Whispers of the Dead

by Peter Tremayne

  Uainiunn looked nothing like her brother. She was fleshy; almost voluptuous, with an animal magnetism and a provocative way of looking at one, from under half-closed eyelids. She was dark of hair and eyes and had full red lips.

  “I understand that you attended this drinking contest.”

  “With my brother. He insisted.”

  “He insisted?”

  “He wanted to see Ruisín beaten by Crónán.”

  “And you?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “It was a matter of indifference to me.”

  Fidelma examined her closely.

  “Why would that be so?” she asked.

  Uainiunn sniffed.

  “What entertainment is there is watching men drink themselves senseless?”

  “True enough, but didn’t you want to see Ruisín win the contest?”

  “Not particularly. I am sad for Muirgel, though. The loss of Ruisín is going to be a heavy blow for her. However, I do not doubt that she will find another man to take care of her. Rumann for example. It might stop Rumann chasing me. He does not interest me.”

  “Ruisín’s death does not affect you in any way?” demanded Abbot Laisran, slightly outraged at the seeming callousness of the girl.

  Uainiunn frowned.

  “Only inasmuch as it affects my friend, Muirgel.”

  “It sounds as though you did not care much for Ruisín,” Fidelma reflected.

  “He was my friend’s husband, that is all.”

  “I understand that is not what your brother thought.”

  The girl’s eyes blazed for a moment. It was like a door opening suddenly and for a moment Fidelma glimpsed something equivalent to the hot fires of hell beyond. Then they snapped shut.

  “I am not responsible for what Lennán thinks,” she snapped.

  “So you would deny his claim that you were having an affair with Ruisín?”

  The girl threw back her head and laughed. Yet it was not a pleasant sound. There was no need to press her further on her opinion.

  “Very well,” Fidelma said quietly. “You may leave us.”

  Abbot Laisran turned eagerly after she left.

  “You think that she did it? She is callous enough.”

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you about to place another wager, another screpall on it?” she asked.

  Laisran flushed.

  “Perhaps either one of them did it,” he countered.

  Fidelma did not reply directly. She turned to Lígach.

  “Let Muirgel come in.”

  Laisran looked slightly crushed and sat back. He whispered stubbornly.

  “No, she didn’t do it. A screpall on Lennán. He’s your man, I am now certain. After all, he confessed that he wanted to murder Ruisín.”

  “But says that he did not. If he were guilty of the fact, he would surely have attempted to hide his intention?” replied Fidelma.

  “A subtle way of deflecting you from the truth. He has motive and . . .”

  “And opportunity? How so? He was with Crónán on the far side of the table.”

  Laisran shook his head.

  “This is worse than the mystery you had to solve in my abbey, when Wulfstan was founded stabbed to death in his cell which had been locked from the inside. Do you remember?”

  “I remember it well,” agreed Fidelma.

  “No one could have entered nor left—so who had killed Wulfstan? Here we have a similar problem.”

  “Similar?”

  “There is Ruisín. He is in full view of a large number of people and he is poisoned. No one can have administered the poison without being seen.”

  Fidelma smiled softly.

  “Yet someone did.”

  Muirgel came in; her face was still mask-like, displaying no emotion. Fidelma pointed to a chair and invited her to sit down.

  “We will not keep you long.”

  The woman raised a bland face to them as she sat.

  “The gossip is that my husband did not die from excess of drink but was poisoned.”

  “It is a conclusion that we have reached.”

  “But why? There was no reason to kill him.”

  “There obviously was and we require your help in discovering that reason. What enemies did he have?”

  “None except . . .” she suddenly looked nervous and paused.

  “Lennán?”

  “You know about him?”

  “I know only that he hated your husband.”

  Muirgel sat silently.

  “Was your husband having an affair with Uainiunn?” demanded Fidelma brutally.

  At once Muirgel shook her head vehemently.

  “What makes you so positive?” pressed Fidelma.

  “Uainiunn is my friend. I have known her longer than Ruisín. But I also know Ruisín. You cannot live in close proximity with a man day in and day out without knowing whether he is seeing another woman, especially if the woman is your best friend.”

  Fidelma grimaced. She had known women who had been fooled, as well as men come to that. But she did not comment further. Then another thought occurred to her.

  “Rumann was your husband’s friend?”

  “He was.”

  “And your friend also?”

  The woman frowned.

  “Of course.”

  “Rumann is not married?”

  “He is not.”

  Fidelma was watching the woman’s expression intently when she posed the questions with their subtle implication. But there was no guile there. Nothing was hidden.

  “I suppose that you and Ruisín, Rumann and Uainiunn were often together?”

  Again, Muirgel looked puzzled.

  “Uainiunn was my friend. Rumann was Ruisín’s friend. It was inevitable that we would be together from time to time.”

  “What of Uainiunn’s brother—Lennán? Was he in your company?”

  Muirgel looked annoyed.

  “I thought we had cleared up that matter. He was never in our company.”

  Fidelma nodded with a sigh.

  “You see, I would like to understand why Lennán has developed this idea about his sister and your husband.”

  “If you can peer through a person’s skull, through into the secrets of their mind, then you will find the answer. All I know is that Lennán was not so extreme until after he returned from the cattle raid against the Uí Néill.”

  “You will have to explain that.”

  “Over a year ago Lennán decided to join a raiding party to retrieve some cattle stolen by the one of Uí Néill clans. When he came back he was a changed man. You saw the scar across his forehead?”

  “He was wounded?”

  “The rest of the raiding party did not return,” went on Muirgel. “Only he returned out of the score of men who went off.”

  “Did he explain what had happened to them?”

  “An ambush. A fight. He was, indeed, wounded, and left for dead. A hill shepherd cared for him until he was well enough and then he returned. That was when he became suspicious of everyone and when he began to make those silly accusations against Ruisín.”

  Fidelma leaned forward a little with interest.

  “So this started only after his return. And you say there was no reason that you knew of?”

  “Perhaps he had become deranged.”

  “Did you speak about this to Uainiunn?”

  Muirgel grimaced.

  “Of course. Lennán was her brother.”

  “And what comment did she make?”

  “That we should ignore him. She said that most people knew that he had become a changed man since his return from the cattle raid. No one would take him seriously.” Muirgel suddenly paused and her eyes widened as she gazed at Fidelma. “Lennán? Do you suspect Lennán of killing Ruisín? How? He was standing on the far side of the table when the contest started. How could he have killed my husband?”

  “You’ve no idea who killed your husband?” Fidelma asked, ig
noring her question.

  “None.”

  “That is all then.”

  Muirgel rose and went to the flap of the tent.

  “Oh, just one question more,” called Fidelma softly.

  The woman turned expectantly.

  “You were not having an affair with Rumann, were you?”

  Muirgel’s eyes widened for a moment in shock and then a cynical smile slowly crossed her face. She made a sound, a sort of suppressed chuckle and shook her head.

  “I am not. Rumann is too interested in Uainiunn to bother with me, and I would have discouraged him. I loved Ruisín.”

  Fidelma nodded and gestured her to leave.

  Abbot Laisran was staring at Fidelma in surprise.

  “That was surely an insensitive question to ask of a newly widowed woman?” He spoke in a tone of stern rebuke.

  “Sometimes, Laisran, in order to get to firm ground one has to tread through bogland, through mire,” she replied.

  “Do you really suspect that Muirgel poisoned her husband because she was having an affair with his friend, Rumann?”

  “Every question I ask is for a purpose. You should know my methods by now, Laisran.”

  “I am still at a loss. I thought it was clear that Lennán must be the culprit. But your question to Muirgel . . .?”

  Fidelma had turned to Lígach, who had entered the tent again. The chieftain bent down and whispered in her ear. She nodded firmly.

  “Bring Rumann back,” she ordered.

  Rumann came in with his dog again, but this time immediately tied it to the tent post so that it would not leap up.

  “Well, Sister? Have you found out who killed my friend?” Fidelma regarded him with grave chill eyes.

  “I think I have a good idea, Rumann. You did.”

  The man froze. He tried to form a sentence but the words would not come out. He managed a nervous laugh.

  “You are joking, of course?”

  “I never joke about these matters, Rumann.”

  “How could I have done such a thing?”

  “Is that a practical question or a philosophical question?”

  Rumann stood defiantly before her, having regained his composure. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “You must be mad.”

  “I think that you will find that you have been the victim of madness, but that does not emanate from me. How did you do it? The drinking contest had been arranged. Early in the fair you saw the stall which sold poisons. Abbot Laisran had told me how he had to chase the stallholder away because the noxious brews that he was selling to control pests could also be used to kill other animals. They would also kill human beings. You acquired some of that brew before Abbot Laisran forced the stall so close.”

  For the first time Rumann looked nervous.

  “You are guessing,” he said uncertainly.

  “And am I supposed to have slipped this poison into his drink in full view of everyone gathered to watch the contest?”

  “Supposed to and did so,” agreed Fidelma. “It was very simple. You were standing by his side. Your terrier is always with you. It seems to like ale. As Cobha had poured the first jug, and each jug was marked for the individual contestant, you let slip the leash of your dog, who ran to Cobha just after he set down Ruisín’s jug and while he was filling the jug for Crónán. The immediate concern was to save Crónán’s jug that he was filling. No one noticed that you slipped the phial of poison into Ruisín’s jug while people fussed over whether Cobha had filled a proper measurement in the other jug.”

  Rumann was silent.

  “You retrieved your dog and tied it to a post. When Ruisín fell dead and his jug shattered to pieces, your dog sprang forward to lap the ale in the broken pieces. You don’t mind your dog lapping at ale. I asked myself why you were so concerned to drag your dog away from the ale in those broken pieces. A fear that the beast might injured himself on the broken pieces? Dogs have more sense. You thought some residue of the poison might be left, didn’t you? You didn’t want your dog to be poisoned.”

  Rumann was still silent. Fidelma glanced toward the open tent flap.

  “I could bring forth the stallholder who sold you the poison but I am sure you won’t want to give us that trouble,” mused Fidelma softly.

  Laisran went to say something, and then put a hand in front of his features and coughed noisily. Rumann did not seem to notice him, and his jaw came up defiantly.

  “Even if I admitted that I purchased poison from that stall, you have yet to argue a good cause why I would want to kill my friend, Ruisín.”

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “Sadly, that is not difficult. It is a cause, if you would call it so, that is as old as time itself. Jealousy.”

  “I? Jealous of Ruisín’s wife? Ridiculous!”

  “I did not say who you were jealous of. It was not Ruisín’s wife. You are desperately in love with Uainiunn, although she does not appear to care for you. In your justification for this, you came to believe the stories that Lennán was putting about—that his sister was having an affair with Ruisín. She was not. But you chose to believe Lennán because you could not accept that Uainiunn was simply not interested in you. Your jealousy knew no bounds. Pitifully, you believed if you killed Ruisín, then Uainiunn would turn to you. It is not love that is blind, Rumann, but jealousy.”

  “I loved Uainiunn. Ruisín stood in my way,” replied the smith firmly.

  “He did not. That was no more than a deranged mind’s fantasy which a frustrated and suspicious ear picked up and then nurtured among the gall of rejection. The bitter fruits of this harvest have destroyed minds as well as lives. Love that is fed only on jealousy dies hard. So it will die in you, Rumann.”

  She gestured to Lígach to remove the man from the tent.

  Abbot Laisran was wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “I swear that you had me worried there, Fidelma. A dálaigh is not supposed to tell an untruth to force a confession. What if Rumann had called your bluff and demanded that you bring in that stall-holder that I chased from here?”

  Fidelma smiled wanly.

  “Then I would have asked him to come in. As soon as I saw that poison was involved, I remembered what you said and asked Lígach to find the man. You did not think that an entrepreneur would meekly depart from such a good source of revenue as this fair-ground just because you chased him away from his stall? He had not gone very far at all.”

  “I think I shall need a drink after this, but an amphora of good Gaulish wine—” Laisran shuddered—“certainly not ale!”

  Fidelma looked cynical.

  “What was it that you were going to wager with me—a screpall? A barrel of Gaulish wine? Lucky for you I did not accept it. You’ll find wine is sweet but sour its payment.”

  “I’m willing to fulfill my obligation,” the abbot said defensively.

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “A share of the amphora will do. You are not searching for the gold at night, surely? Tomorrow will only bring lead.”

  Abbot Laisran grimaced wryly.

  “Poor Ruisín found lead earlier than most. Moderation, Fidelma. I agree. I invite you to the hospitality of the abbey.”

  “And is it not an old saying that it is not an invitation to hospitality without a drink?” smiled Fidelma.

  DEATH OF AN ICON

  I cannot understand why the abbot feels that he has to interfere in this matter,” Father Máilín said defensively.

  “I have conducted a thorough investigation of the circumstances. The matter is, sadly, a simple one.”

  Sister Fidelma regarded the Father Superior of the small community of St. Martin of Dubh Ross with a mild expression of reproach.

  “When such a respected man as the Venerable Connla has met with an unnatural death, then it is surely not an interference for the religious superior of this territory to inquire into it?” she rebuked gently. “Portraits of the Venerable Connla hang in many of our great ecclesia
stical centers. He has become an icon to the faithful.”

  Father Máilín colored a little and shifted his weight in his chair.

  “I did not mean to imply a censure of the abbot nor his authority,” he replied quickly.

  “It is just that I have carried out a very thorough investigation of the circumstances and have forwarded all the relevant details to the abbot. There is nothing more to be said unless we can track down the culprits and that, as I pointed out, will be impossible unless, in some fit of repentance, they confess. But they have long departed from this territory, they and their ill-gotten spoils.”

  Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the Father Superior for a moment or two.

  “I have your report here,” her hand lightly touched the marsupium at her waist, “and I must confess to there being some matters which puzzle me as, I hasten to say, they have also puzzled the abbot. That is why he has authorized me, as a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts, to visit your small community to see whether or not the questions might be clarified.”

  Father Máilín raised his jaw, slightly aggressively.

  “I see nothing at all that is confusing nor which requires any further explanation,” he replied stubbornly. Then, meeting her icy blue eyes, he added brusquely, “However, you may ask me your questions and then depart.”

  Fidelma’s mouth twitched a fraction in irritation and she shook her head briefly.

  “Perhaps it is because you are not a trained advocate of the law and thus do not know what is required that you take this attitude. I, however, will conduct my investigation in the way prescribed by the law. When I have finished my investigation, then I shall depart.” She paused to allow her words to penetrate and then said, in a brighter tone: “First, let us begin with you recounting the general details of the Venerable Connla’s death.”

  Father Máilín’s lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line in order to disguise his anger. His eyes had a fixed look. It seemed, for a moment or two, that he would challenge her. Then he appeared to realize the futility of such an action and relaxed. He knew that he had to accept her authority, however reluctantly. He pushed himself back in his chair, sitting stiffly. His voice was an emotionless monotone.

  “It was on the morning of the sabbath. Brother Gormgilla went to rouse the Venerable Connla. As he grew elderly, Connla required some assistance to rise in the morning and Brother Gormgilla would help him rise and dress and then escort him to the chapel for morning prayer.”