‘The Brehon is dead! He’s definitely dead. Look at his eyes!’ he screamed. His shout was loud enough to make the drums falter, enough to stop the footsteps of the dancers, and enough to still the pipers at the top end of the great hall. Instantly Mara gathered up the skirts of her splendid court dress and dodged through the crowd of shocked faces. In a moment she was beside her son.
The Brehon lay slumped in the dim light of the window recess at the back of the great hall at Bunratty Castle. His long iron-grey hair and one side of his huge pair of moustaches were soaked in sticky, honey-coloured mead and a goblet lay over-turned on the small wooden table that stood in the window recess. It was a secluded corner – away from the energetic dancers and away from the focus of the harp playing the accompaniment to the poets and ballad singers and of the pipers who played the dance music that followed it. Brehon MacClancy had been sitting there for most of the evening, not joining in the merriment, not listening to the praise of his King, but drinking steadily and undisturbed by all. That is, thought Mara, by all except one person. Sometime in the last half-hour, someone had come over and stuck a dagger under his shoulder blade.
Mara stayed there for a moment, gazing down at the face of the man who had predicted his own death twenty-four hours previously. And yes, Cormac was right; Brehon MacClancy was dead. And not dead from failure of an elderly heart, but murdered. Even in the dim light of the window recess something gleamed. Mara moved behind the chair and bent over the body. A long, slender knife protruded from one shoulder blade.
She was joined by the King’s physician, Donogh O’Hickey, but she hardly needed to glance at him to confirm the evidence of those dull eyes, normally alight with sharp wits and malice, but now fixed and staring. She reached out and touched the hand which lay outstretched on the table. It was still warm and pliable. She looked across at Donogh O’Hickey and saw him copy her action, testing the temperature and bending the fingers gently.
‘Not long dead; less than an hour. I saw him ask for a drink when we came back. About half an hour ago, that’s right isn’t it? And the hand bears that out, I would think, is that right?’ she queried and almost before he nodded, Mara turned to deal with the crowd that was pressing forward.
‘Stand back everyone.’ She spoke quietly, but her clear voice was filled with authority and the crowd took a step backwards. She had, of course, no formal authority here in the Kingdom of Thomond, but she had been Brehon of the Kingdom of the Burren since she was twenty-one years old and twenty-five years of investigating, judging and punishing crimes had given her the confidence to deal with every eventuality.
‘Go and stand by the door, Enda,’ she said in a low voice to the young man who had appeared by her side. It was only when he had quickly done her bidding that it occurred to her that Enda was the person who should be giving the orders, since he had acted as an assistant to the Brehon for nine years. However, he had no independent experience of conducting an enquiry and this was going to be a very difficult and sensitive affair. In any case, it was too late to take back the command so she waited quietly by the body, watching her five remaining scholars, led by her fourteen-year-old grandson Domhnall, leaving the floor of the great hall and coming to join herself and Cormac. Unlike most of the guests they did not exclaim or question and this pleased her. It showed, she thought, their maturity. They just stood silently, looking down on the body and waiting for her instructions. Swiftly she made up her mind. She would apologize to Enda later on, but now she had to control this situation and make sure that the guilty person did not escape. She gave a swift glance around the hall. Her husband, King Turlough Donn, was approaching, his eyes wide with disbelief and his face aghast. Tomás MacClancy had been Brehon for the whole of Turlough’s reign and it was a terrible shock to see him slumped, dead, across the table on this night of celebration.
‘Someone stuck a knife in him,’ he said. ‘Not far in, is it?’ He reached across as though to pull it out, but she seized his hand quickly. She said nothing but she hoped that he would understand that the evidence could not be tampered with. It was odd, though, she thought, looking more carefully at the knife. He was right. The knife was not far into the Brehon. A large section of the blade was still visible. It looked as though someone with very little strength had driven the knife into the man’s back. Not much blood, either, though perhaps the dark-coloured mantle masked it. She bent down and touched it. Some blood, but definitely not soaked in it. Of course, she thought, Brehon MacClancy was very elderly. He must now be about seventy years old. Perhaps he died instantly of the shock as the knife pierced him. It was odd, though. As she peered at the knife she reckoned that only half an inch of blade had penetrated the skin and flesh.
‘Come,’ she said to Turlough. ‘Tell them that they must remain until I can question them. No one must leave this room until I give permission.’
With him at her side she had double status – Brehon and wife of the King. She faced the crowd who had instinctively shrunk back against the wall. Her mind was working fast. It would, she thought, have been just under an hour since midnight. The bells had rung. Then came the toasts, following these the main crowd of revellers had retired downstairs to the main guard hall to drink and dance the rest of the night away – she could hear the thump of music still which showed that the revels continued down there. Traditionally the merriment in the main guard hall continued as long as they pleased. Later on most of them would sleep either there in front of its large fireplace or in the captain’s quarters, or go back to their own small houses scattered around the enclosure which was fortified by a ten-foot-high wall and had a moat filled with sea water encircling it. The King’s guests had gone down with them after the toasts – all of them except Brehon MacClancy – but they had returned quite soon.
But Brehon MacClancy was not dead at that stage. Mara clearly remembered that he had asked for a drink. The cook Rosta had seen that everyone had what they needed and then he, too, had retired to the kitchen with his assistants, closing the door of the great hall firmly behind him. The elderly Brehon was still alive then. Mara remembered looking down at him, wondering whether he would demand another drink, before Rosta went out.
Those who were left in the great hall were all of the King’s particular guests – and, thought Mara, these guests were those who had heard the words of Tomás MacClancy yesterday evening when he had promised to expose the wrongdoing of one of them.
‘Did someone see who pushed the dagger into the Brehon’s back? Any of you noticed that happening?’ roared Turlough and for a moment she felt irritated. What a silly question! If someone did see that about an hour ago and kept quiet about it then they would be unlikely to come out with an account just now in front of everyone. She gave a slight sigh as she thought of all the careful questioning that she would have used to seek the truth, slowly and carefully, in the way that a good cook would peel the translucent layers from an onion in order to expose the succulent centre. Just as she was thinking about him, there was knock on the door. It was pushed open and Rosta arrived on the scene holding a large ladle in his hand and followed by two of his assistants carrying an enormous iron two-handled urn which, according to her instructions, would be full of soup. This was to signal the end of the eating and drinking and merriment for the night – in the great hall, though some might go down and join the revellers in the main guard hall. Rosta did not appear to notice the slumped figure of the Brehon and the appalled faces of the guests. Mara made a swift decision. Her scholars were tired and were eyeing the soup with appreciation, but now while memories still were active she had to take notes.
‘Get my satchel from our bedroom,’ she said in Cormac’s ear and saw a flash of almost incredulous pleasure flash from his large green eyes. He wasn’t, she thought, used to being chosen from the ranks of the law scholars and she had picked on him because he was fast, observant and often in and out of their bedroom, playing wrestling games with Turlough on the huge four-poster bed.
‘
Go ahead and pour the soup, Rosta,’ she said aloud. ‘And then you and your assistants can depart. The King has something to say to his guests, here. Could you and your assistants go down to the main guard after you have finished.’
Rosta looked puzzled, but did her bidding in silence, using his ladle to fill the small wooden bowls stacked on the table. She moved slightly so that she would conceal the dead body for the moment and Domhnall moved also, the others following him. They stretched like a guard across the window recess and waited in grim silence until the door had closed behind the cook and his assistants. Then Mara went over to Turlough.
‘My lord,’ she said formally, ‘I think it would be best if you announced this sad death to the rest of your guests. They will not wish to continue with the merriment in the face of the terrible event. Tell them that they can then disperse to their sleeping places, unless anyone has information to give to me.’ Hastily and before Turlough could assure her that no one would be too upset at the death of the Brehon and that it was a shame to cut short the night’s fun, she moved away and went back to her scholars.
By the time that Cormac had come back she had arranged the boys in pairs: Art with Slevin; Finbar, who was not too sensible on occasion, with the reliable Domhnall; and Cormac himself with Enda. She hoped that all would think that this was because Cormac was the youngest and so was placed with the assistant Brehon, but at the back of her mind she had a tiny doubt over whether Enda might not be involved in this killing and Cormac, she knew, would speak out loudly and clearly if there were any attempt to tamper with any of the evidence. Her heart hurt to think this of Enda, but she had to use her logical brain at this stage, not her heart. The young man had much to gain from this opportune death.
Aloud she said: ‘Brehon MacClancy was killed by a knife plunged into his back at some time during the last half-hour. Did anyone come in or go out of this room at that time?’ She waited for a moment, but heads were shaken. ‘Or see anyone go in or out?’
Heads were shaken again, but Cael said in a high, clear voice. ‘I saw something.’
All eyes turned to the urchin-like figure and her elder sister Shona took a step towards the child.
‘Yes,’ said Mara. She could have wished that this had been said to her in private but everyone was looking with intense speculation at Cael and it was probably best to hear what she had to say in public.
‘Just a bat, one of those big bats,’ said Cael hastily and her father gave a hearty laugh. Cael smirked and looked at her brother for approval. A few people smiled, but there was an air of tense preoccupation on most faces.
‘I see,’ said Mara coldly. By now each of her scholars had a pen and a sheet of vellum and Domhnall was busy mixing ink from the powder they carried in a small leather bag, and some water from a flagon. Rapidly she told them the questions to ask – this would be a quick, simple investigation into everyone’s memory of the time since their return to the great hall just after midnight.
‘It’s especially important to check whether anyone went towards the window recess or whether they saw anyone linger in that area,’ she said emphatically. ‘And remember to ask everyone whether they observed Brehon MacClancy, and if so what they noticed about him.’
She arranged for them to use the four remaining window recesses, all of which were furnished with small tables and benches, as places in which to ask their questions. Slevin and Art would interrogate the three professional men, Aengus MacCraith, the poet, Brian MacBrody the harpist and the physician, Donogh O’Hickey, she decided. To Enda and Cormac she assigned Conor, his wife Ellice and his son, Raour. To the tactful Domhnall and the well-mannered Finbar would fall the task of taking evidence from the notoriously touchy Fionn O’Brien and his heiress wife.
‘I’ll do the MacMahon family myself,’ she declared just as Turlough came back into the room. He cast a hurried glance at the still body in the corner and said in a hushed whisper: ‘Should I send someone to wake up the priest?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mara was embarrassed that she had not thought of that. Of course it should have been her first thought. There was something she remembered about a man’s soul not leaving his body until half an hour after death. The priest should have been sent for instantly. It was surprising that no one had thought of it. It seemed to show that there was not much interest in Brehon MacClancy’s place in the next world from the crowd who had feasted so merrily in his company this past night.
‘I’ll have a word with Rosta – get him to send one of his lads down to the priest’s house in the village – you won’t need any of them, will you? None of them have been in the room for an hour or so.’ Turlough seemed glad to get out of the room and away from the solemn faces and didn’t wait for an answer before rushing away. Mara crossed over to Donogh O’Hickey, who had just given his evidence to Domhnall, and Finbar and said in his ear:
‘When the priest has finished giving the last rites then I’d like to talk with you about the cause of death.’
He nodded. There was a thoughtful look in his eye as he glanced across at the dead body slumped across the table but he did not go near it, nor, she thought, had he shown much interest when the body had been discovered. For a moment she wished that she were back in the Burren and conducting this investigation there where her word was the law and where her first thought was always to send for Nuala and watch the girl conduct a detailed and thorough investigation into the cause of death. Still there was no use in wishing for what was not possible at the moment, she thought, as she sent Cormac with a polite request to Maccon MacMahon.
Maccon MacMahon had little to say. He had wandered down the room at one stage, he thought – just to look at the finely carved wall bench near the door leading to the stairs. He thought he had looked across at Brehon MacClancy on the opposite side of the hall, but couldn’t give Mara any information on what the man was doing, or whether he was sitting upright, or sprawled across the table at the time. He had no idea how long it was since he had gone to look at the bench, but thought it might have been quite soon after they had returned from the hall below. Mara dismissed him to his soup after a few minutes and thought that oddly, this murder might be quite difficult to solve. There had been twenty people in the room where the crime was committed, probably nineteen witnesses – and some seven of them were sharp-eyed and sharp-eared children. However, the light was very dim – half of the candles had expired and had not been re-lit, many of the guests had been drinking heavily, the continuous music had meant that dancing broke out from time to time. It was a pity that the hatch to the buttery and to the kitchen had been closed; otherwise Rosta or one of his assistants might have noticed something of importance.
Shona had even less to say than her father. She had been listening to the pipes, had danced a little, drank a little wine, kept an eye on the twins, who were flying up and down the hall …
‘And did you dance with someone?’ interrupted Mara. The tunes that the pipes had played were suitable for solitary dancing as well as couples but she was surprised when Shona said, very firmly, ‘By myself.’
‘And did you talk to Enda?’ queried Mara. Directness would work better with this girl, she thought.
Shona thought about that for a moment and seemed about to deny it, then saw Mara’s expression and turned a shake of the head into a slight nod.
‘For a while,’ she said.
For a long time, thought Mara. She had noticed them again and again, sitting side by side on the window seat at the top of the room, well away from the laden table and quite as private, if they kept their voices down, as though they were in a room of their own.
‘And what did you talk about?’ asked Mara.
‘That is private,’ said Shona with dignity.
‘Nothing is private when it’s a murder investigation,’ said Mara firmly. ‘However, whatever you tell me now will remain private unless it has anything to do with the crime that has been committed.’
Shona hesitated and then after a minute’s
thought, she gave an artificial smile. ‘It was nothing, really. I’m just so sick of the twins listening to everything that I say that I went to a place where they couldn’t stand behind me or creep up on me without my noticing. I really can’t remember what we were talking about. I think it might have been about King Turlough and what a wonderful King he is,’ she said sweetly.
The bit about the twins is probably true, thought Mara, but she doubted whether either of the young people had wasted their time talking about Turlough when they had the far more interesting subject of themselves to discuss. Still while they were in that position they could not have murdered Brehon MacClancy. But how long had they sat there for – and could one of them moved while the other pretended to talk to someone half-hidden by the half-closed window shutter?
‘And did you notice anyone approach Brehon MacClancy?’ asked Mara.
Shona was on her feet almost before she shook her head, ‘No, Brehon,’ she said firmly.
‘Sit down again,’ said Mara. She waited until the girl reluctantly lowered herself onto the stool again before saying, ‘So you were fostered by Brehon MacClancy, is that right? How did you get on with him?’
‘Very well,’ said Shona and then rather spoiled the decisiveness of her answer by saying, ‘I didn’t see too much of him, to be honest. His sister looked after us.’
‘And the legal business? Who looked after the affairs of Urlan Castle and the lands around when Brehon MacClancy was at Bunratty?’ queried Mara.
A smile softened Shona’s beautifully cut lips, but she compressed them instantly. ‘His assistant was usually there to deal with anything that came up.’
Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery) Page 5