Hemlock at Vespers sf-9

by Peter Tremayne

  “Yet why did Sillán become angry?” pressed Sister Fidelma.

  The Abbess Ita’s expression was painful.

  “When I had told him this, and when he still insisted that his duty lay in telling the Uí Failgi, I told him that his would then be the responsibility for what followed. I told him that God’s curse would pursue him for destroying the peace of this land. That he would be damned in the next world as well as this one. The name Sillán would become the synonym for the destruction of the holy shrine of Brigid of Kildare.”

  “What then?”

  “His face reddened in anger and he flung himself from the room, averring that he would depart at first light.”

  “When did you see him again?”

  “Not until vespers.”

  Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully into the eyes of the Abbess Ita.

  The amber orbs smoldered as they reflected back Sister Fi-delma’s scrutiny.

  “You dare think…?” whispered the Abbess Ita, her face pale, reading the suspicion in the younger face before her.

  Sister Fidelma did not drop her gaze.

  “I am here as a dálaigh, Abbess Ita, not as a member of your community. My concern is truth, not etiquette. A man lies dead in this abbey. He was poisoned. From the circumstances, it was a poison that was not self-administered. Then by whom and for what reason? To keep Sillán from revealing the secret of the lost mine to the Uí Failgi? That seems a logical deduction. And who stands to gain by the suppression of that knowledge? Why, none but the community of this abbey, Mother Abbess.”

  “And the people of the surrounding countryside!” snapped Abbess Ita, angrily. “Do not forget that in your equation, Sister Fidelma. Do not forget all the blood that will be saved during the forthcoming years.”

  “Right cannot be served by wrong, it is the law. And I must judge what is lawful. Knowing that it was the law that I must serve as a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, separate from my role as a member of this community, why did you ask me to investigate this matter? You yourself could have conducted the inquiry. Why me?”

  “In such a matter of importance, a report from a dálaigh of the Brehon Court would carry much weight with the Uí Failgi.”

  “So you had hoped that I would not discover the existence of the gold mine?” frowned Sister Fidelma.

  Abbess Ita had risen in agitation from her chair. Fidelma rose so that her eyes were on a level with the Abbess’s own agitated gaze.

  “Tell me directly, Mother Abbess: did you poison, or arrange to have poisoned, Sillán to prevent him speaking with the Uí Failgi?”

  For several moments there was an icy silence. The sort of silence which precedes an eruption of the earth. Then the Abbess Ita’s anger faded and a sad expression crossed her face. She dropped her gaze before the younger woman.

  “Mine was not the hand that administered poison to Sillán though I confess that the heaviness of my heart lifted when I heard of the deed.”

  In the quietude of her cell, Sister Fidelma lay on her cot, fully clothed, hands behind her head, staring into the darkness. She had extinguished the light of her candle and lay merely contemplating the shadows without really registering them as she turned over in her mind the facts of the mysterious death of Sillán.

  There was something staring her in the face about this matter, a clue which was so obvious that she was missing it. She felt it in her being. It was there, in her mind, if only she could draw it out.

  She had no doubt in her mind that Sillán had been killed because of the knowledge he possessed.

  And Sister Fidelma found herself in sympathy with the suppression of that knowledge.

  Yet that was not the law, the law that she was sworn to uphold as a dálaigh of the Brehon Court. Yet the law was simply a compact between men. Rigid law could be the greater injustice. While the law was blind, in an ideal world justice should be able to remove the bandage from its eyes long enough to distinguish between the unfortunate and the vicious.

  Her mind spinning in moral dilemma, Sister Fidelma drifted unknowingly into a sleep.

  Sister Fidelma became aware firstly of someone pulling at her arm and then of the dim tolling of the Angelus bell.

  Sister Ethne’s pale, hawklike features cleared out of the blurred vision as Fidelma blinked and focused her eyes.

  “Quickly, Sister, quickly. There has been another death.”

  Fidelma sat up abruptly and stared at Sister Ethne in incredulity. It lacked an hour before dawn but the bean-tigh had already lit the candle in her cell.

  “Another death? Who?”

  “Follaman.”

  “How?” demanded Fidelma, scrambling from her cot.

  “In the same manner, Sister. By poison. Come quickly to the tech-óired.”

  Follaman, the timthirig of the community, lay on his back, his face contorted in pain. One arm was flung out in a careless gesture and from the still fingers, Sister Fidelma followed the line to the broken pottery below. It had once been an earthenware goblet. There was a dark stain of liquid which had seeped into the flagstone below.

  The Sister-apothecary was already in the room, having been summoned earlier, and had examined the corpse.

  “The goblet contained hemlock, Sister Fidelma,” bobbed Sister Poitigéir quickly as Fidelma turned to her. “It was drunk in the same manner as Sillán drank his poison. But Follaman drank the liquid in the night and no one heard his final cries.”

  Sister Fidelma surveyed the scene grimly then she turned to Sister Ethne.

  “I will be with the Mother Abbess for a while. See that no one disturbs us.”

  Abbess Ita stood at the window of her chamber, watching the reds, golds and oranges of the rising dawn.

  She half-turned as Sister Fidelma entered, then, ascertaining who it was, she turned back to the open window. The sharp colors of dawn were flooding the room with a pleasant, golden aura.

  “No, Fidelma,” she said before Fidelma spoke. “I did not poison Follaman.”

  Fidelma’s lips thinned.

  “I know that you did not, Mother Abbess.”

  With a surprised frown, Abbess Ita turned and stared at Fidelma for a moment. Then she motioned her to be seated and slid herself into her chair. Her face was pale and strained. She seemed to have slept little.

  “Then you already know who the culprit is? You know how Sillán and Follaman died?”

  Sister Fidelma nodded.

  “Last night, Mother Abbess, I was struggling to decide whether I, as a dálaigh, should serve the law or serve justice.”

  “Is that not the same thing, Fidelma?”

  Sister Fidelma smiled softly.

  “Sometimes it is; sometimes not. This matter, for example, is a case where the two things diverge.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is obvious that Sillán was killed unlawfully. He was killed to prevent him revealing his knowledge that a gold mine is situated under these venerable buildings. Was the person who slaughtered him right or wrong to kill him? By what standards do we judge? The taking of a life is wrong by our laws. But if Sillán had disclosed his knowledge, and that knowledge had led to the driving forth of this community from its lands, or had led to warfare between those who would then covert these lands, would that have been justice? Perhaps there is a natural justice which rules above all things?”

  “I understand what you are saying, Fidelma,” replied the Abbess. “The death of one innocent may prevent the deaths of countless others.”

  “Yet do we have the right to make their choice? Is that not something which we should leave in the hands of God?”

  “It can be argued that sometimes God places in our hands the tools by which His will is carried out.”

  Sister Fidelma studied the Abbess’s face closely.

  “Only two people now know of Sillán’s discovery.”

  Abbess Ita raised an eyebrow.

  “Two?”

  “I know, Mother Abbess and you know.”

  The Abbess fro
wned.

  “But surely the poisoner of Follaman knows?”

  “Knew,” corrected Sister Fidelma softly.

  “Explain.”

  “It was Follaman who administered the hemlock which killed Sillán.”

  The Abbess bit her lip.

  “But why would Follaman do that?”

  “For the very reason that we have discussed, to prevent Sillán telling the Uí Failgi about the gold.”

  “Yes, but Follaman…? He was a simple man.”

  “Simple and loyal. Had he not worked here at the abbey as the keeper of the hostel since he was a boy? He loved this place as much as any of our community. He was not a religieux but he was as much a member of the community as anyone else.”

  “How did Follaman know?”

  “He overheard you and Sillán arguing. I suspect that he purposely eavesdropped on you. Follaman knew, or surmised, what profession Sillán practiced. He might well have followed Sillán on his explorations. Whether he did or not is beside the point. When Sillán came back yesterday afternoon, Follaman certainly deduced that he had made some find, for Sillán told Follaman that he would be leaving for Ráith Imgain the next morning. He probably followed Sillán to your room and overheard what passed between you.

  “Since you could not act against the laws of man and God, he would serve a natural justice in his own way. He took the jar of poison hemlock from the apothecary and when Sillán asked for a drink, he supplied it. Follaman did not know the precise quantity needed and so Sillán did not suffer the full effects until after the bell called the community into the refectory for the evening meal following vespers.”

  Abbess Ita was following Sister Fidelma closely.

  “And then?”

  “Then I began my investigation, then the Tanist of the Uí Failgi arrived seeking Sillán or an explanation for his death.”

  “But who killed Follaman?”

  “Follaman knew that sooner or later he would be discovered. But more importantly in his guileless mind there was also the guilt of having taken a man’s life to be considered. Follaman was a simple man. He decided that he should accept punishment. The honor-price of a life. What greater honor-price for the life of Sillán could he offer than his own? He also took a draught of the poison hemlock.”

  There was a pause.

  “It is a plausible story, Sister Fidelma. But how do you substantiate it?”

  “Firstly, when I questioned Follaman, he knew all about Sillán’s profession. Secondly, he made two slips. He told me that he had seen Sillán coming from your chamber with anger on his face. Your chamber is on the far side of the abbey to the hostel. Therefore Follaman must have been near your chamber door. But, most importantly, when I asked Follaman if he knew what hemlock looked like, he denied any knowledge.”

  “Why is that damning?”

  “Because one of Follaman’s duties is to help in the herb garden of the community and Sister Poitigéir had just informed me that she grew hemlock in the garden for medicinal purposes; the very plant used in the apothecary came from the garden. And Sister Poitigéir said she was helped in this task by Follaman. He knew what hemlock looked like. So why did he lie to me?”

  Abbess Ita sighed deeply.

  “I see. What you are saying is that Follaman tried to protect us, protect our community here at Kildare?”

  “I am. He was a simple man and saw no other way.”

  The Abbess smiled painfully.

  “In truth, Sister, with all my knowledge, I saw no other path that would have led to the same result. So what do you propose?”

  “There are times when the law brings injustice with it and the triumph of justice is mankind’s only peace. So the question is between justice or the stricture of the law.” Fidelma hesitated and grimaced. “Let it be natural justice. I shall officially report that the result of my inquiry is that Sillán met his death by accident, so did Follaman. A contaminated jug of water, which had been made up by Follaman to destroy the vermin in the abbey vaults, became inadvertently used to mix with the mead in the hostel. The contaminated jug was not discovered until Follaman had also died.”

  Abbess Ita gazed speculatively at Sister Fidelma.

  “And what do we tell the Tanist of the Uí Failgi about the gold mine?”

  “That Sillán had decided to return to Ráith Imgain because the legend of the gold mine of Kildare was simply a legend and nothing more.”

  “Very well.” The Abbess had a smile of contentment on her face. “If this is what you are prepared to report then I endorse your report with my authority as the head of this community. In such a manner may our community be saved for future generations. For the falsehood of the report, I absolve you from all responsibility and sin.”

  It was the smile of the Abbess which troubled Fidelma in her decision. She would, for the sake of natural justice, have held her tongue. But the relieved complacency of Abbess Ita suddenly irritated her. And, if she carefully analyzed herself, was it not that her pride in her reputation as a solver of mysteries had been pricked?

  Sister Fidelma slowly reached into her robe and pulled out the small piece of rock which she had picked up in the chamber that Sillán had occupied. She tossed it on the table. The Abbess gazed down at it.

  “It was part of Sillán’s proof of his discovery. You’d better keep that safe with the other pieces of gold which Follaman gave you after he had poisoned Sillán… at your instruction.”

  Abbess Ita’s face was suddenly ashen and the whites showed around her amber eyes.

  “How…?” she stuttered.

  Sister Fidelma smiled bitterly.

  “Do not fear, Mother Abbess. All will be as I have said it was. Your secret is safe with me. What I do is for the good of our community, for the future of the House of the Blessed Brigid of Kildare, and those people who live within the peace of the shadows of these walls. It is not for me to judge you. For that you will have to answer to God and the shades of Sillán and Follaman.”

  Abbess Ita’s lips trembled.

  “But how…” she whispered again.

  “I have stressed that Follaman was a simple man. Even if he had the wit to understand the implications of Sillan’s find for the abbey and the community around it, could he really have taken the poison hemlock and administered it?”

  “But you, yourself, have demonstrated he could. Sister Poitigéir told you that Follaman helped her attend the plants in the herb garden and would know what hemlock looked like.”

  “Follaman knew what the plant looked like; yes. But he would have to be told what the crushed leaves of hemlock were. You need to discern colors for that. Follaman could not pick out a bowl of crushed hemlock leaves by their purple spots and white tips once the distinctive shape had been destroyed. You see, what was staring me in the face the whole while was a simple fact. Follaman was color-blind. He could not discern colors. Someone would have had to have given Follaman the poison to administer.”

  Abbess Ita’s lips were compressed into a thin, hard line.

  “But I did not kill Follaman,” she said fiercely. “Even if I admit that I suggested to Follaman that our community would best be served by the demise of Sillán, even if I admit I showed Follaman a method to do that deed, who killed Follaman? I did not do it!”

  “No,” replied Fidelma. “It was as I have said. At your suggestion, Follaman administered the poison to Sillán because you told him it was God’s will. You used him as a tool. But he, being a simple man, could not live with the guilt he felt in taking a life. He took his own life in self-retribution, as I have said. He had not given all the hemlock to Sillán but kept some aside in his room. Last night he drank it as a penance for the deed. His was the penance, Mother Abbess, but yours is the guilt.”

  Abbess Ita stared at her blankly.

  “What am I to do?” she demanded but her voice broke a little.

  Sister Fidelma gave a slight smile of cynicism.

  “With your permission, Mother Abbess, I shal
l be leaving Kil-dare this morning. I will make my report to the Tanist of the Uí Failgi first. Do not worry. The good of the community is uppermost in my mind. That good outweighs the law. But I shall make a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Armagh to pay penance for the falsehood of my report.”

  Sister Fidelma paused and gazed into the troubled amber eyes of the Abbess Ita.

  “I cannot help relieve your guilt. I suggest, Mother Abbess, that you acquire the services of a sympathetic confessor.”

  AT THE TENT OF BELOFERNES

  Sister Fidelma halted her mare where the track curved round the shoulder of the hill and gazed down at the broad valley below. The placid light-blue strip of a river wound its way through the valley, among the green cultivated clan lands of the Uí Dróna. She saw the grey granite walls of the rath, which was her goal, and her dust-stained features formed into a tired smile of anticipation. She had been four days on the road from the monastery of Durrow. She was tired and uncomfortable with the dust of travel. Yet it was not simply the prospect of the comforts of a bath, fresh clothes, and a rest from being on horseback that caused her to smile. It was the thought of seeing Liadin again.

  Fidelma had been an only daughter with elder brothers, and Liadin, her childhood friend, had been as a sister to her. The bonding had been strong. They had reached the “age of choice” together when they had, under law, become women. At that time Fidelma had become anamchara, the “soul-friend,” to Liadin: her spiritual guide according to the practice of the faith in Ireland.

  Now, in her pocket, there reposed an urgent message from Liadin which had been delivered to Fidelma at Durrow a week ago. It read: “Come at once! I am greatly troubled. Liadin.” Now, as she reached her journey’s end, Fidelma felt both anticipation at the reunion and apprehension.

  Fidelma had not seen her friend for several years. Their paths had eventually separated, for Fidelma had gone to Tara to continue her studies while Liadin had taken the path of marriage.