Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Murchad nodded slowly in agreement and relief. Fidelma went blithely on.

“If not Murchad, what of Angaire, the trainer? He was not doing well for Bressal and had been told this very morning that Bressal was going to get rid of him. Bressal had made no secret of the fact that he had gone this very morning to see Illan in an attempt to persuade him to return to his stable and ride for him instead of Fáelán. Angaire had a better motive than Murchad.”

Angaire shifted uneasily where he stood. But Fidelma continued.

“You see, sticking to the line of argument about the horse race as the motive, there was only one other person with a motive who might benefit from putting the blame on Bressal.”

She turned toward Fáelán, the king. He stared at her in astonishment which swiftly grew into anger.

“Wait,” she cut his protests short. “Such a plot was too convoluted. Besides, everyone was of the opinion that Aonbharr could outdistance Ochain. There was no challenge there to be worried about. So there was no motive.”

She paused and looked around at their perplexed faces.

“It eventually became clear that the killing of Illan was not caused by rivalries on the race track. There was another motive for that crime. But was it the same motive as that for poisoning Aonbharr?”

They were all silent now, waiting for her to continue.

“The motive for Man’s death was as ageless as time. Unrequited love. Illan was young, handsome and his reputation among women was such that he had many lovers. He picked them up as one might pick up flowers, kept them until the affair withered and them threw them away. Am I not right?”

Fáelán was pale and he glanced surreptitiously at Muadnat.

“That is no crime, Fidelma. In our society, many still take second wives, husbands or lovers.”

“True enough. But one of the flowers which Illan had picked was not ready to be discarded. She went to his tent this morning and argued with him. And when he spurned her, when he said he would have no more to do with her, she, in a fit of rage, stabbed him to death. All it needed was one swift dagger blow under the rib cage.”

“If this is so,” said Énna, quietly, “why would she go to such lengths to put the blame on Bressal? Why poison Aonbharr? The laws of our society allow leniency to those who perpetrate such crimes of passion.”

Fidelma inclined her head. “A case could be made that any nonfatal injury inflicted by the woman in such circumstances does not incur liability. Our laws recognize the stirring of uncontrollable passion in such circumstances. In the matter of death she would be fined her victim’s honor price only. No other punishment would be necessary.”

“Then why, if this were so, did the woman conceal her crime, for the concealment brings forth greater punishment?” repeated Énna.

“Because there were two separate villainies at work here and one fed off the initial deed of the other,” replied Fidelma.

“I don’t understand. Who killed Illan?” Fáelán again glanced uneasily at his wife. “You say it was a woman. By attempting to conceal the crime such a woman, no matter her rank, if found guilty, would be placed into a boat with one paddle and a vessel of gruel and the mercy of God. Sister Fidelma,” his voice suddenly broke with passion, “is it Muadnat of whom you speak?”

Fáelán wife sat as if turned to stone.

Fidelma did not reply immediately but drew out of her mar-supium a belt with a bejewelled ceremonial sheath. There was a small dagger in it. She took out the dagger and handed it to Muadnat.

“Does the dagger belong to you, my lady?”

“It is mine,” Muadnat replied grimly.

Fáelán gasped in horror, as if his worst fears were confirmed.

“Then …?” he began.

Fidelma was shaking her head. “No, Dagháin killed Illan.”

There was a gasp of astonishment from the company and all eyes turned on the flushed face of Énna’s wife. Dagháin sat stunned for a moment by the revelation. Then, as if in a dream, she slowly rose to her feet and looked about her, as if searching out someone. “Liar! Betrayer!” she hissed venomously. Fidelma glanced quickly in the direction the woman was gazing and felt satisfied.

Dagháin now turned toward her and cursed her in a way which left no one in doubt as to her guilt. Énna had simply collapsed into a chair, immobile with shock.

After Dagháin had been removed to a place of confinement, Fidelma had to raise her hands to quell the questions that were thrown at her.

“Dagháin was seen coming to the Curragh early this morning. The apothecary, Sister Eblenn, saw her soon after she had been robbed which was just after breakfast. Dagháin therefore lied when she said that she had come later in the morning to the course. That lie alerted my suspicions. A suspicion which was increased when I realized that the arrow was not the murder weapon but the wound had been made by a dagger. When I first came before Fáelán, Muadnat had been wearing a ceremonial dagger sheath yet there was no dagger in it.”

“This I don’t understand,” Fáelán said. “Surely this would lay the suspicion on Muadnat?”

“Indeed, I was suspicious for a while, that I admit. But it was obvious to my eye that the dagger in Dagháin’s sheath was too small to fit comfortably in it. That I had to work out. Then I realized that she, at some stage, put Muadnat’s dagger in her sheath, is that not so?”

Muadnat spoke softly.

“She wanted an apple to calm her nerves and asked me for the loan of my dagger, saying she had mislaid her own. It was only a moment ago that I realized Dagháin had not returned it.”

“Dagháin,” Fidelma went on, “in her description of the finding of Illan, said that she had run straight to tell Énna. Yet she was seen running from his tent directly to her own tent. I searched her tent a moment ago. Thankfully, she had discarded her ceremonial belt and sheath. I was confirmed in my suspicion that the dagger did not belong to her but was that of Muadnat.”

“Then where was Dagháin’s own dagger?” demanded Laisran, intrigued.

“I found it where I suspected it would be, the blade is still covered with Illan’s blood. It was in Angaire’s saddle bag.”

Angaire, with a cry of rage, made to jump to the tent door but one of the Baoisgne, the king’s guards, stayed him with a drawn sword to his chest. Fidelma continued on without taking any notice of the drama.

“While Angaire did not kill Illan, he did poison Aonbharr, and then tried to place the guilt for both deeds on Bressal by planting the arrow and cena as evidence. Angaire’s actions obscured the real murderer of Illan. You see Angaire knew that he was about to be discarded by Bressal. I have already given you his motive. Bressal had been quite open in his intention to replace Angaire. Indeed, even if Illan had not refused Bressal’s offer to return to his stable, Angaire’s days as trainer were still numbered.

“Angaire had, I believe, already devised a plan to hurt Bressal. I believe his original intention was to poison Ochain. For that end, he stole some poisonous plants from the tent of Sister Eblenn early this morning. Then the mysteries of Fate itself took over. Angaire overheard Bressal arguing with Illan. But the plot did not occur to him then.

“It was only when he was with Murchad and Sílán a little while later, that he saw Dagháin fleeing from Alan’s tent. Her dress was disheveled and the ceremonial dagger missing. She fled to her own tent. He had made a lewd remark, an automatic remark. His companions, Sílán and Murchad, were leaving. Perhaps even before then the thought had struck him that his unthinking remark might be true and what if… his mind was thinking about the missing dagger.