Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Ess was staring blankly at Fidelma. Fidelma responded with a gentle smile.

“I believe that you came here tonight with the intention of trying to poison your former husband as a matter of vengeance. Dathó saw that you had the vial which you were attempting to hide after the deed was done. I saw the two of you arguing over it. However, you had no opportunity to place the hemlock in Nechtan’s goblet. Importantly, it was not hemlock that killed him.”

She turned, almost sharply. “Isn’t that so, Gerróc?”

The elderly physician started and glanced quickly at her before answering.

“Hemlock, however strong the dose, does not act instantaneously,” he agreed pedantically. “This poison was more virulent than hemlock.” He pointed to the goblet. “You have already noticed the little crystalline deposits, Sister? It is realgar, what is called the ‘powder of the caves,’ used by those creating works of art as a colorant but, taken internally, it is a quick-acting poison.”

Fidelma nodded slowly as if he were simply conftrming what she knew already and then she turned her gaze back to those around the table. However, their eyes were focused on the young artist, Cuill.

Cuill’s face was suddenly white and pinched.

“I hated him but I would never take a life,” he stammered. “I uphold the old ways, the sanctity of life, however evil it is.”

“Yet this poison is used as a tool by artists like yourself,” Mar-ban pointed out. “Who among us would know this other than Ger-róc and yourself? Why deny it if you did kill him? Have we not said that we would support one another in this? I have already promised to pay the compensation on behalf of the person who did the deed.”

“What opportunity had I to put it in Nechtan’s goblet?” demanded Cuill. “You had as much opportunity as I had.”

Fidelma raised a hand to quell the sudden hubbub of accusation and counter-accusation.

“Cuill has put his finger on the all-important question,” she said calmly but firmly enough to silence them. They had all risen again and so she instructed: “Be seated.”

Slowly, almost unwillingly, they obeyed.

Fidelma stood at the spot in which Nechtan had sat.

“Let us consider the facts,” she began. “The poison was in the wine goblet. Therefore, it is natural enough to assume that it was in the wine. The wine is contained in that pitcher there.”

She pointed to where the attendant had left the wine pitcher on a side table.

“Marbán, call in the attendant, for it was he who filled Nechtan’s goblet.”

Marbán did so.

The attendant was a young man named Ciar, a dark-haired and nervous young man. He seemed to have great trouble in speaking when he saw what had happened in the room and he kept clearing his throat nervously.

“You served the wine this evening, didn’t you, Ciar?” demanded Fidelma.

The young man nodded briefly. “You all saw me do so,” he confirmed, pointing out the obvious.

“Where did the wine come from? Was it a special wine?”

“No. It was bought a week ago from a Gaulish merchant.”

“And did Nechtan drink the same wine as was served to his guests?”

“Yes. Everyone drank the same wine.”

“From the same pitcher?”

“Yes. Everyone had wine from the same pitcher during the evening,” Ciar confirmed. “Nechtan was the last to ask for more wine from the pitcher and I noticed that it was nearly empty after I filled his goblet. I asked him if I should refill it but he sent me away.”

Marbán pursed his lips, reflectively.

“This is true, Fidelma. We were all a witness to that.”

“But Nechtan was not the last to drink wine from that pitcher,” replied Fidelma. “It was Cuill.”

Daolgar exclaimed and turned to Cuill.

“Fidelma is right. After Ciar filled Nechtan’s goblet and left, and while Nechtan was talking to Dathó, Cuill rose from his seat and walked around Nechtan to fill his goblet from the pitcher of wine. We were all concentrating on what Nechtan had to say; no one would have noticed if Cuill had slipped the poison into Nechtan’s goblet. Cuill not only had the motive, but the means and the opportunity.”

Cuill flushed. “It is a lie!” he responded.

But Marbán was nodding eagerly in agreement.

“We have heard that this poison is of the same material as used by artists for coloring their works. Isn’t Cuill an artist? And he hated Nechtan for running off with his wife. Isn’t that motive enough?”

“There is one flaw to the argument,” Sister Fidelma said quickly.

“Which is?” demanded Dathó.

“I was watching Nechtan as he made his curious speech asking forgiveness. But I observed Cuill pass behind Nechtan and he did not interfere with Nechtan’s goblet. He merely helped himself to what remained of the wine from the pitcher, which he then drank, thus cormrming, incidentally, that the poison was placed in Nechtan’s goblet and not the wine.”

Marbán was looking at her without conviction.

“Give me the pitcher and a new goblet,” instructed Fidelma, irritably.

When it was done she poured the dregs which remained in the bottom of the pitcher into the goblet and considered them a moment before dipping her finger in them and gently touching her finger with her tongue.

She smiled complacently at the company.

“As I have said, the poison is not in the wine,” she reiterated. “The poison was placed in the goblet itself.”

“Then how was it placed there?” demanded Gerróc in exasperation.

In the silence that followed, Fidelma turned to the attendant. “I do not think that we need trouble you further, Ciar, but wait outside. We will have need of you later. Do not mention anything of this matter to anyone yet. Is that understood?”

Ciar cleared his throat noisily.

“Yes, Sister.” He hesitated. “But what of the Brehon Olcán? He has just arrived. Should I not inform him?”

Fidelma frowned.

“Who is this judge?”

Marbán touched her sleeve.

“Olcán is a friend of Nechtan’s, a chief judge of the Múscraige. Perhaps we should invite him in? After all, it is his right to judge this matter.”

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

“Was he invited here this night?” she demanded.

It was Ciar who answered her question.

“Only after the meal began. Nechtan requested me to have a messenger sent to Olcán. The message was to ask the judge to come here.”

Fidelma thought rapidly and then said: “Have him wait then but he is not to be told what has happened here until I say so.”

After Ciar had left she turned back to the expectant faces of her erstwhile meal guests.

“So we have learnt that the poison was not in the wine but in the goblet. This narrows the field of our suspects.”

Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that if the poison was placed in the goblet then it had to be placed there after the time that Nechtan drained one goblet of wine and when he called Ciar to refill his goblet. The poison had to be placed there after the goblet was refilled.”

Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra leant back in his chair and suddenly laughed hollowly.

“Then I have the solution. There are only two others in this room who had the opportunity to place the poison in Nechtan’s goblet,” he said smugly.

“And those are?” Fidelma prompted.

“Why, either Marbán or Gerróc. They were seated on either side of Nechtan. Easy for them to slip the poison into the goblet which stood before them while we were concentrating on what he had to say.”

Marbán had flushed angrily but it was the elderly physician, Gerróc, who suffered the strongest reaction.

“I can prove that it was not I!” he almost sobbed, his voice breaking almost pathetically in indignation.