Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery)

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Oh, and Rosta, could you lend me a box and a clean linen napkin,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t need to be ironed or starched.’ Rosta, she knew, was very proud of the starch which he made from the roots of the cuckoo flowers and she could see by his dismayed face as he handed her the crumpled object, which one of his assistants had taken from a large basket, that he didn’t think it was fit for the wife of his King.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ she assured him, ‘and just that small box over there, that’s all that I need. Tell the captain that his men should bring a litter and perhaps a rope so that the body can be carried safely down the steps.’

  The safest thing on that spiral stairs, she thought, as she returned to the window recess, would probably be for one of those strong men-of-arms to sling the body over his shoulder and take it down to the cellar like that, but that might be considered to be discourteous to the dead man and could even be against some obscure rule of the church. She bent down to pick up the knife and slightly recoiled. A slightly fishy smell seemed to emanate from it. She looked down at it, feeling puzzled. She had expected a smell of blood, but not of fish. Holding the napkin to shield her hand she picked up the knife by its handle and held it to her nose. Yes, it was fish – rotten fish, she thought.

  And yet the knife itself with its long blade and its deadly sharpened edge was no kitchen knife. It was a warrior’s knife, a knife that was meant to kill.

  Meditatively she placed it into the box and closed the lid. This knife, she thought, had been inserted into the body of an ageing and malicious man. But was it the instrument of his death? She glanced across at Donogh O’Hickey. Another ageing man, she thought – not malicious – at least, she amended, she didn’t think so; but getting old, getting tired, wanting an easy life, wanting an easy answer to a problem.

  It was not Mara’s way and she prayed that no matter how old she became, it would never be her way. Let me wear out on the task, not rust away, she sent up a brief prayer and wished that she could see into the future.

  When the captain of the guard and his men arrived she was courteous and determined with them. The body had to be taken to the very low temperature of the basement. It needed to be guarded from rats – whether by means of a cage or of a human guard and a terrier dog, she suggested, she would leave that in the hands of the captain. The physician would need to work on the body on the following day before the burial could take place. She gave him no time for questions, just smiled warmly at him, expressed King Turlough’s gratitude for his prompt appearance and for the efficiency of his arrangements and watched the slow and difficult conveyance of the body down to the freezing depths of the basement beneath the castle – damp, cold; and a sad end, she thought, for a man who had held a position that was the envy of most of Gaelic Ireland.

  And then she went back up the spiral staircase to the King’s bedroom on the north-easterly side of the castle.

  ‘You’re frozen,’ said Turlough, reaching out for her. He got out of bed and went across to the brazier and took a lidded flagon from it. Carefully he poured some liquid into a wooden goblet with elaborately carved handles and gave it to her. It was delicious – a Spanish wine, but softened by sugar, hot and perfumed with spices. She took a sip, undressed quickly and slipped in beside her husband. Only now, in comparison with the heat that came from his large body, had she realized how very cold she had become. She would think about this murder tomorrow, she decided.

  Seven

  Urcailte Bretheman

  (The Forbidden Things of a Judge)

  A judge shall not come to a decision before the chaff has been blown from the corn; that is to say, all evidence has to be carefully sifted.

  No one person should influence a judge; all must be equal before him.

  He must not be slow or negligent in the seeking-out of the facts.

  He must never accept bribes or show favour.

  He must never allow his knowledge of the law texts to fade.

  He must not make up his mind too quickly, but must challenge all his decisions as if he were his own enemy.

  He must never utter a lie at a public judgement.

  Mara was up before most, but when, once washed and dressed, she went into the solar beside their bedroom she found that Rosta and his assistants had already been in and there was a breakfast of newly baked bread and cold meats and cheeses laid out on the long table in front of a blazing fire. There was milk as well as ale in flagons on the table and she poured herself a goblet of it – fresh this morning, she thought – and with a hunk of bread and butter in one hand and the creamy milk in the other she went over to stand by the heat of the logs and looked down into the great hall from the hatch by the fireplace.

  Breakfast was spread on the ten-legged table there, also, but the platters seemed unused, the baskets of bread were still piled high and the goblets were neatly arranged in three rows of six in the centre of the table. As Mara watched, munched and drank her milk, she heard the door open. Someone came in, walking quietly and lightly up to the top of the room, stood for a moment surveying the breads, cheeses, cold salmon and slices of meat and then turned away and went towards the fire.

  It was Enda and at the sight of him, Mara abandoned the rest of her breakfast and slipped quietly out of the door, taking care to tread as noiselessly as possible on the stone flags of the spiral staircase.

  As she rounded the last bend she saw Rosta leave his kitchen. He did not see her, but went into the great hall.

  ‘What about an egg?’ he was saying when she opened the door. ‘I’ve got some lovely fresh eggs – I could fry you a couple in an instant. Nothing like it if you’ve had too much to drink the night before – settles the stomach.’

  ‘No, no thanks, Rosta – I don’t feel like anything.’ He sounded subdued, thought Mara. Neither of them had noticed her so she closed the door behind her silently.

  ‘You’re not upset about that old francach, MacClancy, are you, lad,’ said Rosta in the cajoling tones that he used to Cormac when the boy was in a bad mood.

  Enda made no reply, but kicked one of the logs in the fireplace, sending out a shower of sparks that flew up through the air and then subsided into small blackened morsels on the hearth.

  ‘He’s no loss,’ said Rosta emphatically. ‘And let me tell you this, lad; whoever did the deed, did you a service. He was no friend to you. I heard him with the King talking about you and I can tell you I was hard put not to drop some hot fat down the back of his neck.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not mourning him,’ said Enda indifferently. ‘Just a bit off form – too much to eat and drink; I’ll try those eggs, Rosta. Perhaps they’ll do me good.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen and eat them straight from the pan,’ said Rosta coaxingly. ‘I always say to the lads out there that we get the best of it – food straight from the fire. Nothing like it! Come on, now; come into the kitchen and have a couple of eggs and you’ll feel better.’

  Mara opened the door, and then closed it with a bang. It would appear as though she had just entered. She didn’t want Enda to feel that she was spying on him.

  ‘Did someone say something about eggs,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘I’ll bring one straight up to you, Brehon,’ said Rosta agreeably, but Enda started at her entrance, flushed and then turned his head away.

  ‘No – straight from the pan; that’s what my cook, Brigid, always says,’ lied Mara. Giving neither man the opportunity to say anything she led the way into the kitchen, astonishing various boys who were scurrying around. One was holding by a long handle a flat circle of iron decorated with twisted spirals and as Mara watched, he poured some creamy liquid from a flagon over the hot surface. It immediately crisped and Mara gave a genuine cry of delight.

  ‘Wafers!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, I’d love a hot wafer, instead!’

  She had hardly said the words when Rosta seized a pair of tongs, transferred the wafer to a trencher of coarse brown bread and offered it to her.

  ‘Rose-wate
r, whites of two eggs, well beaten, add a bit of honey, some flour and even a fool like Seánie here can turn out something fit for a King’s wife,’ he said rapidly. ‘Would you like a lump of butter with it, Brehon?’

  ‘No, it’s perfect as it is – Enda, do try a wafer,’ said Mara. It might better for him than fried eggs, she thought. He had a white look about his mouth and his eyes were deeply shadowed as though he had not slept. She made sure that he had four of the sweet, tasty morsels and that he swallowed some ale before saying casually, ‘Well, I must go. Come with me, Enda. I will be glad of your help and advice.’

  He flushed at that and she felt mean. It was, however, essential, that the truth was found and found as quickly as possible. A murder in the King’s own castle would be a destabilizing matter in the three kingdoms. News of it would leak out rapidly and then rumours would start. For Turlough’s sake, as well as for the sake of the law by which she lived her life, this murder had to be solved and the solution presented in public to the people of the kingdom.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said to Enda once they had come out onto the stairs. The cold struck her as they emerged from the heat of the kitchen, and she regretted that she had not brought her cloak, especially as she knew that where she was going would be even colder. Still it could not be helped. Impulse had ruled her and she had learned that it often led her in the right direction. Carpe diem, the Latin proverb that she made her scholars memorize, was a part of her philosophy of life: seize the moment – another as good may not come along.

  She chatted amiably as they went down the stairs, but noted how silent he was. The captain of the guard was voluble in his explanations – Mara guessed that he had not expected her so early. Once the body had been securely locked into a lead-lined box, he told her, they had not thought it was necessary to have men stand on guard, though they had taken up her suggestion about … He unlocked the door to the basement as he spoke and an ecstatic terrier, with a fringe of rough hair obscuring his eyes, shot out, his long ragged tail wagging so hard that it set up quite a breeze. There were no dead rats around and the dog seemed bored and lonely, responding gratefully to her petting. Certainly the box looked uninjured so Mara nodded and praised his idea and decided that the dog deserved his liberty and a good breakfast and that the body could remain there until Donogh O’Hickey arrived to examine it. She made an arrangement with the captain of the guard that a couple of his men would be available to help the elderly physician – the captain said grimly that he had a couple of lads in mind who would be well served for their behaviour last night by being given that duty. Mara glanced covertly at Enda when he said that, but there was no trace of a smile on the young man’s face. He looked deeply troubled and had an indecisive, hesitant look about him which surprised her. Enda, no matter how difficult, or how rebellious he had been during his turbulent teen years, had never looked or sounded unsure.

  ‘I’m frozen; let’s go up to the solar and warm ourselves,’ she said when they came back up the steps. The icy chill of basement reeked of damp – she wouldn’t be surprised if the river came into the room at high tide, she thought, remembering that they were only a few miles from the sea and that both the Shannon and the River Raite would be tidal at their junction beside Bunratty Castle.

  ‘I’m surprised that you didn’t ask him to open the box,’ said Enda curtly as she closed the solar’s door behind them. Luckily neither Turlough, nor any of the scholars, had made an appearance yet, so they had the place to themselves.

  ‘Why are you surprised?’ Mara knelt on the floor beside the fire and tossed on a few small logs onto the glowing embers beneath the thick logs lying across the fire irons. She held her cold hands out to the flames and did not look up at him. Nevertheless she was aware of his tension. His voice had been strained and over-loud.

  Enda gave a brittle laugh. ‘Well, you know the old story, don’t you? If a murderer stands beside the man that he has killed, then the wounds open up and bleed. Brigid was a great believer in that. You’d have solved the case if Brehon MacClancy had begun to bleed in my presence.’

  Mara sat back and looked up at him. ‘There would have been three present,’ she said evenly. ‘There would have been you, me, and the captain of the guard – and the little dog, of course. Which of these is supposed to have murdered him?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Enda impatiently. ‘Don’t treat me like a child. You don’t need to humour me and joke me out of a bad mood. I’m not one of your scholars now.’

  That’s wrong, thought Mara, once a scholar, always a scholar. She knew that her emotions were engaged here, but there was nothing she could do about that – nothing except to control them. This crime had to be solved. She was determined about that.

  ‘Are you confessing that you were the one who killed him, Enda?’ she asked, keeping her voice steady and even. She glanced up at him again and then returned her gaze to the fire. She would give him a moment to think over the situation, she had decided, but as the silence lengthened her heart plummeted to the soles of her shoes.

  A moment later a sound roused her. The door to the solar had opened and closed. He had gone. Seriously worried now, she got to her feet and went to the doorway, but he had disappeared around the corner and she decided that she would not lose her dignity by chasing after him. Sighing deeply she picked up the flagon of ale in one hand and tucked a basket of buttered rolls under her arm, went into the bedroom and woke up Turlough.

  ‘I need your help,’ she said as she took off her shoes and gown, slid in beside him and warmed her cold feet on him.

  It took her a while to get him back to the subject of her worries, but once he had gulped down a pint of ale and crunched his way through a few bread rolls he considered the problem.

  ‘I thought that knife wasn’t too far in,’ he said triumphantly. ‘You wouldn’t let me look, but I could have found that out for you.’

  ‘It must have been only barely in, because a draught from the door seemed to have knocked it out,’ said Mara. This still puzzled her.

  Turlough shook his head decisively. ‘Couldn’t have been that; it was just the muscles all relaxing or something – happens before it stiffens. If you’d seen the number of dead bodies that I have you’d know that they keep on changing, just as live bodies do. They get flabby, then they stiffen – I’d say that you won’t be able to get poor old Tomás out of that box now, he’ll be as stiff as a poker, and then they get flabby again. You’ll have to wait for that before he can be undressed or anything. Should have done it last night. Why didn’t you ask me?’

  ‘I didn’t think of that,’ confessed Mara, feeling annoyed with herself. ‘I’m so used to summoning Nuala as soon as anything happens and then she just takes charge and I get on with the brain work. After a few hours she has everything ready to tell me all about the corpse and the reason for death and things like that.’

  Then she thought of something and turned a puzzled face towards Turlough.

  ‘Why didn’t Donogh think of all that? Nuala has such a high opinion of him. She says that he taught her so much. Why didn’t he warn me?’

  ‘Getting old – old and forgetful – cantankerous, too – never used to be like that. Big change in him, gradually coming on – hard to say when it started – not too keen on Tomás – two of them had a great shouting matching one day – I had to take them apart and say: “Now look here, lads, we can’t have the Brehon and physician quarrelling” …’ Turlough’s words came between gulps of ale and bites of his bread roll, but Mara understood and her heart sank. It almost seemed as though she would have to manage without all the efficient medical details that she become accustomed to. Once the brain started to go in an elderly person like Donogh O’Hickey, there was no stopping the downward decline. Still, she told herself, the cause of death is only one of the clues – the real problem is who had a strong enough motive to kill him. That’s what I have to solve.’

  She got out of bed and pulled on her gown and shoes, neatene
d her hair by rebraiding and coiling it at her neck and then went out of the door and up the narrow winding staircase until she reached the long room under the roof. Here had slept Turlough’s sons – two of them now dead, one of them in England, only the delicate Conor left with his father. Now it was occupied by her scholars. All except Domhnall were fast asleep so she tiptoed over and sat on the end of his bed. Even in the dim light she could see that his eyes were wide-awake and thoughtful.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the murder,’ he whispered. ‘I think that we need to do something a bit more, more, well sort of more scholarly – we’re just asking them if they can remember anyone talking to Brehon MacClancy, but half of them were drunk and it’s too difficult to remember something that was completely unimportant at the time.’ He stopped and looked at her with an air of slight deprecation – he was a boy who was very respectful of her status and she guessed that he didn’t want to appear to criticize her handling of the affair.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ she whispered back. ‘We’ll discuss it after you’ve all eaten.’ She looked at the sleeping boys. ‘Allow them to wake of their accord, but you get up whenever you like. There’s plenty of breakfast ready in the solar and more in the great hall.’ She gave him a nod and left him.

  He was right, of course, she thought. Unfortunately finding who had gone near Brehon MacClancy last night was not the same as finding who had murdered him. People would be reluctant to admit to approaching him, reluctant also to incriminate friends or relations. Add to that the very bad light, the incessant moving and the continuous drumming and piping which numbed the senses and distracted the mind; any evidence would have to be carefully tested. It appeared to Mara that these enquiries were going to be tedious and perhaps, in the end, unfruitful.

  But there was another line of enquiry.

  Murder, when it concerned a secret killing, was usually the last step in a perilous or dangerously tempting situation. As far as she knew any private fortune that Brehon MacClancy possessed would go to his nephew, with, probably, some provision for his elderly sister.