Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

The Butcher of Seville by Edward D. Hoch

Edward D. Hoch takes Michael Vlado on a Spanish odyssey this time, where he finds intrigue in the pageantry of Holy Week. Spain is renowned for its festivals; not least of which (from the perspective of crime readers) is Semana Negra — Black Week — funded by the Spanish government and designed to celebrate crime fiction in all its forms...

In anyplace but Seville it would have been a bizarre sight. Dozens of red-robed figures, wearing conical gold hoods with eyeholes and carrying five-foot-tall candles like shepherds’ staffs, moved slowly in a long single line toward the cathedral. It was Holy Week — Semana Santa — all over Spain and the Christian world, but only in Seville was the pageantry so elaborate. Wearing the colorful costumes of penitents, usually masked, members of fifty-two religious brotherhoods converged on the cathedral where the Spanish cardinal would conduct services. Each of the brotherhoods represented a local church, and each carried a richly bedecked statue marking the passion and death of Christ as they paraded to loud music more martial than sacred.

Now, as the gold-hooded procession came upon another group wearing rich purple hoods, they slowed to let the others past. Eyes went to the heavy golden figure of Christ being scourged, carried on the shoulders of a team of volunteers. “A burdensome task in this heat,” one of the hooded penitents remarked to his companion. “Though well worth the effort.” Enrique did not answer him, and Juan Diaz took the other’s silence as an admonition at this holy time. They continued on for another block, reaching the intersection where the procession made its final turn toward the gaping front doors of the cathedral. His companion whispered something that Juan Diaz didn’t catch. “What? What did you say?” he asked.

As they passed through the cathedral doors Enrique pulled him aside, out of the line, as the others made their way down the center aisle to the assigned seating section. “This way, Juan Diaz!”

He followed Enrique into the shadows as the remaining penitents passed them by. “What is it? Why do you lead me here? My place is with the Lord.”

“You will be with the Lord soon enough,” the figure in red and gold said. “Soon enough.” A hand came out from beneath the robe and then Juan Diaz saw the ugly steel bayonet.

“You are not Enrique! Who are you?”

He felt the blade break through his skin as he wrenched off the other’s conical hood and looked upon the face of his murderer.

The May meeting that brought Michael Vlado to Seville seven weeks later was billed as the First Gypsy Congress of the European Union, an attempt to organize against the growing wave of violence aimed at Roms and all people viewed as foreign. Michael’s little village in the Romanian foothills had remained relatively free of any organized violence, but as a Gypsy king he was all too aware of the killings and burnings nearby. He had come to Spain to do what he could.

It was a local Rom named Garib who told him of the killings. He was a tall, handsome man in his twenties with a bushy black moustache, and Michael had first noticed him during a question period when he raised his hand and asked, “Are you the Michael Vlado who solved the mystery near here four years ago involving the crypt of the Gypsy saint?”

Michael admitted he was, and a low murmur ran through the audience. Afterward Garib asked to speak with him in private. They went down to a large atrium in the building where the meeting was taking place. “We have nearly nine hundred thousand Gypsies in Spain,” Garib told him. “Most work as itinerant peddlers or beggars, camping on the fringes of cities in rat-infested shantytowns.”

“Is there no subsidized housing?”

“The gadjo is as poor as we are. They do not want Roms as neighbors. I am not concerned for myself. I have been luckier than most. In a few days I will be marrying a lovely Rom woman who has been educated in England. I will be leaving Seville for a job in Madrid. But my brethren are trapped here.”

“I wish there was something I could—”

“There is. An innocent man, a Rom, has been held in jail here for seven weeks, on charges that he killed three people. The police believe him to be the notorious Butcher of Seville.”

The name, so typical of modem journalism, caught Michael’s interest. “A so-called serial killer?”

“So they claim.”

Michael glanced around, aware of a young woman passing close enough to overhear them. Garib seemed not to notice. “Tell me about the killings.”

“The first was in late winter, an Englishwoman vacationing with her husband. Then an old Gypsy man was killed in his caravan. And during Holy Week one of the penitents in a procession was stabbed to death right in the back of the cathedral. All three of the killings were especially brutal, which earned him the name of Butcher. It was after the third killing that Nunzio was arrested and charged.”

“There is evidence against him?”

“Not enough to convict anyone but a Gypsy. He’d argued with Juan Diaz, the man killed at the cathedral, and he knew the old Gypsy, Kalderash.”

“And the English tourist?”

“He often took the children to the hotels to beg money from tourists. They think he might have met the woman there.”

Michael Vlado sighed. “I am no detective, Garib. I am in Seville for the conference.”

“Talk to him. It would boost his spirits if nothing else.”

So Michael accompanied Garib the next morning to the city jail, a grim stone building within sight of the royal palace of Alcazar. Nunzio was a young man, no more than thirty. He toyed with a pack of cigarettes in the visitors’ room, barely responding to the questions they addressed to him.

“I am innocent,” he told Michael without passion.

“Then the true Butcher of Seville must be found before he kills more.”

Garib snorted. “A wise killer would leave the city or at least cease the killings until Nunzio is convicted. Every day that passes without another killing strengthens the case against him.”

Michael could see the logic of his reasoning but he also knew that serial killers rarely behaved logically. When the urge to kill was upon them they did not stop to consider the consequences. “Did you know the Englishwoman?”

“No.”

“And the second victim?”

“I knew him as a fellow Rom. He was a sick old man. I saw him once or twice begging money near the hotels.”

“But you’d argued with the third victim.”

“In a tavern. It was nothing.”

“They have no other evidence against you — no bloodstains or fingerprints, no eyewitnesses?”

“None.”

“Then they shouldn’t be holding you. I’ll see if there’s anything we can do.”

As they left the jail, Garib asked, “Do you think you can get him released?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t really have much to say in his own defense. Still, we have two hundred and fifty Gypsies in Seville for this conference. Our voices may mean something.”

“I hope so,” the handsome Rom said. “Next week I will be married. If Nunzio is free and you are still in Seville, I want you at my wedding.”

By the time the four-day Gypsy Congress of the European Union came to an end, Nunzio Sorja was a free man. Michael and Garib, working together, had persuaded the Congress to issue a statement condemning the unjust imprisonment of Gypsies everywhere, and calling upon the Seville police to free Nunzio. It proved to be the right statement at the right time. “They didn’t have the evidence,” Garib concluded. “They must have been looking for an excuse to release him.”

Michael himself escorted Nunzio to the closing session of the Congress after a detective captain named Lerida reluctantly released him. When he reached the speakers’ platform, the somber young man said nothing but “Thank you!” This brought cheers as he immediately left the platform.

“We did a good thing,” Michael Vlado told Garib. “I wonder why he isn’t more pleased.”

The tall Rom at his side said simply, “If he is not the Butcher of Seville, someone else is. The real killer has not struck in seven weeks. Now he may kill to implicate Nunzio.”

Michael knew he was right. “I may stay here a few days extra.”

“For what purpose?”

“The latest killing, during Holy Week — does anything about it strike you as odd?”

“That man Juan Diaz? He was killed in the back of the cathedral by one of the masked penitents. Another member of his religious brotherhood was assaulted earlier and his robe and hood were stolen.”

“I must speak with that man. What is his name?”

“I’ll find out,” Garib promised.

The following day, when most of the Gypsy delegates were leaving for home, Michael took a taxi to a house in the north part of the city, on the Avenida de Eduardo Dato. It was a wide, busy street, the main route east to Granada. Michael had phoned first, and Enrique Montoto was waiting for him. He was a slender, pale man in his forties who appeared to be a member of the professional class. A doctor or lawyer, Michael thought, and when he mentioned he was a druggist with a shop near the center of the city it was only a slight surprise.

“I want to ask you about the killing of your friend Juan Diaz,” Michael said.

The slender man nodded. “It was terrible. I’d known Juan Diaz most of my life.”

“The killer assaulted you first?”

A nod. “We’d brought our robes and hoods to the church hall because we’d be marching from St. Quiteria’s to the downtown cathedral.” He spoke quickly, in Spanish, but Michael had no trouble understanding him.

“That is where you were attacked?”

The man nodded. “I was alone in the changing room and I’d just donned my robe and hood when I heard someone else enter. I could only see straight ahead through the hood’s eyeholes so I started to turn to see who it was. There was a blow to the side of my head and I remember nothing else until I came to in a closet about an hour later. By that time, Juan Diaz was dead.”

Michael knew the rest of it. The killer had discarded the robe and hood after stabbing Juan Diaz at the cathedral, then mingled with the crowd of worshipers and escaped. “Did Juan Diaz have any enemies?” he asked the druggist.

“No one. These killings are the random acts of a madman.”

“They say he argued with that Gypsy the police were holding.”

“I know nothing of that. I saw him mainly at church services and meetings of the confraternity.”

“What are these brotherhoods? Why do the members hide their faces with hoods?”

“It is an act of penance during Holy Week and at certain other times of the year. Tomorrow, for instance, is the feast day of our patron saint, St. Quiteria. The brotherhood will be present at the High Mass. Our robes and hoods date back hundreds of years. In some parts of the Christian world penitents still scourge themselves and hang from crosses.”

“Do you know the Gypsy who was accused?”

“No. I think the case against him was very weak.”

“And the earlier victims? Was there any connection between Juan Diaz and the woman tourist, or the old Gypsy?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

Michael was frustrated but he tried one more question. “Do you remember anything from the moment you were hit?”

“Nothing.”

“Try! A sound, a smell, anything—”

Montoto opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

“What is it?”

“There was something. It just came back to me now. It was a faint spicy odor. I caught a whiff of it just before I was hit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montoto. That could be of help.”

Michael Vlado returned to his hotel. He half expected to find the handsome Garib awaiting him in the lobby, but the local Gypsy was nowhere in sight. It was while he was scanning the lobby chairs and sofas that he happened to glimpse the young woman who appeared to have been eavesdropping on his initial conversation with Garib. He circled around the lobby once, and when he was sure she was watching him he approached her.

“My name is Michael Vlado,” he said quietly. “Can I be of help?”

“I—” She stumbled for something to say. “You must be mistaking me for someone else. I’m waiting for a friend.” Her dark hair and brown eyes gave her a Mediterranean look although her voice carried the trace of a British accent.

“You’ve been waiting a long time. I saw you watching me at the atrium the other day.”

She closed her eyes for an instant and blushed like a child caught in the candy box. “You’re very observant, Mr. Vlado.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Samantha Mercer. The Butcher’s first victim was my mother.”

They found a table in the hotel cocktail lounge and ordered two glasses of white wine. “I’m terribly sorry about your mother,” Michael told her. “But why have you been watching me?”

“If you’ve been investigating the Butcher’s crimes you know that my mother and stepfather were vacationing here in February when she was killed. It was a senseless crime. She was struck down in the evening, a block from her hotel, stabbed several times with a large knife. Her purse wasn’t touched.”

“The Butcher.”

“It wasn’t until the second killing, a few weeks later, that the press gave him that name. This time it was an elderly Gypsy, sick with asthma, slain in his caravan at the edge of the city. The third one was Juan Diaz, cut down in the cathedral.”

“After that the Gypsy Nunzio was arrested.”

“And I wanted to believe him guilty, I really did! I wanted to believe anything, so long as my mother’s death was avenged.” She spoke so intently, with such feeling, that Michael studied her anew. There was definitely a Latin tone to both her coloring and features. She reminded him of a fiery actress he’d once seen playing Carmen when he was a young man.

“Pardon me for asking, but was your mother Spanish?”

“What an odd question! Does it show that much? Sometimes she’d tell me I acted like a little spitfire! Yes, Carla was mostly Spanish. My stepfather, John Mercer, is English. I was only eight when my mother remarried and they gave me his name. I still resent that, losing all trace of my real father. And now my mother is gone too.”

“What of your stepfather?”

“He’s back in England. Mother’s death has been a terrible blow to his health, which was never good. He blames himself for not being with her the night it happened.”

“Where was he?”

“Back in their hotel room. They’d been here just a few days, driving from Madrid to the Costa del Sol for a winter vacation. A spicy dinner had given them both upset stomachs and she’d gone out to get some antacid pills. The killer found her on the way back.”

“But why did you seek me out?” Michael asked.

“I didn’t. I was in the lobby of your hotel when you approached me.” She pointed with her finger. “Right out there.”

“I’d seen you at the Gypsy Congress,” he reminded her.

The dark eyes sparkled. “I came here to learn all I could about my mother’s death. Garib told me of your reputation.”

“How do you know Garib?”

She hesitated, then spoke out. “It was a deep family secret that my mother had the blood of Spanish Gypsies in her veins. She told me when I was eighteen and swore me to secrecy. As a Gypsy king you certainly must realize her state of mind. In England they are viewed as mostly illiterate troublemakers who beg for money and set up camp on other people’s land.”

“That’s not entirely a false picture,” Michael admitted. “Back home in Romania things are a bit different, but I have known Roms who were all the things you say. You still haven’t told me how you met Garib.”

“Do you know he’s to be married tomorrow?”

“I’m invited to the wedding.”

She nodded. “His bride and I were at Cambridge together.”

“That’s interesting. I wonder why he didn’t tell me.”

“Should he have? We didn’t even meet until just now.”

She was right, of course. But the fact of her mother’s Gypsy blood stuck in his mind. That meant two of the three victims had been Roms. They chatted awhile longer, but Samantha Mercer could tell him nothing more. When they parted he said he’d look for her at the wedding.

By the following morning all but the local Rom delegates had departed. Michael had breakfast in the hotel lobby without seeing a single person he knew. Garib had phoned his room to extend the wedding invitation once more, and Michael assured him he would attend. The traditional Rom ceremony in the early afternoon was to be followed by a more formal wedding later at a Catholic church. Like many Roms, those in the Seville area had adopted the local religion, in this case Catholic, and attended the parish churches.

The hotel where Carla Mercer had been staying when she was killed was just along the street from Michael’s, and he walked down there to look at it. There was nothing to be seen except for some Gypsy children begging coins from tourists.

The Gypsy encampment was a large place at the edge of Seville, an area of open fields filled with caravans. Many were motorized, but a large number were the traditional horse-drawn wagons used by travelers for centuries. In addition, there were a dozen or so cars, no doubt belonging to friends from the city. Michael had taken a taxi out to the encampment, assuming there’d be someone to drive him back to his hotel.

The first person he recognized as he approached the area of the festivities was Nunzio Sorja, the accused man he’d helped to free from jail. Michael was surprised to see him, though he shouldn’t have been. The encampment was the logical place for Nunzio to go, and Garib had probably arranged it.

Michael greeted him with a handshake. “Are you enjoying your freedom?”

“Certainly, thanks to you and Garib. I am pleased to join in their wedding celebration. Have you met the bride?”

“No, I haven’t.”

He conducted Michael to a small group of young women clustered around a beaming girl, barely out of her teens, who wore the traditional Rom bridal costume. “This is Quiteria,” he said, introducing Michael.

He took her hand. “Quiteria, what a pretty name! There is a church by that name.”

She nodded, her wide smile full of a bride’s happiness. “We will have the Catholic ceremony there later today. St. Quiteria was a virgin and martyr, widely revered in this area. The people still love her, even though the Church of Rome now doubts she ever lived.”

“But you are living,” Michael told her, “and I wish you every happiness with my friend Garib.”

“Come see the ceremony,” she said as the other girls hurried her away. “It will start soon.”

“A charming young woman,” Nunzio said, watching her run with the others. Then he turned his attention back to Michael Vlado. “Will you be returning home soon?”

“Probably tomorrow. Garib was afraid that once you were released the Butcher would kill again in an effort to implicate you, but it hasn’t happened.”

“Not yet.”

“You never did tell me about your fight with Juan Diaz.”

“He was an overweight man with bad breath and an asthmatic wheeze. Obviously he hated Roms. We had words and I shoved him. I never hit him as he claimed. But he reported it to the police and I was questioned by them. Later, when they needed a scapegoat for the Butcher slayings, they came after me.”

He was standing close as he spoke and for the first time Michael detected a faint spicy odor such as he’d noticed before around Rom encampments. It stirred something in his memory, something about the killings. But before he could think about it there were shouts from the others, summoning them to the wedding ceremony.

As the Rom community gathered round and Gypsy music was played on two violins, the tall, handsome Garib and the smiling Quiteria approached one another. Michael saw now that her classic Rom features were almost Oriental, with large dark eyes set off by arched eyebrows. Her thin lips and high cheekbones gave her a beauty one rarely saw even among Rom women. Garib was a lucky man.

The ceremony was an old tradition, rarely seen in Gypsy communities in these modern times. The groom knelt on his left knee, and Quiteria on her right knee facing him. The best man approached bearing pieces of bread which he placed on both their knees, then sprinkled the bread with salt. Garib bent over and took the bread from his bride’s knee with his mouth, and she did likewise with his bread. As they ate it the best man chanted, “Good fortune and happiness be with you. And even if salt and bread become enemies, may you live in happiness and harmony.” A cheer went up from the crowd as the bridal couple rose to their feet and kissed.

Michael was one of the first to congratulate the groom. “It is a happy day,” Garib admitted. “Now we’ll get the Catholic ceremony over with and we’ll be truly married in the eyes of church and state.”

Michael got a ride with Nunzio and before long the parade of cars was heading into Seville, bound for the Church of St. Quiteria. He remembered Montoto mentioning that this was the feast day of the saint, and it seemed like a coincidence until he realized that the Gypsy Quiteria must have chosen this as her wedding day for exactly that reason.

The church’s own ceremonies were just ending as the wedding party arrived, and a young priest hurried out to tell them that the wedding would be delayed about fifteen minutes. Michael entered the rear of the church and watched while the hooded members of the parish brotherhood filed out. They were unrecognizable in their robes and head coverings, but Michael realized that Montoto was the only one he knew anyway.

He followed them next-door to the rectory hall and found the penitents removing their ceremonial costumes. Enrique Montoto spotted him at once and came over in his robe, holding the pointed gold hood. “You have honored us on our feast day,” he said.

“Actually I’m here for the Rom wedding that follows in a few minutes,” he told Montoto. “These costumes are really striking.”

“Each parish tries to outdo the others.”

“Can I try on the hood?”

The slender man hesitated. “Only for a moment. You are not of the brotherhood.”

The conical shape, like a dunce cap with a mask attached, reached from his chest to a couple of feet above his head. He found the effect stifling, and could smell only the coarse fabric of the cloth pressed against his nose and mouth. He was relieved to remove it. “I wouldn’t want to wear that on a hot day.”

“Happily, they are worn only during Holy Week, and in a few parishes on the patron saint’s day. We store them here the rest of the time.”

“Are there ever any women members of these organizations?”

“Women?” He seemed puzzled by the question. “Well, of course not! A brotherhood is a brotherhood.”

Others were coming up to chat with Montoto, and Michael drifted away. He went back outside to find the wedding party filing into the church as the last of the worshipers at the previous service departed. He had attended Catholic marriage ceremonies before, and he watched the exchange of vows and the Mass that followed with interest.

As they filed out after the ceremony, he spotted a familiar face. It was Samantha Mercer, daughter of the Butcher’s first victim. He remembered suddenly that she had been at Cambridge with Quiteria. “I didn’t see you at the Rom ceremony.”

“I couldn’t get there, but at least I made this one. She’s a beautiful bride.”

“She certainly is!” Michael agreed. “Have you known the groom long?”

“Almost as long as Quiteria has. He’ll make her a wonderful husband. They’ll be living in Madrid, away from the caravans.”

“As your mother did.”

“She was only part Rom, remember. She was an Englishwoman living in London, as I am.”

“You came here for the wedding?”

She nodded.

“You must have come when your mother was killed too, to help with your father.”

“Of course. Her murder was a terrible shock to everyone. He was absolutely helpless. He hasn’t been well.”

“How was your mother’s health?”

“Pretty good. She took something, potassium iodide, on occasion. I’m not even sure what it was for.”

They were interrupted by Nunzio, who’d brought along a camera and insisted on including them in a group shot with some other guests. The reception was being held at a nearby restaurant, and Garib and his bride led the way on foot through the streets with the entire wedding party trailing along. Michael remained with Samantha Mercer for a time, then broke off from the group to speak with Garib as they reached the restaurant.

“This is your great day, my friend. I wanted to say I must return home to Romania in the morning.”

“With the mystery unsolved?”

“Nunzio has been out, of jail for several days now and there has been no new crime. In fact it is almost eight weeks since the Holy Week murder of Juan Diaz. I believe we can safely assume that the so-called Butcher has ceased his killing, or moved on.”

“A cloud still hangs over Nunzio’s head.”

“The life of a Rom is not easy these days, as you know. A cloud hangs over all our heads.”

Garib nodded and offered his hand. “Thank you for what you were able to do. Your voice at the Congress helped set him free.”

Michael remained at the wedding reception for some hours, and even returned to the caravans for further celebration. Sitting around the campfire while the young people danced and Gypsy violins played the traditional songs reminded him of his youth in Romania after the war. Then all things seemed possible. Had Europe and the world changed so much since those days?

It was the middle of the night when Nunzio dropped him at his hotel. He sat up for a long time, almost till dawn, and then slept briefly, pursued in his dreams by knife-wielding butchers in tall pointed hats.

After breakfast he telephoned a doctor recommended by the hotel and asked him what potassium iodide was used for. Michael had already guessed what the answer would be, just as he’d already guessed the identity of the Butcher of Seville.

Michael’s only previous meeting with Captain Lerida of the Seville Police had been on the day Nunzio Sorja was released from jail. Lerida was a busy man with little time to spend with visiting Gypsies, something he made quite clear at the beginning of their conversation in his cluttered little office. “I can give you ten minutes,” he told Michael. “No more.”

“It may take longer than that to explain my theory.”

The captain smiled indulgently. “We have had twenty detectives working full-time on the Butcher slayings for months. Do you expect to walk in here and tell me the mystery is solved?”

“I think so, yes.”

He glanced at his watch. “You have eight minutes left.”

“A so-called serial killer is always difficult to capture because of the randomness of his crimes. Your Butcher seemed no different. A visiting English tourist was struck down near her hotel, an elderly Spanish Gypsy died in his caravan, and a member of a parish brotherhood was killed inside the cathedral. They were certainly a diverse group, in sex, age, nationality, and social status.”

“That is true.”

“Even though I learned the Englishwoman had some Gypsy blood and her daughter had Gypsy friends, there still seemed no link among these victims.”

“There was none. We checked every possibility,” Captain Lerida insisted.

“And yet, look closely at the circumstances of the third killing. Enrique Montoto was attacked and knocked unconscious at his parish church by a killer who took his place and marched in the procession to commit a murder at the cathedral.”

“He is insane, of course.”

“Insane perhaps, but hardly random. If the third killing was random, why didn’t he simply kill Montoto instead of knocking him out? It was safer and more certain than killing someone later at the cathedral, where escape would be difficult. No, Captain, the third killing was far from random, and that means the first two may not have been random either.”

“What could they possibly have had in common?”

“They all had asthma.”

Enrique Montoto, wearing a neat white pharmacist’s coat, glanced up as Michael Vlado entered the little drugstore down the street from the tourist hotels. He smiled and asked, “May I help you?” Then he said, “It’s Vlado, isn’t it? I didn’t know you were still in town.”

“I’m just wrapping up a few loose ends about the killings.”

“What would those be?” he asked with a smile.

“You told me you could smell a faint spicy odor just before the killer knocked you unconscious, but when I tried on your hood later I could smell nothing except the strong odor of the fabric itself. I wondered if your so-called spicy odor was an attempt to implicate Gypsies in the killings. I wondered if you had really been replaced at all. Perhaps in the instant before his death Juan Diaz saw his killer’s face and it was not the face of a stranger after all. Perhaps it was the face of his good friend Enrique.”

“Why should I kill him?” the druggist asked. His smile had faded.

“Samantha Mercer, the first victim’s daughter, told me that the next victim was an elderly Gypsy with asthma. Later Nunzio told me that Juan Diaz had an asthmatic wheeze. And Samantha told me her mother was taking potassium iodide, a common medication to loosen phlegm in asthmatics. What if all three received the wrong medication through some terrible error? What if the druggist responsible for the error decided to cover his tracks by killing them, in a brutal manner so there’d be no doubts, no detailed autopsy that might uncover the deadly medication they’d been given?”

“You are accusing me of this?” He’d retreated behind his counter, putting it between him and Michael. “Why would they come here for their medication, even if your fairy tale is true?”

“Carla Mercer went to a drugstore near her hotel the night she died, for antacid tablets. The old Gypsy used to come to the tourist hotels to beg for money. And Juan Diaz might naturally patronize the store of his good friend Enrique. They all came here, and later, when you realized what you’d done, you killed them all. You had time, apparently, because it was a slow-acting poison they were taking. You stalked them and killed them and made it appear the work of some mad serial killer. You had their names and addresses, of course, so you knew where to find them. Mrs. Mercer had to die first, before she returned to England. You saved Juan Diaz till last because he was your friend.”

The slender man nodded, as if remembering. “I didn’t want to kill him. I swore I wouldn’t unless he showed signs that the poison was affecting him. When those signs came, he had to die. I lured him out of line in the back of the cathedral and when he saw the sharpened bayonet he was certain it was someone else. He pulled off my hood to see, but of course it was his old friend Enrique after all.”

“You could have told them the truth, taken back the poison before it was fatal.”

“And have my whole life ruined? They would have called the police, sued me, hounded me to my grave. It was better that they die like this. They were dying anyway.” His hand came out from behind the counter, holding not a bloody bayonet but a small Beretta pistol. “And now one more Gypsy dies, trying to steal drugs.”

“The police are outside,” Michael told him. “They’ve heard every word you’ve said.”

The door opened and Captain Lerida entered the drugstore. For a moment Enrique seemed confused. Then he put down his pistol and smiled, the perfect businessman. “May I help you today?” he asked.