Deed of Murder

by Cora Harrison

  She waited for a moment for her words to sink in and then asked Cathal how many workers he had. There were twenty-one of them and Mara divided them into three groups, seven for each of her three older scholars, to be interviewed, one by one, in the privacy of a shed. Every mother was to be responsible that her children were also interviewed, one by one as well. Shane and Hugh would marshal the queues.

  Her scholars were used to this procedure and they rapidly agreed upon sheds and then shepherded their little flocks away leaving Mara alone with the flax manager his wife and his son.

  ‘If I could talk to you, Gobnait, first,’ she said briskly and then concealed a smile as Cathal and his son almost fell over each other in their efforts to bolt from the shed.

  ‘I think that we’ll have this door shut, don’t you?’ remarked Mara taking her tinder box from her pouch, relighting the candle and shutting the door carefully so that the small flame did not waver too much.

  Gobnait lowered her bulk on to a bench and did not reply. Her face in the candlelight looked old and heavily lined, the skin rough and dry.

  Probably not much more than ten years older than me, but a hard life, thought Mara. The O’Hallorans had toiled at the business, had acquired the skills and established the markets. It must have been very difficult to see it all about to disappear. Gobnait, of course, had been working at weaving since a young girl. That, no doubt, was how she acquired the massive shoulders and large hands. A dangerous woman to cross, thought Mara, as she smiled amiably and then plunged into the interrogation.

  ‘So where did you meet Muiris this morning?’ she began, allowing the words to come out with an air of assurance.

  Gobnait was taken aback. ‘How do you know that?’ She thought for a moment and then blurted out. ‘I thought he was unconscious.’

  ‘That’s the thing with head injuries; people float in and out of consciousness,’ said Mara, vaguely watching the colour flame in the woman’s weather-beaten cheeks.

  ‘Well, I did see him,’ said Gobnait defiantly after a moment’s thought. ‘I felt that I would never forgive myself if I didn’t make one last effort. He’s been skulking around and Cathal kept saying to ignore him, but in the end I thought I would talk to him, that I would tell him that it was not as easy, that Cathal and I had to learn the business as we went along, that it was our only hope of making a living and of providing a living for others. He didn’t need this. Not him. Not with his good farm down there in the rich valley with the limestone underneath and his grazing land on the mountain. I’ve seen the cattle they have here in the Burren; fat, and with their udders full of milk. You should see what cows are like in our place. Scabby and bone-thin with their ribs showing.’

  ‘And what did Muiris say to you?’

  Gobnait faced her defiantly. ‘He said that I was probably right. He said that he had been thinking all of these things himself. He said that he would probably back off and not bid. Perhaps next year, that was what he said. Or perhaps he would be content with his farm and with his leather business.’

  ‘So you weren’t surprised when he didn’t arrive for the auction?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t surprised,’ agreed Gobnait. Her eyes in the candlelight were uneasy, but she sat very upright and stared boldly at Mara.

  ‘And that was the end of the conversation, was it?’ queried Mara.

  Gobnait nodded. ‘That was that.’

  ‘And you came back up to the spinning wheel shed. You must have felt in a very good humour. After all, you had got what you wanted. You and Cathal would be the sole bidders for the lease of the flax garden.’

  Gobnait hesitated. She was beginning to suspect that things were not going according to plan. She glared suspiciously at Mara, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s just that I overheard you talking to the women and you appeared to be in a bad humour. I wonder why that was,’ said Mara gently.

  ‘They had been idling,’ returned Gobnait. ‘Now, if that is all, Brehon, I’m sure you wish to see my husband and son and to start on your return journey before twilight. These mountain paths can be treacherous in bad light.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mara smiling. ‘How thoughtful of you. One last question. Did you see anyone on the mountainside after you had spoken with Muiris – someone who was not with my scholars and me, or with the king and his hunting party?’

  Gobnait thought for a moment and then nodded her head. ‘Yes, Brehon,’ she said. ‘I saw a man. A man in a bánín cloak. He had his back turned. I didn’t recognize him. But he was standing very still for a few minutes, standing facing the cliff side.’

  Sixteen

  Berrud Airechta

  (Summary of Court Procedures)

  A witness is known as fíadu (one who sees) and is only a true witness if he or she has seen for themselves. What does not take place in front of the witness’s eyes must be considered invalid and an oath must be taken that all has been personally seen or noticed.

  One man is not proper for giving evidence. Preference must be given to two or three who all tell the same story.

  ‘Standing facing the cliff side – standing for a few minutes, doing nothing, that seems very odd,’ said Moylan. ‘Do you think that Gobnait was telling a lie, Brehon?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Mara reluctantly. ‘She seemed to be puzzled about it. After all, if she was going to make up a story, surely she could make a better one. Say that she saw a man hiding, lurking behind a rock or something. That story was an odd one and in my experience, odd stories are often true.’

  ‘But why would someone stand facing the cliff?’ Fiona furrowed her brow impatiently. She was a girl who always liked to understand puzzles instantly.

  ‘I know why,’ said Aidan nonchalantly. Mara glanced back at him in surprise. Aidan was not usually the sharpest of her scholars.

  ‘Well, go on say it,’ said Moylan impatiently.

  ‘I don’t like to in front of Fiona.’ Aidan had a superior note in his voice and he stared straight ahead between his pony’s ears, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

  ‘He means that the man was urinating, Brehon,’ said Fiona with a sigh. ‘Boys are so stupid.’

  ‘I think that was rather clever of Aidan,’ said Mara admiringly. ‘That’s the perfect explanation.’ The two younger boys ahead were sniggering and then all, even Fiona, laughed openly, the tension of the last hour releasing itself into snorts and giggles. Every law school should have an Aidan, thought Mara. He wasn’t notable for his brains or his working ability but his sense of fun often defused the pressure and strains that were an inevitable part of their life as hard-working law scholars and assistants at crime scenes.

  ‘But Gobnait refused to admit any responsibility for the attack on Muiris; did you believe her, Brehon?’ asked Fiona thoughtfully when they had all finished laughing.

  Mara thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said reluctantly. ‘What do you all think?’ She reined in her horse and they all gathered around her. She wished that she could go back to the law school, stand in front of the board and debate the matter with her quick-witted scholars. However, this could not be. A glance to the west showed her that the sun was setting over Aran, the sky streaked with bars of blue, crimson and the palest of yellows. It was important for the hostess to be present at the evening meal at Ballinalacken and, also, she wanted to see her little son before bedtime. This deserted space at the foot of the mountain would have to do for now.

  The scholars took a minute to think matters through.

  ‘She’s a big woman,’ said Fiona eventually. ‘She would be capable.’

  ‘Hands like a pair of hams,’ offered Aidan.

  ‘Bad tempered,’ said Hugh.

  ‘Capable of what?’ Moylan turned his pony’s head towards Fiona.

  ‘Of lobbing a stone down the mountain at a man’s head.’

  ‘Or picking it up and smashing it against his skull.’

  ‘Not the last, I’d say,’ said Shane. ‘That would be hard
for anyone to do. Muiris mightn’t have been big, but he was immensely strong. I’ve seen him heave around huge flagstones as though they were feather-beds.’

  ‘I said “capable of what” because I was thinking that we are forgetting about Eamon’s murder. The chances are that whoever committed today’s crime is also responsible for the first crime.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Fiona. ‘I think that we should keep an open mind about that. The two crimes may not be connected in any way. What do you think, Brehon?’

  ‘An open mind is always good,’ said Mara cautiously, ‘but I don’t think that you have answered Moylan’s question.’

  ‘Could Gobnait have the strength to take Eamon by the throat and punch him in the thyroid cartilage?’ Fiona mused for a moment and then said decisively, ‘I don’t see Eamon allowing a woman to do that.’

  ‘Oh, but you see a woman is just the person to do that,’ said Shane eagerly. ‘A woman could say to Eamon, “you’ve got a wasp on your neck; let me brush it off,” and then punch him before he knew what was happening.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten one thing, my young friend,’ said Moylan in the judicial manner which, as eldest at the law school, he now seemed to have acquired.

  ‘What?’ Shane glared at him aggressively. Mara did not interfere. The scholars needed to sharpen their skills and hone their belligerence if they were to argue their cases in a court of law. There was time enough for Shane to learn to hide that aggression under a smooth exterior before he went out into the world, but she was a realist enough to know that without a certain toughness none of her scholars would survive the work. Moylan, she thought, had begun to acquire that polish and she was glad to see it. He replied to Shane now with lofty condescension.

  ‘My dear young comrade, in order to know that a punch in the thyroid cartilage would kill a man, a certain knowledge, either medical or legal, has to be assumed. Does anyone think that this large, tough lady with hands like hams, possesses this knowledge?’

  ‘Good point, Moylan,’ said Mara. ‘What are the thoughts on this?’ She looked around but all heads were shaking.

  ‘What about Cathal and his son, Owney, Brehon? Did you get anything out of them?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘With thumbscrews,’ muttered Aidan.

  ‘Cathal was bewildered,’ said Mara slowly. ‘That was the impression I got. Bewildered . . .’ She hesitated for a moment and then added, ‘I may be wrong in this, but I slightly got the idea that he was afraid.’

  ‘Afraid!’ exclaimed Fiona alertly. ‘That’s interesting. Afraid of what?’

  ‘Well he kept talking about terrible luck and about signs in the sky and about a black cat . . .’

  ‘Perhaps he was trying to fool you,’ said Hugh innocently and then blushed with embarrassment when Moylan glared at him.

  ‘He may have been,’ admitted Mara hastily before his elders could round on Hugh for disrespect to the Brehon. ‘The funny thing is that I sensed that he didn’t believe all of this “black cat” nonsense, but I did feel very strongly that he was frightened, although you would expect him to be happy.’

  ‘And Owney, he had the knowledge—’ began Shane but was interrupted by Moylan.

  ‘That’s if he remembered what Nuala said to him years ago. But Owney is not too bright. A few too many knocks on the head, that’s Owney. You know what those games of hurling between the kingdoms are like – savage!’

  ‘So at the moment you are thinking about Gobnait, Brehon,’ said Fiona quietly, with a quick look around to make sure that no one was passing.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mara. She hesitated and then said firmly, ‘Now I must go and Fiona, I’d like you to come with me. We’ll stop at Poulnabrucky and ask about Muiris and then go back to Ballinalacken. I can trust you to go across to Cahermacnaghten on your own, boys, can’t I? I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t worry too much, Brehon,’ said Aidan with easy assurance. ‘We’ll have it all worked out for you before tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What would I do without you all? I would be lost entirely!’ Mara spoke jokingly, but there was a feeling in her mind that she had spoken the truth. She had never really regretted her decision not to give up the law school and her work as a Brehon when she became the king’s wife. There were days when it all felt too much for her, but she would not change her position with anyone in the country.

  There were no new developments in Muiris’s case, but Nuala was calm and hopeful, explaining that it would take a while for the man to recover his senses. The family were hanging on her every word so Mara did not push for further explanations. There was nothing that she could do for Muiris now except find out who did that to him and demand retribution. She and Fiona went over and over the facts again on their way back to Ballinalacken but still the puzzle remained.

  ‘If only we could find out what happened to Fachtnan,’ she said eventually. ‘Nuala is afraid that he is dead, but somehow I don’t think so. Fachtnan was always wise, always careful. He had learning problems, but he was always full of common sense and wisdom. I can’t see him trying to tackle a murderer on his own and he wasn’t the sort of boy who would try blackmail. It’s such a puzzle. I always felt that I could rely on Fachtnan to do the right thing.’

  ‘He did a stupid thing that night if he followed us and that was my fault, I suppose,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t try to cause a fight as one of the other boys might have done,’ argued Mara. ‘He just went along quietly and made sure that you were safe. I’d say that he followed you the whole way home and that once you were safely back at Ballinalacken he went over to Cahermacnaghten. Then, of course, came the shock of the news about Eamon’s body being found just above the flax garden . . .’

  What would Fachtnan do then? she silently asked herself, unwilling to distress the girl further. Being Fachtnan, he would feel a certain responsibility, he would feel that he should perhaps have intercepted Eamon, have persuaded him to return.

  But where did he go? And who did he meet? He had disappeared last Saturday and there had been no sign of him since.

  ‘You go up and get ready for supper,’ she said to Fiona when they arrived. ‘I’ll just look in at the babies first.’

  The noise from the children’s nursery floated down the stairs towards her as she mounted up from the guardroom. She smiled as she heard Turlough’s booming voice, and then another man’s voice, a laugh from Cliona and two high-pitched shrieks of excitement from the little boys.

  When she pushed open the door, both children were on their feet staggering around the room, Art stumping along in a serious, determined way, the lighter and smaller Cormac making sudden runs, taking a tumble and getting back on his feet almost instantly.

  ‘Look at the two of them,’ yelled Turlough in a voice that was trained to reach across battlefields. ‘Look at them! What do you think of that for walking?’

  ‘Walking! That’s running!’ returned Mara, just managing to catch Cormac before he collapsed at her feet. She snatched him up and covered him with kisses, lifting up Art with her other arm and holding the two children closely to her, and then smiled a welcome at Setanta O’Connor who was sitting on the window seat, looking very much at home.

  ‘My lord took the ball from them, because they were fighting over it, and put it on the table across the room. Art started to crawl over, but Cormac got on his feet so that he could see it better and then he started to run to keep his balance and Art was after him in a second and there they were the pair of them, walking like two-year-old children.’ Cliona was bursting with pride.

  ‘I’ll have to make them a hurley each,’ said Setanta, smiling at the excited face of his wife-to-be. ‘I can see it won’t be long until they are out running around the fields.’ He got to his feet, stretching his long legs. ‘I’d better be going,’ he said. ‘I was just delivering some fish to the kitchen for your supper, Brehon. You’ll be having lobster and salmon tonight, my lord.’

  ‘Good m
an,’ said Turlough, as much at ease with a humble fisherman as he was with his noble friends or kinsmen, thought Mara, feeling fond and proud of her kingly husband and wishing that they had more time to spend together. Next week, she promised herself, next week when the boys have gone on their holidays. And then she thought of the murder, of the two crimes, and set her lips. These things were only solved with a lot of hard work and plentiful allowance of luck, she knew. With a suppressed sigh she handed over the two babies to Cliona and tucked her arm into her husband’s.

  ‘Let’s talk for a few minutes before we have to go down to supper,’ she said quietly as they went out of the door together.

  ‘Bad day?’ he asked as they walked up the spiral stairs together.

  ‘Bad day,’ she echoed with a sigh. There wasn’t much room, but she found his bulk strangely comforting and clung to his arm as, side by side, they squeezed their way up.

  ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said and then paused. These stairways acted like a funnel for sound. She would say no more until they were in their bedchamber with the solid, wooden door closed between them and the rest of the world.

  ‘And that comes hard,’ he said with an understanding grin, but he also knew the hazard of listening ears, so he contented himself with dropping a quick kiss on the shining black loops of braided hair.

  ‘What has Muiris to do with all of this tangle?’ he asked as he shut the door. He didn’t wait for her answer but walked across the fireplace and lifted a flagon of hot wine from it and poured some into a goblet holding it out near to her mouth. It smelled delicious and she gulped it down eagerly.

  ‘What is it? What’s in it?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Lemons and cloves and a bit of cinnamon powder,’ answered Turlough. ‘Brian the Spaniard, the man from the Aran Islands, sent it over today. He is looking forward to our visit, he told me. In the meantime he sent the fruits, molasses – that’s a sort of dark honey, I suppose, sort of powdery crystals – and spices to keep me warm until he can welcome me.’