Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“What’s your name?” she asked as she sipped the drink.

“Fogartach,” replied the bo-aire stiffly, realizing that he had trespassed by neglecting to introduce himself properly to his guest.

Sister Fidelma felt the time had come to ensure the proud young man knew his place.

“Well, Fogartach, as local magistrate, what qualification in law do you hold?”

The young man’s head rose a little in vanity.

“I studied at Daingean Chúis for four years. I am qualified to the level of dos and know the Bretha Nemed or Law of Privileges as well as any.”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly at his arrogance.

“I am qualified in law to the level of Anruth,” she said quietly, “having studied eight years with the Brehon Morann of Tara.”

The bó-aire colored, perhaps a little embarrassed that he had sounded boastful before someone who held a degree that was only one step below the highest qualification in the five kingdoms of Eireann. Little more needed to be said. Sister Fidelma had, as gently as she could, established her authority over the bó-aire.

“The matter is straightforward enough,” Fogartach said, a little sulky. “It was an accident. The woman slipped and fell down the cliff.”

“Then the investigation should not take us long,” replied Sister Fidelma with a bright smile.

“Investigation? I have my report here.”

The young man turned with a frown to a sheaf of paper.

“Fogartach,” Fidelma said slowly and deliberately, “Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne is anxious that everything is, as you say, straightforward. Do you realize who the woman was?”

“She was a religieuse, such as yourself.”

“A religieuse? Not just any religieuse, Fogartach. The woman was Cuimne, daughter of the High King.”

The young man frowned.

“I knew her name was Cuimne and that she carried herself with some authority. I did not realize she was related to the High King.”

Sister Fidelma grimaced helplessly.

“Did you also not realize that she was the Abbess Cuimne from Ard Macha, personal representative of the most powerful churchman in Éireann?”

The young bó-aire’s face was red with mortification. He shook his head silently.

“So you now see, Fogartach,” went on Fidelma, “that the chieftain of the Corco Dhuibhne cannot allow any question to arise over the manner of her death. Abbess Cuimne was an important person whose death may have ramifications at Tara as well as Ard Macha.”

The young bó-aire bit his lip, seeking a way to justify himself.

“Position and privilege do not count for much on this little wind-swept rock, Sister,” he replied in surly fashion.

Fidelma’s eyes widened.

“But they count with Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne, for he is answerable to the King of Cashel and the King of Cashel is answerable to the High King and to the Archbishop of Ard Macha. That is why Fathan has sent me here,” she added, now deciding the time had come to be completely brutal with the truth.

She paused to let the young man consider what she was saying before continuing.

“Well, take me through what you know of this matter, Fogar-tach.”

The bó-aire sat back uneasily, bit his lip for a moment and then resigned himself to her authority.

“The woman… er, the Abbess Cuimne arrived on the island four days ago. She was staying at the island’s bruighean, the hostel run by Be Bail, the wife of Súilleabháin, the hawk-eyed, a local fisherman. Be Bail has charge of our island hostel. Not that we have much use for it, few people ever bother to visit our island.”

“What was Abbess Cuimne doing here?”

The bó-aire shrugged.

“She did not say. I did not even know she was an abbess but simply thought her to be a member of some community come here to find isolation for a while. You know how it is with some reli-gieuses? They often seek an isolated place to meditate. Why else should she be here?”

“Why indeed?” Fidelma echoed softly and motioned the young man to continue.

“She told Be Bail that she was leaving the island yesterday. Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis would have arrived about noon. She packed her satchel after breakfast and went off to walk alone. When she didn’t return at noon, and Ciardha’s boat had left, Be Bail asked me to keep a lookout for her. The island is not so large that you can get lost.

“Well, a little after lunch, Buachalla came running to me …”

“Who is Buachalla?”

“A young boy. A son of one of the islanders.”

“Go on.”

“The boy had spotted Abbess Cuimne’s body below Aill Tuatha, that’s the cliffs on the north of the island. I organized a couple of men together with the apothecary…”

“An apothecary? Do you have a resident apothecary on the island?” Fidelma interposed in surprise.

“Corcrain. He was once personal physician to the Eóganacht of Locha Léin. He had a desire to withdraw to the island a year ago. He sought solitude after his wife’s death but has become part of our community, practicing his art for the good of the islanders.”

“So, a couple of islanders, the apothecary and yourself, all followed the young boy, Buachalla?”

“We found the body of Abbess Cuimne at the foot of the cliffs.”

“How did you get down to it?”

“Easy enough. There’s a stony beach under the cliffs at that point. There is an easy path leading down to it. The path descends to the stretch of rocks about a half-mile from where she fell. At the point she fell, incidentally, cliffs rise to their highest point. It was just under the highest point that we found the body.”

“Did Corcrain examine her?”

“He did so. She was dead so we carried her back to his bothán where he made a further examination and found…”

Sister Fidelma held up her hand.

“I’ll speak to the apothecary shortly. He will tell me what he found. Tell me, did you make a search of the area?”

The bó-aire frowned and hesitated.

“Search?”

Sister Fidelma sighed inwardly.

“After you found the body, what then?”

“It was obvious what had happened. Abbess Cuimne had been walking on the edge of the cliffs, slipped and fell. As I said, it is three hundred feet at that point.”

“So you did not search the top of the cliff or the spot where she fell?”

Fogartach smiled faintly.

“Oh, her belongings, such as she carried, were with Be Bail at the hostel. She carried little else save a small satchel. You must know that religieuses carry but little with them when they travel. There was no need to look further. I have her belongings here, Sister. The body has already been buried.”

Sister Fidelma bit her tongue in exasperation at the ignorant conceit of the young man.

“Where do I find Corcrain, the apothecary?”

“I’ll show you,” said the bó-aire, rising.

“Just point me in the right direction,” Fidelma replied sarcastically. “I promise not to get lost.”

The young bó-aire was unable to prevent an expression of irritation from crossing his face. Fidelma smiled maliciously to herself. She suspected that the young bó-aire’s arrogance was due to the fact that he considered her unworthy of her office because of her sex. Some of the island people, she knew, adhered to curious notions.

Corcrain’s bothán, or cabin, stood only two hundred yards away across the rising ground, one of many well-spaced stone buildings strung out across the slopes of the island like rosary beads. The slopes rose from the sea to stretch toward the comblike rocks forming the back of the island which sheltered the populated area from the fierce north winds.