The Subtle Serpent

Chapter Six

When Sister Síomha had not shown up at the guests’ hostel half-an-hour after the noon hour, the time when Fidelma had requested her presence, Fidelma decided to go in search of the steward of the community. She checked the time as she passed the ornate bronze sundial which stood in the centre of the courtyard with its ostentatious Latin inscription: ‘Horas non numero nisi serenas — I do not count the hours unless they are bright.’ The day was cold but, certainly, it was bright and clear. The snow clouds that had passed in the night were long gone.

It was the pretty young Sister Lerben who was able to direct Fidelma to the tower which rose behind the wooden church. Fidelma had discovered that Sister Lerben was more personal servant than simple attendant to the abbess. Lerben told Fidelma that she would find Sister Síomha in the tower attending to the water-clock. The tower was a large construction standing immediately next to the stone store room which Fidelma had entered on the previous evening. The tower’s foundations were of stone and then its upper storeys were built of wood, rising to a height of thirty-five feet. Fidelma could see, on the flat top of the tower, the main bell by which the community was summoned to prayer.

Ascending the wooden stairs within the squat stone foundations, Fidelma felt an increasing annoyance at the arrogance of the steward who had ignored her summons. If a dálaigh demanded the presence of a witness, then the witnesshad to obey on pain of a fine. Fidelma determined that she would ensure the conceited Sister Síomha learned this lesson.

The square tower was built in a series of chambers placed one on top of the other with floors of birch planking supported by heavy oak beams from which steps led from one chamber to another. Each chamber had four small windows which commanded views on all four sides but these made the rooms gloomy rather than bringing light into them. The tower itself, or at least the first two floors of it, were filled by the community’s Tech-screptra, the ‘house of manuscripts’ or library. Wooden fames crossed the room on which rows of pegs hung and from each peg was suspended a tiag liubhar or book satchel.

Fidelma paused amazed at the collection of books which the abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells had in its possession. There must have been fully fifty or more hanging from the pegs on the first two floors. She carefully examined several of them finding, among them, to her further surprise, copies of the works of the eminent Irish scholar Longarad of Sliabh Marga. Another book satchel contained the works of Dallán Forgaill of Connacht, who had presided at the Great Bardic Assemblies of his day, and who had been murdered seventy years ago. Suspicion was laid at the door of Guaire the Hospitable, king of Connacht, but nothing was ever proved. It was one of the great mysteries which Fidelma often found herself contemplating and wishing that she had lived in those times so that she could solve the riddle of Dallán’s death.

She looked in a third book satchel and found a copy of Teagasc Ri, The Instruction of the King. The author of this work was the High King Cormac Mac Art, who had died at Tara in AD 254. Although he had not been of the Faith he was famed as one of the wisest and most beneficent of monarchs. He had composed the book of instructions on the conduct of life, health, marriage and manners. Fidelma smiled as she remembered her first day under instruction ofher mentor, the Brehon Morann of Tara. She had been shy and almost afraid to speak. Morann had quoted from Cormac’s book: ‘If you be too talkative, you will not be heeded: if you be too silent, you will not be regarded.’

A frown crossed her face as she examined the vellum leaves of the book. Many of them were stained with a reddish mud. How could any good librarian allow such a treasure to be so defaced? She made a mental note to speak of the condition of the book to the librarian and thrust it back into its satchel, rebuking herself from being waylaid from her purpose in coming to the tower.

Reluctantly, she drew herself away from the library and climbed to the third floor. Here was a room set out for the scribes and copyists of the community. It was empty now but there were writing tables ready with piles of quills of geese, swans, and crows ready to be sharpened. Writing boards with vellum, the stretched skins of sheep, goat and calves, stood ready. Pots of ink made from carbon, black and durable.

Fidelma glanced around and presumed that the scriptors who occupied the copying room were at their midday meal following the noon Angelus. The pale sun infiltrated into the room from the southern and western windows, illuminating it in a sharp beam of translucent light, making it seem warm and comfortable in spite of the chill air. It was a spacious and secure place to work in, she reflected. From here the view was breathtaking. To the south and west, through the windows, she could see the shimmering sea and encompassing headlands around the inlet. The Gaulish ship still rode at anchor. The sails were furled but she could see no sign of Odar and his men on board. She presumed they were resting or at their noonday meal. The water sparkled around the vessel reflecting the pastel colour of the clear sky. Looking due west she could see the fortress of Adnár and turning to the north and east, she could see the forests and the rising snow-capped peaks of the mountains behind the abbey,peaks which ran along the peninsula like the ridged back of a lizard.

She moved across to the northern window and peered out. Below her the buildings of the abbey stretched around the large clearing on the low-lying headland. The place seemed deserted now, confirming her belief that the sisters were eating their midday meal in the refectory. The abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells was certainly situated in a most beautiful spot. The high cross stood tall and white in the sun. Immediately below was the courtyard, with its central sundial. There were numerous unconnected buildings forming the sides of the courtyard with the large wooden church, the duirthech, which ran along the southern side of the paved yard. Behind the main buildings fronting the courtyard were several other structures of wood, and a few of stone, in which the community lived and worked.

Fidelma was about to turn back into the room when she caught a slight movement on a track about half a mile distant from the abbey. It was a track that seemed to wend its way down from the mountains and disappear behind the tree line, heading, presumably, in the direction of Adnár’s fortress. A dozen riders were cautiously guiding their horses along this road. Fidelma screwed her eyes to sharpen the vision. Behind the horsemen, more men were trotting on foot. She felt sorry for them as she saw they were hard pressed to keep up with the riders on the sloping, rocky ground.

She could make out nothing, except that the foremost riders were richly accoutred. The sun splashed on the vivid colours of their dress and sparkled and blazed on the burnished shields of several of the mounted men. At the head of the column, one of the riders carried a banner on a long pole. A stream of silk, with some emblem which she could not discern, snapped and twisted in the breeze. She frowned at some strange shape on one of the riders’ shoulders. From this distance, her first glance made it initially seem as if hehad two heads. No! She could now and then see a movement from the shape and realised that perched on this rider’s shoulder was a large hawk. The line of riders, with those following on foot, eventually passed down below the tree line and out of her vision.

Fidelma stood a few moments wondering if she would catch sight of them again but the thick surrounding oak forest hid them from view now that they were down off the high ground. She wondered who they were and then gave a mental shrug. It was no use wasting time wondering when she did not have the ability to resolve the answer.

She turned away from the window and made her way to the steps that led to the fourth and highest room of the tower.

She entered through the trap door into this upper room without pausing to knock or otherwise announce her presence.

Sister Síomha was bending over a large bronze basin which stood on a stone fireplace and was steaming gently. The rechtaire of the community glanced up with an angry frown and then let her expression change a little when she recognised Fidelma.

‘I was wondering when you would come,’ the steward of the community greeted her in an irritable tone.

For once, Fidelma found herself without words. Her eyes involuntarily widened.

Sister Síomha paused to adjust a small copper bowl which was floating on top of the steaming bronze basin before straightening up and turning to face Fidelma.

Once more Fidelma found the angelic heart-shaped face difficult to equate with the attitude and office of rechtaire. Fidelma examined her carefully, registering that the eyes were large and of an amber colour. The lips were full and here and there a strand of brown hair poked from under her head dress. A disarming splash of freckles daubed her face. The young sister gave an impression of wide-eyed innocence. Yet something sparkled deep within those amber eyes, anexpression that Fidelma had difficulty in interpreting. It was a restless, angry fire.

Fidelma drew her brows together and tried to recover her feeling of annoyance.

‘We agreed to meet at the guests’ hostel at noon,’ she began but to her surprise the young sister shook her head firmly.

‘We did not agree,’ she replied in an abrupt tone. ‘You told me to be there at noon and then walked away before I could answer.’

Fidelma was taken aback. It was certainly one interpretation of the exchange. However, one had to bear in mind the young girl’s initial haughty presumption that had made Fidelma react in order to curb her insolence and disrespect for Fidelma’s office. Obviously, no lesson had been learned and now Fidelma had been placed on a wrong footing.

‘You realise, Sister Síomha, that I am an attorney of the court and have certain rights? I summoned you before me as a witness and failure to obey my summons results in your liability to a fine.’

Sister Síomha sneered arrogantly.

‘I have no concern for your law. I am steward of this community and my responsibilities here require my attention. My first duty is to my abbess and to the Rule of this community.’

Fidelma swallowed sharply.

She was unsure whether the younger sister was innocently obstructive or merely wilful.

‘Then you have much to learn,’ Fidelma finally replied with bite. ‘You will pay me such fine as I judge worthy and, to ensure your compliance, this will be done before the Abbess Draigen. In the meantime, you will tell me how you came to be with Sister Brónach when the corpse was drawn from the well.’

Sister Síomha opened her mouth as if to dispute with Fidelma but she changed her mind. Instead, she moved to a chair and slumped in it. There was no indication in themovement of her body that her carriage was that of a religieuse. There was no calm poise, no modest folding of her hands, no contemplative submission. Her body spoke of aggression and arrogance.

It was the only seat in the room and there was nothing for Fidelma to do but to stand before the seated girl. Fidelma quickly cast a glance around. The room, like the others before, had four open windows but these were larger than those on the lower floors. There was a stack of small logs and twigs on one side of this room. On the other side was the stone fireplace whose smoke escaped through the western aperture, though, with the changing breeze, sometimes the smoke blew back into the room causing a pungent odour of woodsmoke. A small table, with writing tablets and a few graib, or metal writing stylus, on it, was the only other furniture in the room. However, before the north window, there stood a large copper gong and a stick.

A ladder in another corner gave access to the flat roof of the tower on which, she knew, stood the structure from which hung a large bronze bell. At the appropriate time of service and prayer, a sister would climb up to ring it.

All this, Fidelma took in during her brief glance. Then she turned her gaze back to the discourteously seated Sister Síomha.

‘You have not replied to my question,’ Fidelma said quietly.

‘Sister Brónach undoubtedly told you what happened,’ she answered stubbornly.

Fidelma’s expression held a dangerous fire.

‘And now you will tell me.’

The steward repressed a sigh. She made her voice wooden, like a child repeating a well-known lesson.

‘It was Sister Brónach’s task to draw water from the well. When the Abbess Draigen returned from the midday prayers in the church, Sister Brónach usually had the water waiting for her in her chamber. That day there was no sign of thewater or of Sister Brónach. I was with the abbess who asked me, as steward, to go in search of Brónach …’

‘Sister Brónach holds the title of doorkeeper of this abbey, doesn’t she?’ interrupted Fidelma, knowing full well the answer but seeking a means to disrupt the wooden delivery.

Síomha looked disconcerted for a moment and then gave a little motion of her head which implied confirmation.

‘She has been here many years. She is older than most people in the community, except our librarian who is the eldest. She bears the title, in respect of her age, rather than her ability.’

‘You do not like her, do you?’ Fidelma observed sharply.

‘Like?’ The young girl seemed surprised by the question. ‘Didn’t Aesop write that there can be little liking where there is no likeness? There is no affinity between Sister Brónach and myself.’

‘One does not have to be a soul friend to find affection for another.’

‘Pity is no basis for affection,’ replied the girl. ‘That would be the only emotion I could summon towards Sister Brónach.’

Fidelma realised that Sister Síomha was not without intelligence for all her vanity. She had a verbal dexterity which would conceal her innermost thoughts. But, at least, Fidelma had stopped her wooden-voiced obstruction. Much could be discerned when the voice was more animated. She decided to try another tack.

‘I am under the impression that there are not many in this community with whom you have a friendship. Is that not so?’

She had picked this idea up from Sister Brónach but was surprised when Síomha did not deny it.

‘As steward it is not my job to please everyone. I have to make many decisions. Not all my decisions please the community. But I am rechtaire and I hold a responsible position.’

‘But your decisions are made with the approval of the Abbess Draigen, of course?’

‘The abbess trusts me implicitly.’ There was a boastful note in the girl’s voice.

‘I see. Well, let us continue with the discovery of the body. So, at the mother abbess’s request, you went in search of Sister Brónach?’

‘She was at the well but having difficulty in drawing the rope up. I thought that she was trying to hide her tardiness.’

‘Ah yes. Why was that?’

‘I had drawn water but an hour or two before and there had been no difficulty.’

Fidelma leant forward quickly. ‘Do you recall at precisely what hour you had drawn water from that well?’

Sister Síomha placed her head to one side, appearing to reflect on the question.

‘No more than two hours before.’

‘And there was, of course, no sign of anything amiss at that time?’

‘If there had been,’ Sister Síomha replied with heavy irony, ‘I would have said something.’

‘Of course you would. But let me be clear, there was nothing unusual around the well? No sign of any disturbance, no stains of blood in the snow?’

‘None.’

‘Was anyone else with you?’

‘Why should there be?’

‘No matter. I merely wanted to ensure that we could narrow the time when the body was placed in the well. It would appear that the body was placed in the well a short time before it was found. That would mean, whoever placed it in the well did so in full daylight with the prospect of being seen by anyone from the abbey. Do you not find that strange?’

‘I could not say.’

‘Very well. Continue.’

‘We hauled the rope up, it took some effort and time. Then we found the corpse tied to it. We cut it down and sent for the abbess.’

The details fitted with those given by Sister Brónach.

‘Did you recognise the corpse?’

‘No. Why should I?’ Her voice was sharp.

‘Has anyone gone missing from this community?’

The large amber eyes widened perceptibly. For a moment Fidelma was sure that a glint of fear flitted in their unfathomable depths.

‘Someone did disappear, who was it?’ Fidelma demanded quickly, hoping to take advantage of the almost imperceptible reaction.

Sister Síomha blinked and then was back in control again.

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ she replied. ‘No one has disappeared,’ Fidelma just managed to catch the soft inflection, ‘from our community. If you are trying to imply that the body was one of our sisters, then you are mistaken.’

‘Think again and remember the penalties for not telling the truth to an officer of the court.’

Sister Síomha rose to her feet with an expression of anger.

‘I have no need to lie. Of what do you accuse me?’ she demanded.

‘I accuse you of nothing … so far,’ replied Fidelma, unperturbed by the display of defiance. ‘So, you state that no one had disappeared from the community? All your sisters are accounted for?’

‘Yes.’

Fidelma could not help but notice the slight hesitation before Sister Síomha’s reply. It was, however, no use pressing the steward. She continued:

‘When you sent for the abbess, did she give any indication that she recognised the corpse?’

The steward stared at her for a moment as if trying to fathom out the motives behind the question.

‘Why should the abbess recognise the corpse? Anyway, it was without a head.’

‘So the Abbess Draigen was surprised and horrified by the sight of the corpse?’

‘As, indeed, we all were.’

‘And you have no idea of who this corpse was?’

‘On my soul!’ snapped the girl. ‘I have said as much. I find your questions highly objectionable and I shall report this matter to Abbess Draigen.’

Fidelma smiled tightly.

‘Ah yes: Abbess Draigen. What is your relationship with Abbess Draigen?’

The glare of the steward faltered.

‘I am not sure what you mean.’ Her voice was cold and there was a threatening tone in it.

‘I thought my words were clear enough.’

‘I enjoy the abbess’s trust.’

‘How long have you been rechtaire here?’

‘A full year now.’

‘When did you join the community?’

‘Two years ago.’

‘Isn’t that a short time to be in a community and yet be trusted with its second most important office in the abbey — that of rechtaire?’

‘Abbess Draigen gave me her confidence.’

‘That is not what I asked.’

‘I am proficient at my work. Surely if someone has an aptitude for a task then it matters not how young they are?’

‘Yet, by any standards, it is a remarkably short period from the time that you entered the service of the Faith to the time you were appointed to this position.’

‘I know of no comparison to make a judgment.’

‘Were you in any other religious community before coming here?’

Sister Síomha shook her head.

‘So at what age did you enter here?’

‘The age of eighteen.’

‘Then you are no more than twenty?’

‘I stand a month from my twenty-first birthday,’ replied the girl defensively.

‘Then, truly, the Abbess Draigen must trust you implicitly. Aptitude for your tasks or not, you are young to hold the position of rechtaire,’ Fidelma said solemnly and before Sister Síomha could respond, she added: ‘And you, in turn, trust Abbess Draigen, of course?’

The girl frowned, unable to follow the trend of Fidelma’s questioning.

‘Of course, I do. She is my abbess and the superior of this community.’

‘And you like her?’

‘She is a wise and firm counsellor.’

‘You have nothing to say against her?’

‘What is there to say?’ Sister Síomha snapped. ‘Again I find that I do not like your questions.’

The girl regarded Fidelma with an expression of suspicion mixed with irritation.

‘Questions are not something you like or dislike. They are to be answered when a dálaigh of the Brehon Court asks them.’ Once again Fidelma decided to counter the girl’s challenge to her authority with a waspish reply.

Sister Síomha blinked rapidly. Fidelma judged that she was unused to anyone challenging her.

‘I … I have no idea why you are asking me these questions but you seem to be implying criticism of myself and now of the abbess.’

‘Why could you be criticised?’

‘Are you trying to be clever with me?’

‘Clever?’ Fidelma allowed surprise to register on her features. ‘I make no attempt to be clever. I am simply asking questions to gain a picture of what has happened in this place. Does that worry you so much?’

‘It worries me not at all. The sooner this mystery isresolved, then the sooner we can return to our normal routine.’

Sister Fidelma gave an inward sigh. She had tried to bludgeon the arrogance out of Sister Síomha and had failed.

‘Very well. I believe that you are a discerning and intelligent person, Sister Síomha. You are telling me that the headless corpse was a stranger to this community. From where do you think it came?’

Sister Síomha simply shrugged.

‘Isn’t that your task to discover?’ she said sarcastically.

‘And I am doing my best to achieve that discovery. However, you have assured me that it was no member of your community. If so, could it be a member of any local community?’

‘It was headless. I have told you before that I did not recognise it.’

‘But it might have been a member of a local community. Perhaps the girl belonged to Adnár’s community across the bay here?’

‘No!’ the reply was so sharp and immediate that Fidelma was surprised. She raised her eyebrows in interrogation.

‘Why so? Do you know Adnár’s community so well?’

‘No … no; it’s just that I do not think …’

‘Ah,’ Fidelma smiled. ‘If you only think it is or is not, then you do not know. Isn’t that right? In which case you are guessing, Sister Síomha. If you are guessing in this instance, have you been guessing in your answers to my previous questions?’

Sister Síomha looked outraged.

‘How dare you suggest …!’

‘Indignation is no response,’ replied Fidelma complacently. ‘And arrogance is no answer to …’

There was a timid knocking. Sister Brónach entered through the trapdoor.

‘What is it?’ Sister Síomha snapped at her.

The middle-aged sister blinked at the curtness of the greeting.

‘It is the mother abbess, sister. She requires your presence immediately.’

Sister Síomha let her breath exhale slowly.

‘And how am I to leave the water-clock?’ she demanded, with a gesture to the bowl which stood behind her, her tone bitterly sarcastic.

‘I am to take charge of it,’ Sister Brónach replied calmly.

Sister Síomha rose to her feet and stared at Fidelma for a moment.

‘I presume that I have your permission to go now? I have told you all I know of this matter.’

Fidelma inclined her head without saying anything and the young steward of the community stomped in obvious temper from the room. For once Fidelma rebuked herself for having allowed the temperament of a person to set the tone of her questioning. She had hoped that her sharpness, her bludgeoning style of interrogation would have deflated Sister Síomha’s arrogance. But she had not succeeded.

Sister Brónach broke the silence.

‘She is annoyed,’ she observed softly as she moved to the fireplace and checked the basin of steaming water.

Even as she did so, the floating copper bowl sank abruptly, and Sister Brónach immediately turned to a large gong which stood by the open window. She took a stick and struck it firmly so that the sound seemed to resound across the grounds of the abbey. Then she quickly moved to remove the bowl from the water, deftly using a pair of long wooden tongs which were eighteen inches in overall length so that her hands did not have to contact the water. She removed the bowl and emptied it so that she could refloat it on top of the water.

Fidelma found herself intrigued by the operation, and dismissed Sister Síomha momentarily from her mind. She had seen one or two water-clocks at work before.

‘Tell me of your system here, Sister Brónach,’ she invited, genuinely interested.

Sister Brónach cast an uncertain glance at Fidelma, as if wondering whether there was some hidden purpose to her question. Deciding there was not, or if there was she could not appreciate it, she pointed to the mechanism.

‘Someone is obliged to constantly watch the clock, or the clepsydra, as we call it.’

‘That I can understand. Explain the mechanism to me.’

‘This basin,’ Sister Brónach pointed to a large bronze bowl which stood on the fire, ‘is filled with water. The water is kept constantly heated and then on it is placed the empty small copper dish, which has a very small hole in its base.’

‘I see it.’

‘The hot water percolates through the hole in the bottom of the copper dish and gradually fills it and so it eventually sinks to the bottom. When that happens, a period of time of fifteen minutes has passed. We call it a pongc. When the dish sinks to the bottom of the basin, the watcher must strike a gong. There are four pongc in the uair and six uair make a cadar. When the fourth pongc is sounded, the striker of the gong pauses and then strikes the number of the uair; when the sixth uair is sounded, the striker must pause and then strike the number of the cadar, of the quarter of the day. It is a very simple method really.’

As Sister Brónach warmed to her explanation, she seemed to come alive for the first time in Fidelma’s brief encounters with her.

Fidelma paused for a moment in thought, seeing a path to extend her knowledge.

‘And this water-clock was the method by which you were sure of the hour in which you found the body?’

Sister Brónach nodded absently, as she checked the heat of the water and stoked the fire underneath the big basin.

‘It is a tedious business then, tending this water-clock?’

‘Tedious enough,’ agreed the sister.

‘It was therefore surprising to find the rechtaire of the community, the house steward, fulfilling this task,’ Fidelma commented pointedly.

Brónach replied with a shake of her head.

‘Not so; our community prides itself on the accuracy of our clepsydra. Each member of the community, when they join us, agrees to take her turn in keeping the watch. It is written into our Rule. Sister Síomha has been keen that this rule be applied. Why, during these last few weeks, for example, she has insisted on taking most of the night watches herself — that is from midnight until the time of the morning Angelus. Even the mother abbess herself sometimes takes her turn, like everyone else. No one is allowed to keep watch above one cadar, that is a six hour period.’

Fidelma suddenly frowned.

‘If Sister Síomha takes this night watch, what was she doing here just now, after noon?’

‘I did not say that she takes every night watch. It would not be allowed for every sister must do her turn. She takes most of them and she is a very meticulous person.’

‘And was Sister Síomha taking the night watch on the night before the body was discovered?’

‘Yes. I believe she was.’

‘It is a long time to be here, just watching, waiting for the bowl to sink and then remembering how many times to strike a gong,’ Fidelma observed.

‘Not if one is a contemplative,’ replied Sister Brónach. ‘There is nothing more relaxing than to take the period of the first cadar, that is from midnight until the morning Angelus at the sixth hour. That is the time I like best. That is probably why Sister Síomha also likes to take most of these night watches. One is here, alone with one’s thoughts.’

‘But thoughts can run away with one’s mind,’ persisted Fidelma. ‘You could forget the period that has passed by and how many times you must strike the gong.’

Sister Brónach picked up a tablet, a wooden-framedconstruction in which was a layer of soft clay. There was a stylus nearby. She made a mark with the stylus and then handed it to Fidelma.

‘Sometimes it does happen,’ she confessed. ‘But there are rituals to be observed. Each time we sound the gong, we have to record the pongc, the uair and the cadar.’

‘But mistakes happen?’

‘Oh yes. In fact the night you were speaking of, the night before we found the corpse, even Sister Síomha had made a miscalculation.’

‘A miscalculation?’

‘It is a very exacting task being a time keeper, but if we forget the number of times to strike, we merely have to look at the record and when the tablet is filled, we simply scrape it smooth again and start all over again. Síomha must have misjudged several time periods for when I took over from her that morning, the clay tablet was smudged and inaccurate.’

Fidelma peered carefully at the clay tablet. She was not so much concerned with the figures that were enumerated there but with the texture of the clay. It was a curious red colour and seemed familiar to her.

‘Is this local clay?’ she asked.

Sister Brónach nodded.

‘What makes it so strangely red in colour?’

‘Oh, that. We are not far from the copper mines and the soil around here often produces this distinctive clay. The copper mixes with natural clay and water to produce that fascinating red effect. We find the clay very good for writing tablets. It keeps its soft surface longer than normal clay, so that we do not have to waste other writing materials. It is perfect for keeping the enumeration of the clepsydra.’

‘Copper,’ breathed Fidelma reflectively. ‘Copper mines.’

She let a finger trail over the surface of the smooth damp clay and then, with an abrupt motion, dug her fingernail into it and lifted a fragment out.

‘Careful, sister,’ protested Sister Brónach, ‘do not damage the enumeration.’

Sister Brónach looked slightly outraged as she gently removed the writing tablet from Fidelma’s hand and carefully erased the disturbance to its smooth surface.

‘I am sorry,’ Fidelma smiled absently. She was examining the reddish material on her fingertips with fascination.