Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Spelán was staring malignantly at her.

“In several essentials, your story was correct, Spelán. There was a conspiracy of secrecy among the youths. Their tormentor would take them one at a time, the youngest and most vulnerable, to a remote part of the island and inflict his punishment, assuring the boy it was the route to eternal glory. Then one day one of the youths, poor little Sacán, was beaten so severely that he died. In a panic the tormentor tried to dispose of his evil deed by throwing the body over the cliffs. As he did so, the hook on the boy’s belt tore a piece of cloth from the man’s robe. Then the next morning the body washed ashore.”

“Utter nonsense. It was Selbach who …”

“It was Selbach who began to suspect that he had a gortaigid in his community.”

Spelán frowned.

“All this is supposition,” he sneered but there was a fear lurking in his dark eyes.

“Not quite,” Fldelma replied without emotion. “You are a very clever man, Spelán. When Sacán’s body was discovered, the youths who found him gathered on the shore around it. They did not realize that their abbot, Selbach, was really a kindly man who had only recently realized what was going on in his community and certainly did not condone it. As you said yourself, the conspiracy of silence was such that the youthful brothers thought that you were acting with Selbach’s approval. They thought that mortification was a silent rule of the community. They decided to flee from the island there and then. Eight of them launched the currach and rowed away, escaping from what had become for them an accursed place…”

Lorcán, who had been following Fidelma’s explanation with some astonishment, whistled softly.

“Where would they have gone, Sister?”

“It depends. If they had sense they would have gone to report the matter to Chléire or even to Dún na Séad. But, perhaps, they thought their word would be of no weight against the abbot and dominus of this house. Perhaps these innocents still think that mortification is an accepted rule of the Faith.”

“May I remind you that I was knocked unconscious by these same innocents?” sneered Spelán.

Maenach nodded emphatically.

“Indeed, Sister, that is so. How do you explain that?”

“I will come to that in a moment. Let me tell you firstly what happened here. The eight young Brothers left the island because they believed everyone else supported the rule of mortification. It was then that Brother Fogach came across the body and carried it to the oratory and alerted you, Spelán.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because Brother Fogach was not your enemy, nor was Brother Snagaide. They were your chosen acolytes who had actually helped you carry out your acts of sadism in the past. They were young and gullible enough to believe your instructions were the orders of the Faith and the Word of God. But inflicting punishment on their fellows was one thing, murder was another.”

“You’ll have a job to prove this,” sneered Spelán.

“Perhaps,” replied Fidelma. “At this stage Fogach and Snagaide were willing to help you. You realized that your time was running out. If those brothers reported matters then an official of the church, a dálaigh, would be sent to the island. You had to prepare your defense. An evil scheme came into your mind. It was still early. Selbach was still asleep. You persuaded Snagaide and Fo-gach that Selbach was responsible in the same way that you had persuaded their fellows that Selbach approved of this mortification. You told them that Selbach had flogged Sacán that night- not you-and now he must be ritually scourged in turn. Together you awoke Selbach and took him and tied him to that tree. You knew exactly what you were going to do but first you whipped that venerable old man.

“In his pain, the old man cried out and told your companions the truth. They listened, horrified at how they had been misled. Seeing this, you stabbed the abbot to stop him speaking. But the abbot’s life would have been forfeit anyway. It was all part of your plan to hide all the evidence against you, to show that you were simply the dupe of Selbach.

“Snagaide and Fogach ran off. You now had to silence them. You caught up with Fogach and killed him, smashing his skull with a stone. But when you turned in search of Snagaide you suddenly observed a currach approaching. It was Lorcán’s currach. But you thought it was coining in answer to the report of the eight Brothers.

“You admitted that you were a trained apothecary. You hurried to your cell and mixed a potion of herbs, a powerful sleeping draught which would render you unconscious within a short time. First you picked up a stone and smote your temple hard enough to cause a nasty-looking wound. But Maenach, who knows something of a physician’s art, told us that he would not have expected you to be unconscious from it. In fact, after you had delivered that blow, you drank your potion and stretched yourself in the oratory where I found you. You were not unconscious from the blow but merely in a deep sleep from your potion. You had already worked out the story that you would tell us. It would be your word against the poor, pitiful and confused youths.”

Fidelma slowly took out the cup and placed it on the table.

“That was the cup I found lying near you in the oratory. It still smells of the herbs, like mullein and red clover tops, which would make up the powerful sleeping draught. You have jars of such ingredients in your cell.”

“You still can’t prove this absurd story,” replied Spelán.

“I think I can. You see, not only did Abbot Selbach begin to suspect that there was a gortaigid at work within his community but he wrote to Ultan of Armagh outlining his suspicions.”

She took out the letter from Ultan of Armagh.

Spelán’s eyes narrowed. She noticed that tiny beads of sweat had begun to gather on his brow for the first time since she had begun to call his bluff. She held the letter tantalizingly in front of her.

“You see, Spelán, when you showed yourself anxious to get your hands on this letter, I realized that it was the piece of evidence I was looking for; indeed, that I was overlooking. The letter is remarkably informative, a reply to all Selbach’s concerns about you.”

Spelán’s face was white. He stared aghast at the letter as she placed it on the table.

“Selbach named me to Ultan?”

Fidelma pointed to the letter.

“You may see for yourself.”

With a cry of rage that stunned everyone into immobility, Spe-lán suddenly launched himself across the room towards Fidelma with his hands outstretched.

He had gone but a few paces when he was abruptly halted as if by a gigantic hand against his chest. He stood for a moment, his eyes bulging in astonishment, and then he slid to the ground without another word.

It was only then that they saw the hilt of the knife buried in Spelán’s heart and the blood staining his robes.

There was a movement at the door. A young, dark-haired youth in the robes of a religieux took a hesitant step in. Lorcán, the first to recover his senses, knelt by the side of Spelán and reached for a pulse. Then he raised his eyes and shook his head.

Fidelma turned to the trembling youth who had thrown the knife. She reached out a hand and laid it on his shaking arm.

“I had to do it,” muttered the youth. “I had to.”

“I know,” she pacified.

“I do not care. I am ready to be punished.” The youth drew himself up.

“In your suffering of mind, you have already punished your self enough, Brother Snagaide. These here,” she gestured toward Lor-cán, Maenach and Sárnat, “are witnesses to Spelán’s action which admitted of his guilt. Your case will be heard before the Brehon in Chléire and I shall be your advocate. Does not the ancient law say every person who places themselves beyond the law is without the protection of the law? You slew a violator of the law and therefore this killing is justified under the Law of the Fenechus.”