A MASS FOR THE DEAD (17 page)

From the little I remembered of my mother I felt sure she would not have approved of my father’s death, but, for myself, despite my mixed feelings about the matter, I still felt some sympathy with Aunt Morag’s point of view. I went on to tell her of Sheena’s death.

“And wasn’t she just no better than she should have been, the sly harlot.”

“Well, whatever Auntie, I am not thinking that either of them deserved to die in such a fashion,” I finally said. “And himself in Finlaggan is not thinking so either, certainly not a prior of the Church. It will make trouble with the King in Edinburgh, and with the Holy Father himself, and surely he will not be wanting that.”

My great-aunt grudgingly agreed that that was so.

“In fact,” I continued, speaking with some sense of self-importance, “he is wanting me to solve the mystery.”

“And so it was for that you were looking to know where Uisdean and Dougall had gone? Shame on you Muirteach, to be thinking of that at all.” I felt abashed.

“There seems to be no one on Colonsay or on Oronsay who could have done it, Auntie, so I thought at least to check here,” I said, by way of excuse.

“Uisdean and Dougall were already young men when their sister, your mother, was put aside by that black-hearted snake. And I am not thinking they would be waiting until now to be taking revenge, if that is what they were going to do about it all. But they have done nothing about it, Muirteach, for what with your father being His Lordship's Prior and all, they were not wanting to get on the wrong side of himself.”

“Aye,” I agreed, in a sense relieved. Things could get quite touchy for my uncles if their clan chief was against them, especially if that chief happened to be the all-mighty Lord of the Isles. I had not seriously believed that my uncles would have taken all that upon themselves, all for a wayward older sister who had been too headstrong to keep herself out of trouble.

“Himself is aye anxious to have this affair solved,” I continued after a minute, by way of making conversation. “He was sending his own physician, Fearchar Beaton, to help with it.”

“I know the man,” said my aunt. “A fine physician, he is indeed. Were you knowing, Muirteach, that when he travels a far way they are sending his medical book by land, or on another boat, so that it will not be getting lost if his ship founders in the sea?”

I had not known of that. He had not been bringing that text with him to Colonsay, I guessed. He had not come there to examine the living, after all.

“I hear they have land here in the Rhinns,” I said.

“Aye, they do,” said my aunt. Over the other side of Loch Gorm. In Balinaby, it is, near to the standing stone.

“What was the Beaton finding, when he looked at the corpse?” my aunt asked after a pause, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“It was a grisly murder, Auntie. Whoever killed him hit my father on the head from behind, then strangled him with a bowstring. And then, finally, stuffed his mouth with sand from the Strand.”

Eilidh had listened quietly to all this discussion. Finally she spoke. “I am knowing Mariota, the Beaton’s daughter.”

“Aye?” I asked. “Where are you knowing her from? Balinaby?”

Eilidh nodded, the brown plaits of her hair swinging a little with the motion. “She was here, a day or so hence, was she not, Auntie? But she did not speak of the murders, at all. She is to be married soon. To a MacNeill, it is. From Mull.”

“Is that so?” I answered, trying to sound unconcerned. Mariota had not mentioned a betrothal, but then, I had not asked her. I told myself that I was surprised anyone was wanting to marry her, with that sharp tongue she had. But apparently someone did.

“And what was she wanting here?” I asked, although privately, I realized she had been investigating, as she had promised to do.

“Och, she was just visiting, that was the whole of it, Muirteach. We were speaking of women’s concerns.”

And that was all Eilidh or my aunt would say of that matter.

* * * * *

Seamus and I spent that night and the next day with my great-aunt. It was not possible, after not seeing my Islay relatives for so long, to leave abruptly. For my part, I enjoyed the time we spent there. There were no other close relations there to query. The plague had hit my mother’s family hard, that same time that she herself had died, and so, after ascertaining that Uisdean or Dougall could not have committed the crime, I relaxed for a time, and basked in the loving attentions of my great-aunt. I felt unencumbered, freer than since before my father’s murder, for all that I had not yet solved it.

And I am thinking that Seamus enjoyed his time on Islay as well. At least, it seemed he greatly enjoyed taking the time to flirt with Eilidh, as she went about her tasks. I heard him humming the words to “Nut-Brown Maiden” quietly when he thought I would not be hearing.

One thing nagged at my memory, and finally, the last afternoon of our visit, I remembered what it was.

“Were you knowing, Auntie, of a boy who went to the Priory a little before I did, and then did not like it, and left?”

My aunt’s fingers never stopped picking the fleece she was preparing for carding, but her rheumy blue eyes took on a faraway look as she thought.

“An Islay boy, you are saying? How old would he be being?”

I tried to remember what Donal had said. “A bit older than myself. I am thinking he may have come from Islay, but perhaps he was not coming from the Rhinns.”

“Wait now, Muirteach, I am remembering something. I am thinking that one of those MacKerral’s from over near Kilchioman, sent a boy to the Priory a bit before you yourself were going there. It was a long time ago, but I am remembering because I was thinking, at the time, that perhaps the lad would prove to be company for you. Now was it a MacKerral? Or a MacCrimmon? Aye, I am thinking it would have been a MacKerral.”

“From Kilchioman?” That was not so far away, after all, and on the way to Balinaby. Perhaps we would stop by there before returning to Colonsay.

“Was I not just saying as much?”

“Do you remember his mother’s name?”

My aunt’s fingers stopped picking the fleece a moment as she thought. “Alsoon was his mother. She was married to Iain, I am thinking. And they lived a way out from the village, not as far as Dun Chroisprig, but in that direction.”

So it was that the next day we left Kilchiaran and sailed a bit up the coast, beaching the boat on the sands of Traigh Mhachir. A young boy taking cattle to pasture was happy enough to point us in the direction of Alsoon and Iain’s steading, which sat in the shadow of Dun Chroisprig, not too far from the end of the beach.

So intent were we on looking back at the beauty of Mhachir Bay, that we nearly missed the house. A tiny holding it was, the weathered gray stones of the walls of the house blending in so well with the stones on the green slopes of the hills, that we nearly walked past the place, until the noise and movement of a woman turning peats by the side of the house alerted us to the dwelling. She was an old woman, with gray strands of hair hanging down about her face. She wore no kerch and had a suspicious look to her eyes. Her clothing hung about her, somewhat ragged, and the wet peats had stained her hands and feet a dark brown.

“Who is it, then?” asked the woman.

Guessing that this might be Alsoon, I introduced myself as Morag’s nephew. Alsoon knew of my aunt, and she invited us to sit down and refresh ourselves. The ale she served tasted somewhat sour on the tongue, but I drank all of it despite that, for the heat of the summer day.

“I am looking for your son,” I finally said. “Is he here?”

Alsoon looked puzzled. “You are knowing my son?”

“I knew him long ago,” I lied. “At the Priory on Oronsay.”

The old woman spat on the ground. “Be away with you, then, if you are from that place.”

“Mistress,” I tried to calm her, “I left the place. Do you take me for a monk?”

“You do not have the look of the monks,” she grudgingly admitted, after a moment.

“When were you last seeing your son?” I asked. “What became of him?”

“Och, he stops now and again, when he is in the area. But he has the wanderlust in him, he does, and someday he will leave and when he returns I will be in the ground, with never a son to mourn at my wake or wrap me in my shroud. But he was just here, oh, a week or so ago, it was.”

“And how long was he staying?”

“For a few days. Then he was away again. What are you wanting him for?” she asked, her voice suspicious.

“I am wanting to speak with him. Can you tell me where did he go?”

“You are not knowing him at all, are you?” she suddenly turned and stared at me, her eyes sharp and hard. “Whyever are you looking for him, then? And to think I was giving you drink, and all
—
get yourselves gone from here,” she sputtered. “I’ll be telling you no more of him!”

Chapter 15

A
fter that dismissal Seamus and I sailed a bit further up the coast to Balinaby, around Carn Mor, and beached the small boat on Saligo Bay. We then walked the short distance inland to Balinaby, past the old standing stone. The old abbey of the culdees had been abandoned after the Norse raids, and now the Beatons held the land. It was easy to find the Beaton’s house, surrounded as it was by a fine herb garden. A grand enough house it looked to be, the garden enclosed by a low stone wall, the thatch neatly held down and all in fine order. I wondered if Mariota remained here, or if she had gone back to Finlaggan.

We found out soon enough, for of a sudden someone stood up from behind the wall. Mariota had been weeding, apparently, for her skirts were kilted up around her waist, revealing her pretty calves, and her hands were full of some plant or another. She wiped her hands on her apron and greeted us. She smiled, and I grinned foolishly in return to see her there.

“Muirteach—whatever is it that is bringing you here to Islay? And Seamus—”

“I had it in my mind to visit my relatives here for myself, to see where they were during the murders,” I muttered, suddenly self-conscious.

She nodded. “Aye, and were finding out just what I did. Your uncles were away and could not have been doing it.”

“Well, why were you not sending word and saving me the trip, then? And why did you not mention the murders to my Aunt?”

She smiled a little. “Perhaps I was wishing to see you, Muirteach. But if you have already been on the island here with your relatives for two or three days, how are you to know I was not sending you word? ‘'Tis you who are the impatient one.”

“And how can I not be,” I retorted, “with himself breathing down my back like MacPhee’s black dog, to be solving this matter?”

“Speaking of dogs,” she retorted, with the sunlight shining on the gold of her hair, “where is Somerled? Were you leaving that great dog of yours at home, then, Muirteach?”

Seamus, totally ignored by the both of us, pretended interest in the lavender patch and some comfrey, while Mariota and I glared at each other a moment. Then she laughed her silvery laugh, and said, “Come away in then, the both of you, and I will get you some refreshment.”

“And so are you alone here? Where is your father?” I asked, after she had settled us with a cool glass of barley water, herbed with lemon balm, spiced and sweetened with honey. Although I told myself I would have preferred claret, the sweet coolness of the drink was refreshing on the hot day. And there was no denying it quenched the thirst.

“My father is away at Finlaggan. But my aunt bides here, with my cousin. For someone must stay to mind the garden, Muirteach. It does not weed itself, you know. She is away this afternoon, at a birth up towards Ardnave. It is a first baby and I am not thinking we will be seeing my aunt until tomorrow. Robbie is away fishing. He will be back when the shadows lengthen.”

I wanted to ask her about her betrothal to the nameless MacNeill that Eilidh had spoken of, but I did not. For it was no business of mine, after all, if the daughter of the Beaton went and got herself married. Marry she should, I thought sourly, and soon, for otherwise she is like to become an old maid. At least that MacNeill would take her.

My thoughts troubled me, and I busied my mind looking around the room. There was a fine large table under the window that served as a desk, from the look of it. On it were piled papers and many books. More books rested on a shelf nearby; the whole family of the Beatons looked to be rare ones for the reading.

I walked over and examined them,
The Odyssey
, and other works of the ancient Greeks, intrigued me. They sat beside other books, medical treatises mostly, among them
De Re Medicina
, and the
Lilium Medicinae
. At the time those works had little meaning to me, although now I know them somewhat better.

Bunches of herbs hung from the rafters to dry and gave the house a sweet, grassy smell. The beaten floor was covered with rushes. All seemed in neat order. As I looked at a small wooden cupboard hanging from the whitewashed wall I realized Mariota was asking me something. “What was it you were saying?” I asked.

Mariota made a little face. “You are wearied, Muirteach, that is plain enough. I was asking what news there was from Colonsay. What else have you been finding out, since I was last there?”

I told her. After all the dead ends we had found here on Islay, I was more and more of the mind that it was Gillecristus who had done these things. Which would not be making me a popular man with His Lordship, at all.

“Where is himself these days?” I asked.

“Why? Do you have news for him?” asked Mariota.

I shrugged my shoulders, as though I did not care, but felt a fear deep in my gut. “I have no idea who has done these murders. Unless it was Gillecristus. Have you seen His Lordship? Was he asking about it, then?”

“He mentioned it to my father.”

“And what was your father telling him?”

She smiled, her blue eyes twinkling a bit. “Och, my father told him of the second murder, and how that had made the whole situation here all the more complicated.”

“And?”