Whispers of the Dead sf-15

by Peter Tremayne

  “It is clear that he was killed for the fish,” Dian said doggedly after a moment to recover.

  “Is it?” Fidelma glanced to the far end of the kitchen. “Ask Brother Enda to come to me.”

  Brother Dian looked surprised at being summarily dismissed. A moment later the youthful, red-eyed Brother Enda arrived at her side.

  “Are you feeling better now?” Fidelma asked him.

  The young man nodded slowly. “It was a shock, you see. .” he began hesitantly.

  “Of course. You were close to Brother Roilt, weren’t you?”

  Brother Enda flushed and pressed his lips firmly together, saying nothing.

  “Were you currently in a relationship with him?” demanded Fidelma.

  “I was not.”

  “He preferred someone younger?”

  “He was the only person who was kind to me in this abbey. I shall not speak ill of him.”

  “I do not ask you to say anything that is not the truth and will not help us find out who killed him.”

  The young man seemed bewildered for a moment. “I thought he was killed for. .”

  “For the fish?” Fidelma’s expression did not change. “Did he have a current lover?”

  “I think there was a young novitiate that he had just taken a liking to.”

  “When did he end his relationship with you?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “Were you angry about that?”

  “Sad. I was not-” The young man’s eyes abruptly widened. “You think that I. . that I killed him?” His voice rose on a high note causing some of the other kitchen workers to turn in their direction.

  “Did you?” Fidelma was unperturbed.

  “I did not!”

  “How about Brother Cett? He is your age. Did he have a relationship with Roilt or with yourself?”

  Enda laughed harshly. “Brother Cett is not like that. He loves women too much.”

  “There is no feeling, beyond fraternity, between you and Cett?”

  “We are friends, that is all.”

  “I am told that Roilt was disliked. Perhaps he was disliked for his sexuality? Often people kill out of fear of things they cannot comprehend.”

  “I can only tell you what I know,” insisted the young man stubbornly.

  “That is all that is asked of the innocent.” Fidelma smiled thinly. “Send Brother Torolb to me.”

  Torolb was a man about twenty years of age. He was handsome and still in the vigor of youth, though not so young as Enda or Cett. He was dark-eyed and had determined features, an expression as though he would not suffer fools gladly. He wore a short leather apron around his habit.

  “Your task is to cook the meat dishes?” she asked. Torolb nodded warily.

  “How long have you worked in the kitchens here?”

  “Since I came to the abbey at the ‘Age of Choice.’ ”

  “Three or four years ago?”

  “Four years ago.”

  “So you learned your art in this kitchen?”

  Torolb smiled thinly. “Part of it. I was raised on a farm and taught to butcher and cook meat when I was young. That was why I specially asked to work in the kitchens.”

  Fidelma glanced down at his clothing. “You have blood on your apron,” she observed.

  Torolb uttered a short laugh. “You cannot butcher and cut meat without blood.”

  “Naturally,” sighed Fidelma. “How well did you know Brother Roilt?”

  An expression of displeasure crossed Torolb’s features. “I knew Roilt,” he replied shortly.

  “You did not like him?”

  “Why should I?”

  “He was head cook and you were under his direction. People have feelings about those they work with and an elderly man usually influences the young.”

  “Roilt could only influence gullible youths like Enda. Others despised him.”

  “Others, like yourself?”

  “I do not deny it. I obey the law.”

  “The law?” Fidelma frowned.

  “The law of God, the Father of Christ Jesus,” replied the young man fiercely. “You will find the law in Leviticus where it says ‘If a man has intercourse with a man as with a woman, they both commit an abomination. They shall be put to death; their blood shall be on their own heads.’ That is what is written.”

  Fidelma examined the saturnine young man thoughtfully.

  “Is that what you believe?”

  “That is what is written.”

  “But do you believe it?”

  “Surely we must believe the word of the Holy Scripture?”

  “And would you go so far as to carry out the word of that Scripture?”

  The young man glanced at her, his eyes narrowing suspiciously for a moment. “We are forbidden to take the law into our own hands and to kill. So if you are trying to accuse me of killing Brother Roilt, you are wrong. Yet if those who are given authority under the law had said he should be executed, then I would not have lifted a hand to prevent it.”

  Fidelma paused for a moment and then asked: “When you came here as a young novice, did Roilt make any advances toward you?”

  Brother Torolb was angry. “How dare you imply-”

  “You forget yourself, Brother Torolb!” snapped Fidelma.

  “You are talking to a dálaigh, an advocate of the Laws of the Féncchus. I ask questions to discover the truth. Your duty is to answer.”

  “I tell you again, I obey the laws of the Faith as given in Scripture. Anyway, you forget one thing in desperately seeking to find the guilty.”

  “What is that?”

  “The missing fish. If I were called to be God’s instrument to punish Roilt, what reason would I have to steal a fish that I did not want? Or would you like to come and search my cupboards for it?”

  Fidelma gazed coldly at him. “That will not be necessary. Tell Brother Manchán to come to me.”

  Torolb turned away, his attitude one of barely controlled anger.

  Brother Manchán came forward smiling. He was a fleshy, bright-faced young man, scarcely older than Torolb. He gave the impression that he had just stepped from a bath and was freshly scrubbed. His smile seemed a permanent part of his features.

  “And you, Brother, I observe, are the baker of this abbey?” Fidelma said in greeting.

  Manchán wore a pristine white apron over his habit, yet this had not prevented the fine dust of flour settling over his clothing like powder.

  “I have been baker here for two years and was three years assistant baker until the death of poor Brother Tomaltach.”

  “So you came here as a young novitiate five years ago?”

  Manchán bobbed his head and his smile seemed to broaden. “Even so, Sister.”

  “How well did you know Roilt?”

  “I knew him well enough, for he was head cook here. Poor Brother Roilt.”

  “Why do you say ‘poor’?”

  “The manner of his death, what else? Death comes to us all but it should not visit us in such a terrible fashion.” The young baker shuddered and genuflected.

  “Any untimely death is terrible,” Fidelma agreed. “Yet I believe that many in this kitchen do not feel grief at this man’s passing.”

  Manchán glanced quickly in the direction of Brother Dian, still at the far end of the kitchen.

  “I can imagine that some would even feel pleased at it,” he said quickly.

  “Pleased?”

  “A matter of ambition, Sister,” the young man replied.

  “Do you imply that Brother Dian was ambitious to be head cook here?”

  “Isn’t that natural? If one is second then it behooves him to strive to be first.”

  “I was not particularly thinking about ambition.”

  Brother Manchán regarded her for a moment or two and then grimaced. “I suppose you refer to Roilt’s sexual inclinations?”

  “What were your views?”

  “Each to his own, I say.Quod cibus est aliis est
venenum. What is food to some is poison to others.”

  “That is laudable, but not a view shared by some of your colleagues.”

  “You mean Torolb? Well, pay no attention to his fundamentalism. It is so much baying at the moon. Who knows? It may even be an attempt to hide his own inclinations, even from himself.”

  “Yet a man who can wield a knife and slaughter an animal might have no compunction in slaughtering a human being.”

  Brother Manchán reflected for a moment.

  “Are you really sure that Roilt was killed by one of us? That he was not killed by itinerants determined to feed well on the salmon that disappeared? After all, wasn’t the garden gate open and un-bolted? One of the itinerants must have come in.”

  “And you can think of no other explanation?” countered Fidelma.

  The young man raised a hand to rub his chin thoughtfully.

  “Anything is possible. I agree some did not like Roilt. But I think you are wrong about Torolb. Brother Dian coveted Roilt’s position as head cook and disliked him because he thought himself a better cook.”

  Fidelma smiled. “But Brother Dian was at the far end of the kitchen. He would have had to leave his position and walk down the length of the kitchen to where Roilt was cooking his fish. He would have been seen by either yourself or Torolb or, indeed, by Brother Gebhus who was working beside him and would have noticed him leave.”

  “But he did come by me. He did leave his position,” pointed out Brother Manchán.

  “That was when he went to check whether the fish was ready; when he noticed that the fish and Roilt were missing.” Fidelma frowned as an idea occurred to her. “Did you see Dian pass by?”

  Brother Manchán nodded. “I had my head down rolling dough but I was aware that he passed my table.”

  “How long was it before he announced that Roilt was missing?”

  Brother Manchán thought for a moment.

  “I think that some time passed between my being aware of him passing my table and the moment I thought I heard a door bang. That made me look up and go to the corner where I could see without obstruction. I saw Brother Dian standing by the kitchen door. He was looking rather flushed, as from exertion. I asked him what was wrong and that was when he said that the fish was missing and that he could not find Brother Roilt.”

  Fidelma was thoughtful. “Thank you, Brother Manchán.”

  She went forward to where Brother Gebhus was standing nervously awaiting her.

  “Now, Brother Gebhus.” She drew him to one side of the kitchen, away from where Brother Dian was now intent on ensuring the fruit dishes were being handed to the servers.

  “I don’t know anything, Sister,” the young man began nervously.

  Fidelma suppressed an impatient sigh. She pointed to a hearth where a fire crackled under a hanging cauldron.

  “Would you like to put your hand in that fire, Brother Gebhus?” she asked.

  Brother Gebhus looked startled. “Not I!”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want my hand burnt.”

  “Then you do know something, Gebhus, don’t you?” she replied acidly. “You know that the fire will burn your hand.”

  Brother Gebhus stared blankly at her.

  “Think about the meaning of what you are saying before you answer my questions,” explained Fidelma. “I need them to be answered with accuracy. How long have you worked here?”

  “Two years in this kitchen.”

  “You assist Brother Dian?”

  He nodded briefly, eyes warily on her.

  “How well did you know Brother Roilt?”

  “Not well. I. . I tried to avoid him. I did not like him because. .” He hesitated.

  “He made advances to you?”

  The young man sighed deeply. “When I first came to the abbey. I told him that I was not like that.”

  “You were standing here when Dian went to look for Roilt?”

  “He went to look for the fish,” corrected Gebhus. “The chief server had come in and said that the gratias was about to be said and Brother Dian turned and looked down the aisle there to where Brother Roilt was cooking the fish for the guest of honor. He could not see him and so he went to find him.”

  “And you remained here?”

  “I was here from the moment I came into the kitchen this evening.”

  “Was Brother Dian with you the whole time?”

  “Not the whole time. He had to discuss the meal with Brother Roilt before we began and once or twice he went to consult with him and the other cooks.”

  The refectory door opened at that point and Abbot Laisran came in, looking worried. He approached Fidelma.

  “I just had to come to see if you had any news. Have you decided who stole the fish?”

  Fidelma smiled her curious urchin-like grin.

  “I knew who stole the fish some time ago. But you are just in time, Father Abbot.”

  She turned and called for everyone to gather around her. They did so, expectantly, almost fearfully.

  “Do you know who murdered Brother Roilt?” demanded Brother Dian, asking the question that was in everyone’s minds.

  Fidelma glanced swiftly at them, observing their growing anticipation.

  “Brother Manchán, would you mind removing your apron?” she asked.

  The young brother suddenly turned white and began to back away.

  Brother Torolb grabbed him and tore the apron off. Beneath the pristine white apron, Brother Manchán’s habit was splattered with bloodstains.

  Abbot Laisran was bewildered. “Why would Brother Manchán kill Roilt?”

  “Reasons as old as the human condition: jealousy, love turned to hatred; an immature and uncontrollable rage at being rejected by a lover. Manchán had been Roilt’s lover until Roilt turned his attentions to a new young novitiate. Roilt rejected Manchán for a younger man. Presumably Roilt was neither sensitive nor tactful in bringing an end to his relationship and so Manchán killed him.”

  The young man did not deny her accusation.

  “How did you know?” asked the Abbot.

  “Brother Manchán was very eager to point an accusing finger at others in the kitchen and out of it, especially at Brother Dian. I realized that he was just too eager.”

  “But you must have had something else to go by?” Brother Dian asked. “Something made you suspect him.”

  “Brother Manchán was, of course, best placed to kill Roilt. When everyone had their attentions fixed on their tasks he seized the opportunity. He went forward, struck so quickly that Roilt did not have time to cry out, and then he dragged Roilt to the storeroom. He even went into the garden and opened the wooden gate, which was usually kept shut and bolted, in an attempt to lay a false trail. He pointed out to me that the gate had been open. Yet Dian, finding it so, had shut it and bolted it again almost immediately. How had he known that it had been open?”

  “And he also took the fish to lay a false trail?” suggested Brother Dian.

  Fidelma shook her head with a smile. “He did not have time to do that. No; the fish was actually stolen by someone else. The opportunity to take the fish was seized when Roilt was no longer there to prevent it.”

  “Just a minute,” interrupted Abbot Laisran. “I still do not understand how you initially came to suspect Manchán. Suspicion because he tried to lay the blame on others is not sufficient, surely?”

  “You are right, as always, Father Abbot,” conceded Fidelma. “What alerted me was the problem of his apron.”

  “His apron?” frowned the Abbot.

  “Manchán would have us believe that he was working away making bread. Indeed, there was a fine dust of flour over his clothing with the exception of his apron which was clean; pristine white. It was clearly not the apron that he had been wearing while he was working. Why had he changed it? When Roilt was killed blood had splattered on the floor. It would have splashed on his clothes, especially on a white apron. He changed the apron in the storeroom, coveri
ng the bloodstains that had seeped through onto his habit. Seeing that clean white apron made me suspicious and his eagerness to point the finger at others simply confirmed my instinct. The reference to the gate merely confirmed matters. Now you have the proof,” she added with a gesture at Manchán’s bloodstained robes.

  Abbot Laisran stood nodding his head thoughtfully as he considered the matter. Then he suddenly looked at her in bewilderment. “But the fish? Who stole the fish?”

  Sister Fidelma moved across to the kitchen door and pointed down to the empty tin dish by the door.

  “I noticed this earlier. It looks as though it is used to contain milk. Therefore, would I be correct in presuming that there is a cat who frequents the kitchen area?”

  Brother Dian gave a gasp which was enough acknowledgment of this surmise.

  Fidelma grinned. “I suggest that a search of the garden will probably disclose the remains of the fish and your cat curled up nearby having had one of the best meals of its life. It was the cat who stole the fish.”

  CRY “WOLF!”

  Is that all the petitions and statements?” asked Sister Fidelma with a sigh of relief.

  It had been a long morning and Sister Fidelma had been fulfilling the job that she liked least as a dálaigh or an advocate of the courts of the five kingdoms of Éireann. Having qualified to the level of anruth, only one level below the highest degree accorded by the ecclesiastical and secular colleges of Ireland, she would often be asked by the Chief Brehon, the senior judge, of the kingdom of Muman, which her brother, Colgú, ruled from Cashel, to hear minor cases. This usually meant visiting outlying corners of the kingdom where there was no permanent Brehon. She would judge minor cases, or study submissions from plaintiffs to see whether there was some case of civil or criminal law that had to be heard by a more senior Brehon.

  She had spent the night in her least favorite part of her brother’s kingdom. It was a disputed territory claimed by the princes of the Uí Fidgente and those of the Eóghanacht Áine. The Eóghanacht Áine were related to her own family and there had been many conflicts between them and the Uí Fidgente. Yet, these conflicts apart, she admitted that the area was a beautiful country. It was a large, fertile valley; a lush green plain which was sheltered by surrounding hills and stretched north to a great sea inlet.