Whispers of the Dead

by Peter Tremayne

  “I have heard that Brother Connla was of a great age,” intervened Fidelma. Everyone knew he was of considerable age but Fidelma’s intervention was more to break Father Máilín’s monotonous recital so that she would be able to extract the information she wanted.

  “Indeed, but Connla was also frail. It was his frailty that made him needful of the helping hand of Brother Gormgilla.”

  “So, this Brother Gormgilla went to the chamber of the Venerable Connla on the morning of the sabbath? What then?” encouraged Fidelma.

  “The facts are straightforward enough. Gormgilla entered and found the Venerable Connla hanging from a beam just above his bed. There was a sign that a valuable personal item had been taken, that is, a rosary. Some valuable objects were also missing from the chapel which adjoins the chamber of the Venerable Connla.”

  “These discoveries were made after Brother Gormgilla had roused the community, having found the body of the Venerable Connla?”

  “They were.”

  “And your deduction was . . .?”

  “Theft and murder. I put it in my report to the abbot.”

  “And to whom do you ascribe this theft and murder?”

  “It is also in my report to the abbot.”

  “Remind me,” Fidelma insisted sharply.

  “For the two days previous to the death of the Venerable Connla, some itinerants were observed to be camping in nearby woods. They were mercenaries, warriors who hired themselves out to anyone who would pay them. They had their womenfolk and children with them. Our community, as you know, has no walls around it. We are an open settlement for we have always argued that there is no need at all to protect ourselves from any aggressor, for who, we thought, would ever wish harm to our little community?”

  Fidelma treated his question as rhetorical and did not reply.

  “You have suggested that these itinerant mercenaries entered the community at night to rob your chapel.” Her tone was considered. “You have argued that the Venerable Connla must have been disturbed by them; that he went to investigate and that they turned on the old man and hanged him from his own roof beam and even robbed him.”

  “That is so. It is not so much an argument as a logical deduction from the facts,” the Father Superior added stiffly.

  “Truly so?” Fidelma gave him a quick scrutiny Father Máilín read a quiet sarcasm there.

  The Father Superior stared back defiantly but said nothing.

  “Tell me,” continued Fidelma. “Does it not strike you as strange that an elderly man, who needed help to rise in the morning as well as to be escorted to the chapel, would rise in the night on hearing intruders and go alone into the chapel to investigate?”

  Father Máilín shrugged.

  “People, in extremis, have been known to do many extraordinary things: things that are either out of character or beyond their capabilities.”

  “If I have the right information, the Venerable Connla was nearly ninety. In that case . . .?” Fidelma eloquently spread her hands.

  “In his case, it does not surprise me,” affirmed Father Máilín. “He was frail but he was a man of a very determined nature. Why, twenty and five years ago, when he was a man entering the latter years, Connla insisted on bearing the cross of Clonmacnoise in the battle of Ballyconnell when Diarmuid Mac Aodh was granted a victory over the Uí Fidgente. Connla was in the thick of the battle and armed with nothing but Christ’s Cross for self-protection.”

  Fidelma suppressed a sigh, for all Ireland knew the story of the Venerable Connla, which was why the old monk’s name was a byword for moral and physical courage throughout the five kingdoms of Ireland.

  “Yet five and twenty years ago is still a quarter of a century before this time and we are talking of an old man who needed help to rise and go to chapel as a regular course.”

  “As I have said, he was a determined man.”

  “Therefore, if I understand your report correctly, you believe that the Venerable Connla, hearing some robbers moving in the chapel, left his bed and went to confront them without rousing anyone else? That these robbers then overpowered him and hanged him in his own bedchamber?”

  “I have said as much.”

  “Yet doesn’t it also strike you as strange that these thieves and robbers, thus disturbed, took the old man back to his chamber and hanged him there? Surely a thief, so disturbed, might strike out in fear and seek to escape. Was Connla a tall man who, in spite of his frailty, might have appeared a threat?”

  Father Máilín shook his head.

  “Age had bent him.”

  “Then the Venerable Connla could not have prevented the escape of the thieves nor even pursued them. Why would they bother to take him and, presumably, get him to show them the way back to his chamber to kill him?”

  “Who knows the minds of thieves and murderers?” snorted Father Máilín. “I deal with the facts. I don’t attempt to understand their minds.”

  “Nevertheless, that is the business in which I am engaged because in so considering the ‘why’ and ‘wherefore’, often one can solve the ‘how’ and ‘who.’ ” She paused for a moment and when he did not respond, she added: “After this barbaric act of sacrilege, you reported that they then removed some valuable items and went calmly off into the night?”

  “The itinerants were certainly gone by the next morning when one of the outraged brethren went to their camp. The emotional attitude of the itinerants, as to whether they be calm or otherwise, is not for me to comment on. I will leave that to you to judge.”

  “Very well. You say that Brother Gormgilla was the first to discover the body of the Venerable Connla?”

  “Brother Gormgilla always roused the Venerable Connla first.”

  “Ah, just so. I shall want to see this Brother Gormgilla.”

  “But I have told you all . . .”

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow, staring at him with cold, blue eyes.

  Father Máilín hesitated and shrugged. He reached for a hand bell and jangled it. A member of the community entered but when the Father Superior asked that Brother Gormgilla be summoned, Fidelma intervened. She did not want Father Máilín interfering in her questioning.

  “I will go to the Brother myself. I have trespassed on your valuable time long enough, Father Máilín.”

  The Father Superior rose unhappily as Sister Fidelma turned and accompanied the religieux from the room.

  Brother Gormgilla was a stocky, round-faced man, with a permanent expression of woe sitting on his fleshy features. She introduced herself briefly to him.

  “Had you known the Venerable Connla for a long time, Brother?” she asked.

  “For fifteen years. I have been his helper all that time. He would soon be in his ninety-first year had he been spared.”

  “So you knew him very well?”

  “I did so. He was a man of infinite wisdom and knowledge.”

  Fidelma smiled briefly.

  “I know of his reputation. He was spoken of as one of our greatest philosophers, not merely in this kingdom but among all five kingdoms of Ireland. So he was a convert to the Faith?”

  “As were many in our poor benighted country when he was a young man. At that time, most of us cleaved to the old gods and goddesses of our fathers. The Faith was not so widespread through our kingdoms. Connla’s own father was a Druid and a seer. When he was young, Connla told me, he was going to follow the arts of his father’s religion. But he was converted and took his new name.”

  “And became a respected philosopher of the Faith,” added Fidelma. “Well, tell me . . . in fact, show me, how and where you discovered his body?”

  Brother Gormgilla led the way toward the main chapel around which the various circular buildings of the community were situated. Next to the chapel was one small circular building outside the door of which the monk paused.

  “Each morning, just before the Angelus, I came here to rouse and dress the Venerable Connla,” he explained.

  “And on that morn
ing . . .? Take me through what happened when you found Connla was dead.”

  “I came to the door. It was shut and locked. That was highly unusual. I knocked upon it and not being able to get an answer, I went to a side window.”

  “One moment. Are you telling me that you did not possess a key to Connla’s chamber?”

  “No. There was only one key, which the Venerable Connla kept himself.”

  “Was it usual for Connla to lock his door?”

  “Unusual in the extreme. He always left it open.”

  “So the door was locked! You say that you went to the window? Was it open?”

  “No. It was closed.”

  “And secured?”

  “Well, I had to smash the glass to open it and squeeze through.”

  “Go on. What did you find inside?”

  “I had seen through the window that which caused me to see the smashing of the window as my only alternative. I saw the body of the Venerable Connla hanging from a beam.”

  “Show me.”

  Brother Gormgilla opened the door and conducted her into a spacious round chamber which had been the Venerable Connla’s living quarters and study. He pointed up to the roof rafters. Great beams of wood at the height of eight feet from the ground crossed the room.

  “See that one, just near the bed? Old Connla was hanging from it. A rope was twisted ’round it and one end was tied in a noose around his neck. I think that he had been dead for some hours. I knew at once that I could do nothing for him and so I went to rouse Father Máilín.”

  Fidelma rubbed her jaw thoughtfully.

  “Did you stop to search the room?”

  “My only thought was to tell the Father Superior the catastrophic news.”

  “You have told me that the door was locked. Was the key on the inside?”

  “There was no sign of the key. That was why I had to squeeze back out of the window. Our smithy then came and picked the lock when Father Máilín arrived. It was the missing key that confirmed Father Máilín in his theory that thieves had done the deed, locking Connla in his own chamber after they had hanged him.”

  Fidelma examined the lock and saw the scratch marks where it had been picked. There was little else to decipher from it, except that the lock had apparently not been forced at any other stage. Fidelma moved to the window, where she saw the clear signs of broken glass and some scratching on the frame which might have been made by a body pushing through the aperture. It was certainly consistent with Brother Gormgilla’s story.

  She went to the bed and gazed up. There was some scoring on the beam.

  “Is the bed in the same position?”

  “It is.”

  Fidelma made some mental measurements and then nodded.

  “Let me get this perfectly clear, Brother Gormgilla. You say that the door was locked and there was no key in the lock on either side of the door? You also say that the window was secured and to gain access you had to break in from the outside?”

  “That is so.”

  “Let me put this question to you, as I have also put it to your Father Superior: his theory is that the Venerable Connla was disturbed by marauders in the night. He went into the chapel to investigate. They overpowered him and brought him back here, hanged him and then robbed him. Does it occur to you that something is wrong with this explanation?”

  Brother Gormgilla looked uncomfortable.

  “I do not understand.”

  Fidelma tapped her foot in annoyance.

  “Come now, Brother. For fifteen years you have been his helper; you helped him rise in the morning and had to accompany him to the chapel. Would such a frail old man suddenly start from his bed in the middle of the night and set off to face intruders? And why would these intruders bring him back here to hang him? Surely one sharp blow on the head would have been enough to render Connla dead or beyond hindrance to them?”

  “It is not for me to say, Sister. Father Máilín says . . .”

  “I know what Father Máilín says. What do you say?”

  “It is not for me to question Father Máilín. He came to his conclusion after making strenuous inquiries.”

  “Of whom, other than yourself, could he make such inquiries?”

  “It was Brother Firgil who told the Father Superior about the itinerants.”

  “Then bring Brother Firgil to me.”

  Brother Gormgilla scurried off.

  Sister Fidelma wandered around the chamber and examined the manuscripts and books that lined the walls. Connla had, as hearsay had it, been an extraordinary scholar. There were books on philosophy in Hebrew, Latin, Greek and even works in the old tongue of the Irish, written on wooden wands in Ogham, the earliest Irish alphabet.

  Everything was neatly placed along the shelves.

  Connla had clearly been a methodical and tidy man. She glanced at some of the works. They intrigued her for they concerned the ancient stories of her people: stories of the pagan gods, the children of the Mother Goddess Danu whose “divine waters” fertilized the Earth at the beginning of time itself. It was a strange library for a great philosopher and teacher of the Faith to have.

  At a little desk were vellum and quills where the Venerable Connla obviously sat composing his own works, which were widely distributed among the teaching abbeys of Ireland. Now his voice would be heard no more. His death at the hands of mere thieves had robbed the Faith of one of its greatest protagonists. No wonder the abbot had not been satisfied with Father Máilín’s simple report and had asked Fidelma, as a trained dálaigh of the courts, to make an inquiry which could be presented to the king himself.

  Fidelma glanced down at the vellum. It was pristine. Whatever Connla had been working on, he must have finished before his death, for his writing materials were clean and set out neatly; everything placed carefully, ready and waiting . . .

  She frowned suddenly. Her wandering eye had caught something tucked inside a small calf-bound book on a nearby shelf. Why should she be attracted by a slip of parchment sticking out of a book? She was not sure until she realized everything else was so neat and tidy that the very fact that the paper was left so untidily was the reason which drew her attention to it.

  She reached forward and drew it out. The slip of parchment fluttered awkwardly in her hands and made a slow glide to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. As she did so she noticed something protruding behind one of the stout legs of Connla’s desk. Retrieving the parchment she reached forward and eased out the object from its hiding place.

  It was an iron key, cold and greasy to the touch. For a moment, she stood gazing at it. Then she went to the door and inserted it. The key fitted into the lock and she turned it slowly. Then she turned it back and took it out, slipping it into her marsupium.

  Finally, she reverted her attention to the piece of parchment. It was a note in Ogham. A line, a half constructed sentence, no more. It read: “By despising, denigrating and destroying all that has preceded us, we will simply teach this and future generations to despise our beliefs.Veritas vos liberabit! ”

  “Sister?”

  Fidelma glanced ’round. At the door stood a thin, pale-faced religieux with a hook nose and thin lips.

  “I am Brother Firgil. You were asking for me?”

  Fidelma placed the piece of parchment in her marsupium along with the key and turned to him.

  “Brother Fergal?” she asked using the Irish name.

  The man shook his head.

  “Firgil,” he corrected. “My father named me from the Latin Vergilius.”

  “I understand. I am told that you informed Father Máilín about the itinerants who were camping in the woods on the night of the Venerable Connla’s death?”

  “I did so,” Brother Firgil agreed readily. “I noticed them on the day before that tragic event. I took them to be a band of mercenaries, about a score in number with womenfolk and children. They were camped out in the woods about half a mile from here.”

  “What made you think that t
hey were responsible for the theft and for the killing of the Venerable Connla?”

  Brother Firgil shrugged.

  “Who else would dare such sacrilege than godless mercenaries?”

  “Are you sure that they were godless?” Fidelma asked waspishly. The man looked bewildered for a moment and then shrugged.

  “No one who is at one with God would dare rob His house or harm His servants, particularly one who was as elderly as the Venerable Connla. It is well known that most of those mercenaries are not converted to the Faith.”

  “Is there proof that they robbed the chapel?”

  “The proof is that a crucifix from the chapel and two gold chalices from the altar are gone. The proof is that the Venerable Connla had a rosary made of marble beads from a green stone from the lands of Conamara, which was said to have been blessed by the saintly Ailbe himself. That, too, is gone. Finally, the Venerable Connla was found dead. Hanged.”

  “But nothing you have said is proof that these itinerants were the culprits,” Fidelma pointed out. “Is there any proof absolute?”

  “The itinerants were camping in the wood on the day before the Venerable Connla’s death. On the morning that Connla was discovered and the items were found missing, I told Father Máilín of my suspicions and was sent to observe the itinerants so that we could appeal to the local chieftain for warriors to take them. But they were gone. That is proof that guilt bade them hurry away from the scene of their crime.”

  “It is circumstantial proof only and that is not absolutely proof in law. Was the local chieftain informed?”

  “He sent warriors immediately to follow them but their tracks vanished in some rocky passes through the hills and could not be picked up again.”

  “Did anyone observe anything strange during the night when these events happened?”

  Brother Firgil shook his head.

  “The only person who must have been roused by the thieves was poor Connla.”

  “How many brethren live in this community?”