Hemlock At Vespers (21 page)

“Why so quickly, Mother Abbess?”

“Sillán was an important man. He was in this territory at the request of the Uí Failgi of Ráith Imgain.”

Sister Fidelma realized what this meant.

Kildare stood in the territory of the petty kingdom of the Uí Failgi. The royal residence of the kings of the Uí Failgi was situated at the fortress of Ráith Imgain, to the northwest of Kildare on the edge of the wasteland known as the Bog of Aillín. Several questions sprung into her mind but she bit her lip. They could be asked later. It was clear that the Abbess had no wish to incur the enmity of Congall, the petty king of the territory, who was known simply as the Uí Failgi, for, under the Brehon Law, the petty king and his assembly granted the land to the community of Kildare and they could just as easily drive the community out if displeased. All ecclesiastical lands were granted by the clan assemblies for there was no such thing as private property within the kingdom of Ireland. Land was apportioned and allotted at the decision of the assemblies which governed the tribes and kingdoms.

“Who was this man Sillán, Mother Abbess?” asked Sister Fidelma. “Was he a representative of the Uí Failgi?”

It was Sister Ethne who volunteered the information, punctuating the sentences with sniffs.

“He was an
uchadan,
an artificer who worked in the mines of Kilmantan; so Follaman, who looks after our hostel, told me.”

“But what was he doing here?”

Did the Abbess cast a warning glance at Sister Ethne? Sister Fidelma caught only an involuntary movement of Sister Ethne’s eyes toward the Abbess and by the time Fidelma glanced in her direction the Abbess’s features were calm and without expression. Fidelma exhaled softly.

“Very well, Mother Abbess. I will undertake the inquiry. Do I have your complete authority to question all whom I would wish to?”

“My child, you are a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court.” The Abbess smiled thinly. “You are an advocate qualified to the level of
Anruth.
You do not need my authority under law. You have the authority of the Brehons.”

“But I need your permission and blessing as head of my community.”

“Then you have it. You may use the
tech-screpta,
the library chamber, to work in. Let me know when you have something to report. Go with God. Benedictus sit Deus in Donis Suis.”

Sister Fidelma genuflected.

“Et sanctus in omnis operibus Suis,
” she responded automatically.

Sister Ethne had placed two rough, unglazed earthenware lamps, their snouts fashioned to support a wick, to light the dark shadowy vault which was the
tech-screpta,
the great library of the community which housed all the books and treasures of the House of the Blessed Brigid. Sister Fidelma sat at the library table, in the chair usually occupied by the
leabhar-coimdaech,
the librarian who guarded the great works contained in the chamber. The treasure trove of manuscript books hung in rows in the finely worked leather book satchels around the great chamber. The
tech-screpta
of Kildare even boasted many ancient “rods of the
fili,”
wands of hazel and aspen on which Ogham script was carved from an age long before the scribes of Ireland had decided to adopt the Latin alphabet with which to record their learning.

The
tech-screpta
was chilly in spite of the permanent fire which was maintained there to stop dampness corroding the rows of books.

Sister Ethne, as steward of the community, had volunteered to aid Sister Fidelma by finding and bringing to her anyone she wished to examine. She sniffed as she endeavored to adjust the lamps to stop abrasive smoke and reeking tallow odor from permeating the library chamber.

“We will start by confirming the cause of Sillán’s death,” Sister Fidelma announced, once she had noticed that Sister Ethne had finished her self-appointed task. After a moment’s reflection she went on: “Ask the Sister-apothecary to join me here.”

Sister Poitigéir was nervous and birdlike in her movements, reminding Sister Fidelma of a crane, moving with a waddling apprehensiveness, now and then thrusting her head forward on her long neck in an abrupt jerking motion which seemed to threaten to throw the head forward off the neck altogether. But Sister Fidelma had known the Sister-apothecary since she had joined the community at Kildare and knew, too, that her anxious idiosyncrasy disguised a keen and analytical mind when it came to the science of botany and chemistry.

“What killed Sillán of Kilmantan?”

Sister Poitigéir pursed her lips a moment, thrusting her head forward quickly and then drawing it back.

“Conium maculatum,”
she pronounced breathlessly.

“Poison hemlock?” Sister Fidelma drew her brows together.

“There was no questioning the convulsions and paralysis. He expired even as we carried him from the refectory hall. Also…” she hesitated.

“Also?” encouraged Sister Fidelma.

Sister Poitigéir bit her lower lip for a moment and then shrugged.

“I had noticed earlier this afternoon that ajar containing powdered leaves of the plant had been removed from my apothecary. They were there this morning but I noticed they were missing two hours before vespers. I meant to report the matter to the Mother Abbess after the service.”

“Why do you keep such a poison in your apothecary?”

“Properly administered, it can have good medicinal use as a sedative and anodyne. It serves all spasmodic affections. We not only have it in our apothecary but we grow it in our gardens which are tended by myself and Follaman. We grow many herbs. Hemlock can heal many ailments.”

“And yet it can kill. In ancient Greece we are told that it was given to criminals as a means of execution and among the Jews it was given to deaden the pain of those being stoned to death. I have heard it argued that when Our Lord hung upon the Cross He was given vinegar, myrrh and hemlock to ease His pain.”

Sister Poitigéir nodded several times in swift, jerky motions.

Sister Fidelma paused a moment or two.

“Was the poison administered in the food served in the refectory?”

“No.”

“You seem positive,” Sister Fidelma observed with some interest.

“I am. The effect of the poison is not instantaneous. Additionally, I have checked the food taken to the refectory for the evening meal. There is no sign of it having been contaminated.”

“So are you saying that the poison was administered before Sillán entered the refectory?”

“I am.”

“And was it self-administered?”

Sister Poitigéir contrived to shrug.

“Of that, I have no knowledge. Though I would say it is most unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Because taking poison hemlock results in an agonizing death. Why drink hemlock and then enter into the refectory for an evening meal if one knows one is about to die in convulsions?”

It was a point that seemed reasonable to Sister Fidelma.

“Have you searched Sillán’s chamber and the guest quarters for the missing jar of powdered hemlock leaves?”

Sister Poitigéir gave a quick, nervous shake of her head.

“Then I suggest that is your next and immediate task. Let me know if you find it.”

Sister Fidelma asked to see Follaman next. He was a big burly man, not a religieux but a layman hired by the community to take care of the guest quarters. Each community employed a
timthirig,
or servant, to look after its
tech-óired.
It was Follaman’s job to look after the wants of the male guests and to undertake the work that was too heavy for the female members of the community and assist the Sisters in the harder chores of the community’s gardens.

Follaman was a broad-shouldered, foxy-haired man, with ruddy complexion and watery blue eyes. His face was dashed with freckles as if a passing cart had sprayed mud upon him. He was in his mid-forties, a man without guile rather like a large boy, still with the innocent wonder of youth. In all, a simple man.

“Have you been told what has transpired here, Follaman?”

Follaman opened his mouth, showing blackened teeth. Sister Fidelma noticed, with some distaste, that he obviously did not regard his personal cleanliness as a priority.

He nodded silently.

“Tell me what you know about Sillán.”

Follaman scratched his head in a bemused fashion.

“He was a guest here.”

“Yes?” she encouraged. “When did he arrive at Kildare?”

Follaman’s face lightened with relief. Sister Fidelma realized that she had best put direct questions to the man for he was not the quickest wit she had encountered. She assessed him as slow in thought, without perceptive subtleness.

“He came here eight nights ago, Cailech.” Follaman addressed all the Sisters formally by the title “Cailech,” the term given by the lay people to all religieuses meaning “one who has taken the veil” from the term
caille,
signifying a veil.

“Do you know who he was? What brought him here?”

“Everyone knows that, Cailech.”

“Tell me. For I have been away from Kildare these last two weeks.”

“Ah, yes. That is so,” agreed the big man, having paused a moment to examine what Sister Fidelma said. “Well, Cailech, Sillán told me that he was a
bruithneóir,
a smelter, from the mines in the Kilmantan mountains.”

“What mines would those be, Follaman?”

“Why, the gold mines, Cailech. He worked in the gold mines.”

Sister Fidelma successfully prevented her eyes from widening.

“So why was he in Kildare? Surely, there are no gold mines here?”

“It is said that the Uí Failgi asked him to come here.”

“Indeed? But do you know why?”

Follaman shook his head of ruddy hair.

“No, Cailech, that I do not. He spent but little time in the guest house, sleeping there and then leaving at daybreak only to return for the evening meal.”

“To your knowledge, where was Sillán during this afternoon?”

The big man scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“It was today that he came back early and stayed in his chamber in the guest house.”

“Was he there all afternoon?”

Follaman hesitated. “He went to see the Abbess soon after he returned. He was with her a while and then he emerged from her chamber with anger on his face. Then he returned to his own chamber.”

“Did he say what had angered him?”

“No, Cailech. I asked him whether he required anything. That being my duty.”

“And did he call for refreshment?”

“Only for water… no, he asked for mead. Nothing else.”

“Did you take the mead to him?”

“I did. In a stone jar from the kitchens.”

“Where is it now?”

“I have not tidied the guest house. I think it must still be there.”

“Do you know what poison hemlock is?”

“It is a bad thing. That I know.”

“Do you know what it looks like? The shape and color of the plant?”

“I am only a poor servant, Cailech. I would not know. Sister Poitigéir would know such things.”

“So Sillán called for mead. And you took it to him. Did he drink straightaway, or did you leave the jar with him?”

“I left it with him.”

“Could anyone have tampered with the jar?”

Follaman’s brow creased with a concentration of effort.

“I would not know, Cailech. They could, I suppose.”

Sister Fidelma smiled. “Never mind, Follaman. Tell me, are you sure that Sillán stayed in the
tech-óired
all afternoon until vespers?”

Follaman frowned and then shook his head slowly.

“That I would not be sure of. It seemed so to me. And he began preparing to leave the abbey at first light. He packed his bags and told me to ensure that I had saddled his chestnut mare in readiness.” Follaman hesitated and continued sheepishly. “That was when he had to accompany me to the stables, Cailech. So, yes, he did leave the hostel after all.”

“For what purpose did he go to the stables with you?” frowned Sister Fidelma, puzzled.

“Why, to show me his horse. We have several whose shades are the same to me. You see, I lack the ability to tell one color from another.”

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips. Of course, she had forgotten that Follaman was color-blind. She nodded and smiled encouragingly at the big man.

“I see. But Sillán made no mention of what had angered him, or why he had decided to depart?”

“No, Cailech. He just said that he was bound for Ráith Imgain, that is all.”

The door opened and Sister Poitigéir returned. Sister Fidelma glanced toward her and the Sister-apothecary nodded swiftly in her birdlike manner.

Follaman looked from one to the other, puzzled.

“Is that all, Cailech?”

Sister Fidelma smiled reasuringly.

“For the time being, Follaman.”

The big man left the library room. Sister Fidelma sat back and studied the closed oak door with a frown. There was a discordant bell ringing distantly in her mind. She rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment, exhaling in annoyance as her thoughts became no clearer. Then she turned to the anxious Sister Poitigéir with an inquiring gaze.

“I found a jug of mead in the chamber occupied by Sillán. While the mead disguises the unpleasant odor of the hemlock, nevertheless I was able to discern its traces. A draught of such a mixture would be enough to kill a strong man. But there was no sign of the bowl of crushed leaves taken from the apothecary.”

“Thank you, Sister Poitigéir,” Fidelma nodded. She waited until the Sister-apothecary had left before she stretched back into her chair and sighed deeply.

Sister Ethne regarded her with perplexity.

“What now, Sister? Is your inquiry over?”

Sister Fidelma shook her head.

“No it is not over, yet, Sister Ethne. Far from it. There is, indeed, a mystery here. Sillán was murdered. I am sure of it. But why?”

There came a sudden sound of a commotion from the gates of the abbey which were usually shut just after vespers and not opened until dawn. Sister Ethne frowned and strode as rapidly as dignity allowed to the window of the
tech-screpta.