Writ in Stone

by Cora Harrison

  ‘We are both here, Brehon,’ said an elderly woman from the back of the church. ‘My lady told us to go to church and she would look after the tánaiste.’

  So Ellice had stayed with her sick husband. That was not like her, thought Mara.

  ‘Father Peter, could you go and make sure that the tánaiste and his wife are well and have not been alarmed by any noise,’ she said aloud. She wished that she could go herself, but there was more that she had to do here. Strange that the noise and the abrupt cessation of the bell had not brought Ellice to the window; Conor, of course, was probably sunken into a poppy syrup-induced sleep.

  Mara waited until the abbot had ceremoniously escorted Father Peter to the door leading to the cloisters. He unlocked it, then relocked it but did not resume his seat. No doubt he expected Father Peter to return within a few minutes. Mara noticed how he and Father Denis seemed to exchange a quick glance. She beckoned to the rows at the back of the church.

  ‘Please come forward everyone and stand here behind the chairs. Everyone keep in the same order.’

  That was better: the candlelight illuminated all faces.

  ‘Now I would like everyone to think carefully and tell me if anyone in the church arrived late or if anyone left their place for any reason?’ She looked carefully around. As far as she could see, there was no uneasiness on any face. Patrick had left his position by the west door and had walked up quietly following the others. He also was scanning faces, she noticed.

  ‘I saw no one arrive late, or move once the service had begun,’ said Ardal solemnly and the other guests murmured an agreement.

  ‘And no one moved at this end of the church, Brehon,’ said Brigid with a quick toss of her head meant to emphasize her superior position to the other servants.

  That was evidence worth having, thought Mara. There would be more chance for a rat, crossing a moonlit yard, to evade a watching owl than for anything to escape Brigid’s eye. So that meant that everyone, except Ellice, was accounted for.

  ‘So who tolled the passing bell?’ she asked. No sooner was the question uttered than suddenly she realized how this attempt at murder could have taken place.

  ‘I did, Brehon,’ said a voice and a very young monk stepped forward. He looked white and shaken and Mara gave him a quick smile and a nod.

  ‘Show me where you stood,’ she said encouragingly and when he obediently took up his position with his hand on the bell rope she exclaimed quickly: ‘Don’t pull the rope!’

  They all looked at her with puzzled faces. She glanced over at Turlough and saw him nod his head. He at least understood her meaning. He was standing with his back to the wall, with the two bodyguards flanking either side. She wished he were back in Thomond, or even within the walls of Cahermacnaghten Law School. Certainly there was no safety for him here until the assassin was caught.

  There was a tap at the cloisters’ door and the abbot opened it to admit the small, thin figure of Father Peter. He came straight across to Mara.

  ‘The tánaiste is sleeping peacefully and his lady wife is with him,’ he said to her and gave a brief bow in the direction of the king.

  ‘Father Abbot, will you permit Father Peter to show me the bell loft?’ she said. Without waiting for an answer, she took a large candle from a side altar and walked across to the stairs where she stood waiting for the little monk as he came scurrying across the tiles with a deprecating glance at his superior.

  ‘This way, Brehon,’ he said aloud as he led the way up the wooden staircase. He stopped for an instant at the top of the stairs. To their left was a passage. Mara moved along it and saw that it connected to the night stairs leading to the dormitories. She grimaced. This was going to make her work more difficult. She had hoped that the mason or the carpenter might be able to tell her if anyone had mounted the stairs from the church to the bell loft at some time during the afternoon, but now it looked possible for anyone to get there in secrecy. However, it also showed how someone could have got into the church during the service. Once again the picture of Ellice came into her mind. She returned to Father Peter.

  ‘Were they both there?’ she whispered.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. ‘They were both there, Brehon. There were no signs that she had been out. I had a good look at her gown and there were no wet marks on the hem of it.’

  Mara smiled in the darkness. There was no reason to regret that she could not go herself; Father Peter made a worthy deputy.

  ‘It must have been something to do with the bell,’ she said quietly and he nodded.

  ‘You think the rope dislodged the stone?’

  Mara shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Otherwise the stone would have fallen immediately. I wondered about the vibrations.’

  The monk nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’d say that you have the right of it. Sometimes the whole tower seems to sway with the sound of the bell. Anyway, you can see for yourself.’

  It was obvious once Mara lifted her candle. A crude slope had been built with a plank propped up on a piece of wood. The rounded lump of limestone had been placed on it, probably carried up from the church, and once the tolling of the bell had begun then, sooner or later, the piece of limestone would start to roll.

  ‘Carefully done,’ said Father Peter thoughtfully. ‘It’s strange, though . . .’

  Mara looked at him. ‘What’s strange?’ She knew what he was going to say – it had immediately struck her.

  ‘I would say,’ the monk’s eyes were hooded and his thin lips were pulled in over the toothless gums as if he sucked on the words before delivering them, ‘I would say that the stone was intended to fall on your chair rather than the king’s.’ He let a silence elapse before adding, ‘And, of course, that is exactly where it did land.’

  ‘Why should anyone want to kill me?’

  The monk smiled, a toothless smile full of ancient wisdom which only very young babies and very old men seemed to possess.

  ‘Perhaps someone is afraid that you know the truth,’ he suggested.

  Mara said nothing, but her answering smile was rueful and it betrayed the confusion in her mind. Father Peter tilted his head to one side observing her with small bright eyes.

  ‘The truth will come to you,’ he said softly. ‘Trust to God; He will open your eyes.’ He looked at her keenly and then added: ‘Your mind may already hold the key and some word, some sign, will reveal all to you. But in the meantime, keep yourself safe. The enemy is within the fold; the killing will not stop until all is uncovered.’ He led the way down the staircase, saying aloud over his shoulder: ‘The church has been open all day and people have been coming and going saying prayers at the shrine of the king’s ancestor. No bells were rung all day so it will be impossible to find who could have placed that stone ready for the first vibration of the bell to set it rolling.’

  Mara smiled to herself. The words would have been clearly audible to everyone in the church. Father Peter was sending a clear message that no single person could be suspected of this latest deed. However, she would have to go through the motions. Her experience had taught her that the more questions that are asked the more chance there was of uncovering the truth. Her father, Brehon of the Burren for over twenty years, had a favourite saying quoted from the wise old judge, Fíthail: ‘Without knowing the truth a Brehon stands on water’. Her own safety was of small consequence; the essential was to uphold the law and keep the peace of the kingdom.

  Rapidly she crossed the floor and went to stand beside Turlough. He was safe where he was, flanked by his two devoted bodyguards, with his back to the wall and she had no wish for him to move.

  ‘Thank you, Conall,’ she murmured as he moved to make room for her and then in her clear, carrying voice, she said: ‘Move forward, everyone. Please stand here around me.’

  There were about fifty people present, she decided, doing a few rapid sums in her head: sixteen choir monks, about twenty lay brothers and servants, and then there were the guests and their servant
s as well as the two workmen.

  ‘Anyone who has not entered the church between the end of dinner and the beginning of vespers, please move back,’ she said.

  There was a certain amount of shuffling and then the lay brothers under the eye of their abbot stepped back in one solid body. No doubt they were kept busy about their work and would have no time for odd visits to the church. These were followed by about half of the choir monks and then Finn O’Connor and his wife moved back, accompanied by Garrett MacNamara. Ardal stayed firmly in his position, as did Teige O’Brien and his wife. Banna visibly wavered. No doubt she was weighing up the consequences between appearing cold-hearted and neglectful of her husband’s remains and the dangers of being implicated in a murder attempt. Mara could see her cast a suspicious eye at the blooming face of Frann, peeping out from her fur-lined hood, but Frann just smiled cheerfully and stayed where she was. Banna gave her a scornful glance and then, with a heavy sigh, moved away and sat down on the nearest chair. Frann promptly took another chair and placed her hand ostentatiously on her belly. The abbot turned away distastefully and Mara smothered a smile.

  ‘So neither Banna nor Frann visited the church,’ she remarked aloud.

  Frann nodded and Banna stared at her rival with dislike. ‘That girl did go out, though. I saw her from the window.’

  ‘Did you go out, Frann?’ asked Mara.

  Frann nodded. ‘In my condition I have to take a short walk twice a day; the physician advises it.’ She smiled maliciously, observing Banna from the corner of her eye.

  ‘But you did not go into the church?’

  Frann shook her head so vigorously that the hood tumbled back and her black shining hair fell in loose curls over her face.

  ‘She walked around the cloisters with me, Brehon,’ said Ardal. His fair, slightly freckled skin flushed with embarrassment and his eyes slid away from her enquiring glance and rested for a moment on Frann.

  Well, well, thought Mara, that is interesting. I wonder is Ardal smitten at last after all those years when every father with a marriageable daughter, in the three kingdoms, has been angling for his attention?

  ‘And you saw Frann go back indoors without visiting the church, Ardal?’ she asked.

  He bowed. ‘That is correct, Brehon. I visited the church myself afterwards to say a prayer for the husband of my cousin.’

  ‘I see. And was there anyone else in the church, while you were there?’

  ‘No one, Brehon,’ said Ardal. ‘The church was quite empty,’ he added with his usual precision.

  Mara nodded. ‘Father Abbot?’

  ‘I went in twice,’ said the abbot briefly. ‘Once to talk with the mason and once to say a prayer.’

  ‘And was there anyone there the second time?’

  ‘No,’ he said with emphasis. ‘The church was empty and I went to find Master Mason. I found him in the lay dormitory.’

  Probably taking a quick drink from his brocóit flagon, thought Mara, but she wasn’t interested in a wandering mason’s drink habit. If the abbot had gone up the night stairs, it would only have taken him an extra minute to go into the bell loft and set up the deadly trap. He had spent all of his life, from the time he was not much more than a boy, in this abbey. He, of all people, would know the effect of the vibrations of the bell once it had begun to toll.

  ‘Did you visit the bell tower?’ she enquired innocently.

  He frowned heavily and tried the effect of an icy stare on her. A silence ensued. Mara raised her eyebrows slightly.

  ‘No, I did not,’ he said eventually.

  Mara glanced over at the mason and the carpenter, who were waiting patiently beside one of the pillars to her left. The carpenter was looking bored, obviously waiting for this to finish so that he could get on with his work; the mason, however, was looking at the abbot. Again, like earlier in the day, there was that strange, slightly appraising look of a man who knew more than he was saying. She addressed them both.

  ‘You would both have been working here throughout the day,’ she said, watching their faces carefully. ‘You would have seen if anyone came into the church. Could you turn around now and tell me if any of those who have withdrawn entered the church at any time between dinner and vespers.’

  The mason shook his head, but the carpenter roused himself to scan the faces of the lay brothers.

  ‘That young brother, there,’ he said, pointing, ‘he came over to tell us that the cook had a warm drink waiting for us in the kitchen. You see, Brehon, our hands get very cold working here hour after hour so we take five minutes in the warmth and get the feeling back into our fingers. The abbot permits that.’ He was fluent and confident and the finger he pointed unwaveringly indicated Brother Francis.

  ‘Could you step forward, please, brother,’ said Mara. She waited until he had done so before proceeding. ‘You are Brother Francis from the abbey of Knockmoy, are you not?’ She decided not to mention that he was an O’Kelly, one of a clan that was at war with King Turlough Donn O’Brien.

  He gave a half-nod and a quick glance at the abbot. Mara slid her eyes in the direction also. The abbot was looking annoyed, but that was a fairly permanent expression with him. He did not look ill at ease, she decided. She turned back to the carpenter.

  ‘Master Carpenter, can you remember whether the young brother accompanied you back to the kitchen?’

  ‘No, he didn’t, Brehon. I remember that when he delivered his message that he knelt down in front of the altar and crossed himself.’

  ‘A perfectly proper action for a brother.’ The abbot’s intervention was delivered in dry, measured tones but his glance at Brother Francis was curiously intent, almost, thought Mara, as if some message was delivered.

  ‘And did you go up to the bell tower?’ she continued, looking hard at the young face.

  He shook his head. ‘No, Brehon, I just said a quick prayer and then left. I’m sorry that it escaped my memory.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara continuing to study him. ‘Ah,’ she said as a knock sounded on the door to the cloisters, ‘that will be Fachtnan and Cumhal. Any sign?’ she asked as the two slid past the abbot and entered.

  Fachtnan shook his head, ‘No, Brehon,’ he replied. ‘Only the tánaiste and his wife are in the guest house; the rest of the buildings are empty.’

  Mara nodded: ‘Perhaps, Father Abbot,’ she said politely, ‘everyone who was not in the church between vespers and dinner could now disperse at your bidding and those others, who did visit the church during that time, could perhaps be questioned in your parlour by my assistant and my colleague, the Brehon from the Tyrone. However, I will ask that no one leave the precincts of the abbey without my express permission. Hopefully this crime of murder will soon be solved, but in the meantime, all must stay here.’ She could rely on Patrick to keep the abbot sweet, she thought. Shane, she noticed, had already been taken under Brigid’s motherly wing. Without waiting for an answer she walked across to Turlough.

  ‘Stay in the guest house until I arrive,’ she said in a rapid undertone. ‘Keep Fergal and Conall with you at all times. I think we will eat there tonight.’

  ‘You seem to be in more danger than I.’ Turlough looked shaken, she thought, and she hastened to reassure him.

  ‘No, no, I’ll keep Cumhal with me, but I think that was just a case of the stone rolling to the right, and thank God that it did.’

  ‘I always did say that too much church-going was bad for your health,’ said Turlough with a grin. He had obviously believed her reassuring words. He was as brave as a lion, himself, and would face any danger, but a possible danger to Mara had shaken him momentarily. She did not know the truth of that latest planned assignation but she knew that she had to ensure that he was safe. Only her own brains and perhaps some luck could bring a happy conclusion to this Christmas-tide mystery.

  Mara watched the church clear of people. She said no more until they had all gone, except Cumhal, who in response to a quick nod from her waited discreetly at the
end of the church, then she turned to the mason. The carpenter had picked up the splintered chair and had carried it to his workbench close to where Cumhal stood. She had no further questions for him, but it occurred to her that there was a question that she had not asked, a question to which the mason would have an answer.

  ‘This block of limestone that fell from the bell tower, Master Mason, how heavy would that have been?’

  He looked back at her impassively.

  ‘Not very heavy, Brehon.’

  ‘Not for you, perhaps, but could a woman have carried it upstairs?’

  He shrugged and turned his face away, sorting through some unworked pieces of limestone. He probably did not know the answer to that question, she thought. His muscles would have been trained by this work from the time that he was a boy; a weight that would be impossible for a woman would be of little consequence to him. There was only one way to find out: she came near to him, bent down and picked up a block similar in size to the one that had tumbled down from the bell loft. The weight surprised her, but she staggered off resolutely towards the night stairs.

  ‘No need to carry it up; that stone was up in the bell tower already.’ His voice was so husky that for a moment she could hardly understand the words, but then as their import reached her she thankfully placed the heavy lump on Ardal’s chair and turned back to him.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked.

  He came across the floor, lifting the block from the chair and replacing it as if were feather light, before answering.

  ‘I know that piece of limestone,’ he said with a brief glance over to where the smashed remains still lay on top of the splintered chair.

  Mara’s eyes followed his. Her attention had been fixed on the broken chair earlier and she had not scrutinized the stone that had caused the damage, but now she could see a rounded forehead, a carved eyelid and she realized that it was a large head.

  ‘St Bernard,’ said the mason. ‘You find him a lot in Cistercian abbeys. The wooden bell tower was only put up fifty years ago. That head was probably moved then and never replaced. The tower has not been finished; the plans are to build it from stone and to extend it down here to ground level. The head will probably be replaced when that happens.’