Peter Tremayne - Whispers of the Dead

She glanced ’round the interior of the barn. There seemed nothing out of place. Certainly no sign of anything that could be interpreted as an indication of an attack or violence. Her eye caught sight of a wooden chest in a corner. Part of its exterior had drying mud clinging to it and the muddy imprint of a hand. The chest was fastened with an iron lock and there was no key in it or sight of a key. She turned to Fallach.

“Find a hammer and open that,” she instructed.

Fallach whistled in surprise.

“But, lady. .”

“I take responsibility.”

He paused only a moment more and then did as he was told.

Inside the chest was a small hand pick, and wrapped in sacking a large number of what seemed to be lumps of metal. Fallach looked puzzled and reached in to pick one up.

“Silver!” he whispered. “Great nuggets of silver.”

“And excavated recently,” said Fidelma, bending down and pointing to the bright marks on the nuggets and the marks on the hand pick.

“I know there are places to the north-east of here, mountains where those who mine lead and other metals say that veins of silver are to be seen. But these are nuggets. Rich ones.”

Fidelma rose to her feet.

“Replace them and let us continue with our task. If, as you say, Febrat’s wife was staying with friends or relatives, exactly who would she have gone to visit?”

Fallach grimaced as he replaced the lid of the box.

“You mean near here?”

“Near here will do to start with,” affirmed Fidelma patiently.

“Well, Cara’s mother, the lady Donn Dige, lives half-an-hour’s ride in that direction,” he pointed to the south.

Fidelma’s eyes widened a fraction at the name.

“Donn Dige? Isn’t she. .?”

“She was sister to a prince of the Eóghanacht Áine,” confirmed Fallach. “Her brother was killed at the battle of Cnoc Áine just two years ago.”

Fidelma sighed. So that explained the comparative wealth displayed in the farmhouse. Cara was not the average farmer’s wife but the daughter of a princely ruling house.

“Someone should have explained that to me,” she muttered almost petulantly.

“Does it matter?” inquired Fallach innocently. “It does not bear on the fact that Febrat is mad.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” agreed Fidelma. She glanced at the cart again. “Those wheels have been through a lot of mud. Let’s see if we can pick up the trail of its last journey.”

Fallach looked at her curiously.

“Why would you want to do that? The cart is just a normal farm cart. I have often seen Febrat driving it. It has nothing to do with any imagined Uí Fidgente raid.”

“Indulge me, Fallach,” said Fidelma, mounting her horse.

They rode out of the farmyard, eyes on the ground seeking the tracks of the cart. To Fidelma’s surprise they found no tracks at all. Some instinct told her to circle to the north, following a stony track. They had to go some distance from the farm buildings before they found traces of the almost obscured tracks. They moved down a narrow path through fields of cereal crops and then cut across a plowed field and then over coarse uncultivated land. It began to be very stony. She suddenly paused and saw several newly cut branches of alder lying discarded on the rocky soil. She slid from her horse and examined them. Sections of the branches about ten or fifteen feet in length had been cut, spreading out their twigs and leaves like a broom. She peered around and, to Fallach’s surprise, spent some time peering at the stony ground.

“We seem some way from an alder wood,” she observed. “And these branches appear to have been dragged here.”

Fallach did not reply, as he had no idea what to answer.

“If I am not mistaken, that is Uí Fidgente territory,” Fidelma said, pointing to the north as she remounted her horse. “I presume that Faramund’s farmstead lies in that direction?”

“It does. He is a good man, even though he is one of the Uí Fidgente. Even Febrat’s wife Cara told us that he was a good neighbor. Febrat confirmed that before he became sure that Faramund was leading these imaginary raids, he and his wife often invited him over to feast with them.”

Fidelma nodded.

“You found him reasonable enough when you questioned him with Díomsach? You discovered no threat from him?”

“None.”

Fidelma halted and looked back toward the southern hills.

“I have changed my mind,” she said. “Let us go and see if Cara is at the home of her mother.”

“The homestead of the lady Donn Dige?” Fallach was surprised but he shrugged and turned his horse in that direction.

The house of Donn Dige was a small fortified building, which spoke of the wealth that the sister of a petty-king would have. There were a few men working in neighboring fields. It was a far richer farmstead than the house of Febrat and his wife.

A short, almost muscular woman awaited them at the entrance. She had graying hair and coarse features and watched them suspiciously.

“Good day, Doireann,” called Fallach as they approached. “Is the lady Donn Dige at home?”

The woman’s narrowed eyes continued to rest on Sister Fidelma.

“Who wants to know?” she said ungraciously.

Fallach glanced in embarrassment at his companion and was about to open his mouth when Fidelma intervened.

“Tell her that it is Fidelma of Cashel who wants to know,” she snapped. “And if she hesitates to welcome the sister of the King of Muman, tell her, it is a dálaigh of the courts that seeks her out, and be quick, woman.”

The woman called Doireann blinked for a moment and then, with deliberate slowness, she turned and made her way into the house while Fallach and Fidelma dismounted in the courtyard and hitched their horses to a rail erected for that purpose. By the time they had done this, the woman had reappeared and waved them forward into the building.

Donn Dige received them. She was a dignified and elderly woman, whose rank showed in her stature and clothing. Had she stood, she would have been tall. Fidelma noticed the crutch at her side. The elderly woman saw the glance and smiled ruefully.

“A riding accident, so you will forgive my inability to rise to greet you. Alas, it also confines me to the house.”

The greetings were pleasant and in contrast with the curtness of her servant, Doireann. Refreshments were offered and accepted.

“What can I do for you, Fidelma of Cashel?” Donn Dige said, after the rituals had been observed.

“Let me begin by asking whether your daughter, Cara, is staying with you?”

The elderly woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I have not seen my daughter this last month. Why do you ask?”

Fidelma hid her surprise.

“Not for a month?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Her husband has reported her missing and claims his farm was raided by the Uí Fidgente.”

Donn Dige compressed her mouth for a moment.

“Again? Is this the same claim that he made last week?”

“It is a claim he made this morning,” intervened Fallach.

“If you have not seen your daughter, Cara, for a month how do you know about the previous claims?” pressed Fidelma.

“Simple enough. Doireann is my messenger and news-bringer.”

“Though it is surely a short ride from Febrat’s farmstead to here,” Fidelma reflected, “which makes me wonder why your daughter has not visited you this last month.”

Donne Dige smiled, perhaps a little sadly.

“My daughter has her own worries and she will come in her own good time. Doireann tells me that she has been greatly worried about Febrat.”

“In what way?” demanded Fidelma.

“What way would anyone be worried when one’s partner starts to claim that events are happening when one knows that they are not?”