My Lady Judge (18 page)

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Authors: Cora Harrison

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective

BOOK: My Lady Judge
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‘Well, there’s Hugh,’ said Shane thoughtfully. ‘He had a motive because Colman was blackmailing him, so fear would be his motive. And he had opportunity. And it was his knife.’
‘It wasn’t Hugh,’ said Mara swiftly. ‘Colman had bruises and scrapes on his hands where someone had wrestled the knife out of his grasp. Hugh is not strong enough to do that. And, also, the footprints seemed to show that two men wrestled there at the spot where Colman was killed. Both sets of footmarks were too big for Hugh’s feet.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Shane agreeably. ‘Anyway, he told me that he didn’t do it. He swore to me on his father’s honour.’
‘Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,’ said Hugh resentfully.
‘Well, I was just putting the case,’ said Shane equably. ‘A good lawyer has to put aside all emotion. That’s right, isn’t it, Brehon?’
Mara nodded slightly. Shane had the mind of a lawyer, she thought. With his good brain and his wonderful memory he would make a good one. She wasn’t so sure about Hugh.
‘Was Colman blackmailing anyone else, other than Hugh, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan. She looked at him with interest. Yes, he would make a good Brehon. She would discuss the matter with him afterwards in confidence, she thought. Enda was too immature and the others too young.
‘That certainly should be one line of enquiry,’ she said approvingly. ‘I think, though, we should first concentrate on who had opportunity and this is where you can all help me. Perhaps if the weather is fine tomorrow then I’ll make out a list for you and you can take your pens and tablets and go around the Burren making enquiries. Now, get out your sets of wisdom texts and see if you can learn at least ten new texts off by heart.’
URAIRECHT BECC (SMALL PRIMER)
A stone-cutter has an honour price of three séts
.
This is less than half the price of a stonemason
.
If a stone
-
cutter accidentally injures another during the course of his lawful work
,
he does not have to pay any fine or compensation
.
 
 
A
S SOON AS THE BELL for vespers sounded Mara and Fachtnan set off on their horses, going towards Corcomroe through the fields in the mountain gap. The rain had stopped, but there was a fresh wind from the Atlantic blowing strongly in their faces and the ground was soft. This was land where shale and heavy mud had formed a layer over the limestone: the wet fields were bright green with new rushes and sprinkled with marsh marigolds and cuckoo flowers, but the mud was near to the surface and the horses’ feet sank at every step. Mara felt irritated by their slow pace; she had a lot to do. The sooner that this murder was solved, the sooner life could go back to normal. She was relieved when they came out on to the stony lane which led to the sea.
‘The MacClancys are only just coming out of the schoolhouse,’ said Fachtnan. ‘They must work an hour later than us. Unlucky!’
‘Lucky!’ said Mara with satisfaction. Fergus would be still there and she might get this business of young Oscar O’Connor over with quickly. She jerked the reins and quickened her pace.
‘Fergus,’ she called as they clattered up the path to the law school which, like her own, was housed within an ancient ring fort.
Fergus came out instantly. He was a thin, slightly built man with the stooping shoulders of a scholar. He had been a friend of her father and he was now in his sixties. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather had been Brehon of Corcomroe before him, but Fergus himself was childless. It would be a good position for Fachtnan, perhaps, when he qualified. Fergus could do with some help. He was beginning to look an old man. Mara had thought the same about Colman, but she was glad that she had never suggested it. Fergus was too kind, too diffident, to have someone like Colman with him. The master would soon have become the servant. Fachtnan would suit Fergus better. She looked at him with affection as he came towards the gate. His short-sighted eyes peered anxiously for a moment and then his face lit up.
‘Mara,’ he said, hastening out to meet her and offering a hand to help her dismount. ‘We were just talking about you yesterday, King Turlough and myself.’
‘He got off safely for the Aran Islands?’ asked Mara with a glance at the turbulent sea heaving and erupting with enormous clouds of white spume.
‘Yes, he would’ve got there before the storm broke,’ said Fergus, smoothing his wind-blown grey hair out of his eyes and pulling his gown more tightly around his thin frame. ‘He was going to come back tonight, but he’ll probably leave it until the
sea is a bit calmer tomorrow morning. That was a terrible business about your young assistant,’ he added in a low voice.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mara gravely. ‘A terrible affair. That is why I am here. I am gathering evidence from everyone about who was near to the spot where he was killed. My neighbour, Diarmuid O’Connor, thinks he saw a young man from Corcomroe there – an Oscar O’Connor, from the stone quarry. Do you know him?’
‘Oh yes, of course I know him. Would you like to speak to him? I’ll send one of the scholars to fetch him. You can come inside and have a cup of ale with Siobhan and myself. We were just saying last night that it was a long time since we had seen you.’
‘No, no,’ said Mara hastily. Fergus was a nice man, but his wife, Siobhan, was a woman of surpassing dullness whose conversation seldom rose above a monotone recounting of the boring discussions that she had with her servant girls.
‘As Fíthail says, it is always best to see a witness in his workplace,’ she said, improvising swiftly. Fíthail, she knew, had said many things: there were books and books of his sayings and, who knows, he may well have said that as well.
‘You’re right,’ said Fergus, trying to look as if the saying was familiar to him. She smothered a grin. Dear old Fergus, he had a great respect for her memory and her learning. He would not question her any further.
‘Could you lend us one of your lads to show us the way?’ she asked.
‘I’ll come with you myself. I’ll just send one of them over to the Brehon’s house to tell Siobhan. You’ll come in on the way back?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mara, resolving that she would do no such thing. It would be easy to find an excuse after she had seen this Oscar O’Connor.
‘We’ll have to go back the way you came and then turn a little to the south,’ said Fergus when he returned leading a bony old horse. ‘It’ll only take us about ten minutes.’
 
 
‘So the father died a month ago,’ she said as they went along. ‘Had he just the one son?’
‘Just the one,’ confirmed Fergus. ‘There were others, two older boys, but one lad drowned in a boat going to the Aran Islands and another was killed on the cliff face in the same way as his father.’
‘How old is Oscar?’
‘I think he is about twenty-five,’ said Fergus. ‘I don’t know him very well, to be honest with you. He’s not been living around here for quite some time. He established a business in Galway. He used to come occasionally to order new supplies of stone from his father.’
‘He was trading flagstones there, then?’ asked Mara, trying to quicken the pace a little. Why didn’t Fergus get himself a decent horse? she wondered. He must be quite rich; he had all the rentals on the Tuaith Ghlae property as well as his fees from the legal work as Brehon of Corcomroe and his fees from the law school.
‘Yes, a very good trade,’ said Fergus. ‘He had boatloads shipped over to London a while ago, his father was telling me that the last time we met.’
‘Why Galway?’ asked Mara. ‘Why didn’t Oscar send them from the harbour down there at Doolin?’
‘Well, he has an aunt in Galway who is married to a merchant called Sean Lynch and I suppose he started him off with contacts,’ said Fergus, gently urging his horse away from tearing mouthfuls of grass from the side of the lane.
‘Seán Lynch!’ exclaimed Mara.
‘That must be Colman’s mother,’ called back Fachtnan over
his shoulder. ‘Yes, it is. I seem to remember him saying something about having cousins somewhere in Corcomroe.’
‘He never visited them,’ said Mara. ‘I would remember if he had ever visited them when he was a boy at the law school.’ She wasn’t surprised, though. Colman was very prone to boasting about the Lynch family and their connections: a humble stone-cutter would not be anything to be proud of. His honour price would have been only three
séts
. Colman’s mother had married well; she may have been the one to sever connections. Neither Colman, nor his parents, had ever mentioned cousins in Corcomroe to her.
‘So that’s why he went over to the bonfire at Mullaghmore,’ said Fergus. ‘I was wondering about that. We have our own bonfire here. I suppose he went to meet his cousin.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mara grimly. ‘Is that the quarry ahead?’
‘That’s it,’ said Fergus.
There were men working everywhere, some on the cliff face and others on the ground. Fergus spoke to one and he went running towards a house set back a little from the quarry, a fine house, well built, with a fine stone roof of thin, evenly cut stone tiles.
‘That’s Oscar,’ said Fergus in a low voice as a tall, black-haired young man came out from the house and followed his man to the quarry. Fergus handed the reins of his horse to Fachtnan and went down the dusty path to meet him. Mara looked after him with annoyance. This was Fergus’s territory, but she would have preferred to deal with the questioning of Oscar herself. Quickly she swung herself down from her horse, handed her reins to Fachtnan and went after Fergus, neatly sidestepping the rocks that lay strewn on the path. They arrived at the same moment so all Fergus had time to say was: ‘The Brehon of the Burren would like to speak to you, Oscar.’
Mara could see a flash of shock, even fear, in the young man’s
eyes. He clearly hadn’t known who she was. Of course, he had just arrived at Mullaghmore Mountain when she was leaving; he may not even have noticed her that
Bealtaine
evening. But why should he be so alarmed?
‘About your cousin’s death,’ she said rapidly before Fergus said any more.
That was not such a shock. He just nodded. ‘You knew about Colman Lynch’s death, then?’ she asked. Fachtnan had handed the reins of the three horses to one of the quarry men and he came up to them quietly. He seated himself on a rock and took out his quill, his inkhorn and his writing tablets from his pouch.
‘We might be more comfortable inside your house,’ said Mara to the young man. She had seen him glance furtively around. The tapping of mallets had stopped and everyone seemed to be listening.
‘Yes,’ he said in a deep, husky voice. ‘Come inside.’
‘You knew of your cousin’s death?’ she repeated. As the four of them moved along the narrow path she deliberately stepped in front of Fergus and walked by Oscar’s side. This was her investigation and she was going to conduct it in her own way.
‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I went to the burial. I was in Galway on Sunday. Just by chance.’
‘So no one sent to tell you of the death?’
‘No,’ he said as he pushed open the door and stood back to let her enter. ‘It was by chance that I was there,’ he repeated and there was a note of slight bitterness in his voice. Understandable that he should feel bitter, thought Mara as she went in. She was not surprised, though. The Lynch family was one of the most powerful families in Galway. There would be plenty of people to invite to the burial without worrying about the poor relations in Corcomroe.
‘And Colman Lynch was your first cousin; your father’s sister married Sean Lynch,’ she stated, sitting down on a stool. Fergus
went and stood by the window while Fachtnan seated himself on another stool at the dusty table and took the top off his inkhorn. Oscar nodded wordlessly.
Mara waited until Fachtnan wrote a few lines and then she asked calmly, ‘Why did you come to Mullaghmore on
Bealtaine
Eve?’
The window was covered in powdery flour-like dust from the limestone quarry and little light came through it, but Mara could not miss the convulsive start that Oscar gave. Obviously he had hoped that he had not been recognized on that night. He did not reply and she repeated the question, hoping that Fergus would not intervene to prompt the young man.
‘I came to see Colman,’ he said eventually.
Mara waited for Fachtnan to write this down and then proceeded. ‘And did you see him?’
There was another long silence. Mara could almost read his mind while he struggled with various explanations and then rejected them. She waited patiently, looking around the room. It was a poor place, inside here, she thought, though the house was well built on the outside. The air smelled damp through the layer of dust. The wooden settle by the empty fireplace had no cushions. The table was roughly made, the legs slightly uneven with a piece of stone wedged under one leg, and its surface unplaned, splintered and spotted with rings of ale cups and stains of long-past meals. She looked back at Oscar and raised an eyebrow.
‘I did see him, just for a minute or two,’ he blurted out.
‘And what did you talk about?’
There was another long silence and then Mara said encouragingly: ‘Just tell the truth. Sooner or later I will find out what was said. There were plenty of people there that night and someone will have been bound to overhear you.’ Was Colman blackmailing this cousin of his? she wondered.
‘Did he ask you for silver?’ she continued.
That startled him. She could see he gave a slight jump. His large hand balled itself into a fist.
‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘I asked him for silver. I thought he owed me something. He had taken away my trade. All I can do now is to crawl on the cliffs like my father and brother, and probably die like them, too.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Mara softly, but suddenly she understood. It had only been a few days since she and King Turlough had discussed the laws of Galway and the excluding of the Gaelic clans.
Oscar O’Connor seemed glad of an audience, glad to pour out his grievances. ‘I had built up a good trade in Galway,’ he said rapidly. ‘I was down at the docks every day when a ship came in. I would have a couple of our flagstones with me and I would show them to the merchants from foreign countries. Everyone liked them. These stones of ours are something they don’t have in many other places. They don’t ever become slippery in damp weather. You know what they’re like.’ He scuffed the dirty floor with the toe of his boot. Mara understood what he meant. The surface of the limestone flags from this area was ridged with an intricate pattern, rather like worm casts on the sand. She had them herself on the floors of her house; Brigid complained of how hard they were to scrub and polish but, it was true, no one could ever slip on them.

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