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 Librén, Brother Duarcán, and Brother Donngal. Everyone else who was here at the time has either died or moved on.”
“You have neglected to mention Tanaí’s daughter, Sister Muiríol,” observed Fidelma.
The abbot shrugged.
“And Sister Muiríol. 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, Ogán, 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 required 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 Ogán’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 Ogán’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 Tanaí 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 Duarcán.”
“Did Una show particular affection for any one person?”
Ogán 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 Duarcán. Is that the same Duarcán 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 Duarcán. 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 Duarcán, 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?”
Duarcán’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 the abbey gardens?”
Duarcán 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?”
“Tanaí and his daughter were in the garden. Tanaí 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 Tanaí rise and move off rapidly after Una. There was something suspicious about the way he moved. Rapidly, I mean, purposefully.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Hear anything?” He frowned and shook his head.
“I was intent on cutting some stone at the time. I do not even know what made me glance out the window. It was the sight, shortly afterwards, of people running through the garden that caught my attention rather than the noise. It caused me to go to the door, and that was when I was told that Una had been killed; that Tanaí had tried to steal the reliquary and had killed her.”
“Who told you that?”
“Brother Liag.”
Fidelma looked thoughtfully at him for a while.
“Did it ever occur to you that if Tanaí was going to steal the reliquary, he would hardly have waited for Una to pass by on her way to the chapel and then attempt to steal it while she was actually there?”
Duarcán stared at her as if he had difficulty following her logic.
“But, Brother Liag said . . .”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow.
“Yes? What did he say?”
“Well, it became common knowledge that is what happened.”
“Was it at your instigation that the statuette was placed in the chapel?”
Duarcán frowned.
“Not exactly. In those long, lonely days and nights that followed, I felt compelled to recreate her likeness in marble from fear that it would be lost in the mists of receding memories. One day, Brother Ogán, as he then was, came to my studio and saw the finished statuette. It was he who persuaded the old abbot that it should be placed in the chapel, where it has stood ever since. After
that, I did no more work as a stonemason or sculptor. I now merely work in the kitchens.”
Sister Fidelma drew a deep sigh.
“I think I am beginning to understand now,” she said.
Duarcán looked at her suspiciously.
“Understand? What?”
“The cause of Una’s death and the person responsible. Where can I find Brother Liag?”
Duarcán’s face filled with surprise.
“I saw him pass on his way to the chapel a moment or so ago . . . Are you saying . . . ?”
But Fidelma was gone, hurrying toward the chapel. Inside, she saw Brother Liag talking with the abbot.
“Sister Fidelma.” Brother Liag seemed surprised to see her.
“I thought that you had already started your journey back to Cashel.”
“There was some unfinished business. Just one question. Cast your mind back twenty years to the events surrounding Una and Tanaí’s death. There was tumult in the abbey gardens, shouting and so forth. You passed by the door of Duarcán’s studio, and he came out to see what was amiss. You told him what had happened. That Una had been killed, that Tanaí had committed the deed, and you also told him the reason—that Tanaí had attempted to steal the reliquary and was prevented by Una.”
Brother Liag frowned, trying to recall, and then he slowly and reluctantly nodded.
“I seem to recollect that I did so.”
“This was before Tanaí had been caught. It was a short time after the community had heard Una’s last scream, and Tanaí was even then being chased across the gardens. How did you know so soon, all these details?”
Brother Liag stared at her, his face going suddenly pale.
Abbot Ogán exhaled loudly.
“Liag, did you . . . ?”
He left the question unfinished, for Liag was returning the abbot’s look in horror as a further recollection came to him.
Fidelma’s lips compressed for a moment in satisfaction as she turned to the abbot.
“You told Liag your version in the garden. You were heard to cry that Tanaí was the murderer. Your and Liag’s versions differ so much that one of you was lying.
“The truth, Ogán, was that you were in love with Una, not Liag. When you found that Una was going away with Duarcán, that love turned to hatred. Sometimes what is thought of as love is merely the desire to possess, and thus it and hate become two sides of the same coin. Was it here, in this chapel, that Una told you of her love and her decision to leave the abbey? Did you then strike her down in your jealous rage? Her scream of terror as you struck was heard by Tanaí, who came rushing into the chapel . . . too late. He was not running to the abbot for sanctuary, but to tell the abbot what he had seen. You raised the alarm, denouncing Tanaí as the murderer, and the first person you told was Liag. The death of both Una and Tanaí are your responsibility, Ogán.”
The abbot stood, head bowed.
When he spoke it was in a dull, expressionless tone.
“Do you not think that I haven’t wished for this moment over the years? I loved Una. Truly loved her. I was overcome with a mad rage that I instantly regretted. Once Duarcán’s statuette had been placed here, I returned each night to seek her forgiveness . . .”
“Your contrition could have been more readily believed had you made this confession twenty years ago. I would place yourself in the hands of Brother Liag; prepare to answer for your crimes.”
Brother Liag was regarding the abbot in disgust.
“Some of us knew that you were secretly flagellating yourself before her statuette. Little did we realize you were merely behaving as a dog—as the Book of Proverbs says—a dog returning to its own vomit. There is no pity for you.”
THE BANSHEE
For three days the Banshee had been heard wailing outside his door at night. It was no surprise when his body was discovered. His time had come.”
Sister Fidelma gazed at Brother Abán with surprise.
The elderly monk was sitting slightly forward on his chair, shivering a little although the day was not cold. His thin mouth trembled slightly; a fleck of spittle from one corner caught on the graying stubble of his unshaven chin. His pale eyes stood out in his bony, almost skeletal head over which the skin was stretched taut and parchment-like.
“He was fated to die,” repeated the old man, almost petulantly. “You cannot deny the summons of the death wail.”
Fidelma realized that the old man was troubled and he spoke with deadly seriousness.
“Who heard this wailing?” she asked, trying to hide her natural scepticism.
The old man shivered.
“Glass, the miller, whose house is not far away. And Bláth has confirmed that she was disturbed by the sounds.”
Fidelma pursed her lips and expelled a little air through them in an almost soundless whistle.
“I will speak with them later. Tell me what you know about this matter, Brother Abán. Just those facts that are known to you.”
The elderly religieux sighed as if suppressing irritation.
“I thought that you knew them. Surely my message was clear?”
“I was told that a man had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. The messenger requested that the Chief Brehon of Cashel send a dálaigh, an officer of the court, to come and ascertain those circumstances. That is all I know so far, except that this man was named Ernán, that he was a farmer, and that he was found dead on the doorstep of his house with a jagged wound in his throat.”
Fidelma spoke without irritation but in a precise manner.
“This is a peaceful spot.” Brother Abán was suddenly defensive. “We are just a small farming community here by the banks of the Siúr River. Even nature bestows her blessings on us and that is why we call this place ‘The Field of Honey.’ Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“It would help if I knew exactly what has happened,” murmured Fidelma. “So, tell me what you know.”
“I am the only religious in this community,” went on Brother Abán, as if ignoring her request. “I have been here forty years, tending to the spiritual needs of this little community. Never before . . .”
He fell silent a moment and Fidelma was forced to control her impatience and wait until the old man was ready to begin.
“The facts?” he suddenly asked, his bright eyes upon her. “These are the facts. Yesterday morning I was at my morning prayers when Bláth came to my threshold, crying in a loud voice that Ernán had been found just outside the door of his house with his throat torn out. I went to his house and found this to be true. I then sent to Cashel for a dálaigh.”
“What was so suspicious about the circumstances that you needed to do so?”
Brother Abán nervously rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“Bláth told me . . .”
Fidelma held up a hand.
“Firstly, tell me exactly who Ernán was?”
“Ernán was a young farmer who farmed the lower fields along the riverbank. A handsome young man, married and without an enemy in the world. I knew his parents before they died. Good Christians leading blameless lives.”
“And Bláth? Was she his wife?”
Brother Abán shook his head.
“Ernán’s wife was Blinne. Bláth was her sister. She lived with them. She helps about the farm. A good girl. She comes to sing the psalms in the chapel each week.”
“And where was Blinne at this time?”
“Distraught. Beside herself with grief. She loved her husband very much.”
“I see. And Bláth told you . . . what?”
“Bláth said that she had been awoken on the last three nights hearing a terrible wailing outside the farmhouse.”
“Did she investigate the cause of this sound?”
The old monk laughed sarcastically.
“This is a rural community. We live close to nature here. You do not go to investigate the wailing of a Banshee.”
“Surely the New Faith has taught us not to be fearfu
l of Other-world creatures? As a Christian, do you really accept that there is a woman of the hills, a wraith, who comes to the threshold of a person about to die and then wails and laments in the middle of the night?” demanded Fidelma.
“As a Christian, I must. Do not the Holy Scriptures talk of the spirits and ghosts who serve both God and Satan? Who knows which the woman of the hills serves? In the old days, it was said that the Banshee was a goddess who cared for a specific noble family and when their time came to be reborn in the Otherworld, the spirit would cry to announce their impending death in this world.”
“I know the folklore,” Fidelma said quietly.
“It is not to be dismissed,” Brother Abán assured her earnestly. “When I was a small boy I heard a story from a neighbor. It seems that the time had come for his father, an old man, to pass on. A plaintive wailing was heard within the vicinity of their dwelling. The son went out the next morning and found a strange comb, which he picked up and took into the house. The following night the wailing returned but this time the doors and windows rattled as if someone was trying to get in.
“Realizing it was the Banshee the man placed the comb in a pair of tongs and held the comb out of the window. Unseen hands seized the comb and the tongs were twisted and bent out of recognition. Had he handed the comb out through the window, then his arm would have been wrenched off. That is the power of the Banshee.”
Fidelma dropped her gazed and tried to contain her smile. Obviously, Brother Abán was steeped in the old ways and superstitions.
“Let’s us return to the case of Ernán,” she suggested gently.
“Are you saying that his sister-in-law, Bláth, heard this wailing and did so on three consecutive nights?”
“The third night was when Ernán was found dead.”
“And Blinne had heard this wailing as well?”
“I only spoke to Glass the miller who confirmed that he had heard it also.”
“So you have not spoken to Blinne, Ernán’s wife?”
“She has not been well enough to speak with me, as you can imagine.”
“Very well. Who discovered the body?”
“Bláth was up in the morning to milk the goats and found Ernán outside the house. He had been dead some hours. Bláth believes that . . .”
Whispers of the Dead Page 14