The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 1 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  The judge put his cup down. “I have learned from this case how important it is to study carefully our ancient handbooks of detection, Hoong. There it is stated again and again that the first step of a murder investigation is to ascertain the character, daily life and habits of the victim. And in this case it was indeed the murdered man’s personality that supplied the key.”

  Sergeant Hoong stroked his grey moustache with a pleased smile. “That girl and her young man were very lucky indeed in having you as the investigating magistrate, sir! For all the evidence pointed straight at Wang, and he would have been convicted and beheaded. For the girl is a deaf-mute, and Wang isn’t much of a talker either!”

  Judge Dee nodded. Leaning back in his chair, he said with a faint smile:

  “That brings me to the main benefit I derived from this case, Hoong. A very personal and very important benefit. I must confess to you that early this morning I was feeling a bit low, and for a moment actually doubted whether this was after all the right career for me. I was a fool. This is a great, a magnificent office, Hoong! If only because it enables us to speak for those who can’t speak for themselves.”

  THE HIGH KING’S SWORD

  Peter Tremayne

  One of the pleasures of assembling this anthology is seeing the ancient world come alive through the eyes of keen observers of the day – and you can’t get keener observers than the detectives featured here. When Peter Tremayne submitted his manuscript for the following story he explained that it was set in March 664. As the previous story was set in the year 663, we can see in the breadth of two stories two vastly differing cultures on opposite sides of the world, united by man’s weakness for crime.

  The following story features a new detective, Sister Fidelma. Tremayne has called her a “Dark Age Irish Perry Mason”. Apart from being a religieuse, she is a dálaighe, or an advocate at the Brehon court. The background to the story is historically accurate. The Yellow Plague swept through Europe reaching Britain and Ireland in AD 664. The joint High Kings of Ireland, Blathmac and Diarmuid, died within days of each other in that year, and this provides the starting point for the story.

  Peter Tremayne (b. 1943) is a well-known writer of fantasy and horror novels and stories and, under his real name of Peter Berresford Ellis, is a noted biographer and Celtic historian. He has already written several more stories about Sister Fidelma, including a full-length novel, so a new character is born.

  “God’s curse is upon this land,” sighed the Abbot Colmán, spiritual advisor to the Great Assembly of the chieftains of the five kingdoms of Ireland.

  Walking at his side through the grounds of the resplendent palace of Tara, the seat of the High Kings of Ireland, was a tall woman, clad in the robes of a religieuse, her hands folded demurely before her. Even at a distance one could see that her costume did not seem to suit her for it scarcely hid the attractiveness of her youthful, well-proportioned figure. Rebellious strands of red hair crept from beneath her habit adding to the allure of her pale fresh face and piercing green eyes. Her cheeks dimpled and there was a scarcely concealed humour behind her enforced solemnity which hinted at a joy in living rather than being weighted down by the sombre pensiveness of religious life.

  “When man blames God for cursing him, it is often to disguise the fact that he is responsible for his own problems,” Sister Fidelma replied softly.

  The Abbot, a thick-set and ruddy faced man in his mid-fifties, frowned and glanced at the young woman at his side. Was she rebuking him?

  “Man is hardly responsible for the terrible Yellow Plague that has swept through this land,” replied Colmán, his voice heavy with irritation. “Why, it is reported that one third of our population has been carried off by its venomousness. It has spared neither abbot, bishop nor lowly priest.”

  “Nor even High Kings,” added Sister Fidelma, pointedly.

  The official mourning for the brothers Blathmac and Diarmuid, joint High Kings of Ireland, who had died within days of each other from the terrors of the Yellow Plague, had ended only one week before.

  “Surely, then, a curse of God?” repeated the Abbot, his jaw set firmly, waiting for Sister Fidelma to contradict him.

  Wisely, she decided to remain silent. The Abbot was obviously in no mood to discuss the semantics of theology.

  “It is because of these events that I have asked you to come to Tara,” the Abbot went on, as he preceded her into the chapel of the Blessed Patrick, which had been built next to the High King’s palace. Sister Fidelma followed the Abbot into the gloomy, incensed-sweetened atmosphere of the chapel, dropping to one knee and genuflecting to the altar before she followed him to the sacristy. He settled his stocky figure into a leather chair and motioned for her to be seated.

  She settled herself and waited expectantly.

  “I have sent for you, Sister Fidelma, because you are an advocate, a dálaighe, of the Brehon courts, and therefore knowledgeable in law.”

  Sister Fidelma contrived to shrug modestly while holding herself in repose.

  “It is true that I have studied eight years with the Brehon Morann, may his soul rest in peace, and I am qualified to the level of anruth.”

  The Abbot pursed his lips. He had not yet recovered from his astonishment at his first meeting with this young woman who was so highly qualified in law, and held a degree which demanded respect from the highest in the land. She was only one step below an ollamh who could even sit in the presence of the High King himself. The Abbot felt awkward as he faced Sister Fidelma of Kildare. While he was her superior in religious matters, he, too, had to defer to the social standing and legal authority which she possessed as a dálaighe of the Brehon Court of Ireland.

  “I have been told of your qualification and standing, Sister Fidelma. But, apart from your knowledge and authority, I have also been told that you possess an unusual talent for solving puzzles.”

  “Whoever has told you that flatters me. I have helped to clarify some problems. And what little talent I have in that direction is at your service.”

  Sister Fidelma gazed with anticipation at the Abbot as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “For many years our country has enjoyed prosperity under the joint High Kingship of Blathmac and Diarmuid. Therefore their deaths, coming within days of one another, must be viewed as a tragedy.”

  Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

  “Is there anything suspicious about their deaths? Is that why you have asked me here?”

  The Abbot shook his head hurriedly.

  “No. Their deaths were but human submission to the fearsome Yellow Plague which all dread and none can avoid once it has marked them. It is God’s will.”

  The Abbot seemed to pause waiting for some comment but, when Sister Fidelma made none, he continued.

  “No, Sister, there is nothing suspicious about the deaths of Blathmac and Diarmuid. The problem arises with their successor to the kingship.”

  Sister Fidelma frowned.

  “But I thought that the Great Assembly had decided that Sechnasach, the son of Blathmac, would become High King?”

  “That was the decision of the provincial kings and chieftains of Ireland,” agreed the Abbot. “But Sechnasach has not yet been inaugurated on the sacred Stone of Destiny.” He hesitated. “Do you know your Law of Kings?”

  “In what respect?” Sister Fidelma countered, wondering where the question was leading.

  “That part relating to the seven proofs of a righteous king.”

  “The Law of the Brehons states that there are seven proofs of the righteous king,” recited Sister Fidelma dutifully. “That he be approved by the Great Assembly. That he accept the Faith of the One True God. That he hold sacred the symbols of his office and swear fealty on them. That he rule by the Law of the Brehons and his judgement be firm and just and beyond reproach. That he promote the commonwealth of the people. That he must never command his warriors in an unjust war . . .”

  The Abbot held up his hand and interrup
ted.

  “Yes, yes. You know the law. The point is that Sechnasach cannot be inaugurated because the great sword of the Uí Néill, the ‘Caladchalog’, which was said to have been fashioned in the time of the ancient mist by the smith-god Gobhainn, has been stolen.”

  Sister Fidelma raised her head, lips slightly parted in surprise.

  The ancient sword of the Uí Néill was one of the potent symbols of the High Kingship. Legend had it that it had been given by the smith-god to the hero Fergus Mac Roth in the time of the ancient ones, and then passed down to Niall of the Nine Hostages, whose descendants had become the Uí Néill kings of Ireland. For centuries now the High Kings had been chosen from either the sept of the northern Uí Néill or from the southern Uí Néill. The “Caladchalog”, “the hard dinter”, was a magical, mystical sword, by which the people recognized their righteous ruler. All High Kings had to swear fealty on it at their inauguration and carry it on all state occasions as the visible symbol of their authority and kingship.

  The Abbot stuck out his lower lip.

  “In these days, when our people go in fear from the ravages of the plague, they need comfort and distraction. If it was known throughout the land that the new High King could not produce his sword of office on which to swear his sacred oath of kingship then apprehension and terror would seize the people. It would be seen as an evil omen at the start of Sechnasach’s rule. There would be chaos and panic. Our people cling fiercely to the ancient ways and traditions but, particularly at this time, they need solace and stability.”

  Sister Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully. What the Abbot said was certainly true. The people firmly believed in the symbolism which had been handed down to them from the mists of ancient times.

  “If only people relied on their own abilities and not on symbols,” the Abbot was continuing. “It is time for reform, both in secular as well as religious matters. We cling to too many of the pagan beliefs of our ancestors from the time before the Light of Our Saviour was brought to these shores.”

  “I see that you yourself believe in the reforms of Rome,” Sister Fidelma observed shrewdly.

  The Abbot did not conceal his momentary surprise.

  “How so?”

  Sister Fidelma smiled.

  “I have done nothing clever, Abbot Colmán. It was an elementary observation. You wear the tonsure of St. Peter, the badge of Rome, and not that of St. John from whom our own Church takes its rule.”

  The corner of the Abbot’s mouth drooped.

  “I make no secret that I was in Rome for five years and came to respect Rome’s reasons for the reforms. I feel it is my duty to advocate the usages of the Church of Rome among our people to replace our old rituals, symbolisms and traditions.”

  “We have to deal with people as they are and not as we would like them to be,” observed Sister Fidelma.

  “But we must endeavour to change them as well,” replied the Abbot unctuously, “setting their feet on the truth path to God’s grace.”

  “We will not quarrel over the reforms of Rome,” replied Sister Fidelma quietly. “I will continue to be guided by the rule of the Holy Brigid of Kildare, where I took my vows. But tell me, for what purpose have I been summoned to Tara?”

  The Abbot hesitated, as if wondering whether to pursue his theme of Rome’s reforms. Then he sniffed to hide his irritation.

  “We must find the missing sword before the High King’s inauguration, which is tomorrow, if we wish to avoid civil strife in the five kingdoms of Ireland.”

  “From where was it stolen?”

  “Here, from this very chapel. The sacred sword was placed with the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny, under the altar. It was locked in a metal and wood chest. The only key was kept on the altar in full view. No one, so it was thought, would ever dare violate the sanctuary of the altar and chapel to steal its sacred treasures.”

  “Yet someone did?”

  “Indeed they did. We have the culprit locked in a cell.”

  “And the culprit is . . .?”

  “Ailill Flann Esa. He is the son of Donal, who was High King twenty years ago. Ailill sought the High Kingship in rivalry to his cousin, Sechnasach. It is obvious that, out of malice caused by the rejection of the Great Assembly, he seeks to discredit his cousin.”

  “What witnesses were there to his theft of the sword?”

  “Three. He was found in the chapel alone at night by two guards of the royal palace, Congal and Erc. And I, myself, came to the chapel a few moments later.”

  Sister Fidelma regarded the Abbot with bewilderment.

  “If he were found in the chapel in the act of stealing the sword, why was the sword not found with him?”

  The Abbot sniffed impatiently.

  “He had obviously hidden it just before he was discovered. Maybe he heard the guards coming and hid it.”

  “Has the chapel been searched?”

  “Yes. Nothing has been found.”

  “So, from what you say, there were no witnesses to see Ailill Flann Esa actually take the sword?”

  The Abbot smiled paternally.

  “My dear sister, the chapel is secured at night. The deacon made a check last thing and saw everything was in order. The guards passing outside observed that the door was secure just after midnight, but twenty minutes later they passed it again and found it open. They saw the bolt had been smashed. The chapel door is usually bolted on the inside. That was when they saw Ailill at the altar. The altar table had been pushed aside, the chest was open and the sword gone. The facts seem obvious.”

  “Not yet so obvious, Abbot Colmán,” Sister Fidelma replied thoughtfully.

  “Obvious enough for Sechnasach to agree with me to have Ailill Flann Esa incarcerated immediately.”

  “And the motive, you would say, is simply one of malice?”

  “Obvious again. Ailill wants to disrupt the inauguration of Sechnasach as High King. Perhaps he even imagines that he can promote civil war in the confusion and chaos, and, using the people’s fears, on the production of the sacred sword from the place where he has hidden it, he thinks to overthrow Sechnasach and make himself High King. The people, in their dread of the Yellow Plague, are in the mood to be manipulated by their anxieties.”

  “If you have your culprit and motive, why send for me?” Sister Fidelma observed, a trace of irony in her voice. “And there are better qualified dálaighe and Brehons at the court of Tara, surely?”

  “Yet none who have your reputation for solving such conundrums, Sister Fidelma.”

  “But the sword must still be in the chapel or within its vicinity.”

  “We have searched and it cannot be found. Time presses. I have been told that you have the talent to solve the mystery of where the sword has been hidden. I have heard how skilful you are in questioning suspects and extracting the truth from them. Ailill has, assuredly, hidden the sword nearby and we must find out where before the High King’s inauguration.”

  Sister Fidelma pursed her lips and then shrugged.

  “Show me the where the sword was kept and then I will question Ailill Flann Esa.”

  Ailill Flann Esa was in his mid-thirties; tall, brown-haired and full-bearded. He carried himself with the pride of the son of a former High King. His father had been Donal Mac Aed of the northern Uí Néill, who had once ruled from Tara twenty years before.

  “I did not steal the sacred sword,” he replied immediately Sister Fidelma identified her purpose.

  “Then explain how you came to be in the chapel at such a time,” she said, seating herself on the wooden bench that ran alongside the wall of the tenebrous grey stone cell in which he was imprisoned. Ailill hesitated and then seated himself on a stool before her. The stool, with a wooden bed and a table, comprised the other furnishings of the cell. Sister Fidelma knew that only Ailill’s status gave him the luxury of these comforts and alleviated the dankness of the granite jail in which he was confined.

  “I was passing the chapel . . .” b
egan Ailill.

  “Why?” interrupted Sister Fidelma. “It was after midnight, I believe?”

  The man hesitated, frowning. He was apparently not used to people interrupting. Sister Fidelma hid a smile as she saw the struggle on his haughty features. It was clear he wished to respond in annoyance but realized that she was an anruth who had the power of the Brehon Court behind her. Yet he hesitated for a moment or two.

  “I was on my way somewhere . . . to see someone.”

  “Where? Who?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  She saw firmness in his pinched mouth, in the compressed lips. He would obviously say nothing further on that matter. She let it pass.

  “Continue,” she invited after a moment’s pause.

  “Well, I was passing the chapel, as I said, and I saw the door open. Usually, at that time of night, the door is closed and the bolt in place. I thought this strange, so I went in. Then I noticed that the altar had been pushed aside. I went forward. I could see that the chest, in which the sword of office was kept, had been opened . . .”

  He faltered and ended with a shrug.

  “And then?” prompted Sister Fidelma.

  “That is all. The guards came in at that moment. Then the Abbot appeared. I found myself accused of stealing the sword. Yet I did not.”

  “Are you saying that this is all you know about the matter?”

  “That is all I know. I am accused but innocent. My only misdemeanour is that I am my father’s son and presented a claim before the Great Assembly to succeed Blathmac and Diarmuid as High King. Although Sechnasach won the support of the Great Assembly for his claim, he has never forgiven me for challenging his succession. He is all the more ready to believe my guilt because of his hatred of me.”