Death of an Icon

Death of an Icon

Peter Tremayne

"I cannot understand why the Abbot feels that he has to interfere in this matter," Father Maílín said defensively. "I have conducted a thorough investigation of the circumstances. The matter is, sadly, a simple one."

Sister Fidelma regarded the Father Superior of the small community of St Martin of Dubh Ross with a mild expression of reproach.

"When such a respected man as the Venerable Gelasius has met with an unnatural death, then it is surely not an interference for the religious superior of this territory to inquire into it?" she rebuked gently. "Portraits of the Venerable Gelasius hang in many of our great ecclesiastical centres. He has become an icon to the faithful."

Father Mailin coloured a little and shifted his weight in his chair.

"I did not mean to imply a censure of the Abbot nor his authority," he replied quickly. "It is just that I have carried out a very thorough investigation of the circumstances and have forwarded all the relevant details to the Abbot. There is nothing more to be said unless we can track down the culprits and that, as I pointed out, will be impossible unless, in some fit of repentance, they confess. But they have long departed from this territory, they and their ill-gotten spoils."

Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the Father Superior for a moment or two.

"I have your report here," her hand lightly touched the marsupium at her waist, "and I must confess to there being some matters which puzzle me, as, I hasten to say, they have also puzzled the Abbot. That is why he has authorized me, as a dalaigh, an advocate of the courts, to visit your small community to see whether or not the questions might be clarified."

Father Mailin raised his jaw, slightly aggressively. "I see nothing at all that is confusing nor which requires any further explanation," he replied stubbornly. Then, meeting her icy blue eyes, he added brusquely, "However, you may ask me your questions and then depart."

Fidelma's mouth twitched a fraction in irritation and she shook her head briefly.

"Perhaps it is because you are not a trained advocate of the law and thus do not know what is required that you take this attitude. I, however, will conduct my investigation in the way prescribed by the law. When I have finished my investigation, then I shall depart." She paused to allow her words to penetrate and then said, in a brighter tone: "First, let us begin with you recounting the general details of the Venerable Gelasius's death."

Father Mailin's lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line in order to disguise his anger. His eyes had a fixed look. It seemed, for a moment or two, that he would challenge her. Then he appeared to realize the futility of such an action and relaxed. He knew that he had to accept her authority however reluctantly. He pushed himself back in his chair, sitting stiffly. His voice was an emotionless monotone.

"It was on the morning of the sabbath. Brother Gormgilla went to rouse the Venerable Gelasius. As he grew elderly, Gelasius required some assistance to rise in the morning and Brother Gormgilla would help him rise and dress and then escort him to the chapel for morning prayer."

"I have heard that Brother Gelasius was of a great age," intervened Fidelma. Everyone knew he was of considerable age but Fidelma's intervention was more to break Father Mailin's monotonous recital so that she would be able to extract the information she wanted.

"Indeed, but Gelasius was also frail. It was his frailty that made him needful of the helping hand of Brother Gormgilla."

"So, this Brother Gormgilla went to the chamber of the Venerable Gelasius on the morning of the sabbath? What then?" encouraged Fidelma.

"The facts are straightforward enough. Gormgilla entered and found the Venerable Gelasius hanging from a beam just above his bed. There was a sign that a valuable personal item had been taken, that is a rosary. Some valuable objects were also missing from the chapel which adjoins the chamber of the Venerable Gelasius."

"These discoveries were made after Brother Gormgilla had roused the community having found the body of the Venerable Gelasius?"

"They were."

"And your deduction was . . .?"

"Theft and murder. I put it in my report to the Abbot."

"And to whom do you ascribe this theft and murder?"

"It is also in my report to the Abbot."

"Remind me," Fidelma insisted sharply.

"For the two days previous to the death of the Venerable Gelasius, some itinerants were observed to be camping in nearby woods. They were mercenaries, warriors who hired themselves out to anyone who would pay them. They had their womenfolk and children with them. Our community, as you know, has no walls around it. We are an open settlement for we have always argued that there is no need at all to protect ourselves from any aggressor, for who, we thought, would ever wish harm to our little community?"

Fidelma treated his question as rhetorical and did not reply.

"You have suggested that these itinerant mercenaries entered the community at night to rob your chapel," her tone was considered. "You have argued that the Venerable Gelasius must have been disturbed by them; that he went to investigate and that they turned on the old man and hanged him from his own roof beam and even robbed him."

"That is so. It is not so much an argument as a logical deduction from the facts," the Father Superior added stiffly.

"Truly so?" Fidelma gave him a quick scrutiny and Father Mailin read a quiet sarcasm there.

The Father Superior stared back defiantly but said nothing.

"Tell me," continued Fidelma. "Does it not strike you as strange that an elderly man, who needed help to rise in the morning as well as to be escorted to the chapel, would rise in the night on hearing intruders and go alone into the chapel to investigate?"

Father Mailin shrugged.

"People, in extremis, have been known to do many extraordinary things: things that are either out of character or beyond their capabilities."

"If I have the right information, the Venerable Gelasius was nearly ninety. In that case . . .?" Fidelma eloquently spread her hands.

"In his case, it does not surprise me," affirmed Father Mailin. "He was frail but he was a man of a very determined nature. Why, twenty and five years ago, when he was a man entering the latter years, Gelasius insisted on bearing the cross of Clonmacnoise in the battle of Ballyconnell when Diarmuid Mac Aodh was granted a victory over the Ui Fidgente. Gelasius was in the thick of the battle and armed with nothing but Christ's Cross for self-protection."

Fidelma suppressed a sigh for all Ireland knew of the story of the Venerable Gelasius which was why the old monk's

name was a byword for moral and physical courage throughout the five kingdoms of Ireland.

"Yet five and twenty years ago is still a quarter of a century before this time and we are talking of an old man who needed help to rise and go to chapel as a regular course."

"As I have said, he was a determined man."

"Therefore, if I understand your report correctly, you believe that the Venerable Gelasius, hearing some robbers moving in the chapel, left his bed and went to confront them without rousing anyone else. That these robbers then overpowered him and hanged him in his own bedchamber?"

"I have said as much."

"Yet doesn't it also strike you as strange that these thieves and robbers, thus disturbed, took the old man back to his chamber and hanged him there? Surely a thief, so disturbed, might strike out in fear and seek to escape. Was Gelasius a tall man who, in spite of his frailty, might have appeared a threat?"

Father Mailin shook his head.

"Age had bent him."

"Then the Venerable Gelasius could not have prevented the escape of the thieves nor even pursued them. Why would they bother to take him and, presumably, get him to show them the way back to his chamber to kill him?"

"Who knows the minds of thieves and murderers?" snorted Father Mailin. "I deal with the facts. I don't attempt to understand their minds."

"Nevertheless, that is the business in which I am engaged because in so considering the 'why' and 'wherefore', often one can solve the 'how' and 'who'." She paused for a moment and when he did not respond, she added: "After this barbaric act of sacrilege, you reported that they then removed some valuable items and went calmly off into the night?"

"The itinerants were certainly gone by the next morning when one of the outraged brethren went to their camp. The emotional attitude of the itinerants, as to whether they be calm or otherwise, is not for me to comment on. I will leave that to you to judge."

"Very well. You say that Brother Gormgilla was the first to discover the body of the Venerable Gelasius?"

"Brother Gormgilla always roused the Venerable Gelasius first."

"Ah, just so. I shall want to see this Brother Gormgilla." "But I have told you all ..."

Fidelma raised an eyebrow, staring at him with cold, blue eyes.

Father Mailin hesitated and shrugged. He reached for a hand bell and jangled it. A member of the community entered but when the Father Superior asked that Brother Gormgilla be summoned, Fidelma intervened. She did not want Father Mailin interfering in her questioning.

"I will go to the Brother myself. I have trespassed on your valuable time long enough, Father Mailin."

The Father Superior rose unhappily as Sister Fidelma turned and accompanied the religieuse from the room.

Brother Gormgilla was a stocky, round-faced man, with a permanent expression of woe sitting on his fleshy features. She introduced herself briefly to him.

"Had you known the Venerable Gelasius for a long time, Brother?" she asked.

"For fifteen years. I have been his helper all that time. He would soon be in his ninety-first year had he been spared."

"So you knew him very well?"

"I did so. He was a man of infinite wisdom and knowledge."

Fidelma smiled briefly.

"I know of his reputation. He was spoken of as one of our greatest philosophers not merely in this kingdom but among all five kingdoms of Ireland. He adopted the Latin name of Gelasius; why was that?"

Brother Gormgilla shrugged as if it was a matter of little importance.

"It was a Latinization of the name he was given when he was received into the Church - Gilla Isu, the servant of Jesus."

"So he was a convert to the Faith?" "As were many in our poor benighted country when he was a young man. At that time, most of us cleaved to the old gods and goddesses of our fathers. The Faith was not so widespread through our kingdoms. Gelasius's own father was a Druid and a seer. When he was young, Gelasius told me, he was going to follow the arts of his father's religion. But he was converted and took his new name."

"And became a respected philosopher of the Faith," added Fidelma. "Well, tell me ... in fact, show me, how and where you discovered his body?"

Brother Gormgilla led the way towards the main chapel around which the various circular buildings of the community were situated. Next to the chapel was one small circular building outside the door of which the monk paused.

"Each morning, just before the Angelus, I came here to rouse and dress the Venerable Gelasius," he explained.

"And on that morning . . .? Take me through what happened when you found Gelasius was dead."

"I came to the door. It was shut and locked. That was highly unusual. I knocked upon it and not being able to get or an answer, I went to a side window."

"One moment. Are you telling me that you did not possess a key to Gelasius's chamber?"

"No. There was only one key which the Venerable Gelasius kept himself."

"Was it usual for Gelasius to lock his door?"

"Unusual in the extreme. He always left it open."

"So the door was locked! You say that you went to the window? Was it open?"

"No. It was closed."

"And secured?"

"Well, I had to smash the glass to open it and squeeze through."

"Go on. What did you find inside?"

"I had seen through the window that which caused me to see the smashing of the window as my own alternative. I saw the body of the Venerable Gelasius hanging from a beam."

"Show me."

Brother Gormgilla opened the door and conducted her into a spacious round chamber which had been the Venerable Gelasius's living quarters and study. He pointed up to the roof rafters. Great beams of wood at the height of eight feet from the ground crossed the room.

"See that one, just near the bed? Old Gelasius was hanging from it. A rope was twisted round it and one end was tied in a noose around his neck. I think that he had been dead for some hours. I knew at once that I could do nothing for him and so I went to rouse Father Mailin."

Fidelma rubbed her jaw thoughtfully.

"Did you stop to search the room?"

"My only thought was to tell the Father Superior the catastrophic news."

"You have told me that the door was locked. Was the key on the inside?"

"There was no sign of the key. That was why I had to squeeze back out of the window. Our smithy then came and picked the lock when Father Mailin arrived. It was the missing key that confirmed Father Mailin in his theory that thieves had done the deed, locking Gelasius in his own chamber after they had hanged him."

Fidelma examined the lock and saw the scratch marks where it had been picked. There was little else to decipher from it, except that the lock had apparently not been forced at any other stage. Fidelma moved to the window, where she saw the clear signs of broken glass and some scratching on the frame which might have been made by a body pushing through the aperture. It was certainly consistent with Brother Gormgilla's story.

She went to the bed and gazed up. There was some scoring on the beam.

"Is the bed in the same position?" "It is?"

Fidelma made some mental measurements and then nodded.

"Let me get this perfectly clear, Brother Gormgilla. You say that the door was locked and there was no key in the lock on either side of the door? You also say that the window was secured and to gain access you had to break in from the outside?"

"That is so."

"Let me put this question to you, as I have also put it to your Father Superior: his theory is that the Venerable Gelasius was disturbed by marauders in the night. He went into the chapel to investigate. They overpowered him and brought him back here, hanged him and then robbed him. Does it occur to you that something is wrong with this explanation?"

Brother Gormgilla looked uncomfortable.

"I do not understand."

Fidelma tapped her foot in annoyance.

"Come now, Brother. For fifteen years you have been his helper; you helped him rise in the morning and had to accompany him to the chapel. Would such a frail old man suddenly start from his bed in the middle of the night and set off to face intruders? And why would these intruders bring him back here to hang him? Surely one sharp blow on the head would have been enough to render Gelasius dead or beyond hindrance to them?"

"It is not for me to say, Sister. Father Mailin says . . ."

"I know what Father Mailin says. What do you say?"

"It is not for me to question Father Mailin. He came to his conclusion after making strenuous inquiries."

"Of whom, other than yourself, could he make such inquiries?"

"It was Brother Firgil who told the Father Superior about the itinerants."

"Then bring Brother Firgil to me."

Brother Gormgilla scurried off.

Sister Fidelma wandered around the chamber and examined the manuscripts and books that lined the walls. Gelasius had, as hearsay had it, been an extraordinary scholar. There were books on philosophy in Hebrew, Latin, Greek and even works in the old tongue of the Irish, written on wooden wands in Ogham, the earliest Irish alphabet.

Everything was neatly placed along the shelves.

Gelasius had clearly been a methodical and tidy man. She glanced at some of the works. They intrigued her for they concerned the ancient stories of her people: stories of the pagan gods, the children of the Mother Goddess Danu

whose "divine waters" fertilized the Earth at the beginning of time itself. It was a strange library for a great philosopher and teacher of the Faith to have.

At a little desk were vellum and quills where the Venerable Gelasius obviously sat composing his own works which were widely distributed among the teaching abbeys of Ireland. Now his voice would be heard no more. His death at the hands of mere thieves had robbed the Faith of one of its greatest protagonists. No wonder the Abbot had not been satisfied with Father Mailin's simple report and had asked Fidelma, as a trained dalaigh of the courts, to make an inquiry which could be presented to the King himself.

Fidelma glanced down at the vellum. It was pristine. Whatever Gelasius had been working on, he must have finished before his death, for his writing materials were clean and set out neatly; everything placed carefully, ready and waiting . . .

She frowned suddenly. Her wandering eye had caught something tucked inside a small calf-bound book on a nearby shelf. Why should she be attracted by a slip of parchment sticking out of a book? She was not sure until she realized everything else was so neat and tidy that the very fact that the paper was left so untidily was the reason which drew her attention to it.

She reached forward and drew it out. The slip of parchment fluttered awkwardly in her hands and made a slow glide to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. As she did so she noticed something protruding behind one of the stout legs of Gelasius's desk. Retrieving the parchment she reached forward and eased out the object from its hiding place.

It was an iron key, cold and greasy to the touch. For a moment, she stood gazing at it. Then she went to the door and inserted it. The key fitted into the lock and she turned it slowly. Then she turned it back and took it out, slipping it into her marsupium.

Finally, she reverted her attention to the piece of parchment. It was a note in Ogham. A line, a half constructed sentence no more. It read: "By despising, denigrating and destroying all that has preceded us, we will simply teach this and future generations to despise our beliefs. Veritas vos liberabit\"

"Sister?"

Fidelma glanced round. At the door stood a thin, pale-faced religieux with a hook nose and thin lips.

"I am Brother Firgil. You were asking for me?"

Fidelma placed the piece of parchment in her marsupium along with the key and turned to him.

"Brother Fergal?" she asked using the Irish name.

The man shook his head.

"Firgil," he corrected. "My father named me from the Latin Vergilius."

"I understand. I am told that you informed Father Mailin about the itinerants who were camping in the woods on the night of the Venerable Gelasius's death?"

"I did so," Brother Firgil agreed readily. "I noticed them on the day before that tragic event. I took them to be a band of mercenaries, about a score in number with womenfolk and children. They were camped out in the woods about half a mile from here."

"What made you think that they were responsible for the theft and killing of the Venerable Gelasius?"

Brother Firgil shrugged.

"Who else would dare such sacrilege than godless mercenaries?"

"Are you sure that they were godless?" Fidelma asked waspishly.

The man looked bewildered for a moment and then shrugged.

"No one who is at one with God would dare rob His house or harm His servants, particularly one who was as elderly as the Venerable Gelasius. It is well known that most of those mercenaries are not converted to the Faith."

"Is there proof that they robbed the chapel?"

"The proof is that a crucifix from the chapel and two gold chalices from the altar are gone. The proof is that the Venerable Gelasius had a rosary made of marble beads from a green stone from the lands of Conamara, which was said to have been blessed by the saintly Ailbe himself. That, too, is gone. Finally, the Venerable Gelasius was found dead Hanged."

"But nothing you have said is proof that these itinerants were the culprits," Fidelma pointed out. "Is there any proof absolute?"

"The itinerants were camping in the wood on the dav before the Venerable Gelasius's death. On the morning that Gelasius was discovered and the items were found missing, I told Father Mailin of my suspicions and was sent to observe the itinerants so that we could appeal to the local chieftain for warriors to take them. But they were gone. That is proof that guilt bade them hurry away from the scene of their crime."

"It is circumstantial proof only and that is not absolutely proof in law. Was the local chieftain informed?"

"He sent warriors immediately to follow them but their tracks vanished in some rocky passes through the hills and could not be picked up again."

"Did anyone observe anything strange during the night when these events happened?"

Brother Firgil shook his head.

"The only person who must have been roused by the thieves was poor Gelasius."

"How many brethren live in this community?"

"Twenty-one."

"It seems strange that an elderly man would be the only one disturbed during the night."

"You see that this chamber lies next to the chapel. Gelasius often kept late hours while working on his texts. I see no strangeness in this."

"In relationship to the chapel, where are the quarters of the other brethren?"

"The Father Superior has the chamber next to this one. I, as steward of the community, have the next chamber. The rest of the brethren share the dormitorium."

"Is the Father Superior a sound sleeper?"

Brother Firgil frowned.

"I do not understand."

"No matter. When was it discovered that the artifacts had been stolen?"

"Brother Gormgilla discovered the body of Gelasius and raised the alarm. A search was made and the crucifix, cups and rosary were found missing."

"And no physical damage was done in the chapel nor to this room before Brother Gormgilla had to break in?"

"None, so far as I am aware. Had there been, it might have aroused the community and we might have saved Gelasius."

"Was Gelasius an exceptionally tidy person?"

Brother Firgil blinked at the abrupt change of question.

"He was not especially so."

Fidelma gestured to the chamber.

"Was this how the room was when he was found?"

"I think it has been tidied up after his body was removed. I think that his papers were tidied and his clothes put away until it was decided what should be done with them."

"Who did the tidying?"

"Father Mailin himself."

Fidelma sighed softly.

"That is all, Brother Firgil."

She hesitated a moment, after he had left, and looked at the area where Gelasius would have been working, examining the books and papers carefully.

She left Gelasius's chamber and went into the chapel. It was small and with few icons. Two candles burnt on the altar. A rough-hewn, wooden crucifix had been positioned in obvious replacement of the stolen one. She examined the interior of the chapel for a few minutes before deciding that it would tell her nothing more.

She left the chapel and paused for a moment in the central courtyard looking at the buildings and judging their position to the chapel. Again, it merely confirmed what Brother Firgil had said. Gelasius's chamber was the closest to the chamber.

She felt frustrated. There was something that was not right at all.

Members of the brethren of the community went about their daily tasks, either avoiding her eyes or nodding a greeting to her, each according to their characters. There was no wall around the community and, in that, there was nothing to contradict the idea that a band of thieves could easily have infiltrated the community and entered the chapel. Half a mile away, crossing a small hill was a wood and it was this wood where Brother Firgil had indicated that the itinerants had encamped.

Fidelma began to walk in that direction. Her movement towards the woods was purely automatic. She felt the compulsion to walk and think matters over and the wood was as good a direction as any in which to do so. It was not as though she expected to find any evidence among the remains of the itinerant camp.

She had barely gone a few hundred yards when she noticed the figure a short distance behind her. It was moving surreptitiously: a figure of one of the brothers following her from the buildings of the community.

She imperceptibly increased her pace up the rising path towards the woods and entered it quickly. The path immediately led into a clearing where it was obvious that there had been an encampment not so long ago. There were signs of a fire, the grey ashes spread in a circle. Some of the ground had been turned by the hooves of horses and a wagon. "You won't find anything here, Sister." Fidelma turned and regarded the figure of the brother who had now entered the clearing behind her.

"Good day, Brother," she replied solemnly. He was a young man, with bright ginger red hair and dark blue eyes. He was young, no more than twenty, but wore the tonsure of St John.

"Brother . . .?" she paused inviting him to supply his name.

"My name is Brother Ledbán."

"You have followed me, Brother Ledbán. Do you wish to talk with me?"

"I want you to know that the Venerable Gelasius was a brilliant man."

"I think most of Christendom knows that," she replied solemnly.

"Most of Christendom does not know that the Venerable Gelasius hungered for truth no matter if the truth was unpalatable to them."

"Veritas vos liberabit. The truth shall make you free," Fidelma quoted from the vellum in her marsupium.

"That was his very motto," Brother Ledbán agreed. "He should have remembered the corollary to that - veritas odium parit."

Fidelma's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I have heard that said. Truth breeds hatred. Was Gelasius getting near a truth that caused hatred?"

"I think so."

"Among the brethren?"

"Among certain of our community at St Martin's," agreed Brother Ledbán.

"Perhaps you should tell me what you know."

"I know little but what little I know, I shall impart to you."

Fidelma sat down on a fallen tree trunk and motioned Brother Ledbán to sit next to her.

"I understand that the Venerable Gelasius must have been working on a new text of philosophy?"

"He was. Why I know it is because I am a scribe and the Délbatoir of the community. I would often sharpen Gelasius's quills for him or seek out new ones. I would mix his inks. As Délbatoir it was my task to make the metal covers that would enshrine and protect the books."

Fidelma nodded. Many books considered worthy of note were either enshrined in metal boxes or had finely covered plates of gold or silver, some encrusted with jewels, sewn on to their leather covers. This was a special art, the casting of such plates called a cumtach, and the task fell to the one appointed a Delbatoir which meant a framer or fashioner.

"We sometimes worked closely and Gelasius would often say to me that truth was the philosopher's food but was often bitter to the taste. Most people preferred the savoury lie."

"Who was he annoying by his truth?"

"To be frank, Sister, he was annoying himself. I went into his chamber once, where he had been pouring over some texts in the old writing ..."

"In Ogham?"

"In Ogham. Alas, I have not the knowledge of it to be able to decipher the ancient alphabet. But he suddenly threw the text from him and exclaimed: 'Alas! The value of the well is not known until it has dried up!' Then he saw me and smiled and apologized for his temper. But temper was not really part of that wise old man, Sister. It was more a sadness than a temper."

"A sadness at what he was reading?"

"A sadness at what he was realizing through his great knowledge."

"I take it that you do not believe in Father Mailin's story of the itinerant thieves?" she suddenly asked.

He glanced swiftly at her.

"I am not one to point a finger of accusation at any one individual. The bird has little affection that deserts its own brood."

"There is also an old saying, that one bird flies away from every brood. However, I am not asking you to desert your own brood but I am asking you to help in tracking down the person responsible for the Venerable Gelasius's death."

"I cannot betray that person." "Then you do know who it was?"

"I suspect but suspecting would cast doubt on the good name of Gelasius."

Fidelma frowned slightly.

"I fail to understand that."

"The explanation of every riddle is contained in itself" Brother Ledbán replied, rising. "Gelasius was fond of reading Naturalis Historia ..."

"Pliny?" queried Fidelma.

"Indeed - Gaius Plinius Secundus. Gelasius once remarked to me that he echoed Pliny in acknowledging God's best gift to mankind."

He had gone even before Fidelma felt that she should have pointed out that he could be ordered to explain by law under pain of fine. Yet, somehow, she did not think it was appropriate nor that she would be able to discover his suspicions in that way.

She sat for some time on the log, turning matters over in her own mind. Then she pulled out the piece of parchment and read it again, considering it carefully. She replaced it in her marsupium and stood up abruptly, her mouth set in a grim line.

She retraced her steps back down the hill to the community and went straight to the Father Superior's chamber.

Father Mailin was still seated at his desk and looked up in annoyance as she entered.

"Have you finished your investigation, Sister?"

"Not as yet," Fidelma replied and, without waiting to be asked, sat down. A frown crossed Father Mailin's brow but before he could admonish Fidelma, she cut in with a bored voice, "I would remind you that not only am I sister to the King of Cashel but, in holding the degree of Anruth as an advocate of the court, I have the privilege of even sitting in the presence of the High King. Do not, therefore, lecture me on protocol."

Father Mailin swallowed at the harshness of her tone.

He had, indeed, been about to point out that a member of the brethren was not allowed to sit in the presence of a Father Superior without being invited.

"You are a clever man, Father Mailin," Fidelma suddenly said, although the Father Superior missed the patronizing tone in her voice.

He stared at her not knowing how to interpret her words.

"I need your advice."

Father Mailin shifted his weight slightly in his chair. He was bewildered by her abrupt changes of attitude.

"I am at your service, Sister Fidelma."

"It is just that you have been able to reason out an explanation for a matter which is beyond my understanding and I would like you to explain it to me."

"I will do my best."

"Excellent. Tell me how these thieves were able to overpower and hang an old man in his chamber and leave the room, having secured the window on the inside and locking the door behind them, leaving the key in the room?"

Father Mailin stared at her for some moments, his eyes fixed on her in puzzlement. Then he began to chuckle.

"You are misinformed. The key was never found. The thieves took it with them."

"I am told that there was only one key to that room which the Venerable Gelasius kept in his possession. Is that true?"

Father Mailin nodded slowly.

"There was no other key. Our smithy had to pick the lock for us to gain entrance to the room."

Fidelma reached into her marsupium and laid the key before him.

"Don't worry, I tried it in Gelasius's lock. It works. I found the key on the floor behind his desk."

"I don't ... I can't ..."

His voice stumbled over the words.

Fidelma smiled sharply.

"Somehow I didn't think you would be able to offer an explanation."

Father Mailin ran a hand, distractedly, through his hair, He said nothing.

"Where are the writings that the Venerable Gelasius was working on?" went on Fidelma.

"Destroyed," Father Mailin replied limply.

"Was it you who destroyed them?"

"I take that responsibility."

"Veritas odium pant," repeated Fidelma softly.

"You know your Terence, eh? But I did not hate old Gelasius. He was just misguided. The more misguided he became, the more stubborn he became. Ask anyone. Even Brother Ledbán, who worked closely with him, refused to cast a mould for a bookplate which carried some Ogham script because he thought Gelasius had misinterpreted it."

"You felt that Gelasius was so misguided that you had to destroy his work?"

"You do not understand, Sister."

"I think I do."

"I doubt it. You could not. Gelasius was like a father to me. I was protecting him. Protecting his reputation."

Fidelma raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"It is the truth that I tell you," insisted the Father Superior. "Those papers on which he was working, I had hoped that he would never release to the world. He was the great

philosopher of the Faith and yet he grew senile and began to doubt his faith."

"In what way did he grow senile?"

"What other condition could account for his doubt? When I reproved him for his doubt he told me that one must question even the existence of God for if God did exist then he would approve of the homage of reason rather than fear born out of ignorance."

Fidelma inclined her head.

"He was, indeed, a wise man," she sighed. "But for those doubts . . . you killed him!"

Father Mailin sprang to his feet, his face white.

"What? Do you accuse me of his murder? It was the itinerants, I tell you."

"I do not believe your itinerant theory, Father Mailin," she said firmly. "No one who considers the facts could believe it."

The Father Superior slumped back in his seat with hunched shoulders. There was guilt written on his features. He groaned softly.

"I only sought to protect Gelasius's reputation. I did not kill him," he protested.

"You, yourself, have given yourself a suitable motive for his murder."

"I didn't! I did not . . ."

"I will leave you for a moment to consider your story. When I return, I shall want the truth."

She turned out of his chamber and made her way slowly to the chapel. She was about to pass the Venerable Gelasius's door when some instinct drew her inside again. She did not know what made her enter until she saw the shelf of books.

She made her way across the room and began to peer along the line of books.

"Gaius Plinius Secundus," she muttered to herself, as her eyes rested on the book which she was unconsciously looking for - Naturalis Historia.

She began to flip through pages seeking the half forgotten reference.

Finally, she found the passage and read it through. The passage contained what she expected it would.

She glanced quickly round the room and then went to the bed. She climbed on it and stood at the edge, reaching her hands up towards the beam above. It was, for her, within easy arm's length. She stepped down again to the floor. Then she made her way to the chapel and stood inside the door as she had done a short time before.

Her gaze swept around the chapel and then, making up her mind on some intuition, she walked to the altar and went down on her hands and knees but it was not to pray. She bent forward and lifted an edge of the drape across the altar.

Beneath the altar stood a silver crucifix and two golden chalices. In one of them, was a rosary of green stone beads. Fidelma reached forward and took them out. She regarded them for a moment or two and then heaved a deep sigh.

Gathering them in her arms she retraced her steps to Father Mailin's chamber. He was still seated at his desk. He began to rise when she entered, and then his eyes fell to the trophies she carried. He turned pale and slumped back in his seat.

"Where did you ..." he began, trying to summon up some residue of sharpness by which he hoped to control the situation.

"Listen to me," she interrupted harshly. "I have told you that it is impossible to accept your story that thieves broke in, killed Gelasius and left him in a room secured from the inside. I then find that you disapproved of the work which Gelasius was doing and after his death destroyed it. Tell me how these matters add up to a reasonable explanation?" Father Mailin was shaking his head. "It was wrong to blame the itinerants. I realize that. It seemed that it was the only excuse I could make. As soon as I realized the situation, I distracted the brethren and quickly went into the chapel and removed the first things that came to hand. The crucifix and the cups. These I placed under the altar where you doubtless discovered them. I returned to Gelasius's room and seized the opportunity to take his rosary from the drawer. Then it was easy. I could now claim that we had been robbed."

"And you destroyed Gelasius's work?"

"I only collected the text that Gelasius had been working on at the time and destroyed it lest it corrupt the minds of the faithful. Surely it was better to remember Gelasius in the vigour of his youth when he took up the banner of the Faith against all corners and destroyed the idols of the past? Why remember him as he was in his dotage, in his senility - an old embittered man filled with self-doubts?"

"Is that how you saw him?"

"That is how he became, and this I say even though he had been a father to me. He taught us to overthrow the idols of the pagans, to recant the sins of our fathers who lived in heathendom ..."

"By despising, denigrating and destroying all that has preceded us, we will simply teach this and future generations to despise our beliefs. Veritas vos liiberabit!"

Father Mailin stared at her quizzically.

"How do you know that?"

"You did not destroy all Gelasius's notes. Gelasius, towards the end of his life, suddenly began to realize the cultural wealth he had been instrumental in destroying. It began to prey on his mind that instead of bringing civilization and knowledge to this land, he was destroying thousands of years of learning. Benignus writes that the Blessed Patrick himself, in his missionary zeal, burnt 180 books of the Druids. Imagine the loss to learning!"

"It was right that such books of pagan impropriety be destroyed," protested the Father Superior.

"To a true scholar it was a sacrilege that should never have happened."

"He was wrong."

"The burning of books, the destruction of knowledge, is a great crime against humanity. No matter in whose name it is done," replied Fidelma. "Gelasius saw that. He knew he was partially responsible for a crime which he had committed against his own culture as well as the learning of the world."

Father Mailin was silent for a moment and then he said: "I did not kill him. He took his own life. That was why I tried to blame the itinerants."

"Gelasius was murdered," Fidelma said. "But not by the itinerants. He was murdered by a member of this community."

Father Mailin was pale and shocked.

"You cannot believe that I ... I only meant to cover up his own suicide and hide the nature of his work. I did not kil] him?"

"I realize that. . . now. The thing that had misled me was the fact that you and the real killer both shared a fear of the nature of Gelasius's work. But you both took different ways of dealing with it. When the killer struck, he wanted to make it appear that Gelasius committed suicide and so discredit him. However, you, believing that Gelasius's suicide was genuine, and would bring discredit on the Faith, then tried to disguise what you thought was a suicide and blame itinerants for murder."

"Who killed the Venerable Gelasius, then?" demanded Father Mailin. "And how? There was only one key and you say that you found it in the room."

"Let me first explain why I did not think Gelasius took his own life. The obvious point was that it was physically impossible for him to do so. He was old and frail. I stood on the bed and reached to the roof beam. I am tall and therefore could reach it. But for an elderly and frail man, and one of short stature, it was impossible for him to stand on the bed, tie the rope and hang himself.

"Yet one of your brethren went to considerable lengths to draw attention to the nature of the work that Gelasius was doing, pretending to express approval for it but, at the same time, hinting that Gelasius was so overawed by his revelations that he could not face the fact of his complicity in the destruction of our ancient beliefs and rituals. He even said that Gelasius had approved of a quotation by Pliny which, cunningly he left for me to find, having wetted my curiosity. It was the passage where Pliny wrote that, 'amid the suffering of life, suicide is the gods' best gift to men'. The murderer was Brother Ledbán."

"Ledbán?" Father Mailin looked at her in amazement. "The Delbatotr? But he worked closely with the Venerable Gelasius . . ."

"And so knew all about his work. And one of the mistakes Ledbán made was in pretending he had no knowledge of Ogham when, as you yourself testify, he knew enough to accuse Gelasius of wrong interpretation."

"But there is one thing you cannot explain," Father Mailin pointed out, "and in this your whole argument falls apart. There was only one key and that you confess you found inside Gelasius's room."

Fidelma smiled knowingly.

"I think you will find a second key. What is the task of Brother Ledbán?"

"He's the Delbatoir . . . why?"

"He makes the metal book plates and book shrines, casting them from moulds in gold or silver. It is not beyond his capability to cast a second key, having made a mould from the first. You simply take the key and press it into wax to form the mould from which you will make your cast. You will note, as I did, the key I found - Gelasius's own key - was covered in grease. A search of Ledbán's chamber or his forge should bring the second key to light if he does not confess when faced with the rest of the evidence."

"I see."

"However, it was wrong of you, Father Mailin, to try to disguise the manner of Gelasius's death."

"You must understand my position. I did believe Gelasius had committed suicide. If so, the nature of his work would be revealed. Would you rather Christendom knew that one of its great theologians committed suicide in protest at being responsible for the destruction of a few pagan books?"

"I would rather Christendom might learn from such an act. However, it was a greater guilt to fabricate the false evidence."

"My desire was to save Gelasius from condemnation," protested Father Mailin.

"Had Gelasius resorted to suicide, then he would have been condemned for his action," Fidelma said. "What was it that Martial wrote?

When all the flattery of life is gone

The fearful steal away to death, the brave live on.

"But, as you frequently remarked, the Venerable Gelasius was a brave man and would have lived to argue his case had he not been murdered. I will leave it to you to arrest Brother Ledbán and await instructions from the Abbot." She smiled sadly and turned towards the door. "Must everything come out?" called Father Mailin. "Must all be revealed?"

"That is up to the Abbot," replied Fidelma, glancing back. "Thankfully, in this case, it is not in my purview to make such moral judgments on what took place here. I only have to report the facts to the Abbot."