Peter Tremayne - Whispers of the Dead

“So explain what happened at this contest.”

“Ruisín and Crónán met at the tent of Cobha the ale maker. He supplied the ale. And. .”

“And which side was Cobha on?” queried Fidelma sharply.

“He was from the Fidh Gabhla. But the supplier of the ale in these contests is supposed to maintain neutrality.”

“Was there an impartial referee?”

“We were all referees. The men of Osraige and the men of Fidh Gabhla were there to see fair play.”

“No women?”

Rumann looked pained.

“It was not a contest that appealed to women,” he said.

“Quite so,” replied Fidelma grimly. “So a crowd was gathered ’round?”

“Cobha poured two jugs of ale. .”

“From the same barrel?”

Rumann frowned and thought.

“I think so. One jug apiece. Each man took up a position at either end of a wooden table on which the jugs were set. At a word from Cobha, they began to drink. Each man drained the first jug without a problem. Cobha brought the second jug. . my friend, Ruisín, had picked up the second jug when he staggered. He dropped the jug and he suddenly fell back. How the men of the Fidh Gabhla jeered, but I saw him writhing on the ground. I knew he was ill. Within a moment he was dead. That is all I know.”

Fidelma was quiet for a moment.

“You say that Ruisín was your friend?”

“He was.”

“He was a smith?”

“Like myself. We often worked together when our chieftain needed two pairs of bellows instead of one.” “Would you say that Ruisín was a strong man, a healthy man?”

“I have known him since he was a boy. There was never a stronger man. I refuse to believe that a surfeit of alcohol would kill him. Why, just one jug of ale and he went down like a cow at the slaughter.”

Fidelma sat back and gazed at the man with interest.

“Did your friend have enemies?”

“Enemies? Why, was he not our champion and being challenged by the Fidh Gabhla? The Fidh Gabhla had enough motive to ensure that their man should win.”

“But in these circumstances, there would be no victory.”

Rumann pursed his lips as though he had not thought of that fact.

“Did he have any other enemies?”

Rumann shook his head.

“He was regarded a first class craftsman; he had plenty of work. He was happily married to Muirgel and had no other cares in the world except how to enjoy his life more fully. No one would wish him harm. .”

“Except?” prompted Fidelma as his voice trailed away and the cast of thought came into his eyes.

“Only the men of the Fidh Gabhla,” he replied shortly. Fidelma knew that he had thought of something and was hiding it.

Crónán, the drinking champion of the Fidh Gabhla, was shown in next; a surly man with a mass of dark hair and bright blue eyes, which flickered nervously as if seeking out potential danger.

“We have had many a drinking contest in the past, Ruisín and I. We were rivals. Our clans were rivals. But we were friends.”

“That’s not what Rumann seems to imply,” Fidelma pointed out.

“Rumann has his own way of looking at things. Sometimes it is not reality.”

“Why would anyone put poison into Ruisín’s drink during this contest?”

Crónán raised his chin defiantly.

“I did not, that you may take as the truth. I swear that by the Holy Cross.”

“I would need more than an oath if I were to attempt to use it as evidence in court. You were both given separate jugs. I am told that the ale was poured from the same barrel.”

“It was. There were many witnesses to that. Cobha opened a new barrel so that the measure could be strictly witnessed.”

“What were the jugs?”

“The usual pottery jugs. They contained two meisrin each. We watched Cobha fill them and we all watched carefully so that the measure was equal. We had to double check because of Rumann’s damned dog.”

“His dog?” Fidelma frowned.

“That young excitable terrier. He broke loose from Rumann just when Cobha was pouring the second jug for me. He had set the first on the table while he poured the second. Then the dog went between his legs and nearly had him over. Rumann was apologetic and tied the dog up for the rest of the contest. I and Lennán, who was my witness, had to double check to make sure that Cobha had poured an equal measure for me.”

“And when you had ensured that he had. .?”

“He brought it to the table and placed them before us. The signal was given. We took them and downed the contents, each being equal in time to the other.”

“Cobha then filled a second pair of jugs?”

The man shook his head.

“No he retrieved the empty jugs from us and refilled them with the same measure, no more than two meisrin each. He put the jugs on the table before us as before. The signal was given and I began to drink mine. It was then that I noticed that while Ruisín had picked up his jug, he held it loosely, staggered and then fell back, dropping it.”

“Did it break?”

“What?”

“The jug, I mean. Did it break?”

“I think so. Yes, it cracked on the side of the table. I remember now, the damned dog ran forward to try to lap at the contents and Rumann had to haul him away with a good smack on the nose.”

Fidelma turned to Lígach.

“Can the broken pieces of the jug be found?”

The man went off about the task.

“Tell me, on this second time of filling, Crónán, I presume the same jugs were returned to you both? The jug that you first drank from was returned to you and the jug Ruisín drank out of was returned to him? Can you be sure?”

“Easy enough to tell. The jugs had different colored bands around them, the colors of the Fidh Gabhla and Osraige.”

“What craft do you follow, Crónán?” asked Fidelma suddenly.

“Me? Why, I am a hooper.”

“You make barrels?”

“I do indeed.”

Lígach returned. The broken jug could not be found. A more than diligent assistant to Cobha the ale keeper had apparently cleaned the area and taken the pieces to a rubbish dump where the results of several days of broken jugs and clay goblets were discarded in such manner that it was impossible to sort them out at all.

“I thought it best to take the broken jug to the rubbish dump immediately,” the assistant said defensively when summoned. “It was dangerous. Broken pieces and jagged. Rumann had difficulty dragging his dog away from it. He was very perturbed that the animal would injure itself. There were sharp edges.”

When Cobha entered to give his account, Fidelma had to disguise her instant dislike of the man. He was tall, thin, exceedingly thin so that he gave the appearance of someone on the verge of starvation. His looks were sallow and the eyes sunken and filled with suspicion. The only touch of color was the thin redness of his lips. He came before Fidelma with his head hanging like someone caught in a shameful act. His speech was oily and apologetic.

His account basically confirmed what had been said before.

“Did you examine the jugs before you poured the measure?” asked Fidelma.

Cobha looked puzzled.

“Were they clean?” Fidelma was more specific.

“Clean? I would always provide clean drinking vessels to my customers,” Cobha said, with an ingratiating air. “I have been coming to the Fair of Carman for two decades and no one has ever criticized my ale. . nor died of it.”

“Until today,” Abbot Laisran could not help but add, showing he, too, disapproved of the ale-man’s character.

“My ale was not to blame.”

“Do you have any idea what or who might be to blame?”

Cobha shook his head.

“Ruisín was not liked by everyone.”