Murder at San Miguel

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

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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 also joined us, each writing carefully in neat cursive on his or her application that this project represented the opportunity of a lifetime and they hoped to be chosen to participate. I couldn’t disagree with them on that point. They probably wouldn’t have a similar opportunity for many years. It wasn’t every day that students had the fortuity to work with a leading authority in their field. Most of our students were undergraduates, young and inexperienced; some had never been away from home and their families before. For many, the adjustment hadn’t been easy.

As Mauricio stumbled along the uneven path, jostling my poor bones with each tottering step, I recalled our first night on the mountain, when Father Pedro had recounted the legend of the origins of the Sanctuary of San Miguel. It was dark and stormy, as always befits a chilling tale drawn from the early middle ages. Despite the number of people crowded around the long wooden table in the kitchen of our San Miguel accommodations, I shivered and drew my wool shawl tighter around my neck and shoulders as the rain thundered down outside. Though it was already the middle of May, it was still frightfully cold and damp on the mountain, and we were all struggling to transition from Toronto’s warm, spring days to the brisk air that seemed to chill even our souls.

More than one thousand years ago lived a knight called Teodosio de Goñi, Father Pedro began, his English excellent thanks to his having studied and lived in Canada. He sat at the head of the table, and all eyes were directed toward him. He was a noble from the Goñi Valley, where he lived in a castle with his wife, Constanza, who loved him dearly. However, he spent many years far from home in Africa, fighting the Moors.

What are Moors? Janis, one of the students, broke the spell Father Pedro had already cast over the room.

Very good question. Father Pedro smiled benevolently at Janis, causing her to blush.

I was surprised. Though we’d only recently met the students, it seemed somewhat out of character given Janis’s assertive personality. She had her mousey hair cropped short, wore no jewelry, and had a stocky build, wide through the shoulders and waist. I’d noticed her physical strength at the airport, heaving bags around as though they weighed next to nothing.

Moors are what we called the Berber and Arab people of North Africa, Father Pedro explained, adjusting his glasses and then running his hand over his short, dark hair. They conquered much of Spain in the eighth century but were gradually pushed out over the next several hundred years.

What’s a Berber? Janis persisted, propping her elbows on the table.

Before Pedro could respond, I cut in, worried we’d be in the kitchen until dawn if there were too many interruptions. Perhaps we could leave our questions until Father Pedro has finished the story.

Father Pedro nodded his thanks to me. He had a pleasant appearance, with dark eyes partially obscured by the lenses of his glasses. Beyond new frames and the black priest’s cassock he wore, which I’d had to grow accustomed to, he looked much the same as he had when he was Bill’s student.

Teodosio returned from Africa to the Kingdom of Pamplona without giving any notice to his family. He rode his beloved grey steed, Ekaitz, meaning ‘storm’ in the Basque language, as fast as he could through the forest to arrive home. But suddenly, he heard a terrible cry in the woods, which startled his horse. The cry sounded once again and Teodosio knew he had to investigate. He left Ekaitz on the path and crept through the woods, thinking he’d find an injured animal, but he found an old man with a long white beard wearing a monk’s robe. The old man belonged to no order; he was a hermit monk, as we used to have here in Navarre a long time ago. The monk’s leg was injured; he’d been shot with an arrow. Teodosio had survived many battles in Africa and seen many war wounds, so he helped the monk remove the arrow and tend to the wound. The old man thanked Teodosio and told him he had some news from the castle in Goñi. He told the knight that Constanza, his loving wife, had been having an affair with the handsome young groom Teodosio hired before he went away.

What? Graham, another student, exclaimed loudly. He goes off to war and she cheats on him? Jeez, what a wife!

Graham was what the young people these days would call nerdy. I’d learned the term from my eldest granddaughter, now in her late teens and studying at university. Graham had blond hair slicked back with Brylcreem and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. His front teeth were large and crooked, giving him a somewhat rodent-like appearance. The girls frequently rolled their eyes when he spoke, which tended to force him to retreat into his shell.

Maybe she was tired of waiting for him. Miriam flipped her curly dark hair over her shoulder. I know I’d be.

Goodness, my dears, I interrupted, holding Muffin close so she wouldn’t jump off my lap. I often let her sit with me at the table when there was no food around, but she was sensitive to voice commands and always ready to perform for a treat. We must let Father Pedro finish his story, or we’ll be here all night.

Thank you, Mrs. Forster, Pedro said. As I was saying, the monk told Teodosio that Constanza had been unfaithful while he was gone. Teodosio was enraged, running Ekaitz at full speed back to the castle, though they didn’t arrive until the middle of the night, when everyone had already gone to bed. Teodosio burst into the castle and went straight to his bedroom, where he found a couple sleeping under the blankets. He swiftly drew his sword and slaughtered them mercilessly.

Father Pedro paused for dramatic effect. I glanced at Bill as the students audibly gasped in shock. It was clear Bill had entered another realm, his eyes fixated on the ceiling and his lips open as though he were about to speak, but no sound came out. We’d both already heard the story of Teodosio prior to arriving at San Miguel, and it was clear Bill didn’t feel the need to hear the gory details again.

When Teodosio pulled back the sheet, now soaked in blood, he realized that he had not killed Constanza and her lover—but had murdered his own parents.

Holy moly! Graham said, then covered his mouth as our eyes met.

I gave him a little wink. I was pleased by the students’ excitement, but it was already quite late and I was suffering from jet lag, a condition recently discovered in those who travelled rapidly across multiple time zones.

Keep going, Father Pedro, Janis said, cupping her face in her hands and looking expectantly at the young priest.

Teodosio was horrified by what he’d done and ran to find Constanza, who was just coming home from midnight prayer at the chapel. He confessed what he’d done, telling his wife that the devil had disguised himself as a monk in the forest to trick him into committing murder. Constanza, who still loved Teodosio, forgave him.

I wouldn’t have if he’d just tried to kill me, Miriam blurted, the others shushed her immediately.

Teodosio went to the bishop in Pamplona, who sent him to the pope in Rome, for punishment. His castigation was to be bound at the waist by heavy chains, return to Navarre, and roam the mountain range of Aralar, where we are now, until the chains wore down and fell off. Father Pedro took a sip of water from a glass in front of him, looked at each of the expectant students in turn, and continued. Teodosio did as he was told and came back to wander the Aralar mountains. What he didn’t know was that a dragon named Herensuge lived in a cave in the mountains.

A dragon? Janis demanded, sitting back from the table and crossing her arms over her chest.

Janis, be quiet, one of the other students hissed.

Yes, a dragon, Father Pedro said, smiling. Remember this is the legend, the myth you might say, of the origins of the sanctuary. There are many fantastical creatures in Basque mythology, and Herensuge is just one of them. Let me continue. Teodosio learned of Herensuge’s presence from shepherds who also roamed the mountains in the warmer months of the year. They warned him to stay away from her cave, as she ate anything she could get her claws on. After years of roaming the mountains during all the seasons and growing weak from the chains and lack of food, one day, Teodosio mistakenly wandered right up to Herensuge’s cave. There were bones everywhere around the entrance, animal and human.

Ooh, chimed the students in chorus.

I wasn’t surprised. They’d come here to dig up skeletons after all. I looked over at the kitchen window once more, but the inky darkness prevented me from seeing anything outside, and the thundering rain muffled any sound that might have penetrated the dense stone walls. Without any blinds on the windows, I realized that anybody outside would be able to see us clearly without us knowing they were there. I shuddered at the thought, who would brave such terrible weather to spy on our little party? The legend of San Miguel, full of murder and dragons, put me on edge.

Teodosio found a young woman at the dragon’s cave. She’d been offered as a sacrifice to appease Herensuge and stop the dragon from snatching people from the villages and fields. Teodosio told her to run, that he’d take her place. When Herensuge appeared, Teodosio was paralyzed with fear, and the dragon easily snatched him up in her enormous claws. She was just about to scorch him with her fiery breath when Teodosio begged St. Michael to help him.

The room was illuminated momentarily by a strike of lightning, followed by a deep rumbling of thunder. Muffin barked loudly at the noise, her little body shaking with nervous energy. She wasn’t fond of thunderstorms, and if not being held, she’d find some place to hide.

Shhh, I comforted her, and she quieted down. That’s a good girl.

It’s St. Michael come to visit, but Muffin isn’t so certain she wants to meet him, Father Pedro joked, the students laughing nervously. In such an unfamiliar, remote location, everyone but Pedro must have been a little anxious. Well, much like the flash of light we just saw, St. Michael appeared to rescue Teodosio. He held a cross in one hand and a sword in the other. With a quick slash to her throat, he slayed Herensuge, who dropped Teodosio to the ground. Teodosio was in awe of the archangel who’d just saved his life. He got on his knees to thank St. Michael, who used his sword to cut off Teodosio’s chains and told him that God had forgiven him for his sins. He gave Teodosio the chains and told him to keep them nearby as a constant reminder of the dangers of the devil. Teodosio was so happy, he rushed home to find Constanza, who was still waiting for him at the castle all these years later. He told her everything and said he wanted to build a church on Mount Archueta in the Aralar mountain range to honour St. Michael for saving him from the dragon. So with the help of many villagers from all around, Teodosio and Constanza built the sanctuary of San Miguel in Excelsis, and they hung Teodosio’s chains inside the church. We can go see them tomorrow when we have a tour of the sanctuary.

Is San Miguel haunted? Graham asked, leaning forward to get a better view of the priest.

Father Pedro turned his palms up to the ceiling and shrugged. Perhaps that’s something you’ll learn while you’re here.

I scooted Muffin onto the floor and stood up from the table, my limbs aching from sitting in one place for so long. I was about to send the students off to bed when the door to the kitchen swung open, sending a cool breeze rushing into the room, which was otherwise kept warm with a crackling fire, and setting Muffin yapping again. Everyone turned to look at the door as a white figure charged into the room. Though a small scream of surprise interrupted the barking, we were all quick to realize that it was no ghost who’d burst into the kitchen but a person of flesh and blood cloaked in a white bedsheet. Muffin didn’t take kindly to the intruder. Growling, she rushed over and grabbed a pantleg in her mouth. As soon as I saw the blue jeans and cowboy boots below the sheet, I knew very well who’d decided to pull a prank on the rest of us.

Roger, you jerk! Miriam cried, pulling the sheet off a tall and robust student who now wore a sheepish grin on his face.

Sorry, Mrs. Forster, he said, tucking his chin down and peering at me. I just couldn’t resist.

Goodness, I sighed, realizing that Bill and I were in for an eventful field season.

Chapter 2

"bill, did you catch

the name of the lovely young woman who gave us the tomatoes and jam? I asked, pulling myself out of my reverie of our early days at San Miguel. I should write her a note to thank her. It was really very kind, and I’m sure the students will enjoy them immensely."

No response.

I realized then that Bill had drifted away from me once more as we ascended the mountain.

Bill, did you hear me? I shouted.

I wondered if he was losing his hearing.

Suddenly, two gunshots rang out from the forest in quick succession. I gasped sharply as I nearly toppled off the startled donkey. Mauricio kicked up his hind legs and took off running, helter-skelter, up the mountain path. It was the first time he’d picked up his pace since we started climbing. Initially, all I could do was hold tight, my hands clutching the reins and my legs squeezing poor Mauricio with all my might. Once my wits returned, I pulled hard on the reins, my teeth clenched as Mauricio clattered wildly up