Peter Tremayne - The Spider's Web

Eadulf shook his head as he digested this.

‘I had suspected that the attack was inspired by Muadnat to get rid of Archú,’ he said. ‘For Muadnat would have known Archú would have been staying there that night on his return.’

‘I thought of that at first but then Muadnat knew that Archú and Scoth had no money to stay in a hostel. Also, being on foot, they would hardly have reached the hostel that night. But we carried them on our horses. Remember that I also paid for their lodgings? No, there was another motive and we have found it.’

‘Then the reason was simply to keep the secret of whatever riches have been discovered in that cave?’

‘I am sure. I think that I became sure yesterday.’

Eadulf looked helpless.

‘You have lost me, Fidelma,’ he confessed.

‘Yesterday we discovered an unknown body on Archú’s farm. It was a body of someone who was neither farmer nor warrior. The calloused hands, the dust of hewn rock which lay on the man’s clothing told me that he belonged to one particular profession.’

Eadulf’s eyes lit up.

‘You recognised that he was a miner?’

‘I also asked you whether he reminded you of anyone.’

‘He did not.’

‘You should be more observant, Eadulf. He had the same features as Bressal. The unfortunate corpse was Morna, the brother of Bressal, the hostel keeper.’

Fidelma lapsed into a contemplative silence as they continued their journey through the valley of Araglin to the rath.

Crón appeared to be anxiously awaiting their arrival, standing by the door of the assembly hall to receive them.

Crón hailed them immediately they entered the rath. Fidelma and Eadulf dismounted and Eadulf led the horses off to the stable. Fidelma joined Crón at the door of the hall of assembly. There was no one about except the old servant Dignait, who was tidying up the hall.

‘Leave us, Dignait,’ Crón called.

The old woman glared suspiciously at Fidelma, turned and left through a side door.

Fidelma sat down on a bench and the tanist, hesitating a moment, sat near her. For a few moments no one spoke and then Fidelma prompted her.

‘You wish to see me?’

Crón raised her ice blue eyes to Fidelma for a moment and then dropped them.

‘Yes.’

‘Dubán has spoken to you, I suppose?’

Crón coloured hotly and nodded.

‘I have told Dubán that I am no simpleton,’ Fidelma said carefully. ‘Did you think that you would be able to feed me on half truths for ever? I know that you hated your father. I want to know why?’

‘It was a matter of shame,’ Crón replied after a short pause.

‘Best if the truth were out, for suspicion and accusation fester in dark secrets.’

‘Teafa also hated my father.’

‘Why?’

‘My father abused his sisters.’

Fidelma had already expected such an answer based on the information Father Gormán had told her.

‘Did he physically abuse them?’ she asked for clarification’s sake.

Crón sniffed: ‘If by physical abuse you mean that he made them lie with him — then, yes.’

‘Was it Teafa who told you this?’ Fidelma solicited.

‘Some years ago,’ she agreed. ‘There; I have said why I hated my father. But I did not hate him enough to kill him. Truly, it does not seem that you are any closer to solving the murder of my father or Teafa.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘In fact, what you have told me means …’

‘Am I disturbing you?’ The soft male voice cut in as Fidelma was about to lean forward confidentially.

Father Gormán stood on the threshold.

Fidelma caught the warning look in Crón’s eyes which told her that no further mention was to be made of the matter. She suppressed a sigh of irritation and stood up.

‘I was about to leave anyway. I have had a long, tiring day. I will speak with you tomorrow about this, Crón, after I have rested.’

The breakfast had already been brought to the hostel when Fidelma emerged from the wash room. Eadulf was seated and doing the meal full justice. Fidelma moved to her seat, said a silent gratias and examined the plate of bread, cold meat and garnishes. She picked up her knife.

Eadulf said: ‘We must hasten back to the mine today with what men Dubán can spare. Perhaps we will be able to resolve all these mysteries?’

Fidelma was sunk into her own thoughts. She was only half concentrating. Yet some part of her mind found itself being drawn to the dish of mushrooms on the table. Some distant alarm bell was ringing in the back of her mind. The mushrooms had paleyellowish brown skins with sponge-like cups all over the cap. She had often eaten miotóg bhuí, the species of edible fungus which grew in the long grass in damp riverside meadows in spring. They were usually presented, however, having been blanched in water, for the raw taste was sharp. Blanched they were considered a delicacy. Why had they been served raw?

A cold feeling suddenly ran down her back making her shiver violently as she examined the pieces more closely. Whereas she had thought the yellowish head had merely darkened with age, she realised now that this was not so. The mop-like head had been brown. She glanced in alarm to where Eadulf was about to place a piece of the fungus in his mouth, reached across and slapped it out of his hand.

He started back in surprise, smothering an exclamation.

‘How much of that have you eaten?’ she demanded.

He gazed at her stupidly.

‘How much?’ she thundered again.

‘Most of what was on my plate,’ confessed Eadulf, bewildered. ‘What’s wrong? I know what it is, we have it in the land of the South Folk. It’s called morel.’

‘Dia ár sábháil!’ cried Fidelma, springing up. ‘It is false morel.’

Eadulf paled visibly.

The false morel, which looked so like the edible morel, was deadly poisonous when eaten raw.

‘God save us, indeed.’ Eadulf was aghast.

Fidelma was on her feet.

‘There is no time to lose. We must purge you, make you vomit. It is the only way.’

Eadulf nodded. He had not studied at the great medical college of Tuaim Brecain without learning something of the working of poisonous fungi.

He rose and made his way to the fialtech, the ‘veil house’ or privy, even forgetting in his haste to genuflect before entering to ward off the wiles of the Devil who did his best work in such places.

‘Drink as much water as you possibly can,’ Fidelma called after him.

He did not reply.

Fidelma turned to gaze at the plates.

This was no mistake. Someone had deliberately tried to poison them both. Why? Were they so near the solution to the deaths in Araglin that they had to be eliminated? In anger she scooped up the plates of food and took them to the door of the hostel, throwing them out. She did the same with the mugs of mead which had been provided.

She could hear Eadulf retching in the fialtech.

Her lips thinned angrily and she strode off to the kitchens in search of Grella who usually brought their food. The kitchens were deserted. She went into the hall of assembly and saw the young girl engaged in her cleaning tasks.

The girl seemed flustered as Fidelma came up to her.

‘Tell me, who brought the food to the guests’ hostel this morning?’

‘I did, sister, as I always do. Was there something wrong?’

The guileless eyes of the girl told Fidelma that she would have to look elsewhere for the culprit.

‘Who prepared the food this morning?’

‘Dignait, I suppose. She is in charge of the kitchen.’

‘Did you see her prepare the food?’

‘No. When I arrived Dignait was in the hall of assembly talking with the lady Cranat. Dignait told me that I should go straight to the kitchen where I would find the tray ready with your breakfast and that I should take it straight to you and the Saxon brother.’