Corcrain nodded, obviously trying to disguise his surprise.
“Are you a qualified apothecary?”
“I was apothecary and chief physician to the Eóganacht kings of Locha Léin,” replied Corcrain. It was just a matter-of-fact statement without arrogance or vanity.
“What was the cause of Abbess Cuimne’s death?”
The old apothecary sighed. “Take your pick. Any one of a number of the multiple fractures and lacerations whose cause seems consistent with a fall down a three-hundred-foot granite cliff on to rocks below.”
“I see. In your opinion she slipped and fell down the cliff?”
“She fell down the cliff,” the apothecary replied.
Sister Fidelma frowned at his choice of words.
“What does that mean?”
“I am no seer, Sister. I cannot say that she slipped nor how she came to go over the cliff. All I can say is that her injuries are consistent with such a fall.”
Fidelma watched the apothecary’s face closely. Here was a man who knew his job and was careful not to intrude his own interpretation on the facts.
“Anything else?” she prompted.
Corcrain bit his lip. He dropped his gaze for a moment.
“I chose to withdraw to a quiet island, Sister. After my wife died, I resigned as physician at the court of the Eóganacht and came here to live in a small rural community to forget what was going on in the outside world.”
Fidelma waited patiently.
“It has taken me a full year to become accepted here. I don’t want to create enmity with the islanders.”
“Are you saying that there was something which makes you unhappy about the circumstances of Abbess Cuimne’s death? Did you tell this to the bó-aire?”
“Fogartach? By the living God, no. He’s a local man. Besides, I wasn’t aware of the ‘something,’ as you put it, until after they had brought the body back here and I had begun my examination.”
“What was this ‘something’?”
“Well, there were two ‘somethings’ in reality and nothing from which you can deduce anything definite.”
Fidelma waited while the apothecary seemed to gather his thoughts together.
“The first curiosity was in the deceased’s right hand, which was firmly clenched. A section of silver chain.”
“Chain?” Fidelma queried.
“Yes, a small silver chain.” The apothecary turned, brought out a small wooden box and opened it.
Fidelma could see in it that there was a section of chain which had obviously been torn away from something, a piece no more than two inches in length. She picked it up and examined it. She could see no artisan’s marks on the silver. It had been worked by a poor, provincial craftsman, not overly proud of his profession.
“Did Abbess Cuimne wear any jewelry like that? What of her crucifix, for example?”
“Her own crucifix, which I gave to the bó-aire, is much richer, and worked in gold and ivory. It looked as if it were fashioned under the patronage of princes.”
“But you would say that when she fell she was clutching a broken piece of silver chain of poor quality?”
“Yes. That is a fact.”
“You said there were two ‘somethings.’ What else?”
The apothecary bit his lip as if making up his mind before revealing it to Sister Fidelma.
“When a person falls in the manner she did, you have to expect a lot of bruising, contusions ...”
“I’ve been involved in falls before,” Sister Fidelma observed dryly.
“Well, while I was examining the body I found some bruising to the neck and shoulders, the fleshy part around the nape of the neck. The bruising was slightly uniform, not what one would expect from contact with rocks during a fall.”
“How would you decipher those marks?”
“It was as if Abbess Cuimne had, at some time, been gripped by someone with powerful hands from behind.”
Fidelma’s green eyes widened.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing. It’s not my place to. I can’t even say how the bruising around the neck and shoulders occurred. I just report what I see. It could be consistent with her general injuries but I am not entirely satisfied it is.”
Fidelma put the piece of silver chain in the leather purse at her waist.
“Very well, Corcrain. Have you prepared your official report for the bó-aire yet?”
“When I heard that a Brehon from the mainland was coming, I thought that I’d wait and speak with him ... with her, that is.”
She ignored his hasty correction.
“I’d like to see the spot where Abbess Cuimne went over.”
“I’ll take you up there. It’s not a long walk.”
The apothecary reached for a blackthorn walking stick, paused and frowned at Sister Fidelma’s sandals.
“Do you not have anything better to wear? The mud on the path would destroy those frail things.”
Fidelma shook her head.
“You have a good-sized foot,” observed the apothecary, meditatively. He went to a chest and returned with a stouter pair of leather round-top shoes of untanned hide with three layers of hide for the sole, stout shoes such as the islanders wore. “Here, put these on. They will save your dainty slippers from the mud of the island.”
A short time later, Fidelma, feeling clumsy but at least dry in the heavy untanned leather island shoes, was following Corcrain along the pathway.
“Had you seen Abbess Cuimne before the accident?” Fidelma asked as she panted slightly behind her guide’s wiry, energetic form as Corcrain strode the ascending track.
“It’s a small island. Yes, I saw and spoke to her on more than one occasion.”
“Do you know why she was here? The bó-aire did not even know that she was an abbess. But he seems to think she was simply a religieuse here in retreat, to meditate in this lonely spot away from distraction.”
“I didn’t get that impression. In fact, she told me that she was engaged in the exploration of some matter connected with the island. And once she said something odd ...”
He frowned as he dredged his memory.
“It was about the bishop of An Chúis. She said she was hoping to win a wager with Artagán, the bishop.”
Sister Fidelma’s eyes widened in surprise.
“A wager. Did she explain what?”
“I gathered that it was connected with her search.”
“But you don’t know what that search was for?”
Corcrain shook his head.
“She was not generally forthcoming, so I can understand why the bó-aire did not even learn of her rank; even I did not know that, though I suspected she was no ordinary religieuse.”
“Exploration?” Sister Fidelma returned to Corcrain’s observation.
Corcrain nodded. “Though what there is to explore here, I don’t know.”
“Well, did she make a point of speaking to anyone in particular on the island?”
The apothecary frowned, considering for a moment.
“She sought out Congal.”
“Congal. And who is he?”
“A fisherman by trade. But he is also the local seanchaí, the traditional historian and storyteller of the island.”
“Anyone else?”
“She went to see Father Patrick.”
“Who?”
“Father Patrick, the priest on the island.”
They had reached the edge of the cliffs now. Sister Fidelma steeled herself a little, hating the idea of standing close to the edge of the wild, blustery, open space.
“We found her directly below this spot,” Corcrain pointed.
“How can you be so sure?”
“That outcrop of rock is a good enough marker.” The apothecary indicated with the tip of his blackthorn.
Fidelma bent and examined the ground carefully.
“What are you looking for?”
“Perhaps for the rest of that chain. I’
m not sure.”
She paused and examined a patch of broken gorse and trodden grass with areas of soft muddy ground. There were deep imprints of shoes, which the faint drizzle had not yet washed away. There was nothing identifiable, just enough remaining to show that more than one person had stood in this spot.
“So this area is consistent with the spot she must have gone over from?”
The apothecary nodded.
Fidelma bit her lip. The marks could well indicate that more than one person had left the path, which was two yards away from the edge of the cliff at this point, and stood near to the edge of the cliff. But the most important thing about the cliff edge here was the fact that it was at least six feet away from the worn track. There was surely no way that the Abbess Cuimne could go over the cliff by accident while walking along the path. To fall over, she would have had deliberately to leave the pathway, scramble across some shrub and gorse and balance on that dangerous edge. But if not an accident ... what then?
There was something else, too, about the cliff edge. But she did not wish to move too close, for Fidelma hated high, unprotected places.
“Is there a means of climbing down here?” she suddenly asked Corcrain.
“Only if you are a mountain goat, I reckon. No, it’s too dangerous. Not that I am saying it is totally impossible to get down. Those with knowledge of climbing such inaccessible spots might well attempt it. There are a few caves set into the face of the cliff along here and once some people from the mainland wanted to go down to examine them.”
“At this spot?”
“No. About three hundred yards along. But the bó-aire saw them off, declaring it was too dangerous. That was last year.”
Fidelma took off her short woollen cloak, which she wore to protect her from the almost continuous drizzle of the island’s grey skies, and put it down near the cliff edge. Then she knelt down before stretching full-length on it and easing forward to peer over the edge. It was as the apothecary said, only someone skilled in the art of climbing or a mountain goat would even attempt to climb down. She shivered for a moment as she stared down to the rocky beach three hundred feet below.
When she had stood up and brushed down her cloak she asked Corcrain, “Where do I find this man Congal?”
Congal was a big man. He sat before a plate piled with fish and a boiled duck’s egg. Though he sat at table, he still wore his fisherman’s clothes, as if he could not be bothered to change on entering his bothán. Yet the clothes simply emphasized his large, muscular torso. His hands, too, were large and callused.
“Sad, it is,” he growled across the scrubbed pine table to where Sister Fidelma sat with a bowl of sweet mead which he had offered in hospitality. “The woman had a good life before her but it is a dangerous place to be walking if you don’t know the ground.”
“I’m told that she was exploring here.”
The big man frowned.
“Exploring?”
“I’m told that she spoke with you a few times.”
“Not surprising that she would do so. I am the local seanchaí. I know all the legends and tales of the island.” There was more than a hint of pride in his voice. Sister Fidelma realized that pride went with the islanders. They had little enough but were proud of what they did have.
“Is that what she was interested in? Ancient tales?”
“It was.”
“Any subject or tale in particular?”
Congal shifted as if defensively.
“None as I recall.”
“What then?”
“Oh, just tales about the ancient times, when the druids of Iarmuma used to hunt down the priests of Christ and kill them. That was a long time ago, even before the Blessed Patrick came to our shores.”
“You provided her with some of these tales?”
Congal nodded.
“I did so. Many priests of Christ found a refuge on this island during the pagan times. They fled from the mainland while the king of Iarmuma’s men were burning down the churches and communities.”
Sister Fidelma sighed. It did not sound the sort of subject Abbess Cuimne would be interested in pursuing. As representative of the Archbishop, she had, as Sister Fidelma knew, special responsibility for the uniform observances of the faith in Ireland.
“But no story in particular interested her?” she pressed.
“None.”
Was Congal’s voice too emphatic? Sister Fidelma felt an uneasy pricking at the back of her neck, that odd sensation she always felt when something was wrong, or someone was not telling the full truth.
Back at the cabin of the bó-aire, Sister Fidelma sorted through the leather satchel which contained the belongings of the dead Abbess. She steeled herself to sorting through the items which became objects of pathetic sentiment. The items proclaimed the Abbess to have some vanity, the few cosmetics and a jar of perfume, her rosary and crucifix, a splendidly worked piece of ivory and gold, which proclaimed her rank, as sister to the High King, rather than her role as a humble religieuse. The rosary beads were of imported ivory. There were items of clothes for her journey. All were contained in the leather shoulder satchel which traveling monks and nuns carried on their journeys and pilgrimages.
Sister Fidelma sorted through the satchel twice before she realized what was worrying her. She turned to the impatient bó-aire.
“Fogartach, are you sure these are all the Abbess Cuimne’s possessions?”
The young magistrate nodded vehemently.
Sister Fidelma sighed. If Abbess Cuimne was on the island to carry out some search or investigation, surely she would have had a means of recording notes? Indeed, where was the pocket missal that most religieuses of rank carried? Over a century before, when Irish monks and nuns had set out on their missions to the far corners of the world, they had to carry with them liturgical and religious tracts. It was necessary, therefore, that such works were small enough for missionaries to carry with them in special leather satchels called tiag liubhar. Therefore the monks engaged in the task of copying such books began to reduce their size. Such small books were now carried by almost all learned members of the church. It would be odd if the Abbess had not carried even a missal with her.
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop for a while. If the answer to the conundrum was not forthcoming on the island, perhaps it might be found in the wager with Artagán, the bishop of An Chúis on the mainland. She made her decision and turned to the expectant bó-aire.
“I need a currach to take me to An Chúis on the mainland at once.”
The young man gaped at her in surprise.
“Have you finished here, Sister?”
“No. But there is someone I must consult at An Chúis immediately. The boat must wait for me so that I can return here by this afternoon.”
Bishop Artagán rose in surprise when Sister Fidelma strode into his study at the Abbey of An Chúis, after being ceremoniously announced by a member of his order. It was from here that Artagán presided over the priesthood of the Corco Dhuibhne.
“There are some questions I would ask you, Bishop,” she announced as soon as the introductions were over.
“As a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, you have but to ask,” agreed the bishop, a flaccid-faced, though nervous man of indeterminable age. He had led her to a seat before his fire and offered hospitality in the form of heated mead.
“The Abbess Cuimne...” began Fidelma.
“I have heard the sad news,” interrupted the bishop. “She fell to her death.”
“Indeed. But before she went to the island, she stayed here in the abbey, did she not?”
“Two nights while waiting for a calm sea in order to travel to the island,” confirmed Artagán.
“The island is under your jurisdiction?”
“It is.”
“Why did the Abbess Cuimne go to the island? There is talk that she had a wager with you on the result of her visit and what she would find there.”
Artagán grimaced tired
ly.
“She was going on a wild goose chase,” he said disarmingly. “My wager was a safe one.”
Fidelma drew her brows together in perplexity.
“I would like an explanation.”
“The Abbess Cuimne was of a strong personality. This was natural as she is ... was ... sister to the High King. She had great talents. This, too, is natural, for the Archbishop at Armagh appointed her as his personal representative to ensure the uniformity of holy office among the monasteries and churches of Éireann. I have met her only twice. Once at a synod at Cashel and then when she came to stay before going to the island. She entertained views that were sometimes difficult to debate with her.”
“In what way do you mean?”
“Have you heard the legend of the reliquary of the Blessed Palladius?”
“Tell me it,” invited Fidelma in order to cover her bewilderment.
“Well, as you know, two and a half centuries ago, the Christian community in Éireann was very small but, God willing, increasing as people turned to the word of Christ. By that time they had reached such a size that they sent to the holy city of Rome to ask the Pope, Celestine, the first of his name to sit on the throne of Peter, the disciple of Christ, to send them a bishop. They wanted a man who would teach and help them follow the ways of the living God. Celestine appointed a man named Palladius as the first bishop to the Irish believing in Christ.”
Artagán paused before continuing.
“There are two versions of the story. Firstly, that Palladius, en route to Éireann, took sick in Gaul and died there. Secondly, that Palladius did reach our shores and administer to the Irish, eventually being foully murdered by an enraged druid in the pay of the king of Iarmuma.”
“I have heard these stories,” confirmed Sister Fidelma. “It was after Palladius’s death that the Blessed Patrick, who was then studying in Gaul, was appointed bishop to Ireland and returned to this land, where once he had been held as a hostage.”
Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries Page 5