Episode #317

Part Two of Five

1820, Santa Elena

There are some things that you cannot avoid, no matter how far ahead you see them coming. My first meeting with Don Malsano falls into that category. How I wish I believed it will be the last.

I am in the cantina, having lunch with Tessa and Marta--all very proper, even if I am wearing my regular work shirt and vest and not my Sunday suit. Tessa came to my office an hour ago to invite me to a meal. By that time, Pirenne had taken his leave, which is just as well. I didn't want to have to explain him--and an uneasy part of me worried that he might not be real. Now, Tessa, Marta and I are sitting here eating a modest lunch. I insisted on paying for all of us. That doesn't mean that I can afford anything grand, hidden treasure or no hidden treasure. It is embarrassing, but it would be worse if I allowed Tessa to pay for me.

I happen to look up from sipping a glass of wine just as Señor Borges comes into the cantina. I wince, feeling the headache of yesterday threatening to come back. The pain increases when I see the young man who follows him in. I assume it's Malsano, though he doesn't look much like the rest of his family--more bluff and robust. He is dressed elegantly, not like a man who just travelled around the Tierra del Fuego to get the son-of-a-bitch of a doctor who murdered his parents. Then again, the bolero he is wearing seems very Borges-like in its design. No doubt his new-found friend and patron lent Don Malsano a new wardrobe.

Tessa, whose back is to both of the young men, notes my look of concern. "What is it, Roberto?" she says. Marta, who is sitting next to me, between us, glances over at them.

"Is that Malsano?" she says, very quietly. Tessa's face goes still, but she makes no attempt to turn around. She can wait. I told the both of them an edited version of the Malsano problem, leaving out Pirenne, at my office. But this is not my office and we cannot afford to have anything resembling an honest discussion about it here.

I nod, pretending to be looking at Tessa. "And here he comes, now." Malsano is looking around, looking uncertain. That doesn't last long as Borges helpfully points me out. Damn. I could just leave...no, that is not an option, not with Tessa and Marta here. I am trapped by propriety. There are drawbacks to going respectable, Robbie. Did you forget that?

As soon as he sees me, Malsano's face darkens and he starts my way. Borges grabs his arm and speaks to him in an urgent voice. "Malsano wants to come over here right away. They're having a discussion about it. I believe that Borges is counseling prudence."

"And is Malsano listening to him?" Tessa asks, sipping from her teacup, cool as you please. Except for that slight tremor in her hand and the twitch of one side of her mouth. Oooh. She is angry.

"In a manner of speaking." Malsano breaks free of Borges' grip and starts across the cantina towards us. "Wait. Here he comes now."

"He looks very unhappy," Marta says, helpfully stating the obvious for Tessa, who can't see without being obvious about it herself.

"Oh, I'd say so, yes." I reach for the teapot as he storms over. It makes me look totally innocent, and if necessary, I can brain him with it or scald him with tea.

Malsano pauses next to the table to bow to Tessa and Marta. Typical. No doubt he's heard all about Tessa's "perfidy" from Borges, but he still cannot refrain from that empty and automatic courtesy. "Buenos Días, Señorita, Señora," he says to Tessa and Marta as I pour my tea.

Tessa bats her eyes at him and puts out a hand to be kissed. Despite the ugliness in the air, I almost laugh at the overripe perfection of her act. "Buenos Días, Señor...?"

"Don Pedro Malsano, Señorita. At your service." He looks sideways at me, not deigning to give me a greeting. Snotty little brat. "I must confess myself most distressed at your company."

Tessa looks bewildered. "Oh? How so, Señor?"

"I have been informed that you are allowing this...man to court you." And damned if he doesn't sneer. The expression disappears when I set down the teapot with a crack that carries all the way across the cantina. He starts.

"'This man' does have a name," I say mildly, then stand up and hold out my hand. "Dr. Robert Helm, at your service, Don Malsano."

For a moment, I think he will hit me, but he has just enough self-control to restrain the impulse and ignore my outstretched hand. "I already know who you are."

"Oh? I see. And how is that?" I let my hand fall back to my side. Careful, Robbie. Don't overdue the confused act. I picture how Montoya would do it and try to follow suit. I have to admit, the Colonel is a master at the smiling lie.

"How could I not recognize the man who murdered my parents?" Malsano declares. Well, that is rather easy to do if you have never met the man and he did not, in fact, murder your parents. He steps back, pointing a finger at me. Clearly, he has been rehearsing this moment for months. "I have travelled halfway around the world so that I could come face to face with you and see justice done!"

The silence that falls around us must be gratifying to him, even if it is far more politely bewildered than supportive. "Well," I say into it. "I am very happy that you've completed your quest, but the truth is that I have never met you before and I don't know what you are talking about." The last thing is a lie, more or less. Both Tessa and Marta know this, but neither shows it. No doubt I will have much explaining to do when we arrive back at the Alvarado hacienda.

Malsano, of course, is furious with my denial, as if I'd just fall down on my knees and beg his forgiveness, or something equally stupid. His lips tremble with not-so-repressed fury. "How dare you deny the truth of the charge?"

"The truth, as far as I can remember, is that I did not murder your parents. If you want to lay a charge against me, then you can go to Colonel Montoya and do so. He will make an inquest into the matter and you can make your case before him. Until then, take your accusations elsewhere. I am trying to treat Señorita Alvarado and her duenna to a pleasant lunch; you are ruining it."

Frustrated in trying to needle me directly, Malsano turns on Tessa, who is sitting in her chair, waving her fan and looking confused. "I cannot believe that you threw over my good friend Simon for this...this English beast!" He brandishes that finger at her, like a sour old doña.

What can I say? The tactic works. With no warning, I feel my temper fray and snap. This quick temper of mine used to be a problem for me back in the Army and it is a problem today. I come out of my chair and get between him and Tessa, nose to nose. "Leave her out of this."

He laughs. "Don't tell me you are defending her honor? How can one such as you, with no honor of his own, defend a heartless woman like--"

He is too close for a punch, so I straight-arm him in the chest instead. He goes flying backward into a don sitting at a table, who grunts in outrage and pushes him off. I thoroughly enjoy the look of astonishment on Malsano's face before I realize what a stupid thing I've just done. Borges comes up on my side, looking outraged. Lightheaded, I turn, hands up and in fists. He stops in his tracks. "Take your friend and go," I say, "before this becomes serious."

"It is already is," Malsano growls, struggling to get up.

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" Montoya's voice, from the door of the cantina, stops all action, startling me out of my rage. Borges backs away from me, looking around as if to escape. I glance at Malsano, who is still sitting on the ground and doesn't seem to know what to do. Warily, I back up to my chair, which I had set against the wall so that I could see the entire room without turning my back to anyone.

Montoya stalks up to us. "Gentlemen! What is the meaning of this?" He spares me a cold glance which does not reassure me of his intentions. Dammit, I do not want to end up dragged out to the jail like some drunk (which, granted, I sometimes am) in front of Tessa, Marta and half the dons and doñas in town. For Christ's sake--I didn't do anything this time!

"What is the meaning of this, Doctor? Perhaps you would like to explain yourself?" Montoya does not sound happy.

I tilt my head in Malsano's direction. "Ask him. He seems to know." Tessa opens her mouth, then subsides when Marta puts a hand on her arm. For all her skills as the Queen, Tessa can do nothing here that would help. Around us, people are whispering to each other, enjoying the show.

Montoya turns his cold gaze to Malsano. "Don Malsano?"

Malsano lifts his chin defiantly. "He murdered my parents!"

"So I heard from outside. I understand that you have been making this accusation to many people." Montoya appears to consider the charge. "Can you prove it?"

Malsano clambers to his feet. Montoya watches his every move, as do I. "Give me a sword and I shall prove it with my body!" Malsano declares.

"Duelling is not allowed here," Montoya says, "not as part of our legal process, that is. And I would not rate your chances against Doctor Helm. I have seen him fight." I don't even bother to suppress my snort of amusement. Oh, he's seen me fight, he has. Why, if he didn't keep stopping my brawls with Grisham, he would need himself a new Captain. Though, come to think of it, swinging for taking Grisham out of this world no longer appeals to me all that much. I have too much to lose. "Do you have any evidence?"

"I have a witness who can identify him." Malsano looks beleaguered but won't give up. That kind never do.

"There are many here in this very room who can identify the Doctor. Many of them can thank him for saving their lives or those of ones whom they loved." Montoya spreads his hands. "I am afraid that you will have to find more evidence than that to put him on trial."

"But--but he...." Malsano sputters, thwarted for now. He glares at me. "This is not over!"

"Too bad," I mutter as he stomps off, not that I expected anything different. What worries me is how everyone around us is now watching me with suspicion. Brilliant. Even if I threw the little bastard off a cliff, it wouldn't do me any good. I wish Montoya and Pirenne had warned me when I could have done something quiet about it.

Montoya watches him leave then turns back to me. "A most interesting week, no, Doctor?"

I look at Tessa and Marta, who both look worried. I can't blame them. I'm worried. "If you like fireworks," I say. Then, I sit down and pour myself another cup of tea.

1813, Catalonia

The girl is trying to feed me raisins. I do my best to choke them down, as playing nurse seems to please her. I no longer have any idea what day it is. I am living from one raisin to the next.

Gravel crunches outside. Out of reflex, I try to sit up, but can't quite make it. To my relief, it is only Ramon. That is the name he gave me. I told him my name was Bernat. He comes in through the door and crouches next to me, feeling my forehead. I pull my coat further around me, shivering even though the heat outside is making the crickets sleepy.

"You need water and food," he says. "More than raisins and bad wine."

"I can manage," I say, swallowing down bile.

He smiles ruefully. "Good, because all that I can offer you is transportation. If I help you, can you stand?"

"Yes," I say, though in truth, I don't know the answer to that. He speaks softly to the girl, who scrambles out of the away. He kneels next to me and pulls me up, putting an arm around his soldiers. "Help me as much as you can," he says. "You are not light."

"Thank you very much." I manage a chuckle, though when I try to get my feet under me, my legs scrabble in the dust, unable to get purchase. Ramon heaves up, lifting me a foot or two off the ground. I push as hard as I can with my feet, reaching out with my free hand to steady myself on the rock wall. When the girl rushes over to support me on that side, I transfer my grip to her shoulder, as I had before, back in that distant time of our first escape. Once up, with my feet on the ground and my arse in the air, it's easier. I lean heavily on Ramon and he leads me out of the stone hut.

Outside waits a cart with a sleepy-looking man and an even sleepier-looking horse. The man jumps off to help quickly enough, though, as we come out. This is good, because I don't think I could lift myself onto even the low bed of the cart. "Vinga, vinga," the man says quietly, calm but urgent as he helps Ramon lift me into the cart. Once there, I am able to crawl further up toward the head of the cart. Ramon and the girl crawl up on either side of me. The man pulls several sacks down around us, covering us. I am shivering badly, now, unable to get warm. Ramon feels my forehead again.

"We must get you somewhere quiet," he says, sounding concerned. "Somewhere with medicines."

"Can't be helped," I say, feeling distant from my own body. As the cart jolts into motion, pain flares in my head. I don't cry out. There is no point. Now, the only weapon I have left is endurance.

Act Two

1820, Santa Elena

"Why is that young man so angry with you, Doctor?" Marta asks as soon as we have left Santa Elena. I am riding Equus instead of in the cart with Tessa and Marta because I expect to leave early in the morning.

"He believes that I murdered his parents," I say.

"Yes, but why?" Marta will not let it go. Next to her, Tessa's mouth is a thin line as she urges the wagon team onward. "Why come so far just to accuse the man, who failed to save his parents' lives, of murder?"

I sigh, half to myself. At least Equus is behaving today. "I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than that. You see, I didn't just fail to save his parents when they took ill. There was some question about their being poisoned. Or should I say, they were poisoned and there was some question about who did it."

"You."

"That was what the physicians that the Malsanos' elder son brought in thought, or so they said. I never found out about the younger son, come to think of it. I suppose the elder one was eager to keep him as far from the line of succession as possible."

"'So they said...'" Tessa looks thoughtful. "You think that the other physicians poisoned the Malsanos?"

I nod. "Yes. Either that, or the son did it and paid them off to accuse me instead. I never found out." We ride on further in silence. "I'm not a physician, you see," I add hesitantly. "If I were, I could only diagnose illness, not dispense drugs, or in some places, even do surgery. I'm just an apothecary. In some ways, that means that I can do more than the physicians, but...well, you've seen my workshop. If a patient under my care died under suspicious circumstances and it looked like poison, wouldn't you wonder if I'd had a hand in it? After all, I can make drugs that kill as well as those that heal."

"We would never accuse you of such a thing, Roberto," Tessa protests. "Surely, you know that?"

"I know that you know me well enough not to believe the accusation if someone here made it." The afternoon is hot, as hot as that day I was caught in Catalonia during the War, almost as hot as the day before I escaped Cadíz. "But they didn't know me in Cadíz. And who knows? Maybe Malsano will find a ready ear among others in Santa Elena. I do have enemies."

Marta snickers. "Perhaps if you were not so outspoken, you would be more popular, Doctor."

I glower at her. "And look who is talking about having a sharp tongue."

"I cannot believe that anyone would believe you are a mur--well, a poisoner," Tessa says hotly. "It just isn't in your nature."

I smile wryly. "Borges obviously does." She flushes at that and falls silent.

"What I do not understand is why Montoya did not have you arrested then and there," Marta says into the uncomfortable silence. "Surely, he would be better off to have you taken out and hanged immediately?"

"He could," I admit. "But I think it's not quite that simple for the good Colonel. You might say that he is taking this one a bit...personally."

1817, Cadíz

The cellar is as effective a prison as has ever trapped me inside. There is only one entrance, a solid wooden trapdoor which lets down the only light in cracks of sun through the slats. The rest is rock and dirt. I won't be getting out of here until they let me out. I crouch against a wall, shivering. It is damned cold down here, a harsh contrast to the Malsanos' stuffy rooms.

My head is still spinning from the events that got me flung down here like a discarded rag. I keep going over everything, symptom by symptom, sign by sign. What did I miss? What the bloody hell did I miss?

I had only just finished my war-interrupted training a few months before I went drifting through Spain, wondering if I should stay there or move on south, maybe even to the New World. Britain no longer fit. People stared at me, regardless of how I dressed or acted. I felt like a ghost there.

I came to Cadíz to see if I could sign on a ship there. I was running out of money, so when the Malsanos' physicians offered me three times the usual rate to come see the old Conde and Condesa and make medicines for a sudden illness, I didn't question it as much as I should have. What am I thinking? I was too numbed to consider any kind of risk. Even now, shivering down in this cellar, my fear seems to belong to another man, one who cares more than I do. My emotions are like a raging storm circling a dead center. What frightens me most is finding out what is inside that center. I think I would even rather die--just not the way my two patients did, and not at the hands of the mob that I can still hear yowling outside.

It seemed like a simple stomach ailment--a touch of dysentery. Not something to be ignored, but not dangerous, either. It was only after I gave the Conde some milk and opium to sooth him that I realized how serious the situation was. He began to vomit and complained that he could not swallow the milk I gave him or feel his limbs. When his wife, the Condesa, threw a fit, and then lapsed into a stupor, I panicked. I did what I could, even resorted to bleeding them at one point. But after the Condesa died in convulsions, it all went straight to Hell. Their pale, sickly daughter went mad and flew at me with a knife. Then, the physicians came in and both accused me of poisoning and murder. That was when the son had me dragged out of there and thrown down here. A mob of citizens had gathered outside the house in the killing heat. The guards took most of the damage as shouting men and shrieking, scratching women pummelled me, but the mob got in some good hits. The back of my neck aches from one harpy's claws. Still shaking from the force of their rage, I crouch and clutch my head. I can smell the old man's breath, as garlicky as a peasant's. It made me choke as I tried to get the opium-laced milk down his throat.

Fool, what a fool. I should have stayed in the Army. I never panicked there. This is as bad a fix as I have ever seen. How the hell do I get out this?

I crouch there, shivering, for hours. As the sunlight leaking through the slats in the trapdoor fades, I get up and pace around to warm myself, then sit back down with my back to the wall. Hunger roils my stomach and I am becoming very thirsty. I hope that they have not forgotten about me, or intend to leave me here to starve. I'd almost rather face the mob. Pleasant thoughts, to be speculating which death I would rather have. Think up something more positive, Robbie, or you're a dead man this time for sure.

The light goes completely and I doze off, even cold as I am. My dreams are full of the skittering of rats. Whispering wakes me, and scratching at the trapdoor. It sounds loud in the stillness, even over the pounding in my head. I can no longer tell what is up and what is down in the darkness, but when the trapdoor comes up, I can see the night sky, and the stars, and I want to weep. I don't care who it is or what they intend to do to me. They can kill me for all I care, as long as they let me out of here first.

I stand up as a figure blocks out the stars. I feel an arm clout my face. "Grab my hand and I will pull you up!" a voice whispers in Spanish. "Quickly!" I do what he says and he hauls away. Once I get a grip on the edge of the trapdoorway, I can help him. Soon, I am up and out. I crawl out onto the grass and cling to it, just breathing it in. But the man is not interested in letting me recover. I hear the trapdoor go back into place behind me, and then a hand clamps on my shoulder.

"We must go now, before they come to find that you are missing," he says. "Your ship leaves at dawn." And that is how I meet Luis Montoya.

Continue to Part Three