Hemlock at Vespers

MURDER BY MIRACLE

As the boat rocked its way gently against the natural granite quay, Sister Fidelma could see her welcome committee standing waiting. The committee consisted of one young, very young, man; fresh-faced and youthful, certainly no more than twenty-one summers in age. He wore a noticeable expression of petulance, coupled with resolution, on his features.

At the boatman’s gesture, Sister Fidelma eased herself into position by the side of the vessel and grabbed for the rope ladder, hauling herself quickly up on to the grey granite quay. She moved with a youthful agility which seemed at odds with her demure posture and religious habit. To the young man watching her perilous ascent, her tall but well-proportioned figure, the rebellious strands of red hair streaking from under her headdress, the young, attractive features and bright green eyes, had not been what he was expecting when he had been informed that a dálaigh, an advocate, of the Brehon Court, was coming to the island. This young woman was not his idea of a religieuse let alone a respected member of the law courts of Éireann.

“Sister Fidelma? Did you have a good trip over?” The young man’s voice was slow, his tone measured, not really friendly but “correct.” The phrase “coldly polite” came into Fidelma’s mind and she grimaced wryly before allowing her features to break into an amused grin. The grin disconcerted the young man for a moment. It was also at odds with her status. It was an urchin grin of frivolity. Fidelma gestured wordlessly to the seas breaking behind her.

With the late autumnal seas running, dirty grey and heavy with yellow-cream foamed caps, the trip from the mainland had not been one that she had enjoyed. The wind was cold and blustery and whistling against this serrated crag of an island which poked into the wild, angry Atlantic like the top of an isolated hill that had been severed from its fellows by a flood of brooding water. Approaching the island, the dark rocks seemed like the comb of a fighting cock. She had marveled how anyone could survive and scratch a living on its seemingly inhospitable wasteland.

On her way out the boatman had told her that only one hundred and sixty people lived on the island, which, in winter, could sometimes be cut off for months with not even a deftly rowed currach being able to make a landing. The island’s population were close-knit, introspective, mainly flsherfolk, and there had been no suspicious deaths there since time immemorial.

That was, until now.

The young man frowned slightly and when she made no reply he spoke again.

“There was no need to bother you with this matter, Sister Fi-delma. It is quite straightforward. There was no need to bring you out from the mainland.”

Sister Fidelma regarded the young man with a soft smile.

There was no disguising the fact that the young man felt put out. Sister Fidelma was an outsider interfering with his jurisdiction.

“Are you the bó-aire of the island?” she asked.

The young man drew himself up with a posture of dignity in spite of his youth.

“I am,” he replied with a thinly disguised air of pride. The bo-aire was a local magistrate, a chieftain without land whose wealth was judged by the number of cows he owned, hence he was called a “cow chief.” Small communities, such as those on the tiny islands off the coast, were usually ruled by a bo-aire who owed allegiance to greater chieftains on the mainland.

“I was visiting Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne when news of this death reached him,” Fidelma said softly.

Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne was the chieftain over all these islands. The young bó-aire stirred uncomfortably. Sister Fidelma continued:

“Fathan requested me to visit and aid you in your inquiry.” She decided that this formula was a more diplomatic way of approaching the proud young magistrate than by recounting the truth of what Fathan had said. Fathan knew that the bó-aire had only just been appointed and knew, too, that the matter needed a more experienced judgment. “I have some expertise in inquiry into suspicious deaths,” Fidelma added.

The young man bit his lip sullenly.

“But there is nothing suspicious about this death. The woman simply slipped and fell down the cliff. It’s three hundred feet at that spot. She didn’t have a chance.”

“So? You are sure it was an accident?”

Sister Fidelma became aware that they had both been standing on the quay with the wind whipping at them and the salt sea spray dampening their clothing. She was wet in spite of the heavy wool cloak she had put on for the crossing from An Chuis on the mainland.

“Is there somewhere we can go for shelter? Somewhere more comfortable to talk this over?” She posed the second question before the young man could reply to her first.

The young bo-aire reddened at the implied rebuke.

“My bothan is up the road here, Sister. Come with me.”

He turned to lead the way.

There were one or two people about to acknowledge the bo-aire as he passed and to cast curious glances at Sister Fidelma. The news of her arrival would soon be all over the island, she thought. Fidelma sighed. Island life seemed all very romantic in the summer but even then she preferred life on the mainland, away from the continually howling winds and whipping sea spray.

In the snug, grey stone cabin of the bó-aire, a smoldering turf fire supplied a degree of warmth but the atmosphere was still damp. A young woman of the bo-aire’s household provided an earthenware vessel of mead, heated with a hot iron bar from the fire. The drink put warmth and vigor into Fidelma.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she sipped the drink.

“Fogartach,” replied the bo-aire stiffly, realizing that he had trespassed by neglecting to introduce himself properly to his guest.

Sister Fidelma felt the time had come to ensure the proud young man knew his place.

“Well, Fogartach, as local magistrate, what qualification in law do you hold?”

The young man’s head rose a little in vanity.

“I studied at Daingean Chúis for four years. I am qualified to the level of dos and know the Bretha Nemed or Law of Privileges as well as any.”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly at his arrogance.

“I am qualified in law to the level of Anruth,” she said quietly, “having studied eight years with the Brehon Morann of Tara.”

The bó-aire colored, perhaps a little embarrassed that he had sounded boastful before someone who held a degree that was only one step below the highest qualification in the five kingdoms of Eireann. Little more needed to be said. Sister Fidelma had, as gently as she could, established her authority over the bó-aire.

“The matter is straightforward enough,” Fogartach said, a little sulky. “It was an accident. The woman slipped and fell down the cliff.”

“Then the investigation should not take us long,” replied Sister Fidelma with a bright smile.

“Investigation? I have my report here.”

The young man turned with a frown to a sheaf of paper.

“Fogartach,” Fidelma said slowly and deliberately, “Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne is anxious that everything is, as you say, straightforward. Do you realize who the woman was?”

“She was a religieuse, such as yourself.”

“A religieuse? Not just any religieuse, Fogartach. The woman was Cuimne, daughter of the High King.”

The young man frowned.

“I knew her name was Cuimne and that she carried herself with some authority. I did not realize she was related to the High King.”

Sister Fidelma grimaced helplessly.

“Did you also not realize that she was the Abbess Cuimne from Ard Macha, personal representative of the most powerful churchman in Éireann?”

The young bó-aire’s face was red with mortification. He shook his head silently.

“So you now see, Fogartach,” went on Fidelma, “that the chieftain of the Corco Dhuibhne cannot allow any question to arise over the manner of her death. Abbess Cuimne was an important person whose death may have ramifications at Tara as well as Ard Macha.”

The young bó-aire bit his lip, seeking a way to justify himself.

“Position and privilege do not count for much on this little wind-swept rock, Sister,” he replied in surly fashion.

Fidelma’s eyes widened.

“But they count with Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne, for he is answerable to the King of Cashel and the King of Cashel is answerable to the High King and to the Archbishop of Ard Macha. That is why Fathan has sent me here,” she added, now deciding the time had come to be completely brutal with the truth.

She paused to let the young man consider what she was saying before continuing.

“Well, take me through what you know of this matter, Fogar-tach.”

The bó-aire sat back uneasily, bit his lip for a moment and then resigned himself to her authority.

“The woman… er, the Abbess Cuimne arrived on the island four days ago. She was staying at the island’s bruighean, the hostel run by Be Bail, the wife of Súilleabháin, the hawk-eyed, a local fisherman. Be Bail has charge of our island hostel. Not that we have much use for it, few people ever bother to visit our island.”

“What was Abbess Cuimne doing here?”

The bó-aire shrugged.

“She did not say. I did not even know she was an abbess but simply thought her to be a member of some community come here to find isolation for a while. You know how it is with some reli-gieuses? They often seek an isolated place to meditate. Why else should she be here?”

“Why indeed?” Fidelma echoed softly and motioned the young man to continue.

“She told Be Bail that she was leaving the island yesterday. Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis would have arrived about noon. She packed her satchel after breakfast and went off to walk alone. When she didn’t return at noon, and Ciardha’s boat had left, Be Bail asked me to keep a lookout for her. The island is not so large that you can get lost.

“Well, a little after lunch, Buachalla came running to me …”

“Who is Buachalla?”

“A young boy. A son of one of the islanders.”

“Go on.”

“The boy had spotted Abbess Cuimne’s body below Aill Tuatha, that’s the cliffs on the north of the island. I organized a couple of men together with the apothecary…”

“An apothecary? Do you have a resident apothecary on the island?” Fidelma interposed in surprise.

“Corcrain. He was once personal physician to the Eóganacht of Locha Léin. He had a desire to withdraw to the island a year ago. He sought solitude after his wife’s death but has become part of our community, practicing his art for the good of the islanders.”

“So, a couple of islanders, the apothecary and yourself, all followed the young boy, Buachalla?”

“We found the body of Abbess Cuimne at the foot of the cliffs.”

“How did you get down to it?”

“Easy enough. There’s a stony beach under the cliffs at that point. There is an easy path leading down to it. The path descends to the stretch of rocks about a half-mile from where she fell. At the point she fell, incidentally, cliffs rise to their highest point. It was just under the highest point that we found the body.”

“Did Corcrain examine her?”

“He did so. She was dead so we carried her back to his bothán where he made a further examination and found…”

Sister Fidelma held up her hand.

“I’ll speak to the apothecary shortly. He will tell me what he found. Tell me, did you make a search of the area?”

The bó-aire frowned and hesitated.

“Search?”

Sister Fidelma sighed inwardly.

“After you found the body, what then?”

“It was obvious what had happened. Abbess Cuimne had been walking on the edge of the cliffs, slipped and fell. As I said, it is three hundred feet at that point.”

“So you did not search the top of the cliff or the spot where she fell?”

Fogartach smiled faintly.

“Oh, her belongings, such as she carried, were with Be Bail at the hostel. She carried little else save a small satchel. You must know that religieuses carry but little with them when they travel. There was no need to look further. I have her belongings here, Sister. The body has already been buried.”

Sister Fidelma bit her tongue in exasperation at the ignorant conceit of the young man.

“Where do I find Corcrain, the apothecary?”

“I’ll show you,” said the bó-aire, rising.

“Just point me in the right direction,” Fidelma replied sarcastically. “I promise not to get lost.”

The young bó-aire was unable to prevent an expression of irritation from crossing his face. Fidelma smiled maliciously to herself. She suspected that the young bó-aire’s arrogance was due to the fact that he considered her unworthy of her office because of her sex. Some of the island people, she knew, adhered to curious notions.

Corcrain’s bothán, or cabin, stood only two hundred yards away across the rising ground, one of many well-spaced stone buildings strung out across the slopes of the island like rosary beads. The slopes rose from the sea to stretch toward the comblike rocks forming the back of the island which sheltered the populated area from the fierce north winds.

The apothecary was nearly sixty, a swarthy man, whose slight frame still seemed to exude energy. His grey eyes twinkled.

“Ah, so you are the female Brehon that we have all been hearing about?”

Fidelma found herself returning the warm guileless smile.

“I am no Brehon, merely an advocate of the Brehon Court, apothecary. I have just a few questions to ask you. Abbess Cuirnne was no ordinary religieuse. She was sister of the High King and representative of the Archbishop of Ard Macha. This is why Fa-than, chieftain of the Corco Dhuibhne, wants to assure himself that everything is as straightforward as it should be. Unless a proper report is sent to Tara and to Ard Macha, Abbess Cuimne’s relatives and colleagues might be prone to all sorts of imaginings, if you see what I mean.”

Corcrain nodded, obviously trying to disguise his surprise.

“Are you a qualified apothecary?”

“I was apothecary and chief physician to the Eóganacht kings of Locha Lin,” replied Corcrain. It was just a matter-of-fact statement without arrogance or vanity.

“What was the cause of Abbess Cuimne’s death?”

The old apothecary sighed. “Take your pick. Any one of a number of the multiple fractures and lacerations whose cause seems consistent with a fall down a three-hundred-foot granite cliff on to rocks below.”

“I see. In your opinion she slipped and fell down the cliff?”

“She fell down the cliff,” the apothecary replied.

Sister Fidelma frowned at his choice of words.

“What does that mean?”

“I am no seer, Sister. I cannot say that she slipped nor how she came to go over the cliff. All I can say is that her injuries are consistent with such a fall.”

Fidelma watched the apothecary’s face closely. Here was a man who knew his job and was careful not to intrude his own interpretation on the facts.

“Anything else?” she prompted.

Corcrain bit his lip. He dropped his gaze for a moment.

“I chose to withdraw to a quiet island, Sister. After my wife died, I resigned as physician at the court of the Eóganacht and came here to live in a small rural community to forget what was going on in the outside world.”

Fidelma waited patiently.

“It has taken me a full year to become accepted here. I don’t want to create enmity with the islanders.”

“Are you saying that there was something which makes you unhappy about the circumstances of Abbess Cuimne’s death? Did you tell this to the bó-aire?”

“Fogartach? By the living God, no. He’s a local man. Besides, I wasn’t aware of the ‘something,’ as you put it, until after they had brought the body back here and I had begun my examination.”

“What was this ‘something’?”

“Well, there were two ‘somethings’ in reality and nothing from which you can deduce anything definite.”

Fidelma waited while the apothecary seemed to gather his thoughts together.

“The first curiosity was in the deceased’s right hand, which was firmly clenched. A section of silver chain.”

“Chain?” Fidelma queried.

“Yes, a small silver chain.” The apothecary turned, brought out a small wooden box and opened it.

Fidelma could see in it that there was a section of chain which had obviously been torn away from something, a piece no more than two inches in length. She picked it up and examined it. She could see no artisan’s marks on the silver. It had been worked by a poor, provincial craftsman, not overly proud of his profession.

“Did Abbess Cuimne wear any jewelry like that? What of her crucifix, for example?”

“Her own crucifix, which I gave to the bó-aire, is much richer, and worked in gold and ivory. It looked as if it were fashioned under the patronage of princes.”

“But you would say that when she fell she was clutching a broken piece of silver chain of poor quality?”

“Yes. That is a fact.”

“You said there were two ‘somethings.’ What else?”

The apothecary bit his lip as if making up his mind before revealing it to Sister Fidelma.

“When a person falls in the manner she did, you have to expect a lot of bruising, contusions…”

“I’ve been involved in falls before,” Sister Fidelma observed dryly.

“Well, while I was examining the body I found some bruising to the neck and shoulders, the fleshy part around the nape of the neck. The bruising was slightly uniform, not what one would expect from contact with rocks during a fall.”

“How would you decipher those marks?”

“It was as if Abbess Cuimne had, at some time, been gripped by someone with powerful hands from behind.”

Fidelma’s green eyes widened.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. It’s not my place to. I can’t even say how the bruising around the neck and shoulders occurred. I just report what I see. It could be consistent with her general injuries but I am not entirely satisfied it is.”

Fidelma put the piece of silver chain in the leather purse at her waist.

“Very well, Corcrain. Have you prepared your official report for the bó-aire yet?”

“When I heard that a Brehon from the mainland was coming, I thought that I’d wait and speak with him… with her, that is.”

She ignored his hasty correction.

“I’d like to see the spot where Abbess Cuimne went over.”

“I’ll take you up there. It’s not a long walk.”

The apothecary reached for a blackthorn walking stick, paused and frowned at Sister Fidelma’s sandals.

“Do you not have anything better to wear? The mud on the path would destroy those frail things.”

Fidelma shook her head.

“You have a good-sized foot,” observed the apothecary, meditatively. He went to a chest and returned with a stouter pair of leather round-top shoes of untanned hide with three layers of hide for the sole, stout shoes such as the islanders wore. “Here, put these on. They will save your dainty slippers from the mud of the island.”

A short time later, Fidelma, feeling clumsy but at least dry in the heavy untanned leather island shoes, was following Corcrain along the pathway.

“Had you seen Abbess Cuimne before the accident?” Fidelma asked as she panted slightly behind her guide’s wiry, energetic form as Corcrain strode the ascending track.

“It’s a small island. Yes, I saw and spoke to her on more than one occasion.”

“Do you know why she was here? The bó-aire did not even know that she was an abbess. But he seems to think she was simply a religieuse here in retreat, to meditate in this lonely spot away from distraction.”

“I didn’t get that impression. In fact, she told me that she was engaged in the exploration of some matter connected with the island. And once she said something odd…”

He frowned as he dredged his memory.

“It was about the bishop of An Chúis. She said she was hoping to win a wager with Artagán, the bishop.”

Sister Fidelma’s eyes widened in surprise.

“A wager. Did she explain what?”

“I gathered that it was connected with her search.”

“But you don’t know what that search was for?”

Corcrain shook his head.

“She was not generally forthcoming, so I can understand why the bó-aire did not even learn of her rank; even I did not know that, though I suspected she was no ordinary religieuse.”

“Exploration?” Sister Fidelma returned to Corcrain’s observation.

Corcrain nodded. “Though what there is to explore here, I don’t know.”

“Well, did she make a point of speaking to anyone in particular on the island?”

The apothecary frowned, considering for a moment.

“She sought out Congal.”

“Congal. And who is he?”

“A fisherman by trade. But he is also the local seanchaí, the traditional historian and storyteller of the island.”

“Anyone else?”

“She went to see Father Patrick.”

“Who?”

“Father Patrick, the priest on the island.”

They had reached the edge of the cliffs now. Sister Fidelma steeled herself a little, hating the idea of standing close to the edge of the wild, blustery, open space.

“We found her directly below this spot,” Corcrain pointed.

“How can you be so sure?”

“That outcrop of rock is a good enough marker.” The apothecary indicated with the tip of his blackthorn.

Fidelma bent and examined the ground carefully.

“What are you looking for?”

“Perhaps for the rest of that chain. I’m not sure.”

She paused and examined a patch of broken gorse and trodden grass with areas of soft muddy ground. There were deep imprints of shoes, which the faint drizzle had not yet washed away. There was nothing identifiable, just enough remaining to show that more than one person had stood in this spot.

“So this area is consistent with the spot she must have gone over from?”

The apothecary nodded.

Fidelma bit her lip. The marks could well indicate that more than one person had left the path, which was two yards away from the edge of the cliff at this point, and stood near to the edge of the cliff. But the most important thing about the cliff edge here was the fact that it was at least six feet away from the worn track. There was surely no way that the Abbess Cuimne could go over the cliff by accident while walking along the path. To fall over, she would have had deliberately to leave the pathway, scramble across some shrub and gorse and balance on that dangerous edge. But if not an accident… what then?

There was something else, too, about the cliff edge. But she did not wish to move too close, for Fidelma hated high, unprotected places.

“Is there a means of climbing down here?” she suddenly asked Corcrain.

“Only if you are a mountain goat, I reckon. No, it’s too dangerous. Not that I am saying it is totally impossible to get down. Those with knowledge of climbing such inaccessible spots might well attempt it. There are a few caves set into the face of the cliff along here and once some people from the mainland wanted to go down to examine them.”

“At this spot?”

“No. About three hundred yards along. But the bó-aire saw them off, declaring it was too dangerous. That was last year.”

Fidelma took off her short woollen cloak, which she wore to protect her from the almost continuous drizzle of the island’s grey skies, and put it down near the cliff edge. Then she knelt down before stretching full-length on it and easing forward to peer over the edge. It was as the apothecary said, only someone skilled in the art of climbing or a mountain goat would even attempt to climb down. She shivered for a moment as she stared down to the rocky beach three hundred feet below.

When she had stood up and brushed down her cloak she asked Corcrain, “Where do I find this man Congal?”

Congal was a big man. He sat before a plate piled with fish and a boiled duck’s egg. Though he sat at table, he still wore his fisherman’s clothes, as if he could not be bothered to change on entering his bothán. Yet the clothes simply emphasized his large, muscular torso. His hands, too, were large and callused.

“Sad, it is,” he growled across the scrubbed pine table to where Sister Fidelma sat with a bowl of sweet mead which he had offered in hospitality. “The woman had a good life before her but it is a dangerous place to be walking if you don’t know the ground.”

“I’m told that she was exploring here.”

The big man frowned.

“Exploring?”

“I’m told that she spoke with you a few times.”

“Not surprising that she would do so. I am the local seanchaí. I know all the legends and tales of the island.” There was more than a hint of pride in his voice. Sister Fidelma realized that pride went with the islanders. They had little enough but were proud of what they did have.

“Is that what she was interested in? Ancient tales?”

“It was.”

“Any subject or tale in particular?”

Conga! shifted as if defensively.

“None as I recall.”

“What then?”

“Oh, just tales about the ancient times, when the druids of Iar-muma used to hunt down the priests of Christ and kill them. That was a long time ago, even before the Blessed Patrick came to our shores.”

“You provided her with some of these tales?”

Congal nodded.

“I did so. Many priests of Christ found a refuge on this island during the pagan times. They fled from the mainland while the king of Iarmuma’s men were burning down the churches and communities.”

Sister Fidelma sighed. It did not sound the sort of subject Abbess Cuimne would be interested in pursuing. As representative of the Archbishop, she had, as Sister Fidelma knew, special responsibility for the uniform observances of the faith in Ireland.

“But no story in particular interested her?” she pressed.

“None.”

Was Congal’s voice too emphatic? Sister Fidelma felt an uneasy pricking at the back of her neck, that odd sensation she always felt when something was wrong, or someone was not telling the full truth.

Back at the cabin of the bó-aire, Sister Fidelma sorted through the leather satchel which contained the belongings of the dead Abbess. She steeled herself to sorting through the items which became objects of pathetic sentiment. The items proclaimed the Abbess to have some vanity, the few cosmetics and a jar of perfume, her rosary and crucifix, a splendidly worked piece of ivory and gold, which proclaimed her rank, as sister to the High King, rather than her role as a humble religieuse. The rosary beads were of imported ivory. There were items of clothes for her journey. All were contained in the leather shoulder satchel which traveling monks and nuns carried on their journeys and pilgrimages.

Sister Fidelma sorted through the satchel twice before she realized what was worrying her. She turned to the impatient bó-aire.

“Fogartach, are you sure these are all the Abbess Cuimne’s possessions?”

The young magistrate nodded vehemently.

Sister Fidelma sighed. If Abbess Cuimne was on the island to carry out some search or investigation, surely she would have had a means of recording notes? Indeed, where was the pocket missal that most religieuses of rank carried? Over a century before, when Irish monks and nuns had set out on their missions to the far corners of the world, they had to carry with them liturgical and religious tracts. It was necessary, therefore, that such works were small enough for missionaries to carry with them in special leather satchels called tiag liubhar. Therefore the monks engaged in the task of copying such books began to reduce their size. Such small books were now carried by almost all learned members of the church. It would be odd if the Abbess had not carried even a missal with her.

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop for a while. If the answer to the conundrum was not forthcoming on the island, perhaps it might be found in the wager with Artagán, the bishop of An Chúis on the mainland. She made her decision and turned to the expectant bó-aire.

“I need a currach to take me to An Chúis on the mainland at once.”

The young man gaped at her in surprise.

“Have you finished here, Sister?”

“No. But there is someone I must consult at An Chúis immediately. The boat must wait for me so that I can return here by this afternoon.”

Bishop Artagán rose in surprise when Sister Fidelma strode into his study at the Abbey of An Chúis, after being ceremoniously announced by a member of his order. It was from here that Artagán presided over the priesthood of the Corco Dhuibhne.

“There are some questions I would ask you, Bishop,” she announced as soon as the introductions were over.

“As a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, you have but to ask,” agreed the bishop, a flaccid-faced, though nervous man of indeterminable age. He had led her to a seat before his fire and offered hospitality in the form of heated mead.

“The Abbess Cuimne …” began Fidelma.

“I have heard the sad news,” interrupted the bishop. “She fell to her death.”

“Indeed. But before she went to the island, she stayed here in the abbey, did she not?”

“Two nights while waiting for a calm sea in order to travel to the island,” confirmed Artagán.

“The island is under your jurisdiction?”

“It is.”

“Why did the Abbess Cuimne go to the island? There is talk that she had a wager with you on the result of her visit and what she would find there.”

Artagán grimaced tiredly.

“She was going on a wild goose chase,” he said disarmingly. “My wager was a safe one.”

Fidelma drew her brows together in perplexity.

“I would like an explanation.”

“The Abbess Cuimne was of a strong personality. This was natural as she is… was … sister to the High King. She had great talents. This, too, is natural, for the Archbishop at Armagh appointed her as his personal representative to ensure the uniformity of holy office among the monasteries and churches of Éireann. I have met her only twice. Once at a synod at Cashel and then when she came to stay before going to the island. She entertained views that were sometimes difficult to debate with her.”

“In what way do you mean?”

“Have you heard the legend of the reliquary of the Blessed Pal-ladius?”

“Tell me it,” invited Fidelma in order to cover her bewilderment.

“Well, as you know, two and a half centuries ago, the Christian community in Éireann was very small but, God willing, increasing as people turned to the word of Christ. By that time they had reached such a size that they sent to the holy city of Rome to ask the Pope, Celestine, the first of his name to sit on the throne of Peter, the disciple of Christ, to send them a bishop. They wanted a man who would teach and help them follow the ways of the living God. Celestine appointed a man named Palladius as the first bishop to the Irish believing in Christ.”

Artagán paused before continuing.

“There are two versions of the story. Firstly, that Palladius, en route to Éireann, took sick in Gaul and died there. Secondly, that Palladius did reach our shores and administer to the Irish, eventually being foully murdered by an enraged druid in the pay of the king of larmuma.”

“I have heard these stories,” confirmed Sister Fidelma. “It was after Palladius’s death that the Blessed Patrick, who was then studying in Gaul, was appointed bishop to Ireland and returned to this land, where once he had been held as a hostage.”

“Indeed,” agreed Artagán. “A legend then arose in the years after Palladius’s death: that relics of this holy saint were placed in reliquary; a box with a roof-shaped lid, about twelve centimeters wide by six in length by five deep. They are usually made of wood, often yew; lined inside in lead and on the outside ornate with gilt, copper alloy, gold foil, with amber and glass decoration. Beautiful things.”

Sister Fidelma nodded impatiently. She had seen many such reliquaries among the great abbeys of Éireann.

“The legend had it that Palladius’s relics were once kept at Cashel, seat of the Eóghanacht kings of Munster. Then about two hundred years ago there was a revival of the beliefs of the druids in larmuma. The king of larmuma resumed the old religion and a great persecution of Christian communities began. Cashel was stormed. But the relics were taken into the country for safekeeping; taken from one spot to another until the relics of our first bishop were taken to the islands, away from the ravages of man. There they disappeared.”

“Go on,” prompted Sister Fidelma when the bishop paused.

“Well, just think of it. What a find it would be if we could discover the relics of the first bishop of Éireann after all this time! What a center of pilgrimage their resting place would make, what a great abbey could be built there which would attract attention from the four corners of the world…”

Sister Fidelma grimaced wryly.

“Are you saying that the Abbess Cuimne had gone to the island searching for the reliquary of Palladius?”

Bishop Artagán nodded.

“She informed me that in Ard Macha, in the great library there, she had come across some old manuscripts which indicated that the reliquary was taken to an island off the mainland of the Corco Dhuibhne. The manuscripts, which she refused to show me, were claimed to contain notes of its location written at the time. The notes had been kept in an old book in the library of the monastery of Ard Macha. There were legends of priests fleeing to these islands during the persecutions of the king of larmuma, but surely we would have known had the sacred reliquary been taken there.”

The bishop sniffed disparagingly.

“So you did not agree with Abbess Cuimne that the reliquary was on the island?” queried Sister Fidelma.

“I did not. I am something of a scholar of the period myself. Palladius died in Gaul. That much is obvious, for most records recount that fact.”

“So this is why you thought that the Abbess was on a wild goose chase?”

“Indeed, I did so. The relics of Palladius have not survived the ravages of time. If they have, then they would be in Gaul, not here. It was hard to dissuade Abbess Cuimne. A strong-willed woman, as I have told you.”

The bishop suddenly frowned.

“But what has this to do with your investigation into her death?”

Sister Fidelma smiled gently and rose from her seat.

“I only needed to assure myself of the purpose of her visit to the island.”

On the bouncing trip back, over the harsh, choppy grey seas, Sister Fidelma sat back in the currach and reflected with wrinkled forehead. So it was logical that the Abbess Cuimne had talked about the reliquary of Palladius to Congal, the seanchaí of the island; why then had the man not been forthcoming about that fact? What was the big fisherman trying to hide? She decided to leave Congal for the time being and go straight away on landing to talk with the island’s priest, Father Patrick. He had been the second person whom the Abbess Cuimne had made a special effort to talk with on the island.

Father Patrick was an old man, certainly into his late mid- or even late eighties. A thin wisp of a man, who, Sister Fidelma thought, would be blown away by the winds that buffeted the island. A man of more bone than flesh with large knuckles, a taut parchmentlike skin and a few strands of white hair. From under overhanging brows, pale eyes of indiscernible color stared at Fidelma.

Father Patrick sat in a chair by his fireside, a thick wool shawl wrapped around his frail frame and held close by a brooch around his scrawny neck.

Yet withal the frailty and age, Fidelma felt she was in the presence of a strong and dynamic personality.

“Tell me about the reliquary of Palladius.” Sister Fidelma opened abruptly. It was a shot in the dark but she saw that it paid off.

The aged face was immobile. Only the eyes blinked once as a token of surprise. But Fidelma’s quiet eyes picked up the involuntary action.

“What have you heard about the old legend?”

The rasping voice was so pitched that Fidelma was hard pressed to hear any emotion, but there was something there … something defensive.

“Is it a legend, Father?” asked Fidelma with emphasis.

“There are many old legends here, my daughter.”

“Well, Abbess Cuimne thought she knew this one to be true. She told the bishop of the Corco Dhuibhne that she was going to see the reliquary before she left the island.”

“And now she is dead,” the old priest observed almost with a sigh. Again the watery pale eyes blinked. “May she rest in peace.”

Sister Fidelma waited a moment. The priest was silent.

“About the reliquary…” she found herself prompting.

“So far as people are concerned it is only a legend and will remain so.”

Sister Fidelma frowned, trying to interpret this statement.

“So it is not on the island?”

“No islander has seen it.”

Fidelma pursed her lips in an effort to suppress her annoyance. She had the distinct feeling that Father Patrick was playing semantic games with her. She tried another tack.

“Abbess Cuimne came to talk with you on a couple of occasions, didn’t she? What did you talk about?”

“We talked about the folklore of the island.”

“About the reliquary?”

The priest paused. “About the legend of the reliquary,” he corrected.

“And she believed it was here, on the island, isn’t that so?”

“She believed so.”

“And it is not?”

“You may ask any islander if they have seen it or know of its whereabouts.”

Fidelma sighed impatiently. Again there had come the semantic avoidance of her question. Father Patrick would have made a good advocate, skillful in debate.

“Very well, Father. Thank you for your time.”

She was leaving the priest’s cell when she met Corcrain, the apothecary, at the step.

“How ill is Father Patrick?” Fidelma asked him directly.

“Father Patrick is a frail old man,” the apothecary replied. “I fear he will not be with us beyond the winter. He has already had two problems with his heart, which grows continually weaker.”

“How weak?”

“Twice it has misbeat. The third time may prove fatal.”

Sister Fidelma pursed her lips.

“Surely the bishop could retire an old man like that? He could go to rest in some comfortable abbey on the mainland.”

“Surely; if anyone could persuade Father Patrick to leave the island. He came here as a young man sixty years ago and has never left. He’s a stubborn old fellow. He thinks of the island as his flefdom. He feels responsible, personally, for every islander.”

Sister Fidelma sought out Congal again. This time the seanchaí met her with suspicion.

“What did the Abbess Cuimne want to know about the reliquary of Palladius?” demanded Sister Fidelma without preamble.

The big man’s jaw dropped a little at the unexpectedness of her question.

“She knew it was on the island, didn’t she?” pressed Fidelma, not giving the man a chance to reflect on the question.

Congal compressed his lips.

“She thought it was so,” he replied at last.

“Why the secret?”

“Secret?”

“If it is on the island, why has it been kept secret?”

The big man shifted awkwardly.

“Have you spoken with Father Patrick?” he asked sullenly.

“I have.”

Congal was clearly unhappy. He hesitated again and then squared his shoulders.

“If Father Patrick has spoken with you, then you will know.”

Fidelma decided not to enlighten the storyteller that Father Patrick had told her virtually nothing.

“Why keep the fact that the reliquary is on the island a secret?” she pressed again.

“Because it is the reliquary of Palladius; the very bones of the first bishop appointed to the Irish believing in Christ, the blessed saint who brought us out of the darkness into Christian light. Think, Sister Fidelma, what would happen if it were generally known that the relics were here on this island. Think of the pilgrims who come streaming in, think of the great religious foundation that would be raised on this island, and everything that would follow that. Soon people from all over the world would be coming here and destroying our peace. Soon our community would be swamped or dispersed. Better that no one knows about the relics. Why, not even I have seen them nor know where they are hidden. Only Father Patrick…”

Conga! caught sight of Sister Fidelma’s face and must have read its amazed expression.

“Did Father Patrick tell you…? What did Father Patrick tell you?” he suddenly demanded, his face full of suspicion.

There was an abrupt knocking at the bothán door and before Congal could call out the young bo-aire put his head around the door. His face was troubled.

“Ah, Sister, Corcrain the apothecary asks if you could return at once to Father Patrick’s cell. Father Patrick has been taken ill but is demanding to see you.”

Corcrain met her at Father Patrick’s door.

“I doubt if he has long, Sister,” he said quietly. “Not long after you left he had that third shock to the heart that I was warning against. However, he insists on seeing you alone. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

The old priest was lying in bed, his face was wan with a curiously bluish texture to the skin.

The eyes flickered open, the same colorless pale eyes.

“You know, don’t you, my daughter?”

Sister Fidelma decided to be truthful.

“I suspect,” she corrected.

“Well, I must make my peace with God and better that you should know the truth rather than let me depart with only suspicion to shroud my name.”

There was a long pause.

“The reliquary is here. It was brought by priests fleeing from the king of Iarmumua’s warriors over two hundred and fifty years ago. They hid it in a cave for safekeeping. For generations, the priest officiating on this island would tell only his successor of its whereabouts. Sometimes when a priest wasn’t available, an islander would be told so that the knowledge would pass on to each new generation. I came here as a young priest some sixty years ago and learnt the secret from the old priest I was to replace.”

The old man paused to take some deep breaths.

“Then the Abbess Cuimne came. A very intelligent woman. She had found evidence. She checked the legends with Congal, who knows a lot save only where the relics are hidden. He tried to stop her going further by telling her nothing, little short of lying to her. Then she came to me. To my horror, she had apiece of parchment, a series of jumbled notes written in the hand of no less a person than the Blessed Patrick himself. When Palladius died, Patrick had been sent by the Pope to succeed him as bishop to the Irish. The parchment contained a map, directions which were meaningless unless one knew what it was that one was looking for, and the place one had to look in.

“Abbess Cuimne was clever. She had heard of the legends and found this paper tucked into an ancient book belonging to the Blessed Patrick in Ard Macha’s great library. She made some educated guesses, my daughter.”

“And you tried to dissuade her from continuing her search?”

“I did everything to persuade her that legends are not necessarily reality. But she was determined.”

“And then?”

“Then I was honest with her. I pleaded with her to spare this island the consequence of the revelation of the news that it was the hiding place of the reliquary. I pointed out the consequences to this community if such a thing was made public. You are a woman with some imagination, Sister Fidelma. I can tell. Imagine what would happen to this peaceful little island, to this happy little community.”

“Could the relics not be taken off the island?” asked Fidelma. “Perhaps they could be sent to Cashel or even to Ard Macha?”

“And then this island would lose the holy protection given to it by being the repository of the sacred relics. No. The relics were brought here for a purpose and here they must remain.”

The old priest’s voice had suddenly become sharp. Then he fell silent for a while before continuing.

“I tried my best to make her see what a disaster it would be. We have seen what disasters have happened to other communities where relics have been found, or miracles have been witnessed, and great abbeys have been built and shrines erected. Small communities were devastated. Places of simple pious pilgrimage have been made into places of crass commercial enterprise. Devastation beyond imagining, all the things which so repelled our Savior. Did He not chase the moneylenders and merchants from the temple grounds? How much more would He turn on those who made His religion a subject of commercialism today? No, I did not want that for our tiny island. It would destroy our way of life and our very soul!”

The old priest’s voice was vehement now.

“And when Abbess Cuimne refused to accept your arguments, what did you do?” prompted Sister Fidelma, quietly.

“At first, I hoped that the abbess would not be able to decipher properly the figures which would lead her to the reliquary. But she did. It was the morning that she was due to leave the island …”

He paused and an expression of pain crossed his face. He fought to catch his breath but shook his head when Fidelma suggested that she call the apothecary.

Sister Fidelma waited patiently. The priest finally continued.

“As chance would have it I saw the Abbess Cuimne on the path to Aill Tuatha, the north cliff. I followed her, hoping against hope. But she knew where she was going.”

“Is that where the reliquary is hidden,” asked Fidelma. “In one of the cliff-top caves at Aill Tuatha?”

The priest nodded in resignation.

“The abbess started to climb down. She thought the descent was easy. I tried to stop her. To warn her of the danger.”

The priest paused, his watery eyes now stirring in emotion.

“I am soon going to meet my God, my daughter. There is no priest on the island. I must make my peace with you. This is by nature of my confession. Do you understand?”

Fidelma paused; a conflict between her role as an advocate of the Brehon Court and that as a member of a religious order with respect for the confessional caused her to hesitate. Then she finally nodded.

“I understand, Father. What happened?”

“The abbess started to descend the cliff toward the cave entrance. I cried out and told her if she must go down to be careful. I moved forward to the edge of the cliff and bent down even as she slipped. Her hand reached out and grabbed at my crucifix, which I wore on a silver chain around my neck. The links of the chain snapped. In that moment I grabbed for her, holding on momentarily to her shoulders and even her neck.

“Alas, I am old and frail; she slid from my grip and went hurtling down to the rocks.”

The priest paused, panting for breath.

Sister Fidelma bit her lip.

“And then?” she prompted.

“Peering down, I could see that she was dead. I knelt a while in prayer, seeking to absolve her for her sins, of which audacity and arrogance were the only ones I knew. Then a thought struck me, which grew in my mind and gave me comfort. We are all in God’s hands. It occurred to me that it was His intervention. He might have saved the abbess. Instead, perhaps it was His will that had been wrought, a miracle which prevented the reliquary being discovered. One death to prevent a great evil, the destruction of our community. The thought has given me comfort, my daughter. So I simply picked up my broken crucifix, though some of the chain was missing. Then I forced myself to walk back to the path, walk down to the beach and search her. I found her missal and inside the piece of paper that had given her the clue, the one written by the Blessed Patrick. I took them both and I returned here. I was silly, for I should have simply taken the paper and left her missal. I realized how odd it must have looked to the trained eye that it was missing. But I was exhausted. My health was none too good. But the reliquary was safe … or so I thought.”

Sister Fidelma gave a deep, troubled sigh.

“What did you do with the paper?”

“God forgive me, though it was written in the hand of the Blessed Patrick, I destroyed it. I burnt it in my hearth.”

“And the missal?”

“It is there on the table. You may send it to her kinsmen.”

“And that is all?”

“It is all, my daughter. Yet my conscience has troubled me. Am I, in turn, arrogant enough to think that God would enact a murder… even for such a pious purpose? My grievous sin is not coming forward to the bó-aire with my story. But my main purpose was to keep the secret of the reliquary. Now I am dying. I must tell someone of the secret. Perhaps God has willed that you, a total stranger to this island, should know the truth as you had learnt part of that truth already. What is the old Latin hexameter? — quis, quid, ubi, quibus, auxilius, cur, quomodo, quando?”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly at the old man.

“Who is the criminal? What is the crime? Where was it committed? By what means? With what accomplices? Why? In what way? When?”

“Exactly so, my daughter. And now you know these things. You suspected either Congal or myself of some dark crime. There was no crime. If it was, the cause was a miracle. I felt I had no choice but to tell you and place the fate of this island and its community in your hands. Do you understand what this means, my daughter?”

Sister Fidelma slowly nodded.

“I do, Father.”

“Then I have done what I should have done before.”

Outside the priest’s cell a number of islanders had gathered, gazing at Sister Fidelma with expressions varying between curiosity and hostility. Corcrain looked quizzically at her but Fidelma did not respond to his unspoken questions. Instead she went to find Congal to tell him about the cave at Aill Tuatha. That was Congal’s responsibility, not her burden.

The gulls swooped and cried across the grey granite quay of the island. The blustery winds caught them, causing it to seem as if they had stopped momentarily in their flight, and then they beat their wings at the air and swooped again. The sea was choppy and through its dim grey mist Sister Fidelma could see Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis, heaving up and down over the short waves as it edged in toward the harbor. It was not going to be a pleasant voyage back to the mainland. She sighed.

The boat would be bringing a young priest to the island to take over from Father Patrick. He had fallen into a peaceful sleep and died a few hours after Sister Fidelma had spoken with him.

Fidelma’s choice had been a hard one. She had returned to the bó-aire’s cabin and pondered all night over the young magistrate’s official report in the light of what she now knew.

Now she stood waiting for the boat to arrive to take her away from the island. At her side the fresh-faced young magistrate stood nervously.

The boat edged in toward the quay. Lines were thrown and caught, and the few travelers climbed their way to the quay up the ancient rope ladder. The first was a young man, clean-featured and looking appallingly youthful, wearing his habit like a brand-new badge of office. Congal and Corcrain were standing at the head of the quay to greet him.

Sister Fldelma shook her head wonderingly. The priest did not look as if he had learnt yet to shave and already he was “father” to one hundred and sixty souls. She turned and impulsively held out her hand to the young bó-aire, smiling.

“Well, many thanks for your hospitality and assistance, Forgar-tach. I’ll be speaking to the Chief Brehon and to Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne. Then I’ll be glad to get back to my interrupted journey back to my Abbey of Kildare.”

The young man held on to Sister Fidelma’s hand a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his worried eyes searching her face.

“And my report, Sister?”

Sister Fidelma broke away and began her descent, halting a moment on the top rung of the ladder. In spite of the young man’s arrogance, it was wrong to continue to play the cat and mouse with him.

“As you said, Forgartach, it was a straightforward case. The Abbess Cuimne slipped and fell to her death. A tragic accident.”

The young bó-aire’s face relaxed and, for the first time, he smiled and raised a hand in salute.

“I have learnt a little wisdom from you, Anruth of the Brehon Court,” he said stiffly. “God keep you safe on your journey until you reach your destination!”

Sister Fidelma smiled back and raised a hand.

“Every destination is but a gateway to another, Fogartach,” she answered. Then she grinned her urchin grin before dropping into the stern of the gently rocking currach as it waited for her below.