Whispers of the Dead

by Peter Tremayne

  “I did not suspect that he would be tempted . . .”

  “Quite so,” snapped Fidelma. She turned to Brehon Tuama.

  “I suppose that you have asked Brother Caisín to remain in Droim Sorn until the case in concluded?”

  “Indeed, I have. Much to his annoyance. But I have sent a message to his abbot to explain the circumstances.”

  “Excellent.” Fidelma swung ’round to Findach. “Now, I would like to see your forge.”

  Findach was astonished.

  “I do not understand what relevance . . .?”

  Fidelma smiled mischievously.

  “You do not have to understand, only to respond to my questions. I understand the forge is a hundred yards from here?”

  Findach bit his lip and turned silently to lead the way.

  The forge lay one hundred yards through the trees in a small clearing.

  “The furnace is out,” observed Fidelma as they entered.

  “Of course. I have not worked here since yesterday morning.”

  “Obviously,” Fidelma agreed easily. Then, surprising both Findach and Brehon Tuama, she thrust her right hand into the gray charcoal of the brazier. After a moment, she withdrew her hand and without any comment went to the umar, or water trough, to wash the dirt off. As she did so, she surveyed the cartha, the term used for a forge. It was unusual for a forge to be so isolated from the rest of the township. Smiths and their forges were usually one of the important centers of a district, often well frequented. Findach seemed to read her mind.

  “I am a craftsman only in silver and gold these days. I do not make harnesses, shoe horses, or fix farm implements. I make works of art.”

  His voice possessed arrogance, a boastfulness.

  She did not answer.

  The great anvil stood in the center of the forge, near the blackened wood-charcoal-filled brazier and next to the water trough. A box containing the supply of wood charcoal stood nearby, ready for fueling the fire. There was a bellows next to the brazier.

  “Do you have examples of your work here?” she asked, peering around.

  Findach shook his head.

  “I have closed down my forge out of respect to my wife. Once this matter is cleared up . . .”

  “But you must have molds, casts . . . pieces you have made?”

  Findach shook his head.

  “I was just curious to see the work of a smith who is so renowned for his fine work. However, to the task at hand. I think, Brehon Tuama, I shall see the boy now.”

  They retraced their steps to Odar’s house. The chieftain was out hunting, but his tanist, his heir-apparent, led them to the room where the accused boy was held.

  Braon was tall for his sixteen years. A thin, pale boy, fair of skin and freckled. There was no sign that he had yet begun to shave. He stood up nervously before Fidelma.

  Fidelma entered the room while Brehon Tuama, by agreement, stayed outside as, under law, if she were to defend the boy, it was her privilege to see him alone. She waved him to be seated again on the small wooden bed while she herself sat on a stool before him.

  “You know who I am?” she asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “I want you to tell me your story in your own words.”

  “I have already told the Brehon.”

  “The Brehon is to sit in judgment on you. I am a dálaigh, who will defend you. So tell me.”

  The young boy seemed nervous.

  “What will happen to me?”

  “That depends if you are guilty or innocent.”

  “No one cares if a bothach is innocent when there is a crime to be answered for.”

  “That is not what the law says, Braon. The law is there to protect the innocent whoever they are and to punish the guilty whoever they may be. Do you understand?”

  “That is not how Odar sees it,” replied the boy.

  “Tell me the events of that morning when you went to work for Muirenn,” Fidelma said, thinking it best not to pursue the matter of Odar’s prejudice.

  “I did not kill her. She was always kind to me. She was not like her husband, Findach. He was mean, and I heard her reprimanding him often about that. He claimed that he did not have money but everyone knows that smiths have money.”

  “Tell me what happened that morning.”

  “I arrived at the house and went inside . . .”

  “One moment. Was there anything out of the usual? Was there anyone about, so far as you saw?”

  The boy shook his head thoughtfully.

  “Nothing out of the usual. I saw no one, except for Odar’s hunting dogs . . . he has two big wolfhounds. I saw them bounding into the woods by Findach’s forge. But there was no one about. So I went to the house and found the door ajar. I called out and, receiving no answer, I pushed it open.”

  “What did you see?”

  “From the open door I could see a body on the floor of the kitchen beyond. It was Muirenn. I thought she had fallen, perhaps struck her head. I bent down and felt her pulse, but the moment my hand touched her flesh I could feel a chill on it. I knew that she was dead.”

  “The flesh felt chilled?”

  “It did.”

  “What then?” she prompted.

  “I stood up and . . .”

  “A moment. Did you see any sign of the silver cross in the room?”

  “It was not there. Something as unusual as that I would have noticed even in such circumstances. In fact, I was looking ’round when I heard a noise. Someone was approaching. I panicked and hid myself in an adjoining room.” He hesitated. “The rest you must know. Brother Caisín came in and discovered me. There was blood on my clothes where I had touched Muirenn. No one listened, and hence I am accused of theft and murder. Sister, I swear to you that I never saw such a cross nor would I have killed Muirenn. She was one of the few people here who did not treat me as if I were beneath contempt!”

  Fidelma found it difficult to question the sincerity in the boy’s voice.

  She joined Brehon Tuama outside.

  “Well?” asked the Brehon morosely. “Do you see the difficulty of this case?”

  “I have seen the difficulty ever since you explained it to me,” she replied shortly. “However, let us now find this Brother Caisín and see what he has to say.”

  “He has accommodation in the hostel.”

  They went to the town’s bruighean, which was situated in the center of Droim Sorn and provided accommodation and hospitality to whoever sought it there.

  Brother Caisín was well built and, in spite of his robes, Fidelma noticed that he was muscular and had more of a build associated with a warrior than that of a religieux. It was when she examined his features that she found herself distrusting the man. His eyes were close set in the narrow face, shifty and not focusing on his questioner. The lips were too thin, the nose narrow and hooked. He spoke with a soft, lisping voice that seemed at odds with his build. The line from Juvenal came to her mind: fronti nulla fides—no reliance can be placed on appearance.

  “Brother Caisín?”

  Caisín glanced quickly at her and then at Brehon Tuama before dropping his gaze to focus on a point midway between them.

  “I suppose you are the dálaigh from Cashel?”

  “You suppose correctly. I am Fidelma of Cashel.”

  The man seemed to sigh and shiver slightly.

  “I have heard of your reputation, Sister. You have a way of ferreting out information.”

  Fidelma smiled broadly.

  “I am not sure whether you mean that as a compliment, Brother. I will accept it as such.”

  “I must tell you something before you discover it for yourself and place a wrong interpretation on it.” The monk seemed anxious. “Have you heard of Caisín of Inis Geimhleach?”

  Fidelma frowned and shook her head.

  “I know Inis Geimhleach, the imprisoned island, a small settlement in Loch Allua, a wild and beautiful spot.”

  At her side, Brehon Tuama suddenl
y snapped his fingers with a triumphant exclamation.

  “Caisín . . . I have heard the story. Caisín was a warrior turned thief! It was ten years ago that he was found guilty of stealing from the church there. He claimed that he had repented and went into the service of the church and disappeared . . .”

  Brehon Tuama’s voice trailed off. His eyes narrowed on the religieux before him.

  “Caisín of Inis Geimhleach? Are you saying that you are that man?” Fidelma articulated the conclusion of his thoughts.

  The monk bowed his head and nodded.

  Brehon Tuama turned to Fidelma with a glance of satisfaction: “Then, Sister, we . . .”

  Fidelma stilled him with a warning glance.

  “So, Caisín, why do you confess this now?”

  “I have paid penance for my crime and have continued to serve in the abbey of Cluain. You might discover this and leap to the wrong conclusion.”

  “So why did you not reveal this before, when the Brehon questioned you?” she demanded.

  Caisín flushed.

  “One does not always do the correct thing at the correct time. This last day, I have had a chance to think more carefully. I realized it was foolish not to be completely honest even though it has nothing to do with the current matter.”

  Fidelma sighed.

  “Well, your honesty does you credit in the circumstances. Tell me, in your own words, what happened when you discovered the body of Muirenn, the wife of the smith.”

  Caisín spread his arms in a sort of helpless gesture.

  “There is nothing complicated about it. My abbot told me that some time ago he had commissioned a new silver cross for our high altar from Findach the Smith. I was instructed to come to Droim Sorn to collect it.”

  “How was payment to be made to Findach?” asked Fidelma.

  Caisín looked bewildered.

  “The abbot made no reference to payment. He simply asked me to come and collect the cross. As it was for the high altar, I understood it to be heavy, and so I asked permission to take one of the mules from the abbey. I had been to Droim Sorn before and so I knew where to find Findach’s forge.”

  Fidelma glanced quickly at him.

  “You went to the forge directly?”

  “Oh yes. Where else would I go to collect the cross?”

  “Where, indeed? What then?”

  “Findach was at the forge, and when I arrived he told me that the cross was at his house and I should precede him there. He would join me once he had doused his furnace.”

  “Was anyone else at the forge when you arrived?”

  “No . . . well, I did see a man riding away.”

  “I don’t suppose you knew who it was?”

  Brother Caisín surprised her by an affirmative nod.

  “I recognized him later as Odar, the chieftain. He had his hunting dogs with him. I left Findach and went to the house. I arrived at the door. It was slightly ajar. I caught sight of clothing on the floor. I pushed the door open and then I realized the clothing was a body. It was a woman. I was standing there when I heard a noise beyond an interior door. I opened it and found the youth, Braon, hiding there. He had blood on his clothes and instinct made me grasp hold of him. A moment later, Findach, who followed me from the forge, entered and cried out when he recognized the body of his wife. His cry brought someone else who ran to fetch Brehon Tuama. That is all I know.”

  Outside, Brehon Tuama looked worried.

  “Do you think he is being honest? Once a thief . . .? Isn’t it said that opportunity makes the thief, and this man had opportunity.”

  “Publilius Syrus once wrote that the stolen ox sometimes puts his head out of the stall,” smiled Fidelma, mysteriously.

  Brehon Tuama looked bewildered. Fidelma went on without enlightening him: “I am going to ride to Cluain to see the abbot. When I return I hope to have resolved this mystery.”

  Brehon Tuama’s eyes lightened.

  “Then you think that Caisín is responsible?”

  “I did not say that.”

  Cluain, the meadow, was the site of an abbey and community founded by Colmán Mac Léníne some sixty years before. It was evening when she reached the abbey and demanded to be announced to the abbot immediately. The abbot received her without demur for he knew that Fidelma was also the sister of the young king of Cashel.

  “You have come from Droim Sorn, lady?” asked the elderly abbot when they were seated. “I suppose that you wish to speak with me of Brother Caisín?”

  “Why do you suppose that?”

  “His background and the circumstances make him suspect in the murder and theft there. I have had word of the event from Brehon Tuama. Caisín is a good man in spite of his history. He came to this abbey ten years ago as a penitent thief. Like the penitent thief of the Bible, he was received with rejoicing and forgiveness and never once has he given us cause to question his redemption.”

  “You trusted him to go to Droim Sorn to bring back a valuable cross of silver.”

  “It was the new cross for our high altar.”

  “But you did not trust him with the money to pay for it, I understand.”

  The old man blinked rapidly.

  “There was no payment to be made.”

  “You mean that Findach undertook to make this cross out of charity for the abbey?” Fidelma was puzzled.

  The old abbot laughed, a slightly high-pitched laugh.

  “Findach never gave anything out of charity. I should know for I was uncle to his wife Muirenn. He is an impecunious man. He made the cross for us in repayment for this indebtedness to the abbey.”

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow in query.

  “Findach spent money like water. His wife owned the house in which he dwells and kept her own money as the law allows. In fact, all Findach owns is his forge and tools.”

  Fidelma leant forward quickly.

  “You mean that Findach will benefit from his wife’s wealth now that she is dead?”

  The abbot smiled sadly and shook his head.

  “He does not benefit at all. Half of her money is returned to her own family in accordance with the law. She was an aire-echta in her own right.”

  Fidelma was surprised, for it was not often that a smith’s wife held an equal honor price to that of her husband.

  The abbot continued: “She has bequeathed the residue of her property to this abbey in my name, for she knew how I had helped her husband over the years.”

  Fidelma hid her disappointment at being first presented and then deprived of another motive for the murder of Muirenn.

  “Findach had been asked to make some artifact for Imleach; and rather than admit to the abbot of Imleach that he had no money to purchase the silver needed to make it, he asked me for a loan. When he later confessed he could not repay it, I offered to provide him with enough silver so that he could construct a cross for our high altar. His craftsmanship was to be the repayment.”

  “I am beginning to understand. I am told that Caisín had been to Droim Sorn before?”

  “I sent him myself,” agreed the abbot.

  “Last month I sent him to see Findach to remind him that the time to deliver the cross was approaching. He returned and told me that Findach had assured him that the cross would be ready at the appropriate time.”

  Fidelma, fretting at the delay, had to spend the night at Cluain, and rode back to Droim Sorn the following morning.

  She was met by Brehon Tuama, whose face mirrored some degree of excitement.

  “It seems that we were both wrong, Sister. The boy, Braon, announced his guilt by attempting to escape.”

  Fidelma exhaled sharply in her annoyance.

  “The stupid boy! What happened?”

  “He climbed out of a window and fled into the forest. He was recaptured early this morning. Odar let loose his hunting dogs after him and it was a wonder that the boy was not ripped apart. We caught him just in time. Odar has now demanded the imprisonment of his father as an accomplic
e.”

  Fidelma stared at the Brehon.

  “And you have agreed to this?”

  Brehon Tuama spread his hands in resignation.

  “What is there to be done? Whatever doubts I had before are now dispelled by the boy’s own admission of guilt . . . his attempt to escape.”

  “Does it not occur to you that the boy attempted to escape out of fear rather than out of guilt?”

  “Fear? What had he to fear if he was innocent?”

  “He and his father seemed to fear that, as they are of the class of bothach, looked down on and despised by many of the free clansmen of this place, they would not be treated fairly,” she snapped.

  “The law is there so that no one should fear any unjust action. I regret that Odar does not appreciate that fact.”

  Brehon Tuama sighed.

  “Sadly, the law is merely that which is written on paper. It is human beings who interpret and govern the law, and often human beings are frail creatures full of the seven deadly sins that govern their little lives.”

  “Are you telling me the boy is again imprisoned at Odar’s rath and is unhurt?”

  “Bruised a little, but unhurt.”

  “Deo gratias! And the father?”

  “He has been imprisoned in the barn behind the chief’s house.”

  “Then let us go to the chief’s house and have all those involved in this matter summoned. If, after hearing what I have to say you feel that there is a necessity for a formal trial, so be it. But the boy is not guilty.”

  Half an hour later they were gathered in Odar’s hall. Along with Odar and his tanist were Brehon Tuama, the boy, Braon, and his father, Brocc, with Findach and Brother Caisín.

  Fidelma turned to Brocc first. Her voice was brusque.

  “Although you are a bothach, you have worked hard and gathered enough valuables to soon be able to purchase your place as a full and free clansman here. Is that correct?”

  Brocc was bewildered by her question, but gave an affirmative jerk of his head.

  “You would be able to pay the honor price for the death of Muirenn, the compensation due for her unlawful killing?”

  “If my son were judged guilty, yes.”

  “Indeed. For everyone knows that your son is under age. The payment of compensation and fines incurred by his action, if found guilty, falls to you.”