Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“There were no human tracks, I tell you,” Belach said, irritable.

“The snow was smooth. But there was one thing“

“Tell me.”

“The snow seemed to shine with a curious luminosity, sparkling in an uncanny light.”

“But you saw no footprints nor signs of anyone?”

“No.”

The woman was sobbing now.

“It is true, it is true, Sister. The ghost of Mugrán will soon come for us. Our remaining time on earth is short.”

Fidelma sat back and closed her eyes a moment in deep thought.

“Only the Living God can decide what is your allotted span of life,” she said in almost absentminded reproof.

Monchae and Belach stood watching her in uncertainty as Fi-delma stretched before the fire.

“Well,” she said at last, “while I am here, I shall need a meal and a bed for the night.”

Belach inclined his head.

“That you may have, Sister, and most welcome. But if you will say a prayer to Our Lady…? Let this haunting cease. She needs not the deaths of Monchae and myself to prove that she is the blessed Mother of Christ.”

Fidelma sniffed in irritation.

“I would not readily blame the ills of the world on the Holy Family,” she said stiffly. But, seeing their frightened faces, she relented in her theology. “I will say a prayer to Our Lady. Now bring me some food.”

Something awoke Fidelma. She lay with her heart beating fast, her body tense. The sound had seemed part of her dream. The drop-ping of a heavy object. Now she lay trying to identify it. The storm had apparently abated, since she had fallen asleep in the small chamber to which Monchae had shown her after her meal. There was a silence beyond the shuttered windows. An eerie stillness. She did not make a further move but lay, listening intently.

There came to her ears a creaking sound. The inn was full of the creaks and moans of its aging timbers. Perhaps it had been a dream? She was about to turn over when she heard a noise. She frowned, not being able to identify it. Ah, there it was again. A soft thump.

She eased herself out of her warm bed, shivering in the cold night. It had to be well after midnight. Reaching for her heavy robe, she draped it over her shoulders and moved stealthily toward the door, opening it as quietly as she could and pausing to listen.

The sound had come from downstairs.

She knew that she was alone in the inn with Monchae and Be-lach and they had retired when she had, their room being at the top of the stairs. She glanced toward it and saw the door firmly shut.

She walked with quiet padding feet, imitating the soft walk of a cat, along the wooden boards to the head of the stairs and peered down into the darkness.

The sound made her freeze a moment. It was a curious sound, like something soft but weighty being dragged over the bare boards.

She paused staring down the well of the stairs, into the main room of the inn where the eerie red glow of the dying embers of the fire cast a red, shadowy glow. Shadows chased one another in the gloom. Fidelma bit her lip and shivered. She wished that she had a candle to light her way. Slowly, she began to descend the stairs.

She was halfway down when her bare foot came into contact with a board that was loose. It gave forth a heavy creak which sounded like a thunderclap in the night.

Fidelma froze.

A split second later she could hear a scuffling noise in the darkness of the room below and then she was hastening down the rest of the stairs into the gloom-shrouded room.

“If anyone is here, identify yourself in the name of Christ!” she called, making her voice as stern as she could and trying to ignore the wild beating of her heart.

There was a distant thud and then silence.

She peered around the deserted room of the inn, eyes darting here and there as the red shadows danced across the walls. She could see nothing.

Then… there was a sound behind her.

She whirled round.

Belach stood with ghastly face on the bottom stair. His wife, Monchae, stood, peering fearfully over his shoulder.

“You heard it, too?” he whispered nervously.

“I heard it,” confirmed Fidelma.

“God look down on us,” sighed the man.

Fidelma made an impatient gesture.

“Light a candle, Belach, and we will search this place.”

The innkeeper shrugged.

“There is no purpose, Sister. We have heard such noises before and made a search. Nothing is ever found.”

“Indeed,” echoed his wife, “why search for temporal signs from a specter?”

Fidelma set her jaw grimly.

“Why would a specter make noises?” she replied. “Only something with a corporeal existence makes a noise. Now give me a light.”

Reluctantly, Belach lit a lamp. The innkeeper and his wife stood by the bottom of the stair as Fidelma began a careful search of the inn. She had barely begun when Monchae gave a sudden shriek and fell forward onto the floor.

Fidelma hurried quickly to her side. Belach was patting her hands in a feeble attempt to revive her senses.

“She’s fainted,” muttered the man unnecessarily.

“Get some water,” instructed Fidelma and when the water had been splashed against the woman’s forehead and some of it nursed between her lips, Monchae blinked and opened her eyes.

“What was it?” snapped Fidelma. “What made you faint?”

Monchae stared at her a moment or two, her face pale, her teeth chattering.

“The pipes!” she stammered. “The pipes!”

“I heard no pipes,” Fidelma replied.

“No. Mugrán’s pipes… on the table!”

Leaving Belach to help Monchae to her feet, Fidelma turned, holding her candle high, and beheld a set of pipes laying on the table. There was nothing remarkable about them. Fidelma had seen many of better quality and workmanship.

“What are you telling me?” she asked, as Monchae was led forward by Belach, still trembling.

“These are Murgán’s pipes. The pipes he took away with him to war. It must be true. His ghost has returned. Oh, saints protect us!”

She clung desperately to her husband.

Fidelma reached forward to examine them pipes.

They seemed entirely of this world. They were of the variety called cetharchóire, meaning four-tuned, with a chanter, two shorter reed-drones and a long drone. A simple pipe to be found in almost any household in Ireland. She pressed her lips tightly, realizing that when they had all retired for the night there had been no sign of any pipes on the table.

“How are you sure that these are the pipes of Murgán?” she asked.

“I know them!” The woman was vehement. “How do you know

what garment belongs to you, or what knife? You know its weave,

its stains, its markings“

She began to sob hysterically.

Fidelma ordered Belach to take the woman back to her bed.

“Have a care, Sister,” the man muttered, as he led his wife away. “We are surely dealing with evil powers here.”

Fidelma smiled thinly.

“I am a representative of a greater power, Belach. Everything that happens can only occur under His will.”

After they had gone, she stood staring at the pipes for a while and finally gave up the conundrum with a sigh. She left them on the table and climbed the stairs back to her own bed, thankful it was still warm for she realized, for the first time, that her feet and legs were freezing. The night was truly chill.

She lay for a while thinking about the mystery which she had found here in this desolate mountain spot and wondering if there was some supernatural solution to it. Fidelma acknowledged that there were powers of darkness. Indeed, one would be a fool to believe in God and to refuse to believe in the Devil. If there was good, then there was, undoubtedly, evil. But, in her experience, evil tended to be a human condition.