Whispers of the Dead sf-15

by Peter Tremayne

  “My Lord Abbot. .,” he began, and then had to pause to gulp some air.

  “Calm yourself Lígach. Catch your breath and then state calmly the matter that is troubling you.”

  The chieftain paused and took several breaths.

  “We need your services. Ruisín is dead. I have sent for an apothecary but we cannot find one on the field. I know you are not without some medical skills, Lord Abbot.”

  “Ruisín dead? How did he die?”

  “Ruisín?” intervened Fidelma, interested by Laisran’s concern. “Who is he?”

  Laisran replied immediately.

  “He is. . he was,” he corrected, “a champion of the Osraige.” He turned back to Lígach. “What has happened? An accident?”

  Lígach shook his head.

  “We think a surfeit of alcohol has killed him.”

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow in query. Lígach saw the look and answered.

  “He was taking part in a challenge. Crónán, the champion of the Fidh Gabhla, had challenged him as to how much ale each of them could consume. Suddenly, with no more than the first jug taken, Ruisín collapsed, and was carried to his tent, but when we laid him down we found his pulse no longer beat.”

  “A drinking contest?” Fidelma’s features twisted into a grimace of disapproval. Drink in moderation, wine with a meal, there was nothing better. But to drink to destroy the senses was pathetic, something she could never understand.

  Lígach was defensive.

  “There are often such contests between the champions of the clans. A clan can lose all honor if their champion fails.”

  She sniffed in distaste.

  “Far be it for me to condemn anyone when a man lies dead, but my mentor, the Brehon Morann, always said that alcohol is lead in the morning, silver at noon, and gold at night and lead always follows the period of gold. So excessive drinking is merely a pursuit of fool’s gold.”

  “Please, my lord,” urged Lígach, ignoring her, “come, confirm his death and perform the last rite of the Faith. Ruisín’s wife Muirgel is with the body and is in distress.”

  “Lead me to his tent, then,” Laisran said, and then glancing at Fidelma, “Perhaps you would like to accompany me, Fidelma? You might be able to formulate some words to the widow for I feel myself inadequate to utter comfort in such circumstances.”

  Reluctantly, Fidelma fell in step with the abbot. She, too, could not think what might be said to comfort someone who drank him or herself into an early grave for the sake of a wager. They followed the nervous chieftain to the area of the field where the tents of those participating in the fair were raised. A small group stood outside one tent, which marked it off as the one in which Ruisín’s body had been laid. The group of men and women parted before them.

  Lígach went in before them.

  Inside, a woman was kneeling beside the body of a man. She was young and fairly attractive. She glanced up as they entered. Fidelma noticed that her face wore an almost bland expression. The eyes were large and round and dry. There was no discernible grief in the face, not the tearful lines of one struck by sudden grief.

  “This is Muirgel,” Lígach said quickly.

  The young woman regarded them curiously. She seemed almost a somnambulist. It was as if she was not quite cognizant of her surroundings.

  “Muirgel, this is Abbot Laisran and Sister. . Sister. .?”

  “Fidelma,” supplied Laisran, bending down to the body.

  Fidelma glanced down. The man whose body lay there had been a big, broad-shouldered man with a shock of red curling hair and a beard that covered most of his barrel chest. He had obviously been a strong man.

  A thought struck Fidelma.

  “What work did this man do?” she asked Lígach quietly.

  “He was a blacksmith, Sister,” replied the chieftain.

  “Didn’t you say that he collapsed after the first jug of ale had been consumed?”

  “I did so.”

  Laisran, kneeling beside the body, suddenly expelled the air from his lungs with a hiss.

  “The man is, indeed, dead. I am sorry for this anguish that has been visited upon you Muirgel. Lígach, would you take Muirgel outside for a moment?”

  Fidelma frowned at the studied seriousness of Laisran’s voice.

  Lígach hesitated and then reached forward to help Muirgel to her feet. She did not actually respond willingly but she offered no resistance. It was as if she had no will of her own. She allowed Lígach to lead her out of the tent without a word.

  “Shock, perhaps,” Fidelma commented. “I have seen death take people so.”

  Laisran did not seem to hear her.

  “Take a look at the man’s mouth, Fidelma,” he said quietly. “The lips, I mean.”

  Puzzled a little, Fidelma bent down. She found that the man’s beard was so full and wiry that she had to pull it back a little to view his mouth and the lips. Her brows came together. The lips were a bright purple color. Her eye traveled to the skin. She had not noticed it before. It was mottled, as if someone had painted a patterning on the man.

  She looked up.

  “This man has not died from an excess of alcohol,” Laisran said, anticipating her conclusion.

  “Poison?”

  “Some virulent form,” agreed Laisran. “I have not practiced the apothecary’s art for some time, so I would not be able to identify it. Death was not from excessive alcohol, that is obvious. He was young, strong and fit, anyway. And if it was poison that caused his death, then. .”

  “Then it was either an accident or murder,” concluded Fidelma.

  “And no poison would enter a jug in a drinking contest by mere accident.”

  “Murder?” Fidelma paused and nodded slowly. “The local Brehon must be summoned.”

  There was a movement behind them. Lígach had re-entered the tent, unnoticed by them. He had heard their conclusion.

  “Are you sure that Ruisín has been murdered?” he demanded, aghast.

  Laisran confirmed it with a quick nod of his head.

  “And are you Fidelma of Cashel?” Lígach added, turning to Fidelma. “I heard that you were attending the Fair. If so, please undertake the task of inquiring how Ruisín came by his death for I have heard great things of you. As organizer of the Fair, this is my jurisdiction and I willingly grant you the right to pursue these inquiries. If we do not clear this matter up then the reputation of the Aenach Carman will be blighted for it will be said, murder can be done within the king’s shadow and the culprit can escape unknown and unpunished.”

  Before Fidelma could protest, Laisran had agreed.

  “There is none better than Fidelma of Cashel to dissect any web of intrigue that is woven around a murder.”

  Fidelma sighed in resignation. It seemed that she had no choice. It was time to be practical.

  “I would like another tent where I may sit and examine the witnesses to this matter.”

  Lígach was smiling in his relief.

  “The tent next to this one is at your disposal. It is my own.”

  “Then I shall want all involved in this matter to be gathered outside, including the widow, Muirgel. I will tarry a moment more with the body.”

  Lígach hastened off, while Laisran stood awkwardly as Fidelma bent down to examine the body of Ruisín very carefully.

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  Fidelma smiled briefly up at him.

  “You will witness my inquiry,” she replied, “for I would not like to be accused of interference by the Chief Brehon of Laighin.”

  “I will guarantee that,” confirmed Laisran.

  Fidelma was carefully examining the body of the dead man.

  “What are you looking for?” the abbot asked after a while.

  “I do not know. Something. Something out of the ordinary.”

  “The extraordinary thing is the fact that the man was poisoned, surely?”

  “Yet we have to be sure that we do not miss anything.” She rose t
o her feet.

  “Now, let us question the witnesses.”

  Fidelma and Laisran seated themselves on camp stools within Lígach’s tent. There was a table and a scribe had been sent for to record the details. He was a young, nervous man, who sat huddled over his inks and leaves of imported papyrus.

  “Who shall I bring in first, Sister?” asked Lígach.

  “Who organized this drinking contest?”

  “Rumann, who was Ruisín’s friend, and Cobha, who supplied the ale.”

  “Bring in Rumann first.”

  First through the tent door came a young, eager terrier, its ears forward, his jaws slightly opened, panting, and its neck straining against a rope. The animal hauled a burly man into the tent who was clutching the leash. It leapt toward Fidelma in its excitement, but in a friendly fashion with short barks and its tail wagging furiously.

  The man on the end of the leash snapped at it and tugged the animal to obedience at his heel. Then he gestured apologetically.

  Rumann was almost the twin image of Ruisín, but with brown tousled hair. He was burly man who also had the look of a smithy about him. Indeed, such was the craft he pursued.

  “Sorry, Sister, but Cubheg here is young and excitable. He won’t harm you.”

  He turned to a tent post and tied the rope around it. As the dog continued to tug and pull forward, Rumann glanced ’round.

  “With your permission, Sister?” he indicated a bowl on the table. There was a jug of ale nearby. He poured some ale in the bowl and set it down before the animal, which began to noisily lap at it with great relish. “Cubheg likes a drink of ale. I can’t deny him. Now, how can I help you?”

  “This contest: whose idea was it?” demanded Fidelma without preamble.

  “Crónán of the Fidh Gabhla issued the challenge.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Rumann shrugged.

  “The rivalry between the Fidh Gabhla and the Osraige is generations old.”

  “This is so,” whispered Abbot Laisran at her side.

  “During the games these last few days, there have been several contests and the Osraige have held their own with the Fidh Gabhla,” went on Rumann. “Crónán then challenged my friend, Ruisín, to a contest which would finally decide who were the greater at this fair, Osraige or the Fidh Gabhla.”

  Fidelma’s mouth turned down in disapproval.

  “A clan made great simply by whoever could drink the most?”

  “Sister, you must know that it is an old contest known in many lands? Whoever can drink most and still remain on their feet is the champion. This was to be the last great contest between us at the Aenach Carman.”

  “Why was Ruisín chosen to take part?”

  “He was our champion. And he was a great drinker,” Rumann said boastfully. “He would drink a barrel of ale and still lift the empty barrel above his head at the end of it.”

  Fidelma hid her cynicism.

  “So the challenge was to him or to the Osraige?”

  “Ruisín was champion of Osraige. It was the same thing.”

  “So explain what happened at this contest.”

  “Ruisín and Crónán met at the tent of Cobha the ale maker. He supplied the ale. And. .”

  “And which side was Cobha on?” queried Fidelma sharply.

  “He was from the Fidh Gabhla. But the supplier of the ale in these contests is supposed to maintain neutrality.”

  “Was there an impartial referee?”

  “We were all referees. The men of Osraige and the men of Fidh Gabhla were there to see fair play.”

  “No women?”

  Rumann looked pained.

  “It was not a contest that appealed to women,” he said.

  “Quite so,” replied Fidelma grimly. “So a crowd was gathered ’round?”

  “Cobha poured two jugs of ale. .”

  “From the same barrel?”

  Rumann frowned and thought.

  “I think so. One jug apiece. Each man took up a position at either end of a wooden table on which the jugs were set. At a word from Cobha, they began to drink. Each man drained the first jug without a problem. Cobha brought the second jug. . my friend, Ruisín, had picked up the second jug when he staggered. He dropped the jug and he suddenly fell back. How the men of the Fidh Gabhla jeered, but I saw him writhing on the ground. I knew he was ill. Within a moment he was dead. That is all I know.”

  Fidelma was quiet for a moment.

  “You say that Ruisín was your friend?”

  “He was.”

  “He was a smith?”

  “Like myself. We often worked together when our chieftain needed two pairs of bellows instead of one.” “Would you say that Ruisín was a strong man, a healthy man?”

  “I have known him since he was a boy. There was never a stronger man. I refuse to believe that a surfeit of alcohol would kill him. Why, just one jug of ale and he went down like a cow at the slaughter.”

  Fidelma sat back and gazed at the man with interest.

  “Did your friend have enemies?”

  “Enemies? Why, was he not our champion and being challenged by the Fidh Gabhla? The Fidh Gabhla had enough motive to ensure that their man should win.”

  “But in these circumstances, there would be no victory.”

  Rumann pursed his lips as though he had not thought of that fact.

  “Did he have any other enemies?”

  Rumann shook his head.

  “He was regarded a first class craftsman; he had plenty of work. He was happily married to Muirgel and had no other cares in the world except how to enjoy his life more fully. No one would wish him harm. .”

  “Except?” prompted Fidelma as his voice trailed away and the cast of thought came into his eyes.

  “Only the men of the Fidh Gabhla,” he replied shortly. Fidelma knew that he had thought of something and was hiding it.

  Crónán, the drinking champion of the Fidh Gabhla, was shown in next; a surly man with a mass of dark hair and bright blue eyes, which flickered nervously as if seeking out potential danger.

  “We have had many a drinking contest in the past, Ruisín and I. We were rivals. Our clans were rivals. But we were friends.”

  “That’s not what Rumann seems to imply,” Fidelma pointed out.

  “Rumann has his own way of looking at things. Sometimes it is not reality.”

  “Why would anyone put poison into Ruisín’s drink during this contest?”

  Crónán raised his chin defiantly.

  “I did not, that you may take as the truth. I swear that by the Holy Cross.”

  “I would need more than an oath if I were to attempt to use it as evidence in court. You were both given separate jugs. I am told that the ale was poured from the same barrel.”

  “It was. There were many witnesses to that. Cobha opened a new barrel so that the measure could be strictly witnessed.”

  “What were the jugs?”

  “The usual pottery jugs. They contained two meisrin each. We watched Cobha fill them and we all watched carefully so that the measure was equal. We had to double check because of Rumann’s damned dog.”

  “His dog?” Fidelma frowned.

  “That young excitable terrier. He broke loose from Rumann just when Cobha was pouring the second jug for me. He had set the first on the table while he poured the second. Then the dog went between his legs and nearly had him over. Rumann was apologetic and tied the dog up for the rest of the contest. I and Lennán, who was my witness, had to double check to make sure that Cobha had poured an equal measure for me.”

  “And when you had ensured that he had. .?”

  “He brought it to the table and placed them before us. The signal was given. We took them and downed the contents, each being equal in time to the other.”

  “Cobha then filled a second pair of jugs?”

  The man shook his head.

  “No he retrieved the empty jugs from us and refilled them with the same measure, no more th
an two meisrin each. He put the jugs on the table before us as before. The signal was given and I began to drink mine. It was then that I noticed that while Ruisín had picked up his jug, he held it loosely, staggered and then fell back, dropping it.”

  “Did it break?”

  “What?”

  “The jug, I mean. Did it break?”

  “I think so. Yes, it cracked on the side of the table. I remember now, the damned dog ran forward to try to lap at the contents and Rumann had to haul him away with a good smack on the nose.”

  Fidelma turned to Lígach.

  “Can the broken pieces of the jug be found?”

  The man went off about the task.

  “Tell me, on this second time of filling, Crónán, I presume the same jugs were returned to you both? The jug that you first drank from was returned to you and the jug Ruisín drank out of was returned to him? Can you be sure?”

  “Easy enough to tell. The jugs had different colored bands around them, the colors of the Fidh Gabhla and Osraige.”

  “What craft do you follow, Crónán?” asked Fidelma suddenly.

  “Me? Why, I am a hooper.”

  “You make barrels?”

  “I do indeed.”

  Lígach returned. The broken jug could not be found. A more than diligent assistant to Cobha the ale keeper had apparently cleaned the area and taken the pieces to a rubbish dump where the results of several days of broken jugs and clay goblets were discarded in such manner that it was impossible to sort them out at all.

  “I thought it best to take the broken jug to the rubbish dump immediately,” the assistant said defensively when summoned. “It was dangerous. Broken pieces and jagged. Rumann had difficulty dragging his dog away from it. He was very perturbed that the animal would injure itself. There were sharp edges.”

  When Cobha entered to give his account, Fidelma had to disguise her instant dislike of the man. He was tall, thin, exceedingly thin so that he gave the appearance of someone on the verge of starvation. His looks were sallow and the eyes sunken and filled with suspicion. The only touch of color was the thin redness of his lips. He came before Fidelma with his head hanging like someone caught in a shameful act. His speech was oily and apologetic.

  His account basically confirmed what had been said before.