An Ensuing Evil and Others (41 page)

“I presume someone put it there.”

“Who would have such access to it?”

“I suppose that you are still accusing me? I hated him. But not so that I would cut my own throat. He was a bastard, but he was the goose who laid the golden egg. There was no point in being rid of him.”

“Just so,” muttered Fane thoughtfully. His eye caught sight of a notepad in the case, and he flicked through its pages while Frank Tilley sat looking on in discomfort. Fane found a list of initials with the head, “immediate dismissal” and that day’s date.

“A list of half a dozen people that he was about to sack?” Fane observed.

“I told you that he was going to enjoy a public purge of his executives and mentioned some names to me.”

“The list contains only initials and starts with O. T. E.” He glanced at Tilley with a raised eyebrow. “Oscar Elgee?”

“Hardly,” Tilley replied with a patronizing smile. “It means Otis T Elliott, the general manager of our U.S. database subsidiary.”

“I see. Let’s see if we can identify the others.”

He ran through the other initials to which Tilley added names. The next four were also executives of Gray’s companies. The last initials were written as
Ft
.

“F. T is underscored three times with the words ‘no pay off!’ written against it. Who’s F. T?”

“You know that F. T. are my initials,” Tilley observed quietly. His features were white and suddenly very grave. “I swear that he never said anything to me about sacking me when we discussed those he had on his list. He never mentioned it.”

“Well, was there anyone else in the company that the initials F. T. could apply to?”

Tilley frowned, trying to recall, but finally shook his head and gave a resigned shrug. “No. It could only be me. The bastard! He never told me what he was planning. Some nice little public humiliation, I suppose.”

Hector Ross emerged from the curtained section and motioned Fane to join him. “I think I can tell you how it was done,” he announced with satisfaction.

Fane grinned at his friend. “So can I. Tell me if I am wrong. Gray went into the toilet to use his inhaler to relieve an attack of asthma. He placed the inhaler in his mouth, depressed it in the normal way, and…” He ended with a shrug.

Ross looked shocked. “How did you—?” He glanced over Fane’s shoulder to where Frank Tilley was still sitting, twitching nervously. “Did he confess that he set it up?”

Fane shook his head. “No. But was I right?”

“It is a good hypothesis but needs a laboratory to confirm it. I found tiny particles of aluminium in the mouth, and some plastic. Something certainly exploded with force, sending a tiny steel projectile into the back roof of the mouth with such force that it entered the brain and death was instantaneous, as you initially surmised. Whatever had triggered the projectile disintegrated with the force. Hence there were only small fragments embedded in his mouth and cheeks. There were some when I searched carefully, around the cubicle. Diabolical.”

“This was arranged by someone who knew that friend Gray had a weakness and banked on it. Gray didn’t like to take his inhaler in public and would find a quiet corner. The plan worked out very well and nearly presented an impossible crime, an almost insolvable crime. Initially it appeared that the victim had been shot in the mouth in a locked toilet.”

Hector Ross smiled indulgently at his colleague. “You imply that you already have the solution?”

“Oh yes. Remember the song that we used to sing at school?

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul
.

Hector Ross nodded. “It’s many a day since I last sang that, laddie. Something by Longfellow, wasn’t it?”

Fane grinned. “It was, indeed. Based on some lines from the Book of Genesis—
’terra es, terram ibis’
—dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return.’ Get Captain Evans here, please.” He made the request to the Chief Steward, Jeff Ryder, who had been waiting attendance on Ross. When he had departed, Fane glanced back to his friend. “There is something to be said for Latin scholarship.”

“I don’t follow, laddie.”

“Our murderer was too fond of the Latin in-jokes he shared with his boss.”

“You mean his secretary?” He glanced at Frank Tilley.

“Tilley claims that he couldn’t even translate memento mori.”

“Remember death?”

Fane regarded his friend in disapproval. “It actually means ‘remember
to
die’ and a memento mori is usually applied to a human skull or some other object that reminds us of our mortality.”

Captain Evans arrived and looked from Fane to Ross in expectation. “Well, what news?”

“To save any unpleasant scene on the aircraft, Captain, I suggest you radio ahead and have the police waiting to arrest one of your passengers on a charge of murder. No need to make any move until we land. The man can’t go far.”

“Which man?” demanded Evans, his face grim.

“He is listed as Oscar Elgee in the tourist class.”

“How could he—?”

“Simple. Elgee was not only Grays manservant but I think you’ll find, from the broad hints Mr. Tilley gave me, that he was also his lover. Elgee seems to confirm it by a death note with a Latin phrase in which he emphasized the word
homo
, meaning ‘man,’ but, we also know it was often used as a slang term in my generation for ‘homosexual.’”

“How would you know that Elgee was capable of understanding puns in Latin?” asked Ross.

“The moment he saw Gray’s body, young Elgee muttered the very words.
Terra es, terrarn ibis
—dust you are, to dust you will return.”

“A quarrel between lovers?” asked Ross. “Love to hatred turned—and all that, as Billy Shakespeare succinctly put it?”

Fane nodded. “Gray was giving Elgee the push, both as lover and employee, and so Elgee decided to end his lover’s career in mid-flight, so to speak. There is a note in his attache case that Elgee was to be sacked immediately without compensation.”

Tilley, who had been sitting quietly, shook his head vehemently.

“No there isn’t,” he interrupted. “We went through the list. I told you that the initials O. T. E. referred to Otis Elliott. I had faxed that dismissal through before we boarded the plane.”

Fane smiled softly. “You have forgotten F. T”

“But that’s my—”

“You didn’t share your boss’s passion for Latin tags, did you? It was the F. T. that confused me. I should have trusted that a person with Grays reputation would not have written
F
followed by a lower case
t
if he meant two initials F. T. I missed the point. It was not your initials at all, Mr. Tilley. It was
Ft
meant as an abbreviation. Specifically,
fac
, from
facere:
‘to do’; and
totum:
‘all things.’
Factotum
. And who was Gray’s
factotum?”

There was a silence.

“I think we will find that this murder was planned for a week or two at least. Once I began to realize what the mechanism was that killed Gray, all I had to do was look for the person capable of devising that mechanism as well as having motive and opportunity. Hold out your hands, Mr. Tilley.”

Reluctantly the secretary did so.

“You can’t seriously see those hands constructing a delicate mechanism, can you?” Fane said. “No, Elgee, the model maker and handyman, doctored one of Grays inhalers so that when it was depressed it would explode with an impact into the mouth, shooting a needle into the brain. Simple but effective. He knew that Gray did not like to be seen using the inhaler in public. The rest was left to chance, and it was a good chance. It almost turned out to be the ultimate impossible crime. It might have worked, had not our victim and his murderer been too fond of their Latin in-jokes.”

THE SPITEFUL SHADOW

I
t is so obvious who killed poor Brother Sioda that it worries me.” Sister Fidelma stared in bewilderment at the woebegone expression of the usually smiling, cherubic Abbot Laisran. “I do not understand you, Laisran,” she told her old mentor, pausing in the act of sipping her mulled “wine. She was sitting in front of a blazing fire in the hearth of the abbot s chamber in the great Abbey of’Durrow.

On the adjacent side of the fireplace, Abbot Laisran slumped in his chair, his wine left abandoned on the carved oak table by his side. He was staring moodily into the leaping flames. “Something worries me about the simplicity of this matter. There are things in life that appear so simple that you get a strange feeling about them. You question whether things can be so simple, and sure enough, you often find that they are so simple because they have been made to appear simple. In this case, everything fits together so flawlessly that I question it.”

Fidelma drew a heavy sigh. She had only just arrived at Durrow to bring a psalter, a book of Latin psalms written by her brother, Colgu, King of Cashel, as a gift for the abbot. But she had found her old friend Abbot Laisran in a preoccupied frame of mine. A member of his community had been murdered, and the culprit had been easily identified as another member. Yet it was unusual to see Laisran so worried. Fidelma had known him since she was a little girl, and it was he who had persuaded her to take up the study of law. Further, when she had reached the qualification of
Anruth
, one degree below that of
Ollamh
, the highest rank of learning, it had been Laisran who had advised her to join a religious community on being accepted as a
ddlaigh
, an advocate of the Brehon Court. He had felt that this would give her more opportunities in life.

Usually, Abbot Laisran was full of jollity and good humor. Anxiety did not sit well on his features, for he was a short, rotund, red-faced man. He had been born with that rare gift of humor and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. Now he appeared like a man on whose shoulders the entire troubles of the world rested.

“Perhaps you had better tell me all about it,” Fidelma invited. “I might be able to give some advice.”

Laisran raised his head, and there was a new expression of hope in his eyes. “Any help you can give, Fidelma… Truly, the facts are, as I say, lucid enough. But there is just something about them—” He paused and then shrugged. “I’d be more than grateful to have your opinion.”

Fidelma smiled reassuringly. “Then let us begin to hear some of these lucid facts.”

“Two days ago, Brother Sioda was founded stabbed to death in his cell. He had been stabbed several times in the heart.”

“Who found him and when?”

“He had not appeared at morning prayers. So my steward, Brother Cruinn, went along to his cell to find out whether he was ill. Brother Sioda lay murdered on his bloodstained bed.”

Fidelma waited while the abbot paused, as if to gather his thoughts.

“We have, in the abbey, a young woman called Sister Scathach. She is very young. She joined us as a child because, so her parents told us, she heard things. Sounds in her head. Whispers. About a month ago, our physician became anxious about her state of health. She had become—” He paused as if trying to think of the right word. “—she believed she was hearing voices instructing her.”

Fidelma raised her eyes slightly in surprise.

Abbot Laisran saw the movement and grimaced. “She has always been what one might call eccentric, but the eccentricity has grown so that her behavior became bizarre. A month ago I placed her in a cell and asked one of the apothecary’s assistants, Sister Slaine, to watch over her. Soon after Brother Sioda was found, the steward and I went to Sister Scathachs cell. The door was always locked. It was a precaution that we had recently adopted. Usually the key is hanging on a hook outside the door. But the key was on the inside, and the door was locked. A bloodstained robe was found in her cell and a knife. The knife, too, was bloodstained. It was obvious that Sister Scathach was guilty of this crime.”

Abbot Laisran stood up and went to a chest. He removed a knife whose blade was discolored with dried blood. Then he drew forth a robe. It was clear that it had been stained in blood.

“Poor Brother Sioda,” murmured Laisran. “His penetrated heart must have poured blood over the girl’s clothing.”

Fidelma barely glanced at the robes. “The first question I have to ask is why would you and the steward go straight from the murdered man’s cell to that of Sister Scathach?” she demanded.

Abbot Laisran compressed his lips for a moment. “Because only the day before the murder, Sister Scathach had prophesied his death and the manner of it. She made the pronouncement only twelve hours before his body was discovered, saying that he would die by having his heart ripped out.”

Fidelma folded her hands before her, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. “She was violent then? You say that you had her placed in a locked cell with a Sister to look after her?”

“But she was never violent before the murder,” affirmed the abbot.

“Yet she was confined to her cell?”

“A precaution, as I say. During these last four weeks she began to make violent prophecies. Saying voices instructed her to do so.”

“Violent prophecies but you say that she was not violent?” Fidelma’s tone was skeptical.

“It is difficult to explain,” confessed Abbot Laisran. “The words were violent, but she was not. She was a gentle girl, but she claimed that the shadows from the Otherworld gave her instructions; they told her to foretell the doom of the world, its destruction by fire and flood when mountains would be hurled into the sea and the seas rise up and engulf the land.”

Fidelma pursed her lips cynically. “Such prophecies have been common since the dawn of time,” she observed.

“Such prophesies have alarmed the community here, Fidelma,” admonished Abbot Laisran. “It was as much for her sake that I suggested Sister Slaine make sure that Sister Scathach was secured in her cell each night and kept an eye upon each day.”

“Do you mean that you feared members of the community would harm Sister Scathach rather than she harm members of the community?” queried Fidelma.