Whispers of the Dead Read online

  Fidelma raised her head and glanced at the apothecary.

  “Is this all that she was wearing?”

  Brother Donngal nodded in affirmation.

  “Was there no underclothing?”

  The apothecary looked embarrassed.

  “None,” he confirmed.

  “She did not have a ciorbholg?”

  The ciorbholg was, literally, a comb-bag, but it contained all the articles of toilet, as well as combs, which women carried about with them no matter their rank or status. It served women in the manner of a purse and it was often tied at the waist by a belt.

  Brother Donngal shook his head negatively once more.

  “This is why we came to the conclusion that she was simply a poor itinerant,” explained the abbot.

  “So there was no toilet bag?” mused Fidelma. “And she had no brooches or other jewelry?”

  Brother Donngal allowed a smile to play around his lips.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why of course not?” demanded Fidelma sharply.

  “Because it is clear from this clothing, Sister, that the girl was a very poor country girl. Such a girl would not be able to afford such finery.”

  “Even a poor country girl will seek out some ornaments, no matter how poor she is,” replied Fidelma.

  Abbot Laisran came forward with a sad smile.

  “Nothing was found. So you see, Fidelma, this poor young woman cannot whisper to you from her place of death. A poor country girl and with nothing to identify her. Her whispers are silent ones. You should not have been so willing to accept my challenge.”

  Fidelma swung ’round on him to reveal the smile on her face. Her eyes twinkled with a dangerous fire.

  “On the contrary, Laisran. There is much that this poor girl whispers; much she tells us, even in this pitiable state.”

  Brother Donngal exchanged a puzzled glance with the abbot.

  “I don’t understand you, Sister,” he said. “What can you see? What have I missed?”

  “Practically everything,” Fidelma assured him calmly.

  Abbot Laisran stifled a chuckle as he saw the mortified expression on the apothecary’s face. But he turned to her with a reproving glance.

  “Come now, Fidelma,” he chided, “don’t be too sharp because you have been confronted with an insoluble riddle. Not even you can conjure facts out of nothing.”

  Abbot Laisran stirred uncomfortably as he saw the tiny green fire in her eyes intensify. However, when she addressed him, her tone was comparatively mild.

  “You know better of me, Laisran. I am not given to vain boasting.”

  Brother Donngal moved forward and stared at the body of the girl as if trying to see what it was that Fidelma had observed.

  “What have I missed?” he demanded again.

  Fidelma turned to the apothecary.

  “First, you say that this girl is a poor country girl. What makes you arrive at such a conclusion?”

  Brother Donngal regarded her with an almost pitying look.

  “That was easy. Look at her clothing—at her sandals. They are not the apparel of someone of high rank and status. The clothes show her humble origins.”

  Fidelma sighed softly.

  “My mentor, the Brehon Morann, once said that the veil can disguise much; it is folly to accept the outside show for the inner quality of a person.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This girl is not of humble rank, that much is obvious.”

  Abbot Laisran moved forward and peered at the body in curiosity.

  “Come, Fidelma, now you are guessing.”

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “I do not guess, Laisran. I have told you,” she added impatiently, “listen to the whispers of the dead. If this is supposed to be a peasant girl, then regard the skin of her body—white and lacking color by wind and sun. Look at her hands, soft and cared for as are her nails. There is no dirt beneath them. Her hands are not calloused by work. Look at her feet. Again, soft and well cared for. See the soles of the feet? This girl had not been trudging fields in those poor shoes that she was clad in, nor has she walked any great distance.”

  The abbot and the apothecary followed her instructions and examined the limbs she indicated.

  “Now, examine her hair.”

  The girl’s hair, a soft spun gold color, was braided behind her head in a single long plait that reached almost to her waist.

  “Nothing unusual in that,” observed Laisran. Many women in the five kingdoms of Éireann considered very long hair as a mark of beauty and braided it in similar style.

  “But it is exceptionally well tended. The braiding is the traditional cuilfhionn and surely you must know that it is affected only by women of rank. What this poor corpse whispers to me is that she is a woman of rank.”

  “Then why was she dressed as a peasant?” demanded the apothecary after a moment’s silence.

  Fidelma pursed her lips.

  “We must continue to listen. Perhaps she will tell us. As she tells us other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “She is married.”

  Abbot Laisran snorted with cynicism.

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  Fidelma simply pointed to the left hand of the corpse.

  “There are marks around the third finger. They are faint, I grant you, but tiny marks nevertheless which show the recent removal of a ring that has been worn there. There is also some discoloration on her left arm. What do you make of that, Brother Donngal?”

  The apothecary shrugged.

  “Do you mean the marks of blue dye? It is of little importance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is a common thing among the villages. Women dye clothes and materials. The blue is merely a dye caused by the extract of a cruciferous plant glaisin. Most people use it. It is not unusual in any way.”

  “It is not. But women of rank would hardly be involved in dyeing their own materials and this dye stain seems fairly recent.”

  “Is that important?” asked the abbot.

  “Perhaps. It depends on how we view the most important of all the facts this poor corpse whispers to us.”

  “Which is?” demanded Brother Donngal.

  “That this girl was murdered.”

  Abbot Laisran’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Come, come, now. Our apothecary has found no evidence of foul play; no wounds, no bruising, no abrasions. The face is relaxed as if she simply passed on in her sleep. Anyone can see that.”

  Fidelma moved forward and lifted the girl’s head, bringing the single braid of hair forward in order to expose the nape of the neck. She had done this earlier during her examination as Brother Donngal and Abbot Laisran watched with faint curiosity.

  “Come here and look, both of you. What, Brother Donngal, was your explanation of this?”

  Brother Donngal looked slightly embarrassed as he peered forward.

  “I did not examine her neck under the braid,” he admitted.

  “Well, now that you are examining it, what do you see?”

  “There is a small discolored patch like a tiny bruise,” replied the apothecary after a moment or two. “It is not more than a fingernail in width. There is a little blood spot in the center. It’s rather like an insect bite that has drawn blood or as if someone has pricked the skin with a needle.”

  “Do you see it also, Laisran?” demanded Fidelma.

  The abbot leaned forward and then nodded.

  Fidelma gently lowered the girl’s head back onto the table.

  “I believe that this was a wound caused by an incision. You are right, Brother Donngal, in saying it is like a needle point. The incision was created by something long and thin, like a needle. It was inserted into the nape of the neck and pushed up hard so that it penetrated into the head. It was swift. Deadly. Evil. The girl probably died before she knew that she was being attacked.”

  Abbot Laisran was staring at Fidelm
a in bewilderment.

  “Let me get this straight, Fidelma. Are you saying that the corpse found near this abbey this morning is a woman of rank who has been murdered? Is that right?”

  “And, after her death, her clothes were taken from her and she was hurriedly dressed in poor peasant garb to disguise her origin. The murderer thought to remove all means of identification from her.”

  “Even if this is true,” interrupted Brother Donngal, “how might we discover who she was and who perpetrated this crime?”

  “The fact that she was not long dead when Brother Torcan found her makes our task more simple. She was killed in this vicinity. A woman of rank would surely be visiting a place of substance. She had not been walking any distance. Observe the soles of her feet. I would presume that she either rode or came in a carriage to her final destination.”

  “But what destination?” demanded Brother Donngal.

  “If she came to Durrow, she would have come to the abbey,” Laisran pointed out. “She did not.”

  “True enough. We are left with two types of places she might have gone. The house of a noble, a chieftain, or, perhaps, a bruighean, an inn. I believe that we will find the place where she met her death within five or six kilometers of this abbey.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “A deduction. The corpse newly dead and the murderer wanting to dispose of it as quickly as possible. Whoever killed her reclothed her body and transported it to the spot where it was found. They could not have traveled far.”

  Abbot Laisran rubbed his chin.

  “Whoever it was, they took a risk in disposing of it in the woods so near this abbey.”

  “Perhaps not. If memory serves me right, those woods are the thickest stretch of forest in this area even though they are close to the abbey. Are they that frequented?”

  Abbot Laisran shrugged.

  “It is true that Brother Torcan does not often venture so far into the woods in search of fungi,” he admitted. “He came on the corpse purely by chance.”

  “So the proximity of the abbey was not necessarily a caution to our murderer. Well, are there such places as I described within the distance I have estimated?”

  “An inn or a chieftain’s house? North of here is Ballacolla, where there is an inn. South of here is Ballyconra where the Lord of Conra lives.”

  “Who is he? Describe him?”

  “A young man, newly come to office there. I know little about him, although he came here to pay his respects to me when he took office. When I came to Durrow as abbot the young man’s father was lord of Ballyconra but his son was away serving in the army of the High King. He is a bachelor newly returned from the wars against the Uí Néill.”

  “Then we shall have to learn more,” observed Fidelma dryly. She glanced through the window at the cloudy sky.

  “There is still an hour before sunset,” she reflected. “Have Brother Torcan meet me at the gates so that he may conduct me to the spot where he found the body.”

  “What use would that be?” demanded the abbot. “There was nothing in the clearing apart from the body.”

  Fidelma did not answer.

  With a sigh, the abbot went off to find the religieux.

  Half an hour later Brother Torcan was showing her the small clearing. Behind her, Abbot Laisran fretted with impatience. Fidelma was looking at a pathway which led into it. It was just wide enough to take a small cart. She noticed some indentations of hooves and ruts, undoubtedly caused by the passage of wheels.

  “Where does that track lead?” she asked, for they had entered the clearing by a different single path.

  It was the abbot who answered.

  “Eventually it would link to the main road south. South to Ballyconra,” he added significantly.

  The sky was darkening now and Fidelma sighed.

  “In the morning I shall want to see this young Lord of Conra. But it is pointless continuing on tonight. We’d best go back to the abbey.”

  The next morning, accompanied by the abbot, Fidelma rode south. Ballyconra itself was a large settlement. There were small farm-steads and a collection of dwellings for workers. In one nearby field, a root crop was being harvested and workers were loading the crop onto small carts pulled by single asses. The track twisted through the village and passed a stream where women were laying out clothes to dry on the banks while others stirred fabrics into a metal cauldron hanging over a fire. The pungent smell of dyes told Fidelma what process was taking place.

  Some paused in their work and called a greeting to the abbot, seeking a blessing, as they rode by. They ascended the track through another field toward a large building. It was an isolated structure which was built upon what must once have been a hillfort. A young man came cantering toward them from its direction, sitting easily astride a sleek black mare.

  “This is young Conri, Lord of Conra,” muttered Laisran as they halted and waited for the man to approach.

  Fidelma saw that the young man was handsome and dark-featured. It was clear from his dress and his bearing that he was a man of rank and action. A scar across his forehead indicated he had followed a military profession. It seemed to add to his personality rather than detract from it.

  “Good morning, Abbot.” He greeted Laisran pleasantly before turning to Fidelma. “Good morning, Sister. What brings you to Ballyconra?”

  Fidelma interrupted as Laisran was opening his mouth to explain.

  “I am a dálaigh. You would appear to be expecting visitors, Lord of Conra. I observed you watching our approach from the hill beyond the fortress before you rode swiftly down to meet us.”

  The young man’s eyes widened a little and then he smiled sadly.

  “You have a sharp eye, dálaigh. As a matter of fact, I have been expecting the arrival of my wife during these last few days. I saw only the shape of a woman on horseback and thought for a moment . . .”

  “Your wife?” asked Fidelma quickly, glancing at Laisran.

  “She is Segnat, daughter of the lord of Tir Bui,” he said without disguising his pride.

  “You say you have been expecting her?”

  “Any day now. I thought you might have been her. We were married only three months ago in Tir Bui, but I had to return here immediately on matters pertaining to my people. Segnat was to come on after me but she has been delayed in starting out on her journey. I only had word a week ago that she was about to join me.”

  Fidelma looked at him thoughtfully.

  “What has delayed her for so long?”

  “Her father fell ill when we married and has only died recently. She was his only close kin and she stayed to nurse him.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  The young man nodded, frowning.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Indulge me for a moment, Lord of Conra.”

  “Of twenty years, golden hair and blue eyes. What is the meaning of these questions?”

  Fidelma did not reply directly.

  “The road from Tir Bui would bring a traveler from the north through Ballacolla and around the abbey, wouldn’t it?”

  Conri looked surprised.

  “It would,” he agreed irritably. “I say again, why these questions?”

  “I am a dálaigh,” repeated Fidelma gravely. “It is my nature to ask questions. But the body of a young woman has been found in the woods near the abbey and we are trying to identify her.”

  Conri blinked rapidly.

  “Are you saying that this might be Segnat?”

  Fidelma’s expression was sympathetic.

  “We are merely making inquiries of the surrounding habitations to see if anything is known of a missing young woman.”

  Conri raised his jaw defiantly.

  “Well, Segnat is not missing. I expect her arrival any time.”

  “But perhaps you would come to the abbey this afternoon and look at the body? This is merely a precaution to eliminate the possibility of it being Segnat.”

  Th
e young man compressed his lips stubbornly.

  “It could not possibly be Segnat.”

  “Regretfully, all things are possible. It is merely that some are more unlikely than others. We would appreciate your help. A negative identification is equally as helpful as a positive one.”

  Abbot Laisran finally broke in.

  “The abbey would be grateful for your cooperation, Lord of Conra.”

  The young man hesitated and then shrugged.

  “This afternoon, you say? I shall be there.”

  He turned his horse sharply and cantered off.

  Laisran exchanged a glance with Fidelma.

  “Was this useful?” he asked.

  “I think so,” she replied.

  “We can now turn our attention to the inn which you tell me is north of the abbey Ballacolla.”

  Laisran’s face lightened.

  “Ah, I see what you are about.”

  Fidelma smiled at him.

  “You do?”

  “It is as you said, a negative is equally as important as a positive. You have produced a negative with young Conri, so now we will seek the identity of the murdered one in the only possible place.”

  Fidelma continued to smile as they turned northward back toward the abbey and beyond to Ballacolla.

  The inn stood at a crossroads, a sprawling dark building. They were turning into the yard when a muscular woman of middle age driving a small mule cart halted, almost blocking the entrance. The woman remained seated on her cart, glowering in displeasure at them.

  “Religious!” She almost spat the word.

  Fidelma regarded her with raised eyebrows.

  “You sound as if you are not pleased to see us,” she observed in amusement.

  “It is the free hospitality provided by religious houses that takes away the business from poor people such as myself,” grunted the woman.

  “Well, we might be here to purchase some refreshment,” placated Fidelma.

  “If you can pay for it, you will find my husband inside. Let him know your wants.”

  Fidelma made no effort to move out of her way.

  “I presume that you are the innkeeper?”

  “And if I am?”

  “I would like to ask you a few questions. Did a young woman pass this way two nights ago? A young woman who would have arrived along the northern road from Tir Bui.”