Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries

by Peter Tremayne

  For a moment there was a deadly stillness in the feasting hall.

  It was Gerróc, the chieftain’s physician, who seemed to recover his wits first. He was on his knees by Nechtan in a moment. Yet it didn’t need a physician’s training to know that Nechtan was dead. The contorted features, staring dead eyes, and twisted limbs showed that death had claimed him.

  Daolgar, next to Fidelma, grunted in satisfaction.

  “God is just, after all,” he remarked evenly. “If ever a man needed to be helped into the Otherworld, it was this man.” He glanced quickly at Fidelma and half-shrugged as he saw her look of reproach. “You’ll pardon me if I speak my mind, Sister? I am not truly a believer in the concept of forgiveness of sins. It depends much on the sins and the perpetrator of them.”

  Fidelma’s attention had been distracted by Daolgar but, as she was turning back towards Gerróc, she noticed that young Dathó was whispering anxiously to his mother Ess, who was shaking her head. Her hand seemed to be closed around a small shape hidden in her pocket.

  Gerróc had risen to his feet and was glaring suspiciously at Daolgar.

  “What do you mean ‘helped into the Otherworld,’ Daolgar?” he demanded, his tone tight with some suppressed emotion.

  Daolgar gestured dispassionately.

  “A figure of speech, physician. God has punished Nechtan in his own way with some seizure. A heart attack, or so it appears. That was help enough. And as for whether Nechtan deserved to be so stricken—why, who around this table would doubt it? He has wronged us all.”

  Gerróc shook his head slowly.

  “It was no seizure brought on by the whim of God,” he said quietly. Then he added: “No one should touch any more of the wine.”

  They were all regarding the physician with confusion, trying to comprehend his meaning.

  Gerróc responded to their unarticulated question.

  “Nechtan’s cup was poisoned,” he said. “He has been murdered.”

  After a moment’s silence, Fidelma rose slowly from her place and went to where Nechtan lay. There was a blue tinge to his lips, which were drawn back, revealing discolored gums and teeth. The twisted features of his once cherubic face were enough for her to realize that his brief death agony had been induced in a violent form. She reached toward the fallen goblet. A little wine still lay in its bowl. She dipped her finger in it and sniffed at it suspiciously. There was a bitter-sweet fragrance which she could not identify.

  She gazed up at the physician.

  “Poison, you say?” She did not really need such confirmation.

  He nodded quickly.

  She drew herself up and gazed round at the disconcerted faces of her fellow guests. Bewildered though they were, not one did she see there whose face reflected grief or anguish for the death of the chieftain of the Múscraige.

  Everyone had risen uncertainly to their feet now, not knowing what to do.

  It was Fidelma who spoke first in her quiet, firm tone.

  “As an advocate of the court, I will take charge here. A crime has been committed. Each one in this room has a motive to kill Nechtan.”

  “Including yourself,” pointed out young Dathó immediately. “I object to being questioned by one who might well be the culprit. How do we know that you did not poison his cup?”

  Fidelma raised her eyebrows in surprise at the young man’s accusation. Then she considered it slowly for a moment before nodding in acceptance of the logic.

  “You are quite right, Dathó. I also had a motive. And until we can discover how the poison came to be in this cup, I cannot prove that I did not have the means. Neither, for that matter, can anyone else in this room. For over an hour we have been at this table, each having a clear sight of one another, each drinking the same wine. We should be able to reason out how Nechtan was poisoned.”

  Marbán was nodding rapidly in agreement.

  “I agree. We should heed Sister Fidelma. I am now chieftain of the Múscraige. So I say we should let Fidelma sort this matter out.”

  “You are chieftain unless it can be proved that you killed Nechtan,” interrupted Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra with scorn. “After all, you were seated next to him. You had motive and opportunity.”

  Marbán retorted angrily: ‘I am now chieftain until the assembly says otherwise. And I say that Sister Fidelma also has authority until the assembly says otherwise. I suggest that we resume our places at the table and allow Fidelma to discover by what means Nechtan was poisoned.”

  “I disagree,” snapped Dathó. “If she is the guilty one then she may well attempt to lay the blame on one of us.”

  “Why blame anyone? Nechtan deserved to die!” It was Ess, the former wife of the dead chieftain, who spoke sharply. “Nechtan deserved to die,” she repeated emphatically. “He deserved to die a thousand times over. No one in this room would more gladly see him dispatched to the Otherworld than I. And I would joyfully accept responsibility for the deed if I had done it. Little blame to whoever did this deed. They have rid the world of a vermin, a parasite who has caused much suffering and anguish. We, in this room, should be their witnesses that no crime was committed here, only natural justice. Let the one who did this deed admit to it and we will all support their cause.”

  They all stared cautiously at one another. Certainly none appeared to disagree with Ess’s emotional plea but none appeared willing to confess to the deed.

  Fidelma pursed her lips as she considered the matter under law.

  “In such a case, we would all need to testify to the wrongs enacted by Nechtan. Then the guilty one would go free simply on the payment of Nechtan’s honor price to his family. That would be the sum of fourteen cumal ...”

  Ess’s son, Dathó, interrupted with a bitter laugh.

  “Perhaps some among us do not have a herd of forty-two milk cows to pay in compensation. What then? If compensation is not paid, the law exacts other punishment from the guilty.”

  Marbán now smiled expansively.

  “I would provide that much compensation merely to be rid of Nechtan,” he confessed without embarrassment. With Nechtan’s death, Fidelma noticed, the usually taciturn warrior was suddenly more decisive in manner.

  “Then,” Cuill, the young artist who had so far been silent, leant forward eagerly, “then whoever did this deed, let them speak and admit it, and let us all contribute to exonerating them. I agree with Ess—Nechtan was an evil man who deserved to die.”

  There was a silence while they examined each other’s faces, waiting for someone to admit their guilt.

  “Well?” demanded Daolgar, impatiently, after a while. “Come forward whoever did this and let us resolve the matter and be away from this place.”

  No one spoke.

  It was Fidelma who broke the silence with a low sigh.

  “Since no one will admit this deed ...”

  She did not finish for Marbán interrupted again.

  “Better it was admitted.” His voice was almost cajoling. “Whoever it was, my offer to stand behind them holds. Indeed, I will pay the entire compensation fee.”

  Sister Fidelma saw Ess compressing her lips; her hand slid to the bulge on her thigh, her slender fingers wrapping themselves around the curiously shaped lump which reposed in her pocket. She had began to open her mouth to speak when her son, Dathó, thrust forward.

  “Very well,” he said harshly. “I will admit to the deed. I killed Nechtan, my father. I had more cause to hate him than any of you.”

  There was a loud gasp of astonishment. It was from Ess. She was staring in surprise at her son. Fidelma saw that the others around the table had relaxed at his confession and seemed relieved.

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she gazed directly into the face of the young man.

  “Tell me how you gave him the poison?” she invited in a conversational voice.

  The young man frowned in bewilderment.

  “What matters? I admit the deed.”

  “Admission must be supported by evid
ence,” Fidelma countered softly. “Let us know how you did this.”

  Dathó shrugged indifferently.

  “I put poison into his cup of wine.”

  “What type of poison?”

  Dathó blinked rapidly. He hesitated a moment.

  “Speak up!” prompted Fidelma irritably.

  “Why ... hemlock, of course.”

  Sister Fidelma shifted her gaze to Ess. The woman’s eyes had not left her son since his confession. She had been staring at him with a strained, whitened face.

  “And is that a vial of hemlock which you have in your thigh pocket, Ess?” Fidelma snapped.

  Ess gave a gasp and her hand went immediately to her pocket. She hesitated and then shrugged as if in surrender.

  “What use in denying it?” she asked. “How did you know I had the vial of hemlock?”

  Dathó almost shouted: “No. I asked her to hide it after I had done the deed. It has nothing to do—”

  Fidelma raised a hand and motioned him to silence.

  “Let me see it,” she pressed.

  Ess took a small glass vial from her pocket and placed it on the table. Fidelma reached forward and picked it up. She took out the stopper and sniffed gently at the receptacle.

  “Indeed, it is hemlock,” she confirmed. “But the bottle is full.”

  “My mother did not do this!” cried Dathó angrily. “I did! I admit as much! The guilt is mine!”

  Fidelma shook her head sadly at him.

  “Sit down, Dathó. You are seeking to take the blame on yourself because your mother had a vial of hemlock on her person and you suspect that she killed your father. Is this not so?”

  Dathó’s face drained of color and his shoulders dropped as he slumped back into his seat.

  “Your fidelity is laudable,” went on Fidelma compassionately. “However, I do not think that your mother, Ess, is the murderess. Especially since the vial is still full.”

  Ess was staring blankly at Fidelma. Fidelma responded with a gentle smile.

  “I believe that you came here tonight with the intention of trying to poison your former husband as a matter of vengeance. Dathó saw that you had the vial which you were attempting to hide after the deed was done. I saw the two of you arguing over it. However, you had no opportunity to place the hemlock in Nechtan’s goblet. Importantly, it was not hemlock that killed him.”

  She turned, almost sharply. “Isn’t that so, Gerróc?”

  The elderly physician started and glanced quickly at her before answering.

  “Hemlock, however strong the dose, does not act instantaneously,” he agreed pedantically. “This poison was more virulent than hemlock.” He pointed to the goblet. “You have already noticed the little crystalline deposits, Sister? It is realgar, what is called the ‘powder of the caves,’ used by those creating works of art as a colorant but, taken internally, it is a quick-acting poison.”

  Fidelma nodded slowly as if he were simply confirming what she knew already and then she turned her gaze back to those around the table. However, their eyes were focused on the young artist, Cuill.

  Cuill’s face was suddenly white and pinched.

  “I hated him but I would never take a life,” he stammered. “I uphold the old ways, the sanctity of life, however evil it is.”

  “Yet this poison is used as a tool by artists like yourself,” Mar-ban pointed out. “Who among us would know this other than Gerróc and yourself? Why deny it if you did kill him? Have we not said that we would support one another in this? I have already promised to pay the compensation on behalf of the person who did the deed.”

  “What opportunity had I to put it in Nechtan’s goblet?” demanded Cuill. “You had as much opportunity as I had.”

  Fidelma raised a hand to quell the sudden hubbub of accusation and counter-accusation.

  “Cuill has put his finger on the all-important question,” she said calmly but firmly enough to silence them. They had all risen again and so she instructed: “Be seated.”

  Slowly, almost unwillingly, they obeyed.

  Fidelma stood at the spot in which Nechtan had sat.

  “Let us consider the facts,” she began. “The poison was in the wine goblet. Therefore, it is natural enough to assume that it was in the wine. The wine is contained in that pitcher there.”

  She pointed to where the attendant had left the wine pitcher on a side table.

  “Marbán, call in the attendant, for it was he who filled Nechtan’s goblet.”

  Marbán did so.

  The attendant was a young man named Ciar, a dark-haired and nervous young man. He seemed to have great trouble in speaking when he saw what had happened in the room and he kept clearing his throat nervously.

  “You served the wine this evening, didn’t you, Ciar?” demanded Fidelma.

  The young man nodded briefly. “You all saw me do so,” he confirmed, pointing out the obvious.

  “Where did the wine come from? Was it a special wine?”

  “No. It was bought a week ago from a Gaulish merchant.”

  “And did Nechtan drink the same wine as was served to his guests?”

  “Yes. Everyone drank the same wine.”

  “From the same pitcher?”

  “Yes. Everyone had wine from the same pitcher during the evening,” Ciar confirmed. “Nechtan was the last to ask for more wine from the pitcher and I noticed that it was nearly empty after I filled his goblet. I asked him if I should refill it but he sent me away.”

  Marbán pursed his lips, reflectively.

  “This is true, Fidelma. We were all a witness to that.”

  “But Nechtan was not the last to drink wine from that pitcher,” replied Fidelma. “It was Cuill.”

  Daolgar exclaimed and turned to Cuill.

  “Fidelma is right. After Ciar filled Nechtan’s goblet and left, and while Nechtan was talking to Dathó, Cuill rose from his seat and walked around Nechtan to fill his goblet from the pitcher of wine. We were all concentrating on what Nechtan had to say; no one would have noticed if Cuill had slipped the poison into Nechtan’s goblet. Cuill not only had the motive, but the means and the opportunity.”

  Cuill flushed. “It is a lie!” he responded.

  But Marbán was nodding eagerly in agreement.

  “We have heard that this poison is of the same material as used by artists for coloring their works. Isn’t Cuill an artist? And he hated Nechtan for running off with his wife. Isn’t that motive enough?”

  “There is one flaw to the argument,” Sister Fidelma said quickly.

  “Which is?” demanded Dathó.

  “I was watching Nechtan as he made his curious speech asking forgiveness. But I observed Cuill pass behind Nechtan and he did not interfere with Nechtan’s goblet. He merely helped himself to what remained of the wine from the pitcher, which he then drank, thus confirming, incidentally, that the poison was placed in Nechtan’s goblet and not the wine.”

  Marbán was looking at her without conviction.

  “Give me the pitcher and a new goblet,” instructed Fidelma, irritably.

  When it was done she poured the dregs which remained in the bottom of the pitcher into the goblet and considered them a moment before dipping her finger in them and gently touching her finger with her tongue.

  She smiled complacently at the company.

  “As I have said, the poison is not in the wine,” she reiterated. “The poison was placed in the goblet itself.”

  “Then how was it placed there?” demanded Gerróc in exasperation.

  In the silence that followed, Fidelma turned to the attendant. “I do not think that we need trouble you further, Ciar, but wait outside. We will have need of you later. Do not mention anything of this matter to anyone yet. Is that understood?”

  Ciar cleared his throat noisily.

  “Yes, Sister.” He hesitated. “But what of the Brehon Olcán? He has just arrived. Should I not inform him?”

  Fidelma frowned.

  “Who i
s this judge?”

  Marbán touched her sleeve.

  “Olcán is a friend of Nechtan’s, a chief judge of the Múscraige. Perhaps we should invite him in? After all, it is his right to judge this matter.”

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

  “Was he invited here this night?” she demanded.

  It was Ciar who answered her question.

  “Only after the meal began. Nechtan requested me to have a messenger sent to Olcán. The message was to ask the judge to come here.”

  Fidelma thought rapidly and then said: “Have him wait then but he is not to be told what has happened here until I say so.”

  After Ciar had left she turned back to the expectant faces of her erstwhile meal guests.

  “So we have learnt that the poison was not in the wine but in the goblet. This narrows the field of our suspects.”

  Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra frowned slightly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simply that if the poison was placed in the goblet then it had to be placed there after the time that Nechtan drained one goblet of wine and when he called Ciar to refill his goblet. The poison had to be placed there after the goblet was refilled.”

  Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra leant back in his chair and suddenly laughed hollowly.

  “Then I have the solution. There are only two others in this room who had the opportunity to place the poison in Nechtan’s goblet,” he said smugly.

  “And those are?” Fidelma prompted.

  “Why, either Marbán or Gerróc. They were seated on either side of Nechtan. Easy for them to slip the poison into the goblet which stood before them while we were concentrating on what he had to say.”

  Marbán had flushed angrily but it was the elderly physician, Gerróc, who suffered the strongest reaction.

  “I can prove that it was not I!” he almost sobbed, his voice breaking almost pathetically in indignation.

  Fidelma turned to regard him in curiosity.

  “You can?”

  “Yes, yes. You have said that we all had a reason to hate Nechtan and that implies that we would all therefore wish him dead. That gives every one of us a motive for his murder.”