Whispers of the Dead

THE BANSHEE

For three days the Banshee had been heard wailing outside his door at night. It was no surprise when his body was discovered. His time had come.”

Sister Fidelma gazed at Brother Abán with surprise.

The elderly monk was sitting slightly forward on his chair, shivering a little although the day was not cold. His thin mouth trembled slightly; a fleck of spittle from one corner caught on the graying stubble of his unshaven chin. His pale eyes stood out in his bony, almost skeletal head over which the skin was stretched taut and parchment-like.

“He was fated to die,” repeated the old man, almost petulantly. “You cannot deny the summons of the death wail.”

Fidelma realized that the old man was troubled and he spoke with deadly seriousness.

“Who heard this wailing?” she asked, trying to hide her natural scepticism.

The old man shivered.

“Glass, the miller, whose house is not far away. And Bláth has confirmed that she was disturbed by the sounds.”

Fidelma pursed her lips and expelled a little air through them in an almost soundless whistle.

“I will speak with them later. Tell me what you know about this matter, Brother Abán. Just those facts that are known to you.”

The elderly religieux sighed as if suppressing irritation.

“I thought that you knew them. Surely my message was clear?”

“I was told that a man had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. The messenger requested that the Chief Brehon of Cashel send a dálaigh, an officer of the court, to come and ascertain those circumstances. That is all I know so far, except that this man was named Ernán, that he was a farmer, and that he was found dead on the doorstep of his house with a jagged wound in his throat.”

Fidelma spoke without irritation but in a precise manner.

“This is a peaceful spot.” Brother Abán was suddenly defensive. “We are just a small farming community here by the banks of the Siúr River. Even nature bestows her blessings on us and that is why we call this place ‘The Field of Honey.’ Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“It would help if I knew exactly what has happened,” murmured Fidelma. “So, tell me what you know.”

“I am the only religious in this community,” went on Brother Abán, as if ignoring her request. “I have been here forty years, tending to the spiritual needs of this little community. Never before. .”

He fell silent a moment and Fidelma was forced to control her impatience and wait until the old man was ready to begin.

“The facts?” he suddenly asked, his bright eyes upon her. “These are the facts. Yesterday morning I was at my morning prayers when Bláth came to my threshold, crying in a loud voice that Ernán had been found just outside the door of his house with his throat torn out. I went to his house and found this to be true. I then sent to Cashel for a dálaigh.”

“What was so suspicious about the circumstances that you needed to do so?”

Brother Abán nervously rubbed the stubble on his chin.

“Bláth told me. .”

Fidelma held up a hand.

“Firstly, tell me exactly who Ernán was?”

“Ernán was a young farmer who farmed the lower fields along the riverbank. A handsome young man, married and without an enemy in the world. I knew his parents before they died. Good Christians leading blameless lives.”

“And Bláth? Was she his wife?”

Brother Abán shook his head.

“Ernán’s wife was Blinne. Bláth was her sister. She lived with them. She helps about the farm. A good girl. She comes to sing the psalms in the chapel each week.”

“And where was Blinne at this time?”

“Distraught. Beside herself with grief. She loved her husband very much.”

“I see. And Bláth told you. . what?”

“Bláth said that she had been awoken on the last three nights hearing a terrible wailing outside the farmhouse.”

“Did she investigate the cause of this sound?”

The old monk laughed sarcastically.

“This is a rural community. We live close to nature here. You do not go to investigate the wailing of a Banshee.”

“Surely the New Faith has taught us not to be fearful of Other-world creatures? As a Christian, do you really accept that there is a woman of the hills, a wraith, who comes to the threshold of a person about to die and then wails and laments in the middle of the night?” demanded Fidelma.

“As a Christian, I must. Do not the Holy Scriptures talk of the spirits and ghosts who serve both God and Satan? Who knows which the woman of the hills serves? In the old days, it was said that the Banshee was a goddess who cared for a specific noble family and when their time came to be reborn in the Otherworld, the spirit would cry to announce their impending death in this world.”

“I know the folklore,” Fidelma said quietly.

“It is not to be dismissed,” Brother Abán assured her earnestly. “When I was a small boy I heard a story from a neighbor. It seems that the time had come for his father, an old man, to pass on. A plaintive wailing was heard within the vicinity of their dwelling. The son went out the next morning and found a strange comb, which he picked up and took into the house. The following night the wailing returned but this time the doors and windows rattled as if someone was trying to get in.

“Realizing it was the Banshee the man placed the comb in a pair of tongs and held the comb out of the window. Unseen hands seized the comb and the tongs were twisted and bent out of recognition. Had he handed the comb out through the window, then his arm would have been wrenched off. That is the power of the Banshee.”

Fidelma dropped her gazed and tried to contain her smile. Obviously, Brother Abán was steeped in the old ways and superstitions.

“Let’s us return to the case of Ernán,” she suggested gently.

“Are you saying that his sister-in-law, Bláth, heard this wailing and did so on three consecutive nights?”

“The third night was when Ernán was found dead.”

“And Blinne had heard this wailing as well?”

“I only spoke to Glass the miller who confirmed that he had heard it also.”

“So you have not spoken to Blinne, Ernán’s wife?”

“She has not been well enough to speak with me, as you can imagine.”

“Very well. Who discovered the body?”

“Bláth was up in the morning to milk the goats and found Ernán outside the house. He had been dead some hours. Bláth believes that. .”

Fidelma held up her hand.

“I will see what she believes when I speak with her. At this point, she came to you?”

“That is right. I went to see the body while she went inside to comfort Blinne.”

“Where is the body now?”

“In the chapel. We shall bury it tonight.”

“I would like to examine this wound of which you speak.” Brother Abán stirred uncomfortably.

“Is that necessary? After all, you are. .”

“I am a dálaigh and used to such sights as the corpses of people who have died in violent ways.”

The old monk shrugged.

“It is not often that you would see the corpse of one who has been taken by the Banshee,” he muttered.

“Has there been much wolf activity in these parts recently?”

The question was innocent enough but Brother Abán realized what she was implying and he pulled a sour face.

“You will not be able to pass off this death as a wolf attack, Sister,” he said.

“I know the marks made by a wolf when it is driven to attack a human. A wolf rarely attacks a full-grown man, a strong and muscular man. And the wailing was certainly not that of a wolf. You will have to think again if you want to dismiss this death with a rational reason.”

“I want to find the truth, that is all,” Fidelma replied evenly. “Now let us inspect the corpse.”

The old monk had been right that Ernán had been young and handsome in life. He was obvious well-muscled and strong. The only disfigurement on his body was the jagged wound beneath his chin, which severed his windpipe and arteries. Fidelma bent forward and saw immediately that no teeth marks could have made the wound. It had been made by something sharp although it had been drawn across the throat, tearing the flesh rather than cutting cleanly.

She straightened up after her inspection.

“Well?” demanded the old man.

“Ernán was certainly attacked but not by some Otherworld entity,” she said softly.

She led the way out of the small chapel and stood in the sunshine looking down through the collection of buildings to where the broad expanse of river was pushing sedately along, glistening and flickering in the bright light. There were several dwellings clustered around, including a blacksmith’s forge and grain stores. The main part of the community dwelt in outlying farmsteads. There were very few people about; most people would probably be in the fields at this time. The blacksmith, however, stood deep in conversation with someone who stood with a thick-legged workhorse.

Fidelma saw the only other people were a couple at the far end of the square who had just emerged around the corner of a storehouse. One was an attractive woman with auburn hair, young and pretty and slim. Her companion was a young man, long-faced, intense.

Fidelma’s keen eyes deduced that neither was happy. The young man was stretching out a hand to the woman’s arm with an almost imploring gesture. The woman seemed irritable and knocked the hand away, turning swiftly and striding toward the chapel. The young man gazed after her for a moment, then seemed to catch Fidelma’s gaze. He suddenly walked rapidly away, disappearing behind the far building.

“Interesting,” muttered Fidelma. “Who are they? The woman seems to be coming here.”

Brother Abán, standing at her shoulder, whispered: “This is Blinne, the widow of Ernán.”

“And who was the young man with whom she seemed annoyed?”

“That was Tadhg. He is a. . he is a bard.”

Fidelma’s lower lip thrust out a moment in amusement at the disapproval in the old man’s voice.

“That is appropriate.”

The name Tadhg meant a poet.

Brother Abán was already moving to greet the woman called Blinne.

“How are you, my child?”

“Only as can be expected,” Blinne replied shortly. Fidelma noticed that her face seemed an expressionless mask. Her lips were thinned in the set of her jaw. She had a tight control of her emotions. Her hazel eyes caught those of Sister Fidelma and her chin came up defiantly. “I have come to see the body of Ernán one last time. And Bláth says that she will sing the caoine, the keening at the interment.”

“Of course, my child, of course,” muttered the old monk. Then he realized his manners. “This is Sister Fidelma from Cashel. She is. .”

“I know who she is,” replied the young woman, coldly. “She is sister to our king as well as being a dálaigh.”

“She has come to inquire into the death of your husband.”

Was there a slight blush on Blinne’s cheek?

“So I have heard. The news is all around the community.”

“I am sorry for your troubles. Blinne,” Fidelma greeted her softly. “When you have finished,” she nodded imperceptibly to the chapel, “I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“I understand.”

“I shall be at Brother Abán’s dwelling.”

It was not long before Blinne came to Brother Abán’s threshold.

Fidelma bade her be seated and turned to the old monk.

“I think that you said that you had something to attend to in the chapel?” she suggested pointedly.

“No, I. .” Brother Abán caught her gaze and then nodded swiftly.

“Of course. I shall be there if you need me.”

After he had left, Fidelma took her seat opposite the attractive young woman.

“This must be distasteful to you, but your husband has died in suspicious circumstances. The law dictates that I must ask you certain questions.”

Blinne raised her chin defiantly.

“People are saying that he was taken by a Banshee.”

Fidelma regarded her thoughtfully.

“You sound as if you give that story no credence?”

“I have heard no wailing messengers of death. Ernán was killed but not by a ghostly visitation.”

“Yet, as I understand it, the wailing on three separate nights thrice awakened your own sister, who dwells with you. This wailing was heard by one of your neighbors.”

“As I said, I did not hear it nor was I awakened. If wailing there was, it was that of a wolf. He was killed by a wolf, that is obvious.”

Fidelma regarded her thoughtfully, then she said: “If it was obvious, then there would be no need for this inquiry. Tell me about Ernán. He was a farmer, handsome, and I am told he was well liked. Is that true?”

“True enough.”

“I am told that he had no enemies?”

Blinne shook her head but responded too quickly, so Fidelma thought.

“Are you sure about that?” pressed Fidelma.

“If you are trying to tell me that you suspect that he was murdered then I. .”

“I am not trying, Blinne,” interrupted Fidelma firmly. “I tell you facts. A wolf did not create the wound that caused his death. Now, are you saying that he had no enemies that you know of? Think carefully, think hard, before you reply.”

Blinne’s face had become a tight mask.

“He had no enemies,” she said firmly.

Instinctively, Fidelma knew that she was lying.

“Did you love your husband?” she asked abruptly.

A red flush spread swiftly over Blinne’s features.

“I loved him very much!” came the emphatic response.

“You had no problems between you? Nothing Ernán said that might have led you to think that he nurtured some problem and tried to hide it from you?”

Blinne was frowning suspiciously.

“It is the truth that I tell you when I say that there were no problems between us and that I loved him very much. Are you accusing me of. . of murdering my own husband?”

Her voice rose sharply, vehemently.

Fidelma smiled disarmingly.

“Calm yourself. I am required to ask certain questions and must do so. It is facts that I am after not accusations.”

Blinne’s mouth formed a thin line and still stared belligerently at Fidelma.

“So,” Fidelma continued after a moment or two of silence, “you are telling me that he had no problems, no enemies, that your relationship was good.”

“I have said as much.”

“Tell me what happened on the night that he died.”

Blinne shrugged.

“We went to bed as usual. When I awoke it was dawn and I heard Bláth screaming outside the house. I think that was what actually awoke me. I rushed out and found Bláth crouching on the threshold with Ernán’s body. I cannot remember much after that. Bláth went for Brother Abán who is also the apothecary in the community. I know he came but could do nothing. It is all a blur.”

“Very well. Let me take you back to the time you went to bed. You say, ‘we went to bed’? Both of you at the same time?”

“Of course.”

“So, as far as you know, you both went to bed and fell asleep together?”

“I have said so.”

“You were not disturbed by Ernán getting up either in the night or at dawn?”

“I must have been very tired for I remember that I had been feeling sleepy after the evening meal and was almost asleep by the time I reached the bed. I think we have been working hard on the farm in recent days as I have been feeling increasingly tired.”

“You heard no disturbances during the night nor during the previous nights?”

“None.”

Fidelma paused thoughtfully.

“How was your sleep last night?”

Blinne was scornful.

“How do you think? My husband had been killed yesterday. Do you think I slept at all last night?”

“I can understand that,” agreed Fidelma. “Perhaps you should have had Brother Abán mix you a sleeping draught.”

Blinne sniffed.

“If there was need for that, I would not have needed bother him. My sister and I were raised knowing how to mix our own herbal remedies.”

“Of course. How do you feel now-physically, I mean?”

“As can be expected. I am not feeling well. I feel nauseous and have a headache.”

Fidelma smiled softly and rose.

“Then I have taxed you too long.”

Blinne followed her example.

“Where would I find your sister, Bláth?”

“I think she went to see Glass the miller.”

“Good, for I have need to see him as well.”

Blinne stood frowning at the door.

“You have been told that Glass is claiming that he heard this wailing in the night?”

“I have been told.”

Blinne extended her front teeth over her lower lip for a moment, pressing down hard.

“I did not hear any noises in the night. But. .”

Fidelma waited. Then she prompted: “But. .?”

“Could it have been true? Bláth said. . people believe. . I. . I don’t know what to believe. Many people believe in the Banshee.”

Fidelma reached out a hand and laid it on the young woman’s arm.

“If the wailing woman of the hills exists, it is said her task is to be the harbinger of death, lamenting the passing of a soul from this world to the Otherworld. The belief is that the Banshee merely warns but is never the instrument of death. Whether you believe that is your own affair. Personally, I believe that the Banshee-indeed, all the ghostly visitations that I have encountered-is merely a visible manifestation of our own fears, fears whose images we cannot contain within the boundaries of our dreams.”

“And yet. .”

“I tell you this, Blinne,” Fidelma interrupted in a cold voice, “that your husband was killed neither by a Banshee, nor by an animal agency. . A human hand killed him. Before this day is out, the culprit will stand before me.”

Brother Abán had directed her along the path toward Glass’s mill. The path ran alongside a small stream, which twisted itself down to feed the broad river, the Siúr. As she followed the path through a copse of birch trees she heard a strong masculine voice. It was raised in a recitation.

“No pleasure

that deed I did, tormenting her

tormenting her I treasure. .”

Fidelma came upon a young man, sitting on a rock by the stream. He heard the snap of a twig beneath her feet and swung ’round, his face flushing crimson as if he had been caught in a guilty deed.

“Greetings, Tadhg,” Fidelma said, recognizing him.

He frowned, and the crimson on his cheeks deepened.

“You know me?”

Fidelma did not answer, for that much was obvious.

“I am Sister. .”

“Fidelma,” broke in the young man. “News of your arrival has spread. We are a small community.”

“Of course. How well did you know Ernán?” she went on without further preamble.

The young man grimaced.

“I knew him,” he said, defensively.

“That’s not what I asked. I said, how well? I already presume that everyone in this community knew each other.”

Tadhg shrugged indifferently.

“We grew up together until I went to the bardic school which has now been displaced by the monastery founded by Finnan the Leper.”

“The place called Finnan’s Height? I knew of the old school there. When did you return here?”

“About a year ago.”

“And presumably you renewed your friendship with Ernán then?”

“I did not say that I was his friend, only that we grew up together, as most people here of my age did.”

“Does that mean that you did not like him?” Fidelma asked quickly.

“One does not have to like everyone one knows or grows up with.”

“There is truth in that. Why didn’t you like him?”

The young man grimaced.

“He was arrogant and thought himself superior to. . to. .”

“A poet?” supplied Fidelma.

Tadhg looked quickly at her and then lowered his gaze as if in agreement.

“He was a farmer and thought strength and looks were everything. He called me a weak parasite fit for nothing, not even to clean his pigsty. Most people knew how arrogant he was.”

“Yet I am told that Ernán was well-liked and had no enemies in the world.”

“Then you were told wrong.”

“I was told by Blinne.”

“Blinne?” The young man’s head jerked up and again came an uncontrollable rush of blood to his cheeks.

Fidelma made an intuitive leap forward.

“You like Blinne very much, don’t you?”

There was a slightly sullen expression which now molded the young poet’s features.

“Did she tell you that? Well, we grew up together, too.”

“Nothing more than an old friendship?”

“What are you saying?”

“Saying? I am asking a question. If you disliked Ernán so much, you must surely not have approved of Blinne being married to him.”

“You would soon find that out from anyone in the community,” admitted Tadhg sullenly. “I do not deny it. Poor Blinne. She did not have the courage to leave him. He dominated her.”

“Are you saying that she did not love him?”

“How could she? He was a brute.”

“If she disliked the marriage, there are nine reasons in law why she could have divorced him and more why she could have separated from him.”

“I tell you that she did not have the courage. He was a powerful, controlling man and it is poetic justice that he was taken by the Banshee, whether you call it Banshee or wolf. That he was a beast and the stronger beast of the night attacked him and tore out his throat was poetic justice.”

The young man finished his speech with defiance.

“Poetic?” Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at him. “Where were you the night before last? Where were you when Ernán was killed?”

“In my house. Asleep.”

“Where is your house?”

“Up on that hillside.” He raised an arm to gesture in the direction.

“Was anyone with you?”

The young man looked outraged.

“Of course not!”

“A pity,” Fidelma said softly.

“What do you mean?” Tadhg blinked, disconcerted.

“Just that I would like to eliminate you from the vicinity of Ernán’s farmstead. He was murdered, his throat cut, and you have just given me a very good reason why you might be suspected of it.”

Now Tadhg’s face was suddenly drained of blood.

“I was told that he had his throat ripped out,” he said quietly. “I presumed that it was by a wolf, although many superstitious people are talking about the Banshee.”

“Who told you that this was how he died?”

“It is common talk. You say that he was murdered? How can you be so sure?”

Fidelma did not bother to answer.

“Well, I did not do it. I was in my bed, asleep.”

“If that is the truth then you have presented me with another suspect,” she said reflectively. “Blinne.”

Tadhg swallowed rapidly.

“She would never. . that is not possible. She had not enough courage to divorce Ernán. She was too gentle to strike him down.”

“Human beings react in peculiar ways. If not Blinne or you, then who also had cause to hate Ernán-a man who was supposed to have no enemies?”

Tadgh raised his hands in a helpless, negative gesture.

“I will want to see you again later, Tadhg.”

Fidelma turned and resumed her progress along the path, her brow furrowed in thought.

Bláth had already left Glass’s mill when Fidelma reached it.

The miller was a genial, round-faced man of middle age with twinkling gray-blue eyes, which might well have been the reason for his name, which indicated such a coloring. He was a stocky man, clad with a leather apron and open shirt, his muscles bulging as he heaved a sack of flour onto a cart.

“A bad thing, Sister, a bad thing,” he said, when Fidelma introduced herself.

“You were a close neighbor of Ernán, I believe.”

The miller turned and pointed. From where they stood the ground began to descend slightly toward the broad river across some fields to where an elm grove stood.

“That is Ernán’s farmhouse, the building among those trees. We are scarcely ten minutes walk away from each other.”

“And were you a friend of his?”

“I saw young Ernán grow to manhood. I was a friend of his father and mother. They were killed when Crundmáel of Laighin came raiding along the Siúr in his battle boats in search of booty. Only Ernán survived out of his entire family and so took over the farm and continued to make it prosperous. Blinne, his wife, is my niece.” He grinned briefly. “So is Bláth, of course.”

“And Ernán was well-liked?”

“Not an enemy in the world,” Glass replied immediately.

“He and Blinne were happy?”

“Never happier.”

“And Bláth lived with them?”

“She could have come here to live but Blinne and Bláth were always close. There is only a year between them and they are almost like twins. Blinne wanted her sister to be with her and Ernán did not mind for she helped with the farm work. But why do you ask me these questions?”

Fidelma did not answer.

“Tell me about the Banshee?” she said.

Glass smiled briefly.

“I heard the sound only too well.”

“When did you first hear it?”

“I would not want to hear that sound more than once.” Fidelma frowned.

“You heard it once?”

“Yesterday morning about dawn.”

“Not before, not before the morning Ernán was found dead?”

“No. Only that one morning. That was enough. It wailed like a soul in torment.”

“What did you do?”

“Do? Nothing at all.”

“You weren’t curious?”

“Such curiosity about the Banshee can endanger your immortal soul,” replied Glass solemnly.

“When did you realize that Ernán was dead?”

“When Brother Abán came to tell me and asked me if I had heard anything in the night.”

“And you were able to tell him that you had?”

“Of course.”

“But only yesterday morning?”

Glass nodded.

“As a matter of interest, if Ernán was the only survivor of his family, I presume that his farm passes to Blinne?”

“Blinne is his heir in all things,” agreed Glass. His eyes suddenly flickered beyond her shoulder in the direction of what had been Ernán’s farmstead. Fidelma turned and saw a figure that she initially thought was Blinne making her way up the hill. Then she realized it was a young woman who looked fairly similar.

“Bláth?”

Glass nodded.

“Then I shall go down to meet her as I need to ask her some questions.”

Halfway down the path were some large stones which made a natural seat. Fidelma reached them at the same time as Bláth and greeted her.

“I was coming back to my uncle’s mill for Blinne told me that you had gone there in search of me. You are the dálaigh from Cashel, aren’t you?”

“I am. There are a few questions that I must ask. You see, Bláth, I am not satisfied about the circumstances of your brother-in-law’s death.”

Bláth, who was a younger version of the attractive Blinne, pouted.

“There is no satisfaction to be had in any death, but a death that is encompassed by supernatural elements is beyond comprehension.”

“Are you sure we speak of supernatural elements?”

Bláth looked surprised.

“What else?”

“That is what I wish to determine. I am told that you heard the wailing of the Banshee for three nights?”

“That is so.”

“You awoke each night and investigated?”

“Investigated?” the girl laughed sharply.

“I know the old customs and turned over and buried my head under the pillow to escape the wailing sound.”

“It was loud?”

“It was fearful.”

“Yet it did not wake your sister nor her husband?”

“It was supernatural. Perhaps only certain people could hear it. Glass, my uncle, heard it.”

“But only once.”

“Once is enough.”

“Very well. Were your sister and Ernán happy?”

Fidelma saw the shadow pass across Bláth’s face.

“Why, yes.” There was hesitation enough and Fidelma sniffed in annoyance.

“I think that you are not being accurate,” she responded.

“They were unhappy, weren’t they?”

Bláth pressed her lips together and seemed about to deny it. Then she nodded.

“Blinne was trying to make the best of things. She was always like that. I would have divorced Ernán but she was not like that.”

“Everyone says that she and Ernán were much in love and happy.”

“It was the image that they presented to the village,” shrugged the girl. “But what has this to do with the death of Ernán? The Banshee took him.”

Fidelma smiled thinly.

“Do you really believe that?”

“I heard. .”

“Are you trying to protect Blinne?” Fidelma snapped sharply.

Bláth blinked rapidly and flushed.

“Tell me about Tadhg,” Fidelma prompted, again sharply so that the girl would not have time to collect her thoughts.

“You know. .?” Bláth began and then snapped her mouth shut.

“Did this unhappiness begin when Tadhg returned to the village?”

Bláth hung her head.

“I believe that they were meeting regularly in the woods,” she said quietly.

“I think that you believe a little more than that,” Fidelma said dryly.

“You think that Tadhg and Blinne plotted to kill Ernán.”

“No!” Bláth’s face was crimson. “There was no reason. If things became so unbearable, Blinne could have sought a divorce.”

“True enough, but the farmstead was an attractive proposition. If Blinne divorced Ernán, she would lose it.”

Bláth sniffed.

“You know the laws of inheritance as well as I do. Land cannot pass to a female heir if there are male heirs.”

“But in Ernán’s case, he had no male heirs. The land, the farm-stead, would go to the banchomarba, the female heir.”

Bláth suddenly gave a deep sigh of resignation.

“I suspected something like this might happen,” she confessed dolefully.

“And you invented the story of the Banshee to throw people off the scent?” queried Fidelma.

Bláth nodded rapidly.

“I love my sister.”

“Why not claim an attack by a wolf? That would be more feasible.”

“Anyone would realize the wound in Ernán’s throat was not the bite of a wolf. Questions would be asked of Blinne and. .”

“Questions are now being asked.”

“But only by you. Brother Abán was satisfied and people here would not question the old ways.”

“The old ways,” Fidelma echoed the words thoughtfully.

The girl looked nervously at Fidelma.

“I suppose that you intend to have Blinne and Tadhg arrested?”

“Tonight is the funeral of Ernán. We will see after that.”

“There is some doubt about your suspicion of them?”

Fidelma smiled sadly.

“We will see,” she said. “I would like a word alone with your sister.”

Bláth nodded toward the farmstead.

“I forgot something at my uncle’s mill. You’ll find Blinne at the farmhouse.”

The girl left Fidelma and continued up the path to the mill while Fidelma went on to the farmhouse. As she approached she heard Blinne’s voice raised in agitation.

“It’s not true, I tell you. Why do you bother me so?”

Fidelma halted at the corner of a building. In the farmyard she saw Tadhg confronting the girl. Blinne was standing looking distracted.

“The dálaigh already suspects,” Tadhg was saying.

“There is nothing to suspect.”

“It is obvious that Ernán was murdered, killed by a human hand. Obvious that Bláth was covering up with some story about a Banshee. It did not fool me nor will it fool this woman. I know you hated Ernán. I know it is me that you really loved. But surely there was no need to kill him? We could have eloped and you could have divorced him.”

Blinne was shaking her head in bewilderment.

“I don’t know what you are saying. How can you say this. .”

“I know. Do not try to fool with me. I know how you felt. The important thing is to flee from this place before the dálaigh can find the evidence. I can forgive you because I have loved you since you were a child. Come, let us take the horses and go now. We can let Bláth know where we have gone later. She can send us some money afterward. I am sure the dálaigh suspects and will be here soon enough.”

With a thin smile Fidelma stepped from behind the building.

“Sooner than you think, Tadhg,” she said quietly.

The young man wheeled ’round; his hand went to the knife at his belt.

“Don’t make it worse for yourself than it already is,” snapped Fidelma.

Tadhg hesitated a fraction and let his hand drop, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

Blinne was gazing at them in bewilderment.

“I don’t understand this.”

Fidelma glanced at her sadly and then at Tadhg.

“Perhaps we can illuminate the situation?”

Blinne’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Tadhg claimed that he has always loved me. When he came back from Finnan’s Height he would waylay and annoy me like a sick dog, mooning after me. I told him that I didn’t love him. Is it. . it cannot be. . did he. . did he kill. .?”

Tadhg glanced at her his face in anguish.

“You cannot reject me so, Blinne. Don’t try to lay the blame for Ernán’s death on me. I know you pretended that you did not love me in public but I had your messages. I know the truth. I told you to elope with me.”

His voice rose like a wailing child.

Blinne turned to Fidelma.

“I have no idea what he is saying. Make him stop. I cannot stand it.”

Fidelma was looking at Tadhg.

“You say that you had messages from Blinne? Written messages?”

He shook his head.

“Verbal but from an unimpeachable source. They were genuine, right enough, and now she denies me and tries to blame me for what has happened. .”

Fidelma held up her hand to silence him.

“I think I know who gave you those messages,” she said quietly.

______

After the burial of Ernán, Fidelma sat on the opposite side of the fire to Brother Abán in the tiny stone house next to the chapel. They were sipping mulled wine.

“A sad story,” sighed Brother Abán. “When you have seen someone born and grow up, it is sad to see them take a human life for no better reason than greed and envy.”

“Yet greed and envy are two of the great motivations for murder, Brother.”

“What made you suspect Bláth?”

“Had she said that she heard this Banshee wail once, it might have been more credible because she had a witness in her uncle who heard the wail. All those with whom I spoke, who had claimed to have heard it, said they heard it once, like Glass did, on the morning of Ernán’s killing. The so-called Banshee only wailed once. It was an afterthought of Bláth, when she had killed her brother-in-law.”

“You mean that she was the one wailing?”

“I was sure of it when I heard that she had a good voice and, moreover, knew the caoine, the keening, the lament for the dead. I have heard the caoine and know it was a small step from producing that terrible sound to producing a wail associated with a Banshee.”

“But then she claimed she had done so to lay a false trail away from her sister. Why did you not believe that?”

“I had already been alerted that all was not well, for when I asked Blinne about her sleep, I found that she had not even awoken when Ernán had risen in the morning. She slept oblivious to the world and woke in a befuddled state. She was nauseous and had a headache. Blinne admitted that both she and Bláth knew all about herbal remedies and could mix a potion to ensure sleep. Bláth had given her sister a strong sleeping draught so that she would not wake up. Only on the third night did an opportunity present itself by which she killed Ernán.

“Her intention all along was to lay the blame at her sister’s door but she had to be very careful about it. She had been planning this for some time. She knew that Tadhg was besotted by Blinne. She began to tell Tadhg an invented story about how Blinne and Ernán did not get on. She told Tadhg that Blinne was really in love with him but could not admit it in public. She hoped that Tadhg would tell someone and thus sow the seeds about Blinne’s possible motive for murder.”

Brother Abán shook his head sadly.

“You are describing a devious mind.”

“To set out to paint another as guilty for one’s own acts requires a clever but warped mind. Bláth was certainly that.”

“But what I do not understand is why-why did she do this?”

“The oldest motives in the world-as we have said-greed and envy.”

“How so?”

“She knew that Ernán had no male heirs and so on his death his land, under the law of the banchomarba would go to Blinne. And Bláth stood as Blinne’s banchomarba. Once Blinne was convicted of her husband’s death then she would lose that right, and so the farm and land would come to Bláth, making her a rich woman.”

Fidelma put down her empty glass and rose.

“The moon is up. I shall use its light to return to Cashel.”

“You will not stay until dawn? Night is fraught with dangers.”

“Only of our own making. Night is when things come alive and is the mother of counsels. My mentor, Brehon Morann, says that the dead of night is when wisdom ascends with the stars to the zenith of thought and all things are seen. Night is the quiet time for contemplation.”

They stood on the threshold of Brother Abán’s house.

Fidelma’s horse had been brought to the door. Just as Fidelma was about to mount a strange, eerie wailing sound echoed out of the valley. It rose, shrill and clear against the night sky, rose and ended abruptly, rose again and this time died away. It was like the caoine, the keening sounds that accompanied the dead.

Brother Abán crossed himself quickly.

“The Banshee!” he whispered.

Fidelma smiled.

“To each their own interpretation. I hear only the lonely cry of a wolf searching for a mate. Yet I will concede that for each act there is a consequence. Bláth conjured the Banshee to mark her crime and perhaps the Banshee is having the last word.”

She mounted her horse, raised her hand in salute and turned along the moonlit road toward Cashel.