Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries

by Peter Tremayne

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Think? You are not sure?”

  “Well...” the deacon shrugged, “I would not take oath on it. Perhaps I poured it just after he left the sacristy.”

  “Not before he left?”

  “I cannot be sure now. This matter has been a shock and I am a little confused as to the order of events.”

  “Can you be sure whether there was anything else in the chalice when you poured the wine?”

  “The chalice was clean.” The deacon’s voice was decisive on this point.

  “There was no coating on the chalice, no clear liquid which you might have missed at the bottom?” pressed Fidelma.

  “Absolutely not. The chalice was clean and dry.”

  “How can you be so sure when you admit to confusion over events?”

  “The ritual, which all deacons in this office fulfill, is that before the wine is poured, a small piece of white linen is taken and the inside of the chalice is polished. Only then is the wine poured.”

  Fidelma felt frustrated.

  The wine had been poisoned. It had been poisoned while it was in the chalice and not before. Yet the only time that the chalice was out of sight for a moment, according to the deacon, was when Father Cornelius had entered the sacristy. That had been the only opportunity to introduce poison into the chalice. But the deacon was not sure whether the priest had left before or after he poured the wine.

  “What happened then?” she prompted Tullius, the deacon.

  “The service was ready to start. I took the tray of bread and carried it to the altar. Then I returned for the chalice...”

  Fidelma’s eyes sparkled with renewed interest.

  “So the chalice stood here on its own while you carried the bread to the altar?”

  The deacon was defensive.

  “It was here only for a few seconds and I had left the door open between the sacristy and altar.”

  “Nevertheless, it stood unobserved for a short while. During that period anyone might have entered the outer door and poisoned the wine, leaving before you noticed them.”

  “It is possible, I suppose,” acceded the deacon. “But they would have had to have been quick to do so.”

  “What then? You carried the wine to the altar? Yes. Then the service commenced. The chalice stood in full view of everyone during the service until the moment Father Cornelius blessed it and the Gaulish religieux came forward to receive communion.”

  “Very well.”

  Fidelma led the way back to where the small congregation was still sitting in silence. She felt their eyes upon her, suspicious and hostile. She dismissed the deacon and motioned for the priest, Father Cornelius, to join her.

  “You are Father Cornelius, I believe?”

  “I am.” The priest looked tired and was clearly distressed.

  “How long have you been priest here?”

  “For three years.”

  “Do you have any idea how poison was introduced into the Eucharist wine?”

  “None. It is an impossible thing.”

  “Impossible?”

  “Impossible that anyone would dare to perform such a sacrilege with the Eucharist.”

  Fidelma sniffed slightly. “Yet it is obvious that someone did. If people are out to murder, then a matter of sacrilege becomes insignificant compared with the breaking of one of God’s commandments,” she observed dryly. “When Tullius, the deacon, brought the wine from the sacristy, was it placed on the altar?”

  “It was.”

  “It stood there in full sight of everyone and no one went near it until you blessed it and raised the chalice, turning to administer the sacrament to the first communicant?”

  “No one went near it,” affirmed the priest.

  “Did you know who would be the first communicant?”

  Father Cornelius frowned.

  “I am not a prophet. People come to receive the sacrament as and when they will. There is no order in their coming.”

  “What was the cause of your differences with Abbot Miseno?”

  Father Cornelius blinked.

  “What do you mean?” There was a sudden tone of anxiety in his voice.

  “I think my Latin is clear enough,” Fidelma replied phlegmatically.

  Father Cornelius hesitated a moment and then gave a shrug.

  “Abbot Miseno would prefer to appoint someone else to my office.”

  “Why?”

  “I disagree with the teachings of Augustine of Hippo, that everything is preordained, which is now a doctrine of our church. I believe that men and women can take the initial and fundamental steps toward their salvation, using their own efforts. If men and women are not responsible for their own good or evil deeds, then there is nothing to restrain them from an indulgence in sin. To argue, as Augustine has, that no matter what we do in life, God has already preordained everything so that it is already decided if our reward is heaven or hell, is to imperil the entire moral law. For my heresy, Abbot Miseno wishes to have me removed.”

  Fidelma felt the harsh passion in the man’s voice.

  “So? You would describe yourself as a follower of Pelagius?”

  Father Cornelius drew himself up.

  “Pelagius taught a moral truth. I believe men and women have the choice to become good or evil. Nothing is preordained. How we live our lives determines whether we are rewarded by heaven or hell.”

  “But Pope Innocent declared Pelagius to be a heretic,” Fidelma pointed out.

  “And Pope Zosimus declared him innocent.”

  “Later to renounce that decision,” smiled Fidelma thinly. “Yet it matters not to me. Pelagius has a special place in the philosophy of the church in my country for he was of our blood and faith. Sufficient to say, Abbot Miseno holds to the teachings of Augustine of Hippo?”

  “He does. And he would have me removed from here because I do not.”

  “Yet Abbot Miseno has the authority to appoint whomsoever he likes as priest of this ecclesia?”

  “He has.”

  “Then surely he has the authority to dismiss you without argument?”

  “Not without good cause. He must justify his actions to the bishop.”

  “Ah yes. In Rome bishops have more authority than abbots. That is not so in Ireland. Yet, on the matter of Pelagius, surely heresy, even a just heresy, is cause enough?”

  “But I do not openly preach the teachings of Pelagius nor those of Augustine. They are a subject for my conscience. I perform my duties to my congregation without complaint from them.”

  “So you have shown the Abbot no good cause to dismiss you?”

  “None.”

  “But Abbot Miseno has suggested that you resign from this church?”

  “He has.”

  “And you have refused.”

  “I have.”

  “Did you know the Gaul who died?”

  Again Cornelius blinked at the sudden change of subject of her questioning.

  “I have seen him several times before.”

  “Several times?”

  “Himself and his sister. I believe that they are pilgrims staying in a nearby xenodochia. They have attended the mass here each day.”

  “And the other Gaul, who seems so friendly with the girl?”

  “I have seen him only once, yesterday. I think he has only recently arrived in Rome.”

  “I see.”

  “Sister, this is a great mystery to me. Why should anyone attempt to poison the wine and cause the death of all the communicants in the church today?”

  Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at him.

  “Do you think that the wine was meant to be taken by all the communicants?”

  “What else? Everyone would come to take the bread and wine. It is the custom.”

  “But not everyone did. The poison was so quick in its action that undoubtedly only the first person who took it would die and his death would have served as a warning to the others not to drink. That is precisely
what happened.”

  “Then if the wine were meant only for the Gaul, how could the person who poisoned the wine know that he would be the first to come forward to take it?”

  “A good point. During the time that the Gaul attended the services here, did he take communion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he always in the same place in the church?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “And at what point did he usually come forward to take the wine and bread?”

  Cornelius’s eyes widened slightly as he reflected on the question.

  “He was always the first,” he admitted. “His sister was second. For they were both in the same position before the altar.”

  “I see. Tell me, did you enter the church via the sacristy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the deacon, Tullius, already there?”

  “Yes. Standing by the door trying to estimate the numbers attending the service.”

  “Had he poured the wine into the chalice?”

  “I do not know,” confessed Father Cornelius. “Tullius told me that Miseno had arrived and I went to see him. I think Tullius had the jug in hand as I left the sacristy.”

  Fidelma rubbed her chin thoughtfully.

  “That is all, Father. Send Abbot Miseno across to me.”

  The Abbot came forward, smiling, and seated himself.

  “What news? Are you near a resolution?”

  Fidelma did not return his smile.

  “I understand that you wished to remove Father Cornelius?”

  Abbot Miseno pulled a face. A curious, protective gesture.

  “I have that authority,” he said defensively. “What has that to do with this matter?”

  “Has Father Cornelius failed in his duties?” Fidelma ignored his question.

  “I am not satisfied with them.”

  “I see. Then the reason you wish him removed has nothing to do with Father Cornelius’s personal beliefs?”

  Abbot Miseno’s eyes narrowed.

  “You are clearly a clever investigator, Fidelma of Kildare. How do you come to know so much?”

  “You said that you knew the manner in which a dálaigh, an advocate of the laws of my country, acted. It is, as you know, my job to ask questions and from the answers to make deductions. I say again, has the removal of Cornelius anything to do with the fact of his beliefs?”

  “In truth, I am liberal about these matters,” replied Abbot Miseno. “However, Cornelius will tell you otherwise.”

  “Why, then, do you wish him removed?”

  “Cornelius has been here three years. I do not believe that he has fulfilled his functions properly. There are stories that he keeps a mistress. That he flouts more than one doctrine of our church. His deacon, a worthy soul, keeps this flock together in spite of Father Cornelius. And now Christ Himself has demonstrated clearly that Cornelius is unworthy of the priesthood.”

  “How so?” Fidelma was intrigued at the Abbot Miseno’s logic.

  “The matter of the poisoned Eucharist wine.”

  “Do you accuse Father Cornelius of being the poisoner?” Fidelma was astonished at the apparent directness of the accusation.

  “No. But if he had been a true priest, then the transubstantiation would have taken place and the wine would not have been poisoned. It would have become the blood of Christ even though it contained poison, for the blessing would have purified it.”

  Fidelma was nonplussed at this reasoning.

  “Then it would, indeed, have been a miracle.”

  Abbot Miseno looked annoyed.

  “Is not the fact of transubstantiation a miracle, Sister, one that is performed every day in all churches of Christendom?”

  “I am no theologian. I was taught that the matter was a symbolism and not a reality.”

  “Then you have been taught badly. The bread and wine, when blessed by a true and pure priest, truly turns into the blood and flesh of Our Savior.”

  “A matter of opinion,” observed Fidelma distantly. She indicated the corpulent and richly attired man who sat apart from everyone else. “Tell that man to come to me.”

  Abbot Miseno hesitated.

  “Is that all?”

  “All for the moment.”

  With a sniff of annoyance at being so summarily dismissed, the Abbot rose and made his way to the corpulent man and spoke to him. The man rose and came hesitantly forward.

  “This matter is nothing to do with me,” he began defensively.

  “No?” Fidelma looked at the man’s pouting features. “And you are...?”

  “My name is Talos. I am a merchant and have been a member of this congregation for many years.”

  “Then you are just the person to answer my questions,” affirmed Fidelma.

  “Why so?”

  “Have you known Father Cornelius for some time?”

  “Yes. I was attending this congregation before he became priest here.”

  “Is he a good priest?”

  The Greek merchant looked puzzled.

  “I thought this questioning was to be about the poisoning of the wine?”

  “Indulge me.” Fidelma smiled. “Is he a good priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware of any complaints about him? Any conduct that would not become his office?”

  Talos looked awkwardly at his feet. Fidelma’s eyes glinted.

  “I am personally not aware of anything.”

  “But you have heard some story?” she pressed.

  “Tullius has told me that there have been complaints, but not from me. I have found Father Cornelius to be a conscientious priest.”

  “Yet Tullius said that there were complaints? Was Tullius one of the complainants?”

  “Not that I am aware. Yet I suppose that it would be his job to pass on the complaints to the Abbot. He must also be conscientious in his job. Indeed, he would have cause to be.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Talos grimaced.

  “Tullius has been studying for the priesthood and will be ordained on the day after tomorrow. He is a local boy. His family were not of the best but he had ambition enough to overcome that. Sadly, the gods of love have played him an evil trick.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Talos looked surprised and then he smiled complacently.

  “We are people of the world,” he said condescendingly.

  “You mean that he prefers the company of his own sex?”

  “Exactly so.” She saw the Greek’s eyes glance disapprovingly across the ecclesia and, without turning her head, followed the direction of the look to the young custos.

  Fidelma sniffed. There were no laws against homosexuality under the auspices of the Brehons.

  “So when he is ordained,” she went on, “he will move on to his own church?”

  “That I would not know. I would presume so. This church cannot support two priests. As you see, it boasts only a small congregation, most of whom are well known to each other.”

  “Yet the Gauls are strangers here.”

  “That is true. But the dead religieux and his sister were staying in a hostel across the street and had been attending here during the week. The other, he had been here once. There was only one other complete stranger here today—you.”

  “You have been most helpful, Talos. As you return to your place, would you ask Enodoc, the Gaul, to come here?”

  Talos rose and left hastily, performing his task perfunctorily on the way back to his position.

  The Gaul had been comforting the girl. Fidelma watched as the young man leant forward and squeezed the arm of the girl, whose head hung on her breast, as if she were asleep. She had ceased her sobbing.

  “I know all about the advocates of the Brehon laws,” remarked the young man pleasantly, as he seated himself. “We, in Gaul, share a common ancestry with you of Ireland as well as a common law.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” Fidelma invited distantly,
ignoring the friendly overture.

  “My name is—”

  “Yes, that I know. I also know from whence you come. Tell me what is your reason for visiting Rome.”

  The young man still smiled pleasantly.

  “I am the captain of a merchant ship sailing out of the city of the Veneti in Armorica. It is as a trader that I am in Rome.”

  “And you knew the monk named Docco?”

  “We came from the same village.”

  “Ah. And you are betrothed to the girl, Egeria?”

  The young man started with a frown.

  “What makes you ask this?”

  “The way you behave to her is that of a concerned lover, not a stranger nor that of a mere friend.”

  “You have a perceptive eye, Sister.”

  “Is it so?”

  “I want to marry her.”

  “Then who prevents you?”

  Again Enodoc frowned.

  “Why do you presume that anyone prevents me?”

  “Because of the way you defensively construct your sentence.”

  “Ah, I see. It is true that I have wanted to marry Egeria. It is true that Docco, who is the head of his family, did not want her to marry me. We grew up in the same village but there is enmity between us.”

  “And yet here you are in Rome standing together with Docco and his sister before the same altar,” observed Fidelma.

  “I did not know Docco and Egeria were in Rome. I met them by chance a few days ago and so I made up my mind to argue my case further with Docco before I rejoined my ship to sail back to Gaul.”

  “And was that what you were doing here?”

  Enodoc shrugged.

  “In a way. I was staying nearby.”

  “Forgive me, but the port of Ostia, the nearest port of Rome, is a long way from here. Are you telling me that you, the captain of your ship, came to Ostia and then, hearing by chance that Docco and Egeria were in Rome, made this long journey here to find them?”

  “No. I had business to transact in Rome and left my ship at Ostia. I needed to negotiate with a merchant for a cargo. Yet it is true that I found Egeria and Docco simply by chance.”

  “I am told that you have been to this ecclesia before.”

  “Yes; but only once. That was yesterday when I first encountered Egeria and Docco in the street and followed them to this place.”