The Second Death (Sister Fidelma Mysteries)

by Peter Tremayne

  The leader almost spat in anger. ‘Do I look like a fairground performer?’

  Rumann put his head to one side as if considering the question, but before he could comment further the warrior with the fair hair spoke sharply.

  ‘Show respect, innkeeper. You are addressing Cerball, Lord of Cairpre Gabra.’

  Rumann bowed his head with mock obsequiousness which was lost on the strangers. ‘I will show you where you and your party may lodge, Cerball of Cairpre Gabra … that is, if you do not consider my poor inn too unworthy for you and your companions.’

  Only the onlookers in the tavern, who knew Rumann’s humour, grinned at one another. The arrogant man, at Cerball’s side, frowned and seemed about to say something. His expression told his audience that he was not used to people who did not acknowledge his leader’s rank with due humility. However, Rumann had already turned to lead the way from the main tavern room. Cerball and his companions had no option but to follow him.

  After they had left, Aidan turned to Fidelma and Eadulf and commented, ‘An arrogant man, this Lord of Cairpre Gabra.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘But then arrogance is a sign of inferiority, for a true prince of his people is secure enough in his station not to need to assert his rank.’

  Aidan was thoughtful. ‘I suppose that follows in all stations, from King down to the humblest flescach.’

  Eadulf knew that a flescach was a minor, under the age of choice, which was seventeen years; a flesach was therefore of low rank, and his honour price reflected that, rated only at four screpalls.

  ‘You are right, Aidan,’ Fidelma said philosophically. ‘Arrogance is only a mask to hide one’s deficiencies.’ She stood up. ‘Now let us see what Baodain has to say about the Fair of Uisneach.’

  Baodain, however, attempted to be condescending.

  ‘The foreigner,’ he jerked a thumb at Eadulf, ‘misinterpreted me. I merely meant that we had come from Uisneach – not that we had been performing there.’

  It was Aidan who came to Eadulf’s defence again. ‘The lady Fidelma’s husband is quite fluent enough in our language,’ he said sharply. ‘And I was a witness to the words spoken. You said you had come from the Fair of Uisneach – but the Fair will not be held until next week.’

  Baodain was undeterred. ‘Alas, I am not as learned as you both must be in the syntax of our language.’ He adopted a patient tone, as if trying to explain the obvious. ‘I did not mean that my troupe had been performing there, nor did I mean to imply that I had. I am—’

  ‘You claim that you play music, sing songs and compose ballads,’ Fidelma said coldly. ‘Therefore one would expect you to have a better command of the language.’

  ‘I am but a simple man, lady. I have not the honeyed tongue to know the deeper meaning of the language of poets. I apologise for my shortcomings. The fact of the matter is that I was hoping to get permission to perform at the fair. After all, the High King himself will be attending this year’s gathering. But sadly, the Fair Master told me that they had sufficient performers of the type of entertainment that we offer, therefore they could not employ us. Knowing we are usually welcome at the Great Fair of Cashel, we proceeded south.’

  ‘You must have been several weeks on the road from Uisneach to reach this place with your wagons,’ Fidelma observed, sceptically. ‘And yet you were told that the Fair of Uisneach was already crowded with entertainers which must have been the case, many weeks before it is due to be held?’

  Baodain shrugged. ‘It is a popular fair, lady. When we were informed that the entertainers were already engaged, there was little we could do but accept the word of the Fair Master.’

  ‘And who is the Fair Master?’

  Baodain raised his eyebrows as if surprised at the question. ‘At Uisneach? Why, it is the Lord Iragalach of Clann Cholmáin, cousin to the High King.’

  ‘So, your troupe had travelled to Uisneach with the hope of performing, but he told you that you were superfluous to the needs of the fair.’

  ‘Exactly as I have said it.’

  ‘Was your group of performers complete at that time?’

  Baodain frowned. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘All your performers … had they been together long?’

  ‘They had – oh, except for Maolán the contortionist and his wife Mealla. They joined us a few days before we arrived at Uisneach.’

  ‘And where were they from?’

  ‘One never asks questions among travelling folk. If information is not volunteered then it is not sought. However, I heard that they had been performing in Connacht before they came to Midhe and asked if they could join up with us.’

  ‘Had any other members of the band recently joined you?’ Eadulf queried.

  Baodain shook his head. ‘The others had been with me a long time.’

  ‘A long time?’

  ‘Well, at least a full season – that is, a year or more.’

  ‘What of Ronchú and his wife, for example?’

  ‘They joined us at Tailltinn last Lughnasa. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Because it is my task to do so,’ Fidelma snapped. ‘So, you left Uisneach and decided to come to Cashel.’

  ‘As I have said, your brother, the King, has always welcomed us when we have performed at the Fort of Contentions.’

  ‘So, at that time, your company consisted of six wagons with your performers. The only newcomers among you were this contortionist Maolán and his wife. What wagon were they in as you proceeded along the marsh road?’

  ‘They were in the third wagon from the front.’

  ‘Very well. Now I want to be sure … at what point along the Slíge Dála did you enter this kingdom? What was your route from Uisneach?’

  Baodain had to stop and think for a moment. ‘We crossed into the Kingdom of Laigin, into the country of the Loígis, before entering into Osraige.’

  Eadulf was struggling to remember the geography of that area, so Fidelma explained quickly: ‘The Loígis are a small clan on the borders of Laigin and Osraige.’

  ‘Then we came on the southerly road through Osraige and joined the main marsh road at the crossing of Cill Cainnech on the River Fheoir. There is a ferry crossing there.’

  ‘You said the girl’s wagon joined you from the marshlands to the north of the main highway?’

  Baodain sniffed. ‘It did, but I know little of the country beyond. We stick to the highways which are easier to haul our wagons over rather than small tracks.’

  ‘Had you ever seen any wagon like the one the girl was driving? The shape and design are not often seen in this land.’

  The leader of the performers shrugged. ‘I have seen all manner of wagons, of all shapes and sizes, in my travels. Why should this one catch my attention?’

  ‘But you did not remark on it to the girl? You did not question her as to where she came from, or what she was doing driving such a wagon alone – alone as you thought, anyway.’

  ‘I did not. As I told you, travelling folk do not ask questions unless information is volunteered.’

  ‘What do you know of An Sionnach?’ Fidelma asked suddenly.

  Baodain’s head jerked back a little. Then he recovered himself. ‘An Sionnach?’

  ‘I see you know the name.’

  ‘Most people do who travel through Midhe,’ Baodain replied dismissively. ‘The Prince of Tethbae has a reputation as someone it is better to avoid.’

  ‘Some might even say that he rules without mercy to those who disobey his wishes,’ added Fidelma softly.

  Baodain lifted one shoulder and let it fall indifferently. ‘I take no interest in such matters. My job is to provide entertainment to whoever pays me for it, even the Prince of Tethbae.’

  ‘Then you have performed for him?’ Eadulf asked in a bland voice.

  The leader of the troupe shifted his weight as if he were uncomfortable. ‘I’ll not deny it. I have performed before many kings and princes, even the King of Cashel,’ he added with a
n attempt at humour.

  ‘But we are concerned with the Prince of Tethbae,’ Fidelma countered. ‘When did you perform for him? Before or after you had been denied performances at Uisneach?’

  ‘We were not denied!’ The use of the word seemed to anger Baodain. ‘We were merely told there was no room. There were already too many performers engaged for the fair.’

  ‘Ah,’ Aidan commented with a sly smile, ‘that sounds like a refusal to me.’

  ‘I am waiting for an answer, Baodain,’ Fidelma said.

  ‘Why does it matter?’ The man was truculent.

  ‘Because I think it does,’ shot back Fidelma.

  ‘The performance took place before we were told we would not be taken on at Uisneach. We had been asked to give a performance at the fortress of The Fox.’

  ‘As I recall, the fortress of An Sionnach is situated at Ard Darach, the height abounding in oaks. Was the Prince of Tethbae pleased with your performance? I wonder if he had anything to do with the subsequent refusal you received at Uisneach.’

  ‘I have told you why we were refused!’ The words came out in an angry hiss.

  ‘And you had never seen the dead girl or her wagon before you met up on the marsh road?’ Fidelma switched subject abruptly. ‘For example, you had not seen her in the country of the Prince of Tethbae?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Baodain was clearly baffled by the question. ‘She joined us on the marsh road exactly where I said she did, and I keep telling you that I thought she was a boy! What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Did you have a look at the oxen that were pulling the girl’s wagon?’

  Baodain looked astonished. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

  ‘To examine the selaibh, the brand on them.’

  ‘I am not interested in brands. I know my own mules which pull my wagon and that is all I need to know.’

  ‘I thought you might be interested in the brand on those oxen, that’s all. Because they are the brand of the Prince of Tethbae.’

  Baodain sighed heavily. He was silent for a moment or two before stating: ‘I cannot tell you more than the truth, and I have told you the truth. No more. No less.’

  A short while later, Fidelma and Eadulf were in their chamber in the palace of Cashel trying to gather their thoughts.

  ‘Well,’ observed Eadulf, ‘there is no doubting that Baodain was surprised when you told him about the brands. But in what way was he surprised? By the fact of whose brand it was, or by the fact that you could identify it?’

  ‘A good point,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘It doesn’t seem to lead us anywhere, though. The fact is, I think he is telling the truth.’

  ‘I don’t like the man,’ Eadulf said. ‘From the very first moment we met, I took a dislike to his arrogance and the fact that he keeps trying to evade answering simple questions.’

  ‘You cannot charge a person with a crime because they are conceited and frugal with their answers,’ Fidelma told him.

  ‘More is the pity,’ Eadulf said bitterly. Then: ‘I cannot see any connection. Unless the whole troupe is lying, we must accept that the girl and her wagon came out of a track north from the marshland.’

  ‘On the contrary, I can see connections but they don’t make sense.’ Aware that Eadulf was struggling, Fidelma relented and began to explain. ‘The girl is driving a wagon hauled by oxen which carry the brand of the Prince of Tethbae. Correct?’ Eadulf gave a nod of confirmation. ‘The entertainers have performed at the fortress of the Prince of Tethbae. Correct? So there is a connection.’

  ‘But the performers deny all knowledge of the girl until she joins on the Slíge Dála,’ Eadulf said.

  ‘She could have followed them.’

  ‘True, but why? So far, they have all claimed not to have known her … or even that she was really a girl under her disguise.’

  ‘Was there a connection between the girl and the performers? Could the fire have been set by someone in the troupe? Logically, being in the last wagon, only Ronchú and Comal could have done so without being observed by those in the forward wagons. But they gave the warning of the fire, which seems strange if they were trying to destroy the girl’s wagon.’

  Eadulf pursed his lips for a moment. ‘Yes, it would be illogical. But if we reject that possibility, who else is there?’

  ‘My old mentor, Brehon Morann, used to say that if you have eliminated all the other paths, then what remains, even if it seems improbable, must be the answer.’

  ‘There are no other plausible culprits who are supported by the physical possibilities.’

  ‘Except that we have not eliminated all other paths. We simply do not have enough knowledge to do so,’ returned Fidelma.

  ‘Then perhaps we should just challenge Ronchú and Comal outright. Isn’t there something in your law to say that if there is no direct evidence then one can use indirect evidence as a sign of guilt, and eyewitness proof therefore becomes immaterial? I am sure I have seen that if one is suspected of a crime, then the law says that suspicion can be used to bring about prosecution.’

  ‘There are certain matters where that is so, Eadulf. You remember our law correctly. It is what is called circumstantial evidence – but that has to be very strong, and such indirect evidence in itself is not regarded as conclusive in law. Those accused can demand to make a fír testa, an oath in which they formally deny the crime. Only if they are shown to be notorious liars, or untrustworthy, or have any stains against their character, does the law demand what is called fír nDé, an ordeal of interrogation, in which reputable persons come forward to say what they know about the person’s past – and that past is then used to question their character. I am afraid that we are not in a position to go forward with such a charge based merely on suspicion of Ronchú and Comal just yet.’

  Eadulf spread his arms and let them fall in an exaggerated expression of helplessness. ‘Then what are we to do?’

  ‘Maybe we need some fresh thinking about this. Let’s go and have a chat with Brother Conchobhar. He might have identified the contents of the goatskin water bag by now. If all else fails, I suppose we will have to work our way through all the performers in Baodain’s troupe.’

  ‘Including the children?’

  ‘Sometimes children are more prone to indicating the truth than adults,’ Fidelma observed thoughtfully.

  ‘Baodain won’t like that.’

  ‘It is not up to Baodain what he likes or what he does not like,’ Fidelma replied sternly. She then rose from her chair and drew on her cloak, for the day was growing colder with the sun being obscured behind the dark rainclouds that had sprung up from the west.

  In the familiar confines of Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary with its almost overpowering scents of dried herbs and various plants, they found the elderly physician at work, grinding leaves with a mortar and pestle. He looked up with a wan smile.

  ‘The bodies have been removed and the male has already been interred,’ he said. ‘I am afraid that after all this time the state of the corpse …’ He tailed off but they knew what he meant.

  ‘We came to discuss the case,’ Fidelma told him. ‘I want to see if we are overlooking the obvious.’

  Brother Conchobhar set aside the mortar and pestle and motioned them to some chairs, before taking a seat himself.

  ‘The water bag that you sent me contains nothing more than water,’ he said before they asked. ‘I found no obvious source of poison.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ Fidelma’s disappointment was apparent.

  ‘That means that you have met with a blank wall on other matters,’ the old apothecary observed cannily.

  ‘It is true that this mystery remains a mystery,’ Fidelma conceded. ‘I was wondering if you could tell us anything more about the bodies. Perhaps in discussing it, something new might occur.’

  Brother Conchobhar sighed. ‘There is nothing else. Have you considered the girl’s wristband? Did you have any ideas about it, Eadulf?’

  Fidelma started in embar
rassment, for it was the one thing she had forgotten.

  Brother Conchobhar rose and went to a side cupboard from which he took the small section of plaited hemp and the brass disc with the bird’s head on it, saying, ‘All we know is that it was tied around the wrist of the girl and that it bears the image of a raven. That is really all,’ he said.

  Eadulf looked at it and then handed it back. ‘It simply looks like a small coin with a hole in it so that string can be looped through it.’

  Brother Conchobhar replaced it and resumed his seat. ‘I can add a little more to the Ogham writing that we discussed earlier …’ He paused for a moment.

  ‘The Cloch Ór – the Stone of Gold at the graveyard! Whose graveyard?’ Eadulf said eagerly. ‘Fidelma told me of its meaning.’

  ‘Well, I promised I would ask our Keeper of the Books if he could shed some light on it. We discussed some local legends associated with it but he reminded me of somewhere called Clochar – the Stone Place – where the Blessed Aedh Mac Carthinn set up his abbey on a site that was previously a sanctuary to the old gods.’

  ‘I do not know of it,’ Fidelma said.

  ‘No reason why you should. It is in one of the northern Uí Néill kingdoms, Airgialla, in the territories of the Uí Chremthainn.’

  ‘Is that in the north-west of Midhe?’

  ‘Not exactly. The petty kingdom of Bréifne intervenes between Midhe and Airgialla at that point. It is just that some believe that it was that place – the place where Aedh built his monastery – which had been the site of the Golden Stone.’

  ‘Then it has little to do with solving this mystery.’ Eadulf sounded disappointed. ‘The piece of Ogham writing is irrelevant.’

  ‘We cannot know what it is irrelevant at this stage,’ Fidelma said with a reproving look at him. ‘We cannot use this information yet, so what else is there? Let us consider the body of the male. There is nothing more you can tell us? We are sure he was poisoned?’

  ‘Poison does not lie to an apothecary.’

  ‘There was no means of identifying him from his robe?’

  ‘No. It was a plain brown homespun of the sort some folk wear on a cold winter’s day.’