Suffer Little Children

Chapter Eleven

After Mugrón had duly identified the body of Sister Eisten as being that of the same religieuse whom he had seen at Salbach’s fortress, he had returned to his ship. Fidelma and Cass then made their way to the abbey kitchens in search of a meal for, having missed the evening meal, they were both ravenous. It took some insistence on Fidelma’s part, and an emphasis of her position and relationship with the abbot, to persuade the surly sister in charge to provide them with a pitcher of ale, some barley bread and cold cuts from a larac or leg of beef. A bowl of apples was also provided and they ate voraciously and in silence at a small table in the corner of the now deserted refectory.

Fidelma had not really expected that Mugrón would fail to recognise the body of Sister Eisten but she wanted to be sure beyond any doubt that Eisten had been at Salbach’s fortress. She was now faced with one more frustrating mystery, yet one which seemed to hold a slender link to the murder of Dacan. What caused her excitement was Mugrón’s identification of Dacán’s former wife. Why had Grella failed to mentioned that essential fact to Fidelma? The apparent answer was that Grella had been attempting to hide some guilt. Had her relationship provided grounds for Dacán’s murder?

But there was something else that worried Fidelma. What had Grella and Eisten been doing at Salbach’s fortress together? And why had Eisten attempted to book two passages on aship leaving for Gaul? With whom had she been planning to travel? Was it Grella? And who had tortured and killed Eisten?

Fidelma ruminated on the questions while acknowledging that it was little use asking questions when there was no hope of providing answers.

She glanced across the table to Cass and felt a sense of frustration that she could not even begin to discuss her anxieties with him. She found herself still longing for the presence of Brother Eadulf, wishing that she could thrust and parry with the quick sword of his alert mind; dissecting, analysing and, perhaps, gradually arriving at a truth. Then she immediately began to feel guilty again.

She suddenly realised that Cass was regarding her with a quizzical smile.

‘What next, sister?’ he asked, putting down his empty mug of ale and sitting back, obviously satisfied with his meal.

‘Next?’

‘Your mind has been working like the water-clock in the bell tower. I could almost hear the mechanism of your mind as it worked.’

Fidelma grimaced awkwardly.

‘There is one obvious person to see next — Sister Grella. We have to find out why she lied, or, rather, why she did not tell me the whole truth.’

She rose to her feet, followed by Cass.

‘I shall come with you,’ he said. ‘From what you told me there is more than a possibility that she could be the murderess. If so, you should not take chances.’

This time Fidelma made no objection.

They made their way through the gloomy abbey buildings to the dark, deserted library. There was no sign of anyone working in its cold, murky hall. The seats were forsaken, the books were neatly packed in their satchel bags and there were no candles burning.

Fidelma led the way into the small chamber where Sister Grella had taken her to talk, the room where Dacán had studied. She was surprised to see a fire smouldering in the corner fireplace. While Cass bent to light a candle, Fidelma walked quickly across to the fireplace. Something had caught her eye. She leant down to pick it up.

‘What do you make of this?’ she asked.

Cass shrugged as he gazed at the short length of burnt twig which she held out to him.

‘A stick. What else do you light fires with?’

She clicked her tongue in annoyance.

‘Not usually with such sticks. Examine it more closely.’

Cass did so and saw that it was a piece of aspen with some notches of Ogham inscribed on it.

‘What does it say?’ he asked.

‘Nothing that now makes sense. The extract here reads “the resolve of the honourable one determines the fosterage of my children”. That’s all.’

Fidelma placed the salvaged piece of Ogham wand in her marsupium and stared with interest at the remains of the fire.

‘It means that someone has decided to burn an entire book.’ She glanced at the holders that Grella had examined earlier in the day. It was as she suspected. ‘This was the Ogham book that Dacan had been studying. One wand of it, which I discovered, remained in his chamber after his death. I brought it here to show Sister Grella, who identified it as a poem.’

‘Didn’t you think it was part of a will?’

Fidelma pursed her lips in a noncommittal gesture.

‘Now why did someone think that it was so important that they needed to destroy it?’ she asked as if she did not expect Cass to reply.

With a sigh, Fidelma led the way back through the library and into the corridor outside.

A passing cenobite glanced curiously at them.

‘Do you seek Sister Grella?’ he inquired politely.

Fidelma affirmed that they did.

‘If she is not in the Tech Screptra, Sister Grella will be in her own chambers.’

‘Where will we find her chambers?’ Cass inquired a little impatiently.

The cenobite gave them detailed directions which were easy enough to follow.

The chamber of the librarian of Ros Ailithir, however, was deserted. Fidelma had knocked carefully on the door twice. She made sure the corridor was empty before turning the handle. As she fully expected, the door was not locked.

‘Inside, quickly, Cass,’ she instructed.

He followed her somewhat reluctantly and when he had passed into Sister Grella’s chamber she closed the door and fumbled for a candle.

‘This is surely wrong, sister,’ muttered Cass. ‘We should not be in this room uninvited.’

Lighting the candle and standing back, Fidelma regarded Cass scornfully.

‘As a dálaigh of the court I can demand the right to search a person or premises where I have a reasonable suspicion of misconduct.’

‘Then you do believe that Sister Grella killed her former husband and Sister Eisten?’

Fidelma motioned him to silence and began searching the room. For someone who had spent eight years in the abbey, Sister Grella’s chamber was exceedingly sparse in personal objects. A book of devotions was placed by the bed and a few toilet articles, combs and such matter. She examined a large pitcher which was full of liquid. Fidelma sniffed suspiciously at it and her lips narrowed into a cynical smile. It was cuirm, the strong mead fermented from malted barley. It seemed Sister Grella liked to drink in the solitude of her chamber.

She turned to some clothes hanging from a line of pegs but was not really interested in them. There was little here of interest. It was only half-heartedly that she turned to a satchel she had spotted hanging on a peg under some of the clothes and rummaged through merely to complete her search. At first, she thought that it contained only a few undergarments. She drew them out and examined them by the light of the candle. Then among them she noticed a linen skirt which caused her to gasp in sudden satisfaction.

‘Cass, examine this,’ she whispered.

The warrior bent forward.

‘A parti-coloured linen skirt,’ he began, dismissively. ‘What …?’

He paused and suddenly realised what it was.

‘Blue and red. The colour of the strips which bound Dacán.’

Fidelma turned to the hem of the skirt. A long strip of material had, indeed, been torn away. She expelled the air from her lungs with a long, low whistling sound.

‘Then Grella is the murderess!’ announced Cass in excitement. ‘Here is the proof.’

Fidelma was equally excited but her legal mind urged caution.

‘It is only proof of where the material, which bound Dacan, came from. However, this dress does not look like anything that a librarian of an abbey would wear. But, truthfully, Sister Grella does not seem typical of a librarian. Nevertheless, Cass, you may be called upon to witness where I found this skirt.’

‘That I shall,’ agreed the warrior willingly. ‘I do not see that there is cause for any doubt. Grella lied to you about her relationship with Dacan and now we have found this! Is any more proof needed?’

Fidelma did not reply as she repacked the other materials in the satchel but bundled up the skirt into her marsupium. Shewalked back to the bed to make a final check. As she did so the toe of her shoe hit something on the floor; an obstruction which did not give but sent a sharp pain into her foot.

She bent immediately to the floor and peered at it. There was a loose flagstone on the floor. It was this that she had stubbed her toe on. It stood slightly proud from the other floor stones and rocked a little as she touched it.

‘Help me with this, Cass,’ she instructed.

The warrior took out his large knife and inserted it, easing the stone up. There was a cavity underneath. Fidelma held her candle high and peered in. She pulled forth a bundle of vellum.

Fidelma unrolled the vellum and peered at the careful calligraphy.

‘The writings of Dacán,’ she whispered. ‘Grella was hiding them all along.’

‘Then no other proof is needed. She must have killed Dacán!’ remarked Cass with satisfaction.

Fidelma was too busy examining the contents of the writing to comment.

‘It is a letter to his brother, the Abbot Noé.’ Then she corrected herself. ‘No, it is only a draft of a letter. He talks about searching for the heirs of the native kings of Osraige. But he has spilt ink over it and this is why the sheet is discarded. Listen to this, Cass … “The son of Illan, according to the record, has just reached the age of choice. He is old enough to be considered for the kingship. I have discovered my quarry to be hiding in the monastery of Fínán at Sceilig Mhichil under the protection of his cousin. Tomorrow, I shall depart from here and go there.” Look when this is dated!’ She thrust the vellum at Cass and indicated the date. ‘This must have been written a few hours before he was killed.’

‘What quarry?’ demanded Cass. ‘It seems an odd choice of words, as if Dacán was a hunter?’

‘Do you know this monastery at Sceilig Mhichil?’

‘I have never been there but I know it to be a small settlement on a rock-like island in the sea out to the west.’

‘Dacán never set out to Sceilig Mhichil,’ she murmured. ‘He was dead a few hours after writing this.’

Fidelma did not replace the vellum in its hiding place but put it in her marsupium along with the skirt. She then bent to put the flagstone back in place and stood up.

‘Sister Grella will have much to explain,’ she observed.

She gazed round the chamber for a moment then blew out the candle and cautiously opened the door. There was no one outside and she moved quickly out, motioning Cass to follow. As she shut the door, she turned sharply on her heel and hurried along the corridor.

‘Where now?’ demanded Cass, a little aggrieved that he had to ask.

‘To find Sister Grella,’ she replied curtly.

‘Where should we start?’

They started by asking Brother Rumann the steward, but when a full hour had produced no sign of the missing librarian, Cass suggested: ‘Perhaps she has left the abbey?’

‘Is there no aistreóir in this abbey?’ snapped Fidelma.

‘The doorkeeper is Brother Conghus,’ Cass replied automatically before realising that she had asked the question rhetorically. He succeeded in receiving a crushing glance of scorn from the fiery green eyes of Fidelma.

‘I am aware of that,’ she said tightly. ‘It seems, however, that people can pass out of this abbey and vanish as they will. Firstly, Eisten vanished; then the two boys from Rae na Scríne, and now the librarian is nowhere to be found.’

At least Brother Conghus had not vanished. He was in his small officium next to the gates of the abbey making notations on wax tablets. He glanced up in surprise as Fidelma entered without ceremony.

‘Sister? How can I help you?’ he asked, slowly rising to his feet.

‘I am seeking Sister Grella,’ replied Fidelma.

The doorkeeper raised a shoulder and let it fall in a negative fashion.

‘Then the library …?’ he began, but Fidelma cut him short.

‘If she had been there, we would not be here. Neither was she in her chamber. Has she left the abbey?’

Brother Conghus immediately shook his head.

‘It is my task to record the comings and goings of people to and from the abbey,’ he said. ‘So far as my records show, Sister Grella has not left.’

‘Do you keep a record every day?’

‘Of course.’

‘But this is not the only entrance to the abbey,’ she pointed out.

‘It is the main entrance,’ replied Conghus. ‘The rule is that everyone leaving or entering the abbey must report their movements so that we may know who is within the abbey walls.’

‘But if she had left by the side entrance …?’

‘She would have informed me. It is the rule,’ Conghus repeated.

‘Earlier this evening, I left the abbey by the rear gate whose path leads to the shore. Then I returned and brought the captain of the Laigin warship with me. He stayed in the abbey a while before departing again to his ship. Do your records speak of this?’

Conghus flushed.

‘I was not informed. The onus is on people to obey the rule and you should have informed me.’

Fidelma sighed deeply.

‘This means that your records are not entirely reliable. They are only reliable in so far as people obey your rules.’

‘If Sister Grella had left the abbey, she would know the rule,’ replied Conghus stubbornly.

‘Only if she wanted it to be known that she had left,’ intervened Cass, finding something he could contribute to the conversation.

Conghus replied with a snort of annoyance.

‘What do you know of Sister Grella?’ Fidelma suddenly asked.

Conghus was bewildered by her question.

‘Know of her? She is the librarian of the abbey and has been so ever since I have known her.’

‘And you know nothing else?’

‘I know that she came here from the abbey of Cealla. I know that she is well-qualified in her profession. What else should I know?’

‘Was she ever married?’ Fidelma asked.

‘She has never mentioned anything of a marriage in her past.’

‘How well did she know Sister Eisten?’

The question came as a sudden intuitive shot but it did not seem to register with Brother Conghus.

‘She knew her, that is all I can say. Sister Eisten did some studying in the library earlier in the year and so I presume that the librarian would know her.’

‘Then it was not a close liaison? They were not particular friends?’

‘No more than any other member of the abbey whom Sister Grella knew.’

‘About a week ago, Sister Grella visited Salbach’s fortress at Cuan Dóir. Do you know why?’

‘Did she? A week ago?’ Conghus looked bemused. ‘Then we should have a record of that.’

He rose and turned to a shelf of wax tablets and started to check their contents, shaking his head and clicking his tongue.

‘You do not know offhand why she would go to Salbach’s fortress?’ demanded Fidelma, while the doorkeeper diligently searched for the right tablet.

‘None, unless Salbach was presenting a gift to the library. Sometimes, some chieftains find they are possessed of the ancient rods of the poets. Such old Ogham books are rare now, even here in Muman. The abbey offers rewards for the gathering of them. It could be that Salbach found some and decided to present them to our library. But if Grella did go there for that, or any other purpose, she would have informed me that she was leaving the abbey. There is no record of her doing so.’ He turned aside from his tablets to Fidelma. ‘I cannot find any reference to Sister Grella having left to go to Cuan Dóir. She did, however, leave here to go to Rae na Scríne a week ago.’

‘Rae na Scríne?’ Fidelma echoed.

‘It is so recorded,’ replied Brother Conghus with a smirk. ‘She went to collect a book from Sister Eisten and take some medicines to her.’

Fidelma fought back a feeling of utter frustration.

‘She could have gone in the opposite direction to Cuan Dóir,’ she suggested. ‘Or she and Sister Eisten could have travelled to Cuan Dóir afterwards.’

‘She would have told us if she was going to visit Cuan Dóir,’ replied Conghus stoically. ‘And there is no reference to any such journey.’

‘If it were noted.’

‘Of course it would be noted. To visit Salbach on behalf of the abbey would require the permission and blessing of the abbot.’

‘Who said that it would necessarily be a journey on behalf of the abbey?’ queried Fidelma.

‘Why else would the librarian visit the local chieftain?’

‘Why else, indeed?’ Fidelma’s patience was at an end. ‘Thank you for your help, Conghus.’

Outside, Cass examined Fidelma’s worried expression.

‘Do you think that he is hiding something? He seems less than helpful.’

‘Perhaps he is, perhaps not. I suspect that Brother Conghus simply lives by the rules and cannot conceive of anyone breaking them.’

Even as they stood hesitating outside, Conghus came hurrying out and, with a curt nod to the both of them, he scurried across the stone flags of the quadrangle to the tall bell tower.

‘It must be nearly time for the completa,’ muttered Cass.

A few moments later, as if in response to his spoken thought, the bell sounded its chimes to summon the brethren to the service.

The last time Fidelma had attended such a lavish mass had been in Rome in the luxuriant round basilica of St John of Lateran where the body of Wighard, the murdered archbishop-designate of Canterbury, lay. A dozen bishops and their attendants, and the Holy Father himself, had conducted the service.

The dark, high-walled abbey church was nothing compared to the splendour of the Roman basilica but, nevertheless, it was impressive. Tapestries covered the high granite walls, candles gave out heat, light and an assortment of perfumes. Fidelma sat in a pew reserved for distinguished guests with Cass seated alongside her. All around members of the abbey religious and their students crowded together to pay their respects to the passing of the soul of Cathal of Cashel. Though she examined their faces carefully, Fidelma could see no sign of Sister Grella.

The choristers were raising their voices in the Sanctus.

‘Is Naofa, Naofa, Naofa Tú, a Thiarna. Dia na Slua …’

‘You are Holy, Holy, Holy, oh Lord God of Hosts …’

Something made Fidelma glance across the aisle of the church; some sixth sense which pricked at her mind.

She saw the eyes of young Sister Necht staring intensely at her. The novice had been watching her keenly and now, startled, she dropped her head to peer at her feet. Fidelma was turning away when she realised someone else was staring, but this time the object of scrutiny was Sister Necht herself and the examiner was the pudgy-featured Brother Rumann. Next to Rumann, Brother Midach was also watching the young novice. What surprised Fidelma was that all trace of jollity had gone from the physician’s face and if looks could kill, thought Fidelma, Midach would surely have been guilty of slaying the young woman. Then Midach caught her eye, forced a smile and dropped his gaze to concentrate on the holy office. When she turned her attention back to Brother Rumann, the moon-faced house steward was also concentrating on the words of the service.

Fidelma wondered what this curious digression meant. By the time she could concentrate again on the service the choristers had progressed into the Agnus Dei.

It was when the voices were pausing to begin A Ri an Domhnaigh — Great God — that there came a faint noise. The voices of the choristers hesitated and faded away. The noise therefore grew. There was a murmur of apprehension for the noise was that of a wailing child’s voice. It was sobbing in heart-rending fashion.

Everyone peered about looking for the waif but no one could identify the source of the sound. It seemed to echo through the great abbey church, spreading as if through its very granite walls, echoing and re-echoing.

Several of the brethren, more superstitious than logical, genuflected.

Even Abbot Brocc exchanged worried glances with his senior clerics.

Fidelma felt Cass’s hand on her arm. The warrior gesturedwith his head towards the nave and, following his indication, Fidelma saw Brother Midach moving rapidly out of the building.

Before he had reached the door, however, the noise of the crying suddenly ceased. All was deathly still. The sound of the door slamming behind Midach caused the entire congregation to start nervously.

The choir master rapped on his wooden lectern and A Rí an Domhnaigh was started again, hesitantly at first but the voices eventually regained their confidence and strength.

The service continued without further incident. Abbot Brocc spoke eloquently of the sadness of the loss of the old king from the Yellow Plague but with joy of the inauguration of the new king, invoking the blessing of Christ, His Apostles and all the saints of the five kingdoms, for the future prosperity of the kingdom and for the wisdom in government of the new monarch, Colgú.

As the congregation began to break up, after the final blessing, Fidelma told Cass that she would speak with him later and began to push her way through the throng across the nave of the abbey church towards the seat where she had seen the young Sister Necht. By the time she reached the spot, there was no sign of her. She peered around into the dispersing assembly but the novice had vanished.

Suppressing a sigh of annoyance, Fidelma turned for the nearest door, which brought her out of the church opposite the spacious storerooms of the abbey. Although it was night, there were numerous lanterns sending out a shadowy light, obviously lit to help the assembly find their way back to their various dormitories.

Sunk in thought, Fidelma decided not to go straight back to the hostel but followed the path, which Brother Ségán had shown her, leading towards the herb garden. Fidelma wanted to be alone to meditate and the fragrant little garden seemed an ideal place.

It was the faint cry from the shrubbery garden ahead which alerted her to tread softly.

There were two shadows in the arboretum by the head of the well. A slight figure was being held by a stocky, more masculine-looking shadow. It seemed to Fidelma that there was something familiar about that slight figure.

‘You arrogant young …’

The voice she recognised as belonging to Brother Midach. It was now sharp and angry.

Even as Fidelma watched, the chief physician raised an open hand and brought it down against the back of the head of the slighter figure.

There was a grunt of pain.

‘How dare you lay hands on me!’ came a husky voice which Fidelma thought she should know.

Fidelma was about to stride forward and demand to know what was happening when she heard Brother Midach’s voice reprimanding the figure.

‘You’ll do as I tell you. Such an outburst will be the destruction of us all! The sepulchre carries echoes. If we are discovered then there is an end of our hopes for Osraige.’

The shadows moved in the darkness and she lost sight of them. There was no movement in the arboretum.

Fidelma listened and could hear nothing.

She moved forward cautiously. It was as if the ground had suddenly opened and swallowed them. She was perplexed for there was no gate out of the walled garden other than the one by which she had entered.

She examined the area as carefully as she could but could see no trace of Midach or his companion, no passage or doorway through which they might have vanished. She even peered down into the darkness of the well, the holy well of the Blessed Fachtna, but she had seen it in daylight and knew that it descended into almost bottomless darkness.

It was not for half an hour that she gave up the puzzle andretraced her steps reluctantly back to the hostel. Cass was waiting for her with ill-concealed impatience.

‘I was almost going to send out an alarm for you, sister,’ he chided. ‘What with all these people vanishing, I thought you might have gone the same way.’

‘What was so urgent?’ she replied, wondering whether to tell him that she had witnessed yet another astonishing disappearance. ‘Is there alarm among the brothers because of the voice of the child during the service?’

Cass looked dour.

‘Not so much alarm as fear. Even your cousin seems to think it was some ghostly echo of a lost soul.’

Fidelma raised a cynical smile.

‘Surely there are more intelligent opinions among the scholars?’

‘Well, the only one that I have heard is from Brother Rumann, who believes it is some distortion of the sound of water in the well beneath the abbey.’

‘Ah,’ sighed Fidelma. ‘I think I shall leave them to their ignorance for a while yet. But, surely, this was not so urgent as to cause you alarm?’

Cass shook his head.

‘After the service, I was on my way back here when I fell into conversation with Brother Martan. He is …’

‘The same who has the passion for relics and who, thanks be to God, kept the pieces of linen which bound Dacan. We saw him on the shore earlier with Midach examining Sister Eisten’s body.’

‘Exactly so.’

‘What then?’ pressed Fidelma.

‘Brother Martan and I were discussing why anyone should want to kill Dacán. Martan repeated that Dacan was not a likable character.’

‘That much, at least, we can be sure of,’ she said wearily.

‘He told me that Midach once said that there were severalwhom he would prefer dead, and named Dacán as one of them.’

Fidelma raised her head a little.

‘Midach said that? Why did he say this?’

‘Apparently, Martan was witness to one great argument that Midach had with Dacán.’

‘The argument about Laigin? I have heard all about that. Midach insulted Laigin, that was all.’

‘According to Martan, this was something else.’ Cass looked embarrassed. ‘Apparently, it was a row about Sister Necht.’

‘Necht? What was it about?’ Fidelma was suddenly interested.

‘It seems that Dacán accused Midach of having a liaison … you know …’

Fidelma set her jaw firmly when he hesitated as if embarrassed.

‘I am aware of what is implied,’ she said tersely. ‘Dacán accused Midach of having an affair with young Sister Necht? Are you sure? No,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘better that I make sure. I think I should speak with Brother Martan.’

Cass gave a smile of self-satisfaction.

‘That is why I have detained him here. He is in the chamber upstairs awaiting you.’

Brother Martan, now that she saw him under a better light, was rather weak looking, A middle-aged man, with pale skin, bad teeth and the cough of a consumptive which caused his speech to be delivered in short, breathless pants. He rose as Fidelma entered the chamber but she waved him to be seated.

‘I would firstly like to thank you, Martan, for keeping the strips of linen. They have served us well.’

The man’s dull-eyed features did not change.

‘You have told my colleague here,’ she gestured to Cass, ‘that Midach had an argument with Dacán.’

She saw a look of alarm spread across Martan’s features.

‘I did not mean to level any accusation …’ he began. ‘The chief physician has been kind to me and I would not want to place him in harm’s way.’

Fidelma raised a hand to quell his alarm.

‘So far as I know you have merely reported some facts. Did he have such an argument? The truth, Martan, is always the easiest path.’ She added this because she saw that he had suddenly realised the implication of what he had said.

‘I do not want Brother Midach to get into trouble,’ he said sullenly.

‘Did he have an argument or not?’ Fidelma demanded sharply.

Martan nodded reluctantly.

‘Tell me about it,’ invited Fidelma.

‘It was the day before Dacán was found. I happened to be walking along the corridor to the library. I was going to collect a copy of the Aphorisms of Hippocrates, which the abbey possesses.’ He spoke with pride. ‘As I passed down the corridor, I heard voices coming from a small side room, the chamber in which Sister Grella has her officium. It is a room off the main library hall which has an entrance leading into the corridor.’

Fidelma waited patiently while the brother paused to collect his thoughts.

‘I heard Brother Midach’s voice raised in anger and so I stopped outside the door. I was surprised to find him at the library. Also it was unusual that anything would cause anger to Brother Midach because he is usually a most happy and mirthful man.’

He paused, looking awkward.

‘Go on,’ invited Fidelma. ‘You halted outside the open door? What then?’

‘It was only that it was unusual to hear Midach so angry,’ began Martan repetitiously, as if to exonerate himself fromthe guilt of eavesdropping. He halted as he saw the annoyance spread on Fidelma’s face. ‘I realised that the person he was arguing with was none other than the Venerable Dacán.’

‘And the cause of the argument?’

‘It seems that Dacán was accusing Midach of going through his writings, of reading material that he had no right to. Midach hotly denied it, of course. Dacán was so beside himself in rage that he threatened to report Midach to the abbot.

‘Midach replied that he would report Dacán for treating the staff at the hostel as slaves, especially young Sister Necht. At that, Dacán was so angry that he accused Midach of having a relationship with Sister Necht. Midach seemed to take this seriously and replied that he simply had acted as foster-father to Necht. And his relationship was only paternal. Anyway, Midach added, it was none of Dacán’s business.’

Fidelma was not surprised that Midach could be Necht’s foster-father. It was quite common for children to be sent away from home for their education at the age of seven. The process was known as fostering and the foster-parents were required to maintain their fosterlings according to their rank and provide education for them. A girl would often complete her education by the age of fourteen, although some, such as Fidelma herself, could continue to seventeen. Yet fourteen was the age of choice and maturity for a girl. A boy would continue until he was seventeen. Fosterage was a legal contract regarded as being of benefit to both households. There were two types of fosterage in law. One was for ‘affection’ in which no fees were exchanged. The other was where the natural parents paid for the fosterage of their child. Fosterage was the principle method of educating children in society.

‘Are you sure he said he was foster-father?’

‘The term datán was definitely used.’

It was the legal term one used for a foster-father.

‘Did you know that Midach was foster-father to Sister Necht?’

Martan shook his head.

‘Just what did you think that Brother Midach’s relationship was?’ she prompted.

‘To Necht?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Midach was Necht’s anamchara, her soul-friend. That is all I know. As such they were friendly and close with one another.’

‘So Midach obviously felt responsible for Necht?’

‘I suppose so,’ agreed Martan.

‘Did it surprise you that Dacán would accuse Midach of such an affair? Dacán had a reputation of a man of aloof serenity. What made him suddenly attack Midach?’

‘He was no saint. He was a strange, ill-tempered man who tested Midach’s temper to the extreme,’ replied Martan. ‘All I know is that I overheard Midach reacting badly. He told Dacan not to interfere and if he continued to do so and insult Midach, then Midach would …’

He paused and his eyes rounded as he realised what he was about to say.

‘Go on,’ urged Fidelma. ‘He obviously threatened physical violence.’

‘Midach said he would kill him,’ agreed Martan softly.

There was a pause.

‘Do you think he meant it?’

‘I do not,’ protested the apothecary. ‘Nor do I set myself to judge other people in their personal habits of life. If that was the way of it, that was the way of it. Midach would harm no one.’

‘That’s not what Midach himself threatened,’ observed Fidelma dryly. ‘When you learnt of Dacán’s death just one day after this argument, did you not find it worrying? Ipresume that you made no mention of it to Brother Rumann, who had charge of the investigation?’

A tinge of colour edged Martan’s cheeks.

‘I did not report it as I did not believe it of relevance. Midach was not in the abbey when Dacán’s body had been found. If you are asking me to say that I suspect Midach of murder, I shall not. Midach is a man who loves life and enjoys life. He would no more think of destroying another life than he would of taking his own life.’

‘So you did not mention this matter to Rumann?’ observed Fidelma. ‘What made you mention the matter now?’

Martan coloured.

‘I wish I had not. My only thought was that you should both know that Dacán was not the saintly man most people supposed. He could accuse people unjustly.’

‘And all this came about because Dacan originally accused Midach of going through his notes and writings in the library?’

‘Midach denied that also,’ Martan reminded her.

‘Then one more thing. You say that Midach had left the abbey on the evening before Dacán was killed. He returned six days later, so I am told. Do you know why he left and where he went?’

Martan shook his head.

‘I know it was not a journey that was planned. He went by boat. It was probably some medical emergency in one of the villages. It often happens.’

‘What makes you think it was not planned?’

‘Because he told no one except Sister Necht, who came to inform Brother Tóla only after he had left the abbey.’

‘When was that?’

‘Just before the completa. He must have sailed on the evening tide or he could not have gone until mid-morning on the next day.’

Fidelma’s narrowed.

‘You are sure of this time?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well,’ Fidelma leant back, ‘I think you have been of considerable help to us, Martan. You may go but I would appreciate it if you did not mention our discussion to anyone … especially to Brother Midach. Do you understand?’

Martan rose uncertainly.

‘I think so, sister. I just hope I have not said the wrong thing …’

‘How can truth be the wrong thing to say?’ inquired Fidelma gravely.