Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

They bade a temporary farewell to the priest and walked slowly back towards the quay. Murchad was gloomy at the prospect of keeping Cian and Toca Nia on board his ship until his return to Ardmore, but said in resignation that it seemed the only thing he could do in the circumstances.

‘I think you have made a wise decision, Murchad,’ Fidelma replied warmly. ‘What worries me more is the matter of Sister Muirgel, for I have never had a problem set before me where I have not even seen one likely path to start down in search of a solution.’

Fidelma awoke abruptly with her heart beating fast. It was dark and she was not sure what had made her wake with such a start. She was feeling exhausted: it had been a long day. Everyone had gone ashore with the exception of Cian and Toca Nia, who had been confined under guard in their cabins. The shipwrecked sailors had been sent ashore while the pilgrims and members of the crew had attended the service and Feast of Justus. It was midnight before everyone had returned on board; no one stayed overnight in Lampaul, for Murchad had announced that he intended to sail on the morning tide, having already loaded his provisions. The sooner he reached Iberia, he told Fidelma, the sooner he could take his two troublesome passengers back to Ardmore.

As Fidelma lay wondering what had awoken her, she heard a curious scrabbling sound: it seemed to come from the deck planking under her cabin. She raised herself on her bunk, frowning. Then she remembered what Wenbrit had said. Rats and mice inhabited the lower quarters of the ship.

Reaching out to the heavy warm bundle at the foot of her bunk, she stroked the black cat’s fur.

‘Come on, Mouse Lord,’ she whispered. ‘Aren’t you rather neglecting your duty?’

The cat stirred, uncoiled itself and stretched to the full length of its body. It always surprised Fidelma to see the length most cats could stretch their body to. The animal then gave a curious cheeping noise, more like a bird than a cat, and jumped from the bunk. Fidelma saw it stalk across the room, leap for the window and then it was gone.

The scrabbling noise soon ceased and Fidelma shivered slightly, thinking about the rats in the darkness below her, separated from her only by some planking. She listened intently. There was no sound now. Perhaps they were gone. Mouse Lord must be carrying out his nocturnal task very efficiently.

Yawning, she lay back on her pillow and was immediately asleep again. Only a moment later, it seemed, Fidelma found herself being shaken awake by Gurvan. The mate was clearly worried.

‘Please come into the next cabin, lady,’ he urged, his voice barely above a whisper.

Draping her robe around her shoulders, Fidelma swung out of her bunk. The expression on Gurvan’s face was enough for her not to waste time with pointless questions. She recalled that it was in Gurvan’s cabin that Toca Nia was confined.

Gurvan stood in the passage holding the door of his cabin open. A lantern was alight in its small confines, for it was still not quite dawn. Fidelma glanced in.

Toca Nia was lying on his back, eyes wide open, his chest a bloody mess.

‘Stabbed several times around the heart, I would say,’ Gurvan muttered behind her, as if she needed an explanation.

Fidelma stood for a moment, allowing the feeling of shock to ebb away.

‘Has Murchad been told?’ she asked.

‘I have sent word to him,’ replied Gurvan. ‘Careful, lady, there is much blood on the floor.’

She looked down and saw that the severed arteries had pumped blood all over the floor. It had been trodden about, presumably by Gurvan but a thought occurred to her.

‘Stand still,’ she requested. Then she moved to the door, her eyes following the sticky marks on the floor. There were no distinct footprints, and it was obvious that Gurvan had walked over the initial prints which could only have been made by the killer. The prints went to her cabin door and halted. This puzzled Fidelma. She would have expected them to go to the exit to the main deck. She moved across to her cabin door and opened it. Some fainter traces showed where Gurvan had entered her cabin. The only solution to the mystery was if the killer had noticed the trail they were leaving and had managed to wipe the blood from their feet before they departed from the area.

Some instinct made her check her bag where she had put the knife which Crella had given her. It was gone. She turned back to Gurvan.

‘You’d better send someone to Cian’s cabin,’ she suggested. It was the obvious thing to do in the circumstances.

Just then, Murchad came along the passage; anxiety was etched all over his features. He overheard Fidelma’s directive.

‘I have already sent for Cian, lady. As soon as I heard the news, I knew that you would want to see him. However, he is no longer on board.’

‘What?’ Fidelma had never seriously thought that Cian would doanything stupid. Then she realised that she did not really know the depths of Cian’s mind, nor had ever understood the workings of his mind.

‘Drogon went to check his cabin. The man I placed on guard there was asleep. Bairne, who shares the cabin, says he did not hear him leave. I don’t think we can blame my crewman. We are not used to guarding prisoners.’

Fidelma was not interested in excuses.

‘We need to double-check,’ she said decisively. ‘Will you do that immediately, Gurvan?’

The mate moved off.

‘It seems pretty obvious what happened,’ Murchad muttered, glancing at Toca Nia’s body. ‘Cian killed his accuser and has fled ashore.’

It seemed the only logical explanation. Fidelma uttered a sigh of resignation.

‘It does look that way,’ she admitted. ‘Yet he must know that the island is not large enough for him to hide in. It is still an island. We will find him eventually. I’ll get dressed. We must go ashore and find Cian immediately.’

Murchad, Gurvan and Fidelma landed at the quay in the ship’s skiff. There was no one stirring in the grey, early morning light. They walked directly up the pathway towards the church, and were surprised when a figure left the shadows of the doorway and came forward to greet them. It was Father Pol. His expression was grave.

‘I know who you have come for,’ he greeted them.

Fidelma matched his solemnity.

‘Has he told you why he has fled here?’ she asked.

‘I know what he is accused of,’ replied the priest.

‘Do you know where he is? It would be helpful if you could tell us, rather than us spending time in searching the island for him.’

‘You do not have to, Sister. Nor would I permit such a search. Brother Cian is within the church.’

She was puzzled by the priest’s harsh tone, which was unlike that of the day before.

‘Then we shall take him back to The Barnacle Goose so that he may offer his defence.’

The priest frowned and held up his hand to stop them as they started forward.

‘I cannot allow it.’

Fidelma gazed with some surprise at Father Pol.

‘You cannot allow it?’ she echoed in amusement. ‘Yesterday, yousaid the situation with Cian was no business of yours. Now you say that you cannot allow us to take Cian back to the ship. What manner of logic is this?’

‘I have the right to stop you removing Cian.’

‘The crime was committed on board Murchad’s ship, not on your island. The jurisdiction is surely Murchad’s?’

The priest seemed puzzled for a moment and then folded his arms in an attitude of immovability.

‘In the first place, Brother Cian has sought the sanctuary of this place,’ he announced. ‘In the second place, this so-called crime of which he is accused took place five years ago and hundreds of miles away. You have no authority to hear such accusations on board your ship. You said as much yesterday.’