‘Boring,’ muttered Enda rebelliously. Once again Mara ignored it. Later on she would wonder whether if she had tackled his behaviour then she might have been saved a lot of trouble afterwards, but at the time she felt a certain sympathy. He was an active boy, clever, quick-thinking, and easily bored. They had missed much of their usual fun on Saturday and Sunday, which they usually spent riding, hunting, swimming or playing hurling from dawn to dusk, and now he was in no mood for work. She would have to arrange something once the weather cleared. She took a quick glance out of the window. The sky still had a heavy leaden look, but over towards the west there was a faint lightening, a somewhat paler shade of grey, somewhere in the region of the Aran Islands.
Cumhal was back within a half-hour. The boys heard the sound of his footsteps clumping over the wet flagstones outside the schoolhouse. They all sat up and their eyes brightened. Shane had jumped up to open the door almost at the same moment as the knock sounded and Bran, dozing by the fire, sat up eagerly with his tail wagging.
‘Come in, Cumhal,’ said Mara.
‘I won’t, Brehon,’ said Cumhal, still standing in the doorway. ‘I’m all wet. I’ll only bring the damp in with me. I just wanted to tell you that Diarmuid saw the man Shane was talking about, all right. His name is O’Connor. He’s from Corcomroe. He is one of the O’Connors from Doolin … from the stone quarry in Doolin. He’s the son of that man who was killed about a month ago.’
‘Murdered?’ enquired Moylan hopefully.
‘No, it was an accident,’ explained Cumhal. ‘He was cutting out flagstones from the cliff side – they had a big order on and he was working late at it. I suppose he was tired, like. Anyway, he chipped away a bit too fast and a stone further up the slope came away and crushed him to death. The son has the business now. His name is Oscar, Brehon. A fine big young fellow, Diarmuid says.’
‘Thank you, Cumhal,’ said Mara. Corcomroe, she thought, that’s not in my jurisdiction. I’ll have to see Fergus. Fergus MacClancy was the Brehon at Corcomroe, a kind, fatherly man who had uncomplainingly taken on the duties of the Burren as well as of Corcomroe after the death of Mara’s father in 1489 and had encouraged her to apply for the post as soon as she became twenty-one, five years later.
‘I’ll have to go over to Corcomroe after school today,’ she said aloud. ‘Fachtnan, you can come with me. You’ll be a help to me in this investigation. Now settle down to work, all of you, and if you work well I’ll ask Brehon MacClancy to arrange a hurling match between the Cahermacnaghten and the MacClancy law schools.’
‘Can we do some investigating too?’ asked Moylan.
‘It’s not fair if Fachtnan gets a chance and we don’t,’ said Enda.
‘Fachtnan is three years older than you are,’ said Mara coldly. ‘Now, Enda, that’s enough. And,’ she added looking over his shoulder, ‘if you can’t produce a better script than that you can stay behind after school and rewrite it.’
Then she turned her back on him and sat down beside Fachtnan. His Latin was still a little weak, but he was such a hard-working, pleasant boy with a very mature understanding of people that she was willing to put a lot of effort into helping him to pass his final examinations next year. He would make a good Brehon, she thought.
‘It’s interesting, isn’t it?’ he said thoughtfully after he had struggled through the first translation. ‘It’s interesting how very different their laws are to ours. This case here of the woman who was sentenced to be burned to death, tied to a stake …’ He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘That’s absolutely terrible,’ he said. ‘She was to be burned because her husband sued the court for that sentence to be passed … and all she had done was take a lover secretly. It counts as treason – petty treason – in England if a woman deceives her husband! Why didn’t he just divorce her if he was that worried about it?’
‘They don’t have divorce in England,’ said Mara. ‘I suppose because the eldest son always inherits the land and property that it is important for a man to be certain of who is his son. This man is an earl and he would have great lands and possessions.’
‘Whereas here in Ireland,’ said Fachtnan, ‘any son that is recognized by his father gets a share whether it is a son of a formal marriage, or not. I don’t think that I would like England very much,’ he added. ‘See this case of the homeless boy who was sentenced to death because he stole a hen. Here he would be called “a fox of a cooking pot” and it would be no offence for him to steal food to keep himself alive. In fact, it would be an offence not to give a boy like that hospitality if he asked for it. And look at this,’ he said, pointing a grubby fingernail at another paragraph in the document. ‘You can be sentenced to death for any theft of goods worth more than a … What’s that word?’
‘That would be a shilling in English,’ said Mara. ‘Have you heard of a groat?’ she asked, guessing that he would not have heard of a shilling. ‘A shilling would be worth three groats.’
Fachtnan was shaking his head. ‘No, I’ve never heard of a groat, but I’ve seen a penny once,’ he said. He would have little knowledge of coinage, thought Mara. Although the law texts spoke glibly about ounces of silver, most fines were paid with cows, calves or heifers – more trivial ones were paid with chickens, eggs, or even pots of honey. Gaelic Ireland was very different to Tudor England. This was a society based on small communities who all knew each other and who bartered goods to supply their needs.
‘And look at that case,’ continued Fachtnan. ‘A woman was branded on the cheek, just like an animal …’
‘Enda,’ said Mara wearily, seeing from the corner of her eye a blob of soot-black ink being flicked from the end of a quill, ‘this is your last warning. If I have to speak to you again you will stay in after school. And that goes for you, Moylan, as well,’ she added, seeing Moylan slide his penknife back into his pouch. There was a new cut on the desk in front of him, but she decided to ignore it. It was a time-honoured custom for the scholars to cut names and complaints into the desks. Everyone did it sooner or later. She decided to devote another few minutes to Latin and then to discuss the case. After all, the scholars were there not just to learn the laws and to study Latin, but also to learn from her handling of cases. She left Fachtnan to struggle on by himself and went to sit in front of the schoolroom. She would have to ensure that there was no more bad behaviour, or else she had to keep her word about the threatened detention. She didn’t want to do that. The sky was clearing and a few hours running around after school would do them all good.
‘Put away your work now and let’s discuss the case,’ she said after a silence had ensued for at least ten minutes and sufficient work had been done by all of the scholars. She waited until they had all resumed their seats and then continued. ‘We have two questions to solve here: first, who had the opportunity to murder, and, secondly, who had a motive to murder Colman?’
‘Everyone wanted to murder him,’ muttered Enda and then looked ashamed. She understood his embarrassment. It still did not seem real that Colman, who had lived here at the law school for fourteen years, was the victim that they were discussing.
‘What are the usual motives for murder?’ she asked.
‘Revenge, a wish for gain, anger, fear,’ said Shane promptly. ‘That’s in one of the wisdom texts,’ he added.
‘The murderer could be Fachtnan,’ suggested Aidan hopefully.
‘After all, he might become a master at the law school here now that Colman is gone. That would be a wish for gain.’
‘Yes, but I had no opportunity,’ said Fachtnan tolerantly. ‘I was with you four all the time.’
‘What about Roderic?’ suggested Enda, his eyes bright and alert. ‘He wants to marry Emer; everyone knows that. If Colman is dead, then Daniel might allow them to get married.’
‘Yes, that’s who it was,’ said Aidan enthusiastically. ‘She would definitely want to marry Roderic. Everyone knows that she has …’ He stopped, obviously trying to put Emer’s feelings for Roderic int
o words that Mara would accept, but that would not sound too sentimental.
‘Did he have opportunity?’ asked Mara, looking at the board for the horn symbol.
‘Yes,’ said Enda, coming out and pointing. ‘He was there with Emer. They could both have done it. And I heard him say that King Turlough had offered him a position at court, so, if Colman were out of the way, he would be able to pay the bride price soon.
‘Any other suspects?’ asked Mara. He was right, of course, Roderic had motive and opportunity; yet, somehow, she didn’t think he was the type. And, of course, he had been with Emer all the evening. Would she have condoned a murder?
‘Well, there’s Hugh,’ said Shane thoughtfully. ‘He had a motive because Colman was blackmailing him, so fear would be his motive. And he had opportunity. And it was his knife.’
‘It wasn’t Hugh,’ said Mara swiftly. ‘Colman had bruises and scrapes on his hands where someone had wrestled the knife out of his grasp. Hugh is not strong enough to do that. And, also, the footprints seemed to show that two men wrestled there at the spot where Colman was killed. Both sets of footmarks were too big for Hugh’s feet.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Shane agreeably. ‘Anyway, he told me that he didn’t do it. He swore to me on his father’s honour.’
‘Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,’ said Hugh resentfully.
‘Well, I was just putting the case,’ said Shane equably. ‘A good lawyer has to put aside all emotion. That’s right, isn’t it, Brehon?’
Mara nodded slightly. Shane had the mind of a lawyer, she thought. With his good brain and his wonderful memory he would make a good one. She wasn’t so sure about Hugh.
‘Was Colman blackmailing anyone else, other than Hugh, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan. She looked at him with interest. Yes, he would make a good Brehon. She would discuss the matter with him afterwards in confidence, she thought. Enda was too immature and the others too young.
‘That certainly should be one line of enquiry,’ she said approvingly. ‘I think, though, we should first concentrate on who had opportunity and this is where you can all help me. Perhaps if the weather is fine tomorrow then I’ll make out a list for you and you can take your pens and tablets and go around the Burren making enquiries. Now, get out your sets of wisdom texts and see if you can learn at least ten new texts off by heart.’
FOURTEEN
URAIRECHT BECC (SMALL PRIMER)
A stone-cutter has an honour price of three séts. This is less than half the price of a stonemason.
If a stone-cutter accidentally injures another during the course of his lawful work, he does not have to pay any fine or compensation.
AS SOON AS THE BELL for vespers sounded Mara and Fachtnan set off on their horses, going towards Corcomroe through the fields in the mountain gap. The rain had stopped, but there was a fresh wind from the Atlantic blowing strongly in their faces and the ground was soft. This was land where shale and heavy mud had formed a layer over the limestone: the wet fields were bright green with new rushes and sprinkled with marsh marigolds and cuckoo flowers, but the mud was near to the surface and the horses’ feet sank at every step. Mara felt irritated by their slow pace; she had a lot to do. The sooner that this murder was solved, the sooner life could go back to normal. She was relieved when they came out on to the stony lane which led to the sea.
‘The MacClancys are only just coming out of the schoolhouse,’ said Fachtnan. ‘They must work an hour later than us. Unlucky!’
‘Lucky!’ said Mara with satisfaction. Fergus would be still there and she might get this business of young Oscar O’Connor over with quickly. She jerked the reins and quickened her pace.
‘Fergus,’ she called as they clattered up the path to the law school which, like her own, was housed within an ancient ring fort.
Fergus came out instantly. He was a thin, slightly built man with the stooping shoulders of a scholar. He had been a friend of her father and he was now in his sixties. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather had been Brehon of Corcomroe before him, but Fergus himself was childless. It would be a good position for Fachtnan, perhaps, when he qualified. Fergus could do with some help. He was beginning to look an old man. Mara had thought the same about Colman, but she was glad that she had never suggested it. Fergus was too kind, too diffident, to have someone like Colman with him. The master would soon have become the servant. Fachtnan would suit Fergus better. She looked at him with affection as he came towards the gate. His short-sighted eyes peered anxiously for a moment and then his face lit up.
‘Mara,’ he said, hastening out to meet her and offering a hand to help her dismount. ‘We were just talking about you yesterday, King Turlough and myself.’
‘He got off safely for the Aran Islands?’ asked Mara with a glance at the turbulent sea heaving and erupting with enormous clouds of white spume.
‘Yes, he would’ve got there before the storm broke,’ said Fergus, smoothing his wind-blown grey hair out of his eyes and pulling his gown more tightly around his thin frame. ‘He was going to come back tonight, but he’ll probably leave it until the sea is a bit calmer tomorrow morning. That was a terrible business about your young assistant,’ he added in a low voice.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mara gravely. ‘A terrible affair. That is why I am here. I am gathering evidence from everyone about who was near to the spot where he was killed. My neighbour, Diarmuid O’Connor, thinks he saw a young man from Corcomroe there – an Oscar O’Connor, from the stone quarry. Do you know him?’
‘Oh yes, of course I know him. Would you like to speak to him? I’ll send one of the scholars to fetch him. You can come inside and have a cup of ale with Siobhan and myself. We were just saying last night that it was a long time since we had seen you.’
‘No, no,’ said Mara hastily. Fergus was a nice man, but his wife, Siobhan, was a woman of surpassing dullness whose conversation seldom rose above a monotone recounting of the boring discussions that she had with her servant girls.
‘As Fíthail says, it is always best to see a witness in his workplace,’ she said, improvising swiftly. Fíthail, she knew, had said many things: there were books and books of his sayings and, who knows, he may well have said that as well.
‘You’re right,’ said Fergus, trying to look as if the saying was familiar to him. She smothered a grin. Dear old Fergus, he had a great respect for her memory and her learning. He would not question her any further.
‘Could you lend us one of your lads to show us the way?’ she asked.
‘I’ll come with you myself. I’ll just send one of them over to the Brehon’s house to tell Siobhan. You’ll come in on the way back?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mara, resolving that she would do no such thing. It would be easy to find an excuse after she had seen this Oscar O’Connor.
‘We’ll have to go back the way you came and then turn a little to the south,’ said Fergus when he returned leading a bony old horse. ‘It’ll only take us about ten minutes.’
‘So the father died a month ago,’ she said as they went along. ‘Had he just the one son?’
‘Just the one,’ confirmed Fergus. ‘There were others, two older boys, but one lad drowned in a boat going to the Aran Islands and another was killed on the cliff face in the same way as his father.’
‘How old is Oscar?’
‘I think he is about twenty-five,’ said Fergus. ‘I don’t know him very well, to be honest with you. He’s not been living around here for quite some time. He established a business in Galway. He used to come occasionally to order new supplies of stone from his father.’
‘He was trading flagstones there, then?’ asked Mara, trying to quicken the pace a little. Why didn’t Fergus get himself a decent horse? she wondered. He must be quite rich; he had all the rentals on the Tuaith Ghlae property as well as his fees from the legal work as Brehon of Corcomroe and his fees from the law school.
‘Yes, a very good trade,’ said Fergus. ‘He had boatloads
shipped over to London a while ago, his father was telling me that the last time we met.’
‘Why Galway?’ asked Mara. ‘Why didn’t Oscar send them from the harbour down there at Doolin?’
‘Well, he has an aunt in Galway who is married to a merchant called Sean Lynch and I suppose he started him off with contacts,’ said Fergus, gently urging his horse away from tearing mouthfuls of grass from the side of the lane.
‘Seán Lynch!’ exclaimed Mara.
‘That must be Colman’s mother,’ called back Fachtnan over his shoulder. ‘Yes, it is. I seem to remember him saying something about having cousins somewhere in Corcomroe.’
‘He never visited them,’ said Mara. ‘I would remember if he had ever visited them when he was a boy at the law school.’ She wasn’t surprised, though. Colman was very prone to boasting about the Lynch family and their connections: a humble stone-cutter would not be anything to be proud of. His honour price would have been only three séts. Colman’s mother had married well; she may have been the one to sever connections. Neither Colman, nor his parents, had ever mentioned cousins in Corcomroe to her.
‘So that’s why he went over to the bonfire at Mullaghmore,’ said Fergus. ‘I was wondering about that. We have our own bonfire here. I suppose he went to meet his cousin.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mara grimly. ‘Is that the quarry ahead?’
‘That’s it,’ said Fergus.
There were men working everywhere, some on the cliff face and others on the ground. Fergus spoke to one and he went running towards a house set back a little from the quarry, a fine house, well built, with a fine stone roof of thin, evenly cut stone tiles.
My Lady Judge Page 17