Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“Not before he left?”

“I cannot be sure now. This matter has been a shock and I am a little confused as to the order of events.”

“Can you be sure whether there was anything else in the chalice when you poured the wine?”

“The chalice was clean.” The deacon’s voice was decisive on this point.

“There was no coating on the chalice, no clear liquid which you might have missed at the bottom?” pressed Fidelma.

“Absolutely not. The chalice was clean and dry.”

“How can you be so sure when you admit to confusion over events?”

“The ritual, which all deacons in this office fulfill, is that before the wine is poured, a small piece of white linen is taken and the inside of the chalice is polished. Only then is the wine poured.”

Fidelma felt frustrated.

The wine had been poisoned. It had been poisoned while it was in the chalice and not before. Yet the only time that the chalice was out of sight for a moment, according to the deacon, was when Father Cornelius had entered the sacristy. That had been the only opportunity to introduce poison into the chalice. But the deacon was not sure whether the priest had left before or after he poured the wine.

“What happened then?” she prompted Tullius, the deacon.

“The service was ready to start. I took the tray of bread and carried it to the altar. Then I returned for the chalice …”

Fidelma’s eyes sparkled with renewed interest.

“So the chalice stood here on its own while you carried the bread to the altar?”

The deacon was defensive.

“It was here only for a few seconds and I had left the door open between the sacristy and altar.”

“Nevertheless, it stood unobserved for a short while. During that period anyone might have entered the outer door and poisoned the wine, leaving before you noticed them.”

“It is possible, I suppose,” acceded the deacon. “But they would have had to have been quick to do so.”

“What then? You carried the wine to the altar? Yes. Then the service commenced. The chalice stood in full view of everyone during the service until the moment Father Cornelius blessed it and the Gaulish religieux came forward to receive communion.”

“Very well.”

Fidelma led the way back to where the small congregation was still sitting in silence. She felt their eyes upon her, suspicious and hostile. She dismissed the deacon and motioned for the priest, Father Cornelius, to join her.

“You are Father Cornelius, I believe?”

“I am.” The priest looked tired and was clearly distressed.

“How long have you been priest here?”

“For three years.”

“Do you have any idea how poison was introduced into the Eucharist wine?”

“None. It is an impossible thing.”

“Impossible?”

“Impossible that anyone would dare to perform such a sacrilege with the Eucharist.”

Fidelma sniffed slightly. “Yet it is obvious that someone did. If people are out to murder, then a matter of sacrilege becomes in-significant compared with the breaking of one of God’s commandments,” she observed dryly. “When Tullius, the deacon, brought the wine from the sacristy, was it placed on the altar?”

“It was.”

“It stood there in full sight of everyone and no one went near it until you blessed it and raised the chalice, turning to administer the sacrament to the first communicant?”

“No one went near it,” affirmed the priest.

“Did you know who would be the first communicant?”

Father Cornelius frowned.

“I am not a prophet. People come to receive the sacrament as and when they will. There is no order in their coming.”

“What was the cause of your differences with Abbot Miseno?”

Father Cornelius blinked.

“What do you mean?” There was a sudden tone of anxiety in his voice.

“I think my Latin is clear enough,” Fidelma replied phlegmati-cally.

Father Cornelius hesitated a moment and then gave a shrug.

“Abbot Miseno would prefer to appoint someone else to my office.”

“Why?”

“I disagree with the teachings of Augustine of Hippo, that everything is preordained, which is now a doctrine of our church. I believe that men and women can take the initial and fundamental steps toward their salvation, using their own efforts. If men and women are not responsible for their own good or evil deeds, then there is nothing to restrain them from an indulgence in sin. To argue, as Augustine has, that no matter what we do in life, God has already preordained everything so that it is already decided if our reward is heaven or hell, is to imperil the entire moral law. For my heresy, Abbot Miseno wishes to have me removed.”

Fidelma felt the harsh passion in the man’s voice.

“So? You would describe yourself as a follower of Pelagius?”

Father Cornelius drew himself up.

“Pelagius taught a moral truth. I believe men and women have the choice to become good or evil. Nothing is preordained. How we live our lives determines whether we are rewarded by heaven or hell.”

“But Pope Innocent declared Pelagius to be a heretic,” Fidelma pointed out.

“And Pope Zosimus declared him innocent.”

“Later to renounce that decision,” smiled Fidelma thinly. “Yet it matters not to me. Pelagius has a special place in the philosophy of the church in my country for he was of our blood and faith. Sufficient to say, Abbot Miseno holds to the teachings of Augustine of Hippo?”

“He does. And he would have me removed from here because I do not.”

“Yet Abbot Miseno has the authority to appoint whomsoever he likes as priest of this ecclesia?”

“He has.”

“Then surely he has the authority to dismiss you without argument?”

“Not without good cause. He must justify his actions to the bishop.”

“Ah yes. In Rome bishops have more authority than abbots. That is not so in Ireland. Yet, on the matter of Pelagius, surely heresy, even a just heresy, is cause enough?”

“But I do not openly preach the teachings of Pelagius nor those of Augustine. They are a subject for my conscience. I perform my duties to my congregation without complaint from them.”

“So you have shown the Abbot no good cause to dismiss you?”

“None.”

“But Abbot Miseno has suggested that you resign from this church?”

“He has.”

“And you have refused.”

“I have.”

“Did you know the Gaul who died?”

Again Cornelius blinked at the sudden change of subject of her questioning.

“I have seen him several times before.”

“Several times?”

“Himself and his sister. I believe that they are pilgrims staying in a nearby xenodochia. They have attended the mass here each day.”

“And the other Gaul, who seems so friendly with the girl?”

“I have seen him only once, yesterday. I think he has only recently arrived in Rome.”

“I see.”

“Sister, this is a great mystery to me. Why should anyone attempt to poison the wine and cause the death of all the communicants in the church today?”

Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at him.

“Do you think that the wine was meant to be taken by all the communicants?”

“What else? Everyone would come to take the bread and wine. It is the custom.”

“But not everyone did. The poison was so quick in its action that undoubtedly only the first person who took it would die and his death would have served as a warning to the others not to drink. That is precisely what happened.”

“Then if the wine were meant only for the Gaul, how could the person who poisoned the wine know that he would be the first to come forward to take it?”

“A good point. During the time that the Gaul attended the services here, did he take communion?”