Act of Mercy

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘For the love of Christ, do not let go!’ yelled Gurvan.

  He turned and now Fidelma saw that he had a rope attached to him which was beginning to pull them both along at speed. Dark figures on the side of the ship were struggling to haul on the rope and she realised that slowly, agonisingly slowly, they were being pulled up the side of the ship by the sheer muscle of the crewmen hauling on the rope.

  An awful thought came to her mind. Dangling helplessly as they were by the side of the speeding vessel, if the men above let go of the rope, the momentum would pull them both under the ship itself. Their death would be certain.

  Then they were being lifted clear of the water.

  ‘Keep a tight grip,’ yelled Gurvan.

  Fidelma did not reply. Her hands automatically tightened on the mate’s clothing.

  Moments later they were pulled upward with the sea almost reluctant to let them go, the white-capped waves catching at them like faltering fingers, enticing them backwards into the dark maw of the waters.

  Fidelma closed her eyes, hoping the rope would not break. Then hands were grabbing at her wrists and arms. They heaved her up over the rails and she collapsed on the deck, gasping and shivering. Young Wenbrit hurried over and threw her robe around her shoulders. His face was concerned. She glanced up and tried to smile at him in gratitude, unable to speak for lack of breath.

  It took some time before she could rise unsteadily to her feet. Wenbrit caught her arm to prevent her from falling. She realised that Gurvan was now on board leaning against the rail and also trying to catch his breath. Had he been a moment or two later in his rescue bid, there would have been no hope. The ship was fairly cutting through the waves now. The sail was straining against the yard as the wind came up. She held out her hand to Gurvan in silent thanks. She could not trust herself to speak for a moment or two and then she said: ‘You saved my life, Gurvan.’

  The mate shrugged. His features mirrored his concern. He, too, finally found voice.

  ‘I should have been more vigilant when you were in the water, lady.’

  Murchad came hurrying along the deck to them, glad to see that Fidelma was not injured.

  ‘I did warn you, lady, that it was dangerous to bathe in this manner,’ he said sternly.

  ‘Look.’ Gurvan stood aside and pointed at the rail. ‘Look, Captain, the rope has been cut.’

  The rope’s end was still tied there, but only a short length of rope was attached to it.

  Fidelma tried to see what Gurvan was pointing at.

  ‘Is it frayed?’ she asked. But she realised it was a silly question for now she could see that the rope was cut, the strands sliced through as though by a sharp knife.

  ‘Someone tried to kill you, lady,’ Gurvan told her quietly. There had been no need for him to make the point. It was all too plain.

  ‘After I went into the sea,’ she said to Gurvan, ‘how long were you standing by the rope?’

  Gurvan considered the question.

  ‘I waited until I saw that you were swimming comfortably. You waved to me and I acknowledged. Then Brother Tola distracted me. He asked me who was swimming and he started to ask me about the dangers of the water.’

  ‘Did you move away from this spot for any amount of time?’

  ‘For no more than a few minutes. I turned astern to speak with the captain.’

  ‘Was no one else on the deck then?’

  ‘A few of the crew.’

  ‘I don’t mean crew. I mean passengers.’

  ‘There was the young religieuse, Sister Gormán, and there was Sister Crella together with the man with the useless arm, Brother Cian. Also the taciturn one – Brother Bairne.’

  Fidelma glanced around and saw that most of them were gathered some distance away watching her uncomfortably. All had been spectators of the rescue.

  ‘Was any one of them close to the rope?’

  ‘I am not sure. Any one of them could have been. I came back as soon as I felt the wind coming up. Then I saw that the rope had been cut. I called to a couple of crew; we seized another rope and the rest you know.’

  Fidelma stood in silent thought.

  ‘Lady.’ It was young Wenbrit. ‘It is best for you to get out of those wet things.’

  Fidelma smiled down at him. She realised that the sodden silk was clinging to her body like a second skin. She pulled her robe more closely around her shoulders.

  ‘A drink of corma will not go amiss, Wenbrit,’ she hinted. ‘I’ll be in my cabin.’

  She hurried across the deck as crew and passengers broke into groups, talking with one another in passionate but quiet voices.

  It was half an hour before Fidelma, warmed inside by the fiery spirits of the corma as well as outside by a vigorous rub and some dry clothes, came aft to join Murchad in his cabin. The captain was still looking disturbed by the event, realising just how close the sister of his King, Colgú of Cashel, had come to her death.

  ‘Are you all right now, lady?’ he greeted her as she entered the cabin.

  ‘I am feeling like a fool, that is all, Murchad. I forgot that a person who kills can sometimes acquire a taste for killing.’

  Murchad was startled.

  ‘Are you saying that we have a homicidal maniac on board?’

  ‘To actually set out to kill someone is always the sign of a disturbed mind, Murchad.’

  ‘Do you still suspect Brother Cian? After all, no one else could gain by the killing of Toca Nia. Therefore, he must have killed Sister Muirgel and then attempted to silence you.’

  Fidelma gestured negatively as she sat down facing him.

  ‘I do not think the logic follows. It might be that the person who killed Toca Nia is not the same person who killed Muirgel. There is also the murder of Sister Canair to bear in mind, but to which we only have the word of Brother Guss. I am afraid that now Guss is dead, his word as sole witness is worthless. The same criterion which prevents the arrest and prosecution of Cian applies to the matter of Canair … where is the witness? However, the law aside, I am prepared to believe that Guss was speaking the truth.’

  ‘Do you mean that you believe that Sister Crella is the guilty party?’

  ‘She may well be. The inconsistencies in her story certainly point to it. But why tell me something that would be contradicted immediately? Was she lying, or did she believe it to be true? The one problem that I cannot resolve is the motive.’

  ‘How could this thing happen?’ Murchad wondered. ‘A life at sea makes one always close to death, but never death in this fashion. Maybe this voyage is a doomed one. I heard that young religieux, Brother Dathal, saying as much. That this is like the voyage of Donn, god of death …’

  Fidelma smiled thinly.

  ‘Superstition, Murchad; it imprisons the world with fears. Reason is that which opens the cage. There is a logical answer to every mystery, and we will find it. Eventually.’ She paused and then said: ‘Did you remain on deck all the while I was bathing?’

  ‘I did. I saw Gurvan tie the rope around you and then around the rail. I watched you dive into the sea. Don’t think that I have not tried to rack my memory to recall if I saw anyone go near the rope.’

  ‘Gurvan came and spoke with you at some point?’

  ‘Exactly as he said. He waited a while at the rail. I saw him raise his hand. Then Tola, who was walking on deck, engaged him in conversation. The wind began to freshen and he came to discuss it with me. I warned him to pull you in for I knew we would soon have steerage way.’

  ‘You did not notice anyone else on the deck near the rope?’

  ‘A couple of the crew were in the yards. I have already spoken to them while you were changing. They saw nothing. As we were expecting a wind, they were there to adjust the sail when it arose. There was someone else though …’ He frowned, ruffling the hair on the back of his head with his right hand. ‘I cannot say who it was.’

  ‘Surely you can describe the person?’

  ‘That I cannot say, for t
hey were well for’ard and they had their hood-thing, you know …’

  ‘The cowl?’

  ‘Whatever you call it; the hood covered their head.’

  ‘So it was one of the pilgrims? Can you say whether it was a man or a woman?’

  ‘I couldn’t even say that, lady.’

  ‘Did you notice them go near the rail?’

  ‘They might have done so. There was no one else there at the time. The wind caught and I called on the crew. Gurvan went back to the rope at that time and realised something was wrong. The figure of the religieux had disappeared and I assumed that whoever it was had gone below.’

  Murchad suddenly looked at her as though he had remembered something important.

  ‘I know they did not come back through the stern companionway.’

  Fidelma was puzzled.

  ‘Where could they have gone then?’

  ‘Probably went through the for’ard hatch.’

  ‘But surely there is no access to the lower decks that way, is there?’

  ‘There is a small hatchway just outside your cabin door, but no one uses it. At least, none of the passengers would as it only leads down to the storage areas through which they would then have to make their way into the other areas of the ship.’

  ‘But there is a way of going below decks there and reaching the passengers’ cabins?’ When he confirmed it, she rose and said: ‘Let us examine it.’

  They needed a light, for the small passage that separated Fidelma’s and Gurvan’s cabins on either side, and the head at the end of it, was dark. Fidelma went into her cabin to fetch a lamp. The furry black bundle of Mouse Lord, the cat, was curled up asleep at the foot of her bunk. Fidelma lit the lamp and joined Murchad who was levering up a small hatch from the floor. She had certainly not noticed it before. It was only big enough for one person to ease down at a time.

  ‘You say that this is not used often?’

  ‘Not often.’

  ‘And we can move from here the length and breadth of the ship?’ Murchad uttered an affirmative.

  They halted at the bottom of the wooden steps in a small storage space. There was scarcely room to stand up. Fidelma raised the lamp and peered round.

  ‘Plenty of dust,’ she muttered. ‘I presume this is not often used as a cabin or even storage?’

  ‘Hardly ever,’ Murchad said. ‘The next cabin is where we keep our main stores.’

  Fidelma pointed to a series of footprints on the floor.

  ‘Doubtless, Gurvan searched the space when he was looking for Sister Muirgel on the second day out.’ When Murchad agreed, she added: ‘Then he would check after the storm in case of damage to the hull?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She held the lamp close to the steps down which they had descended and bent down to examine them.

  There were some brown stains on the boards and below the bottom step on the deck itself was a clear imprint of a foot.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Murchad.

  ‘I expect that you and Gurvan are the same size and build, aren’t you?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘I suppose so. Why?’

  ‘Place your foot beside that print, Murchad. Beside it, mind you, not on it.’

  Murchad did so. His boot was large by comparison.

  ‘That shows me that the print does not belong to Gurvan made at the time he discovered the body of Toca Nia.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘This is where the killer of Toca Nia came during the night. They moved silently through the ship and came up these steps. They disturbed me and I awoke, thinking, stupidly, it was rats or mice and pushed Mouse Lord out. But it was Toca Nia’s killer who went into his cabin and stabbed him in a frenzy of hate. So much so that blood spilt onto the cabin floor and their foot was covered in it. I noticed the footmarks and saw they led out into the passage, trying to separate Gurvan’s prints from them. They seemed to end and I thought the murderer must have wiped off the blood, not knowing of your hidden hatch. I now realise that it was by this route that they returned to their part of the ship.’

  Murchad shook his head, perplexed.

  ‘But those stains can’t tell you much.’

  ‘On the contrary, the footprint at the bottom here tells me a lot.’ She pointed to the print with exhilaration spreading through her for the first time in days at finally finding a tangible piece of evidence.

  ‘What does it tell you?’

  ‘The size of that print tells me much about the person who killed Toca Nia. And now I am beginning to see a faint connection. Perhaps coincidences do not happen so frequently as we think that they do. The peson who killed Toca Nia is the same person who slaughtered Sister Canair back in Ardmore and stabbed Sister Muirgel. Perhaps …’ Fidelma fell silent, considering the problem.

  ‘I would be careful, lady,’ interposed Murchad anxiously. ‘If this person has attempted to kill you once, they may well try again. They obviously perceive you as a threat. Maybe you are close to discovering them.’

  ‘We must all be vigilant,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But this person likes to kill in secret, of that I am sure. There is also one other thing that we may be sure of.’

  ‘I do not follow.’

  ‘Our murderer is one of only three people on this ship and that person, I believe, is insane. We must, indeed, be vigilant.’

  That evening the winds began to change again. After the somewhat strained atmosphere at the evening meal, served as usual by Wenbrit, Fidelma went out on deck to join Murchad and Gurvan by the steering oar.

  ‘I am afraid we are in for another blow, lady,’ Murchad greeted her morosely. ‘We have been more than unlucky this voyage. Had the calm weather continued, we would be two days out from the Iberian port. Now we must see where the winds take us.’

  Fidelma glanced up at the skies. They did not seem as bad as those harbingers of the storm during the first night out. True, they were dark-tinged, but not rushing across the sky as she had seen them on the previous occasion.

  ‘How long do we have before it strikes?’ she asked.

  ‘It will be with us by midnight,’ replied Murchad.

  At that moment Fidelma noticed the ship was positively cleaving the waters, sending a white froth washing by on both sides of the vessel. Everything looked so calm and peaceful.

  By midnight, Fidelma could not believe the sudden change of weather. Heavy seas were running now and the wind was changing direction so often that it made her dizzy. Fidelma had been sitting on deck, her mind going over all the facts and incidents, analysing and sorting them in her own mind. She stood up, feeling the deck beginning to pitch under her. Gurvan was busy supervising some of the sailors fastening the rigging.

  He came across to her.

  ‘The safest place will be in your cabin, lady, and don’t forget to—’

  ‘Stow all loose objects,’ ended Fidelma solemnly, having learnt the lesson during the previous bad weather.

  ‘You’ll become a sailor yet, lady,’ Gurvan smiled approvingly.

  ‘Is it going to be as bad as last time?’ she asked.

  Gurvan replied with a non-committal gesture.

  ‘It doesn’t look too good. We are having to beat against the wind.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to return and go with the wind, even if that blows us back on our course?’

  Gurvan shook his head.

  ‘In this sea, to head to the wind would have those heavy seas pouring over us the whole time. We might even be driven under the waves by the force.’

  As if to emphasise his words, the spray was beginning to fly over the deck and Fidelma could see the waters around them start to boil. In fact, the wind had increased so severely that the mast, thick and strong as it was, began to groan and bend a little. To Fidelma, it looked as if the wind was threatening to tear the mast itself from its well. The leather sail was thrashing about and appeared to be in danger of splitting.

  ‘Best get inside now!’ urged Gurvan.

  Fidelma
acknowledged his advice and, head down, she moved cautiously along the main deck to her cabin.

  There was nothing to do but ensure everything movable was stowed away again and then sit on her bunk and wait out the storm. But the storm did not abate quickly. The hours gradually wore on and there was certainly little doubt in Fidelma’s mind that the weather, if anything, was worsening.

  At some point she hauled herself from the bunk and went to the window. She peered along the deck but could see nothing. It was black as pitch and the rain – or was it sea spray? – was pouring down in sheets across the ship. It was almost as if The Barnacle Goose was totally underwater. As she stared out, the wind sucked the sea from the wave-tops and gathered them to sluice the water across the ship; it lashed into her face and eyes, drenching her.

  She turned back into her cabin.

  Even above the noise of the wind and seas she heard a strange groaning sound. It seemed to be coming from the side planking in her cabin. Without warning, a geyser of seawater shot through the planks, frothing and bubbling.

  Fidelma stared at the water and the splintered wood for a moment in horror, then grabbed at the blanket from her bunk and began to stuff it desperately into the crack. She could feel the splintered wood moving underneath her hands. Everything was becoming soaked – her clothes, the straw mattress, the blankets. And the sea was so cold that her teeth began to chatter.

  She tried calling but the noise of the wind and sea simply drowned out the sound of her voice. She did not know how long she stayed there, praying that the wood was not going to splinter further. It seemed like hours, and her hands grew numb with the chill.

  Eventually she became aware that the cabin door had opened and closed behind her. She glanced across her shoulder and saw the soaked figure of Wenbrit, holding a bucket and something else under his arm, staggering in.

  ‘Is it bad?’ yelled the boy, putting his mouth close to her ear that he might be heard.

  ‘Very bad!’ she yelled back.

  The boy put down his bucket and the other objects he was carrying. Then he removed the blanket to inspect the damage.

  ‘The sea has splintered the planking of the hull,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll try to strengthen and caulk it as much as I can. It should hold for a while.’