“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 they 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?”
“Twenty-one.”
“It seems strange that an elderly man would be the only one disturbed during the night.”
“You see that this chamber lies next to the chapel. Connla often kept late hours while working on his texts. I see no strangeness in this.”
“In relationship to the chapel, where are the quarters of the other brethren?”
“The Father Superior has the chamber next to this one. I, as steward of the community, have the next chamber. The rest of the brethren share the dormitorium.”
“Is the Father Superior a sound sleeper?”
Brother Firgil frowned.
“I do not understand.”
“No matter. When was it discovered that the artifacts had been stolen?”
“Brother Gormgilla discovered the body of Connla and raised the alarm. A search was made and the crucifix, cups and rosary were found missing.”
“And no physical damage was done in the chapel nor to this room before Brother Gormgilla had to break in?”
“None, so far as I am aware. Had there been, it might have aroused the community and we might have saved Connla.”
“Was Connla an exceptionally tidy person?”
Brother Firgil blinked at the abrupt change of question.
“He was not especially so.”
Fidelma gestured to the chamber.
“Was this how the room was when he was found?”
“I think it had been tidied up after his body was removed. I think that his papers were tidied and his clothes put away until it was decided what should be done with them.”
“Who did the tidying?”
“Father Máilín himself.”
Fidelma sighed softly.
“That is all, Brother Firgil.”
She hesitated a moment, after he had left, and looked at the area where Connla would have been working, examining the books and papers carefully.
She left Connla’s chamber and went into the chapel. It was small and with few icons. Two candles burnt on the altar. A rough-hewn, wooden crucifix had been positioned in obvious replacement of the stolen one. She examined the interior of the chapel for a few minutes before deciding that it would tell her nothing more.
She left the chapel and paused for a moment in the central courtyard looking at the buildings and judging their position to the chapel. Again, it merely confirmed what Brother Firgil had said. Connla’s chamber was the closest to the chamber.
She felt frustrated. There was something that was not right at all.
Members of the brethren of the community went about their daily tasks, either avoiding her eyes or nodding a greeting to her, each according to their characters. There was no wall around the community and, in that, there was nothing to contradict the idea that a band of thieves could easily have infiltrated the community and entered the chapel.
Half a mile away, crossing a small hill was a wood and this wood was where Brother Firgil had indicated that the itinerants had encamped.
Fidelma began to walk in that direction. Her movement toward the woods was purely automatic. She felt the compulsion to walk and think matters over and the wood was as good a direction as any in which to do so. It was not as though she expected to find any evidence among the remains of the itinerant camp.
She had barely gone a few hundred yards when she noticed the figure a short distance behind her. It was moving surreptitiously: a figure of one of the brothers following her from the buildings of the community.
She imperceptibly increased her pace up the rising path toward the woods and entered it quickly. The path immediately led into a clearing where it was obvious that there had been an encampment not so long ago. There were signs of a fire, the gray ashes spread in a circle. Some of the ground had been turned by the hooves of horses and a wagon.
“You won’t find anything here, Sister.”
Fidelma turned and regarded the figure of the brother who had now entered the clearing behind her.
“Good day, Brother,” she replied solemnly. He was a young man, with bright ginger red hair and dark blue eyes. He was young, no more than twenty, but wore the tonsure of St. John. “Brother. .?” she paused inviting him to supply his name.
“My name is Brother Ledbán.”
“You have followed me, Brother Ledbán. Do you wish to talk with me?”
“I want you to know that the Venerable Connla was a brilliant man.”
“I think most of Christendom knows that,” she replied solemnly.
“Most of Christendom does not know that the Venerable Connla hungered for truth no matter if the truth was unpalatable to them.”
“Veritas vos liberabit. The truth shall make you free,” Fidelma quoted from the vellum in her marsupium.
“That was his very motto,” Brother Ledbán agreed. “He should have remembered the corollary to that-veritas odium parit.”
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“I have heard that said. Truth breeds hatred. Was Connla getting near a truth that caused hatred?”
“I think so.”
“Among the brethren?”
“Among certain of our community at St. Martin’s,” agreed Brother Ledbán.
“Perhaps you should tell me what you know.”
“I know little but what little I know, I shall impart to you.”
Fidelma sat down on a fallen tree trunk and motioned Brother Ledbán to sit next to her.
“I understand that the Venerable Connla must have been working on a new text of philosophy?”
“He was. Why I know it is because I am a scribe and the Delbatóir of the community. I would often sharpen Connla’s quills for him or seek out new ones. I would mix his inks. As Delbatóir it was my task to make the metal covers that would enshrine and protect the books.”
Fidelma nodded. Many books considered worthy of note were either enshrined in metal boxes or had finely covered plates of gold or silver, some encrusted with jewels, sewn on to their leather covers. This was a special art, the casting of such plates called a cumtach, and the task fell to the one appointed a Delbatóir, which meant a framer or fashioner.
“We sometimes worked closely and Connla would often say to me that truth was the philosopher’s food but was often bitter to the taste. Most people preferred the savory lie.”
“Who was he annoying by his truth?”
“To be frank, Sister, he was annoying himself. I went into his chamber once, where he had been poring over some texts in the old writing. .”
“In Ogham?”
“In Ogham. Alas, I have not the knowledge of it to be able to decipher the ancient alphabet. But he suddenly threw the text from him and exclaimed: ‘Alas! The value of the well is not known until it has dried up!’ Then he saw me and smiled and apologized for his temper. But temper was not really part of that wise old man, Sister. It was more a sadness than a temper.”
“A sadness at what he was reading?”
“A sadness at what he was realizing through his great knowledge.”
“I take it that you do not believe in Father Máilín’s story of the itinerant thieves?” she suddenly asked.
He glanced swiftly at her.
“I am not one to point a finger of accusation at any one individual. The bird h
as little affection that deserts its own brood.”
“There is also an old saying, that one bird flies away from every brood. However, I am not asking you to desert your own brood but I am asking you to help in tracking down the person responsible for the Venerable Connla’s death.”
“I cannot betray that person.”
“Then you do know who it was?”
“I suspect but suspecting would cast doubt on the good name of Connla.”
Fidelma frowned slightly.
“I fail to understand that.”
“The explanation of every riddle is contained in itself,” Brother Ledbán replied, rising. “Connla was fond of reading Naturalis Historia. .”
“Pliny?” queried Fidelma.
“Indeed-Gaius Plinius Secundus. Connla once remarked to me that he echoed Pliny in acknowledging God’s best gift to mankind.”
He had gone even before Fidelma felt that she should have pointed out that he could be ordered to explain by law under pain of fine. Yet, somehow, she did not think it was appropriate nor that she would be able to discover his suspicions in that way.
She sat for some time on the log, turning matters over in her own mind. Then she pulled out the piece of parchment and read it again, considering it carefully. She replaced it in her marsupium and stood up abruptly, her mouth set in a grim line.
She retraced her steps back down the hill to the community and went straight to the Father Superior’s chamber.
Father Máilín was still seated at his desk and looked up in annoyance as she entered.
“Have you finished your investigation, Sister?”
“Not as yet,” Fidelma replied and, without waiting to be asked, sat down. A frown crossed Father Máilín’s brow but before he could admonish Fidelma, she cut in with a bored voice, “I would remind you that not only am I sister to the King of Cashel but, in holding the degree of anruth as an advocate of the court, I have the privilege of even sitting in the presence of the High King. Do not, therefore, lecture me on protocol.”
Father Máilín swallowed at the harshness of her tone.
Whispers of the Dead sf-15 Page 29