Hemlock at Vespers sf-9

by Peter Tremayne

  “From the beginning,” Fidelma interrupted with annoyance. “When did you last see Scoriath? See him alive, that is?”

  Conn considered for a moment.

  “On the evening of the day on which he was killed. It was the day of the clan assembly, the feast day of the blessed Mochta, the disciple of Patrick. That afternoon Scoriath, myself and some other warriors were in attendance to our chieftainess, Irnan, at the assembly hall. An hour before sunset, the assembly dispersed so that each could return home before the hour of darkness.”

  “Was that the last time you saw Scoriath alive?”

  “It was, Sister. Everyone returned to their homes. Later Iman’s messenger came to me and said that he was looking for Scoriath, for Scoriath had been summoned by the chieftainess. The messenger said that he had gone to his chambers but could find no one.” The fair-haired young man paused and frowned, massaging his forehead with his fingers as if the act would conjure memory. “I knew this to be strange, for Scoriath had a child, and if he were not in his house then his wife and child or servant would be there.”

  He paused as if seeking approval from Fidelma. She simply motioned him to continue.

  “I went to the house with the messenger. No one answered in response to our knocking. I opened the door and went in. I cannot describe it; I felt something was wrong. A small oil lamp, whose light I could see through a crack in the door, burnt in the bedchamber. I went to the door and pushed it open.” He genuflected hastily. “There I found Scoriath face downward on the floor. Blood still gushed from a terrible wound in his neck…

  “Still gushed?” Fidelma interrupted quickly.

  Conn nodded.

  “Obviously he had not long been dead. I turned the body slightly and saw that his throat had been cut. Then, by the door of a small side chamber, was the body of Scoriath’s child, Cunobel. He, too, was dead from several wounds in the chest. Blood stained the entire room.”

  The Tanist paused to swallow nervously.

  “I saw that the side chamber door, a chamber where the child slept, and which Scoriath’s wife used for her personal toilet, stood ajar. I noticed a trail of blood leading into the chamber. I followed this trail of droplets and it led me to a chest. Inside the chest was a knife, still sticky with blood, and a bloodstained outer garment which belonged to Liadin.”

  He was silent for so long that Fidelma felt she had to prompt him.

  “And then?”

  “I sent the messenger back to Irnan to tell her what had been discovered. There was no doubt in my mind that Liadin was answerable for this foul deed.”

  “Why?”

  The fair-haired man blinked.

  “Why?” he repeated as if surprised at the question being asked. “Because, Sister, I found the knife and the garment. They were hidden in a chest in Liadin’s room. The garment belonged to Lia-din. I had often seen her wearing it.”

  “’Hidden’ is hardly an exact description Conn,” Fidelma observed. “A trail of blood led you to the chest.”

  He shrugged. “The bloodstains probably went unnoticed in Lia-din’s panic to hide the objects of her guilt.”

  “Perhaps. But that is supposition. If you had done this deed, would you have gone into your personal chamber to hide the weapon and bloodstained garment? Even without the bloody trail someone would surely be bound to examine that room later?”

  Conn looked confused.

  “Perhaps you are right, Sister. But surely no one else could have done the deed, and that for a very good reason.”

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  “What is that reason?”

  “Scoriath was a warrior. A man of strength as well as full of a warrior’s guile. Yet he turned his back on his murderer, allowed them to reach around his neck and slit his throat. The incision was made in the left side of the neck and the blade drawn along the throat to the right side. No one could have been placed in such a position to perform the deed unless Scoriath trusted them very well. Only a woman with whom Scoriath was intimate could be so trusted.”

  For a few minutes Fidelma sat considering.

  “Could the wound not have been made by a left-handed person, facing Scoriath?” mused Fidelma.

  Conn blinked again. It was obviously a habit which signaled reflection on a question.

  “But Liadin is right-handed.”

  “Just so,” Fidelma remarked softly.

  “And,” Conn continued, ignoring her point, “if the murderer stood in front of Scoriath, he surely would have defended himself from the attack with ease.”

  Fidelma mentally conceded the point.

  “Continue, Conn. You say that you sent the messenger back to Irnan. What then?”

  “I was surveying the scene when I heard a noise outside the building. I moved to the door, wrenched it open, and found Liadin attempting to sneak back into the building, presumably in an attempt to retrieve the knife and garment from her chamber.”

  “That is surmise on your part,” Fidelma admonished.

  Conn shrugged indifferently.

  “Very well, I found Liadin outside the door and I arrested her. Irnan came soon afterward with Rathend, the Brehon. Liadin was taken away. That is all I know.”

  “Did you know Scoriath well?”

  “Not well, save that he was captain of the guard.”

  “Were you jealous of him?”

  Conn appeared bewildered by the abrupt question.

  “Jealous?”

  “Scoriath was a foreigner,” Fidelma explained. “A Gaul. Yet he had achieved high office among the Uí Dróna. Did it not annoy you to see a foreigner so well treated?”

  “He was a good man, an excellent champion. It is not my place to question the decisions reached by the councils of the king nor those of my chief. He was a good warrior. As for high office … I am the heir-elect to the chieftainship, so why should I be jealous of him?”

  “And what was your relationship with Liadin?”

  Did a faint color suffuse his cheeks?

  “I have no relationship,” he said gruffly. “She was Scoriath’s wife.”

  “A good wife, to your knowledge?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “A good mother?”

  “I have no knowledge of such things. I am unmarried.”

  “If she had murdered Scoriath as you suggest, do you not question the fact that she also murdered her own child… a three-year-old boy?”

  Conn was stubborn.

  “I can only state what I know.”

  “Did Scoriath ever say anything about a Jewess to you?”

  Conn was again apparently bewildered by this abrupt change of tack.

  “Never. I have never heard of a woman of that religion in these parts, though it is said that many Jewish traders frequent the port of Síl. Maíluidir on our southern coast. Iman spent some of her youth there and may have an answer for you about such things.”

  The servant, Branar, was a raw-boned, fresh-faced girl with wide, guileless-looking blue eyes, and a permanent expression of confusion. She was no more than a year or two beyond the age of choice. Sister Fidelma smiled encouragingly at her and bade her be seated. Rathend sat in place, looking a trifle irritated. Branar had been escorted to the chamber by her mother but Fidelma had refused to allow the old woman to remain with her daughter during the interrogation, showing her to a side chamber. Rathend thought that Fidelma might have showed some compassion for the young girl and allowed the mother to remain. Branar was nervous and awed by the proceedings.

  “How long have you been a servant to Liadin and Scoriath?” Fidelma opened.

  “Why, not even a year, Sister.” The girl bobbed her head nervously as she sat. Her confused, somewhat frightened gaze traveled from Fidelma to the stony-faced Brehon and then back to Fidelma.

  “A year? Did you enjoy working for them?”

  “Oh yes. They were kind to me.”

  “And you liked your work?” inquired Fidelma.

  “Oh yes
.”

  “And you had no problems with either Liadin or Scoriath? Were there no arguments between them and you?”

  “No. I was quite happy.”

  “Was Liadin a caring wife and mother?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Fidelma decided to attempt another tack.

  “Do you know anything about a Jewess? Did Scoriath know such a woman?”

  For the first time Rathend raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at Fidelma. But he kept silent.

  “A Jewess? No.”

  “What happened on the day Scoriath was killed?”

  The girl looked troubled for a moment and then her face lightened.

  “You mean about the argument I heard? I went that morning to clean the house of Liadin and Scoriath as I usually did. They were in the bedchamber with the door closed, but their voices were raised in a most terrifying argument.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “I could not make out what was being said. The door was closed.”

  “Yet you could clearly identify their voices and knew that they were engaged in a violent quarrel, is that it?”

  “It is. I could hear only the tones of their voices raised in anger.”

  Fidelma gazed at the ingenuous face of the house servant.

  “You only heard Liadin’s voice through a closed door but can identify her voice clearly?”

  The girl’s nod was emphatic.

  “Very well. Do you think that you know my voice by now?”

  The girl hesitated suspiciously but then nodded.

  “And you would know your own mother’s voice?”

  The girl laughed nervously at the apparent stupidity of the question.

  Sister Fidelma rose abruptly.

  “I am going into the other room. I will close the door and will speak at the top of my voice. I want you to see if you can hear what I say.”

  Rathend sighed. He clearly felt that Fidelma was pursuing too theatrical an approach.

  Fidelma went into the next room and closed the door behind her. Branar’s mother rose uncertainly as she entered.

  “Is your questioning over, Sister?” she asked in a puzzled tone.

  Fidelma smiled softly and shook her head.

  “I want you to say anything that comes into your head, but say it as loud as you can. It is an experiment.”

  The woman stared at Sister Fidelma as if she were mad but, at a nod from Fidelma, began talking a mixture of sense and gibberish as loud as she could until Fidelma signaled her to silence. Fidelma then opened the door and called to Branar. The girl rose uncertainly.

  “Well,” smiled Fidelma, “what did you hear?”

  “Oh, I heard you speaking loudly, Sister, but I could not understand all you said.”

  Fidelma smiled broadly now.

  “But you did hear my voice?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Clearly my voice?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Fidelma turned and pushed the door open. Branar’s mother shuffled nervously forward, as perplexed as her daughter.

  “The voice you heard was your own mother’s voice, Branar. Are you still sure you wish to swear that it was Liadin who was arguing with Scoriath behind the closed door?”

  The chambers where Liadin and Scoriath had dwelt were a set of rooms in the fortress not far from the stable buildings beyond the central gate. Three chambers constituted the dwelling: a living room, a bedchamber leading off it and, with access from the bedchamber, a smaller chamber in which Liadin’s young son had his bed and in which Liadin apparently stored her clothes.

  The rooms now seemed cold and bleak although they were filled with items which once spelt homeliness and comfort. Perhaps it was the lack of a fire in the hearth and the gloom of the day that enhanced the chill.

  Rathend led the way, crossing the floor of the room in which meals were cooked and eaten, where an iron cauldron hung on a spit over the dead grey ashes.

  “Scoriath was slain in this room,” Rathend explained, showing the way into the large bedchamber.

  The granite blocks of the walls were covered with tapestries. There were no windows, and the room was dark. Rathend bent and lit a tallow candle. There was a large, ornately carved bed. The bedclothes, a jumbled mess of linen and blankets, were stained with what was obviously dried blood.

  “Scoriath was lying there. The child, Cunobel, was found just by the door of the smaller chamber,” Rathend explained.

  Fidelma noted the dark stains crossing the floor to the small arched door which led off the chamber. She saw, by the doorway, that there was a slightly larger pool of dried blood. But the stains also led beyond the chamber door.

  She walked into the smaller chamber with Rathend, who held aloft the tallow candle, following her. The trail of dried blood led to a large wooden trunk as Conn had said it had. She noticed some footprints in the dried blood. They were large and must have been made by Conn during his investigation, obscuring the original footprints of the killer.

  “That was the trunk in which Liadin’s bloodstained garment was found together with the knife,” the Brehon said. Next to the trunk was a small cot in which the boy, Cunobel, must have slept. “There are no bloodstains there so we can conclude that the child was slain where he was found.”

  Fidelma did not reply but returned to the main bedchamber and examined it again.

  “What are you looking for, Sister?” ventured Rathend.

  “I do not know… yet.” Fidelma frowned suddenly, noticing a book satchel hanging from a peg. She reached into it and drew out a moderate-sized volume. She gazed with interest at the patterned binding, frowning slightly as she noted a few dark stains which spoilt the careful artistry of the leatherwork.

  Reverently, she placed it on a nearby table and motioned for Rathend to hold the candle higher.

  “Why,” she said softly, opening the first page, “it is a copy of the Hexapla of Origenes. What would Scoriath or Liadin be doing with this?”

  The Brehon sighed impatiently.

  “There is no law against the ownership of books.”

  “But it is unusual,” insisted Fidelma as she turned the pages. It was a collection of Hebrew religious texts which Origenes, head of the Christian school of Alexandria, had copied three centuries before. He had rendered the text in parallel columns, in Hebrew, Greek and then in Latin.

  Fidelma suddenly frowned. Someone had marked a passage in a textual section entitled “Apokrupto.” Fidelma dredged her knowledge of Greek. It meant “hidden texts.” She read the passage with a frown. The story was of how the Assyrian king, Nebuchadnezzar, sent his army against the Israelites. The army was commanded by an invincible general named Holofernes. As the Assyrian army lay encamped around the Israelite city of Bethulia, a young Jewish maiden named Judith went to the Assyrian camp and was brought before Holofernes. She seduced him and then, afterward, as he lay in a drunken slumber, she cut off his head and returned to her own people, who took heart by this sign, rushed upon the invading army, and routed them.

  Fidelma smiled to herself. It was a story worthy of the ancient Irish bards, for it was once believed that the soul reposed in the head and the greatest sign of respect was to sever the head of one’s enemy. Fidelma’s eyes suddenly widened. Judith. Her eye traveled from the Hebrew text to the Greek and then to the Latin. She caught her breath as she realized the meaning of the name Judith-it meant Jewess.

  Why had the passage been marked? What had Scoriath meant when he told Liadin that he would give up his warrior’s role and become a farmer unless the “Jewess” prevented him? Scoriath was a foreigner and, in a way, commander of an army as Holofernes had been. Also, Scoriath’s head had nearly been severed. Was there some bizarre meaning to this?

  Slowly she replaced the book under the puzzled gaze of the Brehon.

  “Have you seen all you wish?”

  “I wish,” Fidelma replied, raising her head, “to see the genealogist of the Uí Dróna.”

  “
You now say that you wish to question the chieftainess of the Uí Dróna? What has she to do with this matter?”

  It was an hour later and Rathend and Fidelma were seated in the great hall of the fortress.

  “That is for me to discover,” replied Fidelma. “I have the right to call Irnan for examination. Do you deny it?”

  “Very well.” Rathend was clearly reluctant. “But I hope you know what you are doing, Fidelma of Kildare.”

  Irnan came in after a short, uneasy period of waiting. Rathend leapt to his feet as the chieftainess entered.

  “Why am I summoned, Rathend?” Irnan’s voice was irritable and she chose to ignore Fidelma. But it was Fidelma who replied to her.

  “How long was Scoriath your lover, Irnan?”

  A pin falling to the ground would have been heard for several seconds after Fidelma had spoken.

  The face of the swarthy woman blanched, the lips thinned. An expression of shock etched her features.

  Rathend was staring at Fidelma as if he could not believe what he had heard.

  Suddenly, as if her bones and muscles would no longer support her, Irnan seemed to fold up on a nearby chair, her gaze, combining consternation and fear, not leaving Fidelma’s imperturbable features. As she did not reply, Fidelma continued.

  “Before your birth, I am told that your father, Drón, traveled to the port of Síl Maíluidir. His aim was to encourage some merchants of the clan to open trade there. While at the port he met a Phoenician merchant who had a beautiful daughter. Drón married her and they had a child. The child was yourself. Your mother was named Judith-the Jewess. She survived your birth only by a few months. When she died your father then brought you back here, where you were raised.”

  “That story is no secret,” replied Irnan sharply. “Molua, the genealogist, doubtless told it to you.”

  “When did Scoriath tell you that he no longer loved you and wanted to resign his command and be a simple farmer?”

  Irnan had apparently recovered her composure and chuckled drily.

  “You do not know everything, dálaigh of the court. Scoriath did love me and told me as much on the day his wife slew him for jealousy.”

  Fidelma found herself having to control her surprise at the sudden candor of Irnan’s response.