“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 whose 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 app
roving 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.
“A man who worked in the abbey gardens. Not one of our community.”
“A sad tale.”
“Sad enough,” the abbot agreed shortly.
“Did you know Sister Una?”
“I was a young novitiate in the abbey at the time, but I hardly knew her.” The abbot turned, clearing his throat as if in dismissal of the memories. “And now. . I believe that you are staying with us until the morning?”
“I will be continuing my journey back to Cashel in the morning,” Fidelma confirmed.
“Stay here then and I will send Brother Liag, our hostel keeper, to you. He will show you to the dormitory of the religieuse. We eat after Vespers. You will forgive me leaving you here. There are matters I must now attend to.”
Fidelma watched as he hurried along the aisle and vanished beyond the doors of the chapel. As they banged shut behind him, her eyes were drawn back once again to the extraordinary statuette. It held a curious fascination for her. The artist had, indeed, given the poor Sister Una life and, for a while, she was lost in examining the lines of the fine workmanship.
There was a sound behind her: a shuffle of sandals and an exaggerated cough.
She turned. A religieux had entered and stood a little distance off with his arms folded inside his robe. He was balding and wore a doleful expression.
“Sister Fidelma? I am the hostel keeper, Brother Liag.”
Fidelma inclined her head toward him. Yet her gaze was still reluctant to leave the intriguing statuette. The newcomer had observed her interest.
“I knew her.”
Brother Liag spoke softly and yet there was a curious emotion in his voice that caught her attention immediately.
“Yes?” she encouraged after a pause.
“She was so full of life and love for everyone. The community worshipped her.”
“As did you?” Fidelma interpreted the controlled emotion of his voice.
“As did I,” Brother Liag confirmed sadly.
“It is an unhappy story. I have heard it from your abbot.”
Did a curious expression flit across his features? She was not sure in the gloomy light.
“Did you also know the man who killed her?” she pressed when it seemed that he was saying no more.
“I did.”
“I gather he worked in the gardens of the abbey?”
“Tanaí?”
“Was that his name?”
“That was the man who was lynched by the community for the crime,” Brother Liag affirmed.
Fidelma exhaled softly as she gazed at the marble face of the young girl.
“What a miserable waste,” she observed, almost to herself.
“Grievous.”
“What sort of man was this Tanaí? How did he think that he, a gardener, could steal that precious reliquary and sell it-for presumably he did it for mercenary gain?”
“That was the theory.”
Fidelma glanced quickly at him.
“You do not agree?”
Brother Liag returned her gaze and his expression had not changed. It was still mournful.
“I think that we share the same thought, Sister. The only way such an object could be sold for gain is by its destruction. Where and to whom could such a priceless treasure be sold? The jewels pried from the box might be sold individually. The value of the box itself and the greater value of that which is contained in it would be entirely lost. There would be no market for anything so invaluable. Who would purchase such a treasure?”
“Yet if Tanaí was merely a laborer in the garden here, he might not have considered that aspect of the theft. He might simply have seen a precious jeweled box and been overcome by greed.”
The hostel keeper smiled for the first time, more a motion of his facial muscles than indicative of any feeling.
“It is true that Tanaí worked here as a gardener. He was an intelligent man. He had been an apothecary and herbalist. One day he mixed a wrong prescription and one of his patients died. He answered before the Brehons for manslaughter and was fined. The Brehons said it was an accident, and there was no guilt of intent involved-only the guilt of error. But Tanaí was conscientious and, although he could have continued to practice as a herbalist, he withdrew here to the abbey and did penance by returning to study the plants and herbs, living a life of penury and self-sacrifice.”
Fidelma glanced at Liag cynically.
“Until he coveted the reliquary; for what you are telling me is that he was intelligent enough to know its real value. Maybe he thought he would find someone who would endanger their immortal soul for possession of it?”
Brother Liag sighed deeply.
“That is what everyone has thought these last twenty years.”
“You sound as though you still do not agree?” she commented quickly.
Brother Liag was hesitant, and then he sighed reflectively: “The point that I was making is that he was intelligent enough to know that he could never sell the reliquary, if that was his motive. There are some questions to which I have never found satisfactory answers. Tanaí had removed himself to the monastery with his wife and young daughter because he felt he must do penance for a mistake. That strikes me as the action of a man of moral principle. He worked in the abbey gardens in a position of trust for five years. Never had there been a whisper of anyone’s distrusting him. He could have been appointed apothecary of the abbey for the old abbot-he died many years ago now-who had several times urged him to take the position, saying that he had paid for his mistake more than enough.
“Why did he have such a sudden mental aberration? For over five years he was in a position in which he could have stolen the reliquary or, indeed, any one of the several treasures of the abbey. Why did he attempt the theft at that point? And to kill Una! He was never a violent man, in spite of the mistake that led to the manslaughter charge. The killing of poor Sister Una was so out of character.”
“What actually connected him with the attempted theft in the first place?” Fidelma asked. “The abbot said that he fled without the reliquary.”
Brother Liag inclined his head.
“The reliquary was untouched. Sister Una had disturbed the thief before he could touch it, and she was killed while trying to raise the alarm.”
“Where was Tanaí caught?”
“Trying to enter the abbot’s rooms.” Brother Liag shot her a keen glance. “The community caught up with him at the entrance and dragged him to the nearest tree. God forgive all of us. But Sister Una was so beloved by all of the community that common sense was displaced by rage.�
�
“The abbot’s rooms? That is a strange place for a man to run to when he has apparently just committed murder,” murmured Fidelma.
“A question that was raised afterward. Abbot Ogán, who was one of the community, a young brother at the time, pointed out that Tanaí must have known that he would be caught and was trying to throw himself on the old abbot’s mercy and seek sanctuary.”
“I suppose that it is plausible,” Fidelma conceded. “What happened to Tanaí’s family?”
“His wife died of shock soon after, and his young daughter was raised by the Sisters of the abbey out of charity.”
Fidelma was perplexed.
“There is something here that I do not understand. If Tanaí was found at the abbot’s rooms, if the only witness was killed and the reliquary had not been touched, and there was no eyewitness, what was there to link Tanaí with the crime? Indeed, how do you know that theft was even the motive for the murder?”
Brother Liag shrugged.
“What else could have been the motive for killing poor Sister Una? Anyway, everyone was crying that it was Tanaí who did the deed and that he had been seen running from the chapel. I presumed that this was without question since everyone was shouting it.”
“How much time had passed between the time the crime was committed and when Tanaí was found?”
Brother Liag shifted his weight as he thought over the matter, trying to stretch his memory back two decades.
“I can’t really recall. I know it was some amount of time.”
“An hour?”
“No, well under an hour.”
“A few minutes?”
“More than that. Perhaps fifteen minutes.”
“So who identified Tanaí as the culprit?”
Brother Liag gestured helplessly.
“But everyone was shouting that. . I saw Brother Ogán, the abbot as he now is. In fact, it was Ogán who was foremost in the hue and cry; but there was Brother Librén, the rechtaire. . the steward of the abbey. Everyone was shouting and looking for Tanaí. . I have no idea who identified him first.”
“I see,” Fidelma replied with a sigh. “Why do you now have doubts of Tanaí’s guilt?”
Brother Liag appeared slightly uncomfortable.
Whispers of the Dead sf-15 Page 12
