truth. It was starting to feel like home, and that worried him, because his home was meant to be in Gharnatah. Except little remained for him in Gharnatah, and people there who would want him dead.

  “I suppose you want me to talk to him?” said Jorge.

  “I would only scare the boy.”

  “He’s no boy, except up here.” Jorge tapped his skull. He had stopped shaving his head when they left Gharnatah almost a year ago, and now his hair hung almost as long as Thomas’s, but of course far better cared for. It had grown in a light brown, lightened even further by the sun. His chin and cheeks were smooth, not only from choice but because when Thomas had unmanned him at the age of thirteen he had interrupted his normal development as a man. Now, when Jorge tried to grow a beard it came in patchy, so the perfect skin of his face was, unlike Thomas’s, unmarked by any stubble.

  He looked magnificent.

  Thomas couldn’t recall a time when he had not.

  “Which is why it is better you question him. We need to find out who the dead man is. There must be someone who misses him.”

  “Perhaps he has no family,” said Jorge. “I have heard no rumour of a missing man, and someone missing almost a week would raise questions. You said he was stabbed — murdered?” He shook his head and let his breath loose in a long sigh, not needing to say anything to make his meaning clear. Murder. Again.

  Thomas wondered if he could he turn his back on it, to ignore what had happened. He glanced inside to see Lubna had fallen asleep on a pile of cushions. The air in the house was scented from the herbs Belia used to create her salves and potions. Also scented by the presence of the two women. An itch of unease bothered Thomas. Their life here had grown settled, comfortable. Happy. He didn’t want to destroy that contentment by taking up another investigation. He had seen too much death, and been the cause of too much as well. In a few months he would turn forty-seven years of age. A good span for any man. He had no intention of closing his eyes for good yet, but an easier life was a temptation. If only he could quell his curiosity. He felt it scratching at him as they stood there in the heat of early afternoon. Who was the dead man? And why had he been killed? It was clear to Thomas why Diego had taken the body to his house — as a replacement for his missing father, but where had he found him? No doubt it made sense to the boy, if no-one else. He would need talking to, questions posed. Thomas sighed.

  “Let him sleep for now,” said Jorge. “This evening will be soon enough.”

  “Can you read my mind now?”

  “Of course, and have always been able to. You are an open book, Thomas Berrington. Your thoughts are like words written across your face.”

  Thomas smiled. “If that were true you could certainly not read them.”

  Jorge waved a hand, dismissing such trivial matters. “We should still let him sleep. I doubt he’s slept much since he took his mother to the Infirmary.”

  Which reminded Thomas of something. He glanced toward Lubna, pleased to see she had woken and was looking back at him. A smile softened a face already soft with sleep. Thomas left Jorge alone on the terrace and went to kneel beside the pile of cushions.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Lubna nodded.

  A shadow passed and Thomas glanced to one side to see Belia join Jorge on the terrace. They embraced, an easy familiarity between them. They had lived as man and wife for over a year now and, despite Thomas’s expectation it might end at any moment, they still appeared to love each other deeply. He turned away to allow them a moment of privacy, though he knew neither cared if they had an audience or not.

  “Tell me again, when was Diego’s mother admitted to the Infirmary?”

  “Four days, a little more by now. Wait here.” Lubna rolled sideways, then rose in a single, lithe movement. She padded away on bare feet, small toes appearing from beneath her silk robe with each step. Thomas waited for her to re-appear, which she did before long, clutching a leather-bound book which she opened as she sat cross-legged. Thomas leaned close as she flipped through pages of paper made here in Malaka. Thomas knew their source because he had bought the journal for Lubna the day after they arrived, when they were still living in a small garret close to the fish market, before she had even been accepted into the Infirmary. He smiled to see how many pages were now filled with Lubna’s neat script. A finger traced the notes, and she looked up at him, a fr
own creasing her brow at the intensity of his gaze, and Thomas knew he had been staring too hard, as he often did.

  “Yes, four days,” said Lubna. “A little after dawn, though I didn’t see her until later in the day.”

  “Does it record who brought her in?”

  “It does. A neighbour.” Her fingertip traced through the notes. “He says he found her lying in the street near her house and brought her directly to the Infirmary. He must have told Diego where she was later on.” Lubna’s finger continued to move. “It wasn’t a bad blow to the head, and as I told you she woke within two days. I was sure she would make a full recovery.”

  “I found the mark of another blow, beneath her hair,” Thomas said. “I found it when I examined her.”

  “I checked everywhere. Her hair as well, as you taught me. I would have seen it if it was there.”

  “When did you last check?”

  Lubna consulted her notes again. “Al-Khamis, so two days. Could the mark take that long to show?”

  “It looked more recent. You said Diego came to the ward?”

  “He wouldn’t hit his mother. I refuse to believe it.”

  “Does he know you? Did you talk?”

  “Briefly. He wanted to know when she was coming home. I felt sorry for him.”

  “I need to question him in the morning. I was going to ask Jorge to be there, but perhaps you would be better. I think Diego likes pretty women.”

  “I tell you again, he would not harm his mother. And I did not miss any mark on her head.”

  “I believe you.”

  “But you found it.” Lubna appeared crestfallen, and Thomas reached for her hand, held its small heat within his own.

  “You didn’t miss it, because when you examined her it wasn’t there.”

  Lubna frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will if you think on it for a moment.” He waited, watching the play of thoughts cross her face, aware this must be how Jorge saw people, except with far more skill than Thomas could ever possess.

  Lubna looked up to meet his eyes. “Who? Why?”