Page 88 of A Shade Too Far
“I’m familiar with the term.” An antisemitic conspiracy theory whereby Jews were accused of killing Christian children and using their blood for religious rituals, most notably, to make matzoh. Jews were tortured and murdered in retaliation, often after a sham of a trial, the charges at their height in the Middle Ages. “Torquemada. Was he involved in some cases?”
“Oh yes. There was one in particular where a number of Jews were charged with blood libel, confessing under torture, and placed on trial by Torquemada’s inquisitors. Later, they were burned at the stake in Avila, Spain. The murdered child, whose body was never found, became canonized, as many of these alleged victims were, and known as the Holy Child of La Guardia.”
I sat up, the blanket falling in a pool to my waist. “How do the gloves fit into it?” I couldn’t help the excitement in my voice. I’d found a previously unknown puzzle piece and these librarians had slotted it into the larger context of history.
She chuckled, appreciating my curiosity, and there were more typing sounds. “Torquemada was supposed to preside over this trial but it was moved, and instead, he personally appointed the judges. The entire purpose was to create a conspiracy that Jews and Conversos intended to destroy Christianity and the Inquisition itself.”
Conversos were those Jews who had been forced into conversion. To the public at that time, they’d still been seen as Jews. I sorted through my shaky historical data of that era. “Was this trial before or after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain?”
“Before. It was, in essence, the PR campaign designed to get public opinion on the Inquisition’s side for that very expulsion.”
I sagged back against the plush velvet headboard. “Holy crap. And the gloves?”
She clapped her hands, sounding positively giddy. “Some of Torquemada’s torture methods involved skinning both suspects and their families. While we didn’t find any specific mention of gloves, we did learn of a book bound in human skin with a half-circle mark, which turned out to be a fingerprint of the victim. Now, if that’s the case here?”
I sat forward, my words rushed and my eyes wide. “Then the gloves are physical proof of that witch hunt. An actual relic documenting a terrible chapter in history.”
“Is there any way you can get hold of them and send them to us?”
My bubble burst because I knew something that she didn’t.
That she could never learn.
The half circle wasn’t a fingerprint. Or, rather, if it was, it wasn’t a human one. Naveen wouldn’t have gotten that detail wrong, Santiago wouldn’t have hidden the gloves behind deadly booby traps, and the female Banim Shovavim certainly wouldn’t be killing people to get her hands on a pair that did nothing. Even Laurent, who’d debunked a ring known as Ghost Minder as nothing more than a story, accepted the demonic nature of these gloves.
The rest of the tale could all be true, but at some point, a demon had gotten hold of the Torquemada Gloves and cursed them.
“I’m afraid they’re owned by a private collector,” I said, “and he won’t part with them. Is there any way to do further research without them?”
She sighed. “Not really. Even if we did have them, the chances of revealing anything further, or authenticating them, would be slim, but it was worth asking.”
“I’m sorry.” And I was. It would have been a big deal to share this hypothesis with the academic world. What other puzzles could this piece have unlocked, giving us a glimpse into our past and into the human condition? But, like so much else, it would remain a secret, known only to a few. “I hope I didn’t waste your time.”
“Not at all. It was a delightful pursuit. But if you do learn anything more, please let me know.”
I assured her I would and hung up. As intriguing as it all was, it didn’t illuminate Zev’s motives for hanging on to them.
With everything still in limbo, I crashed, awoken what felt like minutes later by Emmett.
“She’s up,” he said. “And in a mood.”
Yawning, I pushed my hair out of my face and wiped away my eye granola. Telling Emmett that I’d be down shortly, I dragged myself into the bathroom. My period was finished—huzzah!—but I looked like shit, with deep bags under my dull eyes.
Showering, I put myself together as best as I could, given I hadn’t packed conditioner, hair product, or decent clothing. The best I could do was throw my hair in a ponytail and hope my denim swing skirt with the ratty hem and the yellow blouse with the tiny buttons that gaped, straining across my chest, didn’t elicit snide comments. Apparently, in my haste and distress last night, I’d grabbed the clothes intended for the second-hand store.
No matter. Be it a designer gown or a burlap sack, it was time to face the dragon.
