Act of Mercy

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Saw her? Last evening, I suppose. I spoke to her through her cabin door just before midnight.’

  ‘Through the door? What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘She did not open it when I knocked. I asked if she was better and whether I could fetch her anything. She called through the door that all she wanted was to be left alone. Then I went to bed.’

  ‘Did you get up during the night?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘When did you get up then?’

  ‘It was just about dawn, I think. I needed to find the defectora.’ He used the Latin term out of politeness rather than the colloquial one.

  ‘Ah yes. I am told you did not use the defectora by the stern cabins but apparently made your way to the one in the bow of the ship. That was a long way to go. Why was that?’

  Brother Bairne looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I suppose that I had forgotten about the defectora at the stern. I am not sure.’

  ‘And when you returned, was anyone about?’

  ‘I saw that bastard Cian at the door of Muirgel’s cabin. He said something about checking that everyone was all right after the storm. I waited, for I wondered if he was trying to get back with Muirgel. But a few seconds later he re-emerged and said he could not find her.’

  ‘And then you learnt that there was no sign of her on board?’

  Brother Bairne leant across the table and stared at her closely.

  ‘If you want to know the truth, Sister, then I’ll tell you. I don’t believe that Muirgel fell overboard. I believe that she was pushed. And I’ll tell you who did it.’

  He paused dramatically so that she finally had to prompt him: ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Sister Crella.’

  Fidelma tried to make her face inscrutable.

  ‘You have told me who; now tell me why.’

  ‘Jealousy!’

  Fidelma examined Bairne’s intent expression cautiously.

  ‘What would she be jealous of?’

  ‘Of Muirgel, of course! Ask her. It’s all to do with that self-opinionated bast—’

  Fidelma interrupted: ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘That one-armed bastard, Cian. He is at the root of all this! Mark my words!’

  Fidelma awoke early. It was still dark when she swung from the warmth of her bunk and heard the angry hiss of protest from Mouse Lord as he uncurled himself from the bottom of the bed, disturbed by her sudden movement.

  She washed swiftly and dressed, wishing that she was able to have a more thorough bath for she felt sweaty and uncomfortable. She put on her heavy cloak and went out on deck.

  A faint line of light along the eastern horizon showed that it was close to dawn. There was a strange eerie silence on the ship, and yet she could see the dark figures of men standing here and there, as if waiting for something. Like her, they were waiting for dawn.

  Fidelma made her way cautiously aft and, as she had expected, she found Murchad and Gurvan standing together on deck. Two other shadowy figures stood ready by the steering oar. The only sound was the wind in the rigging and the soft movement of the leather sails.

  Darkness had fallen the previous evening with the Saxon ship still clawing into the wind behind them. As soon as it was dark, Murchad ordered that no light was to be shown to give away their position. He tacked north for another hour before turning and running before the wind at an angle which would take them south-west away from the last known position of the Saxon ship.

  With the coming of the dawn, it was time to see whether the ruse had worked.

  It was cold in the grey dawn and the winds were not strong. The weather was certainly clearing and the thin strip of grey light was even now broadening.

  No one had exchanged a greeting. All were standing as still as statues watching the eastern sky.

  ‘Red,’ muttered Gurvan, breaking the silence.

  Nothing else was said. Everyone knew what he meant. A red sky in the morning foretold bad weather ahead. However, there was a more important consideration now that the daylight was spreading across the waters. Everyone was peering into the vanishing half-light as it grew brighter.

  ‘Masthead there! Hoel! What do you see?’

  There was a pause. Then a faint cry came back.

  ‘The horizon’s clear. Not a sail in sight.’

  Murchad was the first to visibly relax.

  ‘No sign,’ he muttered. ‘No sail nor even a spar.’

  ‘I think it worked, Captain,’ Gurvan agreed.

  Murchad clapped his hands together in glee. His smile was one of sheer pleasure.

  ‘Give me a sail against oars any day,’ he grinned. ‘Ah, there it is …’ He held his head to one side and nodded in satisfaction.

  Fidelma wondered what he meant.

  ‘The dawn breeze … yes, the wind’s veering. We’ll be at Ushant later today. Maybe by midday, and if the wind increases,’ he turned his head towards the dissipating red sky, ‘we can shelter there if the weather gets really bad. I don’t want to run across the Biscain sea in bad weather, if I can help it.’

  Murchad appeared to be back to his jovial mood now that the evasion of the Saxon sea raiders had proved successful.

  ‘Keep her on course, Gurvan. I shall be at breakfast. Sister Fidelma, will you join me in my cabin for the meal?’

  Fidelma acknowledged the unusual invitation and Murchad called for Wenbrit to bring food to his cabin for the two of them.

  It was much more comfortable to breakfast with Murchad than with her fellow pilgrims, Fidelma decided, especially after the tensions of the last twenty-four hours. It was Murchad who came to the point that had been uppermost in both their minds.

  ‘Well, what information have you gathered about the death of this woman – Muirgel?’

  Fidelma lowered herself into one of the two chairs squeezed each side of a small wooden table in Murchad’s cabin. The captain took a bottle from a cupboard and two clay cups.

  ‘Corma,’ he announced, as he poured the liquid. ‘It will keep out the morning chill.’

  Ordinarily, the idea of drinking such strong spirits just after dawn would have seemed repulsive to Fidelma. But the day was chill and she was cold. She took the cup and sipped at the fiery liquid, letting it trickle over her tongue and then spreading it across her lips with the tip of her tongue. She coughed slightly.

  ‘I have spoken to all those in her party, Murchad,’ she replied. ‘I have told no one that we suspect that she was not simply swept overboard. It is of interest, however, that at least two of the party suspect that she was murdered.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Murchad with interest.

  ‘There are no easy answers to the matter …’

  There was a knock on the cabin door and Wenbrit entered carrying a tray of cooked meet, cheeses and fruit, together with hard-baked bread.

  Wenbrit grinned at Fidelma.

  ‘Brother Cian has been asking where you were. I said you were breakfasting with the captain. He looked very resentful.’

  Fidelma did not bother to reply. It was of no concern to her that Cian was asking after her.

  ‘Have you told them that we have eluded the sea raider, boy?’ asked Murchad.

  Wenbrit made an affirmative nod.

  ‘Few of them seemed interested,’ he replied. ‘They would soon have been interested had the Saxons caught up with us, that’s for sure.’

  He turned to the door and then hesitated.

  ‘There is something you wish to say?’ grunted Murchad. He was obviously sensitive to the boy’s actions.

  Wenbrit turned back with a frown.

  ‘It’s nothing. After all, the pilgrims have paid their passage and …’

  ‘What is it? Come on!’ Murchad was a little impatient at his hesitation.

  ‘I noticed that someone has been helping themselves to food. Some meat, bread and fruit was missing. Not much. In fact, I noticed some missing yesterday morning, and now this morning …’

  ‘
Missing food?’

  ‘And a meat-knife. I thought I was mistaken, but now I am sure. I did not think that I was being frugal with the food. If they want extra, they have only to ask. But knives are valuable.’

  ‘Wenbrit,’ Fidelma leant forward with sudden interest, ‘what makes you so sure that it is one of the passengers who is helping themselves? The meals that you have provided are surely more than enough. Could a member of the crew be responsible?’

  Wenbrit shook his head.

  ‘The crew’s food is stored separately. This ship is used to taking passengers and so we have to cost and store independently for them. No one in our crew would steal from the passengers’ stores.’

  Murchad cleared his throat irritably.

  ‘I will make an announcement to the pilgrims that they have only to ask if they want extra rations. Just to be even-handed, I will also mention the matter to my crew.’

  The boy acknowledged his captain and left.

  Fidelma examined Murchad thoughtfully.

  ‘You are fond of the boy, aren’t you?’

  Murchad looked uncomfortable for a moment.

  ‘He is an orphan. I took him from the sea. My wife and I were never blessed with children. He has become the son that I never had. He is a bright lad.’

  ‘I think he has just provided me with an idea. I might want Gurvan to accompany me an another search of the ship later,’ Fidelma said.

  Murchad frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll explain when I have given more thought to the problem.’

  Murchad reached forward and raised the jug of corma but Fidelma declined a second drink of the fiery liquid.

  ‘One is more than enough for me, Murchad.’

  He poured another liberal cup for himself and sat back. He regarded her with speculation.

  ‘This Brother Cian seems to take more than a passing interest in you, lady,’ he observed.

  Fidelma felt herself blush.

  ‘As I said, I knew him ten years ago, when I was a student.’

  ‘I see. The little I had to do with him, I would say he was a bitter man. The useless arm, I suppose?’

  ‘The useless arm,’ agreed Fidelma.

  ‘Now, we were discussing Sister Muirgel.’ Murchad changed the subject when he saw that Fidelma was uncomfortable. ‘You said that the answers were not easy; I did not expect that they would be. But is there any indication at all of what happened?’

  Fidelma uttered a short sigh of exasperation.

  ‘I think it is obvious that murder was done aboard this ship. But I cannot say with certainty who is the culprit.’

  ‘But you have an idea, some suspicion?’

  ‘Sister Muirgel seems to have been someone who was intensely disliked by several of those aboard and, when she was not disliked, she was the object of a jealousy that might have no bounds. One thing I am certain of is that the person who plunged the knife into her habit is still aboard. But whether I shall have time to find them before this ship reaches Iberia, I am not all that certain.’

  ‘But you are going to try to discover the murderer?’

  ‘That is my intention. However, it will take time,’ Fidelma agreed gravely.

  ‘We still have several days’ sailing before we reach Iberia,’ Murchad reflected sombrely. ‘I don’t like to think that we shall be sailing without knowing the identity of the murderer. We could all be in danger.’

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so. I believe that the killer selected Sister Muirgel because she was the object of a particular hatred which overwhelmed them. I doubt if anyone else is in immediate danger.’

  Murchad looked at her in apprehension.

  ‘But you do have a suspicion as to who this killer is, Fidelma?’ She detected the hidden tension in his voice as if he were pleading for reassurance.

  ‘I never speak until I am sure,’ she replied. ‘But don’t worry; as soon as I am sure I will inform you.’

  She had finished nibbling at some selected morsels of the food which Wenbrit had served. Fidelma was never one to eat a large breakfast and some fruit usually sufficed. Now she rose to her feet.

  ‘What is your next move?’ enquired Murchad.

  ‘I am going to have a thorough search of Muirgel’s cabin and belongings.’

  Murchad accepted her departure reluctantly.

  ‘Well, do keep me informed. And be careful. A person who has killed once usually has no compunction about killing again, especially if they believe that you are getting close to them. I do not share your belief that there is no further danger here.’

  She smiled briefly from the cabin door.

  ‘Don’t worry on my behalf, Murchad,’ she said. ‘I am sure that this is a crime of some passion and involves only Sister Muirgel.’

  Outside, it was fully light now. The morning was clear and blue but the wind had risen fresh and chilly. The reddening sky had vanished but while it usually heralded a period of stillness, it also meant that bad weather would soon follow. Indeed, no changeable weather arrives without warning. Fidelma, from her childhood, had been taught that the signs were usually to be seen in the sky. It was a matter of observation and interpreting the evidence correctly. It might look bright now, with the hope that the pale sun would grow warmer, but she doubted it. There was bad weather coming. She wondered what had happened to the captain’s faith in ‘St Luke’s Little Summer’.

  She made her way below decks to the cabin area and paused to hear the sounds of voices from the mess deck. The pilgrim band were still at their breakfast. It was an ideal time to search Sister Muirgel’s cabin and belongings without being disturbed. Later she would have to tell the company of her suspicions, but she wished she could do so at the same time as revealing who might have pushed her overboard.

  The problem was that there were several people who could easily have killed Sister Muirgel; several on whom an obvious suspicion fell. In her experience, it was never the obvious that counted. But what happened when you had many obvious suspects? She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she wished Brother Eadulf was with her so that she could discuss her ideas with him. Often his comments put things into a sharp focus for her.

  She entered the dark, odorous cabin and paused on the threshold to light a lamp from the lantern that swung on its hook in the passageway. Glancing round to ensure that she had not been observed, she entered and closed the door.

  A couple of blankets were heaped carelessly on the bunk which Sister Muirgel had used. Fidelma held the lamp high and peered round. There was hardly anything of interest in the cabin at all. No baggage, papers or books that might furnish her with clues.

  She frowned and made a more careful examination, standing still but turning to search the corners of the room for any cupboards or hooks. There was no obvious sign of Sister Muirgel’s baggage nor any other belongings. Someone must have placed the baggage beneath the lumpy heap of blankets on the bunk. She did not remember it being so untidy when she had last been in the cabin with Wenbrit to examine Muirgel’s robe, which she had given to the charge of Murchad, as captain of The Barnacle Goose, in case it was needed as evidence.

  Setting the lamp down beside the bed, she bent forward. It was only then that a cold feeling of anticipation gripped her. The blankets, she now saw, were concealing the shape of a body. Hesitating barely a fraction of a second, she reached forth a hand and drew back a fold of cloth.

  There, on her back, lay the form of a woman, clad in bloodstained undergarments. Her eyes were still open and blood was pumping in little spurts from a jagged knife-wound across her throat, where it had penetrated the jugular vein. Even as Fidelma gazed down, the dark glazing eyes turned to her, silent and pleading. The lips twitched, a gurgling sound came forth and blood began to form on them.

  Fidelma bent forward quickly.

  There was a gulping breath, but no words came. The dying woman seemed to he pushing a clenched hand towards Fidelma.

  Then her he
ad flopped uselessly to one side and blood fountained out of the half-opened mouth. Something fell with a clatter from the dead woman’s fist as her fingers relaxed and unfurled. Automatically, Fidelma bent down and picked it up. It was a small silver crucifix on a broken chain.

  Fidelma rose slowly, holding her lamp high, in order to examine the woman’s face. She stood looking down in bewilderment for a few moments, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  The body of the woman who lay sprawled on the bunk before her, with her throat just recently cut, was Sister Muirgel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Murchad announced, not for the first time, as he scratched the back of his head and stared down at the body. Fidelma had called him down to the cabin without informing anyone else. He looked utterly bewildered. ‘Are you sure that this is Sister Muirgel? I only saw her for a few moments on the day when they all came aboard. Maybe it is another of the Sisters?’

  Fidelma shook her head firmly.

  ‘I saw her only for a few minutes as well when I went into her cabin, but I am certain that this is the same woman. It is certainly none of the other three.’

  Murchad heaved a frustrated sigh.

  ‘It seems, then, that this Sister Muirgel has been murdered twice,’ he observed dryly. ‘Once during the first night out when her bloodstained robe was found but not her body, and once just now when someone stabbed her and cut her throat. What can it mean?’

  ‘It means that Sister Muirgel initially wanted us to believe that she was dead … whereas in reality she was still aboard, hiding somewhere … or being hidden by someone. Remember what Wenbrit said about the missing food? I suspected immediately. That was why I wanted another search. Muirgel was faking it. Yet there is no sign of the knife.’

  ‘But why did Muirgel want us to believe that she had been stabbed or swept overboard in the storm?’ asked Murchad. ‘Why was the robe planted so that we would then immediately suspect that she had been murdered?’

  Fidelma glanced down at the crucifix she was holding in her hand. It was the one which Muirgel had been holding. Fidelma had almost forgotten it during the last few minutes while she tried to seek an explanation for the mystery.