The Mammoth Book of Classical Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  The Lord Chamberlain kissed Lady Anna’s cold forehead.

  THE POISONED CHALICE

  Peter Tremayne

  With this story we conclude our journey through the ancient world. Peter Tremayne has written a long series of novels and a dozen or more short stories featuring his Irish investigator, Sister Fidelma. The first novel was Absolution By Murder (1994). The events of the following story take place just before the time of the second novel, Shroud for an Archbishop (1995). Tremayne shows that law and order continued in Rome after the fall of the Empire. By the time of the setting of this story, in the year AD 664, Italy had come under the power of the Lombard kings who held an uneasy alliance with the rising power of the Papacy. As one empire fell, so another rose.

  The last thing Sister Fidelma of Kildare had expected, during her pilgrimage to the Eternal City of Rome, was to see murder committed in front of her eyes in a quiet little backstreet church.

  As any citizen of Rome would have expected, Sister Fidelma, like every discerning barbarus on their first visit, was duly impressed by the immensity of the city. As neither a Hellene nor a Roman, the term ‘barbarian’ was, however, a pedantry when it applied to the young Irish religieuse. Her Latin was more polished than most of Rome’s citizens’ and her literary knowledge was certainly more extensive than many scholars’. She was the product of Ireland’s distinguished colleges, which were so renowned throughout Europe that in Durrow alone there were to be found the sons and daughters of kings and princelings from no less than eighteen different countries. An education in Ireland was a distinction that even the scions of the Anglo-Saxon kings would boast of.

  Fidelma had come to Rome to present the Regula coenabialis Cill Dara, the Rule of the House of St Brigid, in Kildare, to be approved and blessed by the Holy Father at the Lateran Palace. She had been waiting to see an official of the Papal household for several days now. To while away the time, she, like the many thousands of other pilgrims who poured into the city, spent her time in touring the ancient monuments and tombs of the city.

  From the xenodochia, the small hostel for foreign pilgrims close by the oratory of the Blessed Prassede, where she was lodging, she would walk down the hill to the Lateran Palace each morning to see whether she was to be received that day. She was becoming irritated as the days passed by without word. But there were so many people, from so many different countries – some she had not known existed – crowding into the palace to beg audience that she stoically controlled her frustration. Each day she would leave the palace in resignation to set off in search of some new point of interest in the city.

  That morning she had chosen to visit the small ecclesia dedicated to the Blessed Hippolytus, which lay only a short walk from her hostel. Her purpose was for no other reason than the fact that it held the tomb of Hippolytus. She knew that her mentor, Abbot Laisran of Durrow, was an admirer of the work of the early Church Father and she had once struggled through the text of Philosophoumena, to debate with Laisran on this refutation of the Gnostic teachings. She knew that Laisran would be impressed if she could boast a visit to the very tomb of Hippolytus.

  A mass was being celebrated as she took her place at the back of the tiny ecclesia, a small place which could hold no more than two or three dozen people. Even so, there were only half-a-dozen people scattered about with bowed heads, hearing the priest intoning the solemn words of the ritual.

  Fidelma examined her co-religionists with interest. The sights and sounds of Rome were still new and intriguing to her. She was attracted by a young girl in the forefront of the worshippers. Fidelma could see only her profile emerging from a hood which respectfully hid the rest of her obviously well-shaped head. It was a delicate, finely chiselled, attractive face. Fidelma could appreciate its discreet beauty. Next to her was a young man in the robes of a religieux. Even though Fidelma could not see his face fully, she saw that he was good-looking and seemed to reflect something of the girl’s features. Next to him stood a lean, weather-tanned young man, dressed in the clothes of a seaman but in the manner she had often seen adopted by sailors from Gaul. This young man did not look at all content with life. He was scowling; his expression fixed. Behind these three stood a short, stocky man in the rich robes of a senior religieux. Fidelma had seen enough of the abbots and bishops of Rome to guess that he was of such rank. In another corner was a nervous-looking, swarthy man, corpulent and richly attired and looking every inch a prosperous merchant. At the back of the church, stood the final member of the congregation, a young man attired in the uniform of the custodes of Rome, the guardians of law and order in the city. He was darkly handsome, with a somewhat arrogant manner, as, perhaps, befitted his soldierly calling.

  The deacon, assisting in the offering, rang a small bell and the officiating priest raised the chalice of wine and intoned: ‘The blood of Christ!’ before moving forward to join the deacon, who had now taken up a silver plate on which the consecrated Host lay.

  The small congregation moved forward to take their places in line before the priest. It was the handsome young religieux who took the first position, receiving the Host, placing it in his mouth and moving forward to receive the wine from the chalice held in the hands of the priest. As he turned away, his young female companion moved forward, being the next in line, to receive the sacrament.

  Even as the religieux turned back to the congregation, his face suddenly distorted, he began to choke, his mouth gaping open, his tongue thrusting obscenely forward. A hand raised to his throat as the colour of his agonized features went from red to blue. The eyes were wide and staring. Sounds came from him that reminded Fidelma of the squealing of a pig about to be slaughtered.

  Before the horrified gaze of the rest of the congregation, the young man fell to the floor, his body writhing and threshing for several moments. Then it was suddenly still and quiet.

  There was no sound for a moment or two. Everyone stood immobile with shock.

  A moment later, the shriek of the young woman rent the air. She threw herself forward onto the body. She was on her knees crying and screaming in a strange language made incomprehensible by her distress.

  As no one seemed capable of moving, Sister Fidelma came quickly forward.

  ‘Do not touch the wine nor the bread,’ she instructed the priest, who was still holding the chalice in his hands. ‘This man has been poisoned.’

  She felt, rather than saw, the heads of the people turn to stare at her. She glanced round observing expressions ranging from bewilderment to surprise.

  ‘Who are you to give orders, sister?’ snapped a rough voice. It was the arrogant young custos pushing forward.

  Fidelma raised her glinting green eyes to meet his dark suspicious ones.

  ‘I hold no authority here, if that is what you mean. I am a stranger in this city. But in my own country I am a dálaigh, an advocate of the law courts, and know the effects of virulent poison when I see it.’

  ‘As you say, you hold no authority here,’ snapped the custos, clearly a young man who felt the honour of his rank and nationality. ‘And I . . .’

  ‘The sister is right, nevertheless, custos.’

  The voice that interrupted was quiet, modulated but authoritative. It was the short, stocky man who spoke.

  The young guard looked disconcerted at this opposition.

  ‘I do hold authority here,’ continued the short man, turning to Fidelma. ‘I am the Abbot Miseno and this ecclesia is part of my jurisdiction.’

  Without waiting for the guard’s response, Abbot Miseno glanced at the officiating priest and deacon. ‘Do as the sister says, Father Cornelius. Put down the wine and bread and ensure no one else touches it.’

  Automatically, the priest obeyed, accompanied by the deacon, who placed his tray of bread carefully on the altar.

  Abbot Miseno glanced down to the sobbing girl.

  ‘Who was this man, daughter?’ he demanded gently, bending down to place a hand on her shoulder.

  The girl raised tear
-stained eyes to him.

  ‘Is he . . .?’

  Miseno bent further to place his fingers against the pulse in the man’s neck. The action was really unnecessary. One look at the twisted, frozen features would have been enough to confirm that the young religieux was beyond all human aid. Nevertheless, the action was probably designed as a reassurance for the girl. The abbot shook his head.

  ‘He is dead, daughter,’ he confirmed. ‘Who was he?’

  The girl began sobbing uncontrollably again and could not answer.

  ‘His name was Docco. He was from Pouancé in Gaul.’

  It was the young Gaulish seaman, who had been standing with the religieux and the girl, who answered him.

  ‘And you are?’ asked Abbot Miseno.

  ‘My name is Enodoc. I was a friend of Docco’s and also from Gaul. The girl is Egeria, Docco’s sister.’

  The Abbot Miseno stood for a moment, his head bowed in thought. Then he glanced up and surveyed Sister Fidelma with some speculation in his eyes.

  ‘Would you come with me a moment, sister?’

  He turned and led the way into a corner of the church, out of earshot of the others. Fidelma followed him in curiosity.

  In the corner the abbot turned, keeping his voice low.

  ‘I studied at Bobbio, which was founded fifty years ago by Columban and his Irish clerics. I learnt much about your country there. I have heard about the function of your law system and how a dálaigh works. Are you truly such a one?’

  ‘I am a qualified advocate of the law courts of my country,’ replied Fidelma simply, without any false pride, wondering what the abbot was driving at.

  ‘And your Latin is fluent,’ observed Miseno absently.

  Fidelma waited patiently.

  ‘It is clear that this monk, Docco, was poisoned,’ went on Miseno after a moment’s pause. ‘Was this an accident or was there some deliberate plot to kill him? I think it behoves us to find out as soon as possible. If this story went abroad I shudder to think what interpretation would be given to it. Why, it might even stop people coming forward to receive the blessed sacrament. I would be grateful, sister, if you would use your knowledge to discover the truth of this matter before we have to report this to higher authorities.’

  ‘That will not please the young custos,’ Fidelma pointed out, with a slight gesture towards the impatient young guard. ‘He clearly thinks that he is better suited for this task.’

  ‘He has no authority here. I have. What do you say?’

  ‘I will make inquiries, abbot, but I cannot guarantee any result,’ Fidelma replied.

  The abbot looked woeful for a moment and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  ‘The culprit must be one of this company. You are trained in such detection. If you could do your best . . .?’

  ‘Very well. But I am also one of this company. How can you be sure that I am not responsible?’

  Abbot Miseno looked startled for a moment. Then he smiled broadly.

  ‘You entered the ecclesia towards the end of the service and stood at the back. How could you have placed the poison in the bread or wine while it was on the altar before the eyes of us all?’

  ‘True enough. But what of the others? Were they all here throughout the service?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think so.’

  ‘Including yourself?’

  The rotund abbot smiled wryly.

  ‘You may also count me among your suspects until you have gained knowledge to the contrary.’

  Fidelma inclined her head.

  ‘Firstly, then, I need to check how this poison was administered.’

  ‘I will inform the impatient young custos that he must be respectful to you and obey your judgements.’

  They returned to the group standing awkwardly around the body of the dead Gaul, whose head was still being cradled in the arms of his sobbing sister.

  The abbot cleared his throat.

  ‘I have asked the sister to conduct an inquiry into the cause of this death,’ he began without preamble. ‘She is eminently qualified to do so. I trust you will all,’ he paused slightly, and let his eyes dwell on the arrogant young custos, ‘cooperate with her in this matter for it has my blessing and ecclesiastical authority.’

  There was a silence. Some glances of bemusement were cast towards her.

  Fidelma stepped forward.

  ‘I would like you all to return to the positions you were occupying before this happened.’ She smiled gently down at the girl. ‘You do not have to, if you wish, but there is nothing that you can do for your brother except truthfully answer the questions that I shall ask you.’

  The Gaul, Enodoc, bent forward to raise the young girl to her feet, coaxing her away from the body of her brother, then gently guided her back to her place. There was a reluctant shuffling as the rest of the congregation complied.

  Fidelma moved forward to the altar. She bent to the silver plate with its pieces of bread, the Host, and taking a piece sniffed at it suspiciously. She cautiously examined the rest of the bread. There was nothing apparently amiss with it. She turned to the chalice still full of the Eucharist wine and sniffed. She could not quite place the odour. However, it was bitter and even its smell caught at the back of her throat, making her gasp and cough sharply.

  ‘It is as I thought,’ she announced, ‘the wine has been poisoned. I do not know what poison it is but the fumes are self-evident. It is highly dangerous and you have all seen its instant effect so I should not have to warn you further.’

  She turned and sought out the young guard.

  ‘Bring two stools and place them . . .’ she turned and sought out an isolated corner of the ecclesia, ‘place them over there. Then go and stand by the door and prevent anyone entering or leaving until I call for you.’

  The young warrior looked outraged and glanced towards the abbot. Abbot Miseno merely gestured with a quick motion of his hand for the young man to comply.

  ‘I will speak with you first, deacon,’ Fidelma said, turning towards the spot where the guard had placed the chairs.

  Once seated Fidelma examined the deacon. He was not more than twenty years old. A youth with dark hair and a rather ugly face, the eyes seeming too close together and the brows heavy. His heavy jowl was blue with badly shaved stubble.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘I am Tullius.’

  ‘How long have you served here?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘As deacon, it would be your job to prepare the wine and bread for the blessing. Is this so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you do so today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about the wine.’

  The deacon seemed disconcerted.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Tell me about the wine in the chalice. Where did it come from, how was it poured and whether it was left unguarded at any time?’

  ‘The wine is bought locally. We keep several amphorae below the ecclesia, in the vaults, where it is stored. This morning I went down into the vaults and filled a jug. Then, when I observed the numbers attending the service, I poured the wine into the chalice for the blessing. This is the usual custom. The same procedure is made for the bread. Once the wine and bread are blessed and the transubstantiation occurs then no piece of the Host nor of the blood of Christ must be discarded. It must all be consumed.’

  Among the Irish churches, the taking of the bread and wine was regarded merely as a symbolic gesture in remembrance of the Christ. Rome, however, had started to maintain that the blessing actually changed the substances into the literal flesh and blood of Christ. Fidelma’s sceptical smile was not derogatory to the new doctrine but a reflection as to how the poisoned wine could possibly be regarded as the physical blood of the Saviour. And who, she wondered, would now volunteer to consume it?

  ‘So, Tullius, you poured the wine from the jug into the chalice once you had ascertained how many people were attending the service?’


  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Where is this jug?’

  ‘In the sacristy.’

  ‘Take me there and show me.’

  The young deacon rose and led the way to a door behind the altar. This was an apartment of the ecclesia where the sacred utensils and vestments of the priest were kept.

  Fidelma peered around the small room. It was no larger than six feet wide and twelve feet in length. A second doorway, leading to a flight of stone steps descending into the gloom of the vaults, stood almost behind the door which gave ingress into the ecclesia itself. At the far end of the sacristy stood a third door, with a small diamond-shaped window in its centre, which, she could see, led to the outside of the building. Clothes were hung on pegs and there were icons and some books on shelves. There was also a bench with some loaves of bread and a wine jug on it. Fidelma bent over the jug and sniffed. There was no bitter odour. Cautiously, she reached down into the jug with her forefinger and dipped it in the wine. Withdrawing it, she sniffed again and then placed it between her lips. There was no bitter taste. Clearly, then, the wine had been poisoned only after it had been poured into the chalice.

  ‘Tell me, Tullius, the chalice, which was used today, is it the same chalice that is used at every service?’

  The deacon nodded.

  ‘And the chalice was standing here, in the sacristy, when you brought up the jug of wine from the vaults?’

  ‘Yes. I had purchased the bread on my way to the ecclesia, as I usually do. I came in here and placed the loaves ready to cut into small pieces. Then I went down to the vault and poured the jug of wine and brought it up here. I placed it by the chalice. Then Abbot Miseno entered and, as I recall, passed directly through the sacristy to join the congregation. When I judged it was a small attendance, I poured the wine accordingly.’

  Fidelma frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘So Abbot Miseno had already passed into the ecclesia before you poured the wine into the chalice?’

  ‘He had.’