Maxim Jakubowski - The Best British Mysteries III

On the 29th day of August, he delivered his completed manuscript to his publisher. On the 4th of September, which was Mr Edgerton’s birthday, he was gratified to receive a most delightful communication from his editor, praising him as a genius and promising that this novel, long anticipated and at last delivered, would place Mr Edgerton in the pantheon of literary greats and assure him of a most comfortable and well-regarded old age.

That night, as Mr Edgerton prepared to drift off into contented sleep, he felt a tug at his wrist and looked down to see the inkpot monkey fastened upon it, its cheeks pulsing as it sucked away at the cut. Tomorrow, thought Mr Edgerton, tomorrow I will deal with it. Tomorrow I will have it taken to the zoo and our bargain will be concluded for ever. But as he grew weaker and his eyes closed, the inkpot monkey raised its head and Mr Edgerton realized at last that no zoo would ever take the inkpot monkey, for the inkpot monkey had become something very different indeed…

Mr Edgerton’s book was published the following year, to universal acclaim. A reception was held in his honour by his grateful publishers, to which the brightest lights of London’s literary community flocked to pay tribute. It would be Mr Edgerton’s final public appearance. From that day forth, he was never again seen in London and retired to the small country estate that he purchased with the royalties from his great, valedictory work. Even his previous sentimentality appeared to be in the past, for his beloved charm bracelet could now be found in the window of a small antique shop in Covent Garden where, due to some imaginative pricing, it seemed destined to remain.

That night, speeches were made, and an indifferent poem recited by one of Mr Edgerton’s new admirers, but the great man himself remained silent throughout. When called upon to give his speech, he replied simply with a small but polite bow to his guests, accepting their applause with a gracious smile, then returned to toying with the small gold monkey that hung from a chain around his neck.

And while all those around him drank the finest champagne and feasted on stuffed quail and smoked salmon, Mr Edgerton could be found sitting quietly in a corner, stroking some unruly hairs on his chest and munching contentedly on a single ripe banana.

For three days the Banshee had been heard wailing outside his door at night. It was no surprise when his body was discovered. His time had come.

Sister Fidelma gazed at Brother Abán with surprise.

The elderly monk was sitting slightly forward on his chair, shivering a little although the day was not cold. His thin mouth trembled slightly; a fleck of spittle from one corner caught on the greying stubble of his unshaven chin. His pale eyes stood out in a bony, almost skeletal head over which the skin was stretched taut and parchment-like.

‘He was fated to die,’ repeated the old man, almost petulantly. ‘You cannot deny the summons of the death wail.’

Fidelma realised that the old man was troubled and he spoke with deadly seriousness. ‘Who heard this wailing?’ she asked, trying to hide her natural scepticism.

The old man shivered. ‘Glass, the miller, whose house is not far away. And Bláth has confirmed that she was disturbed by the sounds.’

Fidelma pursed her lips and expelled a little air through them in an almost soundless whistle. ‘I will speak with them later. Tell me what you know about this matter, Brother Abán. Just those facts that are known to you.’

The early religieux sighed as if suppressing irritation. ‘I thought that you knew them. Surely my message was clear?’

‘I was told that a man had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. The messenger requested that the Chief Brehon of Cashel send a dálaigh, an officer of the court, to come and ascertain those circumstances. That is all I know so far, except that this man was named Ernán, that he was a farmer, and that he was found dead on the doorstep of his house with a jagged wound in his throat.’

Fidelma spoke without irritation but precisely.

Brother Abán was suddenly defensive. ‘This is a peaceful spot. We are just a small farming community here by the banks of the Siúr River. Even nature bestows her blessings on us and that is why we call this place “The Field of Honey”. Nothing like this has ever happened before.’

‘It would help if I knew exactly what has happened,’ murmured Fidelma. ‘So, tell me what you know.’

‘I am the only religious in this community,’ went on Brother Abán, as if ignoring her request. ‘I have been here forty years, tending to the spiritual needs of this little community. Never before…’

He fell silent a moment and Fidelma was forced to control her impatience and wait until the old man was ready to begin. ‘The facts?’ he suddenly asked, his bright eyes upon her. ‘These are the facts. Yesterday morning I was at my morning prayers when Bláth came to my threshold, crying in a loud voice that Ernán had been found just outside the door of his house with his throat torn out. I went to his house and found this to be true. I then sent to Cashel for a dálaigh.’

‘What was so suspicious about the circumstances that you needed to do so?’

Brother Abán nervously rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Bláth told me…’

Fidelma held up a hand. ‘First, tell me exactly who Ernán was.’

‘Ernán was a young farmer who worked the lower fields along the riverbank. A handsome young man, married and without an enemy in the world. I knew his parents before they died. Good Christians leading blameless lives.’

‘And Bláth? Was she his wife?’

Brother Abán shook his head. ‘Ernán’s wife was Blinne. Bláth is her sister. She lived with them. She helps about the farm. A good girl. She comes to sing the psalms in the chapel each week.’

‘And where was Blinne at this time?’

‘Distraught. Beside herself with grief. She loved her husband very much.’

‘I see. And Bláth told you…what?’

‘Bláth said that she had been awoken each of the last three nights hearing a terrible wailing outside the farmhouse.’

‘Did she investigate the cause of this sound?’

The old monk laughed sarcastically. ‘This is a rural community. We live close to nature here. You do not go to investigate the wailing of a Banshee.’

‘Surely the new Faith has taught us not to be fearful of Otherworld creatures? As a Christian, do you really accept that there is a woman of the hills, a wraith, who comes to the threshold of a person about to die and then wails and laments in the middle of the night?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘As a Christian, I must. Do not the Holy Scriptures talk of spirits and ghosts who serve both God and Satan? Who knows which the woman of the hills serves? In the old days, it was said that the Banshee was a goddess who cared for a specific noble family and when their time came to be reborn in the Otherworld, the spirit would cry to announce their impending death in this world.’

‘I know the folklore,’ Fidelma said quietly.

‘It is not to be dismissed,’ Brother Abán assured her earnestly. ‘When I was a small boy I heard a story from a neighbour. It seems that the time had come for his father, an old man, to pass on. A plaintive wailing was heard within the vicinity of their dwelling. The son went out the next morning and found a strange comb, which he picked up and took into the house. The following night the wailing returned but this time the doors and windows rattled as if someone was trying to get in.

‘Realising it was the Banshee, the man placed the comb in a pair of tongs and held it out the window. Unseen hands seized the comb, and the tongs were twisted and bent out of recognition. Had he handed the comb out through the window, his arm would have been wrenched off. This is the power of the Banshee.’