Hemlock At Vespers (9 page)

The gulls swooped and cried across the grey granite quay of the island. The blustery winds caught them, causing it to seem as if they had stopped momentarily in their flight, and then they beat their wings at the air and swooped again. The sea was choppy and through its dim grey mist Sister Fidelma could see Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis, heaving up and down over the short waves as it edged in toward the harbor. It was not going to be a pleasant voyage back to the mainland. She sighed.

The boat would be bringing a young priest to the island to take over from Father Patrick. He had fallen into a peaceful sleep and died a few hours after Sister Fidelma had spoken with him.

Fidelma’s choice had been a hard one. She had returned to the
bó-aire’
s cabin and pondered all night over the young magistrate’s official report in the light of what she now knew.

Now she stood waiting for the boat to arrive to take her away from the island. At her side the fresh-faced young magistrate stood nervously.

The boat edged in toward the quay. Lines were thrown and caught, and the few travelers climbed their way to the quay up the ancient rope ladder. The first was a young man, clean-featured and looking appallingly youthful, wearing his habit like a brand-new badge of office. Congal and Corcrain were standing at the head of the quay to greet him.

Sister Fidelma shook her head wonderingly. The priest did not look as if he had learnt yet to shave and already he was “father” to one hundred and sixty souls. She turned and impulsively held out her hand to the young
bó-aire,
smiling.

“Well, many thanks for your hospitality and assistance, Forgartach. I’ll be speaking to the Chief Brehon and to Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne. Then I’ll be glad to get back to my interrupted journey back to my Abbey of Kildare.”

The young man held on to Sister Fidelma’s hand a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his worried eyes searching her face.

“And my report, Sister?”

Sister Fidelma broke away and began her descent, halting a moment on the top rung of the ladder. In spite of the young man’s arrogance, it was wrong to continue to play the cat and mouse with him.

“As you said, Forgartach, it was a straightforward case. The Abbess Cuimne slipped and fell to her death. A tragic accident.”

The young
bó-aire’
s face relaxed and, for the first time, he smiled and raised a hand in salute.

“I have learnt a little wisdom from you,
Anruth
of the Brehon Court,” he said stiffly. “God keep you safe on your journey until you reach your destination!”

Sister Fidelma smiled back and raised a hand.

“Every destination is but a gateway to another, Fogartach,” she answered. Then she grinned her urchin grin before dropping into the stern of the gently rocking currach as it waited for her below.

TARNISHED HALO

Father Allán looked up with a frown from his interrupted devotions as Sister Fidelma opened the door of his
cubiculum
unannounced.

“I am told that you have urgent need of a lawyer,” she said without preamble.

As he scrambled from his knees, making a hasty genuflection to the crucifix that hung on the wall and before which he had been praying, she noticed that his face was graven in lines of anxiety. Once on his feet he turned and surveyed the young religieuse who stood poised within the door frame. From the surprise on his face, she was clearly not what he had been expecting. She was tall, with rebellious strands of red hair escaping from her
cabhal
or headdress; her figure, lithe and vital, clearly indicated a joy in living, scarcely concealed by her habit.

“Are you the
dálaigh
whom I was told to expect?” Father Allán’s voice held an incredulous tone.

“I am Fidelma of Kildare, an advocate of the courts,” affirmed Fidelma. “I am qualified to the rank of
Anruth.”

The Father Superior blinked. The qualification of
Anruth
was only one degree below the highest qualification obtainable either at the ecclesiastic or secular universities of the five kingdoms of Ireland. He swallowed as he eventually remembered his etiquette and thrust out a hand to invite the religieuse in.

“Welcome, Sister. Welcome to our community of piety and peace…”

Fidelma interrupted the ritual greeting with a slight cutting motion of her hand.

“Not so peaceful, I am told,” she observed drily. “I was informed by the Abbot of Lios Mór Mochuda that murder has been committed within these walls and that you have need of the services of a
dálaigh.
I came as soon as I could.”

Father Allán’s lips compressed into a thin line.

“Not exactly within these walls,” he countered pedantically. “Come, walk with me in our gardens and I will endeavour to explain matters.”

He led the way from the tiny grey monastic building which was perched on a rocky outcrop thrusting itself above a forest, and beside which a winding river meandered. The small, religious community had a breathtaking view across the green vegetation toward distinct blue-hazed mountain peaks.

There was a small enclosed garden at the back of a dry-stone-built oratory. A young Brother was hard at work hoeing in a far corner. Father Allán led the way to a granite wall, well out of earshot of the young man, and seated himself. It was midday and the sun was warming and pleasant on the skin. Fidelma followed his example, perching herself on the wall.

“Now… ?” she prompted.

“There has, indeed, been murder committed here, Fidelma of Kildare,” confirmed Father Allán, his tone heavy with sorrow.

“Who was killed, when and how?”

Father Allán waited a moment, as if to gather his thoughts before he spoke.

“Brother Moenach was killed. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“We are many miles from Kildare,” observed Fidelma. “Why would I have heard of this Brother Moenach?”

“He was a saintly youth,” sighed Father Allán. “Yes, a veritable saint. He was a lad of eighteen summers but so steeped in wisdom, in poetry and in song; so serene and calm of nature was he that he was surely blessed by the Living God. His charity and sweet disposition were renowned as much as his musical accomplishments. Abbots and chieftains, even the King of Cashel, sought his musical talent to create solace for their spirits.”

Fidelma raised a cynical eye at Father Allán’s enthusiasm for the virtues of Moenach.

“So an eighteen-year-old member of your house, Brother Moenach, was killed?” she summarized.

The Father Superior of the settlement nodded.

“When?”

“It happened a week ago.”

Fidelma exhaled deeply. That meant that there was little evidence for her to see. And doubtless Brother Moenach had been decently buried many days ago. But she had promised the abbot of Lios Mór Mochuda that she would investigate this affair, for the tiny community fell within his ecclesiastical jurisdiction.

“How?”

“It was a village woman named Muirenn who killed him. We have her locked up to be taken before the chieftain for summary justice…”

“After she has been given a proper hearing before the local Brehon,” interrupted Fidelma. “But I ask ‘how’ not ‘who.’”

Father Allán frowned.

“I do not follow.”

Fidelma restrained her irritation.

“Tell me the facts about this incident as you know them.”

“One evening, Brother Aedo came running to find me. It was shortly before vespers, as I recall. He had been returning through the forest from the village with some vegetables for the settlement when he saw a movement through the trees to one side of the path. Curiosity prompted him to investigate. To his horror, in a clearing, he came upon the body of young Moenach. Kneeling beside him was an old woman of the village, Muirenn. She was holding a rock in her hand. There was blood on the stone and on the head of young Moenach. Brother Aedo fled and came straightaway to tell me of this terrible thing…”

“Fled? Yet you tell me that Muirenn is an old woman? What put such fear into a man of God?”

The Father Superior wondered whether Fidelma was being sarcastic but could not make up his mind.

“Muirenn turned on his approach with such a ghastly look on her face that Aedo was afraid for his life,” Father Allán explained. “If Muirenn could kill Moenach then she could equally kill Aedo.”

“Her guilt is supposition at the moment. Then what? What after Aedo reported the matter to you?”

“Some of us went to the spot. Moenach was still lying there. His skull had been smashed in from behind. A bloodstained rock was lying where Muirenn had apparently discarded it. We hunted for her and found her hiding in her
bothán
in the village…”

“Hiding? Why would she return to her own cabin and her own village? Surely she would have known that she had been seen and recognized? It would be the last place to hide. And how was she hiding? Was she concealed somewhere in the cabin?”

Father Allán shook his head with a soft breath of vexation.

“I do not pretend to understand the workings of her mind. We caught her in her
bothán,
seated before her own hearth. We have been holding her for your interrogation, pending trial before the Brehon.”

“Hardly ‘hiding,’ from what you tell me,” observed Fidelma somewhat scornfully. “And did she admit culpability for the crime and volunteer a reason why she killed Moenach?”

The Father Superior sniffed deprecatingly.

“She claimed to have no knowledge at all of the murder although we have an eyewitness.”

“An eyewitness?” Fidelma’s voice was sharp. “Who is your eyewitness?”

Father Allán looked pained as if dealing with a dim-witted pupil. “Why, Brother Aedo of course.”

“But you told me that he was only an eyewitness to this woman kneeling by the side of Moenach and holding a bloody rock in her hand. That is not an eyewitness to the actual murder.”

Father Allán opened his mouth to protest and then, seeing the angry glint in Fidelma’s eyes… were they green or light blue? … he fell silent. When annoyed, her eyes seem to dance with a curious ice-colored fire.

“I don’t pretend to be learned in law,” he said stubbornly. “I have no time for such nuances.”

“The law text of the
Berrad Airechta
states clearly that a person can only give evidence about what he or she has seen or heard and what does not take place before a witness’s eyes is irrelevant. Nor can hearsay evidence be accepted.”

“But it was obvious…” began Father Allán.

“I am here to deal with law, not supposition,” snapped Fidelma. “And as a
dálaigh,
I would counsel you to be more careful with the words you choose. Tell me more about this… this saintly youth.”

Father Allán heard the slight sarcastic emphasis in her voice. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he should chide her mocking tone, but finally decided to ignore it.

“He was the son of a chieftain of the Uí Fidgente. He displayed a rare gift as a musician, playing the
cruit
like an angel would play a harp. His poetry was sweet and pure. He was given to us for his fosterage when he was seven years of age and, after reaching the age of choice last year, he decided to stay on with us as a member of our community.”

“So he had a reputation as a musician?”

“He would be invited to attend the feastings of chieftains and abbots for miles about here,” Father Allán repeated.

“But what sort of person was he?”

“A pleasing person. Kind, wise, considerate of his brethren and of all who met him. He would always go out of his way to please his superiors and attend their needs. He was especially fond of animals and…”

“Was he beyond all human frailties, then?”

Father Allán took her question seriously and shook his head. With a sniff, Fidelma stood up. The set smile on her face was somewhat false. Father Allán was too full of angelic visions of his acolyte to be of further use to her.

“I would now speak with the woman, Muirenn,” she said. “After that, I wish to see Brother Aedo.”

The Father Superior slid reluctantly from his seat on the wall and indicated that she should follow him to a corner of the settlement buildings.

Muirenn sat in a corner of the small
cubiculum,
perched on the edge of the cot which she had been provided for a bed. She looked up defiantly as Fidelma entered. She was a small, reedlike woman with angry dark eyes, a thrusting jaw and a tumble of greying black hair. She was not really old but it could not be rightfully claimed that she was of middle age.

“I am Fidelma, a
dálaigh
of the courts,” announced Fidelma as she entered. She had asked Father Allán to leave her alone with the prisoner.

The woman, Muirenn, snorted.

“You have come to punish me for something I did not do,” she growled. There was anger in her voice, not fear.

“I am come here to discover the truth,” Fidelma corrected her mildly.

“You whining religious have already decided what is the truth. You should return from whence you came if you mean simply to confirm Allán’s prejudices.”