Penance of the Damned (Sister Fidelma)

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘With your permission,’ Fidelma said to Brehon Faolchair, ‘I want to see where this happened.’

  They moved to the house, Conrí leading the way. Ciarnat still lay on the floor, a coverlet over her body. Socht was standing nearby.

  ‘Where was she hanging?’ Fidelma asked, ignoring the body for a moment.

  ‘From that roof beam,’ Conrí replied, indicating one of the beams that crossed above them. Fidelma noticed a wooden chair, standing upright, below it. Seeing the meaning in her glance, Conrí added: ‘The chair was on its side when we came in. I climbed on it in order to sever cord from which she had hanged herself.’

  Fidelma looked at the height of the chair and then up at the beam. ‘You examined the body, of course, Airmid?’

  The apothecary nodded. ‘Only inasmuch as I pronounced she was dead. That was after Conrí cut down the body, although I could see she was dead when I first came in and saw her hanging from the beam.’

  ‘Just so.’

  Fidelma now bent down by the body and, gently removing the covering, she stood back and gazed thoughtfully at the dead girl. Ciarnat lay on her back. Her eyes were closed and her features were not as badly disfigured from the effects of the hanging as Fidelma might have expected. When someone is throttled to death at the end of a rope, the face is usually discoloured and the lips blue, the tongue often protruding. But here, the girl’s features seemed almost to be in repose, as if she were asleep. Fidelma stood up straight and turned to Eadulf.

  ‘Have a look at the body, Eadulf. You also, Airmid.’

  Eadulf moved forward and went down on one knee. After a moment, he was joined by Airmid, visibly put out at what she saw as having her judgement questioned by Fidelma.

  ‘Strange,’ Eadulf muttered as he peered at the girl’s face and then the neck.

  Fidelma guessed that he had spotted the very same thing as she had.

  Airmid stiffened in annoyance. ‘What is so strange?’ she demanded.

  ‘Help me turn the body over,’ Eadulf instructed, oblivious to Airmid’s angry tone.

  The physician hesitated and then ungraciously helped him turn the body over, face down. Again, Eadulf paid particular attention to the girl’s neck, parting Ciarnat’s long hair so he could examine the nape and then moving up the back of the head.

  Eventually, he gave a long sigh, and looking directly at Airmid, he said one word. ‘Well?’

  Airmid moved closer and parted the hair exactly as he had done … then gave a quick gasp.

  ‘I did not examine her so closely before,’ she said as if justifying something.

  Fidelma had known there was something out of place. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Eadulf glanced up. ‘In my opinion, the girl was unconscious or dead before she was hoisted up on the beam. Judging by her relaxed features, I would say she was already dead. She had suffered a severe blow on the back of the head. There is an abrasion there, with some bleeding and evidence of bone fragments. Clots of blood are visible on the nape of the neck and blood has dripped on to the back of her dress.’

  Fidelma turned to Airmid. ‘Do you agree?’

  The physician glanced up distractedly. ‘I had not noticed it before,’ she confessed. ‘I just confirmed that she was dead. However, the injury could have been caused when Conrí cut her down. The body could have fallen so that—’

  ‘Beg pardon, lady Airmid.’ It was Socht who interrupted. ‘You are forgetting one thing.’

  They turned to focus their attention on him. He had stood silent all this time. For a moment he looked from one to another of them, slightly confused as to whom to address.

  ‘You may recall that my lord Conrí and I came in to cut the body down. While he took the chair to climb up, I stood under the body of the girl to support it. When the body was cut loose, I took the weight and lowered it gently down on to the ground. I was careful, just in case there was still life left – but there was none.’

  ‘In other words, the injuries were not caused after she was cut down but before she was hoisted up to the beam?’ Fidelma summed up.

  ‘That is the logical deduction,’ Eadulf said, ‘that she was dead before being strangled by the rope.’

  ‘Do you agree with Brother Eadulf’s observation?’ Fidelma asked Airmid.

  There was a silence and then: ‘I agree,’ she replied solemnly.

  Brehon Faolchair moved forward to gaze down at the body, a look of horror on his face. ‘Then we are now saying that this was not suicide, but …?’

  ‘But murder,’ Fidelma affirmed grimly. ‘That is exactly what we are saying.’

  She said to Conrí, who was looking bemused at these new revelations, ‘You say that you stood on that chair to cut her down. Where was the chair exactly?’

  ‘I picked it up from the floor just there,’ Conrí pointed to a spot under the beam. ‘She was hanging from there and the chair was lying on its side beneath her. I presumed that it must have been overturned by her when she kicked it free to hang herself.’

  Fidelma nodded slightly. ‘Yes, our killer certainly dressed the scene to mislead us. If Ciarnat had climbed there with the intention of hanging herself, tied the rope and kicked the chair from under her, it would have been overturned in that position.’

  She paused for a moment and looked at the chair thoughtfully.

  ‘Yet the killer made an important mistake.’

  Eadulf had joined her now; he looked at the chair and then up at the beam. And then a brief smile of enlightenment crossed his features.

  ‘Shall I demonstrate?’ he offered. When Fidelma nodded, he said to Conrí, ‘Would you oblige us by standing on the chair and showing us how you cut Ciarnat down?’

  The warlord’s brows came together in bafflement. Nevertheless, he obediently climbed on to the chair and stretched towards the beam.

  ‘Your outstretched hand hardly reaches the beam,’ Eadulf pointed out.

  ‘As I said, I had to cut the cord that held her.’ He drew his sword and reached upwards. ‘See?’

  ‘I see exactly,’ nodded Eadulf.

  Seeing everyone’s puzzlement, Fidelma explained. ‘You will note that Conrí is a tall man, yet he could not reach the beam on which Ciarnat is said to have tied herself. Conrí is, of course, taller than Ciarnat.’

  Brehon Faolchair shrugged. ‘You have already pointed out that she was murdered and then hoisted up to the beam.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘The killer tried to make it look like a suicide. Why he would do so is the important question. However, at the moment I am interested in how he reached that beam.’

  ‘Where is the rope she was tied up with?’ asked Eadulf, an idea occurring to him. ‘If it was long enough, the killer could have simply swung it over the beam and hauled up Ciarnat’s corpse without bothering to climb there.’

  Conrí had dismounted from the chair and sheathed his sword. Now he was shaking his head.

  ‘Not with this cord, friend Eadulf,’ he commented, crossing to a table on which two pieces of cord lay. They had obviously once been one piece, now cut into two, and these ends were frayed by the stroke of the sword. The warlord picked up the pieces and held them out for all to see.

  ‘What is that?’ Fidelma asked, seeing them for the first time.

  ‘That is the cord with which she was supposed to have hanged herself, lady. I severed it when I cut her down. Socht, as he has explained, stood below to support her body when she was released, so that she did not fall.’

  ‘It is a short cord, even when put together,’ Fidelma observed. She estimated it was longer than déis-céim in her native measuring system, perhaps nearly two metres.

  ‘Just enough to hang someone,’ Conrí muttered, looking rueful.

  Eadulf pointed to the three knots tied at one end. ‘But that looks like …’ he began slowly.

  ‘A religieux cord belt.’ Brehon Faolchair’s voice was grim.

  ‘It is not a fashion that I have seen often,’ Eadulf said, thank
ful that his own robes fastened with a leather belt. ‘Yet I am sure that I have seen it worn recently.’

  ‘Neither is it popular here,’ the Brehon nodded. ‘But I too have seen it worn and not so long ago.’

  ‘You are thinking of Brother Mac Raith from the Abbey of Imleach,’ Fidelma reminded them. ‘He wears such a rope belt.’

  ‘Just so.’ Brehon Faolchair looked relieved. ‘Brother Mac Raith but also his companion, Brother Máel Anfaid – both have adopted this form of crís or religious girdle.’

  ‘It seems odd that if a murderer was going to attempt to disguise a murder to make it look like suicide, and go to all that trouble, why would that murderer leave behind such an obvious clue to their identity?’ Eadulf mused. ‘It would be the height of stupidity.’

  ‘Unless it was just another attempt at disguising the real murderer,’ Fidelma said.

  Brehon Faolchair’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘It could be that the man was in a hurry and this was the only rope to hand.’

  ‘Yet he had time to get some means to climb up to the beam, tie the rope, descend and hide that means … unless, of course, he was an acrobat,’ Fidelma replied.

  Airmid was looking worried. ‘There is a ladder that I keep at the side of the house. Some thatching needs to be repaired.’

  ‘Then let us see if it is still there,’ suggested Fidelma.

  Led by Airmid, they left the house and went to the side of the building. The ladder was propped against the wall, as she had said.

  ‘I suppose it is possible that it could have been used to gain an easy access to the beam,’ Brehon Faolchair admitted.

  Eadulf had moved to the ladder and examined it. ‘More than a possibility,’ he said. ‘There are fresh bloodstains on the rungs.’

  Fidelma went and looked at the spots he indicated.

  Eadulf said: ‘My opinion is that our killer, having killed the girl with the blow to the back of the head, which caused some bleeding, knew this ladder was here. He took it inside, propped it against the beam and then took the cord, fastened it over the beam, then dragged the girl’s body up the rungs and tied the cord around her neck. The blood splattered on the rungs. The killer took the ladder back and returned to clean any marks of blood from the floor and arrange the chair in a clumsy attempt to make it look like suicide.’

  ‘Clumsy, indeed,’ nodded the Brehon. ‘Because he forgot to clean the blood from the rungs.’

  ‘I don’t think he was too clumsy. There are only a few spots of blood on the rungs. He doubtless thought that even if we did make a connection with the ladder, the stains would have disappeared by then.’

  ‘But surely the rest was clumsy?’ the Brehon protested.

  ‘Not so. I think he came fully prepared to mislead us with the religious rope belt.’

  ‘I don’t accept that,’ snapped Brehon Faolchair. ‘I find this bizarre. Someone comes to murder the girl. He then disguises the murder to look like suicide but does it in such a way that we immediately realise it is a murder because he places a piece of evidence that incriminates someone else. It is too complicated. Too fantastic.’

  ‘Whoever did it knew that there was a ladder at the side of the house,’ Eadulf stated. ‘You can’t see it even if you come into the herb garden around the apothecary. You have to come through the herb garden and then here to the house, which has its own fencing around it. So we are talking about someone with knowledge of the buildings.’

  Fidelma turned to Airmid. ‘Did you observe anyone around your house or apothecary this morning?’

  Airmid shook her head. ‘No one that I did not know.’

  ‘Forgive me, that was not exactly the question,’ Fidelma said sharply.

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if you recount your morning and who you saw,’ Brehon Faolchair said to keep the peace, as Airmid’s eyes flashed angrily for a moment.

  ‘Very well,’ the physician said. ‘Ciarnat had been handed into my safekeeping. She stayed with me in my house overnight. So when I awoke this morning, she was the first person I saw.’

  ‘Was she awake or asleep when you awoke?’ Fidelma asked with equal sarcasm, making the point that two could play at such a game.

  Airmid let one shoulder lift slightly and then relaxed. ‘As a matter of fact, I had to wake her. We broke our fast with fruit and water from my well. We had some little discussion and then I went off to prepare some cures in my apothecary. It was then that Fidelma and her companions came. After that I got back to work and knew nothing more until I heard my dog, came back to the house and found her hanging, just as I told you.’

  ‘And you were in your apothecary all the morning?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘You did not even notice Brehon Faolchair passing and speaking with Ciarnat?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘So, in fact, anyone could have slipped through the herb garden, entered your house and killed Ciarnat?’ pressed Eadulf.

  ‘Since that is blatantly what happened, then the answer is obvious.’ The woman’s rudeness caused Eadulf to blink.

  ‘Thank you, Airmid,’ Fidelma intervened quietly. ‘You have been very helpful.’ She then addressed Brehon Faolchair. ‘With your permission, since you have noticed it is worn by the two scribes from the Abbey of Imleach, I would like to question them. However, I suggest that you take the cord as evidence, for it is best placed in your care than mine.’

  Brehon Faolchair agreed, then asked: ‘Do you really believe that the death of Ciarnat has something to do with one of the scribes from Imleach?’

  ‘We shall find out. However, I am more certain that it is connected with the murder of Abbot Ségdae.’

  ‘Then, as you already are pursuing an investigation into the abbot’s murder, I will let you pursue the girl’s murder also. Lady Airmid, I shall arrange for the poor girl’s body to be removed to the Abbey of Nechta. Her mother is known there and Brother Éladach can carry out the obsequies.’

  When Fidelma, with Eadulf and Enda, was crossing the courtyard again, Eadulf asked her: ‘Why does Brehon Faolchair have to grant you permission to investigate the girl’s death?’

  ‘You forget we are in the fortress of Prince Donennach and that Faolchair is his Brehon,’ replied Fidelma. ‘This is his jurisdiction.’

  ‘You seem to think that her death is connected with that of Abbot Ségdae,’ Enda said. ‘But what could the poor lass have known, that she had to be killed to silence her? And could one of the brethren from Imleach really have done such a thing?’

  ‘You ask very pertinent questions, Enda,’ Fidelma said. ‘Perhaps it was something that Ciarnat had already told us that brought about her death.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If we understood, we would probably know everything,’ Fidelma answered with weary resignation. ‘Anyway, no speculation without …’

  ‘… information,’ ended Eadulf, completing one of her favourite sayings.

  She glanced at him in annoyance before allowing herself a whimsical smile.

  ‘Very well, Eadulf. But I was always taught by Brehon Morann, my mentor, that speculation can be the enemy of a tranquil mind. If the mind is not tranquil it cannot perceive and question with the necessary calmness and control.’

  ‘How else do we arrive at a conclusion to a mystery other than to speculate on possibilities with the information that we have? It is a human condition. Speculation is the art of life.’

  ‘I did not realise you were such a philosopher, Eadulf,’ she said, accepting that he had made a valid point.

  ‘It’s not much of a philosophy,’ he returned moodily.

  She was about to respond when they came to the door of the guest-hostel, which was opened by the haughty steward, Brother Tuamán. He seemed put out at the sight of them.

  ‘You are becoming a frequent visitor to our quarters, lady,’ he said, unsmiling.

  ‘I believe Abbot Ségdae did not ask to die here,’ she answered dryly. ‘I am obliged to ask questions and
you, I am afraid, are equally obliged to answer them.’

  The steward inclined his head in grudging resignation and stepped aside to allow them to enter the hostel. Brother Mac Raith was inside, busy collating some vellum pages. He looked up from his task and on seeing them, stood up.

  Fidelma’s eyes immediately fell to the waist of his robe. There was the twisted hemp rope, tied on his right side and the two ends of equal length falling almost level to the hem of the robe. There were the three knots in the one end. She glanced at Brother Tuamán, who wore the more normal leather belt as did Eadulf.

  ‘I merely wanted to ask about this new fashion that I have seen … the one Brother Mac Raith is wearing.’

  ‘The rope girdle? I believe it is called a loman.’ Brother Tuamán sniffed. ‘I know nothing of it. Best ask him,’ he added with a jerk of his head to the young man.

  The scribe’s brows had drawn together. ‘It is generally called a loman,’ he said, ‘although I have also heard it called a sursaing. What can I tell you about it, lady?’

  ‘It is unusual. Where does it come from?’

  ‘From Gaul, I believe, lady. It is being adopted by the religious brethren there.’

  ‘Can you tell me the purpose?’

  The young man hesitated, seemingly embarrassed. Then he took courage. ‘Many of the brethren not only spend time within the abbey in pursuit of their contemplation but many work in the fields to provide food and crops to sustain the members of their communities. Wearing robes in the fields, especially on rainy, wet days, presents a problem. So the Gaulish brethren have developed a custom of taking their long robes and drawing them up between their legs before tying them around the waist with a piece of cord. Some choose linen cord and some twisted hemp. Three knots are tied in the end in symbolism of the Faith – the Holy Trinity.’

  ‘You say this idea originated among the brethren in Gaul?’

  ‘So I am told, lady. Even those who no longer work in the fields but, like myself, work within the abbey as scribe and illustrator, have begun to adopt this form of dress.’

  ‘You do not wear such a girdle, Brother Tuamán,’ Fidelma said, addressing the steward.

  ‘I am old-fashioned and prefer a solid leather belt and trews under my robes,’ replied the steward. ‘So do most members of the community at Imleach.’