Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Liadin shrugged.

“I have no idea. I know of no Jewess in the kingdom.”

“You asked him to explain, of course?”

“I did, but he laughed it away and said it was nothing but a bad joke.”

“Can you repeat exactly what he said, and the manner in which he said it?”

Liadin did so. It did not make matters clearer.

Sister Fidelma rose to her feet, her brows drawn together. Then she focused on her friend’s worried features and smiled to reassure her.

“There is a mystery here, Liadin. Something curious that itches my mind like a bug bite. I cannot yet scratch. I must investigate further. Do not worry. All will be well.”

Conn, the Tanist of the Uí Dróna, stood awkwardly in front of Sister Fidelma, occasionally shifting his weight from one leg to another, trying to maintain an expressionless countenance. He was a fair-haired and handsome man.

Seated to one side was the Brehon Rathend, who, as the law ordained, had to attend any questioning of witnesses, excepting the questioning of the accused person, before the trial. His job was to observe and not to question nor even participate unless the dálaigh did not abide by the rules set forth for pretrial interrogations.

“Tell me about the events which led to your arresting Liadin.”

The young warrior cleared his throat and spoke woodenly, as if having learnt a lesson by rote.

“I found the weapon that killed Scoriath in the bed chamber of…”

“From the beginning,” Fidelma interrupted with annoyance. “When did you last see Scoriath? See him alive, that is?”

Conn considered for a moment.

“On the evening of the day on which he was killed. It was the day of the clan assembly, the feast day of the blessed Mochta, the disciple of Patrick. That afternoon Scoriath, myself and some other warriors were in attendance to our chieftainess, Irnan, at the assembly hall. An hour before sunset, the assembly dispersed so that each could return home before the hour of darkness.”

“Was that the last time you saw Scoriath alive?”

“It was, Sister. Everyone returned to their homes. Later Iman’s messenger came to me and said that he was looking for Scoriath, for Scoriath had been summoned by the chieftainess. The messenger said that he had gone to his chambers but could find no one.” The fair-haired young man paused and frowned, massaging his forehead with his fingers as if the act would conjure memory. “I knew this to be strange, for Scoriath had a child, and if he were not in his house then his wife and child or servant would be there.”

He paused as if seeking approval from Fidelma. She simply motioned him to continue.

“I went to the house with the messenger. No one answered in response to our knocking. I opened the door and went in. I cannot describe it; I felt something was wrong. A small oil lamp, whose light I could see through a crack in the door, burnt in the bedchamber. I went to the door and pushed it open.” He genuflected hastily. “There I found Scoriath face downward on the floor. Blood still gushed from a terrible wound in his neck…

“ Still gushed?” Fidelma interrupted quickly.

Conn nodded.

“Obviously he had not long been dead. I turned the body slightly and saw that his throat had been cut. Then, by the door of a small side chamber, was the body of Scoriath’s child, Cunobel. He, too, was dead from several wounds in the chest. Blood stained the entire room.”

The Tanist paused to swallow nervously.

“I saw that the side chamber door, a chamber where the child slept, and which Scoriath’s wife used for her personal toilet, stood ajar. I noticed a trail of blood leading into the chamber. I followed this trail of droplets and it led me to a chest. Inside the chest was a knife, still sticky with blood, and a bloodstained outer garment which belonged to Liadin.”

He was silent for so long that Fidelma felt she had to prompt him.

“And then?”

“I sent the messenger back to Irnan to tell her what had been discovered. There was no doubt in my mind that Liadin was answerable for this foul deed.”

“Why?”

The fair-haired man blinked.

“Why?” he repeated as if surprised at the question being asked. “Because, Sister, I found the knife and the garment. They were hidden in a chest in Liadin’s room. The garment belonged to Lia-din. I had often seen her wearing it.”

“’Hidden’ is hardly an exact description Conn,” Fidelma observed. “A trail of blood led you to the chest.”

He shrugged. “The bloodstains probably went unnoticed in Lia-din’s panic to hide the objects of her guilt.”

“Perhaps. But that is supposition. If you had done this deed, would you have gone into your personal chamber to hide the weapon and bloodstained garment? Even without the bloody trail someone would surely be bound to examine that room later?”

Conn looked confused.

“Perhaps you are right, Sister. But surely no one else could have done the deed, and that for a very good reason.”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“What is that reason?”

“Scoriath was a warrior. A man of strength as well as full of a warrior’s guile. Yet he turned his back on his murderer, allowed them to reach around his neck and slit his throat. The incision was made in the left side of the neck and the blade drawn along the throat to the right side. No one could have been placed in such a position to perform the deed unless Scoriath trusted them very well. Only a woman with whom Scoriath was intimate could be so trusted.”

For a few minutes Fidelma sat considering.

“Could the wound not have been made by a left-handed person, facing Scoriath?” mused Fidelma.

Conn blinked again. It was obviously a habit which signaled reflection on a question.

“But Liadin is right-handed.”

“Just so,” Fidelma remarked softly.

“And,” Conn continued, ignoring her point, “if the murderer stood in front of Scoriath, he surely would have defended himself from the attack with ease.”

Fidelma mentally conceded the point.

“Continue, Conn. You say that you sent the messenger back to Irnan. What then?”

“I was surveying the scene when I heard a noise outside the building. I moved to the door, wrenched it open, and found Liadin attempting to sneak back into the building, presumably in an attempt to retrieve the knife and garment from her chamber.”

“That is surmise on your part,” Fidelma admonished.

Conn shrugged indifferently.

“Very well, I found Liadin outside the door and I arrested her. Irnan came soon afterward with Rathend, the Brehon. Liadin was taken away. That is all I know.”

“Did you know Scoriath well?”

“Not well, save that he was captain of the guard.”

“Were you jealous of him?”

Conn appeared bewildered by the abrupt question.

“Jealous?”

“Scoriath was a foreigner,” Fidelma explained. “A Gaul. Yet he had achieved high office among the Uí Dróna. Did it not annoy you to see a foreigner so well treated?”

“He was a good man, an excellent champion. It is not my place to question the decisions reached by the councils of the king nor those of my chief. He was a good warrior. As for high office … I am the heir-elect to the chieftainship, so why should I be jealous of him?”

“And what was your relationship with Liadin?”

Did a faint color suffuse his cheeks?

“I have no relationship,” he said gruffly. “She was Scoriath’s wife.”

“A good wife, to your knowledge?”

“I suppose so.”

“A good mother?”

“I have no knowledge of such things. I am unmarried.”

“If she had murdered Scoriath as you suggest, do you not question the fact that she also murdered her own child… a three-year-old boy?”