Mara watched the dog tolerantly. There was always a hope, she thought, that Dullahán was a late developer and that he would turn into a reasonable dog who could manage to walk quietly and to bark only when strangers arrived. At the moment, though, honesty forced her to admit, that there was little chance that he was ever going to be of the slightest use, other than to keep Cormac and his friends amused and to reduce gardeners like herself and farmers like Cumhal to a state of near apoplexy. Still, she had other more serious matters on her mind so she walked away and began to consider the problem of Fernandez. The thing is, she thought, I know so little about him, other than the fact that his father was in all probability the brother of the present taoiseach. Other young men of the neighbourhood she had seen grow up, had watched them turn from engaging boys into troublesome adolescents and then mature into adults. Fernandez had arrived fully made, so as to speak, full of charm and self-assurance. But what was he like in reality, what were his hopes, his inner dreams and his ambitions? A man who could use some gold treasure, according to Michelóg, and Mara had to acknowledge that there was a lot of truth in that. Fernandez, she thought, was a man full of ideas and such men are ambitious – and ambitions such as his had to be financed.
So, she thought to herself, make the case, as she would tell her scholars to do.
The case against Fernandez was that he could have been roused by the early midsummer dawn, could have got out of his bed in the castle, seen only by Etain who would certainly have been devoted to his interests. He could have slid past the door leading to the great hall where the scholars slept, could have noiselessly opened the unlocked front door, then could have climbed the mountain to see what Niall Martin was up to. And then, by a piece of luck, he may have seen the old man, finally on the right track, whether by the chance remark of a Greek sailor, or whether by sheer luck, but whatever it was, Niall Martin may have uncovered the treasure trove, enjoyed his triumph for a few minutes, holding up a necklet to the morning sun, perhaps, then was attacked by a determined young man. What did he hit him with – well, Mara guessed the answer to that. Standing just inside the door of the castle there was a bundle of sticks, stout ashplants, useful for climbing mountains, and perhaps lethal if brought down on the head of an old man. Mara shook her head. She had made her case and it was a good one, if – and she did not know the answer to this ‘if’ – if Fernandez O’Connor was ruthless and evil and would take a life to get his hands on some gold. Somehow, her instinct seemed to tell her that he was not like that, but the possibility lay there.
And at that moment there was an excited scream from Cormac. She had been aware during her musing that the boys were still chasing after Dullahán the Wild, endeavouring to block him as he dodged between outstretched arms. He had fortunately stopped that ear-splitting barking and seemed to be getting enough amusement from eluding his pursuers.
‘Dullahán, sit!’ yelled Cormac.
‘Dullahán, give!’ tried Art.
‘Dullahán, come!’ The commands filled the air and several seagulls drifted overhead to see what was happening, associating a lot of shouting with the landing of a catch of fish, perhaps. The women tending the fires and packing away the smoked mackerel stopped their work to stand and laugh at the scene.
‘That wretched dog’s got something in his mouth,’ said Cael, appearing by her side. She sounded elderly and disdainful.
‘Probably a dead and very stinking fish,’ said Mara with resignation, thinking that at least the dog could be led into the sea afterwards.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Cael. ‘I can see what it is now. He has one of our maps. It’s a leaf of vellum. Dullahán,’ she yelled crossly, ‘give that to me.’
Whether it was because Dullahán bowed to the note of irritated authority or whether he had got tired of running around the beach, but he came up to Cael with his long, whip-like tail wagging and sat down, panting heavily and allowing her to take the partially-chewed piece of vellum from his slobbery mouth.
‘Y … y … yuck!’ Cael dropped it on the sand and dipped her fingers into a convenient rock pool.
‘That’s a piece of vellum that he had,’ shouted Cormac, running up. ‘Perhaps it’s a clue. Don’t throw it down, birdbrain. He’ll take it again.’
‘Is it your map, Cormac?’ asked Mara, though she thought that the leaf looked too small for that.
‘No,’ said Cormac picking it up and frowning at it. ‘That’s not our map. It is a map of Fanore beach, but look it’s got strange signs on it. No …’ he said, his voice high and excited, ‘no, not signs!’ Suddenly he stopped. And then he turned to where the two older boys were talking and he yelled out: ‘Domhnall, come here. Come quickly. Come and look at this.’
‘What? What’s all the excitement about?’ Domhnall was smiling, though Slevin looked rather irritated by the interruption. His eyes widened though when he saw the piece of vellum that Cormac was holding up.
‘That’s a Greek letter, a word in Greek. They’re Greek letters, aren’t they, Domhnall,’ he said. He took the leaf from Cormac and held it out towards Domhnall. This was too much for the wolfhound, which snatched it neatly from him and set off, ears flying behind him, racing towards the sea with the vellum held firmly in his mouth.
‘Cormac,’ yelled Domhnall. ‘Get it from him quickly. This could be important. That was definitely Greek, wasn’t it, Brehon? Could you read it?’
‘I think,’ said Mara slowly, ‘that I might have seen the word “gold”. Of course, it might be my imagination, but I don’t think so. It definitely started with the X – oh that wretched dog. Cormac, get him back.’
Cormac was running at full tilt and Cian was aiding him as much as he could, trying to corner the enormous dog which twisted and turned and leaped over rocks. Art and Finbar joined in, though in a slightly half-hearted fashion of those who felt that this was not going to end in success. There had been many a chase after Dullahán back at the law school when he had got hold of a hurley ball, a sandal or even a leather satchel. Whether the sketched map would ever be readable again was another matter. Each time that one of his pursuers approached Dullahán he seemed to pull some more of the vellum into his mouth until now only a small edge of it dangled from his teeth.
‘Dullahán, come,’ shouted Mara in a voice which she had never used to her beloved Bran, but Dullahán had a different nature to Bran and her intervention seemed to spur him on to new levels of complete disobedience. He dodged Art’s outstretched arm, flew past Finbar and plunged into the sea, his long legs moving effortlessly through the water. Cormac went after him, but in a moment Dullahán was swimming fast, heading out to sea. Then Cormac stopped and stood very still, and despite her fury, Mara shared his anxiety for a moment. It would break Cormac’s heart if anything happened to his unruly pet.
However, Dullahán, once he had outdistanced his playmates, had turned and began swimming strongly towards the rocks. The tide was now almost full and the water lapped on the edge of the pier. Dullahán placed one paw on a rock and then a second and heaved his streaming hindquarters out of the sea and onto the pier. He shook himself violently two or three times and then ran back towards the beach, prancing up to his master with the expression of angelic obedience on his hairy wet face. Mara strode grimly down to the water’s edge and stood waiting while boy and dog did a little dance of joy. One glance had been enough.
‘He’s dropped it somewhere in the sea,’ she said and wondered whether there was anything in Brehon laws about the punishment due to disobedient dogs. However, it was, she knew, her own fault. A large dog like a wolfhound should have been trained from the moment it came into her house and Cormac had been too young really to train a dog. She should have taken matters into her own hands. And yet, that wouldn’t have worked. If she had trained the dog, then it would no longer be Cormac’s dog and the whole point of getting him something to make him feel special and very loved, of making him feel that his birth parents, whom he normally referred to as ‘Brehon’ and
‘the King’, wanted to buy him something precious, would then have been completely lost. She sighed and took a hold on her temper.
‘Never mind, Cormac,’ she said. ‘You did your best. And I did see the Greek word on it and taken with the fact that Niall Martin was probably talking with a Greek sailor on the day before his murder I think that Dullahán’s find was really quite significant, and who knows,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful, ‘when the tide goes out we just might find it again. It would be a good idea to come down to the beach tomorrow morning very early, as near to daybreak as possible, at dead tide, and have a look.’
She wasn’t sure whether the writing would survive a twenty-four-hour immersion in the salty sea. If it had been written with carbon ink the vellum would be wiped completely clean, but if it was iron-gall ink, then there might be a chance. In the meantime, however, there was something that needed to be done.
‘Domhnall and Slevin,’ she said, ‘I wonder could I ask you to ride to Galway for me. I want a letter delivered to the Mayor, to Valentine Blake. You should stay overnight in your father’s house, Domhnall. I’m sure that he and your mother will be delighted to have the two of you. Come up to the castle with me now and I’ll write the letter and seal it and give it to you.’
They left Cormac lovingly rubbing his pet’s wiry coat with the hem of his léine and went up towards the castle. Fernandez was coming down to meet them and Mara explained the matter about the map to him. He was highly amused and offered to ride to Galway himself, but Mara refused the offer.
A letter, she thought, could be unsealed, and then resealed, by someone with a candle and plenty of patience. And she had in her mind to ask Valentine to check up on some matters other than the question about whether the Greek ship was still moored in Galway’s docks, and whether the sailor who ate the pie with Niall Martin could be traced.
There were some other questions that she had for Valentine Blake – simple questions, but of vital importance to her quest for the truth in the matter of this death that she was investigating.
Did Etain deliver the samphire on that Monday when she was at Joan Blake’s shop, or did someone else, her brother Brendan, come back with it?
Who delivered the next lot of samphire on the morning after the death of Niall Martin?
And had Fernandez O’Connor ever appeared in the company of Niall Martin, the goldsmith?
‘You see,’ she said, looking intently up into the intelligent faces of her two oldest scholars, ‘I suppose it would be a good solution if this Greek sailor had in some way heard of the finds here in Fanore, had drawn a map, had inveigled Niall Martin to come with him, had rowed or sailed the boat over to Fanore, but you know,’ she said, impatiently putting her pen down onto the tray, ‘it really does not make sense to me. What do you think?’
‘I’m a bit doubtful, myself. Well, first of all the Greek sailor would not have easily found a small boat to take him here to Fanore. And this coast is very tricky. It’s hard enough for the fishing boats to land here; they have to wait for high tide. And then there are terrible rocks stretching under the sea at Black Head, just before you come down the coast to Fanore. I can’t see a stranger able to take a small boat past them safely unless he had a very good guide.’ Slevin made the point but then looked at his friend.
‘What I was thinking, Brehon,’ said Domhnall slowly, ‘as well as Slevin’s points about the difficulties of the boat, is that no Greek sailor would have knowledge of our Brehon law. They would not know about fingal, about casting a man afloat in a boat with no oars. They would not know how to set up an appearance like that, to simulate death by thirst with this business of pulling the tongue out deliberately. That was all done to present a certain image, to put a certain idea into your head, to distract you from the real story about a gold merchant who came here to find a hidden treasure, something that, I would think, many people here knew. Why did they think that he came otherwise? No one would look for shellfish up by the Caher River. I think that Niall Martin was murdered because he found the gold and I think that he was murdered by someone here at Fanore.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Mara.
‘So the sooner we get going the sooner we will return,’ said Domhnall, rising to his feet. ‘We could easily come and go on the same day, Brehon, if you wish.’
No, no,’ said Mara firmly. ‘Stay overnight with your father.’
Slevin was inclined, she saw, to argue, but Domhnall gave her a nod of comprehension, touched Slevin’s arm and drew him towards the door, leaving Mara ruefully aware that this young grandson of hers could already read her like a book. It was her use of the words ‘Stay with your father’ which had betrayed her purpose. Oisín, she knew, as did his son, was a man who always knew what was going on in Galway, who always picked up the latest gossip, knew everyone’s affairs almost as well as his own. Oisín would know if there had been any rumours about someone being involved with Niall Martin, he would know how to talk to the sellers at the fish market and find out who was ferrying the old man to and fro on his ceaseless quest after the gold of Fanore.
‘Yes, you will know what to do and what questions to ask,’ she said with a nod at Domhnall.
And then she went back out of the castle and down onto the beach. It was, she reckoned from the sun, about an hour before noon. The tide had already turned; a long curving line of cream-bubbled foam across the top of the beach and then a few feet of very wet sand showed that the fast ebb had begun. This was the best time for boats to go out and Brendan’s splendid Galway hooker was among those. Etain was in it, but Brendan, Mara noticed, was standing on the pier, shouting detailed instructions and watching with anxiety as his sister manoeuvred the boat. Mara was not close enough to hear what he said, but she saw how he went right out as far as he possibly could on the line of rocks that formed the north side of the bay and how some of the other fishermen, catching his anxiety, made signs also to Etain, who was now hoisting a large brown sail to catch the freshening south wind. How would she manage without these instructions when she came to Galway City docks, Mara wondered. Perhaps it would be an easier task for the girl to land at Galway docks where she could follow in the wake of the other boats. And then something else occurred to her so she went in search of Art who was obediently helping Cormac to train Dullahán by handing him a sandal, allowing him to take it in his mouth and then commanding him to give it back. Dullahán had on his face the bored look of a dog who knew a much better game and despite herself Mara’s lips twitched. She hastened to commend the effort, however, and Cormac looked pleased, though he said with gusty sigh: ‘I just cannot believe that we had this perfect clue and now we’ve gone and lost it.’
‘Never mind,’ said Mara consolingly. ‘There might be a chance that you will be able to find it at low tide tomorrow morning. You’ll have to search the beach very thoroughly.’
‘We can take Dullahán now that he is trained and that will be a help,’ said Cormac with the optimism of youth and Mara suppressed the first words that came into her head and said hurriedly, ‘Did you see Etain take out that big boat of Brendan’s, Art? How did you think she was doing?’
‘Pretty well,’ said Art judiciously. ‘I think that’s the first time that she’s taken the hooker – she did well.’
‘The first time!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘But how does she go to Galway then – I know she goes sometimes.’
‘She takes their old boat,’ said Art, who knew all about the fishing community here. ‘If she does the morning run, then Brendan does the afternoon run and they come back together – they can tow the old boat so that’s no trouble. She just wanted to take the hooker because she’s late today and once the wind is behind it, it goes like a bird with those big sails.’
‘Where do they keep the little old boat, then?’ asked Mara. The pier was now completely empty and the very blue sea was dotted with boats of various sizes, though none of them as big as Brendan’s splendid hooker. There was a fresh wind that whipped white caps from the
rolling waves and most boats, big and small, had now hoisted sail and were moving rapidly out into the ocean. Brendan had gone back now and was engaged in laborious work of pulling the samphire from the rock pools and placing the plants in the loosely-woven willow baskets. She cast a look behind her, but there was no boat pulled up on the beach.
‘She leaves it moored over in that little bay behind the rocks, just up by that old house, Murrough’s place,’ said Art knowledgeably.
‘Murrough’s place?’
‘Yes,’ said Art. ‘That was the name of Michelóg’s grandfather; you know that old house, Brehon, don’t you?’
‘Wish we could find another clue,’ put in Cormac, not seeming to take much interest in this discussion about boats. ‘Just like the one that you lost, birdbrain,’ he said affectionately to his pet, rocking the great hairy head from side to side. He looked with a certain amount of unease at Mara and then back at Art. Mara was conscious of the looks that passed between them, but her brain was very busy, very intent and she allowed the pictures to flow through her mind, seeing each one as it formed itself.
Condemned to Death Page 19
