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

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.”