Fidelma held up her hand.
“I will see what she believes when I speak with her. At this point, she came to you?”
“That is right. I went to see the body while she went inside to comfort Blinne.”
“Where is the body now?”
“In the chapel. We shall bury it tonight.”
“I would like to examine this wound of which you speak.” Brother Abán stirred uncomfortably.
“Is that necessary? After all, you are . . .”
“I am a dálaigh and used to such sights as the corpses of people who have died in violent ways.”
The old monk shrugged.
“It is not often that you would see the corpse of one who has been taken by the Banshee,” he muttered.
“Has there been much wolf activity in these parts recently?”
The question was innocent enough but Brother Abán realized what she was implying and he pulled a sour face.
“You will not be able to pass off this death as a wolf attack, Sister,” he said.
“I know the marks made by a wolf when it is driven to attack a human. A wolf rarely attacks a full-grown man, a strong and muscular man. And the wailing was certainly not that of a wolf. You will have to think again if you want to dismiss this death with a rational reason.”
“I want to find the truth, that is all,” Fidelma replied evenly. “Now let us inspect the corpse.”
The old monk had been right that Ernán had been young and handsome in life. He was obvious well-muscled and strong. The only disfigurement on his body was the jagged wound beneath his chin, which severed his windpipe and arteries. Fidelma bent forward and saw immediately that no teeth marks could have made the wound. It had been made by something sharp although it had been drawn across the throat, tearing the flesh rather than cutting cleanly.
She straightened up after her inspection.
“Well?” demanded the old man.
“Ernán was certainly attacked but not by some Otherworld entity,” she said softly.
She led the way out of the small chapel and stood in the sunshine looking down through the collection of buildings to where the broad expanse of river was pushing sedately along, glistening and flickering in the bright light. There were several dwellings clustered around, including a blacksmith’s forge and grain stores. The main part of the community dwelt in outlying farmsteads. There were very few people about; most people would probably be in the fields at this time. The blacksmith, however, stood deep in conversation with someone who stood with a thick-legged workhorse.
Fidelma saw the only other people were a couple at the far end of the square who had just emerged around the corner of a storehouse. One was an attractive woman with auburn hair, young and pretty and slim. Her companion was a young man, long-faced, intense.
Fidelma’s keen eyes deduced that neither was happy. The young man was stretching out a hand to the woman’s arm with an almost imploring gesture. The woman seemed irritable and knocked the hand away, turning swiftly and striding toward the chapel. The young man gazed after her for a moment, then seemed to catch Fidelma’s gaze. He suddenly walked rapidly away, disappearing behind the far building.
“Interesting,” muttered Fidelma. “Who are they? The woman seems to be coming here.”
Brother Abán, standing at her shoulder, whispered: “This is Blinne, the widow of Ernán.”
“And who was the young man with whom she seemed annoyed?”
“That was Tadhg. He is a . . . he is a bard.”
Fidelma’s lower lip thrust out a moment in amusement at the disapproval in the old man’s voice.
“That is appropriate.”
The name Tadhg meant a poet.
Brother Abán was already moving to greet the woman called Blinne.
“How are you, my child?”
“Only as can be expected,” Blinne replied shortly. Fidelma noticed that her face seemed an expressionless mask. Her lips were thinned in the set of her jaw. She had a tight control of her emotions. Her hazel eyes caught those of Sister Fidelma and her chin came up defiantly. “I have come to see the body of Ernán one last time. And Bláth says that she will sing the caoine, the keening at the interment.”
“Of course, my child, of course,” muttered the old monk. Then he realized his manners. “This is Sister Fidelma from Cashel. She is . . .”
“I know who she is,” replied the young woman, coldly. “She is sister to our king as well as being a dálaigh.”
“She has come to inquire into the death of your husband.”
Was there a slight blush on Blinne’s cheek?
“So I have heard. The news is all around the community.”
“I am sorry for your troubles. Blinne,” Fidelma greeted her softly. “When you have finished,” she nodded imperceptibly to the chapel, “I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“I understand.”
“I shall be at Brother Abán’s dwelling.”
It was not long before Blinne came to Brother Abán’s threshold.
Fidelma bade her be seated and turned to the old monk.
“I think that you said that you had something to attend to in the chapel?” she suggested pointedly.
“No, I . . .” Brother Abán caught her gaze and then nodded swiftly.
“Of course. I shall be there if you need me.”
After he had left, Fidelma took her seat opposite the attractive young woman.
“This must be distasteful to you, but your husband has died in suspicious circumstances. The law dictates that I must ask you certain questions.”
Blinne raised her chin defiantly.
“People are saying that he was taken by a Banshee.”
Fidelma regarded her thoughtfully.
“You sound as if you give that story no credence?”
“I have heard no wailing messengers of death. Ernán was killed but not by a ghostly visitation.”
“Yet, as I understand it, the wailing on three separate nights thrice awakened your own sister, who dwells with you. This wailing was heard by one of your neighbors.”
“As I said, I did not hear it nor was I awakened. If wailing there was, it was that of a wolf. He was killed by a wolf, that is obvious.”
Fidelma regarded her thoughtfully, then she said: “If it was obvious, then there would be no need for this inquiry. Tell me about Ernán. He was a farmer, handsome, and I am told he was well liked. Is that true?”
“True enough.”
“I am told that he had no enemies?”
Blinne shook her head but responded too quickly, so Fidelma thought.
“Are you sure about that?” pressed Fidelma.
“If you are trying to tell me that you suspect that he was murdered then I . . .”
“I am not trying, Blinne,” interrupted Fidelma firmly. “I tell you facts. A wolf did not create the wound that caused his death. Now, are you saying that he had no enemies that you know of? Think carefully, think hard, before you reply.”
Blinne’s face had become a tight mask.
“He had no enemies,” she said firmly.
Instinctively, Fidelma knew that she was lying.
“Did you love your husband?” she asked abruptly.
A red flush spread swiftly over Blinne’s features.
“I loved him very much!” came the emphatic response.
“You had no problems between you? Nothing Ernán said that might have led you to think that he nurtured some problem and tried to hide it from you?”
Blinne was frowning suspiciously.
“It is the truth that I tell you when I say that there were no problems between us and that I loved him very much. Are you accusing me of . . . of murdering my own husband?”
Her voice rose sharply, vehemently.
Fidelma smiled disarmingly.
“Calm yourself. I am required to ask certain questions and must do so. It is facts that I am after not accusations.”
Blinne’s mouth formed a thin lin
e and still stared belligerently at Fidelma.
“So,” Fidelma continued after a moment or two of silence, “you are telling me that he had no problems, no enemies, that your relationship was good.”
“I have said as much.”
“Tell me what happened on the night that he died.”
Blinne shrugged.
“We went to bed as usual. When I awoke it was dawn and I heard Bláth screaming outside the house. I think that was what actually awoke me. I rushed out and found Bláth crouching on the threshold with Ernán’s body. I cannot remember much after that. Bláth went for Brother Abán who is also the apothecary in the community. I know he came but could do nothing. It is all a blur.”
“Very well. Let me take you back to the time you went to bed. You say, ‘we went to bed’? Both of you at the same time?”
“Of course.”
“So, as far as you know, you both went to bed and fell asleep together?”
“I have said so.”
“You were not disturbed by Ernán getting up either in the night or at dawn?”
“I must have been very tired for I remember that I had been feeling sleepy after the evening meal and was almost asleep by the time I reached the bed. I think we have been working hard on the farm in recent days as I have been feeling increasingly tired.”
“You heard no disturbances during the night nor during the previous nights?”
“None.”
Fidelma paused thoughtfully.
“How was your sleep last night?”
Blinne was scornful.
“How do you think? My husband had been killed yesterday. Do you think I slept at all last night?”
“I can understand that,” agreed Fidelma. “Perhaps you should have had Brother Abán mix you a sleeping draught.”
Blinne sniffed.
“If there was need for that, I would not have needed bother him. My sister and I were raised knowing how to mix our own herbal remedies.”
“Of course. How do you feel now—physically, I mean?”
“As can be expected. I am not feeling well. I feel nauseous and have a headache.”
Fidelma smiled softly and rose.
“Then I have taxed you too long.”
Blinne followed her example.
“Where would I find your sister, Bláth?”
“I think she went to see Glass the miller.”
“Good, for I have need to see him as well.”
Blinne stood frowning at the door.
“You have been told that Glass is claiming that he heard this wailing in the night?”
“I have been told.”
Blinne extended her front teeth over her lower lip for a moment, pressing down hard.
“I did not hear any noises in the night. But . . .”
Fidelma waited. Then she prompted: “But . . .?”
“Could it have been true? Bláth said . . . people believe . . . I . . . I don’t know what to believe. Many people believe in the Banshee.”
Fidelma reached out a hand and laid it on the young woman’s arm.
“If the wailing woman of the hills exists, it is said her task is to be the harbinger of death, lamenting the passing of a soul from this world to the Otherworld. The belief is that the Banshee merely warns but is never the instrument of death. Whether you believe that is your own affair. Personally, I believe that the Banshee—indeed, all the ghostly visitations that I have encountered—is merely a visible manifestation of our own fears, fears whose images we cannot contain within the boundaries of our dreams.”
“And yet . . .”
“I tell you this, Blinne,” Fidelma interrupted in a cold voice, “that your husband was killed neither by a Banshee, nor by an animal agency. . . . A human hand killed him. Before this day is out, the culprit will stand before me.”
Brother Abán had directed her along the path toward Glass’s mill. The path ran alongside a small stream, which twisted itself down to feed the broad river, the Siúr. As she followed the path through a copse of birch trees she heard a strong masculine voice. It was raised in a recitation.
“No pleasure
that deed I did, tormenting her
tormenting her I treasure . . .”
Fidelma came upon a young man, sitting on a rock by the stream. He heard the snap of a twig beneath her feet and swung ’round, his face flushing crimson as if he had been caught in a guilty deed.
“Greetings, Tadhg,” Fidelma said, recognizing him.
He frowned, and the crimson on his cheeks deepened.
“You know me?”
Fidelma did not answer, for that much was obvious.
“I am Sister . . .”
“Fidelma,” broke in the young man. “News of your arrival has spread. We are a small community.”
“Of course. How well did you know Ernán?” she went on without further preamble.
The young man grimaced.
“I knew him,” he said, defensively.
“That’s not what I asked. I said, how well? I already presume that everyone in this community knew each other.”
Tadhg shrugged indifferently.
“We grew up together until I went to the bardic school which has now been displaced by the monastery founded by Finnan the Leper.”
“The place called Finnan’s Height? I knew of the old school there. When did you return here?”
“About a year ago.”
“And presumably you renewed your friendship with Ernán then?”
“I did not say that I was his friend, only that we grew up together, as most people here of my age did.”
“Does that mean that you did not like him?” Fidelma asked quickly.
“One does not have to like everyone one knows or grows up with.”
“There is truth in that. Why didn’t you like him?”
The young man grimaced.
“He was arrogant and thought himself superior to . . . to . . .”
“A poet?” supplied Fidelma.
Tadhg looked quickly at her and then lowered his gaze as if in agreement.
“He was a farmer and thought strength and looks were everything. He called me a weak parasite fit for nothing, not even to clean his pigsty. Most people knew how arrogant he was.”
“Yet I am told that Ernán was well-liked and had no enemies in the world.”
“Then you were told wrong.”
“I was told by Blinne.”
“Blinne?” The young man’s head jerked up and again came an uncontrollable rush of blood to his cheeks.
Fidelma made an intuitive leap forward.
“You like Blinne very much, don’t you?”
There was a slightly sullen expression which now molded the young poet’s features.
“Did she tell you that? Well, we grew up together, too.”
“Nothing more than an old friendship?”
“What are you saying?”
“Saying? I am asking a question. If you disliked Ernán so much, you must surely not have approved of Blinne being married to him.”
“You would soon find that out from anyone in the community,” admitted Tadhg sullenly. “I do not deny it. Poor Blinne. She did not have the courage to leave him. He dominated her.”
“Are you saying that she did not love him?”
“How could she? He was a brute.”
“If she disliked the marriage, there are nine reasons in law why she could have divorced him and more why she could have separated from him.”
“I tell you that she did not have the courage. He was a powerful, controlling man and it is poetic justice that he was taken by the Banshee, whether you call it Banshee or wolf. That he was a beast and the stronger beast of the night attacked him and tore out his throat was poetic justice.”
The young man finished his speech with defiance.
“Poetic?” Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at him. “Where were you the night before last? Where were you when Ernán was killed?”
“In my house
. Asleep.”
“Where is your house?”
“Up on that hillside.” He raised an arm to gesture in the direction.
“Was anyone with you?”
The young man looked outraged.
“Of course not!”
“A pity,” Fidelma said softly.
“What do you mean?” Tadhg blinked, disconcerted.
“Just that I would like to eliminate you from the vicinity of Ernán’s farmstead. He was murdered, his throat cut, and you have just given me a very good reason why you might be suspected of it.”
Now Tadhg’s face was suddenly drained of blood.
“I was told that he had his throat ripped out,” he said quietly. “I presumed that it was by a wolf, although many superstitious people are talking about the Banshee.”
“Who told you that this was how he died?”
“It is common talk. You say that he was murdered? How can you be so sure?”
Fidelma did not bother to answer.
“Well, I did not do it. I was in my bed, asleep.”
“If that is the truth then you have presented me with another suspect,” she said reflectively. “Blinne.”
Tadhg swallowed rapidly.
“She would never . . . that is not possible. She had not enough courage to divorce Ernán. She was too gentle to strike him down.”
“Human beings react in peculiar ways. If not Blinne or you, then who also had cause to hate Ernán—a man who was supposed to have no enemies?”
Tadgh raised his hands in a helpless, negative gesture.
“I will want to see you again later, Tadhg.”
Fidelma turned and resumed her progress along the path, her brow furrowed in thought.
Bláth had already left Glass’s mill when Fidelma reached it.
The miller was a genial, round-faced man of middle age with twinkling gray-blue eyes, which might well have been the reason for his name, which indicated such a coloring. He was a stocky man, clad with a leather apron and open shirt, his muscles bulging as he heaved a sack of flour onto a cart.
“A bad thing, Sister, a bad thing,” he said, when Fidelma introduced herself.
“You were a close neighbor of Ernán, I believe.”
The miller turned and pointed. From where they stood the ground began to descend slightly toward the broad river across some fields to where an elm grove stood.
Whispers of the Dead Page 15