The Sting of Justice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘He must have put it elsewhere,’ he said desperately searching through the documents on the table and then looking up with his face glistening with sweat. ‘It will be in the chest in his bedchamber.’

  Mara looked curiously at Una who turned and led the way in silence, down the steep winding staircase and wordlessly the others followed. Sorley’s chamber was almost as ornate as the great hall above it. The bed was huge, roofed with a tester of the finest silk and at the foot of it was another chest. Once more, Una produced a key. She must have taken them from the body, thought Mara. I cannot imagine Sorley allowing her to have a key to all his chests. She watched Una’s face with interest. She looked to be going through the motions perfunctorily, it was obvious that she did not expect to find the will.

  This chest was less orderly than the one in the gallery and seemed to be mostly bills of sale. Mara went through them rapidly, noting with interest as she did so the high prices that Sorley’s silver seemed to fetch. He must be enormously rich, thought Mara, passing the deeds to Fachtnan to retie; Sorley was definitely even richer than anyone had imagined. Like many silversmiths, he was a moneylender, mostly to denizens of Galway. One bill, though, made her pause, tighten her lips and then replace it with the others. No wonder that Ulick Burke had been willing to put up with the sneers and jibes of the silversmith. He could never have repaid this huge loan; and what on earth was Turlough doing getting himself involved as a guarantor?

  It was not surprising, of course, that Sorley had that much silver to lend. He was immensely rich. There was a huge fortune at stake here. As she took each piece of vellum out, scanned it, then Una took it from her, read it, put it down, and then Rory picked it up and re-examined it. Mara felt amused. The young bard acted as if his own fortune was at sake. The fact that Una was eight or nine years older than he and certainly not attractive would not have deterred him. He now seemed almost beside himself with anguish and when the last document had been removed from the chest, he could contain himself no longer:

  ‘I know there is a will,’ he repeated again and again, and then with rising hope, ‘if you speak to the steward, Brehon, he will tell you. He witnessed the will. And Ulick, he’ll tell you when he returns from Galway.’

  Mara surveyed him with a half smile. She was not a malicious woman, but the memory of Aoife’s agony and the distress of her parents made her feel little sympathy for him.

  ‘You must know that would be no use without the will itself,’ she said quietly. ‘I certainly take your word and that of Una for the fact that a will was made, but Sorley may have changed his mind. People do. He may have burned the will. That is possible.’

  ‘No,’ said Rory emphatically. ‘He would not have done that. He promised me that …’ His voice tailed off and his colour rose slightly. Fachtnan, Mara noticed, was looking at his former friend with amusement so he had obviously grasped the situation. Mara picked up the documents and carefully and tidily replaced them in the chest. Now what comes next, she asked herself and to her surprise, Deirdre was the one who broke that silence.

  ‘He must have burned the will,’ she said flatly, the harsh, hoarse voice sounding alien amidst the scented luxuries of her former husband’s bedchamber.

  ‘Is there anywhere else he could have put it?’ appealed Rory to Una. He did not sound like a lover, more like a man who has been cheated of a prize.

  She did not answer but shook her head.

  ‘Among his garments?’ he pressed.

  ‘No,’ she said and then added almost indifferently, ‘It was there yesterday, in the chest in the gallery. I looked yesterday morning. It was on top of all the other documents.’

  Rory turned to Mara in triumph. ‘Well, there you are, then,’ he said, ‘it has been stolen.’ He stopped and looked at Deirdre and then at Cuan. ‘One of you stole it. It must be one of you. It could be no one else. Nothing else is missing. All the silver is there. No one could get into this castle. It is guarded like a king’s palace.’

  Mara looked politely at Deirdre, her eyebrows slightly raised.

  ‘No,’ said Deirdre firmly. Her eyes were expressionless.

  Mara had not expected her to say otherwise. She looked at Cuan who said nothing.

  ‘I think that I should ask you, Cuan,’ she kept her voice gentle, ‘did you open the chest belonging to your father, in the gallery, and take out anything?’

  Cuan stared at her for a minute and then shook his head. There was a flash of fear in his eyes, but that might not mean anything. He might just be confused and worried by all the undercurrents. Mara stood up and closed the chest. Silently, Una locked it. She seemed to be deep in thought. This time it was Deirdre who led the way back to the great hall and now the position between the two women seemed to have changed. Now Deirdre assumed the manners of mistress of the house and rang the bell for the servant to replenish the logs on the fire.

  ‘Will you have something to drink or to eat?’ she asked Mara.

  ‘No, I thank you,’ said Mara. ‘We must be getting back to Cahermacnaghten.’

  ‘And you?’ Deirdre said, addressing Fachtnan. ‘What about you? At your age boys get hungry quickly. Would you like some honey cakes, some sweetmeats?’

  The change in her was amazing. Even the harsh voice sounded softer and more relaxed. Whatever she was bracing herself for had not happened and now she suddenly seemed to have shed some years. Mara looked at Una and wished she knew what the woman was thinking, what she was going to do. She was obviously intelligent and had grasped the point, even more quickly than Rory, that without a will, there would be no fortune for her. Una met her eyes openly for the first time.

  ‘What is the position now, then?’ she asked gravely, her voice neutral and dispassionate.

  Mara’s respect for her grew. Sorley had obviously passed on his clear-thinking business sense to one of his children.

  ‘The normal position would be that the wife would get one-third of a man’s personal wealth and belongings,’ she said carefully, ‘and then the remaining two-thirds would go to your brother. In this case, there was a divorce so possibly the whole fortune goes to Cuan, but I think that there were some slightly unusual features about this divorce, a certain lack of evidence, and I feel that the case could be reopened. Could I ask you, Deirdre, was your dowry returned to you after the divorce?’

  Deirdre gave a short laugh. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Well, in that case, if it were to be proved that the divorce was illegal, then you would have your dowry or its value returned to you as well as one-third of your husband’s wealth.’

  ‘But there would be nothing for me?’ Una’s gaze was clear and her voice was steady.

  Mara nodded reluctantly, but then added: ‘No, but no doubt your brother will make ample provision of a spre, a dowry for you. This would be customary for a brother who is the sole heir of his father to do for his sister. You certainly should have your share of your father’s goods. I think both your mother and your brother would agree to this.’

  Una looked at her thoughtfully and then turned her eyes on her mother who met the gaze unflinchingly. Neither spoke; Cuan just looked miserably into the fire. He wore the expression of one who had no interest and no understanding of the subject under discussion.

  There was another long silence. I have never met people who said so little, thought Mara. She glanced at Fachtnan. Carefully he made some more notes on the vellum and in that quiet room the slight sound of the pen against the horn of the inkbottle almost sounded intrusive. He finished the last note, put the pen carefully on its stand, and turned to Mara who rose to her feet. It was time to go.

  ‘It is your decision,’ she said to Deirdre, ‘but would you like me to look into the divorce case and if I consider that justice was not done, then to reopen it?’

  Deirdre thought carefully for a while, glancing at her son, but not, Mara noticed, at her daughter. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Would you wish a lawyer to act for you?’ he asked.
<
br />   She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll trust it to you.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Mara, ‘I think it might be best to leave the sorting of Sorley’s affairs until that question is settled. I will do it as quickly as possible and it can be done in private. The inquiry does not need to be held at Poulnabrone, unless, of course, either your son or your daughter feels that the divorce should stand.’

  Mara looked at Una and she looked back, a long considering look directed first at the Brehon and then at her mother.

  ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘If the divorce was rescinded, I would not contest it.’

  Again she looked at her mother, and this time it seemed to Mara as if the two women made some unspoken agreement.

  ‘Could I have a word with you before you go?’ Deirdre’s voice was abrupt, full of tension.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mara.

  ‘Stay here,’ said Una. Again there was that curious exchange of glances between the two women. ‘We’ll go and you can talk here.’

  One by one they got to their feet and went out, leaving Mara and Fachtnan with Deirdre.

  ‘Let’s sit by the fire,’ said Mara. She smiled at Deirdre and, to her surprise the woman smiled back and then went to sit in one of the luxurious over-stuffed chairs by the fireside. Almost as a cat does, she settled herself into it, her square hand, with its broken nails and rough discoloured skin, stroking the silken nap of the velvet. With a sudden flash of insight Mara imagined what it must mean for her to have suddenly changed her existence from a poverty-stricken cabin on the side of the mountain to the position of mistress once again of all this luxury.

  Fachtnan with his usual tact had moved and modestly seated himself at a small table behind Deirdre but in full view of Mara in case she needed to communicate with him. Noiselessly he dipped his quill in the ink horn and sat waiting quietly.

  ‘Do you think that you can manage to overturn the divorce?’ Deirdre’s voice sounded curious.

  ‘I am not sure,’ Mara replied cautiously.

  ‘It doesn’t matter too much, anyway,’ Deirdre said almost as much to herself as to Mara. Her eyes softened. ‘Cuan will not turn me out. If he has the money and the castle I will have my share, law or no law. He is a good lad and has always been a good lad. I’ll make sure that everything goes well for him now.’

  Mara nodded. That was obvious. Deirdre would be the one who would manage the estate and mine and the silver merchant business. She could not imagine Cuan being able to cope. No matter what came of her investigations, Deirdre was firmly back in her position as mistress of Newtown Castle. The question that was now troubling Mara’s mind was: could Deirdre have killed to get this position back for herself and her son? The woman was strong, independent and had reason enough to hate Sorley, but would she have taken that risk? This was a murder that could so easily have gone wrong. Sorley could have seen her, could have escaped the bees and Deirdre was dependent on the small income that he gave her. Also, Mara felt this was a crime of chance – a crime of an opportunist and it did not fit with Deirdre’s character, as far as she could judge.

  ‘So you’re a Brehon,’ Deirdre mused. Her tone was friendly. ‘It’s good to see that women can have situations like that. Mostly it seems to me that women don’t have much of a life.’

  ‘You were young when you married Sorley?’ Mara was sympathetic to any woman forced into a too early marriage.

  ‘Too young.’ The rejoinder was flat. ‘But I never thought he would divorce me, though I knew that he had no interest in me.’

  ‘And now he’s dead.’

  ‘And now he’s dead.’ The echo was thoughtful, and then with a quick change of mood Deirdre looked across at Mara and her eyes were sharp with intelligence. ‘You probably want to ask me some questions about the death. I’d prefer to answer them here, alone, rather than outside with everyone listening.’

  Mara nodded briskly. ‘Let’s make a start then. When was the last time that you saw Sorley alive?’ she asked, signalling to Fachtnan to begin writing.

  ‘Last Sunday,’ said Deirdre confidently, ‘I see him every Sunday at church. We never speak, of course, but I see him.’

  ‘Did you see him on the morning of Father David’s funeral?’

  Deirdre shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly.

  ‘What time did you arrive, then?’

  She shrugged, ‘A while before the service, not long.’

  ‘Which gate did you use?’

  ‘The Rathborney gate.’ Deirdre’s voice was brisk and assured.

  ‘And afterwards? Did you go to the graveyard?’

  She shook her head again. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I went home straight after the service in the church. I was busy that day, but I wanted to come. Father David had been very good to me. He had tried to talk to Sorley about me many times, had done his best for Cuan, too.”

  It was probably true that she did go home straight after Mass, thought Mara. Her mind went to the figure of a boy and middle-aged woman that she had seen on the pathway to the mountain. It seemed strange, though. After all, if she had spared the time to come to the service, surely she would have waited to see the old priest buried. It might be possible to press her a little on this.

  ‘Why did you not go to the graveside?’ she asked eyeing Deirdre carefully.

  There was a pause. She could hear Fachtnan finish writing and then dip his pen into the ink horn before the woman spoke again.

  ‘I was busy,’ she said briefly. ‘I had to get back. I had a long walk ahead of me.’

  Mara let it go at that, in any case Sorley was dead by then.

  ‘Let’s go back to the time you arrived, did you speak to anyone, did anyone see you come?’

  ‘You forget,’ she said the words with some bitterness, ‘I was the wife who was put aside for adultery. Not many people spoke to me, ever. Toin, and one or two others, but no one who was connected with Sorley in any way.’

  ‘So when you arrived,’ pressed Mara, ‘did you go straight into the church, or did you go around near the ruins?’

  Again there was a pause, not as long as before, but Mara could have sworn that she was going through her mind to see if anyone could bear testimony against her.

  ‘I went straight to the church,’ she said.

  Mara nodded. There were no reports of Deirdre coming late into church. In fact, no one had mentioned her name. She waited until Fachtnan had finished writing and then said, almost perfunctorily, ‘And there is no other help you can give us? You heard or saw nothing to do with this matter?’

  Deirdre gave a half smile. ‘I am afraid not,’ she said and then rose to her feet. ‘I will send one of the others to you. Will you stay the night?’

  Mara glanced out of the window. The lines of the stone mullions were dark against the faded pink of the sky. This business of the missing will had taken up a lot of her time and she was reluctant to leave the journey home much later. She considered the invitation to stay the night. It would be the sensible thing to do and it might give her some insight into the relationships in this warring family, but she felt that she could not really bear it. She would prefer to get away and consider the facts in the open air, and not be smothered by the heat and perfumes of Sorley’s tower house and the tensions within. She rose to her feet.

  ‘Thank you for your invitation,’ she said, ‘but I am afraid that I cannot stay. I will be back soon; I will see Una and, of course, Cuan, then.’

  And it was of Deirdre’s face, softened, but apprehensive, when the name of her son was mentioned that Mara was thinking as they rode out of the great iron gates and it was of Cuan that Fachtnan spoke as soon as they were out of earshot of the guards around the gates.

  ‘Deirdre is worried about Cuan, isn’t she?’ he said sagaciously. ‘Do you think that she suspects him of having a hand in his father’s death?’

  ‘Hard to know,’ said Mara thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that it would have been tempting for anyone in Cuan’s position to
take a quick poke at the beehive when he saw his father pass by.’

  ‘Can you imagine Cuan doing anything quickly?’ said Fachtnan with a grin.

  Mara laughed, but then the picture of Deirdre’s grim face came before her and her own face grew solemn at the thought. The rejected wife was certainly someone who would have had the quickness of mind to push over the beehive and then to disappear rapidly into the church. It was almost positive that she had gone to the gallery yesterday, possibly at the time when Una was occupied with the preparations for the wake, and had taken the will out and burned it. No doubt she had retained her bunch of keys from her time as mistress of Newtown Castle. Toin had said that Deirdre spent a lot of time there at Rathborney when her husband was in Kinvarra or in Galway. There was no other explanation of what had happened today. Sorley had taken everything from her including her good name, and when the opportunity had arisen she had taken back what she could. Mara was sure in her own mind of that, but had Deirdre also taken the life of her erstwhile husband? And if she had, was it a justified act in her eyes, an act of vengeance for the long years of suffering and for the sufferings of her son? Mara had a momentary sympathy for her but then the words of St Paul came to mind and as the last shafts of sun struck glints of silver from the rock ahead of them, she seemed to see them written in shining letters: Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

  Vengeance was the province of the Almighty God: but it was for the Brehon of the Burren to establish the truth and to see that justice was done.

  ELEVEN

  URCUILTE BRETHEMAN (A JUDGE’S FORBIDDEN Things)

  If a judge does not swear on the gospel to utter only the truth, then he must leave the kingdom.

  If a judge makes a mistaken judgement he has to bear responsibility by paying a fine to the injured person, but if he hears only one side of the case or takes bribes then he is deprived of the office of Brehon and loses his honour price.