A coffin remained completely open in the center of the room. There was still some time before the liturgy began, but the Herrero household was overflowing with people since early in the morning.

The humble little house consisted of a single habitable floor, with just two rooms. The first, which was the smallest and for which entry was restricted, was the bedroom where the couple and their three children usually slept. The second, which was also where the deceased had been laid, corresponded to a small room that served as kitchen and dining room.

They barely had any furniture. The kitchen was identified by the wood stove that remained in one corner, next to a couple of countertops worn by time. A small cupboard was located right next to a table that had been moved to make room for the coffin against the wall.

There were plenty of chairs, though. Not all of them belonged to the Herrero family: Some neighbors had brought their own seats from home and now gathered around the deceased, reciting silent prayers or joining the mourners in a wave of tears and lamentations.

The place was so crowded with people dressed in black that, somehow, I felt like an intruder being the only one dressed in uniform. Of course, I couldn't help it: Even though I didn't come with any ulterior motive, I was still on duty. Therefore, I couldn't just go home and change clothes for the visit.

Anyway, I told myself, I wouldn't stay at the wake for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. There was still plenty to do at the station, with those damned reports for headquarters, and the lieutenant had already agreed to attend the funeral alone on behalf of the force. Which, by the way, meant that while he attended the liturgy, I would have to manage once again with all the paperwork.

One could say, all things considered, that I was taking advantage of my free time to show my respect to the family. An activity that, I won't lie here, didn't thrill me at all.

After offering condolences to the widow, who remained crying but well surrounded by her relatives close to the coffin, I briefly approached the deceased. This was another action I would have paid to avoid, but it was customary for all visitors to approach the coffin at some point, to pray quietly or to lament the loss in silence, showing the Herrero family that the loss was collective and not just theirs.

It might be wrong on my part, but as I approached, compassionate feelings weren't the first thing that came to mind. Perhaps because I had already gone through that phase a few days earlier, when we collected the body, now all I could think about was how relieved I felt that at least they had covered the face of the deceased with a cloth.

Apparently, after Ballejo checked him again in his office, the same people who later laid him in his coffin took care to tidy him up a bit and put on his Sunday suit. No one could repair the wound on his skull or erase the horror expression with which he breathed his last breath, but at least the blood had disappeared and, with the white cloth covering him, his face or the wound were not visible anymore.

I was right to think that the unease of seeing that expression would prevent me from sleeping well for a couple of nights.

Still somewhat overwhelmed by what had happened, I didn't wait for the next person to approach the coffin before leaving. I had seen and heard enough, although the lieutenant might not agree with this. And so, after saying goodbye to a couple of acquaintances I saw on my way out, I finally managed to slip out the door and breathe some fresh air.

The atmosphere inside the house was too heavy, not only because of the crowd gathered there, but also because of the emotions exposed in the face of such a sudden loss. And I, despite also lamenting the death, didn't feel like I still belonged to that community — undoubtedly, because my move to the vicinity was still recent —, I felt too restless to stand still for long in the same place.

"Bad business about Joaquín," commented a middle-aged man casually, approaching me.

He must have been one of the family's neighbors. And since there was no available space inside the house, several people had stayed outside, in front of the facade, talking to each other or taking the opportunity to smoke a cigarette.

"A pity, no doubt. He was too young."

"Death doesn't discriminate between young and old," continued the man, who later introduced himself as Farelo, "but I must say I was surprised that he died in such a way. You know, Joaquín was never very inclined to go to the plantations."

"I thought he had friends working in the vineyards. Or at least, that's what the lieutenant and I were told."

"Oh, he certainly did! Almost everyone knew him in those parts, it's just that he preferred his job at the town hall and, therefore, only went to the vineyards on rare occasions, during busy times, if a neighbor needed some extra help."

"He must have been a very good person," I thought aloud, wondering if the theory that there had been some kind of emergency requiring his help in the middle of the night would still be plausible.

"He was, never got into trouble and was always willing to lend a hand. I could swear the only bad thing he ever did in his life was steal the communion wine when, at twelve or thirteen, he was appointed an altar boy at the parish. But then again, who hasn't stolen that at some point?"

Certainly, I couldn't deny that it was common among young boys. Especially me, who spent several years studying in a school run by priests in the city, I knew those tricks well.

"It must have been a terrible coincidence. What happened in the Ribera with Herrero, I mean. 'Accidents happen,' and all that. Not only was I instructed to put aside my insensitive questions during those days when the whole village was in mourning, I myself wanted to suppress my suspicions for the moment and not pose any questions to those who had once fraternized with Herrero. It was better to wait until they let their guard down... If there was any culprit. If not, I even preferred it to continue being, as the papers already indicated, an accident."

"Nonsense, what kind of lunatic would take a stroll through hills he detests and in the wee hours? Moreover, without informing the family, sneaking out of bed like that! Joaquín was no fool."

"Maybe if there had been an emergency..." I murmured, recalling my conversation with the lieutenant.

"Neither emergency, nor various nonsense. If they had set fire to the mountain, or some violent altercation had occurred, they would have notified you instead of a simple civilian."

I discreetly smiled at hearing that. He was right.

"Moreover, there is a certain point in the Ribera where the streetlights no longer reach. It's almost suicide to go around there alone at night, for good reason!"

"Well, there were no signs that Herrero was accompanied, that someone tried to threaten him in any way. Isn't it most logical to think that it was all a coincidence?"

"Neither coincidences, nor desire to walk in the dark, much less someone with a desire to murder a poor devil! How did they come up with that last one, by the way? In these villages we're not like that, and Taboada should know that perfectly well."

"Then..."

"What are you suggesting?" I wanted to ask. But apparently, my insistence wasn't necessary, as Farelo continued without assistance:

"It must have been the Santa."

"The Santa?" I repeated confused.

Even more than in the city, these village people were devout to the point of exhaustion, never missing a Sunday Mass. Therefore, blaming a saint or even God for any misfortune was unheard of.

Perhaps Farelo instantly sensed my confusion because he immediately exclaimed, as if I were a fool who needed everything explained in detail to understand:

"The Santa Compaña, what else could it be!"

Now, this made a little more sense, although it still seemed insane.

The Santa Compaña was a local legend, an old wives' tale to scare children. According to popular belief, the Santa Compaña was a procession of souls in torment that wandered the roads between villages, once night fell, in search of people who were about to die. Their main objective, therefore, was not the living. But, in case they encountered one while on their way to their destination... Well, nothing good awaited them.

"Do you believe in such things?" I asked with some skepticism.

I had heard such superstitions before, but I had never associated them with something to fear at this time of year. I was aware that even today, many shepherds gathered their flocks early to avoid coming face to face with the cursed procession, but all these stories were foreign to me.

Or they were until Farelo began to tell me with all seriousness:

"A great-uncle of mine encountered them one night, near the parish cemetery, when he was returning from a relative's house. At first, he thought it might have been the wind, or even a cat wandering around and moving the branches when climbing down from a tree. But no, none of that. It was a procession of men completely enveloped in tunics that covered them from head to toe, carrying candles to light the way. Obviously, my uncle couldn't see their faces or the panic he felt then allowed him to stay and watch where they were heading, but it's taken for granted that it was the Santa!"

"And could he save himself?"

The answer was obvious, otherwise the grandson wouldn't be telling me this charade. But I preferred to play dumb rather than say out loud what I was thinking.