“A blow to the back of the head.”
Later that same afternoon there was a shout from one of the empty boats in a slip several jetties away from where the Peabody was moored. Leontyne came up on to the deck and saw two officers dragging up a man she could scarcely recognize as her husband; a corpse would have looked more like him.
He was thin and unshaven, ragged and dirty. Later she learned he had lived on cold tinned food and canned soda for over a week, as the owners of the sailboat he had broken into had turned off their fridge and water filters. He was still wearing the colourful Day of the Dead jacket and trousers but they were now dull and filthy. There was no sign of the hat.
“What the fuck do you think you’ve been doing?” she raged at him, as they dragged him past his own boat. Leontyne followed them to the Yacht Club. She wanted to kill Rich with her bare hands.
“Sorry, babe,” he said, trying to raise his hands in the air, but the policemen had him by the wrists. “Hiding.”
“What happened?” she begged, running alongside the police and their prisoner, tottering in her high-heeled sandals.
But it was a while before the whole story came out. Rich was taken in a police car to a jail in Puerto Vallarta. Leontyne learned later that Chilo’s family and friends had gathered outside the jail, baying for her husband’s blood.
She had gone back to the boat and packed a bag with fresh clothes for him and some things for herself, sobbing all the time. A taxi took her to P.V. but it was hours before she was allowed to see her husband and there was no crowd round the jail by then.
He looked even worse close up and smelt terrible.
“I brought you some clothes and your razor,” she said.
“I’m not staying,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s a bloody third-world country. When they know what I’m worth, they’ll let me go.”
“What you’re worth? You don’t look worth much at the moment.”
“It can all be settled with money,” he said. “I’ll put it right with the wop’s family.”
“You admit it then? You killed him?”
“It was an accident. I saw you dirty dancing with him and I’d had enough so when you moved on I took a swipe at him.”
“Hit him on the back of the head? What with – a bottle?”
“It wasn’t like that. I socked him on the jaw and he fell on a headstone and cracked his skull. I tried to get someone to help him, but you know what it was like that night. Everyone seemed to go a bit mad. Only that loony would help me.”
“Juan Luis?”
“Whatever. I realized the guy was dead and the village idiot showed me that the grave next to where he was lying was all piled up with soft earth, so I buried him under it.”
“And no one noticed?”
“There were people fighting and dancing and snogging everywhere and only candles to see by. I don’t think anyone could have seen anything clearly.”
“By why did you run away and hide on a boat?”
“I panicked. I realized what I’d done and I found an empty boat and broke the lock.”
“Did you think you could stay there forever?”
“I stopped thinking, but I see it all clearly now. Once these buggers know how much money I’ve got, I’m out of here.”
“That’s what you think, that because you’re rich – and because you’re Rich – you can kill a man and get away with it?”
“Are you saying I can’t?”
They glared at each other.
Leontyne got up.
“It’s over as far as I’m concerned, Rich. This marriage is now one of the Fresh Dead.”
She took another taxi back to Bendita Cruz. The car passed Juan Luis, who was wearing a battered hat she recognized as the one Rich had worn on the night that Chilo died.
“Butterflies!” he shouted as the taxi passed. “Beautiful bright butterfly.”
She wished with all her heart that she lived in a world as simple as his.
Back on the boat, she put in a call to a lawyer in New York. But not a criminal one. Rich could take care of his own defence; she was going to get a divorce.
Finnbarr’s Bell
A Sister Fidelma Mystery
Peter Tremayne
“This is an act of . . .” the elderly abbot paused, searching in his mind for the appropriate word. “It is an act of sacrilege!”
Sister Fidelma raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Sacrilege? I was told that it was merely the theft of a bell.”
Abbot Nessán frowned in annoyance.
“Not just any bell, Sister. It was the bell which our founder, the Blessed Finnbarr, used to summon the faithful to his little chapel here. Its value to our community cannot be placed in terms of temporal wealth. With Christ’s Mass to be celebrated in two days from now, it is a tragedy. This bell has been used to begin the celebration of that Mass every year since Finnbarr established this abbey. That is why, when I heard you were visiting, I sent my steward to seek you out. Your reputation as a dálaigh, and for solving such matters, is known throughout the kingdom.”
As a dálaigh, a junior Brehon or judge, Fidelma had been instrumental in resolving many mysteries which had been thought insoluble. The High King in Tara had even consulted her on the occasion of the theft of his ceremonial sword of office.
Fidelma sighed softly.
The purpose of her journey through the great marshland of Muman, stretching across the River Laoi, had been to visit the Brehon Sochla of the Cenél mBéicce with whom she had studied at Brehon Morann’s law school. She had been invited to spend the celebration of the nativity of Christ with her friend and she had no intention of staying at the abbey of Finnbarr whose sprawling buildings lay on the south bank of the river in an area which took its name from the marshland – Corcaigh. It was only lack of familiarity with the route that had caused her to pause and inquire at the abbey for the road to the homesteads of the clan of Béicce.
The excited steward, hearing her name, had asked her to wait while he hurried off, only to return in a moment with the news that Abbot Nessán desired to see her urgently about a stolen bell.
In truth, Fidelma was a little irritated at delaying her journey for such a seemingly paltry thing as a missing bell.
Now it appeared that the bell was extremely valuable to the community of the abbey. She had heard that Finnbarr, who had died a few years before she had been born, was venerated in many parts of the kingdom of Muman. He had built a community on the banks of the Laoi that had quickly grown into an ecclesiastical school that was being compared to those great schools at Darú and Cill Dara.
The garrulous steward had explained to her that the current abbot, the elderly Nessán, had been one of Finnbarr’s followers as a young man and, when he died, had become comarb, Finnbarr’s successor, as abbot.
She glanced at the agitated abbot thoughtfully.
“You say the bell is missing. From the way you choose your words, I would deduce that you believe it has been stolen with some deliberate intent.”
Abbot Nessán made a cutting motion with his hand.
“Everyone in the abbey knows how valuable that bell is,” he replied sharply. “Not in mercenary terms but of its symbolic value to this community. We need to find it before Christ’s Mass.”
Fidelma hesitated a moment or two before giving in to the inevitable. She could not refuse to undertake the investigation requested by the abbot. There were politics to be considered for she was sister to Colgú, King of Muman, who ruled from Cashel. She was duty-bound to respond to a request that impinged on the welfare of his people.
“Then tell me the details of the matter as they are known to you, so that I may begin to investigate.”
The old abbot looked relieved.
“The matter, as I know it, is quite simple. With the celebration two days hence, Brother Merchar was sent to clean the bell among other items we use at that time
. It was Brother Merchar who had reported that the bell was missing.”
“Very well. I shall need to speak with him. However, describe this bell to me.”
“It is a cast-metal bell of brass, a mix of copper and some other ore,” he added pedantically. “It was an old cow bell which Finnbarr had picked up in his travels but then utilized as a hand bell to summon the faithful to his services. There was nothing outstanding about its appearance. It was almost square in shape, and fairly flat to hang about the cow’s neck. There was a pattern on it that is easily recognizable and Finnbarr had his name engraved on it by our smith many years ago.”
“And where was it kept?”
“It was kept in a recess near the altar in our chapel. Finnbarr is buried under our altar,” added Abbot Nessán, “and we keep many items that he used in this life in that chapel.”
“And when Brother Merchar found the bell missing, he came straightaway to report the matter?”
“He did. For over fifty years that bell has summoned the faithful to Christ’s Mass. That it will not do so this year is a tragedy.”
“In what way apart from the break in tradition?”
“You may not be aware, Sister, that not all the peoples of this kingdom are fully converted to the Faith. Some prefer to continue to follow the old gods.”
Fidelma knew that fact well.
“How does that relate to this matter?” she pressed.
“To the southeast of us is the land of the Cenél nAeda and they follow the old ways, the old gods and goddesses. But Aed, their chief, has finally accepted to attend this Mass with the influential members of his clan. This loss will be looked upon as symbolic and we may lose all the work we have done in bringing him to the point where he and his people will convert to the Faith.”
Fidelma pursed her lips.
“Would such a theft have such influence?”
“Knowing Aed as I do, I am sure he will claim it is a sign that his people should stick to the old ways. In fact, he is being pushed reluctantly to this conversion by other members of his clan and would seize this opportunity to maintain his own beliefs. I would not put it past him to have been responsible for the theft himself.”
“That is a serious accusation.”
Abbot Nessán sniffed.
“I make no accusation but only point out a possibility.”
“And since you do so, are there any other possibilities?”
The old abbot hesitated a moment or two before replying.
“There is one . . . and I have known the man for forty years and so I am loath to contemplate the idea.”
“But?” snapped Fidelma. “Your voice has a ‘but’ in it.”
Abbot Nessán nodded slowly.
“Brother Riaguil joined the abbey forty years ago. He is . . . shall we say . . . eccentric and claims that we celebrate the Christ’s Mass on the wrong day. He even refuses to participate in the celebration. Finnbarr tolerated him for he was a brilliant astronomer when he was young and,” the abbot shrugged, “I have followed that example of toleration for in all other things Brother Riaguil is a pillar of our community. But when it comes to feast days, he argues astronomical matters that make my mind go dizzy with their obscurity.”
Fidelma looked intrigued.
“Are you saying that you suspect him of the theft of the bell because he disagrees with the celebration of the Christ’s Mass?”
“You asked me for possibilities.”
“But why would he wait until now to make such a protest if he has argued against the date of celebration for forty years?”
Abbot Nessán shrugged.
“I have resigned myself to not being able to see into the mind of all my flock, Sister.”
“Very well. Let me begin at the beginning with Brother Merchar.”
Brother Merchar was a nervous young man who had not long joined the community. He had a prominent Adam’s apple and punctuated his speech by swallowing, causing it to move up and down in a distracting fashion.
“When did you notice the bell was missing?” inquired Fidelma.
“I was sent to clean the relics yesterday morning,” the young man replied. “It was not cold for the time of year; the sun was bright and so I thought I would be better able to perform the task of polishing the brass outside the chapel rather than in its gloomy interior. There is a bench outside and so I laid my polishing rags outside and went into the chapel and removed those items which were to be polished.”
“Including the bell?”
He nodded quickly.
“I sat awhile and polished the items and then came the summons to the prandium, the meal house, for the eter-shod, the middle meal.”
“And you went for your meal leaving the items on the bench?” interposed Fidelma.
The young man looked defensive.
“Who would imagine that anyone would take anything from the bench outside the chapel? We are in the midst of the abbey grounds here with a wall around us. No strangers could pass in, or so I thought. Here we trust everyone.”
“In spite of that, when you returned to your work at the bench, the bell was gone?”
“It was. It had been taken in my absence.”
“And was any other item removed?”
“It was the only item missing.”
“And you reported it?”
“At once to the rechtaire, the steward, who reported it to Abbot Nessán.”
“You saw no one near the bench before you left or nearby on your return?”
“No one who should not have been there.”
Fidelma sighed impatiently.
“That is not the question that I asked. Who was in the vicinity?”
“Several brethren passed by on their way to the prandium.”
“I presume that Brother Riaguil was among them?”
Brother Merchar flushed before nodding agreement. “I know that the abbot suspects him. But the steward has questioned everyone.”
“Was there anyone else?”
“There was the young bóchaill, Iobhar the cowherd, who was leading a cow to the kitchens to be slaughtered ready for the feast on the eve of Christ’s Mass.”
“On my way here I observed a large herd of cows on the hills to the east of the abbey. Do those beasts belong to the abbey?”
“The abbey does not possess a large herd,” replied Brother Merchar, with a shake of his head. “We have a small herd but, as the abbey lands adjoin several grazing lands, we join with others in what is called comingaire or common herding in which one herdsman is employed to attend to all the cattle where they can graze together.”
Fidelma was aware of the Brehon Law text in the Senchus Mór which stipulated that those owning cattle should be “in brotherhood with each other” and that a man, while especially looking after his own cattle, must have a care of those belonging to his neighbours.
“And those were the only people you saw?”
“Well, there was the pagan chieftain, Aed. He and two of his men had come to speak with the abbot about their acceptance of the Faith. But I am sure they were accompanied by Brother Ruissíne, the rechtaire, the whole time they were in the abbey.”
Fidelma found Brother Riaguil in the scriptorium of the abbey engaged in examining some ancient manuscripts. He was elderly, sharp featured with a prominent nose and close-set eyes that gave him an unfriendly appearance. He glanced up at Fidelma and it seemed that his anger deepened.
“I know you, Fidelma of Cashel. I studied with Brother Conchobhar and keep in touch with him. He believes that you are a sharp-witted young dálaigh.”
Brother Conchobhar was the apothecary and astronomer who had served her family at Cashel since the time that her father, Failbe Flann, had been King of Muman. Before she could respond, Brother Riaguil continued sharply:
“I know why you are here. That old fool Nessán thinks that because I disagree with him about the dating of Christ’s Mass, I would stoop to steal poor Finnbarr’s bell as some sort of protest. The
man is an idiot.”
Fidelma smiled patiently at his indignation.
“It seems you had the opportunity to pick up this bell from the bench while you were passing on your way to the prandium. Abbot Nessán suggests that you might also have had the motivation.”
Brother Riaguil made a sound that was half between a laugh and an ejaculation of anger.
“Is there no room in this Faith of ours for debate? When the Blessed Columbanus argued with Gregory the Great, the Bishop of Rome himself, over the dating of the Paschal celebration, was he accused of high crimes? I adhere to the old computistics which are based upon thousands of years of observation and not some arbitrary date decided by a council of abbots and bishops.”
Fidelma seated herself on a nearby stool.
“I am interested in such matters. Tell me why you disagree with the holding of Christ’s Mass on this particular day?”
“I am an astronomer.”
“That is not enough explanation.”
“It is the explanation. When did we start this celebration on this day? I will tell you. Three centuries ago Liberius became Bishop of Rome and decided that all the various dates on which the peoples of the Christian world celebrated a Mass dedicated to the Christ should be centred on one date. And what was the date he chose? Remember that he was a Roman.”
“I presume it was the date on which we now celebrate it,” observed Fidelma. “The twenty-fifth day of the month that the Romans called the tenth month in their ancient calendar.”
“Exactly so, December, the tenth month. But why? Because throughout the Roman world they celebrated the feast of the birth of the pagan god Mithras on that date. The feast of Saturnalia. They converted a pagan feast which was entrenched in people’s minds because they knew it would be easy to establish it in the Christian calendar of feasts. It happened with many other pagan feasts.”
“And this is why you object to celebrating the Christ’s Mass because it was formerly a pagan ceremony?” queried Fidelma.
The old man shook his head.
“I told you, it is because I am an astronomer.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“All our ancient and major celebrations were fixed by the stars in the heavens and the position of the sun and the moon, by the equinox and the solstice.”
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