Peter Tremayne - Whispers of the Dead

“This is Muirgel,” Lígach said quickly.

The young woman regarded them curiously. She seemed almost a somnambulist. It was as if she was not quite cognizant of her surroundings.

“Muirgel, this is Abbot Laisran and Sister. . Sister. .?”

“Fidelma,” supplied Laisran, bending down to the body.

Fidelma glanced down. The man whose body lay there had been a big, broad-shouldered man with a shock of red curling hair and a beard that covered most of his barrel chest. He had obviously been a strong man.

A thought struck Fidelma.

“What work did this man do?” she asked Lígach quietly.

“He was a blacksmith, Sister,” replied the chieftain.

“Didn’t you say that he collapsed after the first jug of ale had been consumed?”

“I did so.”

Laisran, kneeling beside the body, suddenly expelled the air from his lungs with a hiss.

“The man is, indeed, dead. I am sorry for this anguish that has been visited upon you Muirgel. Lígach, would you take Muirgel outside for a moment?”

Fidelma frowned at the studied seriousness of Laisran’s voice.

Lígach hesitated and then reached forward to help Muirgel to her feet. She did not actually respond willingly but she offered no resistance. It was as if she had no will of her own. She allowed Lígach to lead her out of the tent without a word.

“Shock, perhaps,” Fidelma commented. “I have seen death take people so.”

Laisran did not seem to hear her.

“Take a look at the man’s mouth, Fidelma,” he said quietly. “The lips, I mean.”

Puzzled a little, Fidelma bent down. She found that the man’s beard was so full and wiry that she had to pull it back a little to view his mouth and the lips. Her brows came together. The lips were a bright purple color. Her eye traveled to the skin. She had not noticed it before. It was mottled, as if someone had painted a patterning on the man.

She looked up.

“This man has not died from an excess of alcohol,” Laisran said, anticipating her conclusion.

“Poison?”

“Some virulent form,” agreed Laisran. “I have not practiced the apothecary’s art for some time, so I would not be able to identify it. Death was not from excessive alcohol, that is obvious. He was young, strong and fit, anyway. And if it was poison that caused his death, then. .”

“Then it was either an accident or murder,” concluded Fidelma.

“And no poison would enter a jug in a drinking contest by mere accident.”

“Murder?” Fidelma paused and nodded slowly. “The local Brehon must be summoned.”

There was a movement behind them. Lígach had re-entered the tent, unnoticed by them. He had heard their conclusion.

“Are you sure that Ruisín has been murdered?” he demanded, aghast.

Laisran confirmed it with a quick nod of his head.

“And are you Fidelma of Cashel?” Lígach added, turning to Fidelma. “I heard that you were attending the Fair. If so, please undertake the task of inquiring how Ruisín came by his death for I have heard great things of you. As organizer of the Fair, this is my jurisdiction and I willingly grant you the right to pursue these inquiries. If we do not clear this matter up then the reputation of the Aenach Carman will be blighted for it will be said, murder can be done within the king’s shadow and the culprit can escape unknown and unpunished.”

Before Fidelma could protest, Laisran had agreed.

“There is none better than Fidelma of Cashel to dissect any web of intrigue that is woven around a murder.”

Fidelma sighed in resignation. It seemed that she had no choice. It was time to be practical.

“I would like another tent where I may sit and examine the witnesses to this matter.”

Lígach was smiling in his relief.

“The tent next to this one is at your disposal. It is my own.”

“Then I shall want all involved in this matter to be gathered outside, including the widow, Muirgel. I will tarry a moment more with the body.”

Lígach hastened off, while Laisran stood awkwardly as Fidelma bent down to examine the body of Ruisín very carefully.

“What should I do?” he asked.

Fidelma smiled briefly up at him.

“You will witness my inquiry,” she replied, “for I would not like to be accused of interference by the Chief Brehon of Laighin.”

“I will guarantee that,” confirmed Laisran.

Fidelma was carefully examining the body of the dead man.

“What are you looking for?” the abbot asked after a while.

“I do not know. Something. Something out of the ordinary.”

“The extraordinary thing is the fact that the man was poisoned, surely?”

“Yet we have to be sure that we do not miss anything.” She rose to her feet.

“Now, let us question the witnesses.”

Fidelma and Laisran seated themselves on camp stools within Lígach’s tent. There was a table and a scribe had been sent for to record the details. He was a young, nervous man, who sat huddled over his inks and leaves of imported papyrus.

“Who shall I bring in first, Sister?” asked Lígach.

“Who organized this drinking contest?”

“Rumann, who was Ruisín’s friend, and Cobha, who supplied the ale.”

“Bring in Rumann first.”

First through the tent door came a young, eager terrier, its ears forward, his jaws slightly opened, panting, and its neck straining against a rope. The animal hauled a burly man into the tent who was clutching the leash. It leapt toward Fidelma in its excitement, but in a friendly fashion with short barks and its tail wagging furiously.

The man on the end of the leash snapped at it and tugged the animal to obedience at his heel. Then he gestured apologetically.

Rumann was almost the twin image of Ruisín, but with brown tousled hair. He was burly man who also had the look of a smithy about him. Indeed, such was the craft he pursued.

“Sorry, Sister, but Cubheg here is young and excitable. He won’t harm you.”

He turned to a tent post and tied the rope around it. As the dog continued to tug and pull forward, Rumann glanced ’round.

“With your permission, Sister?” he indicated a bowl on the table. There was a jug of ale nearby. He poured some ale in the bowl and set it down before the animal, which began to noisily lap at it with great relish. “Cubheg likes a drink of ale. I can’t deny him. Now, how can I help you?”

“This contest: whose idea was it?” demanded Fidelma without preamble.

“Crónán of the Fidh Gabhla issued the challenge.”

“For what purpose?”

Rumann shrugged.

“The rivalry between the Fidh Gabhla and the Osraige is generations old.”

“This is so,” whispered Abbot Laisran at her side.

“During the games these last few days, there have been several contests and the Osraige have held their own with the Fidh Gabhla,” went on Rumann. “Crónán then challenged my friend, Ruisín, to a contest which would finally decide who were the greater at this fair, Osraige or the Fidh Gabhla.”

Fidelma’s mouth turned down in disapproval.

“A clan made great simply by whoever could drink the most?”

“Sister, you must know that it is an old contest known in many lands? Whoever can drink most and still remain on their feet is the champion. This was to be the last great contest between us at the Aenach Carman.”

“Why was Ruisín chosen to take part?”

“He was our champion. And he was a great drinker,” Rumann said boastfully. “He would drink a barrel of ale and still lift the empty barrel above his head at the end of it.”

Fidelma hid her cynicism.

“So the challenge was to him or to the Osraige?”

“Ruisín was champion of Osraige. It was the same thing.”