Deed of Murder

by Cora Harrison

  ‘But he had a scalp wound,’ said Moylan indignantly.

  ‘That was inflicted after death – probably tumbling down the mountain. There’s far too much blood on this stick – look at it carefully.’

  ‘Perhaps there was another murder!’ suggested Aidan with a hopeful note in his voice.

  ‘It’s strange though, Nuala, because I found this just at the place where there were marks of a struggle and also Shane found burned pieces of the deed of contract there in the same place.’

  ‘And droppings from a horse that had stood for a while,’ supplemented Shane.

  ‘I think we will have to leave the matter of the stick for the moment and get on our way – just leave it in the press in the schoolhouse, Moylan.’ Mara surveyed the well-filled twin satchels attached to the sides of each pony. The auction would be when the bell sounds for vespers. The boys would have to eat their lunch before then and she herself wanted to have plenty of time to survey the possible murder scene and to be able to turn matters over in her mind. Muiris, apparently, must already be at the flax garden. He had not been at home when Moylan went to carry the message and his household did not know where he was.

  ‘By the way, Mara, Seamus MacCraith will be joining us,’ said Nuala in a bored tone of voice. ‘The king and the others have gone for another day’s hunting and he doesn’t want to go. He’s afraid that if he does he will be forced to write a poem and “the subject does not offer any scope”, or so he says. I tried to put him off but he wouldn’t be dissuaded. He said that he would hover at a distance.’

  What a nuisance, thought Mara, but she said nothing. Fiona was blushing self-consciously and the boys were grinning. It was fairly obvious that they knew why Seamus MacCraith had not chosen to join the hunting party and was going to honour them with his presence. That was all very well and she was sure that Fiona could handle him, but today was a working day and Seamus would just be a nuisance. As soon as the poet arrived Mara drew her horse up beside his and suggested that he would work on his poem better if he kept at a distance from them.

  ‘In any case,’ she added, ‘all of my scholars are working on a case and Nuala, with her medical knowledge, is assisting us. I’m sure that you understand how work like this cannot go forward in the presence of a stranger – anything said at times like this has to be highly confidential. Perhaps you would like to go ahead of us now. Would that be best? Like that you can absorb the beauty of the mountain without our presence interrupting your thoughts.’

  He stared haughtily at her and without a word spurred his horse and thundered across the stone-paved fields of the High Burren towards the lower slopes of the Aillwee Mountains. Nuala caught Mara’s eye with such a comical expression that Mara found herself biting her lips in order to suppress a laugh. No, she thought, that young man would not be right for Nuala, nor for Fiona, either. He might be intelligent, but he lacks a sense of humour. He, himself, and his sense of his own genius, would always be more important to him than any girl. Let him go ahead and admire the scenery.

  And certainly the scenery was worth admiring. The day was warm but with a hint of crispness that seemed to forecast a frosty night. Between the clints, those massive slabs of stone that paved the fields of the High Burren, the early spring grass sprouted, looking fresh and appetizing for the cows that wandered over the firm surface. Here and there between the field boundaries a blackthorn bush had grown and the snow-white blossom gleamed in the noontime sunshine, rivalling in its intensity the almost silver gleam of the limestone slopes. The flowering season of the Burren was beginning and gradually, amidst the splendour of the glistening limestone, patches of colour showed themselves to the eye. The purple orchids dotted among pure white ones, azure clusters of bugle, mats of purple-flowered thyme and here and there a few early gentians, specks of intense blue, showed up between the creamy daisy-faced mountain avens flowers.

  ‘Do you miss this place when you are in Thomond?’ Mara almost regretted her question once it had been uttered, but Nuala showed no emotion, just glancing around at the mountains and distant view of the sea with a fairly indifferent face.

  ‘I never really think that much about it,’ she said. ‘I’ve so much to do. I suppose I am just focussed on my work.’

  ‘You always were,’ said Mara. ‘Even as a ten-year-old your dedication was there. That’s why I trust you implicitly when you tell me that the blood-soaked stick was not used in the murder of Eamon. But where did it come from?’

  She expected no answer and got none. Nuala would only speak if she knew the answer and if the answer could be a scientifically proved fact. Mara clicked her heels against her horse and increased her speed until she drew level with her scholars.

  ‘Why should a bloodstained stick, that was not used on Eamon, be found at the place where we think the murder took place?’ She threw the question out and immediately five pairs of eyes were fastened to hers. ‘One answer from everyone.’

  Moylan looked around. ‘I say that Nuala might be wrong and Eamon might have been hit on the head first and then punched in the bottom of the neck.’

  ‘Eamon wrestled it from the murderer and hit him with it, so the blood belongs to the murderer,’ came back Shane’s quick response.

  ‘’The stick has nothing to do with the case.’ Hugh sounded doubtful, but Mara gave him an approving nod.

  ‘What about the stick being left there as a false clue?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘Why?’ queried Moylan.

  ‘Use your brains,’ said Fiona crisply. ‘If we discover that Owney or Cathal, or any other obvious suspect does not have a stick, then our attention is immediately focussed on them. The blood could have come from anywhere – it could be from a butchered animal.’

  ‘Let’s think who would have a stick,’ said Aidan. ‘Would flax workers have sticks?’

  ‘Good point.’ Moylan nodded at his friend.

  ‘Could do, I suppose, to climb the mountain.’ Shane sounded doubtful.

  ‘Or to defend themselves against a wolf,’ suggested Hugh with a glance across the mountain where the shouts of the wolf hunters bounced against the echoing rocks.

  ‘Or against a bull, or even a ram,’ said Fiona. ‘The trouble is that most people will have a few or even a lot of these sticks – just like you have, Brehon, at Ballinalacken, just standing in a barrel in the guardsmen’s room.’

  ‘Still, we’ll bear it in mind, though, Brehon,’ said Moylan. ‘We might just notice someone asking about a missing stick.’

  So will I, thought Mara, as they began to cross the fields at Baur North. Perhaps Fiona’s surmise about the stick being left as a false clue was the most interesting and most likely idea.

  If, however, Shane was right then it should be easy to spot a man with a wound. Neither Cathal O’Halloran nor his son, Owney, would be able to hide a wound that had bled so much.

  ‘Look, the spring lambs are being taken up from Lissylisheen to the slopes of the Aillwee Mountain,’ shouted Shane, interrupting Mara’s thoughts.

  ‘The O’Lochlainn himself is with them, Brehon,’ said Moylan.

  Mara smiled to herself. Moylan was taking his role as eldest scholar in the law school seriously. He was making sure that she knew of the presence of an important person and was ready to exchange greetings. Ardal O’Lochlainn, the O’Lochlainn, as the head of the clan was known, was probably the most important man in the kingdom of the Burren after Mara herself as representative of King Turlough Donn. In the centuries past the O’Lochlainns had been kings of the Burren, but now there was no more loyal subject of the king than Ardal, the present taoiseach or chieftain of the clan. He was a handsome man, tall, lean and athletic with those intensely blue eyes and his red-gold crown of hair and Mara gazed with pleasure at the picture he made on his beautiful thoroughbred strawberry mare.

  ‘You’re moving the lambs, Ardal,’ she called out. ‘Does that mean that you think the weather will be warming up?’

  ‘That’s right, Brehon. The wind is
going around to the west. Might even be raining before dawn, I think. The grass is beginning to grow. I was up the mountain earlier and there are all sorts of herbs for the flock to eat. That reminds me, Brehon, I was looking very closely at the ground up there beyond the flax garden and I found this. I’m sure it must belong to you.’

  Reining in his well-trained mare, Ardal bent down and picked something out of his satchel. It took him a moment to find the object and when he produced it Mara could see why. The object was no bigger than his little finger – just a scrap of pink linen tape, tied in a loop.

  Moylan gave an exclamation, but Mara silenced him with a sharp look. She held out a hand and smiled graciously. ‘Thank you, Ardal,’ she said. ‘How clever of you to have spotted such a small object!’

  ‘I knew it must be yours.’ Ardal’s very white teeth flashed in a mischievous grin. ‘I remember when you were a little girl you told me how you had persuaded your father to get his linen document tape dyed pink, instead of black or white like other lawyers.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mara returned his smile while, behind the polite mask of neighbourly friendliness, her mind was racing. How could a second piece of pink tape have been found at the very same place? She glanced at it. Yes, it definitely had come from Cahermacnaghten, but once again, the bow had not been tied in her characteristic knot. ‘Stand back, everyone,’ she said aloud, hoping to forestall any queries from her scholars. ‘Stand back and allow the O’Lochlainn to take his flock through the gap.’

  She waited until he had moved on before holding up the loop to her scholars and to Nuala.

  ‘Definitely from our law school,’ said Moylan with conviction.

  ‘And it is just the right size to be used to tie a scroll,’ observed Fiona, assessing it with her eye.

  ‘Did you tie it, Brehon?’ asked Shane shrewdly.

  Mara shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I always make a loop with one side of the tape, then wind the other around it. You can see that this has been made by having two loops knotted together.’

  ‘Do you think that Eamon had two deeds with him, Fiona?’ asked Moylan.

  ‘Not that I know. Why should he?’ said Fiona.

  ‘Perhaps it belongs to a deed of contract from last year and Cathal, the flax manager, dropped it,’ suggested Hugh.

  ‘Birdbrain,’ scoffed Aidan. ‘That piece of tape hasn’t been out in the open for a whole year.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ retorted Hugh. ‘It might be that Cathal destroyed the old one when he thought he would be getting a new one in a couple of days. In fact, he might have burned it and what Shane found might not be the fifteen eleven deed, but the fifteen ten one.’

  ‘What, took it out of his house, carried it up the hill and burned it there?’ exclaimed Moylan.

  ‘Why not?’ Hugh was standing up for himself. ‘These pieces of vellum really stink when you burn them – smell of dead calf.’

  ‘How do you account for the two pieces of tape, then?’ Aidan thrust his face aggressively towards Hugh.

  ‘Use your own brains, don’t borrow mine,’ retorted Hugh.

  ‘That’s enough. Let’s ride on now and see what else we can discover. Let’s take the Glenisheen route and then we’ll keep out of the way of the O’Lochlainn and his sheep.’ Mara understood their ill temper, which stemmed from frustration. This seemed to be a case where every step forward seemed to be followed by a step backwards.

  There was no sign of Seamus MacCraith, the poet, she was glad to find, as they made their way up the winding road, passing the flax workers’ cottages and the flax garden itself until they reached the small plateau above.

  The boys had been keen and observant. There was no doubt that there had been a scuffle of some sort here, and there was no doubt that a horse had stood there for some time. Mara stared thoughtfully at the droppings.

  ‘But only one horse,’ said Nuala from behind her.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Mara quietly. A feeling of great relief came over her.

  ‘So not Fachtnan following him then?’ said Nuala shrewdly.

  ‘Thank goodness, no,’ said Mara. She turned and gazed down at the flax garden, lost in thought. It began to look as though the murderer came from there. Perhaps it wasn’t a murder; perhaps it was just a fight that went wrong. A taunt from Eamon, a quick and unfortunate blow from Owney or Cathal. Most likely Owney, given the fact that he had been informed by Nuala about the vulnerable ‘doors to the soul’ parts of the body. But if it had been an accident why didn’t he come and confess the deed to the Brehon? These fights between young men happened from time to time and provided that the correct fine was paid to the family then no further retribution was demanded.

  Mara’s thoughts were interrupted by a hastily suppressed moan. With amazement she turned towards Nuala. This girl never cried. Even the death of her father, even his rejection of his daughter months earlier on, had not drawn a single sound from her, but now she stared across the mountainside with tears running down her face, her whole body heaving with sobs. She had her back turned to the law school scholars and seemed to be desperately striving for self-control, her knuckles jammed against her mouth.

  ‘Moylan,’ called Mara, ‘could you all go a bit further up the mountainside – go towards the north. See if you can see any tracks of Eamon’s horse up there.’

  She waited until they had moved off, Moylan with an air of great self-importance, assigning different routes to each one. When they were out of earshot she turned to the girl beside her. Nuala had ceased to sob, but her olive-skinned face was sallow and there were dark circles around her brown eyes. Her cheeks were wet and her hands still clenched tightly as she desperately fought for self-control.

  Mara put an arm around the girl, felt her stiffen, but then slightly relax. She did not move nearer or appear to seek any comfort, but she did not reject the arm, just continued to stare bleakly into the distance with the air of one who sees nothing.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mara softly.

  Nuala struggled for a moment and then her iron will came to her aid and she said in a flat voice, ‘I think Fachtnan is dead.’

  ‘What!’ Mara stared incredulously at the girl and then common sense reasserted itself. She was used to the young. Everything was dramatic to them.

  ‘How can you tell?’ she asked gently. Nuala avoided her eyes, staring bleakly at her feet.

  ‘Do you know anything that you are not telling me?’ Mara realized that her tone was sharper than she intended – only she knew how much Fachtnan meant to Nuala. Instantly she softened her voice, saying, ‘Nuala, you are only guessing. Neither of us knows what happened to Fachtnan. The chances are that he was so fed up and disgusted with Fiona’s behaviour that he decided to go home a few days early.’

  Nuala raised her dark eyes and looked very directly at Mara. ‘You don’t believe that, do you? Not Fachtnan. He wouldn’t do a thing like that. He knew that Eamon had been killed. He knew that you would be starting an investigation. He wouldn’t run out on you like that – give you all the worry about him to add to your other burdens. He wasn’t like that.’

  Mara was silenced. It was only what she had thought herself.

  ‘There was only one other possibility,’ continued Nuala. ‘He might have been the guilty one. He might have followed Eamon on that strange route from Arra to here. They might eventually have come to blows. Fachtnan in his anger punched Eamon in the neck, killed him, returned to the law school, found that he could not face telling you what he had done, and then went . . .’

  Home, or to his death. Were those the words that Nuala suppressed, biting her lips and clenching her hands? Mara waited. Nuala was an intensely private person. Her love for Fachtnan was probably greater than Mara had realized, used as she was to thinking of the fifteen-year-old girl as just a clever child. The face opposite her own was not a child’s though, but a woman’s and a woman who was coming face to face with a nightmare.

  ‘You see, if Fachtnan had come
here with Eamon, we would see signs of his horse; I checked in the stables. His horse had definitely disappeared,’ said Nuala after a few minutes during which she seemed to be breathing deeply, sucking in some courage or resolution from the sharp bite of the mountain air.

  ‘I don’t think the lack of signs is any indication one way or other,’ said Mara, purposely making her voice matter-of-fact and judicial. ‘Let’s just stick to what we know. Fachtnan was alive and well and sitting in the schoolhouse on Saturday morning. He then disappeared. The chances are that he set out to investigate the murder. That, I think, is probably more likely than the idea that he would just go home without leaving word. If there is no sign or message by tomorrow morning then I will get Cumhal to organize a search for him. Now, here come the others. Try to put this out of your head. Fachtnan will turn up safe and well. He’s a sensible young man and I don’t think that he has an enemy in the world. Dry your eyes, let’s not talk of this in front of the others.’

  Nuala would be best left to herself for a few minutes, thought Mara, as she went forward to meet her scholars. They looked keen and cheerful, she noticed, and waited for them to give her the news.

  ‘He came from the Galway side, definitely,’ said Moylan with an air of satisfaction. ‘Show the Brehon what you found, Fiona.’

  ‘These are definitely from his horse,’ said Fiona. She delved within the pouch she wore strapped around her waist and came out with a small handful of white horsehair.

  ‘See how long the hairs are and there are a few black hairs mixed with the white ones,’ she said. ‘I’d say these are tail hairs and Eamon’s horse had some black hairs mixed in with the white in his tail. I found them on one of those stunted blackthorn bushes and that makes me think that they came from the tail, also.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Mara considered the handful of hair. This part of the mountain would be open to gales of wind from the west and the blackthorn would seldom grow beyond a foot high, even over a time span of fifty or a hundred years. She had often marvelled at the thick gnarled branches of something that was no larger than a garden flower. Eamon’s horse had been a showy one with a tail that swept the ground. There now seemed little doubt that he had circled the mountains of Thomond and come around to enter the kingdom of the Burren from the north.