Whispers of the Dead

by Peter Tremayne

  “Take a look at the bow, lady.”

  Fidelma looked.

  The wooden planking of the vessel seemed to have been recently tarred and for a moment she could not see what he was trying to indicate. Then she saw the slight indentations on the wood. Only by looking at them in a certain way, the way the sunlight glinted and formed shadows, could she make out the deep lines that had been seared into the wood.

  She turned excitedly to Ross.

  “I make out the head of a wolf.”

  Ross nodded grimly.

  “This was one of Olcán’s barges. They did their best to remove the outward signs and paint over the brand mark with tar . . . but not quite.”

  A sailor was passing nearby.

  “Excuse me,” called Fidelma.

  The sailor halted and took in her religieuse robes.

  “You want me, Sister?”

  “Can you tell me whose barge that is?”

  “That one? The end one there? Surely I can.”

  Fidelma smiled to hide her impatience.

  “And to whom does it belong?”

  “That is the barge of the merchant Ségán.”

  “Ségán, eh? And where might I find this man?”

  “Across in that tavern there, I’ll warrant. He’s just loaded a cargo and is probably having a last drink before going downriver.”

  She thanked the man and turned for the tavern with Ross in her wake.

  Inside, the room was packed mainly with boatmen. Several heads turned as she entered. The landlord, or such she presumed him to be, came across to her immediately.

  “God be with you, Sister. We do not often have ladies of your cloth in this poor place. We mainly serve the river boatmen. There is a tavern not far away that I can recommend that is better suited . . .”

  “I am told that I might find a merchant named Ségán here,” she cut him short.

  The landlord blinked and then he pointed to a corner where a fat-looking individual was seated before a plate on which the remains of what had obviously been a small joint reposed. He was sipping at a great pottery mug of a liquid, which he was obviously savoring.

  With a curt nod to the landlord, Fidelma moved across and took a vacant seat opposite the merchant.

  “Your name is Ségán, I believe?”

  The fleshy-faced man paused, the mug halfway to his lips and stared at her.

  “Why would a religieuse know my name?” he said, a little surprised.

  “I am a dálaigh and I am here on official business.”

  The man set down the mug with a bang, closed his eyes and groaned.

  “I knew it. I knew it.” He shuddered.

  Fidelma stared at him speculatively.

  “Perhaps you will share your knowledge with me, then?” she asked, a little sarcastically.

  “It’s my wife, isn’t it? She is seeking a divorce and . . .”

  Fidelma gave an impatient gesture of her hand.

  “It’s not about your wife. It’s about your boat.”

  At once a look of suspicion crossed the man’s features.

  “My boat? You mean the barge? What of it?”

  “When did you acquire it?”

  Ségán was still frowning.

  “I bought it legally. Two weeks ago.”

  “From whom?”

  “What is this? What are you implying?”

  “From whom?” she insisted.

  “A man at Conna’s Fortress.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “No more questions until you tell me what this is about.”

  Two burly boatmen had risen and made their way over to where Ségán was sitting.

  “Something wrong, master?”

  “Tell them nothing is wrong unless they are also to be charged as parties to theft,” Fidelma said calmly without taking her eyes from the merchant.

  The fleshy-faced man’s eyes widened.

  “Theft?”

  “Your barge and its cargo and crew disappeared two weeks ago. It was then in the ownership of a merchant in Eochaill named Olcán.”

  The merchant was shaking his head rapidly. He glanced at the boatmen and waved them away.

  “How can you know this?”

  “Did you examine the markings on the barge when you bought it?”

  Ségán shook his head.

  “I know that it had been repainted. There is new tar. What markings?”

  “The image of a wolf’s head is branded into the woodwork at the prow. That is Olcán’s mark. Now where did you get this barge?”

  “As I said, I bought it. I bought it from a boatman.”

  Fidelma frowned.

  “And what was his name?”

  “Name?” He shook his head.

  “There were some boatmen up at Conna’s Fortress upriver and they were trying to sell the barge. I offered them a good price.”

  “You bought the barge from someone whose name you do not even know?”

  “I know Conna,” replied the fat merchant. “He knew the boatmen. That was good enough for me.”

  Fidelma sighed.

  “Then we must have a word with Conna,” she said to Ross. Turning back she viewed the merchant with disfavor. “I would advise you not to travel far. The boat you now claim to own was stolen and doubtless its owner will seek restitution.”

  The merchant paled a little.

  “I bought it in good faith . . .” he began to protest.

  “From someone whose name you didn’t know,” interrupted Fidelma sharply. “You therefore share some of the culpability.”

  She stood up and left the tavern, followed by Ross.

  “Would it not be wise to keep an eye on the merchant?” the old sailor ventured.

  “I do not think he will be hard to find in the future. I am sure that he was telling the truth although I suspect that he probably realized something was wrong with the transaction.”

  “Where now?”

  “As I said, to Conna’s fortress. How far is that from here?”

  “About four or five kilometers.”

  Conna’s fortress was perched on a rocky outcrop beside the river. There were several barges and boats moored beneath its walls and signs of boatmen unloading cargoes. As they climbed out of the curragh, with Ross securing it, several armed warriors approached. They were not friendly. Fidelma saw it from their faces and so she assumed her haughtiest manner.

  “Take me to Conna at once.”

  The leading warrior halted and blinked in surprise, unused to being addressed in such a fashion by someone in religieuse robes.

  Fidelma followed the advantage.

  “Don’t stand there gawking, man. It is Fidelma, sister of Colgú your king who demands this.”

  Nervously the man glanced at his companions and then, without a word, turned and led the way. Ross, following a step behind Fidelma, was trying to hide his nervousness. Fidelma’s royal rank apart, Ross knew that Conna owned allegiance to the Prince of Maige Féine, who was an hereditary enemy of the Eóghanacht kings of Muman.

  Their guide had instructed one of his men to run on and announce Fidelma’s coming to Conna.

  The chieftain met them at the door of his hall, a thinly-built man with beady dark eyes, like those of a snake. He gave the impression of someone close to starvation, so gaunt and elongated of limbs was he.

  “The fame of Fidelma of Cashel precedes her,” he greeted, almost sibilantly. “How may I serve you?”

  Fidelma was not impressed with the man.

  “You may best serve me by telling me the truth. I have spoken to the merchant Ségán.”

  Did a nervous look appear in the man’s dark features?

  “You recommended Ségán to a boatman who sold him a stolen barge.”

  The features of Conna became immobile.

  “I am not responsible for that.”

  “If you recommended a thief to persuade another to receive stolen property, then there is your responsibility—chieftain or not.�
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  “This boatman was trading here at the time. I did not vouch for his character. I simply told Ségán of the fact. Ségán was saying that he wanted to expand the number of barges he had. I introduced them, that is all.”

  “Tell me about this boatman.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  “His name, where he came from, where he is now.”

  “His name was Dathal. He came from a downriver port.”

  “You say that you had never seen him before?”

  “I didn’t say exactly that. I know that he traded along the rivers.”

  “You have bought cargoes from him?”

  “He was only a boatman. The man he worked for owned the cargoes. The man who imports the cargoes from the land of the Britons or the Franks.”

  “With whom did you transact your business, then?”

  Conna was hesitant but no match for Fidelma in her most assertive manner.

  “I always gave the money to Dathal,” he admitted. “I presumed that he was selling the barge on behalf of his master.”

  “Do you know where this Dathal went?”

  “Back to Eochaill, I presume.”

  Fidelma let out a sighing breath.

  “This is not the first time that boatmen have brought you a cargo and then sold their barge before leaving, is it?”

  The expression on Conna’s face confirmed the suspicion that was in her mind.

  “Dathal sold the barge two weeks ago, is that right?” pressed Fidelma. “Who sold a barge six weeks ago?”

  “I bought a cargo then. The boatman’s name was Erc and he was from Eochaill. Erc and his men sold their barge to a trader from The Ford of the Cairn not far upriver. That was over four weeks ago.”

  Fidelma suddenly smiled brightly. The smile seemed to disconcert Conna.

  “Then I have no need to bother you further. You may be required to attend the Brehon Court at Dair Inis. It depends. You will be informed in due course. In the meantime, I shall trouble you no more.”

  She turned swiftly and with Ross trotting in bemusement at her heels she returned down from the fort to where they had moored the curragh.

  “Where now, lady?” demanded Ross, scrambling in after her. “Upriver to the Ford of the Cairn?”

  Fidelma shook her head with a smile of satisfaction.

  “No, back to Eochaill. I think the mystery is cleared up.”

  Two days later the merchants Abaoth and Olcán stood before her.

  “Ah yes. Abaoth, you claim compensation for the loss of your cargoes due to the disappearance and theft of Olcán’s barges. Two losses in the same month, one six weeks ago and one two weeks ago. Is that right?”

  “It is, learned dálaigh,” agreed Abaoth nervously.

  Fidelma turned to the glowering Olcán.

  “And you counter this claim, Olcán?”

  “Of course,” snapped the man. “The loss of my barges and crews and the loss of the money for the transportation of cargoes for which I have not been paid is the compensation that I seek.”

  Fidelma nodded absently and sat back.

  “I have made some investigation into this matter,” she said slowly. She turned to Olcán. “You may rest easy in that your barges and crews have not disappeared.”

  The merchant returned her gaze in astonishment.

  “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  “Both ships were, indeed, the subjects of theft. Their cargoes were sold, sold to Conna of the Maige Féine. The barges were then disposed of by selling them to local merchants—after they had been repainted, of course.”

  Abaoth was shaking his head.

  “Who was responsible?” he asked wonderingly. “What has Conna to say of this?”

  Fidelma was suddenly grim.

  “The crew of each barge willingly diverted from their course and took the barges upriver along the Bríd to Conna’s Fort. There they sold the cargoes and then the barges, and disappeared.”

  “The crews were the thieves?” Abaoth sounded aghast.

  “They were acting under orders,” replied Fidelma. “They acted under orders of the man who they were working for.”

  Abaoth turned to Olcán, whose face was reddening in rage.

  “How dare you . . .?” he began.

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “The plot was yours, Abaoth.”

  The fleshy merchant was stunned.

  “Are you accusing me of robbing my own cargoes?” he demanded, suddenly pale.

  “It was a good way at getting double the money for the same cargo. Money you wanted in order to compensate for the loss of one of your ships. You sold your cargo to Lios Mór. Then you did a deal selling your cargo to Conna who, of course, supplies the Prince of Maige Féine. Now, if you could persuade the crews of Olcán to work with you and disappear with their barges after they had delivered the cargoes to Conna then you would have the added bonus. You could also come here and seek compensation from Olcán for the loss of your cargoes. If successful that would cover compensation to Lios Mór and obtain more money for you. It was a complicated and ingenious plot, Abaoth.”

  “You cannot prove it.”

  “I can so. Olcán’s men were willing to do your bidding because Olcán was not a generous master anyway. There is a lesson for you to learn there, Olcán.”

  Olcán scowled angrily but said nothing. Fidelma continued to address Abaoth.

  “You paid the crews some initial money but, as their major share of the deal, you allowed them to sell the barges and pocket that money. Now it would look peculiar if the boatmen and all their families disappeared at the same time from Eochaill. When I checked these families I did find that most of them had already left the port. Those that remained behind told me that you, Abaoth, were looking after them. I wondered why. It was not your responsibility. I found it difficult to believe that a man with financial problems would be such a great philanthropist. There was another thing—when I visited Serc I surprised her with her husband Dathal who, I believe, was your main contact with the crews and who acted as your intermediary with Conna.”

  Abaoth was standing white-faced and silent.

  “Do I have to waste my time in presenting the proof of these matters, Abaoth? I shall not be so generous in allotting fines and compensation if I have to spend unnecessary time in doing so.”

  Abaoth’s shoulders had slumped in resignation.

  Fidelma turned to Olcán who was a picture of anger as he regarded the merchant.

  “Olcán,” she said sharply, “you would do well to ponder on what motivated your men to be persuaded to betray you. There is a saying that a closed hand only gets a shut fist. It is bad fortune that always attends a mean person.”

  LIKE A DOG RETURNING . . .

  It’s very beautiful,” Sister Fidelma said softly.

  “Beautiful?” Abbot Ogán’s voice was an expression of disbelief. “Beautiful? It is beyond compare. Worth a High King’s honor price and even more.”

  Fidelma frowned slightly and turned toward the enthusiastic speaker, a question forming on her lips. Then she realized that the middle-aged abbot was not looking at the small marble statuette of the young girl in the robes of a religieuse, which had caught her eye as she entered the chapel of the abbey. Instead, he was looking beyond the statuette, which stood at the entrance to a small alcove. In the recess, on a small altar, stood an ornate reliquary box worked in precious metals and gemstones.

  Fidelma regarded the reliquary critically for a moment.

  “It is, indeed, a valuable object,” she admitted. But the reliquary box was not unusual in her experience. She had seen many such boxes in her travels, all equally as valuable.

  “Valuable? It is breathtaking, and inside it is the original Confessio penned in the hand of Patrick himself.” Abbot Ogán was clearly annoyed at her lack of homage before the reliquary.

  Fidelma was unimpressed and not bothered at all by his look of disfavor.

  “Who is the young girl whos
e statuette guards the entrance to the alcove?” she demanded, turning the conversation to what she considered to be the object of greater interest. Somehow the artist had brought the young religieuse to life, endowing her with a vibrancy that burst through the lines of the cold stone: It seemed that she would leap from the pedestal and greet the worshippers in the tiny abbey church with outstretched hands.

  The abbot reluctantly turned from his contemplation of his community’s most famous treasure—the reliquary of Saint Patrick. His face darkened slightly.

  “That is a likeness of Sister Una,” he said shortly.

  Fidelma put her head to one side to examine it from every angle. She could not get over the extraordinary vitality of the piece. It was almost as if the artist had been in love with his model and only thus able to draw forth some inner feeling into the cold marble.

  “Who was the sculptor?” she asked.

  The abbot sniffed, clearly not approving of the interest she was showing.

  “One of our brethren, Duarcán.”

  “And why is her statuette in this chapel? I thought only the holy saints could achieve such honor?”

  The corner of Abbot Ogán’s mouth turned down. He hesitated and then, observing the determination on Fidelma’s face, asked, “Have you not heard of the story of Sister Una?”

  Fidelma grimaced irritably. It was surely obvious that she would not be asking the question had she heard the story. The abbot continued: “She was killed on this very spot some twenty years ago.”

  “What happened?” Fidelma’s eyes had widened with greater interest.

  “Sister Una entered the chapel when someone was attempting to steal the holy reliquary. The thief struck her down and fled but without the reliquary.”

  “Was the thief caught?”

  “He was overtaken.”

  “How did the Brehons judge him?”

  “Sister Una was very beloved by our local community.” The abbot’s features were set in deep lines, and there appeared a defensive note in his voice. “Before the culprit could be secured and taken before a Brehon for judgment, the people hanged him from a tree. This small marble statuette was erected in the chapel in Una’s honor to guard the reliquary for all eternity.”

  “Who was the thief and murderer?”

  The abbot again hesitated. He clearly was unhappy at her interest.