Peter Tremayne - Smoke in the Wind

She mentioned this fact to Eadulf, and he looked glum.

‘Isn’t it best not to interfere in Brother Meurig’s investigation?’

Fidelma was vexed by his attitude and showed it. ‘Interference? Eadulf, you know that as a dálaigh I cannot stand aside and ignore crime.’

‘But this is not your-’

‘Not my country? You have not stood aside in our adventures before and claimed that you should not be involved in them because you were a Saxon! Crime is crime in any land. Justitia omnibus — justice for all.’

Eadulf blinked at the sharpness of her tone. ‘I meant-’ he began.

She made a cutting motion with her hand. ‘I know what you meant.’

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

Fidelma often regretted her outbursts of irritation. She knew that her quick temper and sharpness of tongue were faults. Then she remembered that her mentor, Brehon Morann, was fond of saying that the person without a fault is without life. Even so, perhaps she should try to curb her moods.

‘I am sorry,’ she suddenly said, surprising Eadulf. ‘Since we came to this place, I have had a curious feeling that there is much evil here. A mystery which is like a complex of threads of which we have been given several. We follow the thread a distance and find another and another but none of them lead to any centre. I think it is important that the mysteries of the death of Mair and the disappearance of the community of Llanpadern are resolved.’

Eadulf did not respond for a moment.

Fidelma decided to continue. ‘I know you want to proceed to Canterbury as soon as possible but I could not be at ease with myself if I did not pursue these matters to a conclusion.’

Eadulf was forced to respond with a resigned smile. ‘I really expected no less. It is just that I am worried for your safety. .’ He hesitated and raised a shoulder, letting it fall eloquently. ‘For our safety,’ he corrected. ‘I have felt danger before but never the hostility that I have encountered here. And the threat from such a person as Clydog is something that causes me concern. If you or I should fall into his hands again. .’ He did not finish the sentence, but his meaning was clear enough.

‘Then we must ensure that we do not fall into the hands of that outlaw,’ Fidelma replied brightly, with more assurance than she felt.

They were entering a small clearing in the wood and saw that it was occupied by a woodsman’s hut.

‘Best check that we are on the right track to Llanwnda,’ Eadulf advised.

They noticed that the door stood partially open and Fidelma drew rein and called a hello. There was no answer.

The small hut was a tiny affair and outside it was a pile of wood in the process of being cut, for a large-handled axe stood embedded in one of the logs, as if abandoned by the woodsman in the middle of his attempts to sever it.

It was Eadulf who noticed it and he turned to Fidelma and silently pointed to the axe.

Fresh blood was dripping from its blade onto the wood.

Perhaps the woodsman had cut himself while swinging his sharp-bladed axe at the log.

‘Hello!’ cried Fidelma again. ‘Are you hurt? Can we help?’

There was no sound; no movement.

Eadulf swung down from his horse and moved to the door of the hut. For a moment he stood on the threshold staring in and then he let out an exclamation.

‘The man is here and unconscious, so it seems,’ he called to Fidelma, before moving into the dark interior. Fidelma was in the act of dismounting to join him when she heard his voice upraised in surprise.

‘What is it?’ she demanded, starting forward.

Eadulf had emerged and was leaning against the door jamb, his face pale. He stared at her for a moment as if unable to form words. ‘He’s in there. .’

Fidelma frowned. ‘The woodsman?’ she demanded, surprised at his attitude. After all, Eadulf had studied to be an apothecary at Tuam Brecain. He was surely used to injury and violent death. ‘Is it a bad wound? Come on, Eadulf, let us help the poor man. I’ve not known you to be so squeamish before.’

‘It’s too late,’ Eadulf breathed.

Frustrated, Fidelma pushed him aside and entered the small hut. The light from the door spread over the figure on the floor. She bent towards the body which was stretched just inside.

Three facts came to her in quick succession.

Firstly, the man’s neck was nearly severed. This had been no accident. Someone had taken the axe and swung its sharp blade with the intention of killing the man. Then, leaving him dead or dying on the floor, the assailant had returned the axe to the woodpile outside, embedding it in the log before departing.

Secondly, the man was not a woodsman. He was wearing the robes of a religieux.

Thirdly, she recognised the twisted, agonised features of the victim. It was Brother Meurig.

They rode into Llanwnda in silence. Fidelma had spoken little on the journey from the woodsman’s hut. As they crossed the bridge over the stream into the township, they heard the clang of metal on metal from the smith’s forge, heard the rasp of the bellows and saw Iorwerth the smith at work, swinging his hammer with his muscular arm. He barely glanced in their direction as they rode by. In the square beyond the bridge, where two nights before they had watched the abortive attempt to hang Idwal, there now stood a tall stack of wood, piled high and obviously ready to be ignited into a gigantic bonfire. Children were playing here and there in groups, unconcerned, riotous, normal. There were a few groups of people in the single street. Some stood gossiping, a few cast glances filled with curiosity in their direction.

Eadulf looked at Fidelma. He could see that she was perturbed. Indeed, the murder of a religieux was a heinous crime. When he had tried to speculate on who might have done this terrible thing, she had simply replied with her customary advice: ‘It is no use speculating without facts.’ She had refused to engage further with him, although he felt that she must be examining possibilities in her own mind as they rode along. That irritated him.

Fidelma was not immune to Eadulf’s frustration but she was in no mood to speculate aloud. She was too busy turning matters over in her head. She had spent some time carefully examining Brother Meurig’s body. She had also inspected the hut, the axe and the surrounding area. She had found nothing at all which could be called a clue. What had Brother Meurig been doing in the woods? Had he been searching for the spot where Mair had been killed? If so, what had he stumbled on to cause him to be killed in such a vicious and maniacal fashion?

It was no use sharing these questions with Eadulf. He would know the questions well enough but it was answers that were needed and there were none — yet. Without further information, questions remained simply questions.

The tranquillity of Llanwnda was in sharp contrast to what they had seen in the woodsman’s hut and their experience at Llanpadern. No one seemed surprised to see them again. No one appeared to be interested in their arrival.

‘We’ll go directly to Gwnda,’ Fidelma said to Eadulf as they walked their horses slowly down the street towards the hall of the lord of Pen Caer.

It was only when they had dismounted and were hitching their mounts to the posts in front of his hall that Gwnda himself appeared. He seemed ill at ease to see them.

‘What news from Llanpadern? You are soon back from there,’ he said in greeting. It was clear that there was no enthusiasm in his voice.

Fidelma examined his features closely. ‘What do you know of Brother Meurig’s whereabouts?’ she asked.

Gwnda’s mouth tightened a little at her response. ‘I don’t know where he is. He left here this morning.’