Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Irél glanced at his subordinate with a look of derision.

“Don’t the teachings of Patrick’s first council tell us there is no such thing as witchcraft?” he rebuked, before turning to Fidelma. “There must be an explanation for this, Sister.”

Fidelma smiled appreciatively at the man’s pedestrian approach.

“There is an explanation for everything,” she agreed, as she let her eyes wander into the interior of the tomb. “Sometimes it is not easily seen, however.” Then she turned back to Colmán. “Would you consult with the steward of the convention and see if Fiacc was in attendance and whether he was due to speak?”

Colmán hesitated only a moment before hurrying away on his task.

Fidelma bent again to the corpse. There was no disputing the cause of death. The shaft of wood, like an arrow, was stuck in the back of the corpse under the shoulder blade.

“The worst place to try to stab a man,” sniffed Irél. “To stab him in the back,” he added, when Fidelma glanced up question-ingly at him. “You can never be sure of inflicting a mortal wound. There are too many bones in the way of a vital organ, any of which might deflect the blow. It is better to stab from the front, in and up under the rib cage.”

He spoke with the relish of a warrior.

“So you would say that whoever delivered the blow was an amateur when it came to killing?” asked Fidelma drily.

Irél considered the point.

“Not necessarily. The implement has been inserted slightly to the side and with an upward thrust toward the heart. The killer knew what he was about. He was aiming to pierce the heart immediately. Nevertheless, the victim lived on for a while. If he had not, we would never have heard his cries and discovered the body.”

“You are very observant, Irél. But why do you ascribe the killing to a man?”

Irél shrugged indifferently.

“It is logical. Look at the depth at which the wood is buried in the flesh. It would take strength to thrust it in so far.”

Fidelma could not fault the logic. But she was examining the shaft of wood with more interest. It was a piece of aspen, some eighteen inches or more in length, and it was inscribed with Ogham characters. She ran her finger over the cut letters, feeling the faint stickiness of the sap. The words meant, “The gods protect us.” It was now obvious what it was. The aspen wand was called a fé -an instrument by which corpses and graves were measured. It was generally regarded as an unlucky object and no one, would willingly touch afé unless they had need to.

Even Fidelma felt that she had to summon a special courage before she reached over and yanked the piece of wood from the corpse of Fiacc. She immediately saw that it was no ordinary fé. Where the shaft had been driven in, it had been whittled into a sharp point and, when she’d wiped the blood on the clothes of the corpse, her eyes narrowed as she observed that this point had been hardened by fire.

Tressach, standing nearby, was gazing aghast at Fidelma’s handling of the wooden fé.

“Sister,” he reproached, “it is highly unlucky to handle that. And to handle the very f é that measured this tomb for Tigernmas…”

Fidelma did not reply. She rose to examine the rest of the tomb.

It was an oval-shaped chamber cut into a mound of earth with its floors flagged with stones while granite blocks lined the walls and were placed so that they formed a natural archlike structure across the entire roof. The length of the tomb was about fifteen feet, and its width a little more than twelve. Fidelma was thankful that the open doors of the tomb had allowed fresher, chill evening air to dispel the fetid atmosphere.

There was no need to ask where the remains of Tigernmas were. At the far end of the tomb, in a central position, stood an upright, rusting iron frame. In it, almost crumbled to pieces, were the remains of a skeleton. There were some fragments of clothing on it; a metal belt buckle and a rusty sword had fallen nearby. It had been the custom for the ancients to bury their chieftains and great rulers standing upright and facing their enemies, sword clasped in their dead hand. This iron cage had obviously been designed to keep the corpse upright in the burial chamber. By this method, it was said, the aura of the dead was supposed to protect the living. The skull of the skeleton had fallen to one side in the cage so that its eyeless sockets appeared to be staring with malignant force in the direction of the dead Fiacc. The skeletal grin seemed to be one of satisfaction. Fidelma felt irritated at the way her imagination interpreted these images.

To one side of the tomb were the rotting remains of a chariot. This would be the king’s most cherished vehicle, left there to help transport him to the Otherworld. Jars and containers of what had once been his favorite foods and drink stood nearby, large bronze and copper containers made by skilled craftsmen.

Fidelma moved forward and her foot caught at something. She bent down and picked up a small but weighty bar of metal. Having examined it closely by Irél’s lantern, she realized that it was silver. She set it down carefully, and as she did so she saw a few brooches scattered about. They were of semiprecious jewels set in gold mountings. Again, it was the custom to bury a portion of wealth with a great chieftain, for he would also need some means to help him in his journey to the Otherworld. Frowning thoughtfully, Fi-delma continued to examine the rest of the tomb.

By the beam of the lantern, Fidelma noticed that a small trail of blood led from a point before the iron cage of the skeleton to where the corpse of Fiacc lay before the doors. She could also see scratch marks on the granite floor.

Irél, standing beside her, articulated her thoughts.

“He was obviously stabbed while standing by the cage and then contrived to drag himself to the doors.”

Fidelma did not bother to glance at him.

“Obviously,” she replied shortly.

At the entrance of the tomb, Garbh, the keeper of the cemetery, was standing with Tressach and the other warrior, watching her progress with fascination.

“Speaking of things obvious, does it not surprise you that there is so little dust and dirt on the floor of this tomb?” she asked Irél. “It is almost as if it had been recently swept.”

Irél stared at her, wondering whether she was making a joke. But she had passed on, examining the floor and looking carefully at one of the stone slabs that made up its surface. She pointed to the scratch marks across the floor.

“Bring your lantern closer,” she instructed. “What do you make of those?”

The captain shrugged. “It is probably where the floor stones were scored by ropes while they were being dropped into place.”

“Exactly so,” agreed Fidelma quietly. “And have you noticed anything else that is curious about this sepulcher?”

Irél glanced quickly around but shook his head.

“Tigernmas, although he subsequently developed an evil reputation, is accredited as the king who first encouraged gold and silver to be smelted and works of great art to be produced in this land.”

“I have heard the stories,” replied Irél.

“And it was the custom of our people to place grave goods in the tombs, together with symbols of their wealth and power.”

“That much is well known,” acknowledged Irél, slightly irritated at Fidelma for not addressing the more urgent problem.

“Apart from a few golden brooches and a silver bar, which I see lying on the floor there as if they were hurriedly discarded, where are the riches that one would have expected to find in this tomb? It is singularly devoid of any such items.”

Irél tried to see some connection that Fidelma’s remark might have with the murder of Fiacc but failed. He was not interested in the customs of the ancients.