Whispers of the Dead Read online

  The big woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “What is that to you?”

  “I am a dálaigh and my questions must be answered,” replied Fidelma firmly.

  “What is your name, innkeeper?”

  The woman blinked. She seemed ready to argue, but then she compressed her lips for a moment. To refuse to answer a dálaigh’s questions laid one open to fines for obstructing justice. A keeper of a public hostel had specific obligations before the law.

  “My name is Corbnait,” she conceded reluctantly.

  “And the answer to my first question?”

  Corbnait lifted her heavy shoulders and let them fall expressively.

  “There was a woman who came here three nights ago. She merely wanted a meal and fodder for her horse. She was from Tir Bui.”

  “Did she tell you her name?”

  “Not as I recall.”

  “Was she young, fair of skin with spun gold hair in a single braid?”

  The innkeeper nodded slowly.

  “That was her.” Suddenly an angry expression crossed the big woman’s face. “Is she complaining about my inn or of the service that she received here? Is she?”

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “She is beyond complaining, Corbnait. She is dead.”

  The woman blinked again and then said sullenly: “She did not die of any food that was served on my premises. I keep a good house here.”

  “I did not specify the manner of her death.” Fidelma paused.

  “I see you drive a small cart.”

  Corbnait looked surprised at the sudden switch of subject.

  “So do many people. I have to collect my supplies from the outlying farms. What is wrong with that?”

  “Do you also dye clothes at your inn?”

  “Dye clothes? What games are you playing with me, Sister?” Corbnait glanced from Abbot Laisran back to Fidelma as if she considered that she was dealing with dangerous lunatics. “Everyone dyes their own clothes unless they be a lord or lady.”

  “Please show me your hands and arms,” Fidelma pressed.

  The woman glanced again from one to another of them but seeing their impassive faces she decided not to argue. She sighed and held out her burly forearms. There was no sign of any dye stains on them.

  “Satisfied?” she snapped.

  “You keep your hands well cared for,” observed Fidelma.

  The woman sniffed.

  “What do I have a husband for if not to do the dirty work?”

  “But I presume you served the girl with her meal?”

  “That I did.”

  “Did she talk much?”

  “A little. She told me she was on the way to join her husband. He lives some way to the south of the abbey.”

  “She didn’t stay here for the night?”

  “She was anxious to reach her husband. Young love!” The woman snorted in disgust.

  “It’s a sickness you grow out of. The handsome prince you thought you married turns out to be a lazy good-for-nothing! Take my husband—”

  “You had the impression that she was in love with her husband?” cut in Fidelma.

  “Oh yes.”

  “She mentioned no problems, no concerns?”

  “None at all.”

  Fidelma paused, thinking hard.

  “Was she alone during the time she was at the inn? No one else spoke to her? Were there any other guests?”

  “There was only my husband and myself. My husband tended to her horse. She was particular about its welfare. The girl was obviously the daughter of a chieftain for she had a valuable black mare and her clothes were of fine quality.”

  “What time did she leave here?”

  “Immediately after her meal, just two hours to sunset. She said she could reach her destination before nightfall. What happened to her? Was she attacked by a highway robber?”

  “That we have yet to discover,” replied Fidelma. She did not mention that a highway robber could be discounted simply by the means of the poor girl’s death. The manner of her death was, in fact, her most important clue. “I want to have a word with your husband now.”

  Corbnait frowned.

  “Why do you want to speak with Echen? He can tell you nothing.”

  Fidelma’s brows drew together sternly.

  “I will be the judge of that.”

  Corbnait opened her mouth, saw a look of steadfast determination on Fidelma’s face, and then shrugged. She suddenly raised her voice in a shrill cry.

  “Echen!”

  It startled the patient ass and Fidelma’s and Abbot Laisran’s horses. They shied and were skittish for a few moments before they were brought under control.

  A thin, ferret-faced man came scuttling out of the barn.

  “You called, my dear?” he asked mildly. Then he saw Abbot Laisran, whom he obviously recognized, and bobbed servilely before him, rubbing his hands together. “You are welcome, noble Laisran,” before turning to Fidelma and adding, “You are welcome, also, Sister. You bless our house by your presence. . . .”

  “Peace, man!” snapped his burly wife. “The dálaigh wants to ask you some questions.”

  The little man’s eyes widened.

  “Dálaigh?”

  “I am Fidelma of Cashel.” Fidelma’s gaze fell on his twisted hands.

  “I see that you have blue dye on your hands, Echen.”

  The man looked at his hands in bewilderment.

  “I have just been mixing some dyes, Sister. I am trying to perfect a certain shade of blue from glaisin and dubh-poill . . . there is a sediment of intense blackness which is found in the bottom of pools in bogs which I mix with the glaisin to produce a dark blue . . .”

  “Quiet! The sister does not want to listen to your prattling!” admonished Corbnait.

  “On the contrary,” snapped Fidelma, irritated by the bullying woman, “I would like to know if Echen was at his dye work when the young woman was here the other night.”

  Echen frowned.

  “The young woman who stayed only for a meal and to fodder her horse,” explained his wife. “The black mare.”

  The man’s face cleared.

  “I only started this work today. I remember the girl. She was anxious to press on to her destination.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Only to exchange words about her instructions for her horse, and then she went into the inn for a meal. She was there an hour or so, isn’t that correct, dearest? Then she rode on.”

  “She rode away alone,” added Corbnait, “just as I have told you.”

  Echen opened his mouth, caught his wife’s eye, and then snapped it shut again.

  Fidelma did not miss the action.

  “Did you want to add something, Echen?” she prompted.

  Echen hesitated.

  “Come, if you have something to add, you must speak up!” Fidelma said sharply.

  “It’s just . . . well, the girl did not ride away entirely alone.”

  His wife turned with a scowl.

  “There was no one else at the inn that night. What do you mean, man?”

  “I helped her onto her horse and she left the inn but as she rode toward the south I saw someone driving a small donkey cart join her on the brow of the hill.”

  “Someone joined her? Male or female?” demanded Fidelma. “Did you see?”

  “Male.”

  Abbot Laisran spoke for the first time.

  “That must be our murderer then,” he said with a sigh.

  “A highway robber, after all. Now we shall never know who the culprit was.”

  “Highway robbers do not drive donkey carts,” Fidelma pointed out.

  “It was no highway robber,” confirmed Echen.

  They swung ’round on the little man in surprise.

  “Then tell them who it was, you stupid man!” yelled Corbnait at her unfortunate spouse.

  “It was young Finn,” explained Echen, hurt by the rebuke he had rece
ived. “He herds sheep on Slieve Nuada, just a mile from here.”

  “Ah, a strange one that!” Corbnait said, as if all was explained to her satisfaction. “Both his parents died three years ago. He’s been a recluse ever since. Unnatural, I call it.”

  Fidelma looked from Corbnait to Echen and then said, “I want one of you to ride to the abbey and look at the corpse so we can be absolutely sure that this was the girl who visited here. It is important that we are sure of her identity.”

  “Echen can do it. I am busy,” grumbled Corbnait.

  “Then I want directions to where this shepherd Finn dwells.”

  “Slieve Nuada is that large hill you can see from here,” Abbot Laisran intervened. “I know the place, and I know the boy.”

  It was not long before they arrived at the shepherd’s dwelling next to a traditional lias cairach or sheep’s hut. The sheep milled about over the hill indifferent to the arrival of strangers. Fidelma noticed that their white fleeces were marked with the blue dyed circle that identified the flock and prevented them from mixing into neighboring flocks during common grazing.

  Finn was weathered and bronzed—a handsome youth with a shock of red hair. He was kneeling on the grass astride a sheep whose stomach seemed vastly extended, almost as if it were pregnant but unnaturally so. As they rode up they saw the youth jab a long, thin, needle-like biorracha into the sheep’s belly. There was a curious hiss of air and the swelling seemed to go down without harm to the sheep which, when released, staggered away, bleating in irritation.

  The youth look up and recognized Abbot Laisran. He put the biorracha aside and came forward with a smile of welcome.

  “Abbot Laisran. I have not seen you since my father’s funeral.”

  They dismounted and tethered their horses.

  “You seem to have a problem on your hands,” Abbot Laisran said, indicating the now transformed sheep.

  “Some of them get to eating plants that they should not. It causes gas and makes the belly swell like a bag filled with air. You prick them with the needle and the gas escapes. It is simple and does not hurt the creature. Have you come to buy sheep for the abbey?”

  “I am afraid we are here on sad business,” Laisran said. “This is Sister Fidelma. She is a dálaigh.”

  The youth frowned.

  “I do not understand.”

  “Two days ago you met a girl on the road from the inn at Ballacolla.”

  Finn nodded immediately.

  “That is true.”

  “What made you accost her?”

  “Accost? I do not understand.”

  “You were driving in a donkey cart?”

  “I was.”

  “She was on horseback?”

  “She was. A black mare.”

  “So what made you speak to her?”

  “It was Segnat from Tir Bui. I used to go to her father’s fortress with my father, peace on his soul. I knew her.”

  Fidelma concealed her surprise.

  “You knew her?”

  “Her father was chieftain of Tir Bui.”

  “What was your father’s business in Tir Bui? It is a long journey from here.”

  “My father used to raise the old horned variety of sheep which is now a dying breed. He was a treudaighe and proud of it. He kept a fine stock.”

  The treudaighe was a shepherd of rank.

  “I see. So you knew Segnat?”

  “I was surprised to see her on the road. She told me she was on her way to join her husband, Conri, the new lord of Ballyconra.”

  Finn’s voice betrayed a curious emotion which Fidelma picked up on.

  “You do not like Conri?”

  “I do not have the right to like or dislike such as he,” admitted Finn.

  “I was merely surprised to hear that Segnat had married him when he is living with a woman already.”

  “That is a choice for the individual,” Fidelma reproved. “The New Faith has not entirely driven the old forms of polygyny from our people. A man can have more than one wife just as a woman can have more than one husband.”

  Abbot Laisran shook his head in annoyance.

  “The Church opposes polygyny.”

  “True,” agreed Fidelma. “But the judge who wrote the law tract of the Bretha Croilge said there is justification for the practice even in the ancient books of the faith for it is argued that even the chosen people of God lived in a plurality of unions so that it is no easier to condemn it than to praise it.”

  She paused for a moment.

  “That you disapproved of this meant you must have liked Segnat. Did you?”

  “Why these questions?” countered the shepherd.

  “Segnat has been murdered.”

  Finn stared at her for some time, then his face hardened.

  “Conri did it! Segnat’s husband. He only wanted her for the dowry she could bring into the marriage. Segnat could also bring more than that.”

  “How so?”

  “She was a banchomarba, a female heir, for her father died without male issue and she became chieftainess of Tir Bui. She was rich. She told me so. Another reason Conri sought the union was because he had squandered much of his wealth on raising war bands to follow the High King in his wars against the northern Uí Néill. That is common gossip.”

  “Gossip is not necessarily fact,” admonished Fidelma.

  “But it usually has a basis of fact.”

  “You do not appear shocked at the news of Segnat’s death,” observed Laisran slyly.

  “I have seen too many deaths recently, Abbot Laisran. Too many.”

  “I don’t think we need detain you any longer, Finn,” Fidelma said after a moment. Laisran glanced at her in astonishment.

  “Mark my words, you’ll find that Conri is the killer,” called Finn as Fidelma moved away.

  Abbot Laisran appeared to want to say something, but he meekly followed Fidelma to her horse and together they rode away from the shepherd’s house. Almost as soon as they were out of earshot, Abbot Laisran leaned forward in excitement.

  “There! We have found the killer. It was Finn. It all adds up.”

  Sister Fidelma turned and smiled at him.

  “Does it?”

  “The motive, the opportunity, the means, and the supporting evidence, it is all there. Finn must have killed her.”

  “You sound as if you have been reading law books, Laisran,” she parried.

  “I have followed your successes.”

  “Then, tell me, how did you work this out?”

  “The biorracha, a long sharp needle of the type which you say must have caused the girl’s mortal wound.”

  “Go on.”

  “He uses blue dye to identify his sheep. Hence the stain on the corpse.”

  “Go on.”

  “He also knew Segnat and was apparently jealous of her marriage to Conri. Jealousy is often the motive for murder.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He met the girl on the road on the very night of her death. And he drives a small donkey cart to transport the body.”

  “He did not meet her at night,” corrected Fidelma pedantically.

  “It was some hours before sunset.”

  Abbot Laisran made a cutting motion with his hand.

  “It is as I say. Motive, opportunity, and means. Finn is the murderer.”

  “You are wrong, Laisran. You have not listened to the whispers of the dead. But Finn does know the murderer.”

  Abbot Laisran’s eyes widened.

  “I fail to understand. . . .”

  “I told you that you must listen to the dead. Finn was right. It was Conri, Lord of Ballyconra, who murdered his wife. I think the motive will be found to be even as Finn said . . . financial gain from his dead wife’s estate. He probably knew that Segnat’s father was dying when he married her. When we get back to the abbey, I will send for the local bó-aire, the magistrate, to take some warriors to search Conri’s farmstead. With luck he will not have destroyed h
er clothing and personal belongings. I think we will also find that the very black mare he was riding was the same the poor girl rode on her fatal journey. Hopefully, Echen will be able to identify it.”

  Abbot Laisran stared at her blankly, bewildered by her calmness.

  “How can you possibly know that? It must be guesswork. Finn could have just as easily killed her as Conri.”

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “Consider the death wound. A needle inserted at the base of the neck under her braid.”

  “So?”

  “Certainly, a long sharp needle, like a biorracha, could, and probably did, cause that wound. However, how could a perfect stranger, or even an acquaintance such as Finn, inflict such a wound? How could someone persuade the girl to relax unsuspecting while they lifted her braid and then, suddenly, insert that needle? Who but a lover? Someone she trusted. Someone whose intimate touch would arouse no suspicion. We are left with Segnat’s lover—her husband.”

  Abbot Laisran heaved a sigh.

  Fidelma added, “She arrived at Ballyconra expecting to find a loving husband, but found her murderer who had already planned her death to claim her inheritance.”

  “After he killed her, Conri stripped her of her clothes and jewels, dressed her in peasants’ clothes and placed her in a cart that had been used by his workers to transport dyed clothing. Then he took her to the woods where he hoped the body would lie unseen until it rotted or, even if it was discovered, might never be identified.”

  “He forgot that the dead can still tell us many things,” Fidelma agreed sadly.

  “They whisper to us and we must listen.”

  CORPSE ON A HOLY DAY

  The day was hot in spite of the breeze blowing off the sea from the south. The procession of pilgrims had left the sandy beach and was beginning to climb the steep green hill toward the distant oratory. They had stood in reverent silence before the ancient granite stone of St. Declan, a stone that, it was said, had floated to the spot across the sea bearing on it vestments and a tiny silver bell. It had floated ashore on this isolated part of the Irish coast and was found by a warrior prince named Declan who knew it was God’s way of ordaining him to preach the New Faith. So he began his mission among his own people, the Déices of the kingdom of Muman.

  There the stone had stood since the moment it had landed bearing its miraculous gifts. The young brother who was conducting the pilgrims around the sites sacred to Declan had informed his charges that if they were able to crawl under the stone then they would be cured of rheumatism but only if they were already free from sin. None of the band of pilgrims had ventured to seek proof of the stone’s miraculous property.