Whispers of the Dead

CORPSE ON A HOLY DAY

The day was hot in spite of the breeze blowing off the sea from the south. The procession of pilgrims had left the sandy beach and was beginning to climb the steep green hill toward the distant oratory. They had stood in reverent silence before the ancient granite stone of St. Declan, a stone that, it was said, had floated to the spot across the sea bearing on it vestments and a tiny silver bell. It had floated ashore on this isolated part of the Irish coast and was found by a warrior prince named Declan who knew it was God’s way of ordaining him to preach the New Faith. So he began his mission among his own people, the Déices of the kingdom of Muman.

There the stone had stood since the moment it had landed bearing its miraculous gifts. The young brother who was conducting the pilgrims around the sites sacred to Declan had informed his charges that if they were able to crawl under the stone then they would be cured of rheumatism but only if they were already free from sin. None of the band of pilgrims had ventured to seek proof of the stone’s miraculous property.

Now they followed him slowly up the steep hill above the beach, straggling in a long line, passing the gray abbey walls, and moving toward the small chapel perched on the hilltop. This was the final site of the pilgrimage. It was the chapel that St. Declan had built two centuries before and in which his relics now reposed.

Sister Fidelma wondered, and not for the first time, why she had bothered to join this pilgrimage on this stifling summer’s day. Her thought was immediately followed by a twinge of guilt, as it had been before. She felt an inner voice reprimanding her and pointing out that it was her duty as a religieuse to revere the life and works of those great men and women who had brought the Faith to the shores of Ireland.

Her peripatetic journey, fulfilling her main duty as a dálaigh, or advocate, of the law courts of the five kingdoms of Ireland, had brought her to the subkingdom of the Déices on the south coast of Muman. When she had realized that she was staying a few days at the great abbey of Ard Mór, which St. Declan had founded, coinciding with the Holy Day set aside for his veneration, she had attached herself to the band of pilgrims being conducted around the principal sites associated with his life and work. Fidelma was always keen to acquire knowledge. She pressed her lips in a cynical grimace as she realized that she had answered her own question as to why she was part of this pilgrim group.

Brother Ross, the young man in charge, had been prattling on about the life of Declan as he preceded them up the hill. He was an intense young man, scarcely more than the “age of choice,” hardly out of his teenage. Even the steep climb did not seem to make him breathless or cause him to pause in his enthusiastic monologue.

“He was one of the four great saints who preached in the five kingdoms of Ireland before the coming of the Blessed Patrick. They were Ailbe, the patron saint of our kingdom of Muman, Ciarán also of Muman, Ibar of Laigin, and Declan of the Déices of Muman. So we may boast that this kingdom of Muman was the first to convert to the New Faith. .”

Brother Ross was naively passionate as he began to enumerate the miracles of the saint, of how he raised people who died of the Yellow Plague. The pilgrims listened in a respectful and awed silence. Fidelma had assessed the dozen or so men and women who were trudging up the hill and came to the conclusion that she appeared to have nothing in common with them except a membership of the religious.

They were now approaching the brow of the bare hill where the small oratory of gray granite stood. It was perched on the top of the round hump, surrounded by a low stone wall. From a distance, it had appeared a small speck of a building. As they drew nearer Fidelma could make out its rectangular dry-stone walls. It was scarcely thirteen feet by nine feet in dimensions and its steep sloping roof was in proportion.

“This is where the earthly remains of the blessed saint repose,” announced Brother Ross, halting and allowing the pilgrims to gather around him by the gate of the low wall. “After the end of his arduous mission through the countryside he returned to his beloved settlement of Ard Mór. He knew he was not long for this world and so he gathered the people and the clergy around him and counseled them to follow in his footsteps in charity. Then, having received the divine sacrament from Bishop mac Liag, he departed this life in a most holy and happy fashion, escorted by a chorus of angels to the kingdom of heaven. Vigils were held and solemn masses celebrated, signs and wonders were seen, a conclave of saints gathered from all corners of the land.”

Brother Ross spread one hand toward the oratory, his voice warming to his theme.

“His earthly remains were escorted to this, his first little church, to be laid to rest within it. I will lead you inside. Only three may accompany me at a time for, as you can see, it is very small. In the oratory lies a recess in the ground in which is a stone-built coffin. This is the resting place designated by Declan himself at the bidding of an angel. His relics are there and great signs and miracles are worked through the intervention of the Blessed Declan.”

He stood with bowed head for a moment while the pilgrims mumbled their respectful “Amens.”

“Wait here for a moment until I enter the oratory and ensure we are not disturbing any worshiper. This day is holy to the saint and many people come to pray here.”

They paused by the wall as Brother Ross instructed while he turned inside the enclosure and crossed to the lintel door and disappeared inside.

A moment or two later, the young man burst out of the oratory, his face flushed, his mouth working yet uttering no sound. Sister Fidelma and the others stood staring at him in total surprise. The sudden change from quiet respect to such agitation was bewildering. For several moments, the young man could not utter a word and then they came out in a spluttering staccato.

“Uncorrupted! A miracle! A miracle!”

His eyes were wide and rolled as if he had trouble in focusing.

Fidelma stepped forward in front of him, “Calm yourself, brother!” she demanded, her voice rising in sharp command to quell his excitement. “What ails you?”

Brother Ross seemed finally to focus on her with his wide staring eyes.

“The body of the saint. . it is uncorrupted!”

“What do you mean?” Fidelma demanded in irritation.

“You are not making sense.”

The young man swallowed and breathed deeply for a moment as if to gather his composure.

“The sarcophagus! The stone has been swung aside. . the body of the blessed Declan lies there. . the flesh is uncorrupted. . truly. . a miracle. . a miracle! Go and spread the news. .”

Fidelma did not waste time on trying to make further sense of the young man’s incoherent claims.

She strode quickly by him, shaking aside his restraining hand, and went into the oratory, crouching a little to pass under the lintel. There was only one small window to give natural light and she paused, blinked, and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. Two tall candles on an altar at the end of the small chapel were unlit but, surprisingly, a small stub of candle stood splattering on the tomb slab.

This stone slab had been pushed at an angle from the recess in the ground revealing the contents of the shallow grave. She strode forward and peered down. Brother Ross had been right in so far that a body lay there. But it was not the body of someone who had been interred two centuries before. She bent down to examine it. Two things she noticed: the blood was still glistening and wet, and when she touched the forehead, the flesh was still warm.

When she emerged, she found Brother Ross still lyrical with excitement. The pilgrims were gathered excitedly around him.

“Brethren, this day you have witnessed one of the great miracles of Declan. The saint’s body has not corrupted and decayed. Go down to the abbey and tell them and I will stay here and watch until you return with the abbot. .”

He hesitated as the eyes of the pilgrims turned expectantly as one to where Fidelma exited from the oratory with a grim face.

“You saw it, didn’t you, Sister?” demanded Brother Ross. “I told no lie. The body is uncorrupted. A miracle!”

“No one is to enter the chapel,” Fidelma replied coldly.

Brother Ross drew his brows together in anger.

“I am in charge of the pilgrims. Who are you to give orders, Sister?”

“I am a dálaigh. My name is Fidelma of Cashel.”

The young man blinked at her brusque tone. Then he recovered almost immediately.

“Lawyer or not, these pilgrims should be sent to tell the abbot. I will wait here. . This is truly a miracle!”

Fidelma turned to him cynically.

“You who know so much about the Blessed Declan may provide the answers to these questions. Was Declan stabbed through the heart before being laid to rest?”

Brother Ross did not understand.

“Was the Blessed Declan, in reality, a young woman?” went on Fidelma, ruthlessly.

Brother Ross was outraged and said so.

Fidelma smiled thinly.

“Then I suggest you examine your uncorrupted body a little further. The body in the grave is that of a young woman who has recently been stabbed in the heart. It has been placed in the grave on top of old bones which presumably are the skeleton of Declan.”

Brother Ross stared at her for a moment in horror and then hurried back into the oratory.

Fidelma instructed the pilgrims to wait outside and then hurried after the young man, pausing just inside the door.

Brother Ross, kneeling by the tomb, turned and glanced up toward her. His face, even in the semigloom, was white.

“It is Sister Aróc, a member of the community of Ard mór.”

Fidelma nodded grimly.

“Then I think we should dispatch the pilgrims back to Ard mór and ask them to inform the abbot of what has been found here.”

The band of pilgrims were spending the night in the hostel at Ard mór anyway.

“Shouldn’t we go. .?”

Fidelma shook her head.

“I will stay and you may stay to assist me.”

Brother Ross looked bewildered.

“Assist you?”

“As a dálaigh, I am taking charge of the investigation into how Sister Aróc met her death,” she replied.

When the pilgrims had been dispatched down the hill toward the monastery, Fidelma returned into the chapel and knelt by the tomb. Sister Aróc was no more than twenty years old. She was not particularly attractive; in fact, rather plain-featured. A country girl with large-boned hands whose skin was rough and callused. They lay in a curious clawlike attitude at her sides, as if the fingers should be grasping something. Her hair was mouse-colored, an indiscernible gray-brown.

As Fidelma had previously noticed, there was one wound on the body. There was no need to ask what had caused it. A thin knife blade with its rough worked handle still protruded from it. Her habit was ripped just under the left breast where the knife had entered and doubtless immediately penetrated her heart. The blood had soaked her clothing. It had not dried and that indicated death had not occurred long before. In fact, she thought the time could probably be measured in minutes rather than hours.

A thought had occurred to Fidelma and she examined the floor of the chapel, tracing her way carefully back to the door and outside. She was looking for blood specks but something else caught her eye-droplets of wax near the sarcophagus. The fact alone was not surprising. She would imagine that many people over the years had entered with candles and bent to examine the stone that had covered the relics of the saint. What was surprising was the fact that the tallow grease lay in profusion over the edge of the sepulcher on which the flat covering stone would have swung shut.

Fidelma, frowning, seized the end of the flat stone and exerted her strength. It swung. It was not easy to push it but, nevertheless, it could be moved with a rasping sound back into place across the tomb. Thoughtfully, she returned it to the position in which she had found it.

She let her gaze wander back to the body to examine the knife again. It was a poor country person’s knife, a general implement used for a variety of purposes.

She made no effort to extract it.

She turned her attention to the accoutrements worn by the girl. A rough, wooden crucifix hung around her neck on a leather thong. It was crudely carved but Fidelma had seen many like it among the poorer religious. Her eyes wandered down to the worn leather marsupium that hung at the girl’s waist.

She opened it. There was a comb inside. Every Irish girl carried a comb. This one was made of bone of the same poor quality as her other ornaments. Long hair being admired in Ireland, it was essential that all men and women carry a cior or comb. She also found, rather to her surprise, there were half a dozen coins in the marsupium. They were not of great value but valuable enough to suggest that robbery was no motive in this killing even if the thought had occurred to Fidelma. It had not.

The more Fidelma looked at the corpse, at the position of it, the more she realized that there was something bizarre about this killing; more peculiar than even the usual aberrant fact of violent death. She could not quite put her finger on it. It was true that the corpse’s facial muscles seemed slightly distorted in death as if there was a smile on its features. But that was not what bothered her.

By the time she left the oratory, three senior religious were entering the low gate to the oratory grounds. Fidelma immediately recognized the pale, worried features of Rian, the Abbot of Ardmore. With him there was a tall woman, whose features were set and grim, and a moon-faced man, whose features looked permanently bewildered, whom she also recognized as the steward of the abbey. What was his name? Brother Echen.

“Is it true, Fidelma?” greeted the abbot. He was a distant cousin and greeted her familiarly.

“True enough, Rian,” she replied.

“I knew it would happen sooner or later,” snapped the tall sister with him.

Fidelma turned inquiring eyes on her.

“This is Sister Corb,” Abbot Rian explained nervously.

“She is the mistress of the novices in our community. Sister Aróc was a novitiate under her charge.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to explain the meaning of that remark,” invited Fidelma.

Sister Corb had a long, thin, angular face. Her features seemed permanently set in a look of disapproving derision.

“Little explanation needed. The girl was touched.”

“Touched?”

“Crazy.”

“Perhaps you might explain how that manifested itself and why it would lead to her death?”

The abbot interrupted anxiously.

“I think it might be better explained, Fidelma, by saying that the girl, Sister Aróc, isolated herself from most of us in the community. Her behavior was. . eccentric.”

The abbot had paused to try to find the correct word.

Fidelma suppressed a sigh.

“I am still not sure how this manifested itself. Are you saying that the girl was half-wit? Was her behavior uncontrollable? Exactly what marked her out as so different that death was an inevitable outcome?”

“Sister Aróc was a fanatic about religious beliefs.” It was the moon-faced steward of the abbey, Brother Echen, who spoke up for the first time. “She claimed that she heard voices. She said that they were”-he screwed up his eyes and genuflected-“she said they were voices of the saints.”

Sister Corb sniffed in disapproval.

“She used it as an excuse not to obey the Rule of the community. She claimed she was in direct communication with the soul of the Blessed Declan. I would have had her flogged for blasphemy but Abbot Rian is a most humane man.”

Fidelma could not help the censure that came into her voice.

“If, as you say, the girl was touched, not of the same mental faculty as others, what good would a flogging have done?” she asked dryly.

“I still do not see how this behavior would have led to her death. . her death sooner or later was the phrase I think you used, Sister Corb?”

Sister Corb looked disconcerted.

“What I meant to say was that Sister Aróc was otherworldly. Naive, if you like. She did not know how. . how lecherous men can be.”

The abbot seemed to have a coughing fit and Brother Echen seemed to have taken an intense interest in his feet.

Fidelma stared hard at the woman. Her eyebrow rose in automatic question.

“I mean. . I mean that Aróc was not versed in the ways of the world. She let herself enjoy the company of men without realizing what men expect from a young girl.”

The abbot had regained his composure.

“Sadly, Sister Aróc was not possessed of good sense but I think that Sister Corb might be overstating the attraction that Aróc could stir in the minds of any male members of our community.”

Sister Corb’s lips twisted cynically.

“The Father Abbot sees only the good in people. It does not matter the extent of the attractive qualities, a young girl is a young girl!”

Fidelma raised her hands in a gesture indicating hopelessness and let them fall.

“I am trying to understand what is implied here and how this is providing a clue to how and why Sister Aróc came by her death in such bizarre circumstances.”

Sister Corb’s eyes narrowed slightly and she stared across the chapel ground to where Brother Ross was leaning against the low dividing wall, still looking pale and shaken.

“Have you asked him?”

“Brother Ross? Why?”

Sister Corb’s lips compressed.

“In fairness, I should not say another word.”

“You have either said too much or too little,” Fidelma replied dourly.

“Where was he when the killing took place?”

“That I can answer,” Fidelma replied. “Brother Ross was conducting the band of pilgrims around the sites associated with the Blessed Declan. I was part of that band.”

Sister Corb was not convinced.

“How can you be so sure?” she demanded.

“Brother Ross had been with us during the last two hours.”

“So why could he not have killed the girl before he met you?” pressed Sister Corb, refusing to be budged from her suspicion.

“Because”-smiled Fidelma-“she was killed not long before we arrived at the chapel and found her. In fact, I would say she was killed only minutes before.”

Sister Corb’s mouth snapped shut. She seemed irritated at Fidelma’s logic.

“Why would you accuse Brother Ross anyway?” asked Fidelma with interest.

“I have had my say,” muttered the mistress of novitiates, her lips forming into a thin line of defiance.

“I will tell you when you have answered my questions to my satisfaction,” replied Fidelma softly. The fact that there was no belligerence in her voice made it that much more imposing. Sister Corb was well aware of the powers of an advocate of the law courts.

“It is well known that Brother Ross desired the girl,” she replied defensively.

“Desired?”

“Lusted for her.”

Brother Echen snorted with derision.

“That is, with all respect, only Sister Corb’s interpretation. Her jaundiced view of the intentions of men in any situation leads her to make leaps of imagination.”

Fidelma swung ’round to him.

“You do not share Sister Corb’s view?”

“Ask Brother Ross himself.” the steward replied casually.

“He liked the girl’s company. They were often together and he did not ridicule her, as some did. But he had no lecherous intentions.”

“How do you know this?”

“As steward of the community, it is my job to know things, especially to keep a watch for anything which might lead to a disturbance among the brethren.”

“What, in this matter, might have led to a disturbance?”

Brother Echen glanced at Sister Corb meaningfully.

Fidelma turned and smiled at the abbot.

“Father Abbot, if you and Sister Corb will wait with Brother Ross. .?”

She waited until they had moved out of earshot before turning back to Brother Echen.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Sister Corb was creating trouble for Brother Ross. She was jealous.”

“Jealous?”

Brother Echen shrugged eloquently.

“You know. .”

“I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Corb was jealous of Ross because she wanted Aróc for herself. Sister Corb is. . well, that is why she has a peculiar attitude to men and ascribes lust as their only motive.”

“Did Aróc respond to Corb’s advances, if that is what she made?”

“No. Aróc was otherworldly, as I have said. She did not care for any physical contact. She was one of the aesthetes sworn to a life of celibacy. She rejected Corb even as she would have rejected Ross had he thrust his attentions on her.”

“What makes you sure that he did not?”

“He told me that he did not. He enjoyed her company and speaking to her of the saints and of the Faith. He respected her too much.”

“How well did you know Sister Aróc?”

Brother Echen shrugged.

“Not well at all. She had been six months with the community. She was still technically under the instruction of the mistress of the novitiates-Sister Corb. Truth to say that I spoke only once to her and that was when her case had come up before the council.”

“Her case?”

“Corb had been asked to report on her novitiates by the abbot when we sat in council to discuss the affairs of the community. That was when Corb talked of Sister Aróc’s eccentric behavior. It was decided that I should question her about the voices she claimed to hear.”

“And what did you decide?”

Brother Echen shrugged.

“She was not mad in any dangerous sense, if that is what you mean. However, her mind was not sound. She was ‘otherworldly,’ as have said. I have met one or two religious who claim to have spoken with Christ and his Holy Saints, and known many who have claimed as much, and more who have become saints themselves.”

“Just one point more, where were you during the last hour?”

Brother Echen grinned broadly.

“With ten witnesses who will account for my presence, Sister. I was giving a class in calligraphy to our scribes for I am considered to have a good, firm hand.”

“Ask Sister Corb to come to me,” Fidelma dismissed him.

Sister Corb came but was still belligerent.

“Why haven’t you spoken to Ross?” she demanded without preamble. “There is some way he must have killed her. .”

“Sister Corb!” Fidelma’s sharp tone quelled her. “We will speak of matters of which you are competent to give evidence. Firstly, where were you during this last hour?”

Sister Corb blinked.

“I was in the abbey.”

“And you can prove this fact?”

The mistress of the novitiates frowned for a moment.

“Most of the time I was instructing the novitiates this morning.”

Fidelma picked up her hesitation.

“During this last hour?”

“Are you accusing me. .?”

“I am asking where you were and whether you can prove it.”

“After instructing the novitiates I spent some time in the abbey gardens. I do not know whether anyone saw me there or not. I was just returning when I heard the pilgrims coming to tell the abbot what had happened here and so I joined him and Brother Echen.”

“Very well. How long did it take you to climb the hill to this chapel?”

Sister Corb looked surprised.

“How long. .?”

“Approximately.”

“Ten minutes, I suppose, why. .?”

“That is most helpful,” Fidelma replied, cutting the woman short. She left Sister Corb, ignoring the look of anger on her angular features, and walked across to Brother Ross.

“Death is not a pleasant thing to look on, is it, Brother?” she opened.

The young man raised his light blue eyes and stared at her for a moment.

“It was gloomy in the oratory. I did not see too well. I thought I saw. .”

Fidelma smiled reassuringly.

“You made it plain what you thought you saw.”

“I feel stupid.”

“I understand that you knew Sister Aróc quite well?”

The youth flushed.

“Well enough. We. . we were friends. I could say that. . that I was her only friend in the abbey.”

“Her behavior was described as a little eccentric. She heard voices. Didn’t that bother you?”

“She was not mad,” Brother Ross replied defensively. “If she believed it then I saw no cause to question her belief.”

“But the others thought that she was insane.”

“They did not know her well enough.”

“What do you think she was doing up here in the oratory?”

“She often came to the oratory to be near to the Blessed Declan. It was his voice that she claimed that she heard.”

“Did she tell you what this voice told her?”

Brother Ross gave the question consideration.

“Aróc believed that she was being chosen by the saint as his handmaiden.”

“How did she interpret that?”

Brother Ross grimaced.

“I don’t think that even she knew what she was talking about. She thought she was being told to obey the will of someone two centuries dead.”

“And what was that will?”

“Celibacy and service,” replied Brother Ross. “At least, that is what she said.”

“You say that she liked to come to the oratory to be close to Saint Declan. Did you help her remove the lid of the sarcophagus and then grease it with tallow candle wax to allow her to swing it to and fro at will?”

Brother Ross raised a startled face to meet her cool gaze.

Fidelma went on rapidly.

“Do not ask me how I know. That is obvious. I presume that you did help her for there was no one else to do so.”

“It was not an act of sacrilege. She just wanted to look on the bones of the Blessed Declan and touch them so that she could be in direct contact with him.”

“Did you know that Sister Aróc would be here this morning?”

Brother Ross quickly shook his head.

“I had told her that the pilgrims would be coming to see the oratory this morning-it being the Holy Day.”

“It sounds as though she was strong-willed. Maybe she did not care. After all, today would be a day of special significance for her. As the feast of Saint Declan, the day on which he departed life, it would be obvious that she would come here.”

“Truly, I did not know.”

“What I find curious is, knowing her so well as you did, even knowing her habit to open the tomb and gaze on the relics of the saint, why you came rushing out crying the saint’s body was uncorrupted. Had you not known what the relics were like, had you not known what Aróc looked like, it might have been explicable. .”

“I told you, it was dark in the oratory and I truly thought. .”

“Truly?” Fidelma smiled cynically. “Not for one moment did you consider any other option than to rush forth and proclaim that Declan’s dusty relics had been suddenly translated to incorrupt flesh?”

Brother Ross wore a stubborn look.

“I have told you all I know in this matter.” He folded his arms defiantly.

Fidelma’s lips thinned and she gazed an inordinately long time on him; examining, particularly, the front of his robe.

“Do you have any suspicion of who killed Sister Aróc?” she finally asked him.

“I know only that she died a violent death here when there was no need for such an end to her life,” he replied belligerently.

Fidelma turned away toward the agitated figure of Rian, the Abbot of Ard mór.

“I am grieved, Fidelma. I am the head of my community, the shepherd of my flock. If there was violence brewing I should have felt it.”

“You are only a man and not one of the prophets, Rian,” Fidelma admonished. “There is no need for you to take any blame for this onto your shoulders.”

“How can I help resolve this matter?”

“By answering a few questions. Did you know Sister Aróc?”

“I am abbot,” he responded gravely.

“I meant, know her on a personal level and not merely as one of your flock.”

The abbot shook his head.

“She was brought to me six months ago by Sister Corb, who wished to induct her into the school of the novices. She was of the age of choice. She struck me as a religious girl although not overly bright. Apart from my one interview with her, I have only seen her at a distance.”

He paused, and then glancing swiftly across the chapel ground toward Sister Corb, he continued.

“Sister Corb came to me a few days ago to lodge an official complaint. It was only then that I heard of her curious behavior; what was it that Brother Echen described it as-‘otherworldly’? Echen was sent to speak with her but he reported that she was eccentric but not dangerous.”

“Do you know whether Sister Corb might have other motives for complaining about Aróc?”

The abbot flushed slightly and then grimaced.

“I know what you mean. I had not thought that applied in this case. But Sister Corb does have several liaisons which I would not approve of. But, as abbot, sometimes it is diplomatic to feign a lack of knowledge.”

“Several?” Fidelma’s brows arched. “Could it be that some of her-her liaisons, as you call them, might have been jealous of Sister Corb?”

The abbot looked startled.

“Do you mean. .?”

“Questions again,” snapped Fidelma. “Every question I ask, I seem to get answered by a question!” She repented at once as the Father Abbot seemed to wince at her outburst.

“I apologize. It is just that it is so difficult to extract information.”

“No, it is I who should apologize, Fidelma. There are several members of the community who would be angered by Corb’s attention to Sister Aróc, if that is what you are asking. But I do not think that they would be worth considering in this case.”

“Why not?”

“If my meager knowledge of law is anything to go by, as well as being a suspect by motive, you must also be suspect by opportunity.”

“Your knowledge is correct,” affirmed Fidelma.

“Well, you indicated to Brother Echen and to Sister Corb that this murder took place shortly before your group of pilgrims arrived at the hilltop. Look around you.”

The Father Abbot spread his arms.

Fidelma knew what he meant without looking. The hill, as they wound their way up the only track, was just a round grassy hump without trees, without bushes, and only the small oratory on top. Anyone leaving the oratory shortly before the arrival of the band of pilgrims would have no place to hide.

She smiled quickly.

“No, Father Abbot, I suppose it was not a sound thought to imagine someone sneaking up from the abbey and killing Sister Aróc and then sneaking away moments before a party of pilgrims arrived at the oratory.”

“Then what are you saying? Who killed Sister Aróc?”

Sister Fidelma turned to the others and waved them to come forward.

“My investigation seems to have drawn to its close,” she said, addressing the abbot.

He looked bewildered.

“Then I must ask you again, who killed Sister Aróc?”

Fidelma glanced toward Brother Ross.

Sister Corb was smiling in grim satisfaction.

“I knew it,” she muttered. “I. .”

Fidelma raised her hand for silence.

“I made no accusation, Sister Corb. And you should know the penalty for false accusation.”

The mistress of the novitiates was suddenly silent, staring at her in bewilderment.

“But if Brother Ross is not the murderer,” began Brother Echen helplessly, “who killed her?”

Fidelma glanced again to the young religieux.

“Brother Ross will tell you,” she said quietly.

“But you said. .,” began the abbot.

Fidelma shook her head impatiently.

“I said nothing. I implied he did not murder Aróc but I did not say that he did not know who killed her.”

Brother Ross was regarding her with frightened eyes.

“You would not believe the truth,” he said quietly.

“I know the truth,” Fidelma replied.

“How? How could you know. .”

“It was not that hard to work out, given the time factor and the situation of the oratory where no one could hide.”

“You’d better explain it to us, Sister Fidelma,” the abbot said.

“Our group of pilgrims came to the oratory and, as I have pointed out, Aróc’s death occurred, judging by the condition of the corpse, moments before,” Fidelma explained. “Ross went into the oratory first. Moments later he came out. He might well have had time to stab Aróc and then return to us to pretend that he had discovered the body. But the evidence is against that. Such a stab wound would have caused blood to spurt on his robes.

“It was obvious that Aróc was killed while lying in the open tomb. She was not killed elsewhere and dragged to the open tomb. There were no blood splatters leading to the tomb which would have been made. If Brother Ross had killed her, then his robes would have been drenched in spurting blood from the wound. Instead, he has some spots of blood on his right hand and his sleeve. They were made when he bent to touch the corpse.”

She pointed to his robes so that they could verify her statement.

The abbot was worried.

“You have presented us with a conundrum. Tell us the answer. The killer was hiding in or behind the oratory, is that it?”

Fidelma sighed shortly.

“I would have thought it obvious.”

Brother Ross gave a little groan.

“I confess! I confess! I killed her. I did it.”

Fidelma looked pityingly at him.

“No you did not.”

Sister Corb was indignant.

“That will not do, Sister. The man has confessed. You cannot deny his confession.”

Fidelma glanced at her.

“Brother Ross is even now trying to save his friend’s soul. He believes that the Penitentials would prohibit Sister Aróc being accorded the last rites, a forgiveness of sins and burial in sanctified ground in a state of spiritual peace. It is time to tell the truth, Brother Ross.”

“The truth?” pressed Brother Echen. “What is the truth?”

“She killed herself.”

Brother Ross groaned piteously.

“When you have eliminated every other explanation as being impossible, that which remains must be the truth,” Fidelma said dryly.

“Am I right, Brother Ross?”

The young man’s shoulders had slumped in resignation.

“She. . she was not of this world. She heard voices. She thought she was being instructed by spirits, from the otherworld. By the Blessed Declan. She had visions. She made me open the tomb so that she could touch the holy relics. I greased the stone so that she could swing it open by herself when she wanted. She often spoke of joining the holy saint. I did not think she meant to kill herself.”

“What happened?” demanded the abbot.

“I brought the pilgrims to the oratory and went inside before them in case there was a worshiper at prayer. I had no wish to disturb anyone. I saw her body lying in the open grave with both hands gripping the knife in her breast. I realized with horror what she had done. There was no time nor place to hide the body from the pilgrims. If I had attempted to swing the tomb shut those outside would have heard me. I forced her hands from their grip on the knife and put them at her sides. I tried to remove the knife but it was buried to the hilt, that was when the spots of blood stained my sleeve and hand. I think I panicked, believing the pilgrims would come in any moment. The only thing I could think of was to pretend the saint’s body was uncorrupted and hope it would distract the pilgrims to run down to the abbey to report the news, giving me time to dispose of the body. I did not count on. .”

He glanced toward Fidelma and shrugged.

“The crime of suicide forbids her being laid in hallowed ground,” pointed out Sister Corb. “The suicide is classed as a fingalach, a kin-slayer; a person no better than a murderer.”

“That is why I tried to protect her so that her soul could journey on to the otherworld in peace,” sobbed the youth. “I loved her that much.”

“There is no need to worry,” Fidelma assured him gently. “Sister Aróc can be buried in consecrated ground.”

Here the abbot began to protest. Fidelma cut him short.

“Sister Aróc, for legal purposes, was classed a mer, one of unsound mind. The law states that the rights of the mentally disturbed should take precedence over other rights. A lenient view is taken of all offenses committed by them.”

“But Brother Ross lied,” pointed out Sister Corb, angry and determined that someone should be punished.

Fidelma countered her anger softly.

“The law also looks kindly on those whose concern it is to protect those unable to protect themselves. Brother Ross may now rest assured that Sister Aróc’s soul can now depart in peace.”

The abbot glanced around hesitantly before heaving a low sigh of acceptance.

“Amen!” he muttered softly. “Amen!”