Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Fidelma suddenly paused and pointed to some plants growing along the edge of the pathway.

“Here’s another sign. See the trefoil? Look at the way its stem is swollen. And those dandelions nearby, their petals are contracting and closing. Both those signs mean it will be raining soon.”

“How do you know these things?” asked the girl wonderingly.

“By observation and listening to the old ones, those who are wise in the ancient knowledge.”

They had climbed above the rocky cliffs and stood overlooking a sheltered depression in the center of the island where a few gaunt, bent trees grew amidst several stone, beehive-shaped huts and a small oratory.

“So this is Abbot Selbach’s community?” Fidelma mused. She stood frowning at the collection of buildings. She could see no movement nor signs of life. She raised her voice. “Hello there!”

The only answer that came back was an angry chorus of disturbed seabirds; of newly arrived auks seeking their summer nesting places who suddenly rose, black and white or dark brown with brilliantly colored bills and webbed feet. The black guillemots, gulls and storm petrels followed, swirling around the island in an angry chiding crowd.

Fidelma was puzzled. Someone must have heard her yet there was no response.

She made her way slowly down the grassy path into the shallow depression in which the collection of stone buildings stood. Sárnat trotted dutifully at her side.

Fidelma paused before the buildings and called again. And again there was no reply.

She moved on through the complex of buildings, turning round a corner into a quadrangle. The shriek came from Sister Sárnat.

There was a tree in the center of the quadrangle; a small tree no more than twelve feet high, bent before the cold Atlantic winds, gaunt and gnarled. To the thin trunk of this tree, secured by the wrists with leather thongs, which prevented it from slumping to the ground, the body of a man was tied. Although the body was secured with its face toward the tree trunk, there was no need to ask if the man was dead.

Sister Sárnat stood shaking in terror at her side.

Fidelma ignored her and moved forward a pace to examine the body. It was clad in bloodstained robes, clearly the robes of a religieux. The head was shaven at the front, back to a line stretching from ear to ear. At the back of his head, the hair was worn long. It was the tonsure of the Irish church, the airbacc giunnae which had been an inheritance from the Druids. The dead man was in his sixties; a thin, sharp-featured individual with sallow skin and a pinched mouth. She noticed that, hanging from a thong round his neck, he wore a crucifix of some value; a carefully worked silver cross. The bloodstains covered the back of the robe which actually hung in ribbons from the body.

Fidelma saw that the shoulders of the robe were torn and bloodied and beneath it was lacerated flesh. There were several small stab wounds in the back but the numerous ripping wounds showed that the man had clearly been scourged by a whip before he had met his death.

Fidelma’s eyes widened in surprise as she noticed a piece of wood fixed to the tree. There was some writing on it. It was in Greek; “As the whirlwind passes, so is the wicked no more …” She tried to remember why it sounded so familiar. Then she realized that it was out of the “Book of Proverbs.”

It was obvious to her eye that the man had been beaten and killed while tied to the tree.

She became distracted by the moaning of the girl and turned, suppressing her annoyance.

“Sárnat, go back to the cove and fetch Lorcán here.” And when the girl hesitated, she snapped “Now!”

Sárnat turned and scurried away.

Fidelma took another step toward the hanged religieux and let her eyes wander over the body, seeking more information. She could gather nothing further other than that the man was elderly and a religieux of rank, if the wealth of the crucifix was anything to go by. Then she stepped back and gazed around her. There was a small oratory, no larger than to accommodate half-a-dozen people at most behind its dry stone walls. It was placed in the centre of the six stone cells which served as accommodation for the community.

Fidelma crossed to the oratory and peered inside.

She thought, at first in the gloom, that it was a bundle of rags lying on the small altar. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw that it was the body of a young religieux. It was a boy not even reached manhood. She noticed that his robes were dank and sodden. The fair brown hair dried flat against his temples. The features were not calm in death’s repose but contorted in an odd manner, as if the boy had died in pain. She was about to move forward to make a closer investigation, when she nearly tripped over what seemed to be another bundle.

Another religieux lay stretched face downward, arms outstretched, almost like a supplicant praying toward the altar. His hair was dark. He was clad in the robes of a Brother. This religieux was older than the youth.

She moved forward and knelt down, seeking a pulse in his neck with her two fingers. It was faint but it was there right enough; the body was unnaturally cold. She bent further to examine the face. The man was about forty. Even unconscious the features were placid and quite handsome. A pleasant face, Fidelma conceded. But dried blood caked one side of the broad forehead where it had congealed around a wound.

She shook the man by the shoulder but he was deeply unconscious.

Checking her exhalation of breath, Fidelma stood up and, moving swiftly, she went from stone cell to stone cell but each one told the same story. There was no one hiding from her within the buildings. The cells of the community were deserted.

Lorcán came running along the path from the cove.

“I left the girl behind with Maenach,” he grunted as he came up to Fidelma. “She was upset. She says that someone is dead and…”

He paused and stared around him. From this position, the tree with its gruesome corpse was hidden to him.

“Where is everyone?”

“There is a man still alive here,” Fidelma said, ignoring the question. “He needs our immediate attention.”

She led the way to the small oratory, stooping down to enter and then standing to one side so that Lorcán could follow.

Lorcán gasped and genuflected as he saw the young boy.

“I know this boy. His name is Sacán from Inis Beag. Why, I brought him here to join the community only six months ago.”

Fidelma pointed to the figure of the dark-haired man on the floor which Lorcán had not observed.

“Do you recognize that Brother?” she asked.

“The saints defend us!” exclaimed the boatman as he bent down. “This is Brother Spelán.”

Fidelma pursed her lips.

“Brother Spelán?” she repeated unnecessarily.

Lorcán nodded unhappily.

“He served as Abbot Selbach’s dominus, the administrator of this community. Who did this deed? Where is everyone?”

“Questions can be answered later. We need to take him to a more comfortable place and restore him to consciousness. The boy-Sacán, you called him? — well, he is certainly beyond our help.”

“Sister,” replied Lorcán, “my friend Maenach knows a little of the physician’s art. Let me summon him so that he might assist us with Spelán.”

“It will take too long.”

“It will take but a moment,” Lorcán assured her, taking a conch shell from a rough leather pouch at his side. He went to the door and blew on it long and loudly. It was echoed by a tremendous chorus of frightened birds. Lorcán paused a moment before turning with a smile to Fidelma. “I see Maenach on the cliff top with the young Sister. They are coming this way.”