Act of Mercy

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I was so furious I went charging up on deck to confront Guss.’

  ‘But you left the knife here in your cabin.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because you did not have it in your hand when you were on deck. A moment ago you reached under your bunk and took it out.’

  ‘I suppose I did leave it here.’

  ‘Strange, therefore, that you did not confront him with the weapon. Wouldn’t that be the normal thing to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wanted him to know that I was wise to his little tale about secret sexual relations with Muirgel. I just meant to warn him that he would not get away with his claims!’

  ‘And he did not, did he? He was so fearful of you that he backed away from you and fell overboard.’ Sister Crella began to protest but Fidelma went on sternly, ‘A fine ruthless killer was this Brother Guss, who not only killed but planted evidence – and yet, when faced by a woman in full view of everyone, he was so scared that he allowed himself to be literally driven overboard.’

  Sister Crella listened to the sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘He planted the knife and accused me!’

  ‘Sadly, we cannot now question Brother Guss,’ observed Fidelma dryly. ‘It seems that everything is so conveniently tied up with this death.’

  Crella regarded her suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Tell me, why are you so sure that Muirgel was not having an affair with Guss? That is something that I still do not understand.’

  Crella raised her jaw defensively.

  ‘You do not believe me?’

  ‘Did Muirgel have many affairs?’

  ‘We were both normal young women. We each had our amours.’

  ‘So she always told you with whom she was having affairs?’

  Crella sniffed defensively.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When was the last time she told you about an affair?’

  ‘I mentioned it before. She was having an affair with Cian. In fact, I had a brief affair with Cian before I tired of him.’

  ‘Isn’t the truth rather that Cian dropped you for Muirgel?’

  Crella coloured hotly.

  ‘No one drops me.’

  ‘Didn’t that make you jealous and angry?’

  ‘Not enough to kill her! Don’t be ridiculous. We often swapped lovers. We were close friends and cousins, don’t forget.’

  ‘And you believe that she was still having an affair with Cian and not with Guss?’

  ‘Not with Guss, but I think she and Cian had some sort of row just before we set out from Moville.’

  ‘Why are you so sure that she was not having an affair with Guss? In spite of Muirgel’s frankly libertine views?’

  ‘Because she would have told me,’ Crella said doggedly. ‘Guss is the last person she would have an affair with. He was too serious. It is obvious to me that when Guss became moonstruck on her and she rejected him, he plotted her death and then killed her.’

  ‘What’s your explanation as to why and how Muirgel hid herself on this ship for a couple of days, trying to lead people into thinking she had been swept overboard?’

  ‘Maybe it was to escape from Guss’s unwanted attentions.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she let you in on the secret? I am sorry, Crella, but I have to tell you that the evidence points to the fact that Guss, indeed, was her lover. There is one other matter. How do you explain about Sister Canair?’

  Fidelma looked deeply into Crella’s eyes to judge her reaction.

  A slight expression of bewilderment could be discerned there.

  ‘Sister Canair? What about her?’

  ‘Are you claiming that Guss killed her as well?’

  The bewilderment grew and was unfeigned.

  ‘What makes you think Sister Canair has been killed?’ the girl demanded. ‘You didn’t even meet our company until after we set sail. How do you know anything about Sister Canair?’

  Fidelma stood examining the girl for a moment or two and then she smiled briefly.

  ‘No reason,’ she said, dismissing the subject. ‘No reason at all.’

  She turned and left the cabin holding the knife.

  Either Sister Crella was telling the truth, or … Fidelma shook her head. This was the most frustrating case that she had ever been involved in. If Sister Crella was telling the truth, then Guss must have been an exceptional liar. If Brother Guss was telling the truth, then Crella must be the liar. Who was telling the truth? And who was telling the lies? She had always been taught that truth was great and would prevail. But with this matter she could not begin to recognise the truth.

  It would serve no purpose to lay the complete story as told by Guss before Crella. She would merely deny it, if she was guilty, and without any further evidence, it would lead nowhere. Fidelma, it seemed, had reached a dead end.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Murchad pointed to the black coastline emerging from the haze on the sea.

  ‘That is the island of Ushant.’

  ‘It looks a large island,’ Fidelma observed, from her position at his side. During the last few hours she had been considering the story that Guss had told her about Sister Canair’s death and the involvement of Muirgel and himself. Had Muirgel been killed because she was a witness? Or had Guss been right that there was another motive? And if he were, and that motive was jealousy, could Crella have been the killer? Had Guss met his own death because of it? Fidelma knew that Crella’s truth was certainly not the truth of Brother Guss but she had no firm evidence to solve the riddle.

  An hour or so previously, they had held a service for Sister Muirgel and committed her body to the deep; it was the second service they had held for her, more subdued and restrained than the first. At the same time, they held a remembrance for poor young Guss and commended his soul to God’s keeping. It was odd knowing that one among them did not share the sentiments that had been uttered during the service. Now, it was late afternoon with the sun lowering in the cloudy western sky which was streaked with darkening billows. It was growing chilly and slowly, above the horizon, the dark coastline had emerged and drawn closer. The gloomy coast to which Murchad was pointing must have been a few miles in length.

  ‘It is a large island,’ the captain replied to Fidelma’s question. ‘And a dangerous one. I think we shall be lucky, though.’

  Fidelma glanced at him in surprise.

  ‘Lucky? In what way?’

  ‘This haze … it could easily develop into a sudden fog, which is frequent around Ushant, and there are strong currents here and innumerable reefs, added to which, if the wind is harsh one stands in danger of being hurled, if not onto the reefs, then onto the rocky, broken shore. A blow here can last a week or ten days without letting up.’

  Even in the haze there seemed something sinister about the low black outline they were approaching. There was no sign of any hills. Fidelma estimated that the highest point of the island could not be more than two hundred feet, but there was still something very threatening about the distant crash and hiss of the waves breaking on the rocks along the shoreline. It seemed an island full of menace.

  ‘How do you know where to land?’ she asked. ‘I can see only an impenetrable wall of rocks.’

  Murchad grimaced.

  ‘We certainly won’t attempt to land on this coast. This is the northern coast. We must sail south, around a point into a broad bay where the main settlement is situated. There is a church there which was set up a century ago by the Blessed Paul Aurelian, the Briton.’

  He pointed.

  ‘We have to round that headland over there – do you see? Where that ship is standing out towards us.’

  Fidelma followed his outstretched arm and saw that a distant ship had appeared from behind the dark headland and was beating around towards them. A voice cried from the masthead.

  Murchad took a step forward and shouted back in annoyance: ‘We already see it. You should have let u
s have a holler ten minutes ago!’

  Gurvan appeared from the bow of the ship.

  ‘She’s a square-rigged ship out of Montroulez.’

  ‘That’s the type of ship. It doesn’t tell us who is sailing her,’ replied Murchad. ‘A lookout is useless unless he keeps the deck informed.’

  Fidelma could make out the square-sail rig, similar to some extent to The Barnacle Goose with its high prow.

  Gurvan, who had joined Drogon at the steering oar, was peering forward, straining to take in the details of the approaching vessel.

  ‘I think there is something wrong with her, Captain,’ he called.

  Murchad swung round frowning to examine the other vessel.

  ‘Her sail is badly set and pulling her too close to the wind,’ he muttered. ‘That’s bad seamanship for you.’

  For her part, Fidelma could see nothing wrong with the ship itself but accepted that the trained eyes of Murchad and Gurvan could pick out the faults of their fellow seamen.

  Then Murchad let out an uncharacteristic exclamation which caused Fidelma to start.

  ‘The fool! He should be wearing the ship now. That onshore wind is going to turn the vessel towards the rocks.’

  The two vessels were drawing closer together, except that The Barnacle Goose was standing well out to the west of the grim line of rocks, with plenty of sea room to manoeuvre. The other vessel was straining under the wind towards the shore.

  ‘Why doesn’t he wear the ship? Can’t he see the danger?’ Gurvan cried. No one answered him.

  Some members of the crew were lining the port rail and watching the other ship, making critical comments on the other’s seamanship.

  ‘Belay that!’ bellowed Murchad. ‘Stand by the halyards.’

  The sailors broke off and made towards the ropes which raised and lowered the sail. Fidelma was mentally noting down this strange seaman’s jargon for she was interested in learning what was happening. She felt a sudden shift in wind. It was curious how she had now grown accustomed to noticing wind changes since she had observed how essential it was on shipboard.

  ‘I knew it!’ cried Murchad, almost stamping his foot. ‘Damn that fool of a captain!’

  His cry caused her to look towards the other vessel which stood quite some way away. If she understood Murchad correctly, the other captain should have reset his sail and tacked or zigzagged his ship against the wind. Whatever the technicality was, she could see the result.

  The wind had hit the sail of the ship with such force that it lurched forward like an arrow from a bow, pushing it directly into the low line of rocks ahead. Then a contrary wind heeled the vessel over, so far that, for a moment, Fidelma though it would turn right over on its side. It balanced precariously for a moment and then swung upright again. The wind caught once more at the sail and, even above the sound of the sea and the wind, Fidelma could hear a terrible rending sound as the sail tore across.

  ‘Say a prayer for them, lady!’ cried Gurvan. ‘They have no hope in hell now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ gasped Fidelma, and then realised it was a silly question to ask.

  For a moment or two the other ship seemed strangely becalmed and then the hanging shreds of the mainsail, and the still intact steering sail, caught in the wind and the vessel lurched forward yet again.

  There was a sound the like of which Fidelma had never heard before. It was like a gigantic animal tearing through the undergrowth, splintering wood and uprooting bushes and trees in its wake. That sound was magnified a thousand times across the water.

  The other vessel seemed to be hurled forward and, as Fidelma looked on in horror, it began to disintegrate.

  ‘Smashed on the rocks, by the living God!’ cried Murchad. ‘Heaven help the poor souls.’

  She watched with a cold fascination as the distant mast suddenly splintered and crashed over like a tall tree falling, bringing the rigging and remains of the tattered sail with it. Then it seemed as if the planks were breaking up. She could see small dark figures leaping from the ship into the white frothy waters. She imagined she could hear cries and screams, although the wind and the sound of the water smashing against the rocks would have drowned out such sounds.

  Within a few moments the other vessel had disappeared and around the dark jagged teeth of the rocks there seemed little but flotsam and jetsam bobbing on the water – bits of wreckage, mainly shattered wooden planks. A barrel. A wicker basket. And here and there, face downwards, a few bodies.

  Murchad stood looking on as if he had turned to stone. Then, as a man rousing himself from a sleep, he first shook his head and coughed to clear the emotion from his voice.

  ‘Lower the mainsail!’ he cracked out.

  The hands, already at the halyards, began hauling.

  Cian and some of the other members of the pilgrim party had come up on deck, aware that something was happening, and demanding to know what had taken place.

  Murchad stared at Cian for a moment and then roared angrily: ‘Get your party below! Now!’

  Fidelma went forward, feeling embarrassed, and began to push her fellow religieux towards the hatchway.

  ‘A ship has just struck the rocks over there,’ she replied in answer to their protests. ‘There does not seem much hope for the poor souls on board.’

  ‘Can’t we do something?’ asked Sister Ainder. ‘Surely it is our duty to be of assistance?’

  Fidelma glanced back to where Murchad was shouting instructions and compressed her lips for a moment.

  ‘The captain is doing all he can,’ she assured the tall religieuse. ‘You may best help him by obeying his commands.’

  ‘Bring her head to the wind, Gurvan! Sea anchors! Hold her steady. Stand by to launch the skiff!’

  From the jumble of orders, Fidelma realised that Murchad was going to attempt to pick up any survivors.

  Seeing her companions going reluctantly below, she turned back to Murchad. ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ She asked.

  Murchad grimaced and shook his head.

  ‘Leave it to us for the moment, lady,’ he replied gruffly.

  Fidelma did not really want to go below nor return to her cabin, so she moved to a corner where she thought she would be out of the way and could observe what was taking place.

  Gurvan had relinquished his position on the steering oar to someone else and had taken a couple of men to lower the longboat – the skiff as Murchad called it – into the choppy seas. Fidelma marvelled at how each man seemed to know his position and what he must do. The Barnacle Goose was now hove-to, sails down and sea anchors dragging to keep the vessel in a fairly steady position. Nevertheless, Fidelma realised that no ship could hold a stationary position for long in these waters; it was just a matter of time before Murchad would have to hoist sail and get out of harm’s way. The rocks looked so dangerously near.

  The small craft had hit the waters with a smack and with Gurvan in the bow to direct them and two sailors hauling on the oars, it went slicing across the chopping waters in the direction of the rocks and the bobbing wreckage.

  Fidelma bent forwards watching them.

  ‘I doubt there’ll be any survivors from that lot,’ said a small voice at her side.

  She glanced down to find Wenbrit beside her. The lad looked very white and he held his hand to his throat, against the scar which she had noticed when she had first come on board. She had never seen such an expression of fear on his face before. She presumed that he was shocked by what had happened.

  ‘Do such things often happen at sea?’

  The boy blinked, his voice was tight.

  ‘Ships going on the rocks like that, do you mean?’

  Fidelma nodded.

  ‘Frequently. Too frequently,’ answered the boy, still not relaxed.

  ‘Only a few go on the rocks due to bad seamanship, due to people who have no knowledge nor respect for the sea and who should never set foot on shipboard, let alone be in charge of a vessel responsible for other people�
��s lives. Many more go on the rocks due to the weather which cannot be controlled, with the winds, tides and storms. A few other ships founder because the crew or their captain have taken too much liquor.’

  Fidelma was intrigued at the suppressed vehemence in the boy’s tone.

  ‘I can see that it is a matter that you have pondered on at length, Wenbrit.’

  The boy gave a bark of laughter which surprised her by its angry note.

  ‘Have I said something wrong?’ she wondered.

  Wenbrit was at once apologetic.

  ‘Nothing wrong, lady. Sorry, it’s not your fault. I don’t mind telling you now. Murchad saved my life. He pulled me from the seas, from such a wreck as that.’ He gestured with his head towards the floating debris across the water.

  She was surprised. After a pause she prompted him, ‘When was that, Wenbrit?’

  ‘A few years ago now. I was on a ship that ran onto some rocks due to bad seamanship. I can’t remember much about it, except that the captain was drunk and gave the wrong orders. The ship went to pieces. Murchad picked me out of the sea several days later. I was tied to a piece of wooden grating, otherwise I would have slid into the sea and drowned. One of the ropes that lashed me to it had slipped around my throat. I know you have noticed my scar.’

  Fidelma began to understand now why the boy almost hero-worshipped Murchad.

  ‘So you were a cabin boy when you were very young, then?’

  Wenbrit smiled without humour.

  ‘Didn’t your parents mind?’ she asked gently.

  Wenbrit gazed up at her. She could see the deep anguish in his dark eyes.

  ‘My father was the captain.’

  Fidelma tried not to register her shock.

  ‘Your father was a sea captain?’

  ‘He was a drunk. He was often drunk.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘I don’t remember her. He told me that she had died soon after I was born.’

  ‘Was anyone else saved from the ship?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I do not recall anything from the time it struck to the time I came to on board The Barnacle. Murchad told me that I must have been in the sea several days and was near dead when he fished me out of the water.’