Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Conn was stubborn.

“I can only state what I know.”

“Did Scoriath ever say anything about a Jewess to you?”

Conn was again apparently bewildered by this abrupt change of tack.

“Never. I have never heard of a woman of that religion in these parts, though it is said that many Jewish traders frequent the port of Síl. Maíluidir on our southern coast. Iman spent some of her youth there and may have an answer for you about such things.”

The servant, Branar, was a raw-boned, fresh-faced girl with wide, guileless-looking blue eyes, and a permanent expression of confusion. She was no more than a year or two beyond the age of choice. Sister Fidelma smiled encouragingly at her and bade her be seated. Rathend sat in place, looking a trifle irritated. Branar had been escorted to the chamber by her mother but Fidelma had refused to allow the old woman to remain with her daughter during the interrogation, showing her to a side chamber. Rathend thought that Fidelma might have showed some compassion for the young girl and allowed the mother to remain. Branar was nervous and awed by the proceedings.

“How long have you been a servant to Liadin and Scoriath?” Fidelma opened.

“Why, not even a year, Sister.” The girl bobbed her head nervously as she sat. Her confused, somewhat frightened gaze traveled from Fidelma to the stony-faced Brehon and then back to Fidelma.

“A year? Did you enjoy working for them?”

“Oh yes. They were kind to me.”

“And you liked your work?” inquired Fidelma.

“Oh yes.”

“And you had no problems with either Liadin or Scoriath? Were there no arguments between them and you?”

“No. I was quite happy.”

“Was Liadin a caring wife and mother?”

“Oh yes.”

Fidelma decided to attempt another tack.

“Do you know anything about a Jewess? Did Scoriath know such a woman?”

For the first time Rathend raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at Fidelma. But he kept silent.

“A Jewess? No.”

“What happened on the day Scoriath was killed?”

The girl looked troubled for a moment and then her face lightened.

“You mean about the argument I heard? I went that morning to clean the house of Liadin and Scoriath as I usually did. They were in the bedchamber with the door closed, but their voices were raised in a most terrifying argument.”

“What were they saying?”

“I could not make out what was being said. The door was closed.”

“Yet you could clearly identify their voices and knew that they were engaged in a violent quarrel, is that it?”

“It is. I could hear only the tones of their voices raised in anger.”

Fidelma gazed at the ingenuous face of the house servant.

“You only heard Liadin’s voice through a closed door but can identify her voice clearly?”

The girl’s nod was emphatic.

“Very well. Do you think that you know my voice by now?”

The girl hesitated suspiciously but then nodded.

“And you would know your own mother’s voice?”

The girl laughed nervously at the apparent stupidity of the question.

Sister Fidelma rose abruptly.

“I am going into the other room. I will close the door and will speak at the top of my voice. I want you to see if you can hear what I say.”

Rathend sighed. He clearly felt that Fidelma was pursuing too theatrical an approach.

Fidelma went into the next room and closed the door behind her. Branar’s mother rose uncertainly as she entered.

“Is your questioning over, Sister?” she asked in a puzzled tone.

Fidelma smiled softly and shook her head.

“I want you to say anything that comes into your head, but say it as loud as you can. It is an experiment.”

The woman stared at Sister Fidelma as if she were mad but, at a nod from Fidelma, began talking a mixture of sense and gibberish as loud as she could until Fidelma signaled her to silence. Fidelma then opened the door and called to Branar. The girl rose uncertainly.

“Well,” smiled Fidelma, “what did you hear?”

“Oh, I heard you speaking loudly, Sister, but I could not understand all you said.”

Fidelma smiled broadly now.

“But you did hear my voice?”

“Oh yes.”

“Clearly my voice?”

“Oh yes.”

Fidelma turned and pushed the door open. Branar’s mother shuffled nervously forward, as perplexed as her daughter.

“The voice you heard was your own mother’s voice, Branar. Are you still sure you wish to swear that it was Liadin who was arguing with Scoriath behind the closed door?”

The chambers where Liadin and Scoriath had dwelt were a set of rooms in the fortress not far from the stable buildings beyond the central gate. Three chambers constituted the dwelling: a living room, a bedchamber leading off it and, with access from the bedchamber, a smaller chamber in which Liadin’s young son had his bed and in which Liadin apparently stored her clothes.

The rooms now seemed cold and bleak although they were filled with items which once spelt homeliness and comfort. Perhaps it was the lack of a fire in the hearth and the gloom of the day that enhanced the chill.

Rathend led the way, crossing the floor of the room in which meals were cooked and eaten, where an iron cauldron hung on a spit over the dead grey ashes.

“Scoriath was slain in this room,” Rathend explained, showing the way into the large bedchamber.

The granite blocks of the walls were covered with tapestries. There were no windows, and the room was dark. Rathend bent and lit a tallow candle. There was a large, ornately carved bed. The bedclothes, a jumbled mess of linen and blankets, were stained with what was obviously dried blood.

“Scoriath was lying there. The child, Cunobel, was found just by the door of the smaller chamber,” Rathend explained.

Fidelma noted the dark stains crossing the floor to the small arched door which led off the chamber. She saw, by the doorway, that there was a slightly larger pool of dried blood. But the stains also led beyond the chamber door.

She walked into the smaller chamber with Rathend, who held aloft the tallow candle, following her. The trail of dried blood led to a large wooden trunk as Conn had said it had. She noticed some footprints in the dried blood. They were large and must have been made by Conn during his investigation, obscuring the original footprints of the killer.

“That was the trunk in which Liadin’s bloodstained garment was found together with the knife,” the Brehon said. Next to the trunk was a small cot in which the boy, Cunobel, must have slept. “There are no bloodstains there so we can conclude that the child was slain where he was found.”

Fidelma did not reply but returned to the main bedchamber and examined it again.

“What are you looking for, Sister?” ventured Rathend.

“I do not know… yet.” Fidelma frowned suddenly, noticing a book satchel hanging from a peg. She reached into it and drew out a moderate-sized volume. She gazed with interest at the patterned binding, frowning slightly as she noted a few dark stains which spoilt the careful artistry of the leatherwork.

Reverently, she placed it on a nearby table and motioned for Rathend to hold the candle higher.

“Why,” she said softly, opening the first page, “it is a copy of the Hexapla of Origenes. What would Scoriath or Liadin be doing with this?”

The Brehon sighed impatiently.

“There is no law against the ownership of books.”

“But it is unusual,” insisted Fidelma as she turned the pages. It was a collection of Hebrew religious texts which Origenes, head of the Christian school of Alexandria, had copied three centuries before. He had rendered the text in parallel columns, in Hebrew, Greek and then in Latin.