Whispers of the Dead

by Peter Tremayne

  Sister Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.

  “Yet I am told that Febrat has been specific in his charge?”

  Fallach frowned.

  “Specific? Ah, you mean on the second occasion when he laid a claim against Faramund, a neighboring farmer? We went to see him . . .”

  Conrí’s eyes narrowed.

  “I have just realized that to speak with Faramund, you went into Uí Fidgente territory. That is an act of aggression. Compensation must be . . .”

  Sister Fidelma cut in sharply.

  “The territory is part of the kingdom of Muman and I am sitting in judgment on a matter pertaining to the kingdom. We will hear no more about disputed boundaries. Díomsach and Fallach were quite right to pursue an investigation relating to a potential criminal raid against a peaceful farmstead. That is the law.” She turned to the warrior. “And what did Faramund say?”

  “He assured us that he was nowhere near the farmstead of Fallach and with the testimony of Cara and the lack of evidence of a raid, there was only one conclusion. To be honest, Faramund, while an Uí Fidgente, is trustworthy. He even studied law at one time.”

  “Then is your opinion that the man, Febrat, is either lying for some reason or that he has become deranged?”

  Fallach shrugged expressively.

  “I would say that the man is deranged. He has dwelt within this community for as long as I can recall, though I scarcely know him well. He was merely a daer-fuidhir, one of the itinerant laboring classes. Then he was able to buy a little unfertile land and afterwards . . .”

  Díomsach interrupted with a smile.

  “Well, I think that decides the matter. Dispatch him back to his farm. There is little we can do until his wife, who is his next of kin, declares him incapable and has him examined by the physicians. Then it will be a decision for the law as to whether he should be declared as a dásachtach.”

  Fallach made to turn but Sister Fidelma stayed him.

  “Since the man is here, we might as well examine him. You, Díomsach, have reminded me of the law Do Brethaib Gaire that is concerned with protecting society from the insane. If the man is truly displaying manic symptoms then we should not let him wander back to his farmstead. He is married and thereby his wife may have to become the conn, the guardian, who will be responsible for his behavior.”

  Conrí shrugged with studied disinterest while Díomsach frowned with displeasure. He was looking forward to the feasting and did not want to delay any longer. He had ordered a boar to be roasted and had bought red Gaulish wine from a merchant. Nevertheless, the court could only be brought to a close by the presiding lawyer and he had to defer to Fidelma.

  “Bring Febrat before us,” instructed Fidelma and Fallach inclined his head in acknowledgement and left them.

  When Febrat stood before Sister Fidelma she almost smiled. He reminded her of a pine-martin, the slopping forehead, pointed features, dark restless eyes seemingly without pupils, and graying hair. He stood stock-still, erect, hands twisting together in front of his stomach. The only movement was his head, looking from side to side as if seeking for an enemy, while it seemed his neck and body stayed still.

  “Well, Febrat,” Sister Fidelma began, speaking softly to put the man at his ease. “I understand that you have come to make a supplication to this court. Is this correct?”

  “Indeed, indeed, indeed.” The rapidity of the repeated word made her blink.

  “What is the plea?”

  “My wife, my wife, Cara, Cara. She has disappeared, disappeared. Carried off in an Uí Fidgente raid, a raid.”

  Sister Fidelma felt Conrí stir and glanced quickly at him to still any outburst.

  “And when was this raid?”

  “Last night, maybe this morning. Yes, this morning.”

  “I see. And they carried off your wife?”

  “They did, they did.”

  “Tell us about it, in your own words.”

  Febrat glanced to his left and then his right in quick nervous motions and then his dark black eyes focused on Fidelma. He spoke rapidly and with many repetitions.

  He and his wife, Cara, had gone to bed at the usual hour. Around dawn they had been awoken by the noise of horses and men riding about the farmstead. He had taken his billhook, his only weapon, and gone out to see what was happening. In the yard, he recognized men of the Uí Fidgente apparently trying to steal his livestock. He was aware that his wife was behind him for he heard her cry out. That was the last thing that he had heard for something must have hit him. He awoke on the floor beside his bed and all was quiet. His wife had disappeared.

  He ended his swift recital of the facts and stood looking at Sister Fidelma, waiting for her reaction.

  Díomsach stifled a yawn at her side.

  “Febrat, this is the third time you have come before me with tales of raids by the Uí Fidgente . . .”

  “False tales,” interrupted Conrí in annoyance.

  “In the other two instances,” went on the chief of the Tuatha Cromadh, “we have investigated and found your stories to be untrue. Do you expect us to believe you now?”

  Febrat glanced quickly at him and then back to Fidelma.

  “All true, all true,” he replied. “I never told a lie, a lie. Not before and not now. My wife has been taken by the raiders, by the raiders. True, I swear it.”

  “As you have sworn before and found to be a liar!” snapped Díomsach.

  “Come here, Febrat,” Sister Fidelma instructed quietly.

  The man hesitated.

  “Come and stand before me here!” she repeated more sharply.

  He did so.

  “Now kneel down.”

  Her eyes glinted as he hesitated for a fraction, and then he dropped to one knee.

  “Bow your head.”

  He did so. She peered into the gray tousled mess of hair, much to the surprise of Díomsach and Conrí.

  “Stand back,” she instructed after a moment or two, and when he had resumed his place, Fidelma pursed her lips. “This blow that knocked you unconscious, it was on the head?”

  “It was, it was.”

  “There is an abrasion on the side of your head,” she confirmed.

  “The story is false, Fidelma,” Díomsach said. “Let him return to his farmstead and we will discuss what is to be done later.”

  Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment, and then said to the warrior, Fallach, “Take Febrat outside for a moment.”

  When they had gone, Fidelma turned to her companions.

  “This case intrigues me.”

  The chief of the Tuatha Cromadh made a sound like a cynical chuckle.

  “You surely don’t believe the man, do you? Because he has an abrasion on the side of his head does not prove his ridiculous story.”

  “Did I say that it did prove his story? What I believe is not relevant to the matter. I know that this matter cannot be left as it is. Either there is something that motivates this man to come with his stories to you, something which is substantial, or it is something that is due to a dementia. Either way, one should investigate so that the good of the people may be safeguarded. I would like you, Díomsach, to keep Febrat in your custody while I will ride out to Febrat’s farm-stead and speak to his wife, Cara. And I shall take your chief warrior, Fallach, as escort in case of trouble.”

  “I can tell you this, Fidelma of Cashel, there has been no Uí Fidgente raid,” Conrí announced belligerently.

  Fidelma returned his sour look with a bright smile.

  “I am sure that had such a raid taken place you, as an Uí Fidgente chieftain, would have the honesty to admit it,” she said softly.

  Conrí’s jaws snapped shut for a moment.

  “I can give you this assurance, lady, that if there had been a raid, word of it would have come to my ear,” he said stiffly.

  “Excellent.” Fidelma rose and looked across to where Brother Colla, the scriptor, was still working away.

  “You may say that this c
ourt has ceased its hearing sine die while I investigate the matter of Febrat.”

  “You are not going before the feasting?” demanded Díomsach in dismay.

  “I think this matter demands my immediate attention. But I shall return, hopefully before evening, to enjoy your feasting.”

  Díomsach’s face fell for he had been expecting to start the feasting and entertainment within that very hour and now the laws of hospitality would prevent him starting before his chief guest, the sister of the king, was ready to join him.

  Febrat’s farmstead stood in lush fields by the river of the plain, the Maigue, about an hour’s ride from Díomsach’s fortress. The nearest hills were a mile or two to the south and east.

  Fallach, riding at Fidelma’s side, stretched out a hand to indicate the group of buildings sheltering behind a small copse of oaks and yew.

  “There is Febrat’s farm, lady.”

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as they rode nearer. There came to her ears the sound of some cows in distress, a bellowing which she was able to interpret immediately.

  “It sounds as though the cows have not been milked,” Fallach announced, interpreting the sound as she had but before she could articulate it.

  They rode into the yard and looked ’round. Sure enough, two cows were bellowing in plaintive tones in a nearby paddock. Chickens ignored them and continued pecking their haphazard way around the yard. Other animals meandered here and there: a few sheep, several goats. Apart from that the place seemed deserted.

  Fidelma dismounted and stood looking around.

  Fallach had also slid from his horse, and tied their horses to the rail before striding forward to the house, shouting loudly for the wife of Febrat. There was no respond.

  “Shall we search inside, lady?” he asked.

  Fidelma sighed deeply.

  “Our first duty is to put those animals out of their misery,” indicating the two cows. “Find buckets. You take one and I will take the other.”

  Fallach looked shocked.

  “But lady, I am a warrior . . .”

  “I am sure the poor beasts will overlook that fact as they will overlook the fact that I am a dálaigh and sister to the king,” she replied with a smile of sarcasm.

  He flushed and turned to search for buckets.

  A while later when the lowing of the cows had ceased and the buckets were almost full, Fidelma and Fallach stood up and moved the milk into the cool of the farmhouse.

  “Well, it is clear that no one is here,” Fallach announced, peering around.

  “We will search. You try the outbuildings and also watch out for any sign that a raid might have taken place. I will look inside.”

  Fallach frowned.

  “You do not think that this time Febrat is right . . .?”

  “The time to think about conclusions is after we have found some facts,” she replied, and went inside.

  Febrat and Cara certainly kept a tidy house. Not just tidy but Fidelma found that, surprisingly for a farmer, there were several rich artifacts adorning the place and tapestries of good quality hanging from some of the walls and on the bed. She examined them with interest.

  She frowned suddenly. The tapestry on the bed covered it neatly. She swung ’round. Certainly everything in the farmhouse was neat and placed in order. Her eyes dropped to a piece of woven rug by the bedside. Again she was slightly surprised for this was a sign of wealth and quality of living. Most farm folk did not concern themselves with floor coverings, even those of better standards would simply have bare boards on the floor while the great majority made do with earthen floors, trodden hard into an almost marble-like surface by the stamp of generations of feet upon it. But Febrat and Cara obviously liked to live well or were used to living well. This thought caused something to stir in her mind, something that was not quite right. It was the fact that Febrat had been described as an itinerant laborer. The thoughts went through her mind quickly as she glanced at the bedside rug, a sheepskin.

  Then her eyes narrowed. There appeared to be a discolored patch on the rug.

  She stooped down and placed her hand on it. It was damp. She sniffed at her fingertips but there was no odor. It seemed that only water had been spilt on it. But water would have dried long before Febrat had completed his journey to her court that morning.

  She picked up the rug and moved to the door. As she did so the sunlight shot through the clouds. It caught on the sheepskin that she was holding; on the creamy white of the wool. Something caught her eye among the patch of white woolen threads. It was a few dark spots, which had been missed by the water.

  She licked her fingertip and rubbed. A tinge of red remained on her fingers. The spots had been dried blood.

  She stared at her fingers for a time before returning the sheepskin, and turning to the cupboards and examining the contents. She noticed that Cara had a large wardrobe compared with the average farmer’s wife and she found a box of personal items of jewelery. Cara was obviously someone who believed in personal adornment. And the jewels were valuable.

  She went outside to join Fallach.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked as he came out of a barn door.

  He shook his head.

  “Nothing. There are no signs of violence or destruction. I am afraid that Febrat has let his imagination run wild again.”

  “But what of the missing wife, Cara?” Fidelma pointed out. Fallach shrugged.

  “Maybe she has gone to visit friends or relatives.”

  “Again?”

  Fallach looked puzzled at her inflection.

  Fidelma did not answer his questioning glance but began to walk across the farmyard to the barn, when she suddenly bent down and picked up a branch.

  “What tree would you say that came from?”

  Fallach barely glanced at it.

  “It’s an alder, of course.”

  Fidelma gazed around at the trees surrounding them. Oaks and yew but there was no sign of an alder. She dropped the branch and continued to the barn. Inside was a cart, the usual type of cart found on a farm, which could be pulled by a single ass. Its large wheels were still damp with drying mud. On the cart was a large metal bladed spade, a ráma for digging earth. The blade had similar wet mud on it.

  She glanced ’round the interior of the barn. There seemed nothing out of place. Certainly no sign of anything that could be interpreted as an indication of an attack or violence. Her eye caught sight of a wooden chest in a corner. Part of its exterior had drying mud clinging to it and the muddy imprint of a hand. The chest was fastened with an iron lock and there was no key in it or sight of a key. She turned to Fallach.

  “Find a hammer and open that,” she instructed.

  Fallach whistled in surprise.

  “But, lady . . .”

  “I take responsibility.”

  He paused only a moment more and then did as he was told.

  Inside the chest was a small hand pick, and wrapped in sacking a large number of what seemed to be lumps of metal. Fallach looked puzzled and reached in to pick one up.

  “Silver!” he whispered. “Great nuggets of silver.”

  “And excavated recently,” said Fidelma, bending down and pointing to the bright marks on the nuggets and the marks on the hand pick.

  “I know there are places to the north-east of here, mountains where those who mine lead and other metals say that veins of silver are to be seen. But these are nuggets. Rich ones.”

  Fidelma rose to her feet.

  “Replace them and let us continue with our task. If, as you say, Febrat’s wife was staying with friends or relatives, exactly who would she have gone to visit?”

  Fallach grimaced as he replaced the lid of the box.

  “You mean near here?”

  “Near here will do to start with,” affirmed Fidelma patiently.

  “Well, Cara’s mother, the lady Donn Dige, lives half-an-hour’s ride in that direction,” he pointed to the south.

  Fidelma’s eyes wide
ned a fraction at the name.

  “Donn Dige? Isn’t she . . .?”

  “She was sister to a prince of the Eóghanacht Áine,” confirmed Fallach. “Her brother was killed at the battle of Cnoc Áine just two years ago.”

  Fidelma sighed. So that explained the comparative wealth displayed in the farmhouse. Cara was not the average farmer’s wife but the daughter of a princely ruling house.

  “Someone should have explained that to me,” she muttered almost petulantly.

  “Does it matter?” inquired Fallach innocently. “It does not bear on the fact that Febrat is mad.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” agreed Fidelma. She glanced at the cart again. “Those wheels have been through a lot of mud. Let’s see if we can pick up the trail of its last journey.”

  Fallach looked at her curiously.

  “Why would you want to do that? The cart is just a normal farm cart. I have often seen Febrat driving it. It has nothing to do with any imagined Uí Fidgente raid.”

  “Indulge me, Fallach,” said Fidelma, mounting her horse.

  They rode out of the farmyard, eyes on the ground seeking the tracks of the cart. To Fidelma’s surprise they found no tracks at all. Some instinct told her to circle to the north, following a stony track. They had to go some distance from the farm buildings before they found traces of the almost obscured tracks. They moved down a narrow path through fields of cereal crops and then cut across a plowed field and then over coarse uncultivated land. It began to be very stony. She suddenly paused and saw several newly cut branches of alder lying discarded on the rocky soil. She slid from her horse and examined them. Sections of the branches about ten or fifteen feet in length had been cut, spreading out their twigs and leaves like a broom. She peered around and, to Fallach’s surprise, spent some time peering at the stony ground.

  “We seem some way from an alder wood,” she observed. “And these branches appear to have been dragged here.”

  Fallach did not reply, as he had no idea what to answer.

  “If I am not mistaken, that is Uí Fidgente territory,” Fidelma said, pointing to the north as she remounted her horse. “I presume that Faramund’s farmstead lies in that direction?”