Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

There was something staring her in the face about this matter, a clue which was so obvious that she was missing it. She felt it in her being. It was there, in her mind, if only she could draw it out.

She had no doubt in her mind that Sillán had been killed because of the knowledge he possessed.

And Sister Fidelma found herself in sympathy with the suppression of that knowledge.

Yet that was not the law, the law that she was sworn to uphold as a dálaigh of the Brehon Court. Yet the law was simply a compact between men. Rigid law could be the greater injustice. While the law was blind, in an ideal world justice should be able to remove the bandage from its eyes long enough to distinguish between the unfortunate and the vicious.

Her mind spinning in moral dilemma, Sister Fidelma drifted unknowingly into a sleep.

Sister Fidelma became aware firstly of someone pulling at her arm and then of the dim tolling of the Angelus bell.

Sister Ethne’s pale, hawklike features cleared out of the blurred vision as Fidelma blinked and focused her eyes.

“Quickly, Sister, quickly. There has been another death.”

Fidelma sat up abruptly and stared at Sister Ethne in incredulity. It lacked an hour before dawn but the bean-tigh had already lit the candle in her cell.

“Another death? Who?”

“Follaman.”

“How?” demanded Fidelma, scrambling from her cot.

“In the same manner, Sister. By poison. Come quickly to the tech-óired.”

Follaman, the timthirig of the community, lay on his back, his face contorted in pain. One arm was flung out in a careless gesture and from the still fingers, Sister Fidelma followed the line to the broken pottery below. It had once been an earthenware goblet. There was a dark stain of liquid which had seeped into the flagstone below.

The Sister-apothecary was already in the room, having been summoned earlier, and had examined the corpse.

“The goblet contained hemlock, Sister Fidelma,” bobbed Sister Poitigéir quickly as Fidelma turned to her. “It was drunk in the same manner as Sillán drank his poison. But Follaman drank the liquid in the night and no one heard his final cries.”

Sister Fidelma surveyed the scene grimly then she turned to Sister Ethne.

“I will be with the Mother Abbess for a while. See that no one disturbs us.”

Abbess Ita stood at the window of her chamber, watching the reds, golds and oranges of the rising dawn.

She half-turned as Sister Fidelma entered, then, ascertaining who it was, she turned back to the open window. The sharp colors of dawn were flooding the room with a pleasant, golden aura.

“No, Fidelma,” she said before Fidelma spoke. “I did not poison Follaman.”

Fidelma’s lips thinned.

“I know that you did not, Mother Abbess.”

With a surprised frown, Abbess Ita turned and stared at Fidelma for a moment. Then she motioned her to be seated and slid herself into her chair. Her face was pale and strained. She seemed to have slept little.

“Then you already know who the culprit is? You know how Sillán and Follaman died?”

Sister Fidelma nodded.

“Last night, Mother Abbess, I was struggling to decide whether I, as a dálaigh, should serve the law or serve justice.”

“Is that not the same thing, Fidelma?”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly.

“Sometimes it is; sometimes not. This matter, for example, is a case where the two things diverge.”

“Yes?”

“It is obvious that Sillán was killed unlawfully. He was killed to prevent him revealing his knowledge that a gold mine is situated under these venerable buildings. Was the person who slaughtered him right or wrong to kill him? By what standards do we judge? The taking of a life is wrong by our laws. But if Sillán had disclosed his knowledge, and that knowledge had led to the driving forth of this community from its lands, or had led to warfare between those who would then covert these lands, would that have been justice? Perhaps there is a natural justice which rules above all things?”

“I understand what you are saying, Fidelma,” replied the Abbess. “The death of one innocent may prevent the deaths of countless others.”

“Yet do we have the right to make their choice? Is that not something which we should leave in the hands of God?”

“It can be argued that sometimes God places in our hands the tools by which His will is carried out.”

Sister Fidelma studied the Abbess’s face closely.

“Only two people now know of Sillán’s discovery.”

Abbess Ita raised an eyebrow.

“Two?”

“I know, Mother Abbess and you know.”

The Abbess frowned.

“But surely the poisoner of Follaman knows?”

“ Knew,” corrected Sister Fidelma softly.

“Explain.”

“It was Follaman who administered the hemlock which killed Sillán.”

The Abbess bit her lip.

“But why would Follaman do that?”

“For the very reason that we have discussed, to prevent Sillán telling the Uí Failgi about the gold.”

“Yes, but Follaman…? He was a simple man.”

“Simple and loyal. Had he not worked here at the abbey as the keeper of the hostel since he was a boy? He loved this place as much as any of our community. He was not a religieux but he was as much a member of the community as anyone else.”

“How did Follaman know?”

“He overheard you and Sillán arguing. I suspect that he purposely eavesdropped on you. Follaman knew, or surmised, what profession Sillán practiced. He might well have followed Sillán on his explorations. Whether he did or not is beside the point. When Sillán came back yesterday afternoon, Follaman certainly deduced that he had made some find, for Sillán told Follaman that he would be leaving for Ráith Imgain the next morning. He probably followed Sillán to your room and overheard what passed between you.

“Since you could not act against the laws of man and God, he would serve a natural justice in his own way. He took the jar of poison hemlock from the apothecary and when Sillán asked for a drink, he supplied it. Follaman did not know the precise quantity needed and so Sillán did not suffer the full effects until after the bell called the community into the refectory for the evening meal following vespers.”

Abbess Ita was following Sister Fidelma closely.

“And then?”

“Then I began my investigation, then the Tanist of the Uí Failgi arrived seeking Sillán or an explanation for his death.”

“But who killed Follaman?”

“Follaman knew that sooner or later he would be discovered. But more importantly in his guileless mind there was also the guilt of having taken a man’s life to be considered. Follaman was a simple man. He decided that he should accept punishment. The honor-price of a life. What greater honor-price for the life of Sillán could he offer than his own? He also took a draught of the poison hemlock.”

There was a pause.

“It is a plausible story, Sister Fidelma. But how do you substantiate it?”

“Firstly, when I questioned Follaman, he knew all about Sillán’s profession. Secondly, he made two slips. He told me that he had seen Sillán coming from your chamber with anger on his face. Your chamber is on the far side of the abbey to the hostel. Therefore Follaman must have been near your chamber door. But, most importantly, when I asked Follaman if he knew what hemlock looked like, he denied any knowledge.”

“Why is that damning?”

“Because one of Follaman’s duties is to help in the herb garden of the community and Sister Poitigéir had just informed me that she grew hemlock in the garden for medicinal purposes; the very plant used in the apothecary came from the garden. And Sister Poitigéir said she was helped in this task by Follaman. He knew what hemlock looked like. So why did he lie to me?”