Peter Tremayne - Whispers of the Dead

“I can only tell you what I know,” insisted the young man stubbornly.

“That is all that is asked of the innocent.” Fidelma smiled thinly. “Send Brother Torolb to me.”

Torolb was a man about twenty years of age. He was handsome and still in the vigor of youth, though not so young as Enda or Cett. He was dark-eyed and had determined features, an expression as though he would not suffer fools gladly. He wore a short leather apron around his habit.

“Your task is to cook the meat dishes?” she asked. Torolb nodded warily.

“How long have you worked in the kitchens here?”

“Since I came to the abbey at the ‘Age of Choice.’ ”

“Three or four years ago?”

“Four years ago.”

“So you learned your art in this kitchen?”

Torolb smiled thinly. “Part of it. I was raised on a farm and taught to butcher and cook meat when I was young. That was why I specially asked to work in the kitchens.”

Fidelma glanced down at his clothing. “You have blood on your apron,” she observed.

Torolb uttered a short laugh. “You cannot butcher and cut meat without blood.”

“Naturally,” sighed Fidelma. “How well did you know Brother Roilt?”

An expression of displeasure crossed Torolb’s features. “I knew Roilt,” he replied shortly.

“You did not like him?”

“Why should I?”

“He was head cook and you were under his direction. People have feelings about those they work with and an elderly man usually influences the young.”

“Roilt could only influence gullible youths like Enda. Others despised him.”

“Others, like yourself?”

“I do not deny it. I obey the law.”

“The law?” Fidelma frowned.

“The law of God, the Father of Christ Jesus,” replied the young man fiercely. “You will find the law in Leviticus where it says ‘If a man has intercourse with a man as with a woman, they both commit an abomination. They shall be put to death; their blood shall be on their own heads.’ That is what is written.”

Fidelma examined the saturnine young man thoughtfully.

“Is that what you believe?”

“That is what is written.”

“But do you believe it?”

“Surely we must believe the word of the Holy Scripture?”

“And would you go so far as to carry out the word of that Scripture?”

The young man glanced at her, his eyes narrowing suspiciously for a moment. “We are forbidden to take the law into our own hands and to kill. So if you are trying to accuse me of killing Brother Roilt, you are wrong. Yet if those who are given authority under the law had said he should be executed, then I would not have lifted a hand to prevent it.”

Fidelma paused for a moment and then asked: “When you came here as a young novice, did Roilt make any advances toward you?”

Brother Torolb was angry. “How dare you imply-”

“You forget yourself, Brother Torolb!” snapped Fidelma.

“You are talking to a dálaigh, an advocate of the Laws of the Féncchus. I ask questions to discover the truth. Your duty is to answer.”

“I tell you again, I obey the laws of the Faith as given in Scripture. Anyway, you forget one thing in desperately seeking to find the guilty.”

“What is that?”

“The missing fish. If I were called to be God’s instrument to punish Roilt, what reason would I have to steal a fish that I did not want? Or would you like to come and search my cupboards for it?”

Fidelma gazed coldly at him. “That will not be necessary. Tell Brother Manchán to come to me.”

Torolb turned away, his attitude one of barely controlled anger.

Brother Manchán came forward smiling. He was a fleshy, bright-faced young man, scarcely older than Torolb. He gave the impression that he had just stepped from a bath and was freshly scrubbed. His smile seemed a permanent part of his features.

“And you, Brother, I observe, are the baker of this abbey?” Fidelma said in greeting.

Manchán wore a pristine white apron over his habit, yet this had not prevented the fine dust of flour settling over his clothing like powder.

“I have been baker here for two years and was three years assistant baker until the death of poor Brother Tomaltach.”

“So you came here as a young novitiate five years ago?”

Manchán bobbed his head and his smile seemed to broaden. “Even so, Sister.”

“How well did you know Roilt?”

“I knew him well enough, for he was head cook here. Poor Brother Roilt.”

“Why do you say ‘poor’?”

“The manner of his death, what else? Death comes to us all but it should not visit us in such a terrible fashion.” The young baker shuddered and genuflected.

“Any untimely death is terrible,” Fidelma agreed. “Yet I believe that many in this kitchen do not feel grief at this man’s passing.”

Manchán glanced quickly in the direction of Brother Dian, still at the far end of the kitchen.

“I can imagine that some would even feel pleased at it,” he said quickly.

“Pleased?”

“A matter of ambition, Sister,” the young man replied.

“Do you imply that Brother Dian was ambitious to be head cook here?”

“Isn’t that natural? If one is second then it behooves him to strive to be first.”

“I was not particularly thinking about ambition.”

Brother Manchán regarded her for a moment or two and then grimaced. “I suppose you refer to Roilt’s sexual inclinations?”

“What were your views?”

“Each to his own, I say. Quod cibus est aliis est venenum. What is food to some is poison to others.”

“That is laudable, but not a view shared by some of your colleagues.”

“You mean Torolb? Well, pay no attention to his fundamentalism. It is so much baying at the moon. Who knows? It may even be an attempt to hide his own inclinations, even from himself.”

“Yet a man who can wield a knife and slaughter an animal might have no compunction in slaughtering a human being.”

Brother Manchán reflected for a moment.

“Are you really sure that Roilt was killed by one of us? That he was not killed by itinerants determined to feed well on the salmon that disappeared? After all, wasn’t the garden gate open and un-bolted? One of the itinerants must have come in.”

“And you can think of no other explanation?” countered Fidelma.

The young man raised a hand to rub his chin thoughtfully.

“Anything is possible. I agree some did not like Roilt. But I think you are wrong about Torolb. Brother Dian coveted Roilt’s position as head cook and disliked him because he thought himself a better cook.”

Fidelma smiled. “But Brother Dian was at the far end of the kitchen. He would have had to leave his position and walk down the length of the kitchen to where Roilt was cooking his fish. He would have been seen by either yourself or Torolb or, indeed, by Brother Gebhus who was working beside him and would have noticed him leave.”

“But he did come by me. He did leave his position,” pointed out Brother Manchán.

“That was when he went to check whether the fish was ready; when he noticed that the fish and Roilt were missing.” Fidelma frowned as an idea occurred to her. “Did you see Dian pass by?”

Brother Manchán nodded. “I had my head down rolling dough but I was aware that he passed my table.”

“How long was it before he announced that Roilt was missing?”

Brother Manchán thought for a moment.

“I think that some time passed between my being aware of him passing my table and the moment I thought I heard a door bang. That made me look up and go to the corner where I could see without obstruction. I saw Brother Dian standing by the kitchen door. He was looking rather flushed, as from exertion. I asked him what was wrong and that was when he said that the fish was missing and that he could not find Brother Roilt.”