Act of Mercy

Chapter Twenty

The sibilant sounds of the sea, the soft whistling of the wind over the frothing waves, which from her viewpoint seemed to be gigantic, vicious and powerful, drowned out all other sounds. She thought that she heard distant shouting but, head down, she was striking out for all she was worth. Then someone was in the water beside her.

She looked up, startled. It was Gurvan.

‘Grab hold of me!’ he shouted, his voice almost drowned out as the waves washed over him. ‘Quickly!’

Fidelma did not argue. She grasped him by the shoulders.

‘For the love of Christ, do not let go!’ yelled Gurvan.

He turned and now Fidelma saw that he had a rope attached to him which was beginning to pull them both along at speed. Dark figures on the side of the ship were struggling to haul on the rope and she realised that slowly, agonisingly slowly, they were being pulled up the side of the ship by the sheer muscle of the crewmen hauling on the rope.

An awful thought came to her mind. Dangling helplessly as they were by the side of the speeding vessel, if the men above let go of the rope, the momentum would pull them both under the ship itself. Their death would be certain.

Then they were being lifted clear of the water.

‘Keep a tight grip,’ yelled Gurvan.

Fidelma did not reply. Her hands automatically tightened on the mate’s clothing.

Moments later they were pulled upward with the sea almost reluctant to let them go, the white-capped waves catching at them like faltering fingers, enticing them backwards into the dark maw of the waters.

Fidelma closed her eyes, hoping the rope would not break. Then hands were grabbing at her wrists and arms. They heaved her up over the rails and she collapsed on the deck, gasping and shivering. Young Wenbrit hurried over and threw her robe around her shoulders. His facewas concerned. She glanced up and tried to smile at him in gratitude, unable to speak for lack of breath.

It took some time before she could rise unsteadily to her feet. Wenbrit caught her arm to prevent her from falling. She realised that Gurvan was now on board leaning against the rail and also trying to catch his breath. Had he been a moment or two later in his rescue bid, there would have been no hope. The ship was fairly cutting through the waves now. The sail was straining against the yard as the wind came up. She held out her hand to Gurvan in silent thanks. She could not trust herself to speak for a moment or two and then she said: ‘You saved my life, Gurvan.’

The mate shrugged. His features mirrored his concern. He, too, finally found voice.

‘I should have been more vigilant when you were in the water, lady.’

Murchad came hurrying along the deck to them, glad to see that Fidelma was not injured.

‘I did warn you, lady, that it was dangerous to bathe in this manner,’ he said sternly.

‘Look.’ Gurvan stood aside and pointed at the rail. ‘Look, Captain, the rope has been cut.’

The rope’s end was still tied there, but only a short length of rope was attached to it.

Fidelma tried to see what Gurvan was pointing at.

‘Is it frayed?’ she asked. But she realised it was a silly question for now she could see that the rope was cut, the strands sliced through as though by a sharp knife.

‘Someone tried to kill you, lady,’ Gurvan told her quietly. There had been no need for him to make the point. It was all too plain.

‘After I went into the sea,’ she said to Gurvan, ‘how long were you standing by the rope?’

Gurvan considered the question.

‘I waited until I saw that you were swimming comfortably. You waved to me and I acknowledged. Then Brother Tola distracted me. He asked me who was swimming and he started to ask me about the dangers of the water.’

‘Did you move away from this spot for any amount of time?’

‘For no more than a few minutes. I turned astern to speak with the captain.’

‘Was no one else on the deck then?’

‘A few of the crew.’

‘I don’t mean crew. I mean passengers.’

‘There was the young religieuse, Sister Gorman, and there was Sister Crella together with the man with the useless arm, Brother Cian. Also the taciturn one — Brother Bairne.’

Fidelma glanced around and saw that most of them were gathered some distance away watching her uncomfortably. All had been spectators of the rescue.

‘Was any one of them close to the rope?’

‘I am not sure. Any one of them could have been. I came back as soon as I felt the wind coming up. Then I saw that the rope had been cut. I called to a couple of crew; we seized another rope and the rest you know.’

Fidelma stood in silent thought.

‘Lady.’ It was young Wenbrit. ‘It is best for you to get out of those wet things.’

Fidelma smiled down at him. She realised that the sodden silk was clinging to her body like a second skin. She pulled her robe more closely around her shoulders.

‘A drink of corma will not go amiss, Wenbrit,’ she hinted. ‘I’ll be in my cabin.’

She hurried across the deck as crew and passengers broke into groups, talking with one another in passionate but quiet voices.

It was half an hour before Fidelma, warmed inside by the fiery spirits of the corma as well as outside by a vigorous rub and some dry clothes, came aft to join Murchad in his cabin. The captain was still looking disturbed by the event, realising just how close the sister of his King, Colgu of Cashel, had come to her death.

‘Are you all right now, lady?’ he greeted her as she entered the cabin.

‘I am feeling like a fool, that is all, Murchad. I forgot that a person who kills can sometimes acquire a taste for killing.’

Murchad was startled.

‘Are you saying that we have a homicidal maniac on board?’

‘To actually set out to kill someone is always the sign of a disturbed mind, Murchad.’

‘Do you still suspect Brother Cian? After all, no one else could gain by the killing of Toca Nia. Therefore, he must have killed Sister Muirgel and then attempted to silence you.’

Fidelma gestured negatively as she sat down facing him.

‘I do not think the logic follows. It might be that the person who killed Toca Nia is not the same person who killed Muirgel. There is also the murder of Sister Canair to bear in mind, but to which we only have the word of Brother Guss. I am afraid that now Guss is dead, hisword as sole witness is worthless. The same criterion which prevents the arrest and prosecution of Cian applies to the matter of Canair … where is the witness? However, the law aside, I am prepared to believe that Guss was speaking the truth.’

‘Do you mean that you believe that Sister Crella is the guilty party?’

‘She may well be. The inconsistencies in her story certainly point to it. But why tell me something that would be contradicted immediately? Was she lying, or did she believe it to be true? The one problem that I cannot resolve is the motive.’

‘How could this thing happen?’ Murchad wondered. ‘A life at sea makes one always close to death, but never death in this fashion. Maybe this voyage is a doomed one. I heard that young religieux, Brother Dathal, saying as much. That this is like the voyage of Donn, god of death …’

Fidelma smiled thinly.

‘Superstition, Murchad; it imprisons the world with fears. Reason is that which opens the cage. There is a logical answer to every mystery, and we will find it. Eventually.’ She paused and then said: ‘Did you remain on deck all the while I was bathing?’

‘I did. I saw Gurvan tie the rope around you and then around the rail. I watched you dive into the sea. Don’t think that I have not tried to rack my memory to recall if I saw anyone go near the rope.’

‘Gurvan came and spoke with you at some point?’

‘Exactly as he said. He waited a while at the rail. I saw him raise his hand. Then Tola, who was walking on deck, engaged him in conversation. The wind began to freshen and he came to discuss it with me. I warned him to pull you in for I knew we would soon have steerage way.’

‘You did not notice anyone else on the deck near the rope?’

‘A couple of the crew were in the yards. I have already spoken to them while you were changing. They saw nothing. As we were expecting a wind, they were there to adjust the sail when it arose. There was someone else though …’ He frowned, ruffling the hair on the back of his head with his right hand. ‘I cannot say who it was.’

‘Surely you can describe the person?’

‘That I cannot say, for they were well for’ard and they had their hood-thing, you know …’

‘The cowl?’

‘Whatever you call it; the hood covered their head.’

‘So it was one of the pilgrims? Can you say whether it was a man or a woman?’

‘I couldn’t even say that, lady.’

‘Did you notice them go near the rail?’

‘They might have done so. There was no one else there at the time. The wind caught and I called on the crew. Gurvan went back to the rope at that time and realised something was wrong. The figure of the religieux had disappeared and I assumed that whoever it was had gone below.’

Murchad suddenly looked at her as though he had remembered something important.

‘I know they did not come back through the stern companionway.’

Fidelma was puzzled.

‘Where could they have gone then?’

‘Probably went through the for’ard hatch.’

‘But surely there is no access to the lower decks that way, is there?’

‘There is a small hatchway just outside your cabin door, but no one uses it. At least, none of the passengers would as it only leads down to the storage areas through which they would then have to make their way into the other areas of the ship.’

‘But there is a way of going below decks there and reaching the passengers’ cabins?’ When he confirmed it, she rose and said: ‘Let us examine it.’

They needed a light, for the small passage that separated Fidelma’s and Gurvan’s cabins on either side, and the head at the end of it, was dark. Fidelma went into her cabin to fetch a lamp. The furry black bundle of Mouse Lord, the cat, was curled up asleep at the foot of her bunk. Fidelma lit the lamp and joined Murchad who was levering up a small hatch from the floor. She had certainly not noticed it before. It was only big enough for one person to ease down at a time.

‘You say that this is not used often?’

‘Not often.’

‘And we can move from here the length and breadth of the ship?’ Murchad uttered an affirmative.

They halted at the bottom of the wooden steps in a small storage space. There was scarcely room to stand up. Fidelma raised the lamp and peered round.

‘Plenty of dust,’ she muttered. ‘I presume this is not often used as a cabin or even storage?’

‘Hardly ever,’ Murchad said. ‘The next cabin is where we keep our main stores.’

Fidelma pointed to a series of footprints on the floor.

‘Doubtless, Gurvan searched the space when he was looking forSister Muirgel on the second day out.’ When Murchad agreed, she added: ‘Then he would check after the storm in case of damage to the hull?’

‘Of course.’

She held the lamp close to the steps down which they had descended and bent down to examine them.

There were some brown stains on the boards and below the bottom step on the deck itself was a clear imprint of a foot.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Murchad.

‘I expect that you and Gurvan are the same size and build, aren’t you?’ Fidelma asked.

‘I suppose so. Why?’

‘Place your foot beside that print, Murchad. Beside it, mind you, not on it.’

Murchad did so. His boot was large by comparison.

‘That shows me that the print does not belong to Gurvan made at the time he discovered the body of Toca Nia.’

‘So?’

‘This is where the killer of Toca Nia came during the night. They moved silently through the ship and came up these steps. They disturbed me and I awoke, thinking, stupidly, it was rats or mice and pushed Mouse Lord out. But it was Toca Nia’s killer who went into his cabin and stabbed him in a frenzy of hate. So much so that blood spilt onto the cabin floor and their foot was covered in it. I noticed the footmarks and saw they led out into the passage, trying to separate Gurvan’s prints from them. They seemed to end and I thought the murderer must have wiped off the blood, not knowing of your hidden hatch. I now realise that it was by this route that they returned to their part of the ship.’

Murchad shook his head, perplexed.

‘But those stains can’t tell you much.’

‘On the contrary, the footprint at the bottom here tells me a lot.’ She pointed to the print with exhilaration spreading through her for the first time in days at finally finding a tangible piece of evidence.

‘What does it tell you?’

‘The size of that print tells me much about the person who killed Toca Nia. And now I am beginning to see a faint connection. Perhaps coincidences do not happen so frequently as we think that they do. The peson who killed Toca Nia is the same person who slaughtered Sister Canair back in Ardmore and stabbed Sister Muirgel. Perhaps …’ Fidelma fell silent, considering the problem.

‘I would be careful, lady,’ interposed Murchad anxiously. ‘If thisperson has attempted to kill you once, they may well try again. They obviously perceive you as a threat. Maybe you are close to discovering them.’

‘We must all be vigilant,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But this person likes to kill in secret, of that I am sure. There is also one other thing that we may be sure of.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘Our murderer is one of only three people on this ship and that person, I believe, is insane. We must, indeed, be vigilant.’

That evening the winds began to change again. After the somewhat strained atmosphere at the evening meal, served as usual by Wenbrit, Fidelma went out on deck to join Murchad and Gurvan by the steering oar.

‘I am afraid we are in for another blow, lady,’ Murchad greeted her morosely. ‘We have been more than unlucky this voyage. Had the calm weather continued, we would be two days out from the Iberian port. Now we must see where the winds take us.’

Fidelma glanced up at the skies. They did not seem as bad as those harbingers of the storm during the first night out. True, they were dark-tinged, but not rushing across the sky as she had seen them on the previous occasion.

‘How long do we have before it strikes?’ she asked.

‘It will be with us by midnight,’ replied Murchad.

At that moment Fidelma noticed the ship was positively cleaving the waters, sending a white froth washing by on both sides of the vessel. Everything looked so calm and peaceful.

By midnight, Fidelma could not believe the sudden change of weather. Heavy seas were running now and the wind was changing direction so often that it made her dizzy. Fidelma had been sitting on deck, her mind going over all the facts and incidents, analysing and sorting them in her own mind. She stood up, feeling the deck beginning to pitch under her. Gurvan was busy supervising some of the sailors fastening the rigging.

He came across to her.

‘The safest place will be in your cabin, lady, and don’t forget to-’

‘Stow all loose objects,’ ended Fidelma solemnly, having learnt the lesson during the previous bad weather.

‘You’ll become a sailor yet, lady,’ Gurvan smiled approvingly.

‘Is it going to be as bad as last time?’ she asked.

Gurvan replied with a non-committal gesture.

‘It doesn’t look too good. We are having to beat against the wind.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to return and go with the wind, even if that blows us back on our course?’

Gurvan shook his head.

‘In this sea, to head to the wind would have those heavy seas pouring over us the whole time. We might even be driven under the waves by the force.’

As if to emphasise his words, the spray was beginning to fly over the deck and Fidelma could see the waters around them start to boil. In fact, the wind had increased so severely that the mast, thick and strong as it was, began to groan and bend a little. To Fidelma, it looked as if the wind was threatening to tear the mast itself from its well. The leather sail was thrashing about and appeared to be in danger of splitting.

‘Best get inside now!’ urged Gurvan.

Fidelma acknowledged his advice and, head down, she moved cautiously along the main deck to her cabin.

There was nothing to do but ensure everything movable was stowed away again and then sit on her bunk and wait out the storm. But the storm did not abate quickly. The hours gradually wore on and there was certainly little doubt in Fidelma’s mind that the weather, if anything, was worsening.

At some point she hauled herself from the bunk and went to the window. She peered along the deck but could see nothing. It was black as pitch and the rain — or was it sea spray? — was pouring down in sheets across the ship. It was almost as if The Barnacle Goose was totally underwater. As she stared out, the wind sucked the sea from the wave-tops and gathered them to sluice the water across the ship; it lashed into her face and eyes, drenching her.

She turned back into her cabin.

Even above the noise of the wind and seas she heard a strange groaning sound. It seemed to be coming from the side planking in her cabin. Without warning, a geyser of seawater shot through the planks, frothing and bubbling.

Fidelma stared at the water and the splintered wood for a moment in horror, then grabbed at the blanket from her bunk and began to stuff it desperately into the crack. She could feel the splintered wood moving underneath her hands. Everything was becoming soaked — her clothes, the straw mattress, the blankets. And the sea was so cold that her teeth began to chatter.

She tried calling but the noise of the wind and sea simply drownedout the sound of her voice. She did not know how long she stayed there, praying that the wood was not going to splinter further. It seemed like hours, and her hands grew numb with the chill.

Eventually she became aware that the cabin door had opened and closed behind her. She glanced across her shoulder and saw the soaked figure of Wenbrit, holding a bucket and something else under his arm, staggering in.

‘Is it bad?’ yelled the boy, putting his mouth close to her ear that he might be heard.

‘Very bad!’ she yelled back.

The boy put down his bucket and the other objects he was carrying. Then he removed the blanket to inspect the damage.

‘The sea has splintered the planking of the hull,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll try to strengthen and caulk it as much as I can. It should hold for a while.’

He had some pieces of wood under his arm and proceeded to hammer these over the damaged area. Then he plastered it with the soaked hazel leaves. The gush of the seawater died away to a tiny trickle.

‘That will have to do until the storm passes!’ Wenbrit had to shout again to make himself heard. ‘I’m afraid we will all be wet until then. The sea keeps breaking over the ship and everyone is soaked.’

An hour after he had left, Fidelma gave in to her exhaustion and tried to doze on the sodden straw. Dimly aware of a loud ‘Miaow!’ she realised that Mouse Lord had been crouching, terrified, under the bunk all this time. Sleepily muttering encouragement, she felt the cat spring up onto the bunk beside her. His warm body curled up on her chest with a deep, contented purring sound. The cat was cosy and comforting on her saturated clothing and she eventually fell into fitful doze.

The pain was sharp.

The tiny needles in her chest were excruciating. Then there was the most appalling cry, almost human, a cry that Fidelma associated with the wail of the bean sidhe, the woman of the fairies, who shrills and moans when a death is imminent. It took a moment for Fidelma to realise that Mouse Lord was standing arched on her chest, fur standing straight out, claws digging deep in her flesh. He was emitting a piercing wail. Then he leapt from the bunk.

Adrenalin caused Fidelma to swing quickly from the bunk, gasping in agony.

She became aware of a figure at the door — a slight figure, framed for only a moment. Then the cabin door slammed shut. The shiplurched, sending Fidelma off-balance. She scrambled to her knees. A dark shadow, she presumed it was the cat, streaked under the bunk. She could hear his terrible wail. Then she grabbed for the door and swung it open.

There was no one there. The figure had gone. Holding on with one hand, she closed the door and looked around, wondering what had happened.

The cat had stopped its fearful cry. It was too dark to see anything, although she had a feeling that dawn was not far away. The ship was still pitching and bucking. She staggered back to the bunk and sat down.

‘Mouse Lord?’ she called coaxingly. ‘What is it?’

There was no response from the cat. She knew he was there because she heard his movements and his breath coming in a strange rasping sound. She realised that she would have to wait for daylight to find out what was wrong with him. She sat on the bunk, unable to sleep, watching the skies lighten but without the wind abating. When she finally judged it light enough, she went down on her knees and peered under the bunk.

Mouse Lord spat at her and struck out with a paw, talons extended. He had never behaved in such a manner to her before.

She heard a movement at the door and swung round. Wenbrit entered carrying something covered in a small leather bucket.

‘I’ve brought some corma and some biscuit, lady,’ he said, not sure what she was doing on her knees. ‘There’ll be no meal today. It’s the best I can do. This storm will not blow itself out before this evening.’

‘Something is wrong with Mouse Lord,’ Fidelma explained. ‘He won’t let me near him.’

Wenbrit put his bucket down and knelt alongside her. Then, glancing at her robe, he frowned and pointed to it.

‘You seem to have some blood on your robe, lady.’

Fidelma raised a hand and felt the sticky substance on her chest.

‘I can’t see any scratches,’ Wenbrit observed. ‘If Mouse Lord has scratched you …’

‘Can you get the cat out from under the bunk? I think he must be hurt,’ she interrupted as she realised that the blood could not have come from the puncture marks the cat had made when he had been frightened during the night.

Wenbrit went down on his knees. It took him some time before the cat allowed himself to be taken hold of. Wenbrit was finally able to get near the animal, having made sure that he held the front paws togetherto stop Mouse Lord scratching. Making soft reassuring sounds, the boy gently extracted Mouse Lord from underneath the bunk and laid him on the bedding. Something was obviously hurting the animal.

‘He’s been cut.’ The boy frowned as he examined the animal. ‘Deeply cut, too. There’s still blood on his hind flank. What happened?’

Mouse Lord had calmed down as the animal realised that they meant him no harm.

‘I don’t know … oh!’

Even as she spoke, Fidelma understood the meaning of her painful awakening during the night. She leant over the straw mattress of the bunk and saw what she was looking for immediately. It was the same knife which Sister Crella had given her; the one Crella claimed that Brother Guss had planted under her bunk. It was smeared with blood: Mouse Lord’s blood. Fidelma cursed herself for a fool. She had brought the knife from Crella’s cabin and put it in her baggage and it had disappeared before Toca Nia’s death.

Wenbrit had finished his examination of the cat.

‘I need to take Mouse Lord down below where I can bathe and stitch this cut. I think the creature has been stabbed in the hind flank. Poor cat. He’s tried to lick it better.’

Fidelma glanced at Mouse Lord in sympathy. Wenbrit was fussing over the cat, who was allowing the boy to stroke him under the chin. He began to purr softly.

‘How did this happen, lady?’ asked Wenbrit again.

‘I think Mouse Lord saved my life,’ she told him. ‘I was asleep with him curled up on my chest. Someone came to the cabin door. Perhaps Mouse Lord sprang up when the killer entered. They obviously didn’t see the cat. I must have been lucky for they threw the knife instead of moving to stab me as I lay. Whether the cat’s move deflected it, I am not sure, but poor Puss caught the blade in his flank. The cat’s reaction woke me and scared the attacker.’

‘Did you recognise the person?’ demanded the boy.

‘I am afraid not. It was too dark.’ Fidelma gave a shudder as she realised how close she had come to death for a second time. Then she pulled herself together.

‘Look after Mouse Lord, Wenbrit. Do your best. He saved my life. We’ll have some answers before long. Deo favente, this storm must moderate soon. I can’t concentrate with it.’

But they were without God’s favour, for the storm did not moderate for another full day. The constant noise and heaving had dulled Fidelma’s senses; she became almost indifferent to her fate. She justwanted to sleep, to find some relief from the merciless battering of the weather. Now and then the ship would heel over to such an angle that Fidelma would ask herself whether it would right itself again. Then, after what seemed an age, The Barnade Goose would slowly swing back until another great wave came roaring out of the darkness.

At times Fidelma believed the ship to be sinking, so completely immersed in seawater did it seem to be; she even had to fight for breath against the lung-bursting bitter saltwater that drenched her. Her body was bruised and assaulted by the constant tossing of the ship.

It was dawn the next day when she drearily noticed that the wind was less keen than before and the rocking of the ship less violent. She made her way out of her cabin and looked around. The grey morning sky held a few tattered storm clouds, low and isolated, sweeping by amidst a layer of thin white cloud. She even saw the pale, white orb of the sun on the eastern horizon. Not a full-blooded dawn but with just a hint that the day might improve.

To her surprise, she saw Murchad coming along the main deck towards her. He looked utterly exhausted after the two days of severe storm in which he had been mainly at the steering oar.

‘Are you all right, lady?’ he asked. ‘Wenbrit told me what happened and I asked Gurvan to keep a watch on you just in case you were attacked again.’

‘I have felt better,’ confessed Fidelma. She saw Wenbrit occupied further along the deck. ‘How is Mouse Lord?’

Murchad smiled.

‘He might limp a little but he will continue to hunt mice for a while yet. Young Wenbrit managed to stitch the wound together and he seems none the worse for the cut. I don’t suppose you saw who threw the knife at you?’

‘It was too dark.’ Then she changed the subject. ‘Are we through the storm?’

‘Through the worst of it, I think,’ he replied. ‘The wind has moved southerly and it will be easier for us to hoist the mainsail once again and keep to our original course. I think this is one voyage that I shall not be sorry to end. I’ll be glad to find myself in the arms of Aoife again.’

‘Aoife?’

‘My wife is called Aoife,’ Murchad smiled. ‘Even sailors have wives.’

A thought nagged at Fidelma’s memory. Suddenly the words of an old song came into her mind.

‘You who loved us in the days now fled

Down the whirlpool of hate, spite fed,

You cast aside the love you bore,

To make vengeance your only law!’

Murchad frowned.

‘I was thinking of the jealous lust of Aoife, the wife of Lir, the god of the oceans, and how she destroyed those who loved him.’

The captain sniffed disparagingly.

‘My wife Aoife is a wonderful woman,’ he said in a tone of protest.

Fidelma smiled quickly.

‘I am sorry. It was merely the name which prompted the thought. I did not mean anything against your wife — but it has brought a useful memory back to me.’

What was the Biblical verse that Muirgel had mentioned to Guss when she told him that she knew why she might be the next victim?

… jealousy cruel as the grave;

It blazes up like blazing fire

Fiercer than any flame.

She looked across to the sea. It was still white-capped but not quite so turbulent now, and the great waves were becoming smaller and fewer. At last it all made sense! She smiled in satisfaction and turned back to the weary Murchad.

‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ she said. ‘I was not concentrating.’

It was then that Fidelma focused on the mess that the storm had created on the ship. The deck was strewn with splintered spars, the water-butt appeared to have shattered into pieces, ropes and rigging hung in profusion. Sailors seemed to have collapsed where they stood, in sheer exhaustion.

‘Was anyone hurt?’ Fidelma asked in wonder at the debris.

‘Some of my crew have a scratch or two,’ Murchad admitted.

‘And the rest of the passengers?’

Murchad shook his head.

‘Not a hair of them was harmed, lady — this time.’

To Fidelma it was a sheer miracle that in the two days the little ship had been tossed hither and thither on the rough seas, no one had been injured.

‘Tomorrow, or the day after, I expect to sight the Iberian coast, lady,’ he said quietly. ‘And if my navigation has been good, we shallbe in harbour soon after. From that harbour it is but a short journey inland to the Holy Shrine.’

‘I shan’t be sorry to escape from the confines of your ship, Murchad,’ Fidelma confessed.

The captain gave her a bleak look.

‘What I was trying to say, lady, is that once we reach the harbour, there will no longer be an opportunity to bring the murderer of Muirgel nor Toca Nia to justice. That will be bad. The story will follow this vessel like a ghost, haunting it wherever it goes. My sailors have already called this a voyage of the damned.’

‘It shall be resolved, Murchad,’ Fidelma reassured him confidently. ‘The mention of your good wife’s name has just settled everything in my mind or, rather, it has clarified something for me.’

He stared uncomprehendingly at her.

‘My wife’s name? Aoife’s name has caused you to realise who is responsible for these murders?’

‘I do not think that we need delay further before we identify the culprit,’ she replied optimistically. ‘But we will wait until all the pilgrims are gathered for the midday meal. Then we will discuss the matter with them. I’d like Gurvan and Wenbrit to be there, with yourself. I might need some physical help,’ she added.

She smiled at his bewildered features and laid a friendly hand on his arm.

‘Don’t worry, Murchad. By this afternoon you shall know the identity of the person responsible for all these terrible crimes.’