Peter Tremayne - The Spider's Web

Menma gestured to the stable entrance where they could see the middle-aged warrior who had greeted them on their arrival in conversation with a younger man.

‘There are Duban and Crítán.’

He made to leave but Fidelma stayed him.

‘One more thing. Do you usually rise before first light to attend to the horses?’

‘Always. Most people here are up at sunrise.’

‘Did you rise before first light this morning to attend to the horses?’

Menma frowned.

‘This morning?’

Fidelma tried to control her irritation.

‘Did you attend to the horses this morning?’ she repeated sharply.

‘I have told you, each morning before first light I attend to them.’

‘And what time did you go to bed last night?’

Menma shook his head as if trying to remember.

‘Late, I think.’

‘You think?’

‘I was drinking until late.’

‘Was anyone with you?’

The brawny man shook his head.

When he had gone she glanced at Eadulf who was staring at her, obviously perplexed.

‘What had Menma’s actions this morning to do with the murders of last week?’ he demanded.

‘Did you recognise him?’ Fidelma asked.

Eadulf frowned.

‘Recognise who? Menma?’

‘Yes, of course!’ Fidelma was irked at Eadulf’s slowness.

‘No. Should I have done so?’

‘I am positive that he was one of the men who attacked the hostel this morning.’

Eadulf gaped in astonishment. It was almost on the tip of his tongue to say ‘Are you sure?’ but he realised that it would merely bring forth an angry retort. Fidelma would not say she was positive, if she were not.

‘Then he was lying.’

‘Exactly so. I swear he was the same man. You will recall that the attackers rode close by us. I observed one of them with particularly ugly features and a bushy red beard. I do not think that he saw me to recognise me again. But it was Menma.’

‘It is not the only mystery here. Why is it that everyone is accepting Móen as guilty but making no effort to discover why he killed Eber and the woman Teafa?’

Fidelma gave him an approving nod at the aptness of the observation.

‘Let us go and see how Menma’s story accords with that of Móen.’

They walked across to the two warriors standing by the stable doors. The younger man, scarcely more than a youth, had dirty fair hair and rather coarse features, and was lounging against the door post. A round shield hung loosely from his shoulder and he wore a workmanlike sword at his left side. Both men had turned to watch Fidelma and Eadulf approach. The younger warrior did not shift his lounging attitude as he stared with unconcealed curiosity at Fidelma. Silence had fallen between them.

‘Are you truly the Brehon?’ The question was uttered by the youth. His voice sounded as if he suffered a perpetual sore throat. Fidelma did not reply but showed her disapproval of his greeting by turning her attention to the middle-aged warrior.

‘I am told that your name is Dubán and that you command the bodyguard of the chieftain?’

The burly warrior shifted uneasily.

‘That is so. This is Crítán, who is one of the guard. Crítán is …’

‘Champion of Araglin!’ The young man’s voice was boastful.

‘Champion? At what?’ Only Eadulf could tell that Fidelma was irritated by the pomposity of the youth as she acknowledged him.

Crítán was not deflated by her question.

‘You name it, sister. Sword, lance or bow. I was the one sent to Cashel to inform the king. I think he was impressed with me. I mean to join his bodyguard.’

‘And does the king of Cashel know of your great ambition?’ she asked. Fidelma’s expression did not alter. It was impossible to tell whether she was amused or angry at the youth’s impertinence. Eadulf decided that she was scornful of the boy.

Critan did not hear the irony in her voice.

‘I have not told him yet. But once he knows of my reputation, he will accept my services.’

Fidelma saw that Dubán looked uncomfortable at his subordinate’s bragging tones.

‘Dubán, a word with you.’ She drew him aside, ignoring the piqued expression on the youth’s face.

‘You realise that I am an advocate of the courts?’

‘I have heard as much,’ agreed the commander of the bodyguard. ‘The news of your coming is now common knowledge in the rath.’

‘Good. I now wish to see Móen.’

The warrior jerked a thumb across his shoulder to the closed stable door.

‘He is in there.’

‘So I am told. I will wish to question you on your part in discovering the body of Teafa but at this moment I shall deal with Móen. Has he said anything since you detained him?’

She was confounded by Dubán’s expression of confusion.

‘How could he do that?’

Fidelma was about to reply but decided it was better to see Móen before pressing any further.

‘Unlock the door,’ she instructed.

Dubán motioned to his boastful subordinate to do as she bid.

Inside, the stable was dark, dank and stale.

‘I’ll get a lamp,’ Dubán said apologetically. ‘We have no place to confine prisoners and so we turned out the horses which Eber kept here and put them in the pasture. This has been converted into a prison.’

Fidelma sniffed disapprovingly as she peered into the blackness.

‘Surely there must have been somewhere better to confine him? This place reeks enough without the added indignity of darkness. Why wasn’t a light left for the prisoner?’

The young warrior, Crítán, chuckled loudly behind her.

‘You have a wit, lady. That is rich!’

Dubán gruffly ordered the youth to return to his post outside and then shuffled into the darkness. Fidelma and Eadulf, as theireyes adjusted to the gloom, could see the shadowy outline of his figure bending over something, then they heard a sound as he struck a flint and a spark caught an oil wick which began to glimmer. The warrior turned with a lamp in his hand. He beckoned them further inside the cavernous stables and pointed to the far corner.

‘There he is! There is Móen the killer of Eber.’

Fidelma moved forward.

Dubán held up the lamp as high as he could in order to shed its light around the smelly interior. In the far corner was what seemed, at first, to be a bundle of clothes. Dirty, smelling rough homespuns. The bundle twitched and a chain rattled. Fidelma swallowed hard as she saw that the clothes were, in fact, the covering of a man who was shackled by the left foot to one of the support posts which held up the roof of the building. Then she saw a tousled head raise itself with a jerky motion, back towards her, and it seemed as if its owner was listening, the head slightly to one side. A strange whimpering sound came from it.

‘That is the creature, Móen,’ Dubán said hollowly at her shoulder.

Fidelma could not restrain the shudder which passed through her as she gazed on the grotesque figure.

‘God look down on us! What is the meaning of this? I would not keep an animal in such conditions, much less a man, even one suspected of murder.’

She moved forward and bent down to touch the shoulder of the crouching form.

She was unprepared for what happened next.

The figure jumped at her touch with an anguished howl. It scurried away on all fours like an animal, moaning, until the length of the chain attached to its ankle caused it to jerk to a halt. It fell; fell full-length on the dirty straw of the floor, and lay there, at the same time raising both hands as if to protect its head from a blow. Pausing in that position only for a moment or so, it scrambled up and turned to face them. Fidelma and Eadulf were unprepared for what they saw; the eyes were pupilless, wide staring white orbs.