Scales of Retribution

by Cora Harrison

  Caireen was on her own when she came into the room. Mara greeted her politely, asked after her health and then after her future plans.

  ‘Dear Mara, always so thoughtful for everyone! How can my concerns be of any interest to you?’ As usual there was a false note in her voice.

  ‘I just wanted to check that you, and your son, Ronan, have no immediate plans to return to Galway. That, I’m afraid, cannot be permitted until the murder of your husband, Malachy, has been solved and the name of his killer announced to the people of the kingdom at their place of justice at Poulnabrone.’ Mara watched with interest for a reaction.

  ‘Whyever should we not go back to Galway?’ Now her voice was shrill.

  ‘Because Brehon law has no jurisdiction in Galway,’ said Mara calmly.

  ‘I have never come under the rule of Brehon law!’ exclaimed Caireen. ‘I am a native of Galway.’ She tried to speak in a dignified way, but there was a definite undercurrent of alarm in her voice.

  ‘Not any more,’ Mara explained in kindly tones, ‘you married a man of the kingdom and you lived within that kingdom for the last few months. You were present in the kingdom when the crime was committed – as was your son, Ronan – at least he was there on the morning that Malachy was murdered. Your other sons were absent in Galway on that day, so I have no concern with them.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of murdering my own husband, Brehon?’ Caireen’s voice rose to a shriek.

  Mara waited. Caireen had a voice like a corncrake – surely it must have rung through the house. She had not long to wait. A heavy footstep sounded on the stairway and in a moment he was in the room.

  ‘Ah, Brehon, you are well, I trust? Not finding all of this too much for you? And how is your little baby? And my lord, the king?’ He shot out the questions, smiling affably and smoothing his red beard, while his small green eyes darted enquiring glances at Caireen, who was mopping her eyes vigorously with an extra large linen handkerchief.

  ‘How nice to see you, Boetius,’ said Mara politely. ‘I didn’t realize that you were still in the kingdom. I thought that you had left and returned home.’

  ‘You should have left while you had a chance,’ said Caireen spitefully, giving her eyes another mop, accompanied by a loud sniff. ‘Anyone who was present here on the day that poor Malachy was murdered is now to be kept a prisoner in this terrible, barren place until the murder is solved, and God alone knows when that will be.’

  There was a silence after those words. Boetius ceased to stroke his red beard and his eyes gazed stonily ahead, looking at neither woman. Mara surveyed him from head to foot, but he did not move nor glance at her.

  ‘Do I understand that you were actually in Caherconnell, Boetius, on the day that Malachy died?’ Mara spoke gently, but knew from Caireen’s aghast expression that the woman had realized she had made a gaffe.

  ‘Yes, did you not know?’ He asked the question airily, placing a forefinger on Malachy’s scales and rocking them gently up and down.

  ‘On the contrary, I remember Fergus saying that you arrived at his house just half an hour before he escorted you over to Cahermacnaghten.’

  Boetius laughed. ‘Dear Fergus. He looks forward to my visits so much that I did not like to tell him that I had stopped off at Caherconnell on the way.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Mara gravely. ‘You journeyed down from the MacEgan law school at Duniry, north of Galway, in order to visit your cousin Fergus in Corcomroe. I cannot see how Caherconnell could be said to be on your way. Naturally, you would have gone around by the coast road if you were on your way to Corcomroe.’

  ‘You forget that I don’t know the route as well as you do, Brehon,’ he said lifting an eyebrow at her.

  Mara allowed it to pass. Now she would probe on a different matter.

  ‘There is something else that I must discuss with you, Boetius,’ she said in stern tones. ‘It’s to do with the time you spent with my scholars when I was ill. Perhaps you would like Caireen to go out of the room.’

  He didn’t look alarmed, just laughed indulgently. ‘You ladies! You are so tenderhearted! I suppose one of the boys has complained of me being a little too stern. Is that right?’

  Mara waited a moment, but Caireen made no move to go and Boetius still smiled at her in the slightly mocking way, his sharp little eyes boring into hers.

  ‘No, none of the boys have complained,’ she said. ‘It was Cumhal, my very trusted farm manager, who spoke to me.’

  His gaze hardened, but he still made no move to ask Caireen to go, so Mara proceeded.

  ‘Cumhal found this in your room,’ she said, ‘one of a pair of dice, I understand.’ And she produced the small weighted cube from her pouch. Neatly, she flipped it into the air, adroitly stopping it from rolling from the table. It showed a six. Three times more she tossed it, each time allowing the six to speak for itself.

  ‘My old friend, Giolla MacEgan, would be horrified to know that one of his graduates was playing with loaded dice and inveigling young boys into losing their money,’ she remarked into the silence.

  His hand went automatically to his pouch, but then he hastily dropped it when he saw her eyes on him.

  ‘Not mine, Brehon,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Probably belonging to one of your husband’s guards or some other visitor.’

  ‘You yourself don’t gamble . . . Is that correct?’ Mara asked the question in a matter-of-fact way.

  His eyes slid from hers and looked uneasily towards Caireen, but the smile on his lips did not falter. ‘Certainly not, Brehon,’ he said.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Mara gravely. She had got what she had come for. That look at Caireen had verified her suspicions. Boetius did not want Caireen to know that he was a gambler and that probably meant that he had designs on her property. Caireen was no fool and had a proper appreciation of the comforts of life. However, she had twice been widowed and her choices for a third husband would be fairly limited. And, of course, she might enjoy Boetius’s lovemaking. She had been flushed and red-lipped when she had come into the parlour.

  ‘Now let’s go back to the murder of Malachy in this house on the eleventh of June,’ she said briskly. ‘When actually did you arrive here at Caherconnell, Boetius?’

  She saw him cast a quick sideways glance at Caireen – trying to assess whether he could get away with a lie. However, Caireen looked stonily ahead. Mara’s respect for her rose. No doubt the allusion to gambling had not been lost on Caireen. She looked like a woman who was thinking hard.

  ‘I came on the Wednesday before,’ said Boetius eventually.

  ‘And you were actually present in the house when Caireen shrieked for help, is that right?’

  Again he hesitated, again he glanced at Caireen, but eventually he nodded.

  ‘And you did not think to come to help her, is that correct?’

  ‘I did glance in, but I could not see what I could do; it was obvious that the man was dead. In any case, his daughter Nuala was there to provide medical assistance, if any had been needed. I was on my way to Corcomroe.’

  It might be true, thought Mara. He could be a fairly selfish and self-centered young man. The scene in the stillroom would have been appalling and he might well have baulked at going in there, reasoning that there were servants ready to run any errands and the wife and daughter to tend the dead man.

  On the other hand, it might be that he had a hand in the murder and wished to distance himself from the house as quickly as possible. He may not have reckoned that Malachy would swallow the brandy quite so soon. Another man might have left it there for longer. The murderer would undoubtedly have hoped that he would do so.

  But if he did leave the house then, where did he go? It could not have taken him more than two hours to go from Caherconnell to the law school in Corcomroe.

  Perhaps he had waited to console the weeping widow – may perhaps have been the unseen voice behind the vehement accusations of Nuala.

  But was he
the one that removed the deadly jar of aconite from the stillroom and placed it amongst Nuala’s belongings?

  Sixteen

  Coic Conara Fugill

  (The Five Paths of Justice)

  A judge must be prepared to give a pledge worth five ounces of silver in support of his judgement. His judgement is not valid unless he swears on the gospel that he will utter only the truth. If he refuses to do so, he is no longer regarded as a judge within the tuath and the particular case is referred to the king.

  If a judge leaves a case undecided, he must pay a fine of eight ounces of silver.

  Mara had time for a rest on her bed before the boys returned. She heard the horses’ hoofs clatter noisily on the road and the sounds of exuberant young voices came through her opened bedroom window. She smiled thankfully. They were all in high spirits, buoyed up by the thought of the approaching holiday. Nothing had happened today, she had been right to have allowed them out. It was a difficult task being in charge of these young males, but nothing could be achieved by keeping them wrapped up in linen and confining them to the law school. They had to learn to estimate danger, take chances and keep themselves safe.

  She did not move. They would be hungry; Brigid would probably insist on them having a wash at the pump and changing into one of the fresh snowy-white léinte that were kept hanging in rows on nails in their bedroom. And then, of course, they would flock to the kitchen house. Brigid would have a good meal ready for them and they would devour it, talking, laughing, joking and teasing Brigid and the two girls, Nessa and Áine.

  By the time that she had dressed and braided her black hair they were coming out of the kitchen house, wiping mouths and looking satisfied. Now would be the time to hear the story of their investigations.

  ‘So how did it go?’ she asked when they were all in their seats in the schoolhouse. She signed to Enda to shut the door. Bran lay down in front of it. This was his favourite place in hot weather and it was useful as he would stand up if anyone came to the other side of the door.

  ‘We talked to everyone we could, Brehon. With the haymaking and everything for the last week all the fields had people in them. That made it all very easy. We traced Seán’s route,’ said Fachtnan. ‘There were no surprises. He left here, then went down to the Kilcorney crossroads – Lorcan saw him turn and had a chat with him. Seán told him all about his errand and then rode on down the Kilcorney road.’

  ‘Going towards Caherconnell,’ interrupted Hugh. ‘And he stopped there.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fachtnan. ‘Thanks for reminding me, Hugh.’

  Fachtnan was being wonderfully tolerant and kind to Hugh, thought Mara. What a good teacher that boy will make if I can possibly get him through his examinations. She wished that there was a magic herb that would cure Fachtnan of his memory problems, but lacking this, nothing but relentless hard work would bring him through.

  ‘So why did Seán stop at Caherconnell?’ she said aloud.

  ‘Master MacClancy gave him a letter for Caireen,’ said Hugh triumphantly.

  ‘That’s right, Sadhbh the housekeeper told us that,’ said Fachtnan. ‘After that he rode down towards Lemeanah. One of the men from Donal and Maeve’s place at Shesmore saw him. And then he stopped at Lemeanah. He told Sadhbh that he was the one that thought of bringing news of the baby’s birth to Lemeanah – I think that was interesting, Brehon, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, though I’m not surprised. Seán always liked to carry news; this was why he was always so long on journeys and used to get into trouble with Cumhal and Brigid, poor fellow.’

  ‘You’ve left out what Seán didn’t do.’ Moylan broke the slightly uncomfortable silence that followed her words. Seán, the murder victim, could be discussed dispassionately. Reminders of Seán, the man, made the boys feel uncomfortable.

  ‘What was that, Moylan?’

  ‘He didn’t stop off at Binne Roe, so it was unlikely that Blár gave him that bread and meat – and horseradish, of course,’ said Moylan.

  ‘Nothing to stop Blár being out on the Kilcorney road inspecting some of the ash trees in hedgerows and chatting to Seán about his journey,’ retorted Enda. ‘And then, perhaps, giving him some food that his wife had given him. That linen cloth looked like something that a wife would wrap food in – I couldn’t imagine someone like Murrough of the Wolfhounds going to the trouble of wrapping his snack in something like that.’

  ‘True!’ Moylan waved a hand. ‘But Blár doesn’t have horseradish growing in his garden.’

  ‘But there was plenty in the big vegetable garden at Lemeanah.’

  ‘And some at Caherconnell.’

  ‘None at Murrough’s place – he said that he used to have it but Rafferty, you know, the wolfhound that was poisoned, well he dug it up. Murrough showed us the place where it used to be – it was beginning to sprout again.’

  ‘Anyway, Murrough didn’t meet Seán that day, he said, and no one mentioned seeing him talking to him. I think Murrough would be remembered because he always has a wolfhound or two with him.’

  ‘I think, myself, that Murrough could be crossed off the list. He wouldn’t do that – wouldn’t murder a man.’

  The voices chattered on and Mara sifted and re-sifted the evidence.

  ‘How long did Seán stay at Lemeanah?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s difficult to get times from people, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan. ‘The steward remembered him coming. He remembered that he was talking to one of the shepherds about supplies and to one of the field workers about making room for the hay, and Seán said that he could wait, that he had all the time in the world.’

  Mara sighed. That sounded like Seán. He was always a man who liked to lend an ear to every conversation. News was his coinage.

  ‘Then, when Seán had told his news the steward sent a messenger to the ban tighernae to see whether she would like to talk to Seán, about your baby, you know.’

  ‘And,’ Enda took up the tale. ‘No one could find her for a while – she wasn’t in the hall or anywhere that they expected her to be and then eventually someone remembered that she had gone down into the cellars.’

  ‘Into the cellars!’ Mara was startled. What on earth was Ciara doing wandering around the cellars on a fine day?

  ‘She had gone down there with Oisín, your son-in-law,’ explained Enda. ‘They were talking about wine and storage of wine and things like that. That’s what the steward said.’

  ‘And then she would have to make all sorts of enquiries about the baby and things like that; women usually do,’ said Moylan with an air of a man who understood these matters.

  ‘So, all in all, Brehon, he might have spent about an hour there,’ summed up Enda.

  ‘And, of course, once he left Lemeanah, he would be in the kingdom of Corcomroe so we thought you would not like us to be making any enquiries there,’ said Fachtnan.

  ‘No, you were quite right.’ Mara spoke absentmindedly. So Oisín was at Lemeanah that day. Thoughtfully, she took from her drawer the superfine piece of linen with the tiny slanting stitches. Perhaps it was time that she had a talk with her son-in-law.

  ‘You did very well, all of you,’ she said turning to her scholars. ‘Now you can take the rest of the day off. I think Cumhal would be glad of some help with the hay. They are hoping to carry it home tonight, I think.’

  ‘Haymaking supper,’ said Hugh enthusiastically. ‘I love June, don’t you, Shane? First there’s bonfire night and then haymaking. And then holidays of course.’

  Hugh sounded very cheerful, Mara was glad to hear. He seemed to have got over his disappointment, and had been reassured by her promise to break the news herself to his father and to explain the reasons for his failure.

  Sorcha was sitting sewing under the shade of an apple tree when Mara reached the garden of the Brehon’s house. She was alone except for little Manus, stretched out, fast asleep, on the grass. His chubby legs, with slightly muddy knees, were as brown as the hedge skipper butterfly that
fed from the pink clover beside him, and he looked the picture of rosy, sturdy babyhood.

  ‘He crawled today!’ Sorcha said as her mother sat on the bench beside her. ‘Crawled! And he’s barely six months old. Eileen was waving Cormac’s toy – you know the one that Bláreen made for him – and the little bell was pealing, and what would my brave Manus do, but start wriggling across the grass on his tummy, and then he managed to get up on his hands and knees and the next was . . . well, he was crawling! And Domhnall and Aislinn were clapping him and cheering him, and he kept on crawling around the grass and collapsing on to his tummy, but every time he managed to get back up on to his knees again. He’s got all his father’s determination.’ Sorcha gave a fond look at her small son and rapidly put in another few stitches.

  ‘He’s worn out now, I suppose.’ Life was less complicated when she was just a grandmother, thought Mara. She adored her three grandchildren, but now her first thought was not to rejoice in Manus’s achievement, but to wonder whether Cormac would crawl at six months. He still looked so incredibly fragile beside Sorcha’s three sturdy youngsters. ‘Where are the other two?’ she continued.

  ‘Oisín took them off to show them Poll an Cheoil.’

  ‘I hope he’s careful,’ said Mara anxiously. Poll an Cheoil (hole of the music) was the name of a cave near to the law school. It was reputed to run for miles under the limestone of the Burren and to reach the sea eventually. Aislinn would probably cling to her father’s hand, but Domhnall was bold and adventurous.

  ‘Oh, he will,’ said Sorcha placidly. ‘Look at this. Brigid gave me some linen and I’m making a short smock for Cormac. Now that he’s started crawling, he’ll need a new set of clothes.’ She held up her sewing.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ Mara took the small garment in her hands and held it up. Already the seams under the arms and along the sides had been stitched, and now Sorcha was gathering in the fullness across the chest with a series of ornamental cross stitches. Mara turned it inside out, gazing at the tiny neat stitches in an abstracted fashion.