Whispers of the Dead

WHISPERS OF THE DEAD

Abbot Laisran sat back in his chair, at the side of the crackling log fire, and gazed thoughtfully at his cup of mulled wine.

“You have achieved a formidable reputation, Fidelma,” he observed, raising his cherub-like features to his young protégée, who sat on the other side of the fireplace, sipping her wine. “Some Brehons talk of you as they would the great female judges such as Brig or Dari. That is commendable in one so young.”

Fidelma smiled thinly. She was not one given to vanity for she knew her own weaknesses.

“I would not aspire to write legal texts as they did, nor, indeed, would I pretend to be more than a simple investigator of facts. I am a dálaigh, an advocate. I prefer to leave the judgment of others to the Brehons.”

Abbot Laisran inclined his head slightly as if in acceptance of her statement.

“But that is the very thing on which your reputation has its foundation. You have had some outstanding successes with your investigations, observing things that are missed by others. Several times I have seen your ability firsthand. Does it ever worry you that you hold so much responsibility?”

“It worries me only that I observe all the facts and come to the right decision. However, I did not spend eight years under instruction with the Brehon Morann of Tara to no avail. I have come to accept the responsibility that goes with my office.”

“Ah,” sighed the abbot. “‘Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required.’ That is from-”

“The Gospel of Luke,” Fidelma interrupted with a mischievous smile.

Abbot Laisran answered her smile.

“Does nothing escape your attention, Fidelma? Surely there must be cases when you are baffled? For instance, there must be many a murder over which it is impossible to attribute guilt.”

“Perhaps I have been lucky,” admitted Fidelma. “However, I do not believe that there is such a thing as a perfect crime.”

“Come now, that must be an overstatement?”

“Even when we examine a body with no evidence of who he, or she, was in life, or how and when he, or she, died, let alone by whose hand, a good observer will learn something. The dead always whisper to us. It is our task to listen to the whispers of the dead.”

The abbot knew it was not in Fidelma’s nature to boast of her prowess; however, his round features assumed a skeptical expression.

“I would like to make a wager with you,” he suddenly announced.

Fidelma frowned. She knew that Abbot Laisran was a man who was quick to place wagers. Many was the time she had attended the great Aenach Lifé, the fair at the Curragh, for the horseracing and watched Abbot Laisran losing as well as winning as he hazarded money on the contests.

“What manner of wager had you in mind, Laisran?” she asked cautiously.

“You have said that the dead whisper to us and we must have ears to listen. That in every circumstance the body of a person will eventually yield up the information necessary to identify him, and who, if anyone, is culpable for the death. Have I understood you correctly?”

Fidelma inclined her head in agreement.

“That has been my experience until now,” she conceded.

“Well then,” continued Abbot Laisran, “will you take a wager with me on a demonstration of that claim?”

“In what circumstances?”

“Simple enough. By coincidence, this morning a young peasant woman was found dead not far from this abbey. There was no means of identification on her and inquiries in the adjacent village have failed to identify her. No one appears to be missing. She must have been a poor itinerant. One of our brothers, out of charity, brought the body to the abbey. Tomorrow, as is custom, we shall bury her in an unmarked grave.” Abbot Laisran paused and glanced slyly at her. “If the dead truly whisper to you, Fidelma, perhaps you will be able to interpret those whispers and identify her?”

Fidelma considered for a moment.

“You say that she was a young woman? What was the cause of her death?”

“That is the mystery. There are no visible means of how she died. She was well nourished, according to our apothecary.”

“No signs of violence?” asked Fidelma, slightly bemused.

“None. The matter is a total mystery. Hence I would place a wager with you, which is that if you can find some evidence, some cause of death, of something that will lead to the identification of the poor unfortunate, then I will accept that your claim is valid. So, what of the wager?”

Fidelma hesitated. She disliked challenges to her abilities but, on the other hand, some narcissistic voice called from within her.

“What is the specific wager?” she asked.

“A screpall for the offertory box of the abbey.” Abbot Laisran smiled. “I will give a screpall for the poor if you can discover more about the poor woman than we have been able to. If you cannot, then you will pay a screpall to the offertory box.”

A screpall was a silver coin valued to the fee charged by a dálaigh for a single consultation.

Fidelma hesitated a moment and then, urged on by her pride, said: “It is agreed.”

She rose and set down her mulled wine, startling the abbot.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“Why, to view the body. There is only an hour or two of daylight left, and many important signs can vanish in artificial light.”

Reluctantly, Abbot Laisran set down his wine and also rose.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Come, I will show you the way to the apothecary.”

A tall, thin religieux with a beak of a nose glanced up as Abbot Laisran entered the chamber where he was pounding leaves with a pestle. His eyes widened a little when he saw Sister Fidelma enter behind the abbot. Fidelma was well known to most of the religious of the Abbey of Durrow.

“Brother Donngal, I have asked Sister Fidelma to examine our unknown corpse.”

The abbey’s apothecary immediately set aside his work and gazed at her with interest.

“Do you think that you know the poor woman, Sister?”

Fidelma smiled quickly.

“I am here as a dálaigh, Brother,” she replied.

A slight frown crossed Brother Donngal’s features.

“There is no sign of a violent death, Sister. Why would an advocate have an interest in this matter?”

Catching the irritable hardening of her expression, Abbot Laisran intervened quickly: “It is because I asked Sister Fidelma to give me her opinion on this matter.”

Brother Donngal turned to a door.

“The body lies in our mortuary. I was shortly to prepare it for burial. Our carpenter has only just delivered the coffin.”

The body lay under a linen sheet on a table in the center of the chamber that served as the abbey’s mortuary where bodies were prepared for burial.

Sister Fidelma moved toward it and was about to take a corner of the sheet in her hand when the apothecary coughed apologetically.

“I have removed her clothing for examination but have not dressed her for the coffin yet, Sister.”

Fidelma’s eyes twinkled at the man’s embarrassment, but she made no reply.

The corpse was that of a young woman, perhaps no more than twenty years old. Fidelma had not entirely hardened herself to premature death.

“She is not long dead,” was Fidelma’s first remark.

Brother Donngal nodded.

“No more than a day and a night, I reckon. She was found this morning and I believe she died during the night.”

“By whom was she found?”

“Brother Torcan,” intervened Abbot Laisran, who was standing just inside the door observing them.

“Where was she found?”

“No more than a few hundred paces from the abbey walls.”

“I meant, in what place, what were the conditions of her surroundings?”

“Oh, I see. She was found in a wood, in a small clearing almost covered with leaves.”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

“What was this Brother Torcan doing there?”

“Gathering edible fungi. He works in the kitchens.”

“And the clothes worn by the girl. . where are they?” Fidelma asked.

The man gestured to a side table on which clothing was piled.

“She wore just the simple garb of a village girl. There is nothing to identify her there.”

“I will examine them in a moment and likewise will wish to speak to this Brother Torcan.”

She turned her gaze back to the body, bending forward to examine it with careful precision.

It was some time before she straightened from her task.

“Now, I shall examine the clothing.”

Brother Donngal moved to a table and watched while Fidelma picked up the items. They consisted of a pair of sandals called cuaran, a single sole of untanned hide, stitched together with thongs cut from the same hide. They were almost worn through. The dress was a simple one of wool and linen, roughly woven and threadbare. It appeared to have been secured at the waist by a strip of linen. There was also a short cape with a hood, as affected by many country women. Again, it was obviously worn, and fringed with rabbit fur.

Fidelma raised her head and glanced at the apothecary.

“Is this all that she was wearing?”

Brother Donngal nodded in affirmation.

“Was there no underclothing?”

The apothecary looked embarrassed.

“None,” he confirmed.

“She did not have a ciorbholg?”

The ciorbholg was, literally, a comb-bag, but it contained all the articles of toilet, as well as combs, which women carried about with them no matter their rank or status. It served women in the manner of a purse and it was often tied at the waist by a belt.

Brother Donngal shook his head negatively once more.

“This is why we came to the conclusion that she was simply a poor itinerant,” explained the abbot.

“So there was no toilet bag?” mused Fidelma. “And she had no brooches or other jewelry?”

Brother Donngal allowed a smile to play around his lips.

“Of course not.”

“Why of course not?” demanded Fidelma sharply.

“Because it is clear from this clothing, Sister, that the girl was a very poor country girl. Such a girl would not be able to afford such finery.”

“Even a poor country girl will seek out some ornaments, no matter how poor she is,” replied Fidelma.

Abbot Laisran came forward with a sad smile.

“Nothing was found. So you see, Fidelma, this poor young woman cannot whisper to you from her place of death. A poor country girl and with nothing to identify her. Her whispers are silent ones. You should not have been so willing to accept my challenge.”

Fidelma swung ’round on him to reveal the smile on her face. Her eyes twinkled with a dangerous fire.

“On the contrary, Laisran. There is much that this poor girl whispers; much she tells us, even in this pitiable state.”

Brother Donngal exchanged a puzzled glance with the abbot.

“I don’t understand you, Sister,” he said. “What can you see? What have I missed?”

“Practically everything,” Fidelma assured him calmly.

Abbot Laisran stifled a chuckle as he saw the mortified expression on the apothecary’s face. But he turned to her with a reproving glance.

“Come now, Fidelma,” he chided, “don’t be too sharp because you have been confronted with an insoluble riddle. Not even you can conjure facts out of nothing.”

Abbot Laisran stirred uncomfortably as he saw the tiny green fire in her eyes intensify. However, when she addressed him, her tone was comparatively mild.

“You know better of me, Laisran. I am not given to vain boasting.”

Brother Donngal moved forward and stared at the body of the girl as if trying to see what it was that Fidelma had observed.

“What have I missed?” he demanded again.

Fidelma turned to the apothecary.

“First, you say that this girl is a poor country girl. What makes you arrive at such a conclusion?”

Brother Donngal regarded her with an almost pitying look.

“That was easy. Look at her clothing-at her sandals. They are not the apparel of someone of high rank and status. The clothes show her humble origins.”

Fidelma sighed softly.

“My mentor, the Brehon Morann, once said that the veil can disguise much; it is folly to accept the outside show for the inner quality of a person.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This girl is not of humble rank, that much is obvious.”

Abbot Laisran moved forward and peered at the body in curiosity.

“Come, Fidelma, now you are guessing.”

Fidelma shook her head.

“I do not guess, Laisran. I have told you,” she added impatiently, “listen to the whispers of the dead. If this is supposed to be a peasant girl, then regard the skin of her body-white and lacking color by wind and sun. Look at her hands, soft and cared for as are her nails. There is no dirt beneath them. Her hands are not calloused by work. Look at her feet. Again, soft and well cared for. See the soles of the feet? This girl had not been trudging fields in those poor shoes that she was clad in, nor has she walked any great distance.”

The abbot and the apothecary followed her instructions and examined the limbs she indicated.

“Now, examine her hair.”

The girl’s hair, a soft spun gold color, was braided behind her head in a single long plait that reached almost to her waist.

“Nothing unusual in that,” observed Laisran. Many women in the five kingdoms of Éireann considered very long hair as a mark of beauty and braided it in similar style.

“But it is exceptionally well tended. The braiding is the traditional cuilfhionn and surely you must know that it is affected only by women of rank. What this poor corpse whispers to me is that she is a woman of rank.”

“Then why was she dressed as a peasant?” demanded the apothecary after a moment’s silence.

Fidelma pursed her lips.

“We must continue to listen. Perhaps she will tell us. As she tells us other things.”

“Such as?”

“She is married.”

Abbot Laisran snorted with cynicism.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Fidelma simply pointed to the left hand of the corpse.

“There are marks around the third finger. They are faint, I grant you, but tiny marks nevertheless which show the recent removal of a ring that has been worn there. There is also some discoloration on her left arm. What do you make of that, Brother Donngal?”

The apothecary shrugged.

“Do you mean the marks of blue dye? It is of little importance.”

“Why?”

“Because it is a common thing among the villages. Women dye clothes and materials. The blue is merely a dye caused by the extract of a cruciferous plant glaisin. Most people use it. It is not unusual in any way.”

“It is not. But women of rank would hardly be involved in dyeing their own materials and this dye stain seems fairly recent.”

“Is that important?” asked the abbot.

“Perhaps. It depends on how we view the most important of all the facts this poor corpse whispers to us.”

“Which is?” demanded Brother Donngal.

“That this girl was murdered.”

Abbot Laisran’s eyebrows shot up.

“Come, come, now. Our apothecary has found no evidence of foul play; no wounds, no bruising, no abrasions. The face is relaxed as if she simply passed on in her sleep. Anyone can see that.”

Fidelma moved forward and lifted the girl’s head, bringing the single braid of hair forward in order to expose the nape of the neck. She had done this earlier during her examination as Brother Donngal and Abbot Laisran watched with faint curiosity.

“Come here and look, both of you. What, Brother Donngal, was your explanation of this?”

Brother Donngal looked slightly embarrassed as he peered forward.

“I did not examine her neck under the braid,” he admitted.

“Well, now that you are examining it, what do you see?”

“There is a small discolored patch like a tiny bruise,” replied the apothecary after a moment or two. “It is not more than a fingernail in width. There is a little blood spot in the center. It’s rather like an insect bite that has drawn blood or as if someone has pricked the skin with a needle.”

“Do you see it also, Laisran?” demanded Fidelma.

The abbot leaned forward and then nodded.

Fidelma gently lowered the girl’s head back onto the table.

“I believe that this was a wound caused by an incision. You are right, Brother Donngal, in saying it is like a needle point. The incision was created by something long and thin, like a needle. It was inserted into the nape of the neck and pushed up hard so that it penetrated into the head. It was swift. Deadly. Evil. The girl probably died before she knew that she was being attacked.”

Abbot Laisran was staring at Fidelma in bewilderment.

“Let me get this straight, Fidelma. Are you saying that the corpse found near this abbey this morning is a woman of rank who has been murdered? Is that right?”

“And, after her death, her clothes were taken from her and she was hurriedly dressed in poor peasant garb to disguise her origin. The murderer thought to remove all means of identification from her.”

“Even if this is true,” interrupted Brother Donngal, “how might we discover who she was and who perpetrated this crime?”

“The fact that she was not long dead when Brother Torcan found her makes our task more simple. She was killed in this vicinity. A woman of rank would surely be visiting a place of substance. She had not been walking any distance. Observe the soles of her feet. I would presume that she either rode or came in a carriage to her final destination.”

“But what destination?” demanded Brother Donngal.

“If she came to Durrow, she would have come to the abbey,” Laisran pointed out. “She did not.”

“True enough. We are left with two types of places she might have gone. The house of a noble, a chieftain, or, perhaps, a bruighean, an inn. I believe that we will find the place where she met her death within five or six kilometers of this abbey.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A deduction. The corpse newly dead and the murderer wanting to dispose of it as quickly as possible. Whoever killed her reclothed her body and transported it to the spot where it was found. They could not have traveled far.”

Abbot Laisran rubbed his chin.

“Whoever it was, they took a risk in disposing of it in the woods so near this abbey.”

“Perhaps not. If memory serves me right, those woods are the thickest stretch of forest in this area even though they are close to the abbey. Are they that frequented?”

Abbot Laisran shrugged.

“It is true that Brother Torcan does not often venture so far into the woods in search of fungi,” he admitted. “He came on the corpse purely by chance.”

“So the proximity of the abbey was not necessarily a caution to our murderer. Well, are there such places as I described within the distance I have estimated?”

“An inn or a chieftain’s house? North of here is Ballacolla, where there is an inn. South of here is Ballyconra where the Lord of Conra lives.”

“Who is he? Describe him?”

“A young man, newly come to office there. I know little about him, although he came here to pay his respects to me when he took office. When I came to Durrow as abbot the young man’s father was lord of Ballyconra but his son was away serving in the army of the High King. He is a bachelor newly returned from the wars against the Uí Néill.”

“Then we shall have to learn more,” observed Fidelma dryly. She glanced through the window at the cloudy sky.

“There is still an hour before sunset,” she reflected. “Have Brother Torcan meet me at the gates so that he may conduct me to the spot where he found the body.”

“What use would that be?” demanded the abbot. “There was nothing in the clearing apart from the body.”

Fidelma did not answer.

With a sigh, the abbot went off to find the religieux.

Half an hour later Brother Torcan was showing her the small clearing. Behind her, Abbot Laisran fretted with impatience. Fidelma was looking at a pathway which led into it. It was just wide enough to take a small cart. She noticed some indentations of hooves and ruts, undoubtedly caused by the passage of wheels.

“Where does that track lead?” she asked, for they had entered the clearing by a different single path.

It was the abbot who answered.

“Eventually it would link to the main road south. South to Ballyconra,” he added significantly.

The sky was darkening now and Fidelma sighed.

“In the morning I shall want to see this young Lord of Conra. But it is pointless continuing on tonight. We’d best go back to the abbey.”

The next morning, accompanied by the abbot, Fidelma rode south. Ballyconra itself was a large settlement. There were small farm-steads and a collection of dwellings for workers. In one nearby field, a root crop was being harvested and workers were loading the crop onto small carts pulled by single asses. The track twisted through the village and passed a stream where women were laying out clothes to dry on the banks while others stirred fabrics into a metal cauldron hanging over a fire. The pungent smell of dyes told Fidelma what process was taking place.

Some paused in their work and called a greeting to the abbot, seeking a blessing, as they rode by. They ascended the track through another field toward a large building. It was an isolated structure which was built upon what must once have been a hillfort. A young man came cantering toward them from its direction, sitting easily astride a sleek black mare.

“This is young Conri, Lord of Conra,” muttered Laisran as they halted and waited for the man to approach.

Fidelma saw that the young man was handsome and dark-featured. It was clear from his dress and his bearing that he was a man of rank and action. A scar across his forehead indicated he had followed a military profession. It seemed to add to his personality rather than detract from it.

“Good morning, Abbot.” He greeted Laisran pleasantly before turning to Fidelma. “Good morning, Sister. What brings you to Ballyconra?”

Fidelma interrupted as Laisran was opening his mouth to explain.

“I am a dálaigh. You would appear to be expecting visitors, Lord of Conra. I observed you watching our approach from the hill beyond the fortress before you rode swiftly down to meet us.”

The young man’s eyes widened a little and then he smiled sadly.

“You have a sharp eye, dálaigh. As a matter of fact, I have been expecting the arrival of my wife during these last few days. I saw only the shape of a woman on horseback and thought for a moment. .”

“Your wife?” asked Fidelma quickly, glancing at Laisran.

“She is Segnat, daughter of the lord of Tir Bui,” he said without disguising his pride.

“You say you have been expecting her?”

“Any day now. I thought you might have been her. We were married only three months ago in Tir Bui, but I had to return here immediately on matters pertaining to my people. Segnat was to come on after me but she has been delayed in starting out on her journey. I only had word a week ago that she was about to join me.”

Fidelma looked at him thoughtfully.

“What has delayed her for so long?”

“Her father fell ill when we married and has only died recently. She was his only close kin and she stayed to nurse him.”

“Can you describe her?”

The young man nodded, frowning.

“Why do you ask?”

“Indulge me for a moment, Lord of Conra.”

“Of twenty years, golden hair and blue eyes. What is the meaning of these questions?”

Fidelma did not reply directly.

“The road from Tir Bui would bring a traveler from the north through Ballacolla and around the abbey, wouldn’t it?”

Conri looked surprised.

“It would,” he agreed irritably. “I say again, why these questions?”

“I am a dálaigh,” repeated Fidelma gravely. “It is my nature to ask questions. But the body of a young woman has been found in the woods near the abbey and we are trying to identify her.”

Conri blinked rapidly.

“Are you saying that this might be Segnat?”

Fidelma’s expression was sympathetic.

“We are merely making inquiries of the surrounding habitations to see if anything is known of a missing young woman.”

Conri raised his jaw defiantly.

“Well, Segnat is not missing. I expect her arrival any time.”

“But perhaps you would come to the abbey this afternoon and look at the body? This is merely a precaution to eliminate the possibility of it being Segnat.”

The young man compressed his lips stubbornly.

“It could not possibly be Segnat.”

“Regretfully, all things are possible. It is merely that some are more unlikely than others. We would appreciate your help. A negative identification is equally as helpful as a positive one.”

Abbot Laisran finally broke in.

“The abbey would be grateful for your cooperation, Lord of Conra.”

The young man hesitated and then shrugged.

“This afternoon, you say? I shall be there.”

He turned his horse sharply and cantered off.

Laisran exchanged a glance with Fidelma.

“Was this useful?” he asked.

“I think so,” she replied.

“We can now turn our attention to the inn which you tell me is north of the abbey Ballacolla.”

Laisran’s face lightened.

“Ah, I see what you are about.”

Fidelma smiled at him.

“You do?”

“It is as you said, a negative is equally as important as a positive. You have produced a negative with young Conri, so now we will seek the identity of the murdered one in the only possible place.”

Fidelma continued to smile as they turned northward back toward the abbey and beyond to Ballacolla.

The inn stood at a crossroads, a sprawling dark building. They were turning into the yard when a muscular woman of middle age driving a small mule cart halted, almost blocking the entrance. The woman remained seated on her cart, glowering in displeasure at them.

“Religious!” She almost spat the word.

Fidelma regarded her with raised eyebrows.

“You sound as if you are not pleased to see us,” she observed in amusement.

“It is the free hospitality provided by religious houses that takes away the business from poor people such as myself,” grunted the woman.

“Well, we might be here to purchase some refreshment,” placated Fidelma.

“If you can pay for it, you will find my husband inside. Let him know your wants.”

Fidelma made no effort to move out of her way.

“I presume that you are the innkeeper?”

“And if I am?”

“I would like to ask you a few questions. Did a young woman pass this way two nights ago? A young woman who would have arrived along the northern road from Tir Bui.”

The big woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“What is that to you?”

“I am a dálaigh and my questions must be answered,” replied Fidelma firmly.

“What is your name, innkeeper?”

The woman blinked. She seemed ready to argue, but then she compressed her lips for a moment. To refuse to answer a dálaigh’s questions laid one open to fines for obstructing justice. A keeper of a public hostel had specific obligations before the law.

“My name is Corbnait,” she conceded reluctantly.

“And the answer to my first question?”

Corbnait lifted her heavy shoulders and let them fall expressively.

“There was a woman who came here three nights ago. She merely wanted a meal and fodder for her horse. She was from Tir Bui.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“Not as I recall.”

“Was she young, fair of skin with spun gold hair in a single braid?”

The innkeeper nodded slowly.

“That was her.” Suddenly an angry expression crossed the big woman’s face. “Is she complaining about my inn or of the service that she received here? Is she?”

Fidelma shook her head.

“She is beyond complaining, Corbnait. She is dead.”

The woman blinked again and then said sullenly: “She did not die of any food that was served on my premises. I keep a good house here.”

“I did not specify the manner of her death.” Fidelma paused.

“I see you drive a small cart.”

Corbnait looked surprised at the sudden switch of subject.

“So do many people. I have to collect my supplies from the outlying farms. What is wrong with that?”

“Do you also dye clothes at your inn?”

“Dye clothes? What games are you playing with me, Sister?” Corbnait glanced from Abbot Laisran back to Fidelma as if she considered that she was dealing with dangerous lunatics. “Everyone dyes their own clothes unless they be a lord or lady.”

“Please show me your hands and arms,” Fidelma pressed.

The woman glanced again from one to another of them but seeing their impassive faces she decided not to argue. She sighed and held out her burly forearms. There was no sign of any dye stains on them.

“Satisfied?” she snapped.

“You keep your hands well cared for,” observed Fidelma.

The woman sniffed.

“What do I have a husband for if not to do the dirty work?”

“But I presume you served the girl with her meal?”

“That I did.”

“Did she talk much?”

“A little. She told me she was on the way to join her husband. He lives some way to the south of the abbey.”

“She didn’t stay here for the night?”

“She was anxious to reach her husband. Young love!” The woman snorted in disgust.

“It’s a sickness you grow out of. The handsome prince you thought you married turns out to be a lazy good-for-nothing! Take my husband-”

“You had the impression that she was in love with her husband?” cut in Fidelma.

“Oh yes.”

“She mentioned no problems, no concerns?”

“None at all.”

Fidelma paused, thinking hard.

“Was she alone during the time she was at the inn? No one else spoke to her? Were there any other guests?”

“There was only my husband and myself. My husband tended to her horse. She was particular about its welfare. The girl was obviously the daughter of a chieftain for she had a valuable black mare and her clothes were of fine quality.”

“What time did she leave here?”

“Immediately after her meal, just two hours to sunset. She said she could reach her destination before nightfall. What happened to her? Was she attacked by a highway robber?”

“That we have yet to discover,” replied Fidelma. She did not mention that a highway robber could be discounted simply by the means of the poor girl’s death. The manner of her death was, in fact, her most important clue. “I want to have a word with your husband now.”

Corbnait frowned.

“Why do you want to speak with Echen? He can tell you nothing.”

Fidelma’s brows drew together sternly.

“I will be the judge of that.”

Corbnait opened her mouth, saw a look of steadfast determination on Fidelma’s face, and then shrugged. She suddenly raised her voice in a shrill cry.

“Echen!”

It startled the patient ass and Fidelma’s and Abbot Laisran’s horses. They shied and were skittish for a few moments before they were brought under control.

A thin, ferret-faced man came scuttling out of the barn.

“You called, my dear?” he asked mildly. Then he saw Abbot Laisran, whom he obviously recognized, and bobbed servilely before him, rubbing his hands together. “You are welcome, noble Laisran,” before turning to Fidelma and adding, “You are welcome, also, Sister. You bless our house by your presence. . ”

“Peace, man!” snapped his burly wife. “The dálaigh wants to ask you some questions.”

The little man’s eyes widened.

“Dálaigh?”

“I am Fidelma of Cashel.” Fidelma’s gaze fell on his twisted hands.

“I see that you have blue dye on your hands, Echen.”

The man looked at his hands in bewilderment.

“I have just been mixing some dyes, Sister. I am trying to perfect a certain shade of blue from glaisin and dubh-poill. . there is a sediment of intense blackness which is found in the bottom of pools in bogs which I mix with the glaisin to produce a dark blue. .”

“Quiet! The sister does not want to listen to your prattling!” admonished Corbnait.

“On the contrary,” snapped Fidelma, irritated by the bullying woman, “I would like to know if Echen was at his dye work when the young woman was here the other night.”

Echen frowned.

“The young woman who stayed only for a meal and to fodder her horse,” explained his wife. “The black mare.”

The man’s face cleared.

“I only started this work today. I remember the girl. She was anxious to press on to her destination.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Only to exchange words about her instructions for her horse, and then she went into the inn for a meal. She was there an hour or so, isn’t that correct, dearest? Then she rode on.”

“She rode away alone,” added Corbnait, “just as I have told you.”

Echen opened his mouth, caught his wife’s eye, and then snapped it shut again.

Fidelma did not miss the action.

“Did you want to add something, Echen?” she prompted.

Echen hesitated.

“Come, if you have something to add, you must speak up!” Fidelma said sharply.

“It’s just. . well, the girl did not ride away entirely alone.”

His wife turned with a scowl.

“There was no one else at the inn that night. What do you mean, man?”

“I helped her onto her horse and she left the inn but as she rode toward the south I saw someone driving a small donkey cart join her on the brow of the hill.”

“Someone joined her? Male or female?” demanded Fidelma. “Did you see?”

“Male.”

Abbot Laisran spoke for the first time.

“That must be our murderer then,” he said with a sigh.

“A highway robber, after all. Now we shall never know who the culprit was.”

“Highway robbers do not drive donkey carts,” Fidelma pointed out.

“It was no highway robber,” confirmed Echen.

They swung ’round on the little man in surprise.

“Then tell them who it was, you stupid man!” yelled Corbnait at her unfortunate spouse.

“It was young Finn,” explained Echen, hurt by the rebuke he had received. “He herds sheep on Slieve Nuada, just a mile from here.”

“Ah, a strange one that!” Corbnait said, as if all was explained to her satisfaction. “Both his parents died three years ago. He’s been a recluse ever since. Unnatural, I call it.”

Fidelma looked from Corbnait to Echen and then said, “I want one of you to ride to the abbey and look at the corpse so we can be absolutely sure that this was the girl who visited here. It is important that we are sure of her identity.”

“Echen can do it. I am busy,” grumbled Corbnait.

“Then I want directions to where this shepherd Finn dwells.”

“Slieve Nuada is that large hill you can see from here,” Abbot Laisran intervened. “I know the place, and I know the boy.”

It was not long before they arrived at the shepherd’s dwelling next to a traditional lias cairach or sheep’s hut. The sheep milled about over the hill indifferent to the arrival of strangers. Fidelma noticed that their white fleeces were marked with the blue dyed circle that identified the flock and prevented them from mixing into neighboring flocks during common grazing.

Finn was weathered and bronzed-a handsome youth with a shock of red hair. He was kneeling on the grass astride a sheep whose stomach seemed vastly extended, almost as if it were pregnant but unnaturally so. As they rode up they saw the youth jab a long, thin, needle-like biorracha into the sheep’s belly. There was a curious hiss of air and the swelling seemed to go down without harm to the sheep which, when released, staggered away, bleating in irritation.

The youth look up and recognized Abbot Laisran. He put the biorracha aside and came forward with a smile of welcome.

“Abbot Laisran. I have not seen you since my father’s funeral.”

They dismounted and tethered their horses.

“You seem to have a problem on your hands,” Abbot Laisran said, indicating the now transformed sheep.

“Some of them get to eating plants that they should not. It causes gas and makes the belly swell like a bag filled with air. You prick them with the needle and the gas escapes. It is simple and does not hurt the creature. Have you come to buy sheep for the abbey?”

“I am afraid we are here on sad business,” Laisran said. “This is Sister Fidelma. She is a dálaigh.”

The youth frowned.

“I do not understand.”

“Two days ago you met a girl on the road from the inn at Ballacolla.”

Finn nodded immediately.

“That is true.”

“What made you accost her?”

“Accost? I do not understand.”

“You were driving in a donkey cart?”

“I was.”

“She was on horseback?”

“She was. A black mare.”

“So what made you speak to her?”

“It was Segnat from Tir Bui. I used to go to her father’s fortress with my father, peace on his soul. I knew her.”

Fidelma concealed her surprise.

“You knew her?”

“Her father was chieftain of Tir Bui.”

“What was your father’s business in Tir Bui? It is a long journey from here.”

“My father used to raise the old horned variety of sheep which is now a dying breed. He was a treudaighe and proud of it. He kept a fine stock.”

The treudaighe was a shepherd of rank.

“I see. So you knew Segnat?”

“I was surprised to see her on the road. She told me she was on her way to join her husband, Conri, the new lord of Ballyconra.”

Finn’s voice betrayed a curious emotion which Fidelma picked up on.

“You do not like Conri?”

“I do not have the right to like or dislike such as he,” admitted Finn.

“I was merely surprised to hear that Segnat had married him when he is living with a woman already.”

“That is a choice for the individual,” Fidelma reproved. “The New Faith has not entirely driven the old forms of polygyny from our people. A man can have more than one wife just as a woman can have more than one husband.”

Abbot Laisran shook his head in annoyance.

“The Church opposes polygyny.”

“True,” agreed Fidelma. “But the judge who wrote the law tract of the Bretha Croilge said there is justification for the practice even in the ancient books of the faith for it is argued that even the chosen people of God lived in a plurality of unions so that it is no easier to condemn it than to praise it.”

She paused for a moment.

“That you disapproved of this meant you must have liked Segnat. Did you?”

“Why these questions?” countered the shepherd.

“Segnat has been murdered.”

Finn stared at her for some time, then his face hardened.

“Conri did it! Segnat’s husband. He only wanted her for the dowry she could bring into the marriage. Segnat could also bring more than that.”

“How so?”

“She was a banchomarba, a female heir, for her father died without male issue and she became chieftainess of Tir Bui. She was rich. She told me so. Another reason Conri sought the union was because he had squandered much of his wealth on raising war bands to follow the High King in his wars against the northern Uí Néill. That is common gossip.”

“Gossip is not necessarily fact,” admonished Fidelma.

“But it usually has a basis of fact.”

“You do not appear shocked at the news of Segnat’s death,” observed Laisran slyly.

“I have seen too many deaths recently, Abbot Laisran. Too many.”

“I don’t think we need detain you any longer, Finn,” Fidelma said after a moment. Laisran glanced at her in astonishment.

“Mark my words, you’ll find that Conri is the killer,” called Finn as Fidelma moved away.

Abbot Laisran appeared to want to say something, but he meekly followed Fidelma to her horse and together they rode away from the shepherd’s house. Almost as soon as they were out of earshot, Abbot Laisran leaned forward in excitement.

“There! We have found the killer. It was Finn. It all adds up.”

Sister Fidelma turned and smiled at him.

“Does it?”

“The motive, the opportunity, the means, and the supporting evidence, it is all there. Finn must have killed her.”

“You sound as if you have been reading law books, Laisran,” she parried.

“I have followed your successes.”

“Then, tell me, how did you work this out?”

“The biorracha, a long sharp needle of the type which you say must have caused the girl’s mortal wound.”

“Go on.”

“He uses blue dye to identify his sheep. Hence the stain on the corpse.”

“Go on.”

“He also knew Segnat and was apparently jealous of her marriage to Conri. Jealousy is often the motive for murder.”

“Anything else?”

“He met the girl on the road on the very night of her death. And he drives a small donkey cart to transport the body.”

“He did not meet her at night,” corrected Fidelma pedantically.

“It was some hours before sunset.”

Abbot Laisran made a cutting motion with his hand.

“It is as I say. Motive, opportunity, and means. Finn is the murderer.”

“You are wrong, Laisran. You have not listened to the whispers of the dead. But Finn does know the murderer.”

Abbot Laisran’s eyes widened.

“I fail to understand. . ”

“I told you that you must listen to the dead. Finn was right. It was Conri, Lord of Ballyconra, who murdered his wife. I think the motive will be found to be even as Finn said. . financial gain from his dead wife’s estate. He probably knew that Segnat’s father was dying when he married her. When we get back to the abbey, I will send for the local bó-aire, the magistrate, to take some warriors to search Conri’s farmstead. With luck he will not have destroyed her clothing and personal belongings. I think we will also find that the very black mare he was riding was the same the poor girl rode on her fatal journey. Hopefully, Echen will be able to identify it.”

Abbot Laisran stared at her blankly, bewildered by her calmness.

“How can you possibly know that? It must be guesswork. Finn could have just as easily killed her as Conri.”

Fidelma shook her head.

“Consider the death wound. A needle inserted at the base of the neck under her braid.”

“So?”

“Certainly, a long sharp needle, like a biorracha, could, and probably did, cause that wound. However, how could a perfect stranger, or even an acquaintance such as Finn, inflict such a wound? How could someone persuade the girl to relax unsuspecting while they lifted her braid and then, suddenly, insert that needle? Who but a lover? Someone she trusted. Someone whose intimate touch would arouse no suspicion. We are left with Segnat’s lover-her husband.”

Abbot Laisran heaved a sigh.

Fidelma added, “She arrived at Ballyconra expecting to find a loving husband, but found her murderer who had already planned her death to claim her inheritance.”

“After he killed her, Conri stripped her of her clothes and jewels, dressed her in peasants’ clothes and placed her in a cart that had been used by his workers to transport dyed clothing. Then he took her to the woods where he hoped the body would lie unseen until it rotted or, even if it was discovered, might never be identified.”

“He forgot that the dead can still tell us many things,” Fidelma agreed sadly.

“They whisper to us and we must listen.”