Peter Tremayne - The Banshee

‘I can understand that,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Perhaps you should have had Brother Abán mix you a sleeping draught.’

Blinne sniffed. ‘If there was need for that, I would not have needed to bother him. My sister and I were raised knowing how to mix our herbal remedies.’

‘Of course. How do you feel now? — physically, I mean.’

‘As can be expected. I am not feeling well. I feel nauseous and have a headache.’

Fidelma smiled softly and rose. ‘Then I have taxed you too long.’

Blinne followed her example.

‘Where would I find your sister, Bláth?’

‘I think she went to see Glass the miller.’

‘Good, for I have need to see him as well.’

Blinne stood frowning at the door. ‘You have been told that Glass is claiming he heard this wailing in the night?’

‘I have been told.’

Blinne extended her front teeth over her lower lip for a moment, pressing down hard. ‘I did not hear any noises in the night. But…’

Fidelma waited. Then she prompted: ‘But…?’

‘Could it be true? Bláth said…people believe…I…I don’t know what to believe. Many people believe in the Banshee.’

Fidelma reached out a hand and laid it on the young woman’s arm. ‘If the wailing of the hills exists, it is said her task is to be the harbinger of death, lamenting the passing of a soul from his world to the Otherworld. The belief is that the Banshee merely warns; she is never the instrument of death. Whether you believe that is your own affair. Personally, I believe that the Banshee, indeed, all the ghostly visitations that I have encountered, are merely visible manifestations of our own fears, fears whose images we cannot contain within the boundaries of our dreams.’

‘And yet — ’

‘I tell you this, Blinne,’ Fidelma interrupted in a cold voice. ‘Your husband was killed neither by a Banshee nor by animal agency… A human hand killed him. Before this day is out, the culprit will stand before me.’

Brother Abán had directed her along the path towards Glass’s mill. The path ran alongside a small stream that twisted itself down to feed the broad river, the Siúr. As she followed the path through a copse of birch trees she heard a strong masculine voice. It was singing:

‘No pleasure

that deed I did, tormenting her,

tormenting her I treasure…’

Fidelma came upon a young man sitting on a rock by the stream. He heard the snap of a twig beneath her feet and swung his face round, flushing crimson as if he had been caught in a guilty deed.

‘Greetings, Tadhg,’ Fidelma said, recognising him.

He frowned; the crimson on his cheeks deepened. ‘You know me?’

Fidelma did not answer, for that much was obvious. ‘I am Sister — ’

‘Fidelma,’ broke in the young man. ‘News of your arrival has spread. We are a small community.’

‘Of course. How well did you know Ernán?’ she went on without further preamble.

The young man hesitated. ‘I knew him,’ he said defensively.

‘That’s not what I asked. I said, how well? I already presume that everyone in this community knows each other.’

Tadhg shrugged indifferently. ‘We grew up together until I went to the bardic school, which has now been displaced by the monastery founded by Finnan the Leper.’

‘The place called Finnan’s Height? I knew of the old school there. When did you return here?’

‘About a year ago.’

‘And presumably you renewed your friendship with Ernán then?’

‘I did not say that I was his friend, only that we grew up together, as most people here of my age did.’

‘Does that mean that you did not like him?’ Fidelma asked.

‘One does not have to like everyone one knows or grows up with.’

‘There is truth in that. Why didn’t you like him?’

The young man grimaced. ‘He was arrogant and thought himself superior to…to…’

‘A poet?’ supplied Fidelma.

Tadhg looked at her and then lowered his eyes as if in agreement.

‘He was a farmer and thought strength and looks were everything. He called me a weak parasite fit for nothing, not even to clean his pigsty. Most people knew how arrogant he was.’

‘Yet I am told that Ernán was well liked and had no enemies in the world.’

‘Then you were told wrong.’

‘I was told by Blinne.’

‘Blinne?’ The young man’s head jerked up and again came an uncontrollable rush of blood to his cheeks.

Fidelma made an intuitive leap forward.

‘You like Blinne very much don’t you?’

A slightly sullen expression now moulded the young poet’s features.

‘Did she tell you that? Well, we grew up together, too.’

‘Nothing more than an old friendship?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Saying? I am asking a question. If you disliked Ernán so much, you must surely not have approved of Blinne being married to him.’

‘You would soon find that out from anyone in the community,’ admitted Tadhg sullenly. ‘I do not deny it. Poor Blinne. She did not have the courage to leave him. He dominated her.’

‘Are you saying that she did not love him?’

‘How could she? He was a brute.’

‘If she disliked the marriage, there are nine reasons in law why she could have divorced him and more why she could have separated from him.’

‘I tell you that she did not have the courage. He was a powerful, controlling man and it is poetic justice that he was taken by the Banshee, whether you call it Banshee or wolf. That he was a beast and the stronger beast of the night attacked him and tore out his throat was poetic justice.’

The young man finished his speech with defiance.

‘Poetic?’ Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at him. ‘Where were you the night before last?

Where were you when Ernán was killed?’

‘In my house. Asleep.’

‘Where is your house?’

‘Up on that hillside.’ He raised an arm to gesture in the direction.

‘Was anyone with you?’

The young man looked outraged. ‘Of course not!’

‘A pity,’ Fidelma said softly.

‘What do you mean?’ Tadhg blinked, disconcerted.

‘Just that I would like to eliminate you from the vicinity of Ernán’s farmstead. He was murdered, his throat cut, and you have just given me a very good reason why you might be suspected of it.’

Now Tadhg’s face was suddenly drained of blood. ‘I was told that he had his throat ripped out,’ he said quietly. ‘I presumed that it was by a wolf, although many superstitious people are talking about the Banshee.’

‘Who told you that this was how he died?’

‘It is common talk. You say he was murdered? How can you be so sure?’

Fidelma did not bother to answer.

‘Well, I did not do it. I was in my bed, asleep.’

‘If that is the truth, then you have presented me with another suspect,’ she said reflectively.

‘Blinne.’

Tadhg swallowed rapidly. ‘She would never…that is not possible. She had not enough courage to divorce Ernán. She was too gentle to strike him down.’

‘Human beings react in peculiar ways. If not Blinne, nor you, then who else had cause to hate Ernán, a man who was supposed to have no enemies?’

Tadhg raised his hands in a helpless, negative gesture.

‘I will want to see you again later, Tadhg.’

Fidelma turned and resumed her progress along the path, her brow furrowed in thought.

Bláth had already left Glass’s mill when Fidelma reached there.

The miller was a genial, round-faced man of middle age with twinkling grey-blue eyes, which might well have been the reason for his name, which indicated such a colouring. He was a stocky man, clad in a leather apron and open shirt, his muscles bulging as he heaved a sack of flour into a cart.