‘So, as far as you know, he had no secret source of money?’
Serc frowned. ‘Why are you asking me these questions? If he didn’t poach or scrounge, he would have been dead.’
‘You seem to be the only person here that admits to having some closer contact with him than others.’
‘What are you implying?’ demanded the woman, her brow furrowing in anger.
‘I am implying nothing. Just that we need to know something about Cétach. His lifestyle and habits.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was murdered early today.’
Serc’s face registered surprise but not shock or upset.
‘So why come to me?’
‘Let us say that we have to start somewhere. Do you know any of his family or friends?’
‘I don’t think he had family or friends in the township. He was a lonely person, mostly by choice. He was married once but beat his wife and she divorced him. She went back to her family somewhere on the coast. And, no, he did not ill treat me as that pious son of a pig did from the abbey.’
‘Did he ever discuss anything with you about enemies? Did he mention anyone who would have a grievance against him?’
Serc shook her head. ‘The only person who had a grievance was his former wife. I heard he was not even able to return any of the marriage settlement or fines.’
‘When was this divorce?’
‘I suppose it was about three years ago. He was judged by the same Brehon who dismissed my case,’ she confirmed. ‘Maybe it is he that you should be talking to.’
‘Brehon Rónchú? We are told that he is away.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Serc replied. ‘I heard that he went upriver to the Ford of the Cows.’
Fidelma heaved a sigh. ‘I am done here,’ she announced.
Serc turned and vanished into the cabin without saying another word.
Fidelma realised that matters were not leading her anywhere but to the obvious conclusion that the murder of Cétach was to do solely with the finding of Brehon Brocc’s body. Fidelma and Enda made their way carefully off the boat and rejoined Eadulf below on the quayside, waiting patiently with the horses.
‘A strange place for a mertecht-loc,’ he greeted. ‘It sounded from here that there was nothing to learn from the woman.’
‘Nothing that would help us … at least, nothing that would help us at the moment,’ Fidelma added punctiliously.
‘Where to now?’
‘We will see if Beccnat has found anything further, and then there is little more to do today. However, tomorrow we will try to retrace the path that Cétach was following when he found the body of Brehon Brocc. Perhaps we will learn more.’
She led the way with the others following back along the river to the main part of the township before turning up the path that they had previously taken to visit Cétach’s hut.
Outside the rotting construction, Beccnat was standing with a nervous-looking man who was in the process of hauling the body of Cétach on to a small ox-cart, assisted by a companion. As the visitors dismounted, Beccnat introduced the nervous man as Síabair, the local physician.
‘Is there anything you can tell us that we might have missed?’ Eadulf queried, proud of his medical training but anxious to prove it.
Síabair shrugged. ‘The man had his throat cut – is that not enough?’
Having glanced at Eadulf’s expression, Fidelma turned to the physician with a patient smile.
‘I think my companion was seeking something more informative as he has studied the healing arts at Tuaim Brecain.’
An irritated expression crossed Síabair’s face as he realised his knowledge was being examined.
‘Then you will already know that Cétach was attacked from behind. He was held in that position while his attacker used a knife, cutting his victim’s throat from right to left. Of course, to get into that position, one has to suppose that there was only one attacker.’
‘And the assailant being behind the victim, would that not indicate something else?’ queried Eadulf mildly.
Síabair’s browns came together. ‘Like what?’ he demanded.
‘That the killer was known to the victim. You would hardly turn your back on a stranger unless the person was one you trusted.’
The physician shrugged. ‘It might,’ he conceded indifferently.
Eadulf decided not to bother to point out that the nature of the wounds indicated a left-handed killer.
‘Any observations are welcome if they help resolve matters,’ Fidelma said quickly, not wishing to alienate the physician.
‘Your colleague Brehon Beccnat here already knows what there is to know,’ Síabair replied. ‘This man was not well liked in the township and every man would probably have a reason to quarrel with him. So there will be no nuall-guba, the lamentation of sorrow, chanted over his grave; no caoine, the wailing or weeping aloud; the carrying to the grave will not be accompanied by the lám-airt. If I did not have my duties as a physician, I would not even be acknowledging the body with the toncha or washing, which is a sacred ritual no matter who the dead person was. He will be buried in what shirt he has and not a linen recholl or winding sheet. Do I make myself clear?’
Fidelma was a little surprised by the physician’s vehemence.
‘You make yourself very clear, Síabair.’
The physician man stared up at her, brows lowered. His nervousness was apparent, as if he had spoken more than he intended. Then he tried to explain.
‘You will ask me why I had no liking for Cétach,’ he said. ‘Very well, I will answer. I was the physician that Brehon Rónchú called in to examine Cétach’s wife when she accused him of beating her and sought a divorce. I saw her wounds. From that moment I detested the man. In fact, I hated him and will not express any regret that he now lies dead.’
There was a silence and then Eadulf asked with a thin smile: ‘Doesn’t that admission put you into the position of being suspect? We know that Cétach was disliked, but was there anyone who disliked him enough to do him harm, to kill him in this matter; a person that he knew? You have now admitted you hated him and do not regret his death.’
‘I think Síabair knows well what he is saying,’ Fidelma admonished Eadulf.
‘I am not ashamed. I was in love with Cétach’s wife. Her name was Faife. She rejected me for a life with that worthless piece of excrement. I tried to warn her and, in the end, I was right. He turned out to be nothing but a wastrel who was violent and only wanted to use her money, her dowry, to fund his drinking habits. When she knew the truth, she could only seek a divorce. Divorce was a reason for her to return in shame back to her own family on the coast.’
‘In shame?’ queried Fidelma.
‘That she returned to her own kin without her rightful compensation, even without the marriage payments or gifts, as was her due. That would have been enough to bring about a blood feud between her family and Cétach.’
Beccnat, who had been standing quietly by, decided to intervene in disapproval. ‘Little purpose in that.’
Fidelma grimaced thoughtfully. ‘Still, there is precedence, and the blood feud or dígal – vengeance, if you like – did have legal standing in the old times. Doesn’t the Críth Gablach refer to it?’
‘But with the coming of the New Faith the blood feud is discouraged and vengeance is seen as futile,’ replied Beccnat.
‘This is true,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘And I would support the law that the rule of dígal, or vengeance, is pointless and a useless way to pursue justice. The Brehon council long ago rejected vengeance as a path to follow. Compensation to the victim and rehabilitation of the perpetrator are the only ways of a true justice. However, perhaps a member of Faife’s family might have felt the need to follow the path of vengeance for the insult to their family over her marriage and divorce?’
‘That may be so,’ agreed Beccnat. ‘But the time to do it is when the blood is hot, not some five or six years afterwards when the blood is cold.’
The physician was shaking his head. ‘Don’t they say that vengeance is a dish best tasted cold?’
‘As a motive that may well apply to you, Síabair,’ Eadulf pointed out. He had clearly taken a dislike to the physician. ‘Cétach’s wife did not come from here, so I have been told. Did you come from her hometown?’
‘I did not,’ snapped the physician.
‘I meant to ask, since you bear an unusual name, where do you come from?’ Fidelma asked with a disarming smile.
The physician flushed. ‘I am of the Síabrad in the lands of the Uí Bairrache, far to the south of this place. I am of Laigin but not of the Uí Máil. I did not have to tell you my story and bring suspicion on my head,’ ended the man indignantly.
‘Yet you might have thought that by this confession you are seeking to reassure us that you did not kill the pedlar?’
Síabair’s lips thinned in a sneer. ‘It will be up to you how you interpret matters but, as you will obviously hear my feelings for Faife from someone in the town, it is easier to hear it from me. Now, if I may go about my duties …?’
Fidelma glanced to Beccnat and shrugged, making it clear that she was content. For a moment or two, Fidelma and her companions watched the physician and his assistant lead their ox-cart, with its grisly contents, down the hill until they vanished from sight. Then Fidelma turned to her former school companion.
‘It seems that Síabair could not add anything to what Eadulf was already able to interpret from the body. Was there anything else that struck you?’
Beccnat shook her head. ‘I have searched the hut and shed and found nothing obvious that could lead to identifying a killer. I begin to believe that Faife’s own family is worthy of investigation. The idea of a vengeance killing seems to me a likely motivation. Lots of people disliked Cétach, as you know, but the family seem to have the best cause for hatred that could result in what Síabair has pointed out.’
‘Tell me,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully, ‘did you know about this relationship Síabair describes with Faife?’
Beccnat quickly shook her head. ‘I remind you that I was not here when Faife was here and received her divorce.’
‘But you heard about it?’
‘Brehon Rónchú did not make a point of discussing his cases.’
‘Did he ever discuss the case of Serc?’
Beccnat hesitated. ‘Not particularly. I heard some tavern gossip, that is all.’
‘Gossip?’
‘There are still stories and speculation because Serc was supposed to have been raped by someone from the abbey. That produced a child, a boy. He died during some plague. The person she claimed was the father did not exist or, if he did, had a false name.’
‘Serc told me that Brehon Rónchú upheld him in this defence?’
‘It was on the basis that she could not identify him, so far as I know.’
‘I thought he was supposed to be one of the brethren at the abbey.’
‘Why are you so interested in that matter?’
‘I am not sure,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Put it down to my curiosity. Serc seems to think it was a misjudgment but did not realise that she could have appealed it, that the taircsiu or appeal is a right. It seems that Brehon Rónchú did not explain this or, if one is being generous, Serc might have forgotten after such a time has passed.’
‘Most likely it was the latter,’ Beccnat replied confidently. ‘I know Brehon Rónchú is very particular about his cases. He always volunteers the stipulated five ounces of silver in case of a dispute with his judgments. Litigants are always given the explanation that they can appeal and if the judgment is found to be wrong then the silver is forfeited by the judge.’
‘And no appeal was made?’
‘When Brehon Rónchú returns, you may take it up with him,’ Beccnat pointed out impatiently. ‘But he would have no reason to give a false judgment.’
‘Would the fact that the person involved was supposed to be a member of the abbey not have been a reason enough to be more diligent?’ Eadulf asked.
Beccnat flushed. ‘That is an outrageous thing to say! You say a Brehon tried to pervert the course of justice because the accused was a religious?’
‘An outrageous thing to do, that is, if the Brehon was protecting a senior cleric,’ replied Eadulf easily. ‘I only propose it as a possibility.’
The woman turned angrily to him. ‘I think you would do well to put a curb on your tongue, Saxon, for Brehon Rónchú is not a man of quiet disposition to take insults.’
‘If that is the case it sounds as though Brehon Rónchú lacks the objectivity that is essential for a Brehon to achieve before he can judge others,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply. ‘Eadulf was an hereditary gerefa, a law giver, among his people. He has a right to make suggestions for consideration without threats being returned. Why was Serc not allowed to enter the abbey to identify her assailant?’
Beccnat hesitated. ‘I was merely defending the Brehon. Are we not sworn to uphold the law, whether it is for bad people, good people, rich or poor people?’
‘I accept that is the intention,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Do you know much about Brehon Rónchú? Where did he get his qualification?’
‘His qualification is as a foirceadlaidhe.’
‘A foirceadlaidhe is acquired only at an ecclesiastical or monastic college,’ pointed out Eadulf, intervening for the first time. He knew the degrees were differentiated and glanced at Fidelma.
Beccnat shrugged. ‘The Brehon went to an abbey college and has the fifth order of wisdom.’ Then she frowned and her voice grew sharp. ‘I know you of old, Fidelma. I lay wager that you are thinking that because he went to an ecclesiastical college, he might be in favour of making a judgment for a religieux even though the man raped a prostitute. I would advise you not to claim Brehon Rónchú lied, for you would find no friends here. I guarantee it.’
TEN
Fidelma decided to let the matter drop. She realised there was something troubling her former college companion and she would have to find out what it was, but at the moment she had no time. ‘It seems that there is little more that can be done here. We must be thinking of returning to the abbey,’ she said for the woman’s benefit.
‘Will you be staying there long?’ Beccnat asked at once.
‘It is hard to say. There is little progress we can make now that Cétach has been murdered. I was hoping that he could show me where he found the body he took to the abbey.’
Beccnat was silent, apparently thinking.
‘Did Cétach reveal the actual spot?’ she asked after a moment.
‘He did not. Only that it was in the valley of Glasán. We shall explore along it to see if we learn anything new. A faint hope, but it is the only thing left.’
‘I might be able to help,’ Beccnat surprised them by saying.
‘How so?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Because I know someone that hunts in that area. He would be a good person to guide you. At least he would know the likely places.’
Fidelma was interested. ‘Where might I find such a person?’
‘Here. He is a hunter and trapper named Teimel and has recently returned from the mountains around Glasán. He has a cabin on the edge of the township.’
‘Is he a trustworthy man?’
‘Trustworthy?’ Beccnat smiled in amusement. ‘He is said to be a man of his word and once commanded a company of the lord of The Cuala’s bodyguard.’
Enda, who had been fairly silent ever since they had returned to Cétach’s hovel, suddenly burst into a fit of coughing.
Fidelma turned to him with a look of disapproval.
‘I hope you have not swallowed pollen from the dried plants that we have encountered?’ she asked with irony.
‘Lady,’ Enda replied, annoyed that she disregarded what he had considered a subtle warning. ‘The lord of The Cuala is uncle to King Fianamail. He is Dicuil Dóna of the Uí Máil; a powerful noble among these mountains and controls most of the north
of this kingdom.’
Beccnat’s eyes widened. ‘Your companion has a good knowledge. Dicuil Dóna is lord of all this territory. Most people here fall under his patronage. Is that a problem in your current investigation?’
Fidelma gave it some thought. ‘You say the hunter you know used to be in his bodyguard?’
‘But is no longer,’ affirmed the woman quickly. ‘It could well be good to consider taking a guide with you when venturing along that valley.’
‘I agree,’ Fidelma replied after a moment.
‘I will point out his hut for you,’ Beccnat offered immediately. ‘I can assure you that he has turned his back on military things, if that is a concern.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘He has since devoted himself to being a cuthchaire, a hunter and a trapper among the mountains here.’
They passed to the township square and towards the bridge that guarded the entrance to the towns. They were moving across the bridge when Beccnat gave a short cry of recognition.
‘There is the very man himself,’ she exclaimed, turning and waving.
Not far beyond the bridge, on the track towards the abbey, stood a well-constructed wooden cabin. Outside was a man apparently in the process of brushing down a horse, which stood patiently tied to a post outside. The man straightened and turned at Beccnat’s cry. He was tall and his rough, untidy hair blew this way and that as the wind caught it. He had an equally large and straggling beard. The eyes were deep set and blue, yet with the trace of ice about them. He was thin and did not appear to be very muscular. Only the weather-beaten skin betrayed the fact that he was a man who pursued an outdoor life. Certainly, he did not give the appearance of one who had been a warrior, let alone a cenn feadhna, the commander of a company. He examined Beccnat’s companions with curiosity as they approached.
‘Ticks,’ he said laconically, nodding towards the horse. ‘You go through the yew woods here and no matter how carefully you proceed, you will find they leap on to a sweaty horse.’
‘It is well that you are here, Teimel,’ replied Beccnat. ‘This is a colleague of mine, Fidelma. She seeks your assistance.’
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