Cross of Vengeance (A Burren Mystery)

by Harrison, Cora

  ‘Brother Cosimo,’ said Mara. ‘Fachtnan, would you fetch him and all of his baggage, whatever he has with him? And I think it might be best if the boys go with you and bring back the baggage of the other four pilgrims, the three women and Father Miguel. I’m doing that,’ she explained, ‘because if anyone has anything to hide they might get rid of it before we get a chance to talk to them.’

  ‘The women wouldn’t be guilty, would they? After all, they couldn’t have lifted him up on to that slab. Women aren’t strong like us men,’ said Cormac with a swagger.

  ‘Still, if they were all three in it, well, that would be three times the strength,’ pointed out Slevin. ‘They could be suspects, you know. That prioress is very holy and she might have said to her sisters: this man deserves to die! Let’s see to it, sisters, and so they did,’ he finished, reverting to his own voice after giving the prioress’s words in a high-pitched tone which was a particularly good imitation of the lady’s voice.

  ‘And the widow is quite a strong-looking woman, though the prioress is a bit dainty. And the other sister, the one with the scars on her face, she mightn’t look too strong, she’s very thin, but she is quite tall.’ Domhnall backed up his friend.

  ‘But in the meantime,’ said Fachtnan gently, ‘we must investigate all of the pilgrims, so we’ll go over now and collect their baggage, and, who knows, we may pick up some clues from it.’

  ‘Don’t forget to be extremely polite to everyone,’ said Mara as Fachtnan gathered them up and ushered them from the church. She spoke automatically and knew that she sounded absent-minded. Her whole attention was focused on Brother Cosimo, remembering his fury when he heard that the man who had been blackmailing him was the one who now was, in his eyes, guilty of a greater crime. Did he take the opportunity of getting rid of Hans when the man was alone in the unlocked church? And did he really think that everyone would believe that the death was an act of vengeance by God – that God, who in the words of St Paul, was ‘not mocked’?

  Nine

  Bretha Crólige

  (Judgements of Bloodlettings)

  There are two fines to be paid by a person who murders another. The first is called the éraic, or body fine, and this is paid to the nearest kin of a murdered person. It is forty-two séts, or twenty-one milch cows, or twenty-one ounces of silver. Added to this is the second fine, also paid to the nearest kin, and this is based on the victim’s honour price.

  In the case of duinetháide, (a secret killing), the éraic is doubled.

  Fachtnan, side by side with Brother Cosimo, led the little procession back to the church. He was chatting about the Aran Islands and the many churches there. Mara could hear the Italian monk asking some question about the age of the church of St Enda and she half-smiled to herself. Fachtnan was very good at this sort of thing. He carried the monk’s satchel as if he were performing a normal courtesy to a guest, not as though he were a lawyer taking possession of possible evidence. The young scholars trooped behind him at a respectable distance and each had a bag to carry: Domhnall with a rather battered bag which probably belonged to Father Miguel, and the three other boys carrying the more ornate bags of the women pilgrims.

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to unpack your bag,’ said Mara gravely to the monk. ‘Please put all of your clothes in one pile, here on this bench, and then everything else on this bench beside me.’ It was only right, she thought, that some privacy should be afforded to the pilgrims and she had no wish to be fingering through the man’s undergarments.

  Mara was uneasily aware that it would be hard to justify a search, but then remembered that she could be looking for a weapon. Nuala had made no comment on the size or shape of the death-dealing instrument – and, knowing Nuala’s cautious nature, Mara had not wasted time asking her before the complete examination of the body had taken place – however, Brother Cosimo and the other pilgrims were not to know that. To her, the stab wound in the left side of the pilgrim had looked like a knife wound, and every one of the pilgrims had a serviceable knife – she had seen each produce one during the meal yesterday, and even those belonging to the women had a long blade and sturdy handle.

  Brother Cosimo was surprisingly willing to obey her. He picked out the garments one by one, and one by one he stacked them on the bench that she had indicated. Fachtnan, without being told, had taken up position near to it and, in the background, four sharp-eyed boys had their whole attention glued to his movements.

  Finally everything was removed from the bag, the clothes on the one bench, and on the other, near to her, were his rosary beads, his prayer book, his small travelling lamp, a package containing ginger, figs and some lozenges – ‘for my health,’ he said, when she picked up the small cloth bag that contained the large-sized medical potions.

  Mara nodded at his explanation, sniffed the lozenges and handed them ceremoniously to Fachtnan, who also sniffed at them in a non-committal fashion and then retained the bag in his hand.

  ‘You will get them back before you depart,’ said Mara curtly as she saw the very black eyebrows of the Benedictine monk draw together in a frown. All such medicines, she had determined, unless instantly recognizable, should be retained to be tested by Nuala. The guess that Hans Kaufmann must have been drugged heavily before his clothes were stripped from him seemed, in the complete absence of any bruises or blows to the head, to be the only possible theory at the moment. And there was, she thought, an unusual smell from the medicine.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked as Brother Cosimo stood back and thrust his hands into the large sleeves.

  ‘Nothing, my lady – Brehon, I mean,’ he said in a voice which he strove to make sound ingratiating. He picked up his leather satchel, pulled it open and showed her the inside. It was completely empty. Mara’s eyes met Fachtnan’s and instantly he left the church.

  ‘What do you think happened to the dead man, Brother Cosimo?’ she asked quickly, hoping to cover the sound of Fachtnan’s departing footsteps. ‘You must have some guesses, you and the other pilgrims – it seems such an extraordinary thing to happen. I’m sure that you must have some theory, an intelligent man like you,’ she continued.

  He shrugged. ‘I have no knowledge of the working of the mind of God,’ he said.

  ‘So you think that God struck him down, or did God work, in mysterious ways, through a good servant of his – perhaps God put it into the mind of one who loved him well to avenge the desecration of a relic. Do you think that was what happened?’

  Her scholars, Mara was amused to notice, were staring at her wide-eyed, Finbar looking confused, Slevin interested, Cormac slightly scornful, and Domhnall, eyes narrowed, mouth compressed, his face full of thought. Brother Cosimo did not answer for a moment. She could see him wavering, uncertain whether to encourage her in this idea, or to stick to the original theory that this murder was an action by the Almighty himself.

  ‘It is written,’ he said eventually: ‘“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord”.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mara. ‘So you would have left revenge to God and would not have killed the man to punish him for what could perhaps be an act of sacrilege?’

  ‘No, I would not.’ His voice was curt and he stared at her resentfully and then looked around the church, and seemed to notice for the first time that Fachtnan was missing.

  ‘I hope that young man of yours is being careful with my lozenges. They are very important to me.’

  ‘Why?’ Mara asked the question in a careless way, glancing idly around the church, but very quickly she brought her eyes back to his face. He did not look disconcerted, she thought, and he answered quickly and readily.

  ‘I sleep badly when I am in strange places. The herbalist in our monastery in Rome gave me those lozenges. I take one at night in order to help me to sleep.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, her eyes on the fat purse which lay beneath the prayer book on the pile before her. ‘Could you take out your coins and stack them here,’ she said.

&
nbsp; He was more hesitant about that, but eventually took them out. ‘You have a rather small amount of Italian coins,’ she remarked. ‘You may be interested to know that we found coins like these in Hans Kaufmann’s purse. How do you think that he came by them? Was he planning a pilgrimage to Italy?’

  ‘It is possible.’ He shrugged and then swung around as the door to the church opened and Fachtnan came in, breathless and panting. Held in his hand was an elaborately carved and jewel-encrusted crucifix.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ The fury was barely contained. A man of a savage and ungoverned temper, thought Mara – possibly a temper which, if provoked, might lead to murder.

  ‘Does it belong to you?’ she countered quickly.

  That made him stop and think.

  ‘No,’ he said after a minute.

  ‘I found it in Brother Cosimo’s room; Blad had a spare key.’ Fachtnan addressed himself to Mara.

  ‘But, of course, you are right, it does not belong to you, although it was found in your room,’ said Mara affably to the monk. ‘I understand that it belongs to the Shrine of the Holy Virgin at Bern in Switzerland. I was curious to see it when I read what Hans Kaufmann had written,’ she continued. She took the letter from her pouch and read it aloud to him.

  ‘Of course,’ she said when she had finished it, ‘you never got that letter; before it could be delivered to you, the man was dead. In fact, he may not have sent it even if he had lived. However, he had, as he mentions, already extracted blackmail from you about this matter and that accounts for the Italian coins in his bag.’

  If Mór had offered to assist the German to escape, then Hans would probably have thought twice about bringing his flight to the attention of Brother Cosimo. In any case, if he had departed in the middle of the night then there would have been no trial, no fine to be paid. He had plenty of coins in his pouch and would easily have been able to purchase a horse once he was in Thomond. From there he would have gone to Limerick, English-owned and dominated and may well have reached that city before his absence at Kilnaboy had been noted. That letter would not have been sent and Brother Cosimo left in possession of a valuable crucifix which he had stolen.

  But, of course, if the theft was reported to Martin Luther or to any of his followers who were pouring out leaflets about the corruption of the Roman church – well, then Brother Cosimo’s crime would have been made public and that may have meant the loss of his position in his monastery, of his means of living, or perhaps even of his life if someone like Father Miguel of the Spanish Inquisition had got hold of him. There was, thought Mara, ample motive for Brother Cosimo to get rid of Hans Kaufmann if he thought that he could do it safely under the guise of the vengeful God.

  It would be interesting, once she got an approximate time of death from Nuala, to find out what Brother Cosimo had been doing at that time – and to find out what his lozenges were made from and whether they would have been enough to drug Hans Kaufmann to the extent that he did not struggle when his clothes were removed, allowing himself to be arranged in ghastly semblance of the crucified Christ.

  ‘One last matter,’ she said. ‘I see that you have no knife here. Presumably it is on your belt. Could I please see it now?’ She held out her hand, giving him no chance to deny possession of a knife. No traveller ever omitted to carry a knife on a voyage. Even the genteel prioress had produced hers when the food was brought to table at the inn.

  It was an ordinary knife and she took it from him and brought it to the door, inspecting it keenly, then called her scholars to her.

  ‘Any trace of blood?’ she queried, and handed it first of all to Domhnall, who took it to the light outside the church. He inspected it keenly and then passed it on to Slevin. Nothing would be found, she was almost sure of that. The knife was a plain one, the steel shining and polished, the leather of the cross-guard and of the handle also well polished, soft and supple – treated with oil, she imagined. Suspiciously well cleaned, but then how could one fault a man for keeping his knife clean and in good condition? She looked along the row of faces, but each boy shook his head in turn, and then she took it back from Cormac, who was reluctant to let it go, and returned it to the clergyman.

  Brother Cosimo had a faintly scornful smile on his lips and there was a confident air about him.

  There was, of course, the possibility that a man might have two daggers.

  ‘Fachtnan,’ she said when she returned to the church, ‘could you escort Brother Cosimo back to the inn – return his lozenges, but retain one for testing. And bring me Father Miguel so that I may question him.’

  She waited until the two had departed before turning to her scholars.

  ‘If you had committed a murder and held a blood-soaked knife – and you had two knives in your possession – and there was a corpse in front of you, well, how would you get rid of it?’ she enquired.

  ‘Throw it into the bushes,’ suggested Finbar.

  ‘Climb a tree and stick it into the bark so high that no one would notice it,’ was Cormac’s imaginative response.

  ‘Dig a hole and bury it,’ said Slevin.

  ‘Three good ideas,’ said Mara with a nod of approval. ‘What do you think, Domhnall?’

  He didn’t answer for a moment. A thoughtful boy, he considered all possibilities before speaking. And when he did speak, she thought, rather sadly, that he was probably correct.

  ‘I think that I would throw it into the centre of the River Fergus, Brehon,’ he said, and she sighed.

  ‘I hope you are not right, Domhnall,’ she said. ‘We’ll never find it there.’ But even as she spoke she acknowledged that it was probably the most likely place that any murderer would have thrown the knife. The River Fergus, after all, ran deep and wide, just on the south side of the inn. It would have been an ideal place in which to consign the murder weapon – once at the bottom of the water it might never be found again.

  Ten

  Bretha Comaithchesa

  (Judgements about Neighbourhoods)

  In all neighbourhoods there are common rights to seaweed if it is required as a fertilizer, and it has been thrown up on to the high tide line.

  Duilsc (edible seaweed) which grows on rocks also is common property.

  But grazing rights for cattle belong to the owners of the land that adjoins the shore.

  Father Miguel was in a very different mood to Brother Cosimo. He was suave, at ease and outwardly very co-operative. He asked several interested questions about Brehon law, immediately emptied his bag, efficiently sorting out the clothes and the personal belongings from the holy objects such as his beads, his tiny relic of a bone from St Eustace’s foot, which he explained had preserved him on many occasions from death at sea during storms. There was no sign of any medicines – lozenges or powders of any kind.

  But, thought Mara, was that an inevitable sign of innocence? After all, the River Fergus flowed outside the windows of the pilgrims’ bedrooms. It would have been as easy to dispose of some poppy syrup, or even some lozenges, as to throw a knife into its depths.

  Mara, busy with her thoughts, allowed Father Miguel to talk on and ignored the fact that the four boys had drawn nearer to see this miraculous relic and its sacred powers. Cormac, the foster son of Setanta the fisherman, was particularly interested in the bone and asked many searching questions on how it actually performed its miraculous duties – whether it was a matter of calming the storm from the heavens above, or whether it instructed the master of the boat, in some secret way, of the correct way of proceeding. Did it tell when to lower or raise the sail or anything useful like that? And if so, did it actually talk, or else just put an idea into your head? The questions poured out from him and he looked furious when Father Miguel adopted a lofty air of preserving a secret about the holy powers.

  ‘Dat,’ said Cormac to Mara, in explanation, ‘always says that a man is master of his own fate when he is in a boat during a storm.’ He turned back to Father Miguel with the self-assurance which seemed to h
ave been bred into him by his princely birth and enhanced by his frequent stays at King Turlough’s tower house at Bunratty in the kingdom of the Burren.

  ‘My foster father, Setanta, says, “You must work with sea, not against it,”’ he quoted, adding, ‘that’s what he’s always told me, and he is a fisherman, so he probably knows more about it.’ He left it unsaid whether he meant Setanta was superior in knowledge to God or to Father Miguel, and for the first time the Spanish priest began to lose his urbane charm and self-possession.

  ‘You are too young to understand,’ he said shortly. ‘The relics of our blessed Christ and of his followers have powers over the sea which have nothing to do with men’s rules and customs. You know what the Bible says, don’t you? “The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.”’

  ‘Dat says that the waves in Aran Sound are mightier than any other waves in the world, but he’s able to manage his boat in them with no help from anyone; he never calls on God,’ said Cormac, stubborn as always.

  ‘Thank you, Cormac, that is enough. This Spanish Inquisition, Father Miguel,’ said Mara, intervening on the nautical discussion, ‘could you explain a little bit to me about this. How does it work? What is the justification for burning someone whose view of God differs from your view?’

  ‘There is only true faith, and any man who does not believe as the Pope directs is a heretic,’ he said sternly. ‘It’s difficult to explain it to a woman but I will try. You see, dear lady, heretics destroy the bonds of society by weakening the basic authority on which all institutions rest; their mere existence brings down the vengeance of heaven on the regions in which they live or where the acts of heresy have been committed – such as here at Kilnaboy. I have told Father MacMahon that the round tower, the place where the sin against God was committed, must be cleansed from top to bottom and must then be reconsecrated. I must remind him of this.’ He stayed silent for a moment and she watched his face carefully. There was an intense and brooding expression on it and she was reminded of her words about a fanatic. This Father Miguel was a fanatic – but was he insane? That she could not tell. So far there was little evidence. She could see that his eyes, burning with fervour a few minutes ago, now seemed as though shutters had been drawn over them. He obviously decided that he would say no more about the Spanish Inquisition and so turned to her with a false smile.