Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

‘Remorse does not allow a person to knock himself on the back of the head before hanging himself.’

Eadulf’s eyes widened in astonishment.

Fidelma calmly handed him the candle.

‘See for yourself.’

The Saxon monk turned and climbed on to the stool, which Fidelma had left in place. He raised the candle and saw the dark stain on the back of the hanging man’s head. Blood was matting the hair.

‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ grunted Eadulf reluctantly. ‘In his death throes he might have smashed his head against the wall.’

‘If so, there will be blood on the wall where the abrasion was made. Show me it.’

Eadulf turned and looked over the wall. He could find no such mark.

He turned with an expression of perplexity.

‘Are you saying that he was hit on the back of the head by someone and then placed in that position so that he strangled to death?’

‘Hit with a cudgel or something similar,’ she agreed.

‘Are you saying that whoever hit him then hanged him to make it seem like suicide?’

‘Yes, that is precisely what I am saying.’

‘How?’

‘Our murderer entered the cell, hit Athelnoth on the head and contrived to hang him while unconscious from that peg.’

‘And then he left?’

‘He or she,’ corrected Fidelma.

Eadulf climbed down and grimaced without mirth.

‘You have forgotten one thing, sister. There is nowhere to hide and Sister Athelswith was in the corridor when she heard Athelnoth being hanged. She saw the door the whole time and no one exited from this cubiculum .’

Fidelma sniffed at his sarcastic tone.

‘On the contrary, I did not forget that fact. Sister Athelswith did hear the deed being done. She called out asking what the matter was. That warned the murderer. The killer, taking the cudgel, hid in the only possible place, under the bed. Some fibres from the murderer’s garment caught on the splintered leg of the cot and some blood spots dropped from the cudgel. You may examine them yourself. When Sister Athelswith entered, she had eyes only for the body of Athelnoth. Then she ran to find Abbess Hilda, allowing the murderer to depart at leisure.’

Eadulf felt the colour on his cheeks. Fidelma made it seem all so easy to deduce.

‘I apologise,’ he said slowly. ‘I thought my eyes were trained against such subterfuge.’

‘No matter.’ Fidelma almost felt sorry at his woebegone expression. ‘The main thing is that the truth be seen.’

‘What do the fibres tell us?’ Eadulf went on hurriedly.

‘Unfortunately little enough. They are of a common enough weave. They could come from anyone’s clothing. But perhaps we may see someone with a tear in their clothing or dust on them which might help us identify them.’

Eadulf rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‘The question is, why would the murderer want to kill Athelnoth?’

‘I can only assume that Athelnoth knew something that would incriminate the real killer, or that the murderer thought that he knew something. He was killed to prevent him from telling that something to us.’ She hesitated and then said firmly, ‘We’d best go and inform the Mother Abbess that we are far from finished with this matter yet.’

Abbess Hilda greeted them with an uncharacteristic smile of satisfaction.

‘Oswy the king will be pleased at your work,’ she began as she indicated seats before the smouldering turf fire.

Sister Fidelma cast a meaningful glance at Eadulf.

‘Our work?’

‘Of course,’ went on Hilda with satisfaction. ‘The mystery is solved. The wretched Athelnoth slew Abbess Étain and then in remorse killed himself. And the motive was one of carnal ambition. Nothing to do with the politics of the church. Brother Eadulf explained it to me.’

Eadulf reddened in embarrassment.

‘When I told you that, Mother Abbess, there were factors that I had overlooked.’

Fidelma decided not to help the Saxon monk out of the predicament that he himself had created.

Hilda’s brow lowered in annoyance.

‘Are you trying to tell me that you made a mistake when you told me that the matter was closed?’

Eadulf nodded unhappily.

Hilda’s jaws snapped so that Fidelma winced as she heard the teeth grind.

‘Are you making a mistake now?’ she demanded.

Eadulf was looking desperately at Fidelma. She took pity on him.

‘Mother Abbess, Brother Eadulf was not in full possession of the facts. Athelnoth’s death was yet another murder. The murderer remains at large in the abbey.’

Abbess Hilda closed her eyes and was unable to suppress a soft moan escaping her compressed lips.

‘What am I to tell Oswy? The debate enters its third day and there is now bad blood between the factions. There have been no less than three brawls between brothers of Columba and those of Rome. Outside the abbey there are rumours rushing like forest fires, hither and thither. We could all be consumed in them. Do you not realise just how important this debate is?’

‘That I do, Mother Abbess,’ Fidelma said firmly. ‘But it is no good inventing a conclusion that is at odds with the truth.’

‘Heaven give me patience!’ snapped the Abbess Hilda. ‘I am talking of civil war ripping this country apart.’ Her face was drawn.

‘I am well aware of the situation,’ Fidelma assured her, feeling sorry for the burden that must be on her shoulders. ‘But truth must take precedence over such considerations.’

‘And what shall I tell Oswy?’ Hilda’s voice was almost pleading.

‘Tell him that the investigation continues,’ Fidelma replied. ‘And as soon as there is word then you and Oswy shall have it.’

Chapter Fifteen

The bell announcing the serving of the jentaculum was sounding as Fidelma and Eadulf walked away from the chamber of the abbess. Fidelma realised that she was dry-mouthed and hungry. She turned towards the refectory but Eadulf stayed her with a hand on her arm.

‘I have no wish to eat,’ he said. ‘I want to examine the body of Athelnoth more closely.’

‘The physician, Brother Edgar, can take care of that matter.’

Eadulf firmly shook his head.

‘There is something I have in mind. But do not let me prevent you from eating.’

‘That you will not,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘I will meet you in Athelnoth’s cubiculum later. We can talk over the facts as we know them.’

She turned and followed the line of brethren hurrying into the refectory. She took her place, absently nodding a greeting to one or two of the sisters with whom she sat.

A sister was intoning the Beati immaculati prior to the daily reading.

Jugs of cool milk, jars of honey and paximatium, the twice-baked bread, were being distributed to each table.

There was hardly a sound except the monotonous voice of the reciter intoning from the Gospels.

Fidelma had almost finished her food when she became aware of a monk with corn-coloured hair making his way through the tables towards the door of the refectory. It was Seaxwulf. Fidelma was about to ignore him when she noticed a strange look in the young man’s eyes as they fell on her. It was as if he wanted to speak but did not want her to acknowledge him.

As Seaxwulf reached the place where Fidelma sat, he halted and stared down at his sandal. Then he bent down and began to adjust his strap as if it had become loosened.

‘Sister!’

He spoke in a sibilant whisper and, to her surprise, in Greek.

‘Sister, I hope you understand this language. I know you have little Saxon and I have even less Irish. I wish no one to overhear us.’

She was about to turn to say she understood when Seaxwulf’s voice became a hiss.