‘Fetch Father Miguel,’ said Mara to Fachtnan. Brother Cosimo could, if necessary, be interrogated further and forced into saying more. But somehow she did not feel that he was guilty. It was very true what her scholars had said. A man who wished only for the death of his blackmailer would not have gone to the trouble and danger of setting up this elaborate simulacrum of a crucified Christ, would not have bothered stripping the live man, knifing him, conveying him to the ancient tomb, marking the stigmata on his hands and feet, hiding his clothes in a place that was unlikely to be discovered and, all in all, going to great trouble to give the impression that the death of Hans Kaufmann was the work of the vengeful God. This, she thought, was a crime of passion.
‘God is not mocked’ had said the script on the tiny scroll inserted into the crown of thorns.
And Father Miguel was the most likely person within the boundaries of Kilnaboy Church to have taken this statement seriously.
Fifteen
The Law of Social Connections
How many kinds of social connections are there?
The chief with his tenants.
The Church with her tenants.
The father with his daughter.
A daughter with her brother.
A son with his mother.
A foster son with his foster mother.
A tutor with his pupil.
A man with a woman.
Father Miguel, to her surprise, came in eagerly, eyes wide, burning face full of impatience, hands outstretched.
‘Madam,’ he said, and then quickly amended it to ‘Brehon. I do need your help,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’m sure that all is not right within that round tower – they have done their best, those maids with their buckets, their brooms and their cakes of soap, but I know that it is still not right. Something is wrong, but I cannot be sure. I need a young person, someone whose senses are still untainted by the world, someone who can smell …’ and then he stopped, but after a moment said earnestly, ‘The devil is still within the round tower. I know it deep down within my being, but I cannot smell him myself. I need a young person with young organs.’
His glance swept along the row of scholars, passed with indifference over Cormac’s eager, please-choose-me face, went on to the end of the line, looked deep into Domhnall’s earnest dark eyes and crooked a finger at him. Mara gave a sigh of relief. Cormac would have been unable to stop playing the fool, especially with Finbar’s admiring eyes on him. Finbar himself was too unsure and might look to Cormac for a lead. Slevin was blunt and matter-of-fact and quite liable to ask awkward questions about the exact way that a devil should smell, but Domhnall was a diplomat and could be trusted to behave with discretion. His mouth was solemn, slightly compressed, and his eyes non-committal as he got to his feet.
Mara took one look at the three eager faces of the remaining scholars and melted to the appeal in their eyes. Once Father Miguel had ushered Domhnall out of the room, she beckoned to them, making sure to keep her own face very solemn and indicating to them that they should walk ahead of her where she could keep an eye on them. After all, she told herself, all of this is probably very good training for them, though she guessed that they would get a lot of fun out of it later on. So far, the west of Ireland was free of religious fanaticism; there was an easy tolerance of married priests and monks, and the weekly Mass was more of a social occasion than a time of heart-searching for sins committed during the week. But it was a rapidly changing world – the power of England over Ireland had waned during the last hundred years or so, but now it was waxing again. Who knew what these scholars of hers would have to face when they took office.
How would Domhnall handle this, she wondered, as she walked closely behind Cormac and Finbar, keeping her own face very serious? It was a tricky situation for a fourteen-year-old boy. Father Miguel, though a fanatic, was not a fool. He hesitated for a moment beside the ladder leading up to the door and then said to the boy: ‘You go up on your own. That will be the best.’
Domhnall climbed the ladder instantly and was through the door without pausing. They heard his feet climbing up to the second floor and glimpsed his dark head through the narrow slit of the eastern window. He waited a few minutes and they all stood in silence looking up, waiting for his verdict. There was a strong smell of new thatch, thought Mara, but that was a wholesome smell – what was the devil supposed to smell like?
Domhnall reappeared eventually. He stood at the top of the steps for a moment, looking down at his friends, then reversed and came neatly backwards down the ladder. Without hesitation he turned and looked seriously into the face of Father Miguel.
‘Well?’ The Spanish priest’s face was a dark red and his prominent eyes seemed about to burst from their sockets.
‘There’s a strange, bitter smell,’ said Domhnall without hesitation.
Lye soap, thought Mara.
‘Bitter!’ The priest took a moment to think. ‘Like wormwood?’ he enquired.
‘It could be,’ said Domhnall cautiously, though his eyes, to Mara, seemed to say: What does wormwood smell like?
The priest’s eyes glinted. ‘And the Bible says: “And the name of the star is called wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.” So you smelled wormwood, young man. Is that correct? It is as I thought: the devil may still be within. But why wormwood? Why not the fires of hell?’
He was addressing the two queries to himself, but Domhnall, trained to politeness, said helpfully, ‘Perhaps the devil fears fire, Sir.’
‘Because of the flaming sword,’ put in Slevin.
‘You may be right; I’ll have to think about this.’ Father Miguel was wide-eyed, full of thought. His gaze, fixed on the middle distance, was speculative.
‘Perhaps in the meantime you would be willing to answer a few questions,’ said Mara, falling into step beside him and firmly guiding him back towards the inn. ‘You see, I, as the king’s representative here, must determine what happened to Herr Hans Kaufmann. It is important to decide whether,’ she said with a sudden flash of inspiration, ‘he was taken from this world by divine or by human means – the truth must be established.’
‘Indeed!’ He turned to her eagerly, stopping so abruptly that Fachtnan, walking behind them, almost bumped into him. Mara heard a stifled giggle from the back of the line, but Father Miguel was deep in theological affairs.
‘You are right!’ He nodded his grey head. ‘It will be of the utmost importance to make sure there was no human agency involved in this death and that it was God himself, as I do truly believe, who struck down the sinner and laid him out in all his nakedness.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mara emphatically. She opened the door to the parlour and urged him gently in. ‘You, of course, can be of great use to us, as I understand that you were around the churchyard during the rainstorm. You remember, don’t you, how wet you got? Did you see anyone near to the church – apart from Brother Cosimo, of course? I understand that he was with you.’
‘No, Brother Cosimo had gone back to his room. But I did see someone; I saw the man who lives in that castle.’
‘Yes.’ Mara noticed that Fachtnan was making a note and that the boys had quietly resumed their seats. Their faces were excited and she was conscious of how keyed up she was herself. Perhaps they were coming near to the truth.
‘Let me picture the scene,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You were standing by the round tower, is that right?’ She waited for his nod before continuing. ‘And you saw Nechtan – your host of the other evening. I understand that Nechtan was anxious about his turf which had not yet been thatched.’
‘I heard a lot of shouting. They were pushing those strange two-wheeled barrows into the barn. I’m not sure whether this man, Nechtan, was amongst them. I saw his wife, though. She was standing at the far side of the church. She had a basket in her hand.’
‘Did Narait, Nechtan’s wife, go into the church?’
Fa
ther Miguel shook his head. ‘No, she went back towards the castle. I’m not surprised. The rain was getting heavier so that I decided to go back to the inn myself.’
‘You must have been very wet by then; did Blad offer to dry your cloak?’ asked Mara innocently.
‘No, Brehon,’ he said curtly. ‘I did not see Blad. I went around the back and then straight up to my bedroom. There was a good fire there and my cloak was not too wet.’
That’s not the story that Blad’s serving boy told; he said that it was soaking, thought Mara, but she held her peace.
Her mind went to the picture of the pilgrims lined up in the courtyard, ready for their departure to Aran. She would check with the boys later on, but her impression was that all of them were wearing black cloaks. Black cloaks, she thought with irritation, not only hid the signs of a rain-soaking pretty well, but also hid the signs of blood. If the murderer had worn a black cloak, perhaps already wet, and then got thoroughly soaked in the downpour, there would be little or no evidence left on the cloaks.
‘How do you think that Hans Kaufmann was killed, Father Miguel?’ she asked.
His answer came rapidly, almost before she had finished speaking.
‘He was struck down by God,’ said the priest with great solemnity. ‘There can be no other explanation. You are wasting your time, Brehon, if you are looking for a human agent. God is the God of Mercy, but he is also the God of Wrath; He will work His will with no help from man. Now, if there is nothing else that you wish to ask me, then I will leave you. I need to go and think about the purification of the tower where the sacred relic once lay.’
‘Yes,’ said Mara in as judicial a manner as she could muster. ‘I think I have finished with you now, Father Miguel. I shall send my assistant with you up to your room to examine your cloak for bloodstains. This will be done for the eleven people who were present and who may have had reason to kill Hans Kaufmann, whether inspired by God or by the devil. As we agreed earlier, it is important to be able to assure the world that no human hand was involved in this murder – if that is the truth of the matter. Fachtnan, perhaps you will also examine the cloak belonging to Brother Cosimo.’
Mara waited until the footsteps of Fachtnan and the Spanish priest were heard going up the outside steps to the bedrooms and then she nodded to Domhnall.
‘You did well,’ she said. ‘That was a difficult situation and you behaved with judgement and courtesy. I’m proud of you.’
And that, she thought, as she glimpsed a quick look of annoyance on Cormac’s face, had to be said; Domhnall deserved the praise and she could not allow her son’s feelings of jealousy to stop her from giving it. It’s odd, she thought, but when Domhnall came to my law school six years ago I worried in case there might be problems with the other boys, since he was my grandson, and especially with Slevin who started the same day as Domhnall, but somehow it was never an issue for them, or for either of us. Perhaps, because of that, I hadn’t expected so much trouble with Cormac. Yet it seems to be getting worse, not better.
‘Cormac,’ she said impulsively, ‘would you go up to the prioress’s room and ask her, very politely, could she come down and talk to me. Oh, and Cormac, ask her to bring her cloak, too. Don’t give any reasons. Offer to carry it for her if she asks why.’
It was time, perhaps, to stop remembering all of the time that he was the youngest boy and to give him some responsibility and chances to use his judgement.
Fachtnan was back before Cormac and the prioress, and she knew from his face that nothing had appeared on the cloaks of Brother Cosimo and Father Miguel. He shook his head as soon as he closed the parlour door behind him.
‘Nothing that I could see, or feel, on either cloak,’ he said. ‘You know what travellers’ cloaks are like. These are the usual very thick wool, double cloaks – both of them are woven from the wool of black sheep, not dyed, so there are traces of grey here and there, but not a sign of a bloodstain on either of them.’
Mara nodded. The travellers’ cloaks would have been made from unwashed sheep’s wool, rich in lanolin and apt to shed water very easily. Even if some blood had splashed on them, a walk under the torrential rainstorm of the evening of the murder would have washed them clean. She sighed and wondered whether this case would ever be solved. There was still the huge problem of how the man, a big, strong man, probably the biggest and strongest man in the vicinity of Kilnaboy Church that night, had been murdered in that very strange way.
After a few minutes, Cormac slid into the room, looking a little embarrassed and slightly worried, but he held the door open in a very polite manner and said, in his best English, with the air of one making an announcement: ‘Here are the ladies, Brehon.’
To Mara’s dismay, not just the prioress but the lady’s two sisters were with him. Still, they all had their cloaks – were wearing them, in fact, so that could be turned to an advantage. She rose to her feet instantly and smiled as the prioress explained, slightly belligerently, that they had all been about to go for a walk. Mara waved the explanation aside.
‘It was so kind of you all to come,’ she said effusively. ‘And how wonderful that you are wearing your cloaks; I promised Father Miguel that I would check everyone’s cloak to make sure that there were no signs of blood on them. Father Miguel,’ she said with great solemnity, ‘is insistent that there should be no doubt as to the divine involvement in the death of the German pilgrim. I have promised to bear witness. Perhaps I could check your cloak first, Madame.’
By the time she had verified that there were no discernible traces of blood on the prioress’s cloak, the other two had divested themselves and she could go through the same procedure while keeping up a flow of conversation about the terrible rainstorm of the night when the pilgrim had been killed.
Oddly enough, the three women wore what were known as ‘Irish mantles’. Ardal O’Lochlainn, she knew, exported vast quantities of these through Galway to England, presumably by Wales, and they had been bought there by the sisters. These mantles were made from double wool, with honey combed through the nap until their surface was almost totally waterproof. If they were already running water from the heavy rain there would have been no chance of blood soaking into them. Nevertheless, Mara checked as thoroughly as she could, handing each garment back as soon as she had finished.
‘What a shame to deny you of your walk,’ she said. ‘Cormac and Finbar, while I talk to the Lady Prioress, would you take Mistress Grace along by the river, show her the places where the fish rise; Slevin and Domhnall take Mistress Bess to the sacred well, she will be interested in that, I’m sure. And here, take this …’ She produced a small, irregularly shaped piece of parchment and held it out to Bess with a smile.
‘You can tie it to the thorn bush beside the well,’ she said. ‘Make a wish and then your wish will come true before the end of a year.’
Bess took the small piece of skin with a broad grin and a look of easy acquiescence. ‘I’ll wish for fortune, what do you think, boys? Will that work?’
‘Sure to,’ Slevin assured her, and they went off, Bess’s loud, strident laugh sounding as they went through the door, Domhnall could speak English fluently and Slevin was good at the language also – they would keep her amused.
‘Let’s go to the river through the kitchen;’ proposed Cormac to Grace. ‘Mór generally gives you a cake or something as you pass through, and you can smell what’s going to be cooking for dinner.’ He did not seem to be embarrassed by her scarred face, but, Mara saw with pleasure, addressed her with more deference and courtesy than he usually showed towards adults.
‘Mór’s been a friend of mine all of my life,’ he added with a note of conspiracy in his voice. Mara was pleased to see Grace’s pale face gaining a little colour at the charm that, at unexpected times, emanated from her problem son.
‘Yes, let’s go and see what she can offer us,’ she said, her face expanding into a smile and showing pretty, well-shaped teeth inside the twisted and scarred mouth. �
�I’m very fond of cake myself.’
‘I’ll finish my task, Brehon,’ said Fachtnan. Mara had given him a tiny sign, just the sliding of her eyes towards the door, but they had worked together in close harmony for so many years that Fachtnan knew instantly that this was an interview that the Brehon would wish to conduct without witnesses. He would, she knew, use the utmost tact while checking the cloaks of Sorley, Father MacMahon, Nechtan and his wife, Narait.
Left alone with the prioress, Mara did not rush into speech. This woman, she thought, looking across the table with interest, may have come from quite humble origins. She had probably entered the convent, less because of religious fervour, but rather through an ambition to make the most of herself – a belief that she had brains and ability and that she could do better than become the wife and slave of some doltish farmer. She had taken her vows, risen in the ranks, made a success of her profession, and then – who knows – on some moonlit night in a sultry June she may well have yielded to nature, have lain with someone: someone who, perhaps, was almost forgotten, but who had a delicate cast of feature and a blond hair of head, she thought, remembering that entry in the notebook belonging to Hans Kaufmann; someone just like the stricken Grace; someone who had seduced her senses and had led her away from the straight and narrow path.
And then, poor thing, the realization, the growing acceptance of the terrible truth; no doubt the confiding in her sister Bess and in the mother, now dead, and somehow or other a feigned illness, a secret birth and a resolute parting – the prioress returned to her convent and an extra baby was added to an obscure farm in north Wales.
‘Was Herr Kaufmann blackmailing you about Grace?’ Mara made her question purposefully blunt, but kept her tone of voice neutral and non-judgemental.
The woman whitened. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
Cross of Vengeance (A Burren Mystery) Page 19
