Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

The deacon, assisting in the offering, rang a small bell and the officiating priest raised the chalice of wine and intoned: “The blood of Christ!” before moving forward to join the deacon, who had now taken up a silver plate on which the consecrated Host lay.

The small congregation moved forward to take their places in line before the priest. It was the handsome young religieux who took the first position, receiving the Host, placing it in his mouth and moving forward to receive the wine from the chalice held in the hands of the priest. As he turned away, his young female companion moved forward, being the next in line, to receive the sacrament.

Even as the religieux turned back to the congregation, his face suddenly distorted, he began to choke, his mouth gaping open, his tongue thrusting obscenely forward. A hand raised to his throat as the color of his agonized features went from red to blue. The eyes were wide and staring. Sounds came from him that reminded Fidelma of the squealing of a pig about to be slaughtered.

Before the horrified gaze of the rest of the congregation, the young man fell to the floor, his body writhing and threshing for several moments. Then it was suddenly still and quiet.

There was no sound for a moment or two. Everyone stood immobile with shock.

A moment later, the shriek of the young woman rent the air. She threw herself forward onto the body. She was on her knees crying and screaming in a strange language made incomprehensible by her distress.

As no one seemed capable of moving, Sister Fidelma came quickly forward.

“Do not touch the wine nor the bread,” she instructed the priest, who was still holding the chalice in his hands. “This man has been poisoned.”

She felt, rather than saw, the heads of the people turn to stare at her. She glanced round, observing expressions ranging from bewilderment to surprise.

“Who are you to give orders, Sister?” snapped a rough voice. It was the arrogant young custos pushing forward.

Fidelma raised her glinting green eyes to meet his dark suspicious ones.

“I hold no authority here, if that is what you mean. I am a stranger in this city. But in my own country I am a dálaigh, an advocate of the law courts, and know the effects of virulent poison when I see it.”

“As you say, you hold no authority here,” snapped the custos, clearly a young man who felt the honor of his rank and nationality. “And I-”

“The Sister is right, nevertheless, custos.”

The voice that interrupted was quiet, modulated but authoritative. It was the short, stocky man who spoke.

The young guard looked disconcerted at this opposition.

“I do hold authority here,” continued the short man, turning to Fidelma. “I am the Abbot Miseno and this ecclesia is part of my jurisdiction.”

Without waiting for the guard’s response, Abbot Miseno glanced at the officiating priest and deacon. “Do as the Sister says, Father Cornelius. Put down the wine and bread and ensure no one else touches it.”

Automatically, the priest obeyed, accompanied by the deacon, who placed his tray of bread carefully on the altar.

Abbot Miseno glanced down to the sobbing girl.

“Who was this man, daughter?” he demanded gently, bending down to place a hand on her shoulder.

The girl raised tear-stained eyes to him.

“Is he …?”

Miseno bent further to place his fingers against the pulse in the man’s neck. The action was really unnecessary. One look at the twisted, frozen features would have been enough to confirm that the young religieux was beyond all human aid. Nevertheless, the action was probably designed as a reassurance for the girl. The Abbot shook his head.

“He is dead, daughter,” he confirmed. “Who was he?”

The girl began sobbing uncontrollably again and could not answer.

“His name was Docco. He was from Pouancé in Gaul.”

It was the young Gaulish seaman, who had been standing with the religieux and the girl, who answered him.

“And you are?” asked Abbot Miseno.

“My name is Enodoc. I was a friend of Docco’s and also from Gaul. The girl is Egeria, Docco’s sister.”

The Abbot Miseno stood for a moment, his head bowed in thought. Then he glanced up and surveyed Sister Fidelma with some speculation in his eyes.

“Would you come with me a moment, Sister?”

He turned and led the way into a corner of the church, out of earshot of the others. Fidelma followed him in curiosity.

In the corner the Abbot turned, keeping his voice low.

“I studied at Bobbio, which was founded fifty years ago by Col-umban and his Irish clerics. I learnt much about your country there. I have heard about the function of your law system and how a dálaigh works. Are you truly such a one?”

“I am a qualified advocate of the law courts of my country,” replied Fidelma simply, without any false pride, wondering what the Abbot was driving at.

“And your Latin is fluent,” observed Miseno absently.

Fidelma waited patiently.

“It is clear that this monk, Docco, was poisoned,” went on Mis-eno after a moment’s pause. “Was this an accident or was there some deliberate plot to kill him? I think it behoves us to find out as soon as possible. If this story went abroad I shudder to think what interpretation would be given to it. Why, it might even stop people coming forward to receive the blessed sacrament. I would be grateful, Sister, if you would use your knowledge to discover the truth of this matter before we have to report this to higher authorities.”

“That will not please the young custos” Fidelma pointed out, with a slight gesture toward the impatient young guard. “He clearly thinks that he is better suited for this task.”

“He has no authority here. I have. What do you say?”

“I will make inquiries, Abbot, but I cannot guarantee any result,” Fidelma replied.

The Abbot looked woeful for a moment and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“The culprit must be one of this company. You are trained in such detection. If you could do your best…?”

“Very well. But I am also one of this company. How can you be sure that I am not responsible?”

Abbot Miseno looked startled for a moment. Then he smiled broadly.

“You entered the ecclesia toward the end of the service and stood at the back. How could you have placed the poison in the bread or wine while it was on the altar before the eyes of us all?”

“True enough. But what of the others? Were they all here throughout the service?”

“Oh yes. I think so.”

“Including yourself?”

The rotund Abbot smiled wryly.

“You may also count me among your suspects until you have gained knowledge to the contrary.”

Fidelma inclined her head.

“Firstly, then, I need to check how this poison was administered.”

“I will inform the impatient young custos that he must be respectful to you and obey your judgments.”

They returned to the group standing awkwardly around the body of the dead Gaul, whose head was still being cradled in the arms of his sobbing sister.

The Abbot cleared his throat.

“I have asked the Sister to conduct an inquiry into the cause of this death,” he began without preamble. “She is eminently qualified to do so. I trust you will all,” he paused slightly, and let his eyes dwell on the arrogant young custos, “ cooperate with her in this matter for it has my blessing and ecclesiastical authority.”

There was a silence. Some glances of bemusement were cast toward her.

Fidelma stepped forward.

“I would like you all to return to the positions you were occupying before this happened.” She smiled gently down at the girl. “You do not have to, if you wish, but there is nothing that you can do for your brother except truthfully answer the questions that I shall ask you.”