“I see,” Fidelma replied with a sigh. “Why do you now have doubts of Tanafs guilt?”
Brother Liag appeared slightly uncomfortable.
“I know that this community has his death on its conscience because he was unjustly killed by the anger of the mob and not by legal process. That is enough to lay the burden of guilt on us.
There is always doubt if a man has not had a proper chance to defend himself.“
Fidelma thought for a moment.
“Well, on the facts as you relate them, you have a right to bi suspicious of the guilt of Tanaf. Had I been judging him at the time, I would have acquitted him on grounds that there was insufficient evidence. Unless other witnesses could have been produced. However, there is little one can do after twenty years.”
Brother Liag gave a troubled sigh.
“I know. But it is frightening to consider that if Tanaf was not guilty, then all this time the real murderer of Sister Una has dwelt within these walls nursing this dark secret.”
“We all live cheek by jowl with people who nurse dark secrets,” Fidelma pointed out. “Now, perhaps you’ll show me to my room?”
After the evening Angelus bell and a frugal meal in the refectory of the abbey, Fidelma found herself almost automatically making her way to the chapel to once again examine the marble statuette of Sister Una. She disliked unsolved mysteries,-they kept nagging at her mind until she had made some resolution of the problem. The face of Sister Una, alive in the marble, seemed to be pleading, as if demanding a resolution to this now-ancient murder.
Fidelma was standing before the statuette when, for the second time, a voice interrupted her meditation.
“He didn’t do it, you know.”
The voice was a soft feminine one. Fidelma quickly glanced around and saw a religieuse standing nearby. She was, so far as Fidelma could place her, somewhere in her thirties. The face could have been attractive, but even in the softening candlelight it seemed bitter and careworn.
“To whom do you refer?” Fidelma asked.
“To Tanaf, my father. My name is Muirfol.”
Fidelma turned to her and examined the woman carefully.
“So you are the daughter of the gardener who was hanged for the killing of Sister Una.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Unjustly so, for, as I say, he did not do it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I was here at the time and he was my father.”
“Daughters are not the best witnesses to their father’s deeds. I would need more than a statement of belief. You were surely young at that time?”
“I was twelve years old. Do you think that day is not impressed on my mind? I was with him in the abbey gardens, for I used to often play there. I remember seeing Sister Una passing to the chapel. She greeted us and asked my father a question about his work. Then she passed on into the chapel.”
Muiriol paused and swallowed slightly. Her dark eyes never left Fidelma’s face. There was a haunted look in them as if again seeing the scene—a vivid scene that appeared to torment her.
“Go on,” Fidelma encouraged softly.
“A few minutes after she passed into the chapel, there came a scream. My father told me to remain where I was and ran to the chapel. He disappeared inside. Others of the community had heard the scream, and some came into the garden to inquire what it portended. There came shouting from the chapel, a man’s voice was raised.”
“Was it your father’s voice?”
“I did not think so at the time. But time often confuses some details.”
“Your memory appears clear enough.”
“It is the truth, I tell you,” she replied defensively.
“What happened then?”
“I saw my father emerge from the chapel. A voice was crying—‘Tanai has murdered Una!”—or words to that effect. I saw my father running. Later I realized that he was running to the abbot’s rooms in fear for his life. But there was an outcry, and the people were angry. I did not know what had happened. I was taken to our rooms by one of the religieuse and remained there until my mother, prostrate with grief, was carried inside. She had seen my father being…“ Her voice caught and she paused a second before continuing. ”She had seen my father being lynched outside the abbot’s rooms. She never recovered and died soon afterward.“
There was a silence between them for a while.
“From what you tell me, your father could not have killed Una,” Fidelma finally observed. “Did you never tell your story?”
Muiriol nodded.
“I told it to the old abbot, but I was not believed.”
“But did you tell it to the Brehon who investigated the matter?”
“The matter was kept secret within the abbey for years until the old abbot died. The abbot felt guilty that the lynching had taken place with members of the community involved, and he wished to conceal it. So it was not reported to the Brehons. That was why the religious here were kind to me and raised me as one of the community. After the old abbot had died, no one bothered about the story of Una and my father.”
“Knowing this, why did you remain in the abbey?”
The girl shrugged.
“One day, so I hoped, I would find the guilty one. Someone in this abbey killed Sister Una and was also responsible for my father’s death.”
“So you wished your father’s name to be cleared?”
Muirfol grimaced.
“That was my original purpose. Twenty years have passed. Is anyone still interested?”
“Justice is always interested in justice.”
“Isn’t there a saying that there is little difference between justice and injustice?”
“If I believed that I would not be an advocate of the courts,” Fidelma returned.
FIDELMA WAS IRRITATED. SHE could not sleep. Her mind was filled with the thoughts of young Sister Una’s death. She turned and twisted for an age, but sleep would not come to her. She sat up and judged it was long past midnight.
Finally, she rose from her bed, put on her robe, and decided to go down to the abbey gardens to walk in the cool of the summer night. The only way to the garden that she knew of led through the chapel.
She heard the sound almost immediately as she opened the door into the chapel—a low groaning sound followed by a thwack as if of leather on a soft substance. The groan rose in a new note of pain.
Then she heard a voice: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa‘.”
Her eyes narrowed at familiarity of the masculine voice. She peered into the gloom to seek out the penitent.
A figure was kneeling before the marble statuette of Sister Una, head almost to the ground. The back was bare where the robe was stripped down to the waist. In one hand was a broad leather belt that, every so often, the figure would strike his back with, drawing blood, as she saw by the candlelight. Then the groan would issue a second or so after the impact of the leather on the flesh. The words of contrition were mumbled in Latin.
Fidelma strode forward.
“Explain this, Abbot Ogan!” she demanded coldly.
The abbot froze for a moment and then slowly straightened himself up, still kneeling on the chapel floor.
“This is a private penitence,” he replied harshly, trying to summon anger to disguise his shock at being thus discovered. “You have no right to be here.”
Fidelma was unperturbed at his animosity.
“On the contrary. As a dalaigh of the Brehon courts, no doors are barred to me, Abbot Ogan, especially when it is deemed that a crime has been committed.”
The abbot rose from his knees, pulling his robe around his shoulders. Fidelma had noticed that his back was scarred. It was of no concern to her that the abbot practiced flagellation: many mystics of the Church did, although she found such practices distasteful in the extreme. The scars, obvious even in the candlelight, indicated that the abbot had practiced the self-abuse for many years.
Ogan was def
ensive before her hard scrutiny.
“What crime?” he blustered.
With a slight forward motion of her head, Fidelma indicated the statuette of Sister Una.
“You seem to be expressing some guilt for her death. Were you guilty of it?”
The last sentence was suddenly sharp.
Abbot Ogan blinked rapidly at the tone.
“I was responsible, for had I been in the chapel at that time she would not have been alone to confront Tanai.”
Fidelma’s brows came together.
“I do not follow.”
“It was my task on the day she was killed to clean the chapel. I had delayed my task out of simple sloth and indolence.”
“I see. So you were not here when you should have been. If you feel guilt then that is within you. So when did you become involved in leading the hue and cry after Tanai?”
A frown passed the abbot’s face.
“Who said I did?” he asked cautiously.
“Are you saying that you did not?”
“I… I came on the crowd as he escaped across the garden. Everyone was shouting. They caught and hanged Tanai from the tree outside the old abbot’s quarters. That was when I first knew about her death and realized my guilt, for if I had been here…”
“An ‘if will empty the oceans,” Fidelma snapped. “So you did not witness the event? You did not identify Tanai as the murderer and would-be thief?”
Abbot Ogan shook his head.
“Everyone was proclaiming that Tanai was the guilty one.”
“But someone must have done so first. Who first identified Tanaf as the culprit?”
The abbot again shook his head in bewilderment.
“Perhaps a few of those who were there that day and who have remained in the abbey might recall more than I do.”
“Who might they be?”
“Brother Liag, Brother Libren, Brother Duarcan, and Brother Donngal. Everyone else who was here at the time has either died or moved on.”
“You have neglected to mention Tanai’s daughter, Sister Muirfol,” observed Fidelma.
The abbot shrugged.
“And Sister Muirfol. But she was only twelve years old at the time. No one took any notice of her, for like any loyal daughter, she swore her father was innocent.”
Fidelma paused for a moment and looked once again at the vibrant features on the statuette. An idea suddenly occurred to her.
“Tell me, Ogan, were any of the community in love with Una?”
The abbot looked bewildered and then pursed his lips sourly.
“I suppose that we all were,” he said shortly.
“I think you know what I mean.”
Celibacy was not forbidden among the religious of the Church in Ireland. Most houses, like this abbey, were often mixed communities in which the religious, male and female, lived and brought up their children in the service of the new religion.
Fidelma noted that Ogan’s chin jutted out a little more.
“I believe that some of the brethren were emotionally and physically enamored of her. She was a very attractive woman, as you may have noticed, because this statuette is an excellent likeness.”
“Were you, yourself, in love with her?”
The abbot scowled.
“I was not alone in my feelings.”
“That was not my question.”
“I admit it. There was a time when I thought we could have been together under God’s holy ordinances. Why are you asking such questions? It has nothing to do with her murder.”
“Does it not?”
Abbot Ogan’s eyes narrowed at her tone.
“What are you accusing me of?”
“You will know when I am accusing you. At the moment I am simply asking questions.”
“Una was killed protecting the holy reliquary when Tanaf attempted to steal it. There is nothing else to consider.”
“How can you be so sure? There were no witnesses. The reliquary was not even stolen.”
“I do not understand,” frowned the abbot.
“You mentioned that you were not alone in your love for Una,” she went on, ignoring his implied question. “Is there anyone else in the abbey today who fell into that category?”
The abbot thought for a moment.
“Liag, of course. And Duarcan.”
“Did Una show particular affection for any one person?”
Ogan scowled for a moment, and then he shrugged in dismissive fashion.
“It was rumored that she and Liag would be married. I thought they were going to leave the abbey and set up a school together.”
“And you mentioned Brother Duarcan. Is that the same Duarcan who sculpted this statuette? You mentioned that name when I asked you earlier who the artist was.”
The abbot nodded reluctantly.
“It is the same man,” he confirmed. “I think he was very jealous of Liag. After he sculpted the statuette, he refused to undertake any more work of a similar nature. A waste of a great talent.”
“It is late,” Fidelma sighed. “Before I leave the abbey tomorrow morning, I would like to speak with Brother Duarcan. Where will I find him?”
“He will be in the abbey kitchens. He now works cleaning and cooking for the community.”
The next morning, Fidelma found Duarcan, a tall dark man, washing kitchen utensils. He glanced up as she approached him and paused in his task. He smiled nervously.
“You are Fidelma of Cashel. I have heard of you.”
Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Then you will have also heard, perhaps, that I am an advocate of the Brehon Court?”
“I have.”
“I understand that you were in love with Sister Una.”
The man flushed. He laid down the pot he was cleaning and turned to her, clasping his hands loosely before him.
“I’ll not deny it,” he said quietly.
“I am given to understand that she did not return your sentiments?”
Duarcan’s mouth tightened at the corners.
“That is not so. We were going to be married.”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow.
“What of the story that she was going to marry Liag and set up a school with him?”
“Brother Liag is a liar to tell you that. It is not so. That was our plan,- mine and Una’s.”
Fidelma examined his expression carefully. His eyes met hers with a frankness that she found hard to doubt.
“I am told that you were a good sculptor once and that you executed the exquisite statuette of Una in the chapel. Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Why are you now wasting your talent?”
“Wasting? My talent died after I had given Una life in marble. I have nothing else to give. I exist, waiting for the time that I can rejoin Una in spirit.”
The dramatic words were rendered without drama, offhanded, as someone speaks of a mere statement of fact about the condition of the weather.
“Do you recall where you were when Una was killed?” pressed Fidelma.
“Do you think that I would forget the events of that day?” There was a controlled passion in his voice. “Yes, I recall. I was in my studio that overlooked the gardens. I was the abbey’s stonemason and sculptor. Una had been with me that morning, and we were planning to see the old abbot—he is now dead—to tell him of our decision to marry and leave the abbey. When Una left me, I saw her walk toward the chapel.”
“So you saw her cross abbey gardens?”
Duarcan nodded.
“And you saw her go to the door of the chapel?”
“No. Not as far as that. The door was obscured by the shrubs and trees of the garden.”
“What did you see then?”
“Tanaf and his daughter were in the garden. Tanaf was doing some work. I saw Una pass by, pausing momentarily to speak with them. Then she went on. A few moments later, I was looking out, and I saw Tanaf rise and move off rapidly after Una.
There was something suspicious about the way he moved. Rapidly, I mean, purposefully.“
Murder Most Medieval Page 2