Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“I am. The effect of the poison is not instantaneous. Additionally, I have checked the food taken to the refectory for the evening meal. There is no sign of it having been contaminated.”

“So are you saying that the poison was administered before Sillán entered the refectory?”

“I am.”

“And was it self-administered?”

Sister Poitigéir contrived to shrug.

“Of that, I have no knowledge. Though I would say it is most unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Because taking poison hemlock results in an agonizing death. Why drink hemlock and then enter into the refectory for an evening meal if one knows one is about to die in convulsions?”

It was a point that seemed reasonable to Sister Fidelma.

“Have you searched Sillán’s chamber and the guest quarters for the missing jar of powdered hemlock leaves?”

Sister Poitigéir gave a quick, nervous shake of her head.

“Then I suggest that is your next and immediate task. Let me know if you find it.”

Sister Fidelma asked to see Follaman next. He was a big burly man, not a religieux but a layman hired by the community to take care of the guest quarters. Each community employed a timthirig, or servant, to look after its tech-óired. It was Follaman’s job to look after the wants of the male guests and to undertake the work that was too heavy for the female members of the community and assist the Sisters in the harder chores of the community’s gardens.

Follaman was a broad-shouldered, foxy-haired man, with ruddy complexion and watery blue eyes. His face was dashed with freckles as if a passing cart had sprayed mud upon him. He was in his mid-forties, a man without guile rather like a large boy, still with the innocent wonder of youth. In all, a simple man.

“Have you been told what has transpired here, Follaman?”

Follaman opened his mouth, showing blackened teeth. Sister Fidelma noticed, with some distaste, that he obviously did not regard his personal cleanliness as a priority.

He nodded silently.

“Tell me what you know about Sillán.”

Follaman scratched his head in a bemused fashion.

“He was a guest here.”

“Yes?” she encouraged. “When did he arrive at Kildare?”

Follaman’s face lightened with relief. Sister Fidelma realized that she had best put direct questions to the man for he was not the quickest wit she had encountered. She assessed him as slow in thought, without perceptive subtleness.

“He came here eight nights ago, Cailech.” Follaman addressed all the Sisters formally by the title “Cailech,” the term given by the lay people to all religieuses meaning “one who has taken the veil” from the term caille, signifying a veil.

“Do you know who he was? What brought him here?”

“Everyone knows that, Cailech.”

“Tell me. For I have been away from Kildare these last two weeks.”

“Ah, yes. That is so,” agreed the big man, having paused a moment to examine what Sister Fidelma said. “Well, Cailech, Sillán told me that he was a bruithneóir, a smelter, from the mines in the Kilmantan mountains.”

“What mines would those be, Follaman?”

“Why, the gold mines, Cailech. He worked in the gold mines.”

Sister Fidelma successfully prevented her eyes from widening.

“So why was he in Kildare? Surely, there are no gold mines here?”

“It is said that the Uí Failgi asked him to come here.”

“Indeed? But do you know why?”

Follaman shook his head of ruddy hair.

“No, Cailech, that I do not. He spent but little time in the guest house, sleeping there and then leaving at daybreak only to return for the evening meal.”

“To your knowledge, where was Sillán during this afternoon?”

The big man scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“It was today that he came back early and stayed in his chamber in the guest house.”

“Was he there all afternoon?”

Follaman hesitated. “He went to see the Abbess soon after he returned. He was with her a while and then he emerged from her chamber with anger on his face. Then he returned to his own chamber.”

“Did he say what had angered him?”

“No, Cailech. I asked him whether he required anything. That being my duty.”

“And did he call for refreshment?”

“Only for water… no, he asked for mead. Nothing else.”

“Did you take the mead to him?”

“I did. In a stone jar from the kitchens.”

“Where is it now?”

“I have not tidied the guest house. I think it must still be there.”

“Do you know what poison hemlock is?”

“It is a bad thing. That I know.”

“Do you know what it looks like? The shape and color of the plant?”

“I am only a poor servant, Cailech. I would not know. Sister Poitigéir would know such things.”

“So Sillán called for mead. And you took it to him. Did he drink straightaway, or did you leave the jar with him?”

“I left it with him.”

“Could anyone have tampered with the jar?”

Follaman’s brow creased with a concentration of effort.

“I would not know, Cailech. They could, I suppose.”

Sister Fidelma smiled. “Never mind, Follaman. Tell me, are you sure that Sillán stayed in the tech-óired all afternoon until vespers?”

Follaman frowned and then shook his head slowly.

“That I would not be sure of. It seemed so to me. And he began preparing to leave the abbey at first light. He packed his bags and told me to ensure that I had saddled his chestnut mare in readiness.” Follaman hesitated and continued sheepishly. “That was when he had to accompany me to the stables, Cailech. So, yes, he did leave the hostel after all.”

“For what purpose did he go to the stables with you?” frowned Sister Fidelma, puzzled.

“Why, to show me his horse. We have several whose shades are the same to me. You see, I lack the ability to tell one color from another.”

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips. Of course, she had forgotten that Follaman was color-blind. She nodded and smiled encouragingly at the big man.

“I see. But Sillán made no mention of what had angered him, or why he had decided to depart?”

“No, Cailech. He just said that he was bound for Ráith Imgain, that is all.”

The door opened and Sister Poitigéir returned. Sister Fidelma glanced toward her and the Sister-apothecary nodded swiftly in her birdlike manner.

Follaman looked from one to the other, puzzled.

“Is that all, Cailech?”

Sister Fidelma smiled reasuringly.

“For the time being, Follaman.”

The big man left the library room. Sister Fidelma sat back and studied the closed oak door with a frown. There was a discordant bell ringing distantly in her mind. She rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment, exhaling in annoyance as her thoughts became no clearer. Then she turned to the anxious Sister Poitigéir with an inquiring gaze.

“I found a jug of mead in the chamber occupied by Sillán. While the mead disguises the unpleasant odor of the hemlock, nevertheless I was able to discern its traces. A draught of such a mixture would be enough to kill a strong man. But there was no sign of the bowl of crushed leaves taken from the apothecary.”

“Thank you, Sister Poitigéir,” Fidelma nodded. She waited until the Sister-apothecary had left before she stretched back into her chair and sighed deeply.

Sister Ethne regarded her with perplexity.

“What now, Sister? Is your inquiry over?”

Sister Fidelma shook her head.

“No it is not over, yet, Sister Ethne. Far from it. There is, indeed, a mystery here. Sillán was murdered. I am sure of it. But why?”

There came a sudden sound of a commotion from the gates of the abbey which were usually shut just after vespers and not opened until dawn. Sister Ethne frowned and strode as rapidly as dignity allowed to the window of the tech-screpta.