A Secret and Unlawful Killing

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I just wanted to see you, Mara, for a minute about this affair of the merchant Guaire O’Brien, but I won’t interrupt your Sunday,’ he said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Mara forcing herself to be hospitable. ‘You must stay and have some dinner with us. There will be plenty of goose for us all. Brigid always cooks too much of everything.’ The scholars would be disappointed, she thought. There would be few leftovers after this meal. Fergus, despite his frail looks, was a good trencherman and Siobhan’s stout frame openly proclaimed her love of food.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Siobhan with a cursory show of reluctance. ‘Shall we go inside, my lord, while Fergus and Mara talk business? Brigid has a lovely fire in the sitting room.’

  Turlough gloomily followed Siobhan indoors. Mara found it hard to suppress a smile. His expression was so like that of a small boy denied a treat. She turned to Fergus.

  ‘Guaire O’Brien?’ she questioned.

  ‘Yes, the linen merchant, from Kilfenora, I understand he was at your Michaelmas Fair.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mara. ‘He was in a bit of trouble for giving short measure.’

  Fergus nodded grimly. ‘So I understand. That was not all, though. He got very drunk that night at an alehouse in Liscannor and he was stabbed by a Frenchman who got back onto his boat before he could be caught.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara, wondering why Fergus was telling her all of this. This was a Corcomroe affair and outside her jurisdiction.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Fergus, ‘when we returned Guaire’s pack to his widow; I went with it myself because this pouch, that was at the bottom of the pack, puzzled me. It was full of silver and it didn’t seem likely that it was belonging to Guaire. Anyway, when I opened it and showed it to the widow, she said she had never seen it before.’

  He reached into one of the saddlebags that hung on either side of his ancient horse and produced a pouch, adding, ‘Look, the thongs have been cut. I brought it over to show you as I heard that he had been at the Michaelmas Fair here at Noughaval that day. Do you recognize it?’

  Mara looked at the heavy leather pouch, blackened with age and with hard usage, and then she looked at the startlingly white ends of the slit thongs and she nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know who it belonged to.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you can return it to him,’ said Fergus placing the pouch in her hands.

  ‘I can return the silver,’ she said slowly, ‘I know who the silver belongs to, but the pouch belonged to another man and he has been in his grave for the last two days.’

  TWELVE

  CÓRUS FINE (THE REGULATION OF THE KIN GROUP)

  If a man is unable, through poverty, to pay the fine for a murder or other serious offence, then his fine (kin group) must pay it.

  However, if the offender dies, then no payment need be made.

  ‘SO IT LOOKS AS IF one of the murders is solved already then, Brehon, is that right?’ said Enda, in the tones of one who feels himself hard done by. He had obviously been looking forward to putting his keen brain to work on solving the double murder.

  ‘It looks a bit like that, Enda,’ admitted Mara. At the end of a long day of hard work she had taken pity on her pupils and had allowed them to put away their books and to sit grouped around the fire to discuss the two murders that had taken place in the community. Enda had looked very tired, he had been working until very late the night before in the schoolhouse, and the two younger boys had been yawning, but now all faces brightened.

  ‘Will Guaire’s widow have to pay the éraic to Ragnall’s daughter, Brehon?’ asked Fachtnan in concerned tones. ‘That will be hard on her if she has ten children.’

  Mara smiled slightly at him, appreciative of his humanity and concern for the widow and orphans while she deplored his lack of law knowledge.

  ‘She won’t, will she, Brehon?’ said Shane eagerly. ‘I’m sure she won’t.’

  ‘Can anyone remember the saying of Fíthail?’ asked Mara, looking around.

  “‘Marbhaid cach marbh a chinta”, every dead man buries his offences,’ said Enda promptly.

  ‘So that means that even if Guaire killed Ragnall, his widow is not responsible for his crime,’ said Shane. ‘That’s the law, isn’t it, Brehon?’

  ‘He did kill him, bird brain,’ said Aidan.

  ‘Has it been so declared at Poulnabrone?’ asked Mara, fixing him with a cold eye.

  Aidan squirmed slightly, taken aback by the formal words.

  ‘No,’ he mumbled, ‘but it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Post hoc is not propter hoc,’ said Enda with the lofty superiority of someone who has just attained the ripe age of seventeen. ‘And that means “after which” isn’t the same as “because of which”,’ he added in a patronizing way to Aidan. ‘The fact that Guaire had the pouch after Ragnall was found dead doesn’t mean that Guaire killed him.’

  ‘Perhaps Guaire stole the pouch from the dead body,’ said Hugh unexpectedly. He seldom took part in these discussions, relying on ten-year-old Shane for a lead in most things. Possibly he just lacked confidence. His mother’s death earlier in the year, on the day of his twelfth birthday, was a great shock to him. Mara gave him an encouraging smile.

  ‘That’s a very good point, Hugh,’ she said. ‘It might have happened that way.’

  ‘Guaire could have gone into the churchyard to, well …’ said Aidan eagerly.

  ‘To relieve his bladder,’ prompted Mara.

  ‘That’s it,’ chimed in Moylan, ‘to … Anyway, he might have seen the dead body of Ragnall stretched out there on the grass and the pouch full of silver.’

  ‘So he slit the straps and shoved the pouch under his mantle and came out and jumped on the mule and rode off towards Liscannor.’ Shane’s voice was excited.

  ‘It’s more likely that Guaire was the one that killed him,’ said Fachtnan. ‘I think if you found a man stretched out dead on the grass of a churchyard, the first thing you would do is to give a shout. He wouldn’t keep silent, would he? He wouldn’t have just gone up and started poking around to see if there was something that he could steal without saying a word.’

  ‘You’re forgetting that he had done very badly at the fair,’ said Hugh. ‘I know that; I saw his face after the Brehon made him give new lengths of linen to everyone that he had cheated. And after that no one went near him. He would have felt that the fair was hardly worth going to. He might have wanted to come home with enough silver to have made it worth his while to have gone to the Noughaval market. He would know that Ragnall was wearing a pouch full of silver. Anyone at the fair would have known that.’

  ‘I think Guaire would probably be a more likely murderer than Donal O’Brien,’ said Fachtnan. ‘I can’t see Donal committing a murder.’ He and Donal were friends and Fachtnan’s honest young face looked very troubled. Mara sympathized with his feelings, but her experience told her that almost anyone could commit murder if the circumstances were right. Fachtnan, as far as she knew, had never been wildly and passionately in love in the way that Donal O’Brien was at the moment. It was quite likely that Donal might have made a last appeal to Ragnall, hoping that his support of the old man in the argument between him and the miller the evening before at the Michaelmas Eve céilí would have gained him approval, and then, if Ragnall refused him once more, perhaps turning away in disdain, Donal could have picked up the stone cross in a fit of rage and brought it down on Ragnall’s head.

  But, of course, it could have been Guaire. The picture of Guaire, packing his goods, including all the unsold, too-short lengths of linen, then taking his mule and perhaps tying it up to the gate pier so that he could pay a quick visit to the churchyard before setting out on the route to Kilfenora – that picture was almost irresistible. Guaire could have gone into the churchyard, seen Ragnall, snatched up the stone cross and killed him. It would all have taken only a few seconds, including the removing of the pouch. Alternatively, of course, he could have found Ragnall alre
ady dead, wondered whether to raise the alarm and then settled on a quick snatching of the well-filled pouch. On the whole, though, Mara was inclined to agree with Fachtnan. The likelihood was that Guaire O’Brien from Corcomroe had killed Ragnall. His reputation was bad and he had both motive and opportunity.

  If that were what happened, then Turlough would certainly welcome it. His last words to her before he departed after dinner were, ‘Let me know if there is any further news about young Donal O’Brien.’ The support of Donal’s father, Teige, was of great importance to Turlough.

  ‘Go and have your supper now,’ she said to her scholars. ‘And if the field is not too wet, then you can have a game of hurling afterwards.’

  She accompanied them to the door of the kitchen house. ‘Don’t worry about supper for me, Brigid,’ she said, putting her head in the door. ‘I’ll have a few oaten rolls and some cheese later on. I think I’ll go down to Fintan’s place and have a look at the bench he’s making for me.’

  ‘Would you like me to saddle your mare, Brehon,’ said Sean, putting down his knife and cup of ale and rising respectfully to his feet.

  Mara considered the matter for a moment; she enjoyed walking, but her mare would welcome a trot along the road and Balor would be delighted to see the horse again.

  ‘Yes, I think I will ride, but there’s no hurry,’ she said. ‘Finish your meal first.’

  Brigid gave Sean a quick, irritated glance when he sat down and looked like continuing to munch his enormous hunk of bread, so he instantly rose to his feet again. Brigid slapped down a pan on the iron grid and muttered something under her breath. Mara looked at her with amusement. Brigid was quick thinking and energetic and Sean was slow and lazy. However, today Brigid seemed even more impatient than usual. Her sandy hair was sticking up wildly where she had run her fingers through it, her normally pale face was flushed and her green eyes looked stormy. Of course, usually Cumhal kept the peace between Brigid and Sean.

  ‘Cumhal’s not back yet, is he?’ asked Mara with a quick glance around the kitchen. Earlier in the day she had sent Cumhal to Garrett with the pouch full of the silver from the Michaelmas tribute.

  ‘No, he’s not, Brehon,’ replied Brigid. ‘I’ve been expecting him. Perhaps they delayed him at Carron Castle.’

  ‘Probably they gave him a meal,’ said Mara reassuringly. There had been a slight note of anxiety in Brigid’s voice and even now she looked slightly sceptical at Mara’s explanation. She was not one to worry needlessly about her husband, who was a strong, courageous man, so her anxiety communicated itself to Mara. Two men had been killed during the last week, perhaps because of this Michaelmas tribute. Cumhal should have been back long before. She should have ordered him to take Sean with him, as a guard. Still it was possible that Garrett and his wife would be so overjoyed at the safe return of the silver that perhaps they would be more generous than normal and ply Cumhal with food and drink. Or perhaps Cumhal had decided to do some job before returning. He was the farm manager and he was his own master so far as anything to do with the farm was concerned. As long as he had got safely to Carron Castle, there would be no need to worry about his return journey.

  It was time that these two murders were solved, thought Mara impatiently as she waited by the mounting block at the gate, gazing at the hedge across the road. October was now well on its way. Soon it would be Samhain, that festival that marked the dying of the year. The leaves were already beginning to fall from the hawthorn bushes, leaving the dark red berries dangling from tiny bare stems. The rough farm hedge was a thing of beauty that evening, with the hundreds of tiny silken webs woven between the black hips of the burnet roses and the stiff berry-laden stems of the hawthorn. The webs glistened silver with the moisture in the air. The spiders must have done these this morning; the night had been too wet for such fragile threads to survive from the day before. Even as she watched, a flock of linnets, the feathers on their breasts and heads still flushed with the summer rose-coloured hue, swooped down to feed from the berries, their three-clawed feet breaking the webs, before scattering in a panic as Bran, her wolfhound, came bounding out, ahead of Sean and the mare.

  ‘I’ll take Bran, Sean,’ she said. ‘He’ll enjoy the run.’ She mounted her mare and crossed the road, lingering for a few moments by the hedge. Yes, already a few spiders were busy repairing the damage to their webs. She watched them for a moment, admiring how unerringly the gossamer threads from their bodies formed the complicated wheel-like pattern, all leading to where the juicy fly could be trapped in the centre. This was what she had to do now: see the pattern and trace back the filaments that could attach the murderer to the murdered.

  As Mara trotted down the lane to Noughaval, the memory of the worried look in Brigid’s eyes reproached her. She was responsible for maintaining the king’s law in this kingdom of the Burren and a miasma of surmise and suspicion would soon poison the usually friendly and relaxed community. Fachtnan was right of course. It would be convenient if Guaire O’Brien, an outsider from Corcomroe, were responsible for one of the murders, but that still left the mystery of the miller’s death to be solved.

  ‘Herself’s here, Master!’ came Balor’s gruff voice when she appeared at the forge. He dived inside. For a moment she wondered if he feared the wolfhound, but he was back almost instantly, dangling a heavy iron bench from one hand, his huge face split in an ear-to-ear smile. Fintan followed him and both watched her face eagerly and beamed at her cry of delight. The bench was beautifully made, broad and comfortable with plenty of space to seat two people.

  Mara dismounted from her mare, handing the reins to Balor. She lingered for a moment looking at him. It gave her great pleasure to watch the happiness in his face as he stroked the narrow, well-bred head of the mare and blew softly into her nostrils. Then she crossed over to the bench and examined all the details. The strips of iron that formed the seat were as smooth as silk and the armrests were shaped into ovals, each one large enough to hold a cup of wine. The back swooped up and down in two noble curves and the pair of holly wreaths, suggested by Fintan, nestled within the centre of a spiral beneath each curve. There were even tiny berries amongst the holly leaves.

  ‘It is beautiful, Fintan,’ said Mara. ‘I never imagined that it could look as good as this.’

  He beamed with pleasure and Mara spent another minute examining the bench before adding: ‘Oh, by the way, Fintan, I wondered if you had seen the merchant Guaire O’Brien at the fair on Michaelmas Day? You remember that time when you went back and you saw Ragnall in the churchyard talking to Donal O‘Brien?’

  ‘That would be the linen merchant, from Corcomroe, Brehon?’ asked Fintan with a puzzled look. Obviously the news of Guaire’s theft and his death that night had not spread to the Burren yet.

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Mara, noticing that Balor was looking at his master in a worried way. He was devoted to Fintan and, even though he might not understand many words, he was sensitive to any atmosphere. She smiled at him again and stroked the bench appreciatively, her fingers tracing the intricate spirals of iron. He joined her, still holding the reins in one hand and patting the iron with the other, almost as if the bench were a horse that would welcome his appreciation.

  ‘Yes, I did see him, Brehon. I think he was packing up, then,’ said Fintan pondering. He was quite untroubled by her query. ‘Yes, he was. I remember thinking that mule of his was a bit small for the load of linen he was putting on its back. I’ll tell you who might have seen more, though: Liam O’Lochlainn. He’d see everything, standing up on the great big wooden box of his. He’s a great man to notice things, too. You should hear all his stories in the alehouse. You should go and see him, Brehon, on your way home.’

  ‘I’ll do that then, Fintan.’

  ‘We were wondering about painting the bench, Brehon,’ said Fintan. ‘You can see it has had its first coat of paint, black just like you wanted. We’ll give it a second or third coat before we bring it over to you. The thing is, that Bal
or here has got it into his head that he wanted to do the berries in red. What do you think?’

  Mara hesitated for a moment. She liked the simplicity of the black iron bench, but one look at Balor’s eager face made her quickly come to a decision.

  ‘Red for the berries would be beautiful,’ she said smiling at Balor. ‘Red is a lovely idea.’

  ‘Well, Balor will do it for you then,’ said Fintan. ‘He’s a great hand at doing the small delicate bits. I always leave that sort of thing to him. You’d be surprised how good he is at painting.’

  ‘The school cob!’ exclaimed Balor turning his head towards the east.

  ‘That must be Cumhal,’ said Fintan. ‘Balor knows the sound of all the horses around here. Yes, it sounds like that cob of his. I know the way he bangs his feet down on the road. Run out to the road and tell him that the Brehon is here, Balor.’

  Balor quickly shambled out and bellowed, ‘Whoa!’ Mara and Fintan followed. Bran wagged his tail and ran ahead of them. The cob and he were great friends. Cumhal slowed his pace and then reined in the cob.

  ‘I’ll see you when I come back, Cumhal,’ said Mara. ‘I’m just going to ride over to Lissylisheen now.’

  Cumhal looked uncomfortable, and she added, ‘All is well?’

  ‘Yes, Brehon,’ he said. He still looked ill at ease so she watched him narrowly and saw him give a quick glance at Fintan and Balor.

  ‘I’ll just wait and go along a stretch of the road with you, Brehon,’ he said carefully.

  Mara was about to tell him to ride on, that Brigid was worried about him, but something in his expression checked her.

  ‘That will be nice,’ she said affably as she waved a farewell. Cumhal said nothing until the two men had returned to within the forge and even then he spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Brehon, there was a bit of trouble up in Carron.’