Hemlock at Vespers sf-9 Page 4

  She turned to where Congal was standing, his face white, his mouth working.

  “There stands your contemptible killer. He murdered his own sister for a herd of cows.”

  With a shriek, Congal drew a knife and leapt toward Sister Fi-delma. People scattered left and right before his frenzied figure.

  Just before he reached her, the dark figure of a man intercepted him and struck him full in the face. It was Rimid. Congal collapsed senseless to the ground. As Rimid made to move forward, Fidelma reached forward and laid her slender hand on his shoulder.

  “Revenge is no justice, Rimid. If we demand vengeance for every evil done against us, we will be guilty of greater evil. Let the court deal with him.”

  Rimid hesitated.

  “He has no means of paying adequate compensation to those he has wronged,” he protested.

  Fidelma smiled softly.

  “He has a soul, Rimid. He attempted to wrong a member of the family of the Abbey. The Abbey will demand compensation; the compensation will be his soul which will be given to God for disposal.”

  “You will have him killed? Dispatched to God in the Other-world?”

  She shook her head gently.

  “God will take him when the time is ordained. No, he will come to serve at the Abbey and, hopefully, find repentance in the service.”

  After Brother Fergal had been absolved and Congal taken to be held for his trial, Fidelma walked to the door of the great hall with the Brehon.

  “How did you suspect Congal?” asked the man.

  “A man who lies once, will lie again.”

  “In what lie did you discover him?”

  “He claimed he knew nothing about herbs but he knew soon enough what the herb stramóiniam is used for and that Brother Fergal took it regularly. The rest was a mixture of elementary deduction and bluff for it might have been hard to prove conclusively without Congal’s admittance of guilt.”

  “You are an excellent advocate, Sister Fidelma,” observed the Brehon.

  “To present a clever and polished argument is no great art. To perceive and understand the truth is a better gift.” She paused at the door and smiled at the judge. “Peace with you, Brehon of the Eoghanacht of Cashel.” Then she was gone, striding away along the dusty road toward the distant Abbey.

  MURDER BY MIRACLE

  As the boat rocked its way gently against the natural granite quay, Sister Fidelma could see her welcome committee standing waiting. The committee consisted of one young, very young, man; fresh-faced and youthful, certainly no more than twenty-one summers in age. He wore a noticeable expression of petulance, coupled with resolution, on his features.

  At the boatman’s gesture, Sister Fidelma eased herself into position by the side of the vessel and grabbed for the rope ladder, hauling herself quickly up on to the grey granite quay. She moved with a youthful agility which seemed at odds with her demure posture and religious habit. To the young man watching her perilous ascent, her tall but well-proportioned figure, the rebellious strands of red hair streaking from under her headdress, the young, attractive features and bright green eyes, had not been what he was expecting when he had been informed that a dálaigh, an advocate, of the Brehon Court, was coming to the island. This young woman was not his idea of a religieuse let alone a respected member of the law courts of Éireann.

  “Sister Fidelma? Did you have a good trip over?” The young man’s voice was slow, his tone measured, not really friendly but “correct.” The phrase “coldly polite” came into Fidelma’s mind and she grimaced wryly before allowing her features to break into an amused grin. The grin disconcerted the young man for a moment. It was also at odds with her status. It was an urchin grin of frivolity. Fidelma gestured wordlessly to the seas breaking behind her.

  With the late autumnal seas running, dirty grey and heavy with yellow-cream foamed caps, the trip from the mainland had not been one that she had enjoyed. The wind was cold and blustery and whistling against this serrated crag of an island which poked into the wild, angry Atlantic like the top of an isolated hill that had been severed from its fellows by a flood of brooding water. Approaching the island, the dark rocks seemed like the comb of a fighting cock. She had marveled how anyone could survive and scratch a living on its seemingly inhospitable wasteland.

  On her way out the boatman had told her that only one hundred and sixty people lived on the island, which, in winter, could sometimes be cut off for months with not even a deftly rowed currach being able to make a landing. The island’s population were close-knit, introspective, mainly flsherfolk, and there had been no suspicious deaths there since time immemorial.

  That was, until now.

  The young man frowned slightly and when she made no reply he spoke again.

  “There was no need to bother you with this matter, Sister Fi-delma. It is quite straightforward. There was no need to bring you out from the mainland.”

  Sister Fidelma regarded the young man with a soft smile.

  There was no disguising the fact that the young man felt put out. Sister Fidelma was an outsider interfering with his jurisdiction.

  “Are you the bó-aire of the island?” she asked.

  The young man drew himself up with a posture of dignity in spite of his youth.

  “I am,” he replied with a thinly disguised air of pride. The bo-aire was a local magistrate, a chieftain without land whose wealth was judged by the number of cows he owned, hence he was called a “cow chief.” Small communities, such as those on the tiny islands off the coast, were usually ruled by a bo-aire who owed allegiance to greater chieftains on the mainland.

  “I was visiting Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne when news of this death reached him,” Fidelma said softly.

  Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne was the chieftain over all these islands. The young bó-aire stirred uncomfortably. Sister Fidelma continued:

  “Fathan requested me to visit and aid you in your inquiry.” She decided that this formula was a more diplomatic way of approaching the proud young magistrate than by recounting the truth of what Fathan had said. Fathan knew that the bó-aire had only just been appointed and knew, too, that the matter needed a more experienced judgment. “I have some expertise in inquiry into suspicious deaths,” Fidelma added.

  The young man bit his lip sullenly.

  “But there is nothing suspicious about this death. The woman simply slipped and fell down the cliff. It’s three hundred feet at that spot. She didn’t have a chance.”

  “So? You are sure it was an accident?”

  Sister Fidelma became aware that they had both been standing on the quay with the wind whipping at them and the salt sea spray dampening their clothing. She was wet in spite of the heavy wool cloak she had put on for the crossing from An Chuis on the mainland.

  “Is there somewhere we can go for shelter? Somewhere more comfortable to talk this over?” She posed the second question before the young man could reply to her first.

  The young bo-aire reddened at the implied rebuke.

  “My bothan is up the road here, Sister. Come with me.”

  He turned to lead the way.

  There were one or two people about to acknowledge the bo-aire as he passed and to cast curious glances at Sister Fidelma. The news of her arrival would soon be all over the island, she thought. Fidelma sighed. Island life seemed all very romantic in the summer but even then she preferred life on the mainland, away from the continually howling winds and whipping sea spray.

  In the snug, grey stone cabin of the bó-aire, a smoldering turf fire supplied a degree of warmth but the atmosphere was still damp. A young woman of the bo-aire’s household provided an earthenware vessel of mead, heated with a hot iron bar from the fire. The drink put warmth and vigor into Fidelma.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as she sipped the drink.

  “Fogartach,” replied the bo-aire stiffly, realizing that he had trespassed by neglecting to introduce himself properly to his guest.

  Sister
Fidelma felt the time had come to ensure the proud young man knew his place.

  “Well, Fogartach, as local magistrate, what qualification in law do you hold?”

  The young man’s head rose a little in vanity.

  “I studied at Daingean Chúis for four years. I am qualified to the level of dos and know the Bretha Nemed or Law of Privileges as well as any.”

  Sister Fidelma smiled softly at his arrogance.

  “I am qualified in law to the level of Anruth,” she said quietly, “having studied eight years with the Brehon Morann of Tara.”

  The bó-aire colored, perhaps a little embarrassed that he had sounded boastful before someone who held a degree that was only one step below the highest qualification in the five kingdoms of Eireann. Little more needed to be said. Sister Fidelma had, as gently as she could, established her authority over the bó-aire.

  “The matter is straightforward enough,” Fogartach said, a little sulky. “It was an accident. The woman slipped and fell down the cliff.”

  “Then the investigation should not take us long,” replied Sister Fidelma with a bright smile.

  “Investigation? I have my report here.”

  The young man turned with a frown to a sheaf of paper.

  “Fogartach,” Fidelma said slowly and deliberately, “Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne is anxious that everything is, as you say, straightforward. Do you realize who the woman was?”

  “She was a religieuse, such as yourself.”

  “A religieuse? Not just any religieuse, Fogartach. The woman was Cuimne, daughter of the High King.”

  The young man frowned.

  “I knew her name was Cuimne and that she carried herself with some authority. I did not realize she was related to the High King.”

  Sister Fidelma grimaced helplessly.

  “Did you also not realize that she was the Abbess Cuimne from Ard Macha, personal representative of the most powerful churchman in Éireann?”

  The young bó-aire’s face was red with mortification. He shook his head silently.

  “So you now see, Fogartach,” went on Fidelma, “that the chieftain of the Corco Dhuibhne cannot allow any question to arise over the manner of her death. Abbess Cuimne was an important person whose death may have ramifications at Tara as well as Ard Macha.”

  The young bó-aire bit his lip, seeking a way to justify himself.

  “Position and privilege do not count for much on this little wind-swept rock, Sister,” he replied in surly fashion.

  Fidelma’s eyes widened.

  “But they count with Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne, for he is answerable to the King of Cashel and the King of Cashel is answerable to the High King and to the Archbishop of Ard Macha. That is why Fathan has sent me here,” she added, now deciding the time had come to be completely brutal with the truth.

  She paused to let the young man consider what she was saying before continuing.

  “Well, take me through what you know of this matter, Fogar-tach.”

  The bó-aire sat back uneasily, bit his lip for a moment and then resigned himself to her authority.

  “The woman… er, the Abbess Cuimne arrived on the island four days ago. She was staying at the island’s bruighean, the hostel run by Be Bail, the wife of Súilleabháin, the hawk-eyed, a local fisherman. Be Bail has charge of our island hostel. Not that we have much use for it, few people ever bother to visit our island.”

  “What was Abbess Cuimne doing here?”

  The bó-aire shrugged.

  “She did not say. I did not even know she was an abbess but simply thought her to be a member of some community come here to find isolation for a while. You know how it is with some reli-gieuses? They often seek an isolated place to meditate. Why else should she be here?”

  “Why indeed?” Fidelma echoed softly and motioned the young man to continue.

  “She told Be Bail that she was leaving the island yesterday. Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis would have arrived about noon. She packed her satchel after breakfast and went off to walk alone. When she didn’t return at noon, and Ciardha’s boat had left, Be Bail asked me to keep a lookout for her. The island is not so large that you can get lost.

  “Well, a little after lunch, Buachalla came running to me …”

  “Who is Buachalla?”

  “A young boy. A son of one of the islanders.”

  “Go on.”

  “The boy had spotted Abbess Cuimne’s body below Aill Tuatha, that’s the cliffs on the north of the island. I organized a couple of men together with the apothecary…”

  “An apothecary? Do you have a resident apothecary on the island?” Fidelma interposed in surprise.

  “Corcrain. He was once personal physician to the Eóganacht of Locha Léin. He had a desire to withdraw to the island a year ago. He sought solitude after his wife’s death but has become part of our community, practicing his art for the good of the islanders.”

  “So, a couple of islanders, the apothecary and yourself, all followed the young boy, Buachalla?”

  “We found the body of Abbess Cuimne at the foot of the cliffs.”

  “How did you get down to it?”

  “Easy enough. There’s a stony beach under the cliffs at that point. There is an easy path leading down to it. The path descends to the stretch of rocks about a half-mile from where she fell. At the point she fell, incidentally, cliffs rise to their highest point. It was just under the highest point that we found the body.”

  “Did Corcrain examine her?”

  “He did so. She was dead so we carried her back to his bothán where he made a further examination and found…”

  Sister Fidelma held up her hand.

  “I’ll speak to the apothecary shortly. He will tell me what he found. Tell me, did you make a search of the area?”

  The bó-aire frowned and hesitated.

  “Search?”

  Sister Fidelma sighed inwardly.

  “After you found the body, what then?”

  “It was obvious what had happened. Abbess Cuimne had been walking on the edge of the cliffs, slipped and fell. As I said, it is three hundred feet at that point.”

  “So you did not search the top of the cliff or the spot where she fell?”

  Fogartach smiled faintly.

  “Oh, her belongings, such as she carried, were with Be Bail at the hostel. She carried little else save a small satchel. You must know that religieuses carry but little with them when they travel. There was no need to look further. I have her belongings here, Sister. The body has already been buried.”

  Sister Fidelma bit her tongue in exasperation at the ignorant conceit of the young man.

  “Where do I find Corcrain, the apothecary?”

  “I’ll show you,” said the bó-aire, rising.

  “Just point me in the right direction,” Fidelma replied sarcastically. “I promise not to get lost.”

  The young bó-aire was unable to prevent an expression of irritation from crossing his face. Fidelma smiled maliciously to herself. She suspected that the young bó-aire’s arrogance was due to the fact that he considered her unworthy of her office because of her sex. Some of the island people, she knew, adhered to curious notions.

  Corcrain’s bothán, or cabin, stood only two hundred yards away across the rising ground, one of many well-spaced stone buildings strung out across the slopes of the island like rosary beads. The slopes rose from the sea to stretch toward the comblike rocks forming the back of the island which sheltered the populated area from the fierce north winds.

  The apothecary was nearly sixty, a swarthy man, whose slight frame still seemed to exude energy. His grey eyes twinkled.

  “Ah, so you are the female Brehon that we have all been hearing about?”

  Fidelma found herself returning the warm guileless smile.

  “I am no Brehon, merely an advocate of the Brehon Court, apothecary. I have just a few questions to ask you. Abbess Cuirnne was no ordinary religieuse. She was sister of the High King a
nd representative of the Archbishop of Ard Macha. This is why Fa-than, chieftain of the Corco Dhuibhne, wants to assure himself that everything is as straightforward as it should be. Unless a proper report is sent to Tara and to Ard Macha, Abbess Cuimne’s relatives and colleagues might be prone to all sorts of imaginings, if you see what I mean.”

  Corcrain nodded, obviously trying to disguise his surprise.

  “Are you a qualified apothecary?”

  “I was apothecary and chief physician to the Eóganacht kings of Locha Lin,” replied Corcrain. It was just a matter-of-fact statement without arrogance or vanity.

  “What was the cause of Abbess Cuimne’s death?”

  The old apothecary sighed. “Take your pick. Any one of a number of the multiple fractures and lacerations whose cause seems consistent with a fall down a three-hundred-foot granite cliff on to rocks below.”

  “I see. In your opinion she slipped and fell down the cliff?”

  “She fell down the cliff,” the apothecary replied.

  Sister Fidelma frowned at his choice of words.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am no seer, Sister. I cannot say that she slipped nor how she came to go over the cliff. All I can say is that her injuries are consistent with such a fall.”

  Fidelma watched the apothecary’s face closely. Here was a man who knew his job and was careful not to intrude his own interpretation on the facts.

  “Anything else?” she prompted.

  Corcrain bit his lip. He dropped his gaze for a moment.

  “I chose to withdraw to a quiet island, Sister. After my wife died, I resigned as physician at the court of the Eóganacht and came here to live in a small rural community to forget what was going on in the outside world.”

  Fidelma waited patiently.

  “It has taken me a full year to become accepted here. I don’t want to create enmity with the islanders.”

  “Are you saying that there was something which makes you unhappy about the circumstances of Abbess Cuimne’s death? Did you tell this to the bó-aire?”