Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

The old priest’s voice had suddenly become sharp. Then he fell silent for a while before continuing.

“I tried my best to make her see what a disaster it would be. We have seen what disasters have happened to other communities where relics have been found, or miracles have been witnessed, and great abbeys have been built and shrines erected. Small communities were devastated. Places of simple pious pilgrimage have been made into places of crass commercial enterprise. Devastation beyond imagining, all the things which so repelled our Savior. Did He not chase the moneylenders and merchants from the temple grounds? How much more would He turn on those who made His religion a subject of commercialism today? No, I did not want that for our tiny island. It would destroy our way of life and our very soul!”

The old priest’s voice was vehement now.

“And when Abbess Cuimne refused to accept your arguments, what did you do?” prompted Sister Fidelma, quietly.

“At first, I hoped that the abbess would not be able to decipher properly the figures which would lead her to the reliquary. But she did. It was the morning that she was due to leave the island …”

He paused and an expression of pain crossed his face. He fought to catch his breath but shook his head when Fidelma suggested that she call the apothecary.

Sister Fidelma waited patiently. The priest finally continued.

“As chance would have it I saw the Abbess Cuimne on the path to Aill Tuatha, the north cliff. I followed her, hoping against hope. But she knew where she was going.”

“Is that where the reliquary is hidden,” asked Fidelma. “In one of the cliff-top caves at Aill Tuatha?”

The priest nodded in resignation.

“The abbess started to climb down. She thought the descent was easy. I tried to stop her. To warn her of the danger.”

The priest paused, his watery eyes now stirring in emotion.

“I am soon going to meet my God, my daughter. There is no priest on the island. I must make my peace with you. This is by nature of my confession. Do you understand?”

Fidelma paused; a conflict between her role as an advocate of the Brehon Court and that as a member of a religious order with respect for the confessional caused her to hesitate. Then she finally nodded.

“I understand, Father. What happened?”

“The abbess started to descend the cliff toward the cave entrance. I cried out and told her if she must go down to be careful. I moved forward to the edge of the cliff and bent down even as she slipped. Her hand reached out and grabbed at my crucifix, which I wore on a silver chain around my neck. The links of the chain snapped. In that moment I grabbed for her, holding on momentarily to her shoulders and even her neck.

“Alas, I am old and frail; she slid from my grip and went hurtling down to the rocks.”

The priest paused, panting for breath.

Sister Fidelma bit her lip.

“And then?” she prompted.

“Peering down, I could see that she was dead. I knelt a while in prayer, seeking to absolve her for her sins, of which audacity and arrogance were the only ones I knew. Then a thought struck me, which grew in my mind and gave me comfort. We are all in God’s hands. It occurred to me that it was His intervention. He might have saved the abbess. Instead, perhaps it was His will that had been wrought, a miracle which prevented the reliquary being discovered. One death to prevent a great evil, the destruction of our community. The thought has given me comfort, my daughter. So I simply picked up my broken crucifix, though some of the chain was missing. Then I forced myself to walk back to the path, walk down to the beach and search her. I found her missal and inside the piece of paper that had given her the clue, the one written by the Blessed Patrick. I took them both and I returned here. I was silly, for I should have simply taken the paper and left her missal. I realized how odd it must have looked to the trained eye that it was missing. But I was exhausted. My health was none too good. But the reliquary was safe … or so I thought.”

Sister Fidelma gave a deep, troubled sigh.

“What did you do with the paper?”

“God forgive me, though it was written in the hand of the Blessed Patrick, I destroyed it. I burnt it in my hearth.”

“And the missal?”

“It is there on the table. You may send it to her kinsmen.”

“And that is all?”

“It is all, my daughter. Yet my conscience has troubled me. Am I, in turn, arrogant enough to think that God would enact a murder… even for such a pious purpose? My grievous sin is not coming forward to the bó-aire with my story. But my main purpose was to keep the secret of the reliquary. Now I am dying. I must tell someone of the secret. Perhaps God has willed that you, a total stranger to this island, should know the truth as you had learnt part of that truth already. What is the old Latin hexameter? — quis, quid, ubi, quibus, auxilius, cur, quomodo, quando?”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly at the old man.

“Who is the criminal? What is the crime? Where was it committed? By what means? With what accomplices? Why? In what way? When?”

“Exactly so, my daughter. And now you know these things. You suspected either Congal or myself of some dark crime. There was no crime. If it was, the cause was a miracle. I felt I had no choice but to tell you and place the fate of this island and its community in your hands. Do you understand what this means, my daughter?”

Sister Fidelma slowly nodded.

“I do, Father.”

“Then I have done what I should have done before.”

Outside the priest’s cell a number of islanders had gathered, gazing at Sister Fidelma with expressions varying between curiosity and hostility. Corcrain looked quizzically at her but Fidelma did not respond to his unspoken questions. Instead she went to find Congal to tell him about the cave at Aill Tuatha. That was Congal’s responsibility, not her burden.

The gulls swooped and cried across the grey granite quay of the island. The blustery winds caught them, causing it to seem as if they had stopped momentarily in their flight, and then they beat their wings at the air and swooped again. The sea was choppy and through its dim grey mist Sister Fidelma could see Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis, heaving up and down over the short waves as it edged in toward the harbor. It was not going to be a pleasant voyage back to the mainland. She sighed.

The boat would be bringing a young priest to the island to take over from Father Patrick. He had fallen into a peaceful sleep and died a few hours after Sister Fidelma had spoken with him.

Fidelma’s choice had been a hard one. She had returned to the bó-aire’s cabin and pondered all night over the young magistrate’s official report in the light of what she now knew.

Now she stood waiting for the boat to arrive to take her away from the island. At her side the fresh-faced young magistrate stood nervously.

The boat edged in toward the quay. Lines were thrown and caught, and the few travelers climbed their way to the quay up the ancient rope ladder. The first was a young man, clean-featured and looking appallingly youthful, wearing his habit like a brand-new badge of office. Congal and Corcrain were standing at the head of the quay to greet him.

Sister Fldelma shook her head wonderingly. The priest did not look as if he had learnt yet to shave and already he was “father” to one hundred and sixty souls. She turned and impulsively held out her hand to the young bó-aire, smiling.

“Well, many thanks for your hospitality and assistance, Forgar-tach. I’ll be speaking to the Chief Brehon and to Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne. Then I’ll be glad to get back to my interrupted journey back to my Abbey of Kildare.”