Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“You know?” he asked sharply.

“I know a boil which can be lanced from a tumor,” she replied.

The old man sighed softly.

“At first I only meant to put fear into Nechtan. To make him suffer a torment of the mind for a few weeks before I lanced his boil or it burst of its own accord. Boils against the back of the ear can be painful. He believed me when I pretended it was a tumor and he had not long to live. I did not know the extent of his evil mind nor that he would kill himself to spite us all.”

Fidelma nodded slowly.

“His blood is still on his own hands,” she said, seeing the old man’s troubled face.

“But the law is the law. I should make confession.”

“Sometimes justice takes precedence over the law,” Fidelma replied cheerfully. “Nechtan suffered justice. Forget the law, Ger-róc, and may God give you peace in your declining years.”

She raised a hand, almost in blessing, turned her horse and continued on her way toward Cashel.

“The matter is clear to me. I cannot understand why the Abbot should be bothered to send you here.”

Father Febal was irritable and clearly displeased at the presence of the advocate in his small church, especially an advocate in the person of the attractive, red-haired religieuse who sat before him in the stuffy vestry. In contrast to her relaxed, almost gentle attitude, he exuded an attitude of restlessness and suspicion. He was a short, swarthy man with pale, almost cadaverous features, the stubble of his beard, though shaven, was blue on his chin and cheeks and his hair was dark like the color of a raven’s wing. His eyes were deep-set but dark and penetrating. When he expressed his irritability his whole body showed his aggravation.

“Perhaps it is because the matter is as unclear to the Abbot as it appears clear to you,” Sister Fidelma replied in an innocent tone. She was unperturbed by the aggressive attitude of the priest.

Father Febal frowned; his narrowed eyes scanned her face rapidly, seeking out some hidden message in her features. However, Fidelma’s face remained a mask of unaffected candor. He compressed his lips sourly.

“Then you can return to the Abbot and report to him that he has no need for concern.”

Fidelma smiled gently. There was a hint of a shrug in the position of her shoulders.

“The Abbot takes his position as father of his flock very seriously. He would want to know more details of this tragedy before he could be assured that he need not concern himself in the matter. As the matter is so clear to you, perhaps you will explain it to me?”

Father Febal gazed at the religieuse, hearing for the first time the note of cold determination in her soft tones.

He was aware that Sister Fidelma was not merely a religieuse but a qualified advocate of the Brehon Law courts of the five kingdoms. Furthermore, he knew that she was the young sister of King Colgú of Cashel himself, otherwise he might have been more brusque in his responses to the young woman. He hesitated a moment or two and then shrugged indifferently.

“The facts are simple. My assistant, Father Ibor, a young and indolent man, went missing the day before yesterday. I had known for some time that there had been something troubling him, something distracting him from his priestly duties. I tried to talk to him about it but he refused to be guided by me. I came to the church that morning and found that the golden crucifix from our altar and the silver chalice, with which we dispense the communion wine, were both missing. Once I found that Father Ibor had also vanished from our small community here, it needed no great legal mind to connect the two events. He had obviously stolen the sacred objects and fled.”

Sister Fidelma inclined her head slowly.

“Having come to this conclusion, what did you do then?”

“I immediately organized a search. Our little church here is attended by Brother Finnlug and Brother Adag. I called upon them to help me. Before entering the order, Finnlug was master huntsman to the Lord of Maine, an excellent tracker and huntsman. We picked up the trail of Ibor and followed it to the woods nearby. We were only a short distance into the woods, we came across his body. He was hanging from the branch of a tree with the cord of his habit as a noose.”

Sister Fidelma was thoughtful.

“And how did you interpret this sight?” she asked quietly.

Father Febal was puzzled.

“How should I interpret this sight?” he demanded.

Fidelma’s expression did not change. “You tell me that you believed that Father Ibor had stolen the crucifix and chalice from the church and ran off.”

“That is so.”

“Then you say that you came across him hanging on a tree.”

“True again.”

“Having stolen these valued items and ran off, why would he hang himself? There seems some illogic in this action.”

Father Febal did not even attempt to suppress a sneer.

“It should be as obvious to you as it was to me.”

“I would like to hear what you thought.” Fidelma did not rise to his derisive tone.

Father Febal smiled thinly.

“Why, Father Ibor was overcome with remorse. Knowing that we would track him down, realizing how heinous his crime against the Church was, he gave up to despair and pronounced his own punishment. He therefore hanged himself. In fact, so great was his fear that we would find him still alive, he even stabbed himself as he was suffocating in the noose, the knife entering his heart.”

“He must have bled a lot from such a wound. Was there much blood on the ground?”

“Not as I recall.” There was distaste in the priest’s voice as if he felt the religieuse was unduly occupied with gory detail. “Anyway, the knife lay on the ground below the body where it had fallen from his hand.”

Fidelma did not say anything for a long while. She remained gazing thoughtfully at the priest. Father Febal glared back defi-antly but it was he who dropped his eyes first.

“Was Father Ibor such a weak young man?” Fidelma mused softly.

“Of course. What else but weakness would have caused him to act in this manner?” demanded the priest.

“So? And you recovered both the crucifix and chalice from his person, then?”

A frown crossed Father Febal’s features as he hesitated a moment. He made a curiously negative gesture with one hand.

Fidelma’s eyes widened and she bent forward.

“You mean that you did not recover the missing items?” she pressed sharply.

“No,” admitted the priest.

“Then this matter is not at all clear,” she observed grimly.

“Surely, you cannot expect the Abbot to rest easy in his mind when these items have not been recovered? How can you be so sure that it was Father Ibor who stole them?”

Fidelma waited for an explanation but none was forthcoming.

“Perhaps you had better tell me how you deem this matter is clear then?” Her voice was acerbic. “If I am to explain this clarity to the Abbot, I must also be clear in my own mind. If Father Ibor felt that his apprehension was inevitable and he felt constrained to inflict the punishment of death on himself when he realized the nearness of your approach, what did he do with the items he had apparently stolen?”

“There is one logical answer,” muttered Father Febal without conviction.

“Which is?”

“Having hanged himself, some wandering thief happened by and took the items with him before we arrived.”

“And there is evidence of that occurrence?”

The priest shook his head reluctantly.

“So that is just your supposition?” Now there was just a hint of derision in Fidelma’s voice.

“What other explanation is there?” demanded Father Febal in annoyance.