Hemlock at Vespers sf-9

by Peter Tremayne

  Colmán hesitated only a moment before hurrying away on his task.

  Fidelma bent again to the corpse. There was no disputing the cause of death. The shaft of wood, like an arrow, was stuck in the back of the corpse under the shoulder blade.

  “The worst place to try to stab a man,” sniffed Irél. “To stab him in the back,” he added, when Fidelma glanced up question-ingly at him. “You can never be sure of inflicting a mortal wound. There are too many bones in the way of a vital organ, any of which might deflect the blow. It is better to stab from the front, in and up under the rib cage.”

  He spoke with the relish of a warrior.

  “So you would say that whoever delivered the blow was an amateur when it came to killing?” asked Fidelma drily.

  Irél considered the point.

  “Not necessarily. The implement has been inserted slightly to the side and with an upward thrust toward the heart. The killer knew what he was about. He was aiming to pierce the heart immediately. Nevertheless, the victim lived on for a while. If he had not, we would never have heard his cries and discovered the body.”

  “You are very observant, Irél. But why do you ascribe the killing to a man?”

  Irél shrugged indifferently.

  “It is logical. Look at the depth at which the wood is buried in the flesh. It would take strength to thrust it in so far.”

  Fidelma could not fault the logic. But she was examining the shaft of wood with more interest. It was a piece of aspen, some eighteen inches or more in length, and it was inscribed with Ogham characters. She ran her finger over the cut letters, feeling the faint stickiness of the sap. The words meant, “The gods protect us.” It was now obvious what it was. The aspen wand was called afé-an instrument by which corpses and graves were measured. It was generally regarded as an unlucky object and no one, would willingly touch afé unless they had need to.

  Even Fidelma felt that she had to summon a special courage before she reached over and yanked the piece of wood from the corpse of Fiacc. She immediately saw that it was no ordinary fé. Where the shaft had been driven in, it had been whittled into a sharp point and, when she’d wiped the blood on the clothes of the corpse, her eyes narrowed as she observed that this point had been hardened by fire.

  Tressach, standing nearby, was gazing aghast at Fidelma’s handling of the wooden fé.

  “Sister,” he reproached, “it is highly unlucky to handle that. And to handle the very fé that measured this tomb for Tigernmas…”

  Fidelma did not reply. She rose to examine the rest of the tomb.

  It was an oval-shaped chamber cut into a mound of earth with its floors flagged with stones while granite blocks lined the walls and were placed so that they formed a natural archlike structure across the entire roof. The length of the tomb was about fifteen feet, and its width a little more than twelve. Fidelma was thankful that the open doors of the tomb had allowed fresher, chill evening air to dispel the fetid atmosphere.

  There was no need to ask where the remains of Tigernmas were. At the far end of the tomb, in a central position, stood an upright, rusting iron frame. In it, almost crumbled to pieces, were the remains of a skeleton. There were some fragments of clothing on it; a metal belt buckle and a rusty sword had fallen nearby. It had been the custom for the ancients to bury their chieftains and great rulers standing upright and facing their enemies, sword clasped in their dead hand. This iron cage had obviously been designed to keep the corpse upright in the burial chamber. By this method, it was said, the aura of the dead was supposed to protect the living. The skull of the skeleton had fallen to one side in the cage so that its eyeless sockets appeared to be staring with malignant force in the direction of the dead Fiacc. The skeletal grin seemed to be one of satisfaction. Fidelma felt irritated at the way her imagination interpreted these images.

  To one side of the tomb were the rotting remains of a chariot. This would be the king’s most cherished vehicle, left there to help transport him to the Otherworld. Jars and containers of what had once been his favorite foods and drink stood nearby, large bronze and copper containers made by skilled craftsmen.

  Fidelma moved forward and her foot caught at something. She bent down and picked up a small but weighty bar of metal. Having examined it closely by Irél’s lantern, she realized that it was silver. She set it down carefully, and as she did so she saw a few brooches scattered about. They were of semiprecious jewels set in gold mountings. Again, it was the custom to bury a portion of wealth with a great chieftain, for he would also need some means to help him in his journey to the Otherworld. Frowning thoughtfully, Fi-delma continued to examine the rest of the tomb.

  By the beam of the lantern, Fidelma noticed that a small trail of blood led from a point before the iron cage of the skeleton to where the corpse of Fiacc lay before the doors. She could also see scratch marks on the granite floor.

  Irél, standing beside her, articulated her thoughts.

  “He was obviously stabbed while standing by the cage and then contrived to drag himself to the doors.”

  Fidelma did not bother to glance at him.

  “Obviously,” she replied shortly.

  At the entrance of the tomb, Garbh, the keeper of the cemetery, was standing with Tressach and the other warrior, watching her progress with fascination.

  “Speaking of things obvious, does it not surprise you that there is so little dust and dirt on the floor of this tomb?” she asked Irél. “It is almost as if it had been recently swept.”

  Irél stared at her, wondering whether she was making a joke. But she had passed on, examining the floor and looking carefully at one of the stone slabs that made up its surface. She pointed to the scratch marks across the floor.

  “Bring your lantern closer,” she instructed. “What do you make of those?”

  The captain shrugged. “It is probably where the floor stones were scored by ropes while they were being dropped into place.”

  “Exactly so,” agreed Fidelma quietly. “And have you noticed anything else that is curious about this sepulcher?”

  Irél glanced quickly around but shook his head.

  “Tigernmas, although he subsequently developed an evil reputation, is accredited as the king who first encouraged gold and silver to be smelted and works of great art to be produced in this land.”

  “I have heard the stories,” replied Irél.

  “And it was the custom of our people to place grave goods in the tombs, together with symbols of their wealth and power.”

  “That much is well known,” acknowledged Irél, slightly irritated at Fidelma for not addressing the more urgent problem.

  “Apart from a few golden brooches and a silver bar, which I see lying on the floor there as if they were hurriedly discarded, where are the riches that one would have expected to find in this tomb? It is singularly devoid of any such items.”

  Irél tried to see some connection that Fidelma’s remark might have with the murder of Fiacc but failed. He was not interested in the customs of the ancients.

  “Is that significant?” he asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  Fidelma walked back to the corpse and looked down at it once more. There was a movement outside and Abbot Colmán came hurrying back.

  “Fiacc was certainly due to attend the convention tomorrow,” he confirmed. “The steward says that Fiacc and his wife, Étromma, arrived in Tara a few days ago. However, and this is interesting, there was a problem, for, the steward says, Fiacc was to be heard before the Chief Brehon to answer charges which, if proved, would have debarred him from practice as a judge.”

  “A special hearing?” Fidelma had heard nothing about such a contentious matter. She cast a final look around the tomb before returning her gaze to Colmán.

  “Does the steward have details of the charges against Fiacc?”

  “Only that it was something to do with malpractice. Only the Chief Brehon has the details.”

  “Has Étromma been informed of her husba
nd’s death?”

  “I took it upon myself to send word to her.”

  “Then I think I should go and speak with her.”

  “Is that necessary? She will be distraught. Perhaps tomorrow would be a more suitable time?”

  “It is necessary to see her now in order to clear up this mystery.”

  Abbot Colmán spread his hands in acquiescence.

  “Very well. What about…?” He did not finish but gestured toward the tomb.

  It was Garbh who finished the question: “Shouldn’t the body of this man be removed so that I can reseal the tomb?”

  “Not for the moment,” replied Fidelma. “Irél, have a guard mounted outside the tomb. Everything is to be left as it is until I order otherwise. Hopefully, I shall have resolved the mystery before midnight. Then the tomb can be resealed.”

  She left the tomb and began to walk slowly and thoughtfully back through the graves of the High Kings. She paused for a moment, waiting for Abbot Colmán to catch up with her. He had paused a moment to issue final instructions to Irél. Her eyes flickered toward the yawning pit of a freshly dug grave and suppressed a shiver. Colmán came panting along a moment later and together they walked at a leisurely pace toward the lights of the main palace complex.

  Étromma was surprisingly young to be the wife of a middle-aged judge. She was scarcely more than eighteen years old. She sat stiffly but in complete control of herself. There was little sign of anguish or of grieving on her features. The cold, calculating blue eyes stared with hostility at Fidelma. The lips were thinned and pressed together. A small nerve twitching at the corner of her mouth was the only sign of expression on her features.

  “I was divorcing Fiacc. He was about to be disbarred and he had no money,” she replied coldly to a question Fidelma had asked her.

  Fidelma was seated before her, while Abbot Colmán stood nervously by the fire.

  “I do not see how the two things fit together, Étromma,” she commented.

  “I do not want to spend my life in poverty. It was an agreement between us. Fiacc was an old man. I married him only for security. He knew that.”

  “What about love?” queried Fidelma mildly. “Had you no feelings for him?”

  For the first time Étromma smiled, a humorless parting of her lips. “Love? What is that? Does love provide financial security?”

  Fidelma sighed softly.

  “Why was Fiacc facing disbarment from practice as a judge?” Fidelma chose a new tack.

  “During this last year he had made many wrong judgments. He was, as you know, judge of the Ardgal. After so many wrong judgments, he was no longer trusted by the people. He had made himself destitute from the continual payment of compensation.”

  Fidelma knew that a judge had to deposit a pledge of five séd, or ounces of silver, for each case he tried as a surety against error. If, on appeal by the defendant to higher judges, a panel of no fewer than three more experienced judges, a judge was found to have made an error, then this pledge was confiscated and the judge ordered to pay further compensation of one cumal, the equivalent of the value of three silver séd.

  “How many wrong judgments had your husband made this last year, then? How could he have become poverty-stricken?”

  “There were eleven wrong judgments during this last year.”

  Fidelma’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Eighty-eight silver séd, which could buy nearly thirty milk cows, was a staggering sum to have to pay out in compensation in a single year. No wonder there was talk of disbarring Fiacc.

  “He was to be heard before the Chief Brehon to answer the fact that he had gone into debt to pay fines and to answer for his competency as a judge,” Étromma added.

  “Are you saying that he had borrowed money to pay?”

  “That is why I was divorcing him.”

  Fidelma realized that a judge who turned to moneylenders to support him would certainly be disbarred if he could not present a valid argument to endorse his actions. Clearly, Fiacc had been in considerable trouble.

  “So your husband was worried about his situation?”

  Étromma chuckled drily.

  “Worried? No, he was not. At least not recently.”

  “Not worried?” pressed Fidelma sharply.

  “He tried to stop me divorcing him by claiming that it was only a temporary matter and that he was not really destitute. He said that he was expecting money shortly and, after that, if the people did not want him as judge, he would be rich enough to live without working.”

  “Did he explain where the money was coming from? How would he pay off his debts and find the money to live for the rest of his life in any degree of comfort?”

  “He did not explain. Nor did I care. I think he was just a liar or a fool. It was his problem. He knew that if he lied to me and he was disbarred and shown to be penniless then I would leave. It was as simple as that. I was not going to recall my application for divorce.”

  Fidelma tried to conceal her dislike of the cold, commercial attitude of the young woman.

  “You were not at all interested where your husband would suddenly obtain money if he actually did so?”

  “I knew he would not. He was a liar.”

  “At what point did he become confident that he would manage to obtain money to pay his debts?”

  The woman Étromma reflected for a moment.

  “I suppose that he started to brag that he was going to overcome this problem a day or so ago. Yes, it was yesterday morning.”

  “You mean that he was worried until yesterday morning?”

  “Precisely so.”

  “When did you both arrive here at Tara?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “And during that time, Fiacc was concerned? Then yesterday morning his attitude changed?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Did he meet with anyone here?”

  Étromma shrugged. “He was known to many people here. I was not interested in his friends.”

  “I mean, was there anyone in particular with whom he spent some time at Tara? Was there anyone who could be described as a close friend or confidant?”

  “Not so far as I know. He was a solitary man. I do not think he met with anyone here. He kept to himself. The only thing that I know he did was go for walks on his own in the graveyard of the High kings.” Étromma paused to sniff. “I thought he was getting maudlin. But, as I said, yesterday he came back grinning like a cat who had found a dish of cream. He assured me that things would be all right. I knew he was a liar, so I was not going to alter my plans to leave him.”

  Fidelma stood up abruptly.

  “I will not express my condolences, Étromma,” she said with emphasis. “Doubtless you do not expect them. You are obviously more concerned with the financial arrangements. Fiacc was still your husband when he met his death. Your husband was murdered. I think I now know who the murderer is and, if proven, the compensation due for the slaying of your husband, as a Brehon of lower rank, is three séd of silver. It is not a fortune but it will keep you momentarily from poverty, and doubtless you will soon find someone else to support you.”

  Abbot Colmán followed her unhappily along the corridors of the palace toward his chamber. “You were harsh, Sister. After all, she has just been widowed and is only eighteen years old.”

  Fidelma was indifferent.

  “I meant to be harsh. She felt nothing for Fiacc. He was merely a source of income for her. She proclaims her motto without shame-lucri bonus est odor ex requalibet.”

  Colmán grimaced. “Sweet is the smell of money obtained from any source. Isn’t that from Juvenal’s Satires?”

  Fidelma smiled briefly.

  “Send for Irél, Tressach and Garbh to come to your chamber. I think I can now solve this problem.”

  It was not long before the three men crowded curiously into the Abbot’s chamber.

  Fidelma was seated in a chair before the fire while Colmán stood with his back to it, a little to one s
ide. His hands were clasped behind his back.

  “Well now.” Fidelma raised her head and regarded them each in turn before addressing the warrior, Tressach. “How long have you been a guard at Tara, Tressach?”

  “Three years, Sister.”

  “And how long have you patrolled the compound containing the tombs of the High Kings?”

  “One year.”

  “And you, Irél? You are captain of the guards of Tara. How long have you been here?”

  “I entered the service of the High Kings some ten years ago. Conall Cáel was still High King then. I have been captain here for the last year.”

  She looked from one to another and shook her head sadly.

  “And how long has Séchnasach been High King?” she continued.

  Irél frowned, not understanding the logic of this question. He regarded Fidelma as if she were joking. But her expression was completely serious.

  “How long? You must know that, Sister. Everyone does. It was three years ago when the joint High Kings, Diarmait and Blathmac, died of the Yellow Plague within a week of one another. That was when Sechnasach became High King.”

  “Three years ago?” pressed Fidelma.

  “You must remember, Fidelma,” interrupted Colmán, wondering how she could have forgotten. “You were in Tara on that occasion yourself.” But she ignored him and continued to direct her questions to Irél.

  “And is the High King in good health?”

  “To my knowledge thanks be to God,” Irél replied, becoming slightly defensive.

  “And his family?” continued Fidelma remorselessly. “Are they in good health?”

  “Indeed, the High King is blessed.”

  “I told you as much myself when you arrived earlier,” frowned Colmán, wondering if Fidelma was losing her memory.

  “So what is the purpose of the new grave being dug behind the tomb of Tigernmas?”

  The question was asked so softly that it took a moment or two for its implication to sink in. Fidelma’s fiery green eyes were fixed on the keeper of the cemetery.

  Garbh’s mouth dropped open and he began to stutter. Then he hung his head in silence.