Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “That I know.”

  “Our feast of Samhain was once fixed at the winter solstice. Our astronomers were once so accurate with their observations of the skies that they could construct great buildings in alignment with the movement of the sun and moon. In the great valley of the Boann are buildings that have openings so carefully aligned that the sun will return to those apertures exactly on the winter solstice or the vernal equinox. I have seen them with my own eyes.”

  The old man shook his head.

  “Then we started to accept the New Faith and believed all new knowledge emanated from Rome. We accept the Roman calendar, which I am told was devised by a general called Julius Caesar. A general! Not an astronomer! The calculations are out of synchronicity with the movement of the planets. Indeed, I have calculated that with every 128 years, the calendar is one day out in accuracy. So now the feast days that were once celebrated in accordance with the calendar of the heavens, at the solstices and equinoxes, are many days adrift. This is what Columbanus argued when rebuking Rome for fixing a new date for the vernal equinox at which time the Paschal fires were lit. This is, indeed, what many of the Irish church argued at the council in Northumbria. This is why I refuse the arbitrary dating to celebrate.”

  He sat back and glared at her determinedly.

  “But even though I hold this view it is an affront on my honour that I be accused of theft, and theft of a bell that was once owned by a saintly man that I admired.”

  Fidelma shook her head with a soft smile.

  “You are not accused, Brother Riaguil. However, when a theft takes place, you must know that an investigation must follow. Therefore, it would reflect on me if I did not question everyone who was in the vicinity near the time the object was stolen.”

  She stood up.

  “I thank you for your time, Brother Riaguil. Moreover, I will reflect on what you have said about the calendars which begin to govern our affairs.”

  It was the steward, Brother Ruissíne, who directed her to the rath of Aed, chief of the Cenél nAeda, which, in fact, was in the green hills overlooking the abbey to the southeast. It was within a comfortable walking distance and the way lay through the herd of grazing cattle that spread themselves over the hillside. As Fidelma walked up the hill towards the distant rath she saw a young boy sitting on a large grey rock staring moodily out across the grazing cows below him. He seemed deep in thought because he did not appear to notice her approach.

  The path led just by the rock and she called out a greeting to him.

  The boy started nervously and scrambled to his feet. He seemed relieved when he saw her.

  “You have a fine herd there,” she said, correctly assessing he was the bóchaill, the cowherd.

  “If they were mine, they would be fine enough,” replied the young boy. He was about thirteen or fourteen.

  “Ah, they are the abbey’s herd, I suppose. And you must be Iobhar.”

  “They are. I am,” replied the boy.

  Fidelma suddenly peered closely at the boy’s features. He had an ugly bluish bruise on his forehead.

  “That looks nasty. Did you have a fall?”

  The boy shook his head, raising a hand automatically to the bruise. Suddenly one of the cows let out a plaintive bellow below them and began to move across the hillside with a tinkle of the bó clag, the cow bell, hanging round her broad neck. Fidelma turned to watch the magnificent beast who was obviously the leading cow of the drove, for the others began to follow her.

  “That must be the pride of the abbey’s cows,” she smiled at Iobhar.

  The boy shook his head, his hand moving again to the bruise.

  “The cow belongs to my master, not to the abbey. Most of the herd belongs to him. But she is heading for the small runnel. I must head her off.”

  Before she could saying anything further, he had leapt from the rock and was trotting down the hill at a rapid pace. She paused a moment, listening to the jangle as the drove moved sedately off across the slopes. Then she sighed, turned and continued her path up to the rath that dominated the hills.

  Aed was a big burly man, muscular with a full beard, his features swarthy and his hair black. He was every inch a warrior but given to quick outbursts of emotion, ranging from raucous laughter to fiery anger.

  “Of what am I accused, Fidelma of Cashel?” he demanded, his eyes angrily dark and his features grim.

  “You are accused of nothing,” replied Fidelma quietly. “You are merely being asked to help with some information.”

  The thin-featured man seated by the chief sniffed uneasily.

  “It sounds very much to me that my lord is being accused of gat, of theft by stealth.”

  Fidelma regarded the man, who had been introduced as Aed’s Brehon, scornfully.

  “Have I said as much?” she demanded. “If I make an accusation I will state it clearly and not imply it.”

  The man, Rumann, flushed.

  “I am Brehon and will not stand—”

  Fidelma interrupted him with a motion of her hand.

  “I am qualified in law to the level of anruth.”

  It was just below the highest degree that law schools could bestow. Rumann fell silent. Fidelma had guessed that she was better qualified than a rural lawyer. It seemed, for a moment, that Aed, the chief, almost enjoyed the discomfiture of his legal advisor.

  “You may accept it from me, Fidelma of Cashel, that I did not take this magical bell nor cause it to be stolen by anyone in my service.”

  “That is good to know,” replied Fidelma solemnly. “Tell me, when you were visiting the abbey yesterday, did you see the brother cleaning objects outside the chapel.”

  Rumann made to speak, but the chief cut him short with a grimace.

  “I am capable of answering Fidelma’s questions, Rumann. And the answer is that as the abbot’s steward escorted us to see the abbot, I was aware that we passed by the chapel and someone was seated outside engaged in some work. But who they were and what they were doing I could not say. I saw no bell nor would I be interested in such things unless it was the sound of bells on my herd going out to pasture.”

  Fidelma knew that the chiefs measured their wealth in the number of cows they owned.

  “You own a large herd?” she asked absently.

  “Alas, not as large as the Cenél mBéicce to the west of the great marsh or even the Muscraige Mittine to the northwest. No, my people and I are of modest means and I am content to let my herd graze in common with that owned by the abbey.”

  Fidelma glanced across the hill to where the herd of cows was grazing.

  “So you jointly employ Iobhar as your bóchaill, your cowherd?”

  Aed was surprised.

  “So you know the young scallywag?”

  “I saw him as I ascended the hill to the rath. So he looks after both the herd of the abbey and your own herd?”

  “He does, and a bad job he can make of it.”

  “So bad that a sharp clout is needed to punish him?” Fidelma demanded sharply.

  Aed gazed at her thoughtfully.

  “When a dog behaves badly, a good hit will teach it manners. So it is with a boy. He has to be brought into order or he gets worse.”

  Fidelma regarded him with distaste.

  “Your Brehon should advise you that the Bretha Crólige imposes heavy penalties for an injury inflicted on a young child no matter what social class he or she belongs to.”

  “He is my son,” protested Aed.

  “It makes no difference. Being over seven years of age, the boy’s honour price is half that of your own and that is his legal worth . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as the thought came to her. Without a word, she turned and left the astonished chief’s presence. As a dálaigh of her rank as well as sister to the King of Muman, it was her right to be so dismissive of the chief of the Cenél nAeda. She was hurrying back down the hill at a swift rate and making for the distant herd of cattle.

  Iobhar, the cowher
d, having turned the cattle away from the runnel where they might have stumbled and caused themselves injury, was standing near a tree and saw her swift approach.

  Yet it was not towards him that she was making but to the large cow that was the leader of the drove. She reached forward and seized the bell that hung around its neck and let out a great sigh before swinging round.

  “Do not run away, Iobhar,” she commanded, seeing the look of fear on the boy’s features. “Tell me why you did this?”

  The boy stood undecided for a moment and then spread his arms as if in surrender to the inevitable.

  “I did not think anyone would care about an old cow bell,” he muttered.

  “You do not know what this bell is?”

  “I saw it lying on a bench. An old brass cow bell. That’s all.”

  “But why steal it?”

  He hesitated and again his hand went to the bruise.

  “The beast lost her metal bell,” he said, indicating the cow. “I searched all over the pasture for it. I did not know what to do. I was so fearful.”

  “Fearful? Of your father?”

  The boy was wide-eyed.

  “You know of him?”

  “I know that Aed seems quick with his hand and forgets the law. Yet would he punish you over the loss of a bell?”

  “He would. That was why, when I saw the bell lying there, I did not think anyone would mind if I took it and replaced it on the cow. Now he will beat me doubly.”

  There was a whine of anguish tinged with terror in his voice, which caused Fidelma to moved forward and pat his shoulder.

  “No one will hurt you. You have my word. We will take this bell and return it to the abbey where we will explain to the abbot the circumstances. Your father shall be summoned and stand to be judged before me. Is your mother alive?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “And have you reached fourteen summers?”

  “I have,” Iobhar said tremulously.

  “And you have not been in fosterage and received your education?”

  “My father said he would teach me all I needed to know.”

  “Then as a son of a chief you should have been in fosterage from the age of seven until seventeen. It is time for you to catch up and you will go into fosterage and no longer be a cowherd. If there is no one to foster you for altramm serce, for affection, then we shall find someone to foster you for the fee of three séds, according to law. And that fee will be the fine imposed on your father.”

  “But I took the bell,” pointed out the boy.

  “You took it because the fear of punishment made you do so. According to the law, that makes your father responsible for the theft,” smiled Fidelma grimly. “Aed of the Cenél nAeda will have much to answer for.”

  She turned and removed the brass cow bell from the unprotesting animal and set off down the hill with a light step, followed by the young boy. She was now looking forward to celebrating Christ’s Mass with her friend Brehon Sochla in the country of the Cenél mBéicce.

  Two Florida Blondes

  Kate Rhodes

  The air conditioning in Frank’s hire car had failed as he passed Orlando, and now he was driving with the windows open, sweat coursing down his sides. All he could see in the mirror was a blur of headlights on Highway One. It was impossible to tell whether he was still being followed, but he had no regrets. The man he’d killed in Miami had been responsible for the deaths of both his brothers, and countless others who had dared to challenge his business empire over the years. Frank had always known that a mob would come after him, and their style was cat and mouse. If they caught him, they would take him to a warehouse and make a video for his nearest and dearest, while they sliced him apart. Frank’s mug shot had featured on Fox News, so he’d missed his chance to use his false passport and fly home to London. He’d shaved off the moustache he’d worn for ten years but he was still much too visible. Now all he could do was keep driving south, with nothing fuelling him except panic.

  At dawn he drove past the entrance to the Everglades National Park, a huge plastic alligator throwing its shadow across the road. A ribbon of ocean kept appearing between the condos, unreasonably blue. But Frank would happily have traded beauty for safety, even though the bridges between the islands were fine as the links on a coral bracelet.

  It was breakfast time when he parked his car in Key West, the humid air refusing to stir. He locked himself into the first hotel room he could find, then stretched his long frame across the bed. By afternoon he was aware of sounds. Tourists laughing on their way to the beach, and a motorbike buzzing around the island, high-pitched and insistent as a wasp. There was a metallic taste in his mouth when he forced himself to stand under the shower, legs trembling. Instinct told him to carry on hiding, but by now he was weak with hunger.

  The sunlight burnt Frank’s eyes when he stepped outside, but it was a relief to find the hotel veranda empty. He slumped into a deckchair, and when he looked up again, a neatly dressed young man was standing in front of him.

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “A club sandwich and a beer, please.”

  “Sure.”

  Florida seemed to be full of people who were sure; every shop assistant and bartender existed in a state of unquestioning certainty. The waiter busied himself behind the bar, levering the top from a Budweiser. It was difficult to guess his age. Thin and blond and tanned, all of his movements were fluid and deft.

  “There you go,” he placed the glass of beer on a napkin, and Frank took several long gulps.

  “Thirsty?” the waiter laughed.

  “Parched.”

  “I know the feeling, I come from Seattle.” He nodded at the cloudless sky. “Sun comes out twice a year there, if you’re lucky.”

  Frank took another swig from his drink and the man carried on watching him. There was something unexpected about his face. Maybe it was his eyes? So pale it was hard to judge whether they were green or blue.

  The waiter took a step backwards. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  Frank scanned the street nervously. A straggle of sightseers were traipsing from bar to bar, and a sign outside Sloppy Joe’s was advertising frozen margaritas at three dollars ninety-five. Two boys stood on the sidewalk close to Frank’s table. They were bare-chested, arms slung round each other’s waists.

  “Want a sundowner?” the taller one asked his friend.

  “No. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  Before Frank could look away, the boys were kissing, holding each others’ faces with their hands. A year ago he would have been disgusted, but he’d forfeited the right to question other people’s choices. Suddenly his gaze snagged on a familiar face. The man who’d been following him in Miami was twenty yards away, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, with a hula girl dancing across his chest. Before Frank could move, the hired goon took a photo with his phone, then grinned at him and sauntered away. A surge of fear rose in Frank’s chest. Now it was only a question of time; his only chance was to find a safe way out of town.

  He was about to return to his room when the waiter set down a pitcher of beer on his table.

  “Compliments of the house.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “You’re my only customer. There’s a deal on at La Te Da’s.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Two blocks away, free drinks till midnight.” The waiter eased himself into the deckchair beside Frank’s. “Want to know a secret?”

  “What?”

  “I’m moonlighting. I work nights there, through till four. I’m saving for my own place.”

  “Yeah?” Frank watched him pour beer into two glasses. “I can’t imagine living here.”

  The waiter laughed. “You know what the Key West motto is? Anything goes and everyone’s welcome.”

  “Even ex-policemen from London?”

  He grinned. “I’ll bet you looked great in that uniform. Exactly how tall are you?”
r />   “Six five.”

  “Oh my God,” he giggled. “We need you. The island team has the worst quarterback you ever saw.”

  Frank tried to raise a smile. The non-stop chatter was soothing, even if the guy was hitting on him, but it was hard to focus. He had to find a place to hide before the goons returned.

  The waiter glanced at him. “You seem distracted. Is something wrong?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.” The man’s pale eyes seemed to invite secrets.

  “My brothers got involved with a bad crowd, and I had to organize their funerals last week. I took things into my own hands, and now I need to get off the island, fast as I can.”

  The man looked shocked, then nodded in sympathy. “Give me twenty minutes, then meet me here.”

  The waiter rose to his feet and disappeared into the hotel. Frank was tempted to pour himself another beer, but the sky was already two shades darker, and his life depended on keeping a clear head. He wandered out on to the sidewalk, looking for the Hawaiian shirt. There was no sign of him, and the street was thronging with tourists, all searching for the perfect holiday. In the distance a flotilla of dive boats were scattered across the ocean like breadcrumbs. He knew that someone was watching him, the heat of their gaze searing the back of his neck as he reached Mallory Square. Street performers were gathering to welcome the sunset: flamenco dancers, sword swallowers and fire jugglers; and somewhere in the thick of it, the hired man with his Colt 45.

  When Frank got back to the hotel a young blonde was standing by the bar. She sashayed towards him, her figure good enough to take his breath away as she slipped into the seat beside him. Her short dress revealed an expanse of smooth brown thigh.

  “You prefer me this way, don’t you?” The woman laughed quietly and Frank’s vision blurred. “I told you,” the waiter examined the newly applied nail polish on his left hand. “When I finish here I do a shift at La Te Da’s.”

  The transformation was so convincing Frank could only stare. He recognized the waiter’s gentle, unsettling eyes, but everything else had changed. A woman’s face looked back at him now, high cheekboned, pale lips shimmering.