Whispers of the Dead sf-15 Page 5

  Fidelma’s lips thinned and she gazed an inordinately long time on him; examining, particularly, the front of his robe.

  “Do you have any suspicion of who killed Sister Aróc?” she finally asked him.

  “I know only that she died a violent death here when there was no need for such an end to her life,” he replied belligerently.

  Fidelma turned away toward the agitated figure of Rian, the Abbot of Ard mór.

  “I am grieved, Fidelma. I am the head of my community, the shepherd of my flock. If there was violence brewing I should have felt it.”

  “You are only a man and not one of the prophets, Rian,” Fidelma admonished. “There is no need for you to take any blame for this onto your shoulders.”

  “How can I help resolve this matter?”

  “By answering a few questions. Did you know Sister Aróc?”

  “I am abbot,” he responded gravely.

  “I meant, know her on a personal level and not merely as one of your flock.”

  The abbot shook his head.

  “She was brought to me six months ago by Sister Corb, who wished to induct her into the school of the novices. She was of the age of choice. She struck me as a religious girl although not overly bright. Apart from my one interview with her, I have only seen her at a distance.”

  He paused, and then glancing swiftly across the chapel ground toward Sister Corb, he continued.

  “Sister Corb came to me a few days ago to lodge an official complaint. It was only then that I heard of her curious behavior; what was it that Brother Echen described it as-‘otherworldly’? Echen was sent to speak with her but he reported that she was eccentric but not dangerous.”

  “Do you know whether Sister Corb might have other motives for complaining about Aróc?”

  The abbot flushed slightly and then grimaced.

  “I know what you mean. I had not thought that applied in this case. But Sister Corb does have several liaisons which I would not approve of. But, as abbot, sometimes it is diplomatic to feign a lack of knowledge.”

  “Several?” Fidelma’s brows arched. “Could it be that some of her-her liaisons, as you call them, might have been jealous of Sister Corb?”

  The abbot looked startled.

  “Do you mean. .?”

  “Questions again,” snapped Fidelma. “Every question I ask, I seem to get answered by a question!” She repented at once as the Father Abbot seemed to wince at her outburst.

  “I apologize. It is just that it is so difficult to extract information.”

  “No, it is I who should apologize, Fidelma. There are several members of the community who would be angered by Corb’s attention to Sister Aróc, if that is what you are asking. But I do not think that they would be worth considering in this case.”

  “Why not?”

  “If my meager knowledge of law is anything to go by, as well as being a suspect by motive, you must also be suspect by opportunity.”

  “Your knowledge is correct,” affirmed Fidelma.

  “Well, you indicated to Brother Echen and to Sister Corb that this murder took place shortly before your group of pilgrims arrived at the hilltop. Look around you.”

  The Father Abbot spread his arms.

  Fidelma knew what he meant without looking. The hill, as they wound their way up the only track, was just a round grassy hump without trees, without bushes, and only the small oratory on top. Anyone leaving the oratory shortly before the arrival of the band of pilgrims would have no place to hide.

  She smiled quickly.

  “No, Father Abbot, I suppose it was not a sound thought to imagine someone sneaking up from the abbey and killing Sister Aróc and then sneaking away moments before a party of pilgrims arrived at the oratory.”

  “Then what are you saying? Who killed Sister Aróc?”

  Sister Fidelma turned to the others and waved them to come forward.

  “My investigation seems to have drawn to its close,” she said, addressing the abbot.

  He looked bewildered.

  “Then I must ask you again, who killed Sister Aróc?”

  Fidelma glanced toward Brother Ross.

  Sister Corb was smiling in grim satisfaction.

  “I knew it,” she muttered. “I. .”

  Fidelma raised her hand for silence.

  “I made no accusation, Sister Corb. And you should know the penalty for false accusation.”

  The mistress of the novitiates was suddenly silent, staring at her in bewilderment.

  “But if Brother Ross is not the murderer,” began Brother Echen helplessly, “who killed her?”

  Fidelma glanced again to the young religieux.

  “Brother Ross will tell you,” she said quietly.

  “But you said. .,” began the abbot.

  Fidelma shook her head impatiently.

  “I said nothing. I implied he did not murder Aróc but I did not say that he did not know who killed her.”

  Brother Ross was regarding her with frightened eyes.

  “You would not believe the truth,” he said quietly.

  “I know the truth,” Fidelma replied.

  “How? How could you know. .”

  “It was not that hard to work out, given the time factor and the situation of the oratory where no one could hide.”

  “You’d better explain it to us, Sister Fidelma,” the abbot said.

  “Our group of pilgrims came to the oratory and, as I have pointed out, Aróc’s death occurred, judging by the condition of the corpse, moments before,” Fidelma explained. “Ross went into the oratory first. Moments later he came out. He might well have had time to stab Aróc and then return to us to pretend that he had discovered the body. But the evidence is against that. Such a stab wound would have caused blood to spurt on his robes.

  “It was obvious that Aróc was killed while lying in the open tomb. She was not killed elsewhere and dragged to the open tomb. There were no blood splatters leading to the tomb which would have been made. If Brother Ross had killed her, then his robes would have been drenched in spurting blood from the wound. Instead, he has some spots of blood on his right hand and his sleeve. They were made when he bent to touch the corpse.”

  She pointed to his robes so that they could verify her statement.

  The abbot was worried.

  “You have presented us with a conundrum. Tell us the answer. The killer was hiding in or behind the oratory, is that it?”

  Fidelma sighed shortly.

  “I would have thought it obvious.”

  Brother Ross gave a little groan.

  “I confess! I confess! I killed her. I did it.”

  Fidelma looked pityingly at him.

  “No you did not.”

  Sister Corb was indignant.

  “That will not do, Sister. The man has confessed. You cannot deny his confession.”

  Fidelma glanced at her.

  “Brother Ross is even now trying to save his friend’s soul. He believes that the Penitentials would prohibit Sister Aróc being accorded the last rites, a forgiveness of sins and burial in sanctified ground in a state of spiritual peace. It is time to tell the truth, Brother Ross.”

  “The truth?” pressed Brother Echen. “What is the truth?”

  “She killed herself.”

  Brother Ross groaned piteously.

  “When you have eliminated every other explanation as being impossible, that which remains must be the truth,” Fidelma said dryly.

  “Am I right, Brother Ross?”

  The young man’s shoulders had slumped in resignation.

  “She. . she was not of this world. She heard voices. She thought she was being instructed by spirits, from the otherworld. By the Blessed Declan. She had visions. She made me open the tomb so that she could touch the holy relics. I greased the stone so that she could swing it open by herself when she wanted. She often spoke of joining the holy saint. I did not think she meant to kill herself.”

  “What happened?” demanded t
he abbot.

  “I brought the pilgrims to the oratory and went inside before them in case there was a worshiper at prayer. I had no wish to disturb anyone. I saw her body lying in the open grave with both hands gripping the knife in her breast. I realized with horror what she had done. There was no time nor place to hide the body from the pilgrims. If I had attempted to swing the tomb shut those outside would have heard me. I forced her hands from their grip on the knife and put them at her sides. I tried to remove the knife but it was buried to the hilt, that was when the spots of blood stained my sleeve and hand. I think I panicked, believing the pilgrims would come in any moment. The only thing I could think of was to pretend the saint’s body was uncorrupted and hope it would distract the pilgrims to run down to the abbey to report the news, giving me time to dispose of the body. I did not count on. .”

  He glanced toward Fidelma and shrugged.

  “The crime of suicide forbids her being laid in hallowed ground,” pointed out Sister Corb. “The suicide is classed as a fingalach, a kin-slayer; a person no better than a murderer.”

  “That is why I tried to protect her so that her soul could journey on to the otherworld in peace,” sobbed the youth. “I loved her that much.”

  “There is no need to worry,” Fidelma assured him gently. “Sister Aróc can be buried in consecrated ground.”

  Here the abbot began to protest. Fidelma cut him short.

  “Sister Aróc, for legal purposes, was classed a mer, one of unsound mind. The law states that the rights of the mentally disturbed should take precedence over other rights. A lenient view is taken of all offenses committed by them.”

  “But Brother Ross lied,” pointed out Sister Corb, angry and determined that someone should be punished.

  Fidelma countered her anger softly.

  “The law also looks kindly on those whose concern it is to protect those unable to protect themselves. Brother Ross may now rest assured that Sister Aróc’s soul can now depart in peace.”

  The abbot glanced around hesitantly before heaving a low sigh of acceptance.

  “Amen!” he muttered softly. “Amen!”

  THE ASTROLOGER WHO PREDICTED HIS OWN MURDER

  I can appreciate why the bishop has sent you to defend Abbot Rígán, Sister. However, I think that you will find this is an open and shut case. The abbot is demonstrably guilty of the murder of Brother Eolang.”

  Brehon Gormán was a tall, dark man, swarthy of complexion. He sat back regarding Sister Fidelma, seated across the table opposite him, with a look of cynical amusement. He had an arrogance of manner which irritated her. They were using the chamber of Brother Cass, the steward of the Abbey of Fota, who stood nervously to one side.

  “As I understood the circumstances, there were no eyewitnesses. How, then, can the abbot be demonstrably guilty?” she asked coldly, with an emphasis on the words he had used.

  The sharp-faced Brehon smiled even more broadly. The smile made Fidelma feel a coldness at the nape of her neck. It had all the warmth of a shark about to snap at its prey.

  “Our law takes cognizance of the words of a man uttered before his death,” remarked the Brehon in the manner of a teacher explaining something to a backward child.

  “I do not follow.”

  “The victim named the abbot as his murderer before his death.”

  Sister Fidelma was stunned into silence by his calm announcement.

  It had been only that morning when the Bishop of Cashel had called her into his chambers and asked her if she, being a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts, would undertake the defense of Abbot Rígán, whose abbey of Fota stood on an island in a nearby lake. The abbot had been accused of killing one of his own brethren. Brehon Gormán was to hear the case and it was known that Gormán was no lover of the religious. The Bishop of Cashel was concerned for the abbot, who was, by all accounts, a man with a reputation for kindliness and largess, whose good works had distinguished him among the brethren. However, the abbot was also known to be a man of strict obedience to the Rule of Rome which brought him into conflict with many of his fellow religious.

  The community of the Abbey of Fota was a small exclusive brotherhood of leather workers and a few scholars. They were a self-sufficient community. As protocol requested, Fidelma had introduced herself to the worried looking steward, Brother Cass, who had then introduced her to Brehon Gormán who had ensconced himself in the steward’s chamber. She had asked to be informed of all the facts of the case.

  The facts seemed simple, according to the Brehon. Brother Eolang, a member of the community, had been found by the lake under a wooden landing pier. He had evidently been drowned but there was bruising and cuts to his head. The community’s apothecary, Brother Cruinn, had expressed suspicion about the death. Brother Eolang had not been an elderly man. He was in the prime of his life and the bruising seemed to indicate that he had been struck on the forehead and pushed into the lake where he had drowned.

  Brother Gormán had been sent for. After some initial inquiries he had placed Abbot Rígán in custody pending a full trial.

  For a moment or two Fidelma sat gazing at Brehon Gormán in astonishment.

  “My understanding of what I have been told is that Brother Eolang was dead when he was discovered in the lake? Is this not so? But you say he was able to name the abbot as his killer. How was this miracle accomplished?”

  “He was certainly dead when his body was found,” agreed the Brehon.

  “Then explain this riddle which you have set me.”

  “It is quite simple. Brother Eolang told several of his brethren a week ago that he would be murdered on a particular day and that the abbot would be responsible.”

  Fidelma found herself in the unusual position of being unable to comment for a moment or so. Then she shook her head in bewilderment, trying to control the growing sarcasm in her tone.

  “This is the evidence? He predicted he would be murdered by the abbot?”

  Brehon Gormán smiled again, even more coldly.

  “Brother Eolang also foretold the exact manner of his death,” he added.

  “I think you need to explain more precisely, Brehon Gormán,” Fidelma said. “Was Brother Eolang a prophet?”

  “It would appear so, for we have the accusation and prediction written in Brother Eolang’s own hand.”

  Sister Fidelma sat back and folded her hands in her lap.

  “I am listening attentively to your explanation,” she said quietly.

  “Please tell me the facts so that I do not make any assumptions.”

  “There was no love lost between Abbot Rígán and Brother Eolang,” replied the Brehon. “There are witnesses to several arguments between them. They arose because the abbot did not agree with some of Brother Eolang’s beliefs and activities. . ”

  Fidelma frowned, still feeling lost.

  “Activities? What activities?”

  “Brother Eolang was the assistant to the apothecary of the abbey and an adept at making speculations from the patterns of the stars.”

  “Medicine and astrology were often twins in the practice of the physician’s art,” conceded Fidelma. “Its use is widespread throughout the five kingdoms of Éireann. Why was the abbot so condemning of the practice?”

  Fidelma herself had studied the art of star charts and their interpretation under Brother Conchobar of Cashel, who had once told her that she would have made an excellent interpreter of the portents. However, Fidelma placed no great reliance on astrologers, for it was a science which seemed to rely solely on the interpretive ability of the individual. However, she did accept that much might be learnt from the wisest among them. The study of the heavens, nemgnacht, was an ancient art among the people of Éireann, and most who could afford to do so had a chart cast for the moment of their children’s birth which was called nemindithib, a horoscope.

  The more ancient forms of astrology used by the Druids before the coming of Christianity had fallen out of use because the New Faith had also bro
ught in new forms which were practiced among the Greeks and Romans and originated in Babylon.

  “The abbot did not approve of astrology, Sister,” interrupted the steward of the community, Brother Cass, who had been standing quietly by during the initial exchange. “The abbot disliked Brother Eolang on account of his practice of astrology. The abbot had read a passage in one of the Scriptures which denounced astrology and so he took his teaching from it. He tried to forbid its practice within our community.”

  Fidelma smiled softly.

  “Forbidding anything is a sure way of encouraging it. I thought we were more tolerant in such matters? The art of the réaltóir, the astrologer, has been one that has its origins from the very time our ancestors first raised their eyes to the night sky. It is part of our way of life and even those who have accepted the New Faith have not rejected the fact that God put the stars in the sky for the obedience of fools and the guidance of the wise.”

  There was a silence, then Brother Cass spoke again.

  “Yet there was an animosity between Eolang and the abbot over this matter.”

  “Over a week ago,” commenced the Brehon, “according to certain members of the community, and as they will testify, Brother Eolang became so worried about the animosity that he cast a chart, what is a called a horary chart, to see if he was in any danger from the abbot. He did this because the abbot’s language had grown quite violent in the denunciation of Brother Eolang’s beliefs.”

  Fidelma did not make any comment but waited for the Brehon to continue.

  “Eolang told certain of his comrades among the brethren that within a week from the time he had cast that chart, he would be dead. The chart, he said, showed that he was powerless against the abbot and would suffer death at his hands either by drowning or poisoning.”

  Brehon Gormán sat back with a smile of triumph.

  Fidelma regarded him with some skepticism.

  “You appear to believe this.”

  “I have seen the chart. I am an amateur in such things but my knowledge is such that the accuracy of the prediction becomes obvious. I shall accept it into evidence along with the testimony of those of the brethren with whom Brother Eolang discussed the meaning of it before his death.”