Murder at San Miguel

Danee Wilson

Description

Archaeological illustrator, Beatrix Forster, accompanies her husband, retired archaeology professor, William Forster, to excavate the cemetery at San Miguel in Excelsis, an isolated medieval sanctuary in the mountains of northern Spain. Bill's former student, now a priest in Navarre, has enticed them out of comfortable retirement with the rumor that the infamous medieval knight and founder of the sanctuary, Teodosio de Goñi, may be buried at the church. Despite initial misgivings about working in Spain under the shadow of Franco's dictatorship, they accept the project and travel to Navarre with students from the University of Toronto. Personalities clash as the students grow weary of the remote location, but when one of the students is brutally murdered, accusations begin to surface. Beatrix and Bill fear that the local Civil Guard, much hated by the populace, has bungled the investigation and they take it upon themselves to determine the identity of the killer. They soon find that everyone at San Miguel has something to hide, and Beatrix begins to wonder just how well she and Bill know those with whom they are living.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Fiction
• Mystery
• Detective
• Historical

Informations

• Publié par: Radiant Press
• Date de parution: 15 octobre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781989274781
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Copyright @ 2022 Danee Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher or by licensed agreement with Access: The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (contact accesscopyright.ca ).
Editor: Paul Carlucci
Cover art: Tania Wolk
Book and cover design: Tania Wolk, Third Wolf Studio
Printed and bound in Canada at Friesens, Altona, MB
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of Creative Saskatchewan, the Canada Council for the Arts and SK Arts.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Murder at San Miguel / Danee Wilson.
Names: Wilson, Danee, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana 20220397287
ISBN 9781989274767 (softcover)
ISBN 9781989274781 (HTML)
Classification: LCC PS8645.I466175 M87 2022 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Box 33128 Cathedral PO
Regina, SK S4T 7X2
[e-mail]
radiantpress.ca

In memory of Beatrix, Betty, and all the resilient women who came before them.
For Destiny, the wire fox terrier, who will never read this book, but who brings great joy to all who know her.


Chapter 1
my posterior had long since grown numb as Mauricio, the donkey, slowly and unsteadily climbed the path up Mount Archueta toward the sanctuary. Muffin, my fox terrier, sat primly in front of me, unperturbed by the constant shifting of Mauricio’s weight as he plodded along. It wasn’t my first journey by four-legged, stubborn ass (pardon my French) up the mountain that summer, and I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to repeat the experience. At my age, these things were simply impractical, not to mention the gut-wrenching moments when Mauricio clopped so close to the edge that one false step would’ve sent donkey, small dog, plump old lady clad in khakis and dusty work boots, and all the food we carried with us tumbling over the precipice to become forage for the vultures.
“Bill,” I called to my husband, brushing a small insect off the breast pocket of my rumpled work shirt, “perhaps we should consider taking a car ‘round the other side of the mountain next time. It might take longer, but it would save us some trouble.”
No response.
“Bill! Are you listening?”
I dared not turn around while riding, lest I lose my balance or knock Muffin off. It wasn’t uncommon for my husband to be lost in contemplation, completely oblivious to the world around him. On the other hand, I hoped he hadn’t fallen asleep at the reins the way he often did in front of the television.
“Bill, did you hear me?” I called again, louder this time.
“Pardon me? Did you say something, Beatrix?” Bill appeared, bringing his donkey, Margarita, in step with mine.
“Yes, dear.” I said, “Why don’t we take a car next time instead of these obstinate beasts? Mauricio is a doll when I’m feeding him carrots, but he’s not exactly complacent with me on his back. I can’t really blame him either. In fact, I can quite easily empathize.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and glanced left and right. “A car would be more practical. It was very kind, however, of Father José María and Father Pedro to invite us to lunch in the village, don’t you think?”
“Goodness, of course it was,” I said, holding the reins with one hand and stroking Muffin’s head with the other. “Father Pedro is a lovely young man and always has been. It’s wonderful to see him again, after all these years. I find him refreshingly modern and progressive for a Catholic priest, unlike his mentor. Father José María is traditional to the point of being dogmatic. All his talk of a woman’s place. Wives and mothers. The only path for a woman of morals. Suggesting that I and our female students should have stayed home, that education is wasted on us. I’ll have him know I’ve been on more archaeological excavations than most men! I profoundly dislike him and his antiquated ideologies about women and religion. I held my tongue, but only because we are dependent upon his approval for this excavation.”
Bill shifted awkwardly in his saddle. “I quite agree with you, Beatrix. However, I don’t see that we have much choice in the matter. We’re guests here, and though we may disagree with Father José María and many things in this country for that matter, it would be unwise for us to be too vocal about our beliefs. We both knew what this project would entail, and we agreed that we could go a few months without rocking the boat.”
“True. Jail wouldn’t suit you, Bill. You’d have to give up your pies. You know how much you’d miss those.”
“Well, it’s not the forties anymore,” Bill said, wiping dog saliva on his khakis, which very closely resembled mine. “So as foreigners, I don’t think we’re at much risk of imprisonment for our beliefs. I suppose they’d simply remove us unceremoniously from the country. If we were Spanish, it would be another matter. Sticking the two of us in a prison as political dissidents would cause an international scandal. I can’t believe that would be good for Spain’s global relations, surely.”
Bill was right. Putting two elderly foreigners in prison might reflect poorly on Francisco Franco’s regime. The diminutive dictator famously didn’t take kindly to political nonconformists, with his secret police, the Brigada Político-Social, enforcing compliance with the political tenets of his establishment. Yet Spain had opened up to the world after many years as a pariah state. These days, more than two decades after Franco took power, certain repressive tendencies were no longer accepted on the international stage. Especially not with tourists encouraged to visit the country’s beaches in droves, flocking like seagulls to the sunny shores, drawn by catchy advertising slogans like “Spain is different.” What, precisely, did they mean by that? That Spain had changed? As, indeed, it had. Or did they mean that the country presented a unique experience for visitors? It certainly did. Either way, Spain was no longer what it had been after the civil war and was rapidly developing into a desirable tourist destination, its not so attractive qualities hidden far from the golden sands and glimmering hotels.
Of course, I did try to keep my opinions to myself in public forums, knowing that things here were very different than they were in our own country. Or so I liked to think. Father Pedro insisted that we’d be welcomed in Spain with open arms and Bill could conduct archaeological excavations at the Sanctuary of San Miguel in Excelsis as long as we kept our political views about dictatorships and political repression discreet. I had already maintained my composure for two and a half months. Only one remained. We’d reached the final stretch of keeping our thoughts to ourselves, but it hadn’t been effortless.
Bill and I had both been surprised to hear from Pedro the year before, in the form of a politely worded letter. He asked if Bill would be interested in organizing excavations at San Miguel prior to the initiation of construction of a new cafeteria and clerical residence adjacent to the church to replace buildings that had burned down in the forties. Pedro had been one of Bill’s students at the University of Toronto, studying anthropology, before his family insisted he return to Navarre to become a priest. His family was extremely religious and had only tolerated his interest in anthropological studies long enough for him to earn his degree. We were sorry to see him leave, as he’d been such a dedicated student. Though a mentorship and friendship had developed between Bill and Pedro, we hadn’t really expected to see him again, and Bill was already retired when we unexpectedly received the letter. He was ecstatic at the thought of a new project, but I had my reservations. We’d both essentially given up field archaeology when Bill retired, though he’d kept an office at the university and strong ties to the department. I’d always accompanied Bill on his excavations, for many years with children in tow. I truly felt that we were now too old to take on something new. It was time to enjoy our retirement years, our children, and our grandchildren. We’d experienced enough adventure for more than one lifetime. Bill insisted, however, that studying the remains buried in the cemetery near the medieval church of San Miguel would be fascinating, and Pedro had enticed him, suggesting that the infamous medieval knight and founder of the sanctuary, Teodosio de Goñi , might have been interred at the church. Bill was so excited, the temptation of discovery luring him away from our comfortable home, that I simply could not deny him the opportunity. I told him that this excavation would be his seventieth birthday present. He couldn’t have been more eager to add to his collection of skeletons.
Eleven of us travelled from Toronto to Spain to recover skeletal remains from the medieval cemetery before crews of workers descended upon the mountain to do their own excavations and construct the new buildings. Bill was directing the dig with the assistance of Archie Davidson, a doctoral candidate, who helped him supervise the students who’d come to learn field techniques and skeletal analysis from an internationally recognized name in archaeology and physical anthropology. Bill had a reputation among his colleagues for brilliant research, and students still clamoured to learn from him despite his retirement.
Having studied art many moons ago, much to the chagrin of my parents, who believed that cooking and sewing were much more useful skills for a young woman to learn, I took charge of illustrating the project. I drew skeletons, archaeological features, and site maps. Eight students from the University of Toronto’s Department of Anthropology