Episode #317

Part Four of Five

As it turns out, I don't need to go find Malsano. No sooner do I ride up to my office and dismount, than one of Montoya's men shows up. "Coronel Montoya wants to see you in his office immediately, Doctor," he says, ducking his head. I'll say one thing for staying in one place for a few years, the soldiers learn to be polite. I treated this one--Eduardo, I think his name--for a nasty burn last year. Apparently, he remembers that, since he lets me take care of Equus before following him over to Montoya's office. See? Treat their burns and toss their pistols in a bucket of water whenever they point them at you and they'll respect you forever.

As I enter the office, I see that Pirenne was not exaggerating. Gaspar is sitting on one side of Montoya's desk, looking puzzled. On the other side, of course, sit Malsano and Borges, along with Don Caruso. Hmm. Caruso is one of Montoya's creatures, though I have heard rumors that he is more in the Monterey circle of the Viceroy than Montoya may realize. A powerful man, the snake. Very clever of Malsano to get him on his side, though that is likely more Borges' doing. My estimate of Borges as an opponent goes up, and as a human being drops. Of course, there is the good Colonel. When he looks up and sees me, he scowls. He does not want this. Perhaps I can make that work to my own advantage.

"Thank you for joining us on such short notice, Doctor," Montoya says, standing up. He indicates an empty chair placed, no doubt intentionally, in the center of the room facing Montoya and the others. Damn. This certainly looks like an inquest to me. I take the seat and force myself to relax into it.

"May I ask what this is about?" I say.

Montoya begins first. "Doctor Helm, I have called you here to answer charges of murder and witchcraft in the deaths of the Conde and Condesa Malsano in Cadíz, made by their son Don Pedro Malsano."

"I see. Might these be the same charges which he laid against me at the cantina yesterday?" Witchcraft. That would be for poisoning, the crime of midwives and apothecaries. I keep my eyes on Montoya, ignoring Malsano's glare for the moment.

"Before you knocked him down? Yes, Doctor." Montoya doesn't smile but I can hear the sarcasm. Gaspar rolls his eyes and sighs. Don Caruso smirks. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

I slouch in the chair. "That depends. Will it make any difference?"

"If you wish to avoid hanging as a poisoner, yes." Montoya leans forward, his hands folded in front of him, elbows resting on the desk. "If you can satisfactorily answer the charges, and give me a better suspect than yourself, please do so." Next to him, Gaspar shifts uneasily, but remains silent. Good, Gaspar. Stay quiet.

I sit up, keeping my face neutral. Now is not the time to lose control. "It seems to me that you are asking if I am the best suspect for these murders."

"You don't deny that the Conde and Condesa were murdered?" Caruso asks sharply.

I shake my head, meeting his eyes. "No one who watched the Conde and Condesa die would doubt that they were poisoned, Don Caruso. They died suddenly and in great pain." To his credit, Malsano cringes at this and I feel some pity for him, though not much. They were his parents; it seems he is doing this for love after all. "From what I saw, that poisoning could only have been deliberate. I would say that they were each given a large dose of arsenic shortly before they died."

Gaspar looks surprised. "Why arsenic?"

"From their symptoms. The Condesa suffered from fits and the Conde complained that he could not feel his extremities. Both were vomiting and in great pain, and the Conde's breath had a strong smell of garlic. These are all symptoms of arsenic poisoning."

"But as an apothecary, you would have access to arsenic," Caruso persists. I look to Montoya, who does not move. He will not interfere, then.

"You are asking me if I had the means. Yes I had access to arsenic. But to be your suspect, I must also have had opportunity and motive. I would stress that I was called in by the Malsano's physicians, who did not leave me alone with the patients at any time. I can't prove that here, of course, but I can say that they had as much opportunity as I did. And I had no motive."

This is too much for Malsano, who stands up and shakes that finger of his at me again. Borges pulls him back down, looking nervous. "Motive?! If you had no motive, why did you flee on the first ship that would take you away from Cadíz?"

I glare at Malsano. "I see now that we have never met before. If you had been in Cadíz when your parents were murdered, you would have seen me nearly torn to pieces by a mob before I was thrown into a cellar to await my summary execution. I fled Cadíz because it was the only way that I could save my own life. If I thought I could have won any justice for myself there, I would not have left before I could clear my name."

"Are you accusing the Conde and Condesa's physicans, then, Doctor?" Montoya says. Yes, he would want to get away from the subject of how I escaped Cadíz. "I fail to see their motive, or how they could have acquired the arsenic. Why would they use such a poison?"

"Because the victim cannot smell or taste it, I would say. And because it is versatile. One can poison the victim either quickly or over a long period of time." I allow myself a small smile. "But it may also be part of their motive." I glance at Malsano. "I have heard that, according to you, your brother is an absinthe drinker?"

Malsano looks as sour as a lemon. "Who told you that?"

"Answer the question please--is he or is he not an absinthe drinker?"

"Yes! What does that have to do with anything?"

"The major ingredient of absinthe is arsenic, Don Malsano. I also noticed that your sister, who tried to stab me to death as soon as her mother died, had the most remarkable pallor. Does she, by any chance, have a habit of eating arsenic?" Furious, Malsano jumps up again, this time heading in my direction. Both Borges and Caruso pull him back down. "You see, Don Malsano," I continue quietly. "All the evidence that you have against me seems to have come from those in your family who had far more motive, opportunity and even means than I, a complete stranger to your parents, could possibly have had."

"He has a point," Gaspar says slowly.

"You?" Malsano snaps at him. "Of course you would side with him, you traitor!"

Montoya winces. Gaspar looks offended. "What are you talking about, young man?"

Borges tries to stop Malsano, but Malsano is too busy glaring past Montoya at Gaspar. "I've heard about you--you helped the French at Zaragoza!"

Gaspar's look of incipient anger fades into puzzlement. "What are you talking about? I've never been to Zaragoza. I spent the entire war in Madrid." Ah hah. Now, I see what Pirenne was up to. Very, very clever, Roger.

"Liar!" Malsano is tugging at Borges' grip, as if he intends to attack Gaspar. Instead, Montoya stands up and puts a hand on Malsano's shoulder, shoving him back into his chair.

No," he says, looking disgusted. I relax, just a little. "Don Hidalgo is right. He was not in Zaragoza during the War, and certainly not during the siege. I was there and I can safely say that he was not."

"But--"

"I have heard enough." The finality in Montoya's voice makes even Malsano subside. "You have just accused two men of serious crimes--one of murder and another of treason--with no evidence whatsoever. I do not know who has told you such rumors, but both Don Hidalgo and Doctor Helm are respected men of this community. I will not see them slandered without cause." He turns to me, still holding Malsano in his seat. I must say, he hides his relief well, as well as I trust I am hiding mine. Now that he has his excuse to dismiss this case, I am as good as cleared. "Doctor, I apologize for this. I was under the impression that there was more evidence against you than a few wild tales." I bite down a laugh. As if he didn't know that already, having saved me from the mob. "You are excused to go back to your duties."

I nod and stand up slowly. "And the charges against me?"

"There are no charges." Malsano opens his mouth to protest, but stops short with a grunt of pain when Montoya leans on him. "You may consider this matter closed." He glances over his shoulder at Gaspar. "As may you, Don Hidalgo. I must apologize if you feel that you have been insulted in any way."

Gaspar still looks confused. "I suppose that I am willing to see this as a simple misunderstanding."

"Good. Now, if you two gentlemen will excuse me, I must speak with Don Malsano and his sponsors--alone."

Gaspar looks at me. I shrug. It's not up to me, and while I would rather be present than not, in this case I trust Montoya. The good colonel has far too much to lose if he lets Malsano proceed any further. "Very well," Gaspar says as he gets to his feet. "We will take our leave." He looks at me. "Doctor?" I nod and see him out the door. I wait until we are outside the building before I let loose a great sigh of relief.

Gaspar still looks puzzled as we cross the square, heading for the cantina. "What was that all about?" he says.

"Misdirection, I think." And I don't mean only the Malsano family. I shall have to have a long talk with Pirenne about his role in all this, now that I seem to have the full picture. We are approaching the cantina. "I reckon that Malsano's brother or his sister, or both, plotted to murder their parents and set me up as the scapegoat. And when Malsano came back from Madrid, wondering what had happened, they sent him after me. What better way to get rid of an inconvenient relative who was asking questions than to send him halfway around the world on a hunt for a murder suspect?"

"I see. What I don't understand is why he would accuse me of treason." Gaspar is shaking his head, the way he does at one of Vera's more extravagant purchases, as we enter the cantina.

"Perhaps someone fed him the information as a way to discredit him." I let him go in ahead of me, then pull abreast of him while we wait for a waiter to come seat us.

He looks at me quizzically. "Who? You?"

I shake my head. "I don't know," I lie.

Gaspar seems to let it go as a waiter approaches us. The waiter bows and says softly, inviting us in, "Pasad por favor, Señores."

But Gaspar is not quite done with the subject. "What was it like?" he says as the waiter seats us on the veranda. He doesn't explain what he means--Cadíz or being accused of murder and witchcraft.

"Unpleasant," I say, since any memory of Cadíz is forever marred by the faces of that mob, so the answer to either question is the same. To my relief, Gaspar lets it go and orders us breakfast.

Act Four

1813, Catalonia

"You look much better," Ramon assures me, handing me a wet cloth so that I can wash myself. I do not feel better. If anything, I feel worse--feverish, sweaty, irritable and soiled. From experience, though, I know that he is right. Before, I was too ill to feel my danger. I must be on the mend if I can feel it now.

"How long?" I say. I huddle under the blanket that Ramon gave me for modesty while the girl launders my filthy clothing and I try to wash myself.

He looks at the ceiling, whistling quietly and considering. "Five days, more or less."

I swallow, the melancholy of prolonged illness sapping my will. Christ knows I will need all the will I have left to complete this mission. "They must have left by now."

He shakes his head. "No. They are still there. We are only a half-day from Tarragona and I sent the farmer down to check. It seems you are the first one to come back--perhaps the only one. They were pleased to hear that you had survived. I think they will wait for us."

Us? That's bold of him, but why not? I have been too sick to be a threat to him and I have given him no reason to think that I am one now. It occurs to me that I could lead him all the way back to our troops without his suspecting what I know and turn him over to my superiors there. They would get a fair amount of information out of him, I reckon, though they'd have to beat him to death for it. For some reason, that brings a sour taste to my mouth. I should hate the bastard, but I can still remember, even through the confusion of the torture, how he tried to stop them. He is good at his job, I have to give him that, blue-coat though he is. He has got me all the way down here past all the checkpoints and played the part of a Spaniard well. If I hadn't overheard him with the guard...well, what did I overhear? Enough to kill him in these dark and angry times, that's true enough. And yet, his heart doesn't seem to be in it. If he still enjoyed his work, I suspect he would have cracked me open like an egg for Frenchie and Philippe and I'd be dead by now.

Give it up, Robbie. Lead him down the garden path or kill him. Kill the girl, too, if you have to, but either way, you are going to get on that fishing boat and get yourself back out to the blockading fleet. Do your job.

I finish with the cloth and hand it back to him. "I didn't get the chance to tell you before, but I think you saved my life back there."

He shrugs, not looking at me as he drops the cloth back into the water. "Perhaps, perhaps not. I think if I had not found you, the sometents would have."

"I didn't mean on the road; I meant back in that house, when the Crapauds were beating me."

I watch him for a reaction. He doesn't twitch, but there is the faintest pause. If I weren't looking for it, I wouldn't see it. To be honest, as aching and miserable as I am, I am not sure that I do. "Ah, that." He smiles sadly. "I wondered if you remembered that after the beating you took. It would not have been a clean death. I could not stand by and watch them do that to you. No good man could."

"No, I reckon a good man couldn't." But I'm not a good man, so that makes it easier, right? I hold out my hand. "I'm Robert Helm, by the way." It's a calculated risk and a turning point. Now, I will have to kill him.

He looks surprised and shakes my hand. "You should not speak of this here. You have no idea who might hear it." Too right, mate.

"I pay my debts," I say, hating how much truth is in there. There is always too much truth in my lies, which is why men believe me so easily. "I owe you my life." That is true, too, but it won't stop me from killing him.

A high-pitched whistle sounds twice from down the hill. The girl, it's her signal. Whatever Ramon was going to say to me is forgotten.

"You should lie down," he says. "We are going to try to get you down to the boat tomorrow evening and you will need your rest." And that is all he will say as he gets me settled back onto the thin mattress on a frame that has become my bed.

Next day is cloudy and the rain comes down hard. It is cold so it's fortunate that Ramon got me dressed again the night before. Even with the girl curled up next to me, I am shivering. The girl is a good little housekeeper; my clothes are cleaner than they have been in two months. I reckon she'll make some man a fine wife someday. Just not me. By the time she is old enough, I will be too old--or dead.

Toward nightfall, a cart rumbles up next to the house. Even though the rain is coming down harder than ever, Ramon rousts me and the girl out of bed. "Time to go," he says.

My head is aching again and I can scarcely walk at first, I'm so stiff. I don't try to hide it. We are getting out of here and I need to show as much weakness as possible if I am going to take down the enemy. Despite that, some stubborn sense of pride makes me crawl into the wagon on my own. I will leave this country on my own two feet.

The wagon rattles down the road. Despite Ramon's efforts, the sacking gets a puddle in it. The water seeps through, soaking us. I am glad for the warmth from the girl. Soon, I can hear the sea growling ahead of us. Quite a storm they're building up out there. Surely, they are not planning to leave now? Maybe we are only going to the coast to hide. This theory gains credence an hour or two later (or perhaps it is a few minutes and I'm out of my head again?) when the wagon stops and Ramon comes around the back. "We are almost there," he says, as he and the farmer help me out. "We are going to wait here while they get ready."

We're right on the coast. The sky is slate gray and the rain pours down on us, soaking the girl and me even more. Ramon and the farmer look like drowned rats, their sodden coats hanging off them. What a lovely day. I hope that we will get under cover soon. Ramon answers my prayers when he leads us to a hut near a dic, a seawall. The waves have swallowed up whatever beach was there under the dic. I don't see the boat. Ramon catches me looking and says, "They are coming up the coast. There is a cove a little farther south. We must wait here."

Continue to Part Five