Peter Tremayne - Whispers of the Dead

“Last month I sent him to see Findach to remind him that the time to deliver the cross was approaching. He returned and told me that Findach had assured him that the cross would be ready at the appropriate time.”

Fidelma, fretting at the delay, had to spend the night at Cluain, and rode back to Droim Sorn the following morning.

She was met by Brehon Tuama, whose face mirrored some degree of excitement.

“It seems that we were both wrong, Sister. The boy, Braon, announced his guilt by attempting to escape.”

Fidelma exhaled sharply in her annoyance.

“The stupid boy! What happened?”

“He climbed out of a window and fled into the forest. He was recaptured early this morning. Odar let loose his hunting dogs after him and it was a wonder that the boy was not ripped apart. We caught him just in time. Odar has now demanded the imprisonment of his father as an accomplice.”

Fidelma stared at the Brehon.

“And you have agreed to this?”

Brehon Tuama spread his hands in resignation.

“What is there to be done? Whatever doubts I had before are now dispelled by the boy’s own admission of guilt. . his attempt to escape.”

“Does it not occur to you that the boy attempted to escape out of fear rather than out of guilt?”

“Fear? What had he to fear if he was innocent?”

“He and his father seemed to fear that, as they are of the class of bothach , looked down on and despised by many of the free clansmen of this place, they would not be treated fairly,” she snapped.

“The law is there so that no one should fear any unjust action. I regret that Odar does not appreciate that fact.”

Brehon Tuama sighed.

“Sadly, the law is merely that which is written on paper. It is human beings who interpret and govern the law, and often human beings are frail creatures full of the seven deadly sins that govern their little lives.”

“Are you telling me the boy is again imprisoned at Odar’s rath and is unhurt?”

“Bruised a little, but unhurt.”

“ Deo gratias! And the father?”

“He has been imprisoned in the barn behind the chief’s house.”

“Then let us go to the chief’s house and have all those involved in this matter summoned. If, after hearing what I have to say you feel that there is a necessity for a formal trial, so be it. But the boy is not guilty.”

Half an hour later they were gathered in Odar’s hall. Along with Odar and his tanist were Brehon Tuama, the boy, Braon, and his father, Brocc, with Findach and Brother Caisín.

Fidelma turned to Brocc first. Her voice was brusque.

“Although you are a bothach, you have worked hard and gathered enough valuables to soon be able to purchase your place as a full and free clansman here. Is that correct?”

Brocc was bewildered by her question, but gave an affirmative jerk of his head.

“You would be able to pay the honor price for the death of Muirenn, the compensation due for her unlawful killing?”

“If my son were judged guilty, yes.”

“Indeed. For everyone knows that your son is under age. The payment of compensation and fines incurred by his action, if found guilty, falls to you.”

“I understand that.”

“Indeed you do. The law is well known.” Fidelma turned to Find-ach. “Am I right in believing that your wife Muirenn was of the social rank of aire-echta, and her honor price was ten séds -that is the worth of ten milch cows?”

“That is no secret,” snapped Findach belligerently.

Fidelma swung ’round to Odar.

“And isn’t that the very sum of money that Findach owed you?”

Odar colored a little.

“What of it? I can lend money to my own kinsman if I wish to.”

“You know that Findach is penniless. If Braon was found guilty, Findach would receive the very sum of money in compensation that he owed to you, perhaps more if the claim of theft to the value of twenty-one séds is proved as well. Would that have any influence on your insisting on the boy’s prosecution?”

Odar rose to his feet, opening his mouth to protest, but Fidelma silenced him before he could speak.

“Sit down!” Fidelma’s voice was sharp. “I speak here as dálaigh and will not be interrupted.”

There was tense silence before she continued.

“This is a sad case. There never was a cross of silver that was stolen, was there, Findach?”

The smith turned abruptly white.

“You are known to be a gambler, often in debt to people such as Odar. . and to your wife’s uncle, the abbot of Cluain. You are also lazy. Instead of pursuing the work you have a talent for, you prefer to borrow or steal so that you may gamble. You were in debt to your wife’s uncle, and when he gave you silver to fashion a cross as a means of repaying him you doubtless sold that silver.

“Having sold the silver, you had no cross to give to the abbey of Cluain. You have not used your forge in days, perhaps weeks. Your furnace was as cold as the grave. And speaking of coldness. . when Braon touched the body of Muirenn to see if he could help, he remarked the body was cold. Muirenn could not have been killed that morning after you left. She had been dead many hours.”

Findach collapsed suddenly on his chair. He slumped forward, head held in his hands.

“Muirenn. .” The word was a piteous groan.

“Why did you kill Muirenn?” pressed Fidelma. “Did she try to stop you from faking the theft of the cross?”

Findach raised his eyes. His expression was pathetic.

“I did not mean to kill her, just silence her nagging. Faking the theft was the only way I could avoid the debts. . I hit her. I sat in the kitchen all night by her body wondering what I should do.”

“And the idea came that you could claim that the silver cross, which you had never made, was stolen by the same person who murdered your wife? You knew that Braon was coming that morning and he was a suitable scapegoat.” She turned to Brehon Tuama. “Res ipsa loquitur,” she muttered, using the Latin to indicate that the facts spoke for themselves.

When Findach had been taken away and Braon and his father released, Brehon Tuama accompanied Fidelma as she led her horse to the start of the Cashel road.

“A bad business,” muttered the Brehon. “We are all at fault here.”

“I think that Odar’s chiefship is worthy of challenge,” agreed Fidelma. “He is not fit to hold that office.”

“Was it luck that made you suspicious of Findach?” queried Tuama, nodding absently.

Sister Fidelma swung up into the saddle of her horse and glanced down at the Brehon with a smile.

“A good judge must never rely on luck in deduction. Findach tried to scatter thorns across the path of our investigation, hoping that the boy or Caisín would pierce their feet on them and be adjudged guilty. He should have remembered the old proverb: He that scatters thorns must not go barefooted.”

By this time tomorrow, thanks be to God, it will be all over for another three years. I have to admit that I am quite exhausted.”

Sister Fidelma smiled at her companion as they walked along the banks of the broad river of Bearbha. Abbot Laisran of Durrow was a portly man, short of stature, with silver hair and a permanent air of jollity about him. He had been born with a rare gift of humor and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. In this he was in contrast with many of his calling. In spite of his statement, he looked far from fatigued.

Fidelma and Laisran paused a while to watch some boys fishing in the river, the abbot watching their casts with a critical eye.

“Was it worth your coming?” he suddenly asked.