Peter Tremayne - Chalice of Blood

‘And did he return when he said he would?’

‘He came back well after dark, left the horse in the stable and went straight to his cell, locked the door and refused to communicate with anyone. The following day I sent for Lady Eithne. I never saw him alive again.’

‘Did you do anything in response to this curious behaviour, apart from allowing his mother to attempt to reason with him?’

‘On the very morning before we discovered his body, we discussed the best way of dealing with the matter,’ replied the abbot. ‘Rightly or wrongly, I had previously decided that he needed more time to settle back after his momentous journey. But that morning I decided to confront him. I went to his cell with Brother Lugna. When we could not get in, I sent for our blacksmith and he broke down the door. That was when we found him. Murdered.’

‘Let me get this clear.’ Fidelma was thoughtful and spoke quietly. ‘Before he became reclusive, did you discuss with Brother Donnchad any matters that were bothering him?’

‘We had a few discussions immediately after his return butnot since his behaviour became strange and certainly not during the last week.’

‘What were the subjects of the discussions on his return?’

‘Varied. About the sights he had seen in his travels and the gift he brought back. Also about the changes to the abbey, the new building. But he was very preoccupied, as I said. It was as if his heart was not in such matters and his interests lay elsewhere.’

‘So where do you think he went on the day that he left the abbey? Do you think he went to see his mother?’ asked Fidelma.

Brother Lugna shook his head immediately, saying, ‘It was something I asked Lady Eithne but she had not seen him that day or for some time prior. I am afraid that we have no idea where he went on his last journey from the abbey.’

Fidelma sat silently for a few minutes before summing up the facts she had been told.

‘So, in short, what you are telling us is that when Donnchad returned from his pilgrimage, he was troubled by something. He feared that someone would steal the manuscripts he had brought back with him and asked for a lock and key on his door. We hear now that he also feared for his life. His attitude was such that you felt he should be “humoured”, your word, in this matter.’ She glanced at them to emphasise the point. Brother Lugna nodded slightly. The abbot did not meet her eyes. ‘Then he disappeared from the community for an entire day, without permission and without telling anyone where he had been. When he returned, he locked himself in his chamber. Having felt that his behaviour was becoming even more abnormal, Brother Lugna sent for his mother to speak to him but she had no effect. So, finally, you both went to remonstrate with him and found him dead, murdered in his cell, yet the door was locked, and you maintain that it could only have been locked from the inside. Am I right?’

‘Those are the essential details,’ agreed Abbot Iarnla.

Fidelma continued, ‘We will go to examine the cell shortly but you have told me that there was only one key. How do you know it was turned from the inside?’

It was Brother Lugna who answered without hesitation.

‘Because the only key was lying by Brother Donnchad’s body. Therefore it had to have been turned from the inside.’

‘Logical enough,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘But a lot seems to rely on your assertion that there was only one key.’

‘It is no assertion. As I said, our blacksmith was told to make the lock specially and only one key was provided to assure Brother Donnchad of his security.’

‘And these manuscripts that he guarded so diligently, only his mother seems to have glimpsed them.’

‘Lady Eithne says she saw them, so they must have been stolen by whoever killed him,’ asserted the steward firmly.

The abbot said nothing and Fidelma turned to him.

‘You seem uncertain, Abbot Iarnla.’

‘I cannot comment. I never saw the documents.’

‘Do you doubt Lady Eithne’s word?’

‘I would only point out that Lady Eithne admits that she does not know Greek from Hebrew. How can we rely on her word that the manuscripts that she glimpsed were the precious documents that Brother Donnchad claimed they were?’

‘Did anyone else see these valuable manuscripts apart from Lady Eithne?’ Eadulf asked.

‘I imagine that our scriptor , Brother Donnán, would have seen them,’ Brother Lugna replied.

‘Did you question the scriptor about them?’ Fidelma asked. ‘After all, as the head of your scriptorium in this abbey, he should surely have known about such precious manuscripts being brought here.’

‘We have questioned no one,’ replied Brother Lugna, a little sourly, avoiding looking at the abbot. ‘It was felt that such matters should await your arrival.’

‘We will speak with your scriptor ,’ Fidelma said gently. ‘And we will examine Brother Donnchad’s cell. I presume the obsequies have already been conducted?’

‘As you know, it is our tradition to bury the body within twenty-four hours,’ replied the abbot. ‘He was laid to rest in our burial ground just outside the abbey walls, after the day of watching in the usual custom.’

‘But your physician will be able to report on the manner of his death?’

‘He was stabbed in the back,’ stated Brother Lugna. ‘That’s how he died. Surely that is enough.’

‘Just so, but there are details that only an apothecary or physician would notice. I presume your physician examined him?’

‘Naturally.’ Again there was a defensive tone in the steward’s voice. ‘Brother Seachlann is our physician.’

‘Then we will need to see him.’ She rose, as did Eadulf, but the abbot remained seated as if lost in thought. Then he suddenly realised they were leaving and gestured to his steward.

‘Brother Lugna will see to all your needs. However, the hour grows late. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day to begin.’

Fidelma realised that a distant bell was ringing to mark the end of the day’s work, calling those who tilled the fields to return to the abbey and cleanse themselves before the evening meal.

‘You are right, Father Abbot,’ she conceded. ‘It has been a long day.’ She glanced at Brother Lugna. ‘Has our companion, Gormán, been accommodated and our horses seen to?’

‘They have,’ the steward said. ‘And I have asked our bruigad ,our hosteller, to make a chamber ready for you in our tech-óiged , our guesthouse-’

‘Separate chambers,’ interrupted Fidelma softly

‘But I thought …’ Abbot Iarnla frowned and then went on hurriedly to avoid embarrassment, ‘Of course. See to it, Brother Lugna. And perhaps you will join us in the refectorium for the evening meal when you have had your evening bathe.’

‘I have ordered your baths to be made ready,’ added the steward.

Eadulf had felt a little embarrassed when Fidelma ordered separate chambers. But he realised that life could not continue as before and there was much to be sorted out between Fidelma and himself. He said nothing as the hosteller, who identified himself as Brother Máel Eoin, guided them to the wooden building that was the guesthouse. Their chambers were separate but close to one another. A tub of hot water was waiting for him when he entered. Eadulf had long grown used to the custom of Fidelma’s people of taking a daily bath, usually in the evening, in a large tub called a dabach . Guests in any hostel or inn had the baths prepared for them with scented warm water and oils. After guests had washed, combed their hair and put on fresh clothing, they could attend the principal meal of the day, called the prainn , which was taken in the evening.