Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“I have been a fool!” she said softly, as if to herself. Then she drew herself up again. “Suathar, is the work of Origenes one that is popular?”

“Not popular. As you must know, Sister, it is only of passing interest to we of the Faith because the Hebrew texts, which the great Origenes put together, are of a questionable nature, being the stories which we now call “The Apocrypha,’ from the Greek word-“

Fidelma raised a hand impatiently to silence him.

“Just so. Nowhere else is the story of Judith and Holofernes to be found?”

“None that I know of Sister.”

“Has the lady Liadin ever visited your library at the monastery?”

Suathar pursed his lips in thought.

“Yes. Several weeks ago.”

Fidelma turned with a grave face to the Brehon.

“I have finished my inquires, Rathend. I need to only see Liadin once more. The case may be heard tomorrow.”

“Then you will be entering a ‘not guilty’ plea for the lady Liadin?” asked Rathend.

Fidelma shook her head at the startled Brehon.

“No. I shall be making a plea of ‘guilty.’ Liadin has been clever, but not clever enough.”

Before Sister Fidelma entered Liadin’s small cell, she turned to Conn, the commander of the guard, whom she had asked to accompany her, and told him to remain outside the door in case he was needed.

As Liadin rose with bright expectation on her face, Fidelma positioned herself just inside the door with folded arms.

“I will defend you, Liadin,” she began coldly without preamble, “but only to seek some mitigation for your guilt. It has been hard for me to believe that you would attempt to use me in this evil plot.”

When the horror of realization at what Fidelma had said began to spread across her features, Liadin opened her mouth to protest.

“I know it all,” Fidelma interrupted. “You appealed to my intellectual vanity with a number of false clues which you thought would lead me to suspect Irnan. Above all, you relied on my human weakness, that of my long friendship with you, to convince me that you could never have done this deed.”

Liadin’s face was suddenly drained of emotion and she sat back on the cot abruptly.

“You learnt that Scoriath had never loved you,” went on Fidelma relentlessly. “You learnt that he was having an affair with Irnan. The crime was well planned. If you could not have him, neither would Irnan. You hatched a cunning double plot, You decided to kill him and send for me, leaving me a false trail so that I would defend you by following that trail to Irnan.”

“How could I do that?” The girl was defiant.

“You had discovered the story of Irnan’s parentage and it put you in mind of the story of Holofernes. You were always a good Greek scholar and decided to use that as the intellectual bait which you knew would appeal to my imagination. You checked the story in the Hexapla by Origenes on a visit to the library of the monastery of Moling. When the time was right, you sent to ask Suathar, in Scoriath’s name, to bring the book which would provide me with the next clue after you had dropped into your conversation with me that Scoriath was afraid of someone called the ‘Jewess.’“

Fidelma paused and gazed sadly at her friend.

“You took the book and hung it in the chamber. One unexpected thing occurred. You were overheard by Branar having a row with Scoriath. But that turned out to be no problem because, having convinced myself so firmly of your innocence, I cleverly used a trick to dismiss Branar’s information to my own satisfaction. Cleverness when used with prejudice is a formidable thing.

“You went off to your aunt. Later you returned unnoticed to the rath and entered your chambers. There was Scoriath. He had no cause to suspect you, and you struck him from behind. Perhaps it was then that you remembered… in the row that morning you had neglected to plant the main piece of evidence needed for me to follow the trail. You had neglected to mark the passage about Judith and Holofernes. You did so then, for there was blood which stained the leather binding and went unnoticed.

“Then,” Fidelma went on remorselessly, “then you went to hide in the stables and wait until Conn discovered the bodies. You appeared, pretending to have just returned from your aunt. You knew that you would be accused, but you had already sent for me and laid your false trail. The thing that was irritating my mind was the fact that you must have sent for me before the murder to allow me to reach here on time.”

“It is not true,” Liadin’s voice was broken now. “Even if I did kill Scoriath for jealousy, there is a flaw in your arguments and one I think you know in your heart.”

Fidelma raised her head and returned her friend’s gaze. Did she detect a triumph in that gaze?

“And what is that?” she asked softly.

“You know that I would not be capable of killing my own son. While you have that doubt you will do all you can to argue my case and clear me of this crime.”

“You are right,” Fidelma admitted. “I know that you could not have killed your son.”

Fidelma heard a movement outside the cell but did not take her eyes from Liadin’s triumphant gaze.

“Come in, Conn,” she called quietly and without turning her head. “Tell me why you had to kill Liadin’s little son.”

The fair haired young Tanist entered the cell with his sword drawn.

“For the same reason that I must now kill you,” he replied coldly. “The plot was more or less as you have described it. There was a slight difference. I was the leading spirit. Liadin and I were lovers.”

Liadin had begun crying softly, realizing the truth was finally out.

“I wanted my freedom from Scoriath to go with Conn. I knew Scoriath would not divorce me, for he was a man of principles. So there was no alternative. I had to make you believe that he was having an affair with Irnan….”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow in cynicism.

“Are you telling me that you did not know that Scoriath and Irnan were really lovers?”

Liadin’s look of startled surprise told Fidelma that she did not.

“Then you did not know that Scoriath would have divorced you had you simply asked him? Or that he remained with you only because of what he considered was his duty to you and his son?”

Liadin stood frozen in horror. Then she stammered: “But Conn… Conn said… Oh God! If only I had known… then all this could have been avoided. Conn and I could have been together without guilt.”

“That would not be so, would it, Conn, Tanist of the Uí Dróna?”

The young man’s expression was sullenly defiant.

“You see,” Fidelma went on, speaking to Liadin, “Conn was using you, Liadin. He persuaded you to work out the plan to implicate Irnan because if I followed your false trail and could demonstrate that Irnan was implicated, or at least was a suspect in Scoriath’s death, then she would have had to relinquish the chieftaincy of the Uí Dróna. A chieftain must be without blemish or suspicion. Who would benefit from that but the Tanist-the elected heir?”

Liadin had turned to Conn in disbelief.

“Deny it!” she cried. “Say it is not so!”

Conn shrugged arrogantly.

“Why gamble just for love when one can take power as well? We laid out the plot as you have deduced it, Fidelma of Kildare. Except for one thing: I also slew Scoriath. And when the child stumbled into the room and saw me, I had to kill him as I must now kill you….”

Conn raised his sword.

Fidelma flinched, closing her eyes. She heard Liadin scream. The blow was not delivered. She opened her eyes to find that Liadin was clinging to Conn’s sword arm while Rathend and two warriors crowded the cell to disarm and drag the struggling young man away.