Peter Tremayne - Whispers of the Dead

When they had gone, Fidelma turned to her companions.

“This case intrigues me.”

The chief of the Tuatha Cromadh made a sound like a cynical chuckle.

“You surely don’t believe the man, do you? Because he has an abrasion on the side of his head does not prove his ridiculous story.”

“Did I say that it did prove his story? What I believe is not relevant to the matter. I know that this matter cannot be left as it is. Either there is something that motivates this man to come with his stories to you, something which is substantial, or it is something that is due to a dementia. Either way, one should investigate so that the good of the people may be safeguarded. I would like you, Díomsach, to keep Febrat in your custody while I will ride out to Febrat’s farm-stead and speak to his wife, Cara. And I shall take your chief warrior, Fallach, as escort in case of trouble.”

“I can tell you this, Fidelma of Cashel, there has been no Uí Fidgente raid,” Conrí announced belligerently.

Fidelma returned his sour look with a bright smile.

“I am sure that had such a raid taken place you, as an Uí Fidgente chieftain, would have the honesty to admit it,” she said softly.

Conrí’s jaws snapped shut for a moment.

“I can give you this assurance, lady, that if there had been a raid, word of it would have come to my ear,” he said stiffly.

“Excellent.” Fidelma rose and looked across to where Brother Colla, the scriptor, was still working away.

“You may say that this court has ceased its hearing sine die while I investigate the matter of Febrat.”

“You are not going before the feasting?” demanded Díomsach in dismay.

“I think this matter demands my immediate attention. But I shall return, hopefully before evening, to enjoy your feasting.”

Díomsach’s face fell for he had been expecting to start the feasting and entertainment within that very hour and now the laws of hospitality would prevent him starting before his chief guest, the sister of the king, was ready to join him.

Febrat’s farmstead stood in lush fields by the river of the plain, the Maigue, about an hour’s ride from Díomsach’s fortress. The nearest hills were a mile or two to the south and east.

Fallach, riding at Fidelma’s side, stretched out a hand to indicate the group of buildings sheltering behind a small copse of oaks and yew.

“There is Febrat’s farm, lady.”

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as they rode nearer. There came to her ears the sound of some cows in distress, a bellowing which she was able to interpret immediately.

“It sounds as though the cows have not been milked,” Fallach announced, interpreting the sound as she had but before she could articulate it.

They rode into the yard and looked ’round. Sure enough, two cows were bellowing in plaintive tones in a nearby paddock. Chickens ignored them and continued pecking their haphazard way around the yard. Other animals meandered here and there: a few sheep, several goats. Apart from that the place seemed deserted.

Fidelma dismounted and stood looking around.

Fallach had also slid from his horse, and tied their horses to the rail before striding forward to the house, shouting loudly for the wife of Febrat. There was no respond.

“Shall we search inside, lady?” he asked.

Fidelma sighed deeply.

“Our first duty is to put those animals out of their misery,” indicating the two cows. “Find buckets. You take one and I will take the other.”

Fallach looked shocked.

“But lady, I am a warrior. .”

“I am sure the poor beasts will overlook that fact as they will overlook the fact that I am a dálaigh and sister to the king,” she replied with a smile of sarcasm.

He flushed and turned to search for buckets.

A while later when the lowing of the cows had ceased and the buckets were almost full, Fidelma and Fallach stood up and moved the milk into the cool of the farmhouse.

“Well, it is clear that no one is here,” Fallach announced, peering around.

“We will search. You try the outbuildings and also watch out for any sign that a raid might have taken place. I will look inside.”

Fallach frowned.

“You do not think that this time Febrat is right. .?”

“The time to think about conclusions is after we have found some facts,” she replied, and went inside.

Febrat and Cara certainly kept a tidy house. Not just tidy but Fidelma found that, surprisingly for a farmer, there were several rich artifacts adorning the place and tapestries of good quality hanging from some of the walls and on the bed. She examined them with interest.

She frowned suddenly. The tapestry on the bed covered it neatly. She swung ’round. Certainly everything in the farmhouse was neat and placed in order. Her eyes dropped to a piece of woven rug by the bedside. Again she was slightly surprised for this was a sign of wealth and quality of living. Most farm folk did not concern themselves with floor coverings, even those of better standards would simply have bare boards on the floor while the great majority made do with earthen floors, trodden hard into an almost marble-like surface by the stamp of generations of feet upon it. But Febrat and Cara obviously liked to live well or were used to living well. This thought caused something to stir in her mind, something that was not quite right. It was the fact that Febrat had been described as an itinerant laborer. The thoughts went through her mind quickly as she glanced at the bedside rug, a sheepskin.

Then her eyes narrowed. There appeared to be a discolored patch on the rug.

She stooped down and placed her hand on it. It was damp. She sniffed at her fingertips but there was no odor. It seemed that only water had been spilt on it. But water would have dried long before Febrat had completed his journey to her court that morning.

She picked up the rug and moved to the door. As she did so the sunlight shot through the clouds. It caught on the sheepskin that she was holding; on the creamy white of the wool. Something caught her eye among the patch of white woolen threads. It was a few dark spots, which had been missed by the water.

She licked her fingertip and rubbed. A tinge of red remained on her fingers. The spots had been dried blood.

She stared at her fingers for a time before returning the sheepskin, and turning to the cupboards and examining the contents. She noticed that Cara had a large wardrobe compared with the average farmer’s wife and she found a box of personal items of jewelery. Cara was obviously someone who believed in personal adornment. And the jewels were valuable.

She went outside to join Fallach.

“Did you find anything?” she asked as he came out of a barn door.

He shook his head.

“Nothing. There are no signs of violence or destruction. I am afraid that Febrat has let his imagination run wild again.”

“But what of the missing wife, Cara?” Fidelma pointed out. Fallach shrugged.

“Maybe she has gone to visit friends or relatives.”

“Again?”

Fallach looked puzzled at her inflection.

Fidelma did not answer his questioning glance but began to walk across the farmyard to the barn, when she suddenly bent down and picked up a branch.

“What tree would you say that came from?”

Fallach barely glanced at it.

“It’s an alder, of course.”

Fidelma gazed around at the trees surrounding them. Oaks and yew but there was no sign of an alder. She dropped the branch and continued to the barn. Inside was a cart, the usual type of cart found on a farm, which could be pulled by a single ass. Its large wheels were still damp with drying mud. On the cart was a large metal bladed spade, a ráma for digging earth. The blade had similar wet mud on it.