‘He will receive no one; not any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Abbot Nessán has just been found dead, lady. He has been strangled with a piece of rope. Someone has murdered him.’
CHAPTER THREE
For a moment or two Fidelma stood completely still, her face showing no change of expression at the news. Eadulf, knowing her so well, realised that she was struggling to control her shock. Then she said:
‘Show me to the abbot’s chamber, Brother Ruissine.’
The steward looked bewildered. ‘I tell you, the abbot has been murdered,’ he protested.
‘I am a dálaigh,’ Fidelma pointed out heavily.
The steward hesitated, then shrugged. He turned and led the way, closely followed by Fidelma and Eadulf. The chamber of the abbot was one of the few stone buildings in the complex and was situated immediately behind the refectory. It was a square building made of limestone blocks, two levels connected by a wide oak stairway. The steward led the way to the main door. The noisy crowd around it drew back as he approached and the members of the community stared with puzzled looks at Fidelma and Eadulf.
‘Since the abbot has become increasingly infirm his chamber has been on the lower level,’ Brother Ruissine explained as they entered.
Two men were in the chamber, bending over what appeared to be a heap of dark clothing on the floor. Only when they moved, to identify the newcomers, was the body of the elderly abbot revealed. One of the men was a squat, portly, moon-faced individual they had seen earlier, seated at the abbot’s table. The other was a young, muscular man with angular features and a thin mouth that seemed drawn back into a permanent sneer. The latter frowned as they entered.
‘You were told that the abbot is dead, Brother Ruissine,’ he said, as if trying to control his annoyance. ‘We do not want strangers confusing matters. Why bring them here?’
‘Who are you?’ Fidelma demanded curtly.
The man clearly did not like her tone and stared back arrogantly. ‘I am Brehon Oengarb,’ he replied.
Brother Ruissine intervened nervously. ‘This is Fidelma of Cashel, Oengarb. This is Oengarb of Locha Léin. He too is a dálaigh, making a circuit of this territory, and he often acts as our legal advisor.’
Often lawyer went on circuits, or cúartaigid, to deal with legal matters in small isolated places when litigants could not go to the main courts. At the mention of her name, the arrogance seemed to leave the young man.
‘I do not think that we have encountered one another in the courts.’ Fidelma regarded him coldly. ‘Yet your face seems familiar.’
The young man flushed in embarrassment. ‘I am only qualified to the level of clí so I do not think that we would encounter each other in the courts.’
This meant that he was junior in law to Fidelma, having trained for only six years, as opposed to the eight or nine that Fidelma had trained for to reach the level of anruth, which was only one level below the highest degree that the bardic or ecclesiastical colleges could bestow. The young man could hardly claim the title Brehon, although he was a dálaigh.
Fidelma nodded curtly and turned to the portly man, noting his les or medical bag.
‘I presume you are the physician?’
‘I am Lúarán, lady. I am the physician of the abbey.’
‘What was the cause of the abbot’s death?’
‘A ligature drawn around the throat,’ the man replied, taking from beside the corpse a piece of corded rope. ‘This is it.’
Fidelma took it and examined it carefully.
‘So the abbot was strangled with this cord? Did it require much strength to perform this deed?’
Lúarán immediately shook his head. ‘As you see, the abbot was very elderly and frail. He could hardly move without assistance. He would not have been able to put up much of a struggle against his assailant. A swift twist of the cord round the neck, like a tourniquet, and it would have been over in a few moments. You can see the deep mark of the cord where it has cut into the flesh.’
Fidelma stood aside and motioned to Eadulf. ‘I trust you will not mind if Brother Eadulf confirms this?’
Eadulf felt briefly grateful that he was not being excluded from this matter, although it did cross his mind that Fidelma might be seeking to mollify him after her earlier treatment of him. He dropped to one knee beside the body and examined the marks and the ligature, moving aside the neck of the old man’s robe and then rolling back the sleeves. There was little bruising to be seen. He looked up.
‘Lúarán is correct in his examination. The lack of bruising shows the abbot was surprised by the attack. This means his assailant came up unseen from behind him or, if the assailant was before him, the old man knew and trusted him, turned away and then it was too late.’
Fidelma turned back to Oengarb. ‘Have you examined this chamber?’
The young lawyer shook his head in puzzlement.
‘What would I be looking for?’
‘Perhaps a clue as to why someone should murder the abbot?’ There was no censure in her voice. She turned to the steward. ‘Is there any known reason why the abbot’s life might have been in danger?’
There was a brief silence, then Brother Ruissine shook his head. ‘The abbot lived an exemplary life, a pious life, making neither enemies nor creating envy among the community. He sought no temporary wealth. Everyone respected him and honoured him for he was our one living link with our beloved founder, the Blessed Finnbarr, and he was regarded in much the same manner as Finnbarr is regarded. The abbot’s health was failing and he needed attendants to help him move from here to there.’
‘So I observed,’ Fidelma commented. ‘I presume that the girl, Cairenn, who helped him to the meal this evening and took him out afterwards, has not been questioned as yet?’
The steward looked at the dálaigh and the physician. They both shook their heads at his unspoken question.
‘Then I suggest someone fetch her here.’
Brother Ruissine turned and snapped an order to one of the brethren at the door, and he disappeared to find the girl.
‘She seemed very caring when she helped him in the refectory,’ mused Fidelma.
‘I presume she was not here when the body was discovered, yet it is only a brief while since they both left the refectory?’
Brother Ruissine shifted his weight uneasily. ‘I suppose she has gone to her quarters. She will be brought here in a moment.’
‘You say you can think of no motive for the murder of the abbot. Do you have anything to add?’
The steward started a little at the unexpectedness of this repeated question. Then he said hurriedly: ‘I can add nothing to what I have already said.’
‘People, least of all abbots, are not murdered without a reason,’ Fidelma commented quietly.
‘Abbot Nessán was a saintly man. No one would lift a finger against him. Why do you ask?’
‘Brother Ruissine, you have said that he had no enemies, that no one was envious of him and all respected him. Yet someone felt the compulsion to end his life,’ pointed out Fidelma brutally. ‘So there must be a reason. And as leader of this teaching abbey, Nessán is respected among all the churches of the Five Kingdoms. But people do not succeed to such situations without making enemies.’
The resentment in the steward’s eyes seemed dangerous for a moment. Then he said: ‘If we are to share all we know, perhaps there is something you can tell us?’
Fidelma’s brows came together as she stared at the man. ‘What can I tell you?’
‘I have been steward here for several years, lady. There are few secrets in this place. But then, out of the blue, you – a well-known dálaigh, the sister to the King – arrive at the gates of this abbey saying that you have business with the abbot. For the last few days, the abbot was not in his usual relaxed frame of mind. He appeared worried and did not open up when I expressed concern for his uneasiness. Indeed, I would go so far as to say he was afraid and anxious. I did
not tell him of your arrival until just before the evening meal and, for the first time ever, he rebuked me, for not announcing your arrival immediately. Then he is murdered. I throw this question at you … why did you come here?’
‘Why did you not announce my arrival immediately, if he was so anxious?’ countered Fidelma belligerently, without answering his question.
The steward seemed surprised at her counter-thrust,
‘The abbot had not warned me that he was expecting you,’ he replied after a moment or so. ‘My task is to run this community as it has always been run, not to read the abbot’s thoughts.’
‘Why didn’t the abbot acknowledge me at the evening meal?’
‘Perhaps you would know the answer better than I,’ replied Brother Ruissine, his anger rising again.
‘I would not ask the question if I knew the answer,’ Fidelma replied with equal vigour.
The steward blinked at her forcefulness, surprised that she had not given way to his assertive manner. He was about to open his mouth again when the religieux he had sent to fetch the girl came back, pushing his way irritably through the people still hanging round the entrance. He looked very disturbed.
‘Brother Ruissine, the girl is no longer in her chamber and some of her belongings are no longer there … except I saw her comb bag was under the bed. The chamber is in disarray as if it had been searched hurriedly or some belongings had been hastily packed for departure and some forgotten.’
Fidelma raised an eyebrow. ‘But her comb bag was there? How do you recognise her particular ciorbholg?’ she asked pointedly.
The ciorbholg was a small bag carried by most women in which they kept not only combs but small toiletry articles, such as a mirror and soap.
‘I saw her use it when she arrived here,’ the man replied with some embarrassment, as if not wanting to admit he had been watching a girl.
Brother Ruissine compressed his mouth in firm disapproval. ‘I can vouch that the girl used berry juice to redden her lips and distillations of flowers to form sweet scents. We are not used to such indulgences in the abbey.’
‘Where is this comb bag?’ Fidelma asked.
‘I left it in her chamber.’
Fidelma sighed. ‘Very well. We shall go and look at her chamber. Meanwhile, Brother Ruissine, have the community searched for her and bring her to me. I presume some of the brethren will be able to assist you so that the task may not be prolonged?’ Without waiting for a response, she turned to the physician, Lúarán. ‘Your task, I am afraid, is not the pleasantest one. You can take the body of the abbot to the mortuary and prepare it for burial. If there is any more information you can tell me, please do so.’
The steward looked resentful and Eadulf, who had been a silent onlooker all this time, thought he was going to object at Fidelma taking automatic charge. But the man suddenly shrugged and went off to follow her orders. Outside, they could hear him calling on people by name to instruct them in the tasks. Fidelma turned back to Oengarb as the steward returned.
‘Now, though you are the dálaigh in charge,’ she said with emphasis, ‘and I do not want to interfere, perhaps we should go to this girl’s chamber. As we go, Brother Ruissine will tell us what is known about her.’
‘That is not much. All I know is what you have already been told. She arrived here yesterday and announced herself as a relative to the abbot. This turned out to be correct; the abbot greeted her with great affection.’
‘Start with how she came to the abbey,’ Fidelma suggested.
Brother Ruissine grimaced. ‘She came yesterday, as I said.’
‘I meant, how did she arrive. Was it by horse, on foot or in a carriage … how?’
‘By horse, I think.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone has checked with the stables to see if the animal is still there?’
Brother Ruissine exchanged a startled look with the young Oengarb; then, with a muttered word, he went hurrying away.
Fidelma turned to the young dálaigh. ‘Did you observe how the abbot behaved towards her after she arrived?’
‘I saw that he seemed to accept her as a confidante. I was told she was of close family to him.’
‘Do you know if she came with personal messages from the abbot’s family?’
Oengarb paused for a moment and then shook his head. ‘I have no knowledge of that.’
He suddenly halted and pointed to one of the many wooden huts. ‘I think that is the hut that was assigned to her when she arrived.’
At that moment Brother Ruissine rejoined them, pausing breathlessly before them. ‘Her horse is gone,’ he admitted. ‘The horse master said the beast was there at the evening feed. Now it is gone, saddle and all.’
‘So we should now examine her room,’ Fidelma said, without commenting on the absence of the horse. She examined the exterior of the hut. ‘I suppose it is usual for a young female guest to be given an isolated hut?’
‘The abbey is in the middle of construction and the new guests’ hostel has yet to be built,’ explained Brother Ruissine. ‘Therefore it is usual that guests are placed in huts, like you have been. This one is also used as a work hut by the scripter of the abbey, Sister Flaitheamh.’
As they entered, the steward lit an oil lantern by the door. The hut consisted of one room, sparsely furnished. A bed, a table, two chairs and then a second table, a special table of beech wood, which Eadulf recognised as a desk for writing with its maulstick to support the wrist of the writer and tablets called flesc filidh, tablets of the poets, and cows horns called adircí, to hold ink, and a selection of quills. There were pieces of vellum and some papyrus, and pieces of wood with raised edges into which wax had been poured to make notes on with a stylus called a graib, for the wax could be resoftened and used many times. There were also tiag leabhair, book satchels, in which books were kept, hung on pegs. It was clearly the room of a scríbnid, a scribe.
‘I presume all of these items belonged to the scripter?’ Eadulf asked, glancing round.
‘Everything here belongs to our scripter,’ Brother Ruissine confirmed.
‘Where is this Sister Flaitheamh?’
‘She has gone to Ros Ailithir to collect new inks. One of the scripters there has found that using oak galls, mixed with vinegar or wine, produces an excellent ink and …’
‘So she was not here when this girl, Cairenn, arrived?’ cut in Fidelma.
‘No. She left two days ago and will be gone for a week or two.’
‘I can’t see a comb bag,’ Fidelma observed. ‘The young brother said he had left it here.’
The steward pointed. ‘It may have fallen; it is lying there by the bed.’
‘An odd place to leave it,’ commented Fidelma. ‘Overall it is strange that a girl who, as you say, likes to indulge in paying attention to her looks would leave it behind.’ She glanced around. ‘Do we know which of these clothes belong to her and which to your scripter?’
‘Those robes you see belong to our scripter. She is … is of somewhat large build, if you understand what I mean,’ explained the steward. ‘Cairenn was slightly built.’
‘I cannot see anything that would fit a slightly built person,’ said Eadulf, who had felt he should make himself useful by looking through the few clothes and cloaks on a side rack. ‘If the girl has taken those, why would she have left her comb bag behind?’
Brother Ruissine and Oengarb were frowning, trying to understand what he meant.
‘What’s in that chest in the corner?’ Fidelma asked, pointing.
Both steward and advocate went over to it and Brother Ruissine knelt down to open the lid.
Fidelma took the opportunity to surreptitiously examine the contents of the comb bag, holding it with one hand and feeling the contents inside with the other. Out of the corner of his eye, Eadulf saw her mouth tighten as her fingers closed on something. Brother Ruissine and Oengarb still had their backs to her and Eadulf watched her remove a piece of paper and glance at it before thrusting it quickl
y into the folds of her robe. Eadulf was surprised when she said nothing but placed the bag on the bed and stood back, looking carefully around elsewhere as Brother Ruissine rose to his feet.
‘Nothing there but some old woollen blankets for the winter,’ he said, turning to her. ‘Those are the property of the scripter.’
Fidelma sighed. Then she spotted something glinting by the bed. She pointed without asking the question. Eadulf bent to examine the glistening spot, touching it with his forefinger.
‘It’s blood, Fidelma.’ He straightened up. ‘Blood that has been recently shed.’
Oengarb turned to Fidelma with eyes wide.
‘Blood? Then … surely that is proof? She must have killed the abbot, come here to gather her things and fled the abbey. She must be the murderer.’
Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘You presume it is the abbot’s blood. But there is one thing that you have forgotten, Oengarb. Abbot Nessán was garrotted. There was no blood shed and Eadulf observed no wound on the old man.’
Oengarb looked confused. ‘I had forgotten that. So what are you saying?’
‘I don’t think I am saying anything at the moment.’ Fidelma smiled tightly. ‘I think, however, that you should make sure that the search for this girl within the grounds is carried out thoroughly.’
‘I shall find out how the search is progressing,’ Brother Ruissine offered and, with Fidelma’s acknowledgement, he left.
Fidelma was moving towards the door when she turned to Oengarb as if struck by an afterthought.
‘Oengarb – you are qualified to the level of clí and that means you have some practice in investigation, do you not?’
The young lawyer shifted his weight. ‘I’m not as well qualified as you are, lady,’ he said, embarrassed.
‘But you are well able to handle this matter of the abbot’s death, I am sure of it.’
The man looked puzzled but no more so than Eadulf, who had been trying to work out what she was leading up to. He found it hard to believe that Fidelma would abandon a case like this. He stared at her curiously, wondering what she was not telling him.
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