The Monk Who Vanished sf-7

by Peter Tremayne

  Finguine, Prince of Cnoc Aine, stared up at them with surprise from a kneeling position on the floor.

  After a moment or two of silence, he climbed to his feet and brushed the dust from his knees.

  ‘Fidelma, you gave me a start,’ he rebuked.

  ‘No more of a start than you gave us,’ Eadulf replied.

  ‘What are you doing here, cousin?’ asked Fidelma, looking quickly about the room.

  Finguine grimaced awkwardly. ‘I heard from the steward of the abbey …’

  ‘Brother Madagan?’ interposed Eadulf.

  ‘The same. He told me about the disappearance and I asked to see the room. It looks as if there has been a struggle here and the poor Brother was taken off by force. Perhaps he was made to get the Relics from the chapel and then was carried off into the hills. He was probably killed there.’

  Fidelma regarded her cousin seriously for a moment. ‘Is that your interpretation of events, Finguine?’

  ‘I don’t think that you need to have a keen imagination to interpret this,’ Finguine said, waving his hand around the room.

  ‘But …’ began Eadulf and suddenly saw the icy fire in Fidelma’s eyes. He snapped his mouth shut almost painfully.

  Finguine turned to him questioningly.

  ‘What was that?’

  Eadulf grimaced awkwardly. ‘I just meant that appearances can sometimes be misleading. I … er … well, what you say does seem to be a logical interpretation.’

  Finguine turned back to Fidelma. ‘There, you see? I am afraid that we might be looking for a body rather than Brother Mochta alive. Once the thieves had the Holy Relics in their grasp what need would they have of Brother Mochta?’

  ‘Then why take him in the first place?’ Fidelma could not help the response.

  ‘Perhaps to prevent him raising the alarm?’

  ‘They could have left him trussed up in his chamber,’ suggested Eadulf.

  ‘True. But he might have been found earlier than they would wish and so they decided to take him with them. Then the community would spend time searching and allow the thieves time to ride away.’

  ‘I think, my cousin, the Prince of Cnoc Aine, has a good point, Eadulf.’

  Eadulf stared at Fidelma in bewilderment. She was trying to convey something to him by the slight inflection in her tone. She was obviously warning him not to be free with his opposition to the points being made by Finguine.

  ‘Anyway, cousin,’ she went on easily, ‘your theory can only be proved one way or the other, if we find Brother Mochta’s remains in the hills.’

  Finguine drew himself up and his smile was one of painful satisfaction.

  ‘I am afraid that I can now prove that.’

  Eadulf jaw dropped. ‘Do you mean that you have found the remains of Brother Mochta?’

  ‘I do.’

  They greeted the news with some moments of silence.

  ‘Where were the remains found?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘Come, I will show you,’ Finguine replied briskly. ‘One of my men found the grisly thing in the fields not far from here. It was being ravaged by wolves. He brought it here in a sack so that it could be identified. We took it to the apothecary.’

  ‘To Brother Bardan?’

  ‘If he is the apothecary, yes, to him.’

  ‘Has he identified the remains?’

  ‘Not yet. While I was waiting, I came to Mochta’s chamber to see if the scene fitted with my conception of the event.’

  They followed the Prince of Cnoc Aine to the apothecary. Inside one of Finguine’s warriors perched moodily on the edge of a table. Brother Bardan himself was bending over something that had been previously wrapped in sacking. It was laid on the table.

  Brother Bardan glanced at them as they entered with a bleak expression.

  ‘I am afraid there is no doubt,’ he said as if in answer to their unasked question.

  ‘Is it the missing monk?’ Finguine wanted the matter clarified.

  Brother Bardan nodded morosely. ‘This is the forearm of Brother Mochta. It had been severed by wolves. Look at the mark of canine teeth on it.’

  Fidelma set her jaw firmly and moved to his side. She looked down. It was a forearm, torn and blooded. It had been severed at the elbow. The hand was still attached to it. It was a left forearm.

  ‘Well, that solves the mystery of where the poor Brother has vanished too,’ Finguine announced. ‘I think it also proves my point about the theft.’

  Fidelma said nothing. She was still staring at the severed forearm. The she turned, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  ‘Are you sure that you can positively identify this as the remains of Brother Mochta?’ she asked.

  ‘There is no doubt of it, as I have said.’ The apothecary nodded affirmatively.

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’

  ‘I will send some men to scour the hills where it was found,’ Finguine assured the apothecary. ‘We might pick up the trail of the thieves but I doubt it.’

  ‘Let me know if anything else is discovered,’ she requested her cousin as she signalled to Eadulf to follow her.

  ‘Well,’ Eadulf said slowly, once they were on their own, ‘that appears to be that. Now we know what happened to Brother Mochta.’

  ‘No we don’t,’ snapped Fidelma irritably. ‘What has just been confirmed is that Brother Bardán is a liar.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Brother Bardan, a liar?’ Eadulf’s eyebrows shot up expressively.

  ‘How do you deduce that?’

  ‘Brother Bardan identified that arm, positively and without question, as that of Brother Mochta, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Are you saying that he lied? That it was not Mochta and the apothecary knew it?’

  Fidelma stamped her foot in annoyance. ‘Surely you were not misled?’

  Eadulf shook his head, frowning. ‘How can we be sure it was not Brother Mochta’s arm?’

  ‘Which arm was it?’

  ‘The left arm. The left forearm … oh!’

  Eadulf stopped as the realisation struck him. According to the description of Abbot Ségdae, Mochta’s left forearm had carried the tattoo mark — the bird — exactly as it was on the forearm of the body at Cashel. Brother Bardán must have known that the tattoo would have been on that arm.

  ‘So he deliberately lied,’ affirmed Fidelma.

  ‘But why? And whose arm was it?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Doubtless it was the arm of the poor driver of Samradán … after the wolves had done with him. But why the lie? Is it to stop us pursuing the missing Brother Mochta further? Can Mochta be the same person as the Cashel assassin? More questions. But, at last, I believe that we are getting somewhere. Come on.’

  She hurried off down the corridor and came to a halt back where they had started from, at Brother Mochta’s cell door. This time, however, she did not go to that room but, glancing round to ensure they were unobserved, she tried the next door — the door of Brother Bardán’s room. It was open, of course, and she pulled Eadulf into the room after her.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ whispered the astonished Saxon.

  ‘I am not sure. Just stand by the door and let me know if anyone comes.’

  The room was sparsely fitted. A bed, table and a chair; hooks forhanging clothing. There were two spare habits, a woollen cloak for winter, a leather hat to keep off the rain, two extra pairs of sandals, one studded with nails and stained green — shoes that the apothecary doubtless used on his field trips to gather wild herbs. There were two books on the table. Both were on herbal cures. In fact, when she looked closely, she found that the second one was in the process of being written. Most of its pages were untouched and pristine. The early pages were written in an interesting style.

  She suddenly recalled something and reaching into her marsupium pulled out some of the paper which she had found in Brother Mochta’s cell. The notes from the ‘Annals of Imleach’. Both were written in the same hand. Had Brother Mochta been helping
Brother Bardan write his medical treatise? If so, that showed that the two men were close enough; and close enough for Brother Bardan not to have made a mistake about the identification of the forearm.

  There was apparently little else of interest in the room.

  Then some instinct made her get to her knees and glance under the wooden cot that served as a bed. There were a couple of dark objects under there. She reached forward. First she pulled out a coiled rope. Then she found a lantern, its wick trimmed and filled with oil. The third item was a sacullus of large proportions. It was filled with items of food and a small amphora of wine.

  Fidelma stared at the sacullus and its contents for a moment or two before nodding grimly to herself as if she had expected to find the objects.

  She replaced the items carefully before rejoining Eadulf. Without exchanging a word they passed out into the corridor. Eadulf followed Fidelma silently as she walked along the corridor and through a door which led into the cloisters around the courtyard, on the far side of which was the guests’ hostel. On the other side was the abbey chapel and on the third side was an entrance which led into a small garden area.

  ‘That is where Brother Bardán grows some of his herbs,’ she announced. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’

  Still without speaking, Eadulf followed her across the courtyard and through the arched area into the small herb garden.

  ‘Ah!’

  Fidelma went directly to a small wooden door on the far side. It was securely bolted and quickly she pulled back the bolts and opened the door.

  ‘Where does it lead?’ Eadulf was moved to break his silence as curiosity got the better of him.

  Fidelma stood aside silently.

  Eadulf saw that beyond the door was nothing but a pleasant field and a fringe of yew-trees beyond. The door led directly out of the abbey on the side facing away from the township. Fidelma then shut the door and pushed back the bolts. Suddenly she bent forward with a slight gasp. She reached out a finger to touch something on the gatepost.

  Eadulf looked at it carefully over her shoulder.

  ‘It looks like dried blood.’ he offered. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means,’ replied Fidelma, straightening up, ‘that we shall have to sit up tonight and watch the activities of our friend Brother Bardan. I think I am beginning to see some pattern emerging.’

  ‘Something that you can share with me?’ Eadulf felt somewhat peeved by her mysterious attitude.

  ‘In time,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps we should get some rest before the evening meal. After that, it may be a long night.’

  As they came out of the herb garden, she gazed around the cloistered courtyard as if searching for something. Then she indicated a small alcove.

  ‘That is a good position from which to watch. At night it will be in shadows and there is a seat there so that we can make our surveillance of the courtyard in comfort.’

  ‘But what are we watching for?’

  ‘Brother Bardan. Who else?’

  The bell was tolling for the last service of the day. Eadulf was hurrying along the corridor to the chapel. Fidelma had decided to take up her self-imposed lookout duty but insisted that Eadulf joined the community so that their absence was not made too obvious. If anyone asked where she was he was to say that she was weary and had retired early. Eadulf was actually pleased to attend the service for he had been feeling guilty about missing so many observances since he had arrived at the abbey.

  He joined the line of Brothers entering the chapel stalls. He found a suitable place in a pew in front of the high altar and went down on his knees, hands extended before him in order to commence his prayers. He opened his mouth but the words did not emerge. Instead he swallowed hard.

  He had noticed Brother Bardán in a small alcove at the side of the chapel some distance away. Brother Bardán seemed to be talking earnestly, his hand moving to emphasise whatever point he was making. He turned a little to one side to reveal the person with whom he was so animatedly conversing. It was the recognition which caused Eadulf to swallow hard.

  It was Fidelma’s cousin, Finguine, the Prince of Cnoc Aine. Therewas nothing suspicious in the mere fact that Brother Bardan was speaking with the Prince of Cnoc Aine but it was the manner in which he was doing so that seemed odd. They were smiling together as if they were sharing some conspiratorial joke.

  Brother Bardan must have realised that the service was about to begin because he said something to Finguine, turned, and walked rapidly away along the side aisle of the chapel, his hands folded before him, his head lowered on his chest, in an attitude of meditation.

  Finguine hesitated, glanced round as if he wanted to ensure that he was unobserved, and then exited from the abbey chapel through a side door.

  Abbot Ségdae began the service.

  Eadulf almost cursed. He quickly genuflected in penance. If only he had spotted Brother Bardan and Finguine before he had taken his seat. Now he could not leave the chapel until the service was over. He would have given anything to know what was being discussed.

  The rituals of the ceremony passed with interminable slowness. Finally, when he was able to leave the chapel, he went immediately to where Fidelma was sitting in the dark shadows of the alcove in the cloister courtyard. Glancing swiftly round and seeing that there was no one else about, he ducked into the alcove. Hurriedly, he told her what he had seen.

  She took it calmly.

  ‘This is the second time that Brother Bardan and Finguine have been in conversation together. Once at Nion’s house and now here. Nothing wrong in that but they seem rather conspiratorial. That and Brother Bardán’s lie about Mochta makes it a matter of curiosity.’

  ‘What shall we do, then?’ asked Eadulf.

  Fidelma looked up and smiled in the darkness.

  ‘We shall proceed with our plan. We will remain here and see if my suspicion is justified. I think that Brother Bardán might visit his herb garden before the night has passed.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ moaned Eadulf, not for the first time. ‘He will not come now. It is too late.’

  They were still seated in the alcove in the courtyard. It was chilly and Eadulf had long since given up trying to count the hours which must have passed since the midnight bell had tolled and a silence had settled throughout the abbey. Hours must have passed. It must be time for the same bell to announce the hour for lauds? A new day was soon to dawn.

  ‘Quiet. You must have patience,’ replied Fidelma.

  ‘But I am tired. I am cold. I want my bed. I want my sleep and …’

  He was cut short as Fidelma dug him sharply in the ribs.

  Someone was coming. They could see the dark shadow passing through the cloisters before it crossed the moon-dappled courtyard. The figure carried a lamp but it was not lit. Fidelma noted with satisfaction the large sacullus and rope slung across the back of the figure. The head was thrust forward, as if the person was keeping their eyes on the ground to search for obstacles in the darkness.

  Unerringly, the figure headed through the gloom towards the arch which separated the cloistered area from the herb garden and passed through. Fidelma rose immediately, almost dragging Eadulf with her. Together they went cat-like through the cloisters towards the entrance to the herb garden. They arrived just in time to see the figure pausing by the gate which opened on the outside of the abbey. They could hear the gentle scraping of bolts being drawn back. There was a slight whine of the metal hinges as the door opened and then shut.

  Fidelma whispered immediately: ‘Quickly! We must not lose sight of him.’

  Eadulf followed her, protesting in a hoarse whisper. He was not prepared to venture out of the protection of the abbey and was not equipped with his pilgrim’s staff. He had grown fond of it since his encounter with the wolf. But he had not thought to bring it on this nocturnal vigil.

  ‘Are you sure that it is Brother Bardán? Do we have to follow outside the abbey? What of the wolves?’

  Fidelma did not
deign to reply but was already crossing the herb garden with a rapidity that astonished Eadulf for he had to trot to keep up with her. The gate was unbolted and so they passed quickly through into the darkness of the countryside beyond.

  The moon was still up, round and almost full, so the light outside the shadows of the abbey was almost twilight rather than the dark of night. There was not a cloud in the sky and the dark blue of the canopy of the sky was dotted with a myriad of twinkling lights. Yet low down on the tips of the eastern hills there was a lightness which presaged the approach of dawn. Fidelma drew Eadulf back into the shadows of the abbey’s wall and pointed.

  Brother Bardán’s figure could clearly be seen now, striding rapidly across the field some distance away. He kept his head forward and was moving at a rapid pace. Fidelma looked vainly for some cover and realised that there was none. Brother Bardán was moving away from any trees or buildings and across a heather-strewn field.

  With a sigh, Fidelma motioned Eadulf to follow her and beganto hurry after the quickly disappearing figure. Had Brother Bardan glanced round, Fidelma did not doubt that they would have been spotted and she had no good reason to offer why they should be following the apothecary.

  After a while it became apparent that Brother Bardán’s path was leading him to a dark silhouette of a building in the corner of a large field which stood beyond the fringe of yew-trees. It was a small stone chapel. It stood in darkness and all they could make out was that it was no more than about fifteen feet in height and twenty feet in length, a tiny oratory rather than a chapel. It appeared to be made of stone and the walls seemed to merge into the roof.

  Brother Bardan had disappeared into the building.

  Fidelma halted and glanced about her in the moonlight.

  ‘If he comes out, he will surely spot us,’ Eadulf offered, stating the obvious.

  Fidelma pointed to a cluster of trees which stood a short distance away.

  ‘That is our only cover. We will wait behind the trees until he comes out.’