Hemlock at Vespers

with you. This is by nature of my confession. Do you understand?”

Fidelma paused; a conflict between her role as an advocate of the Brehon Court and that as a member of a religious order with respect for the confessional caused her to hesitate. Then she finally nodded.

“I understand, Father. What happened?”

“The abbess started to descend the cliff toward the cave entrance. I cried out and told her if she must go down to be careful. I moved forward to the edge of the cliff and bent down even as she slipped. Her hand reached out and grabbed at my crucifix, which I wore on a silver chain around my neck. The links of the chain snapped. In that moment I grabbed for her, holding on momentarily to her shoulders and even her neck.

“Alas, I am old and frail; she slid from my grip and went hurtling down to the rocks.”

The priest paused, panting for breath.

Sister Fidelma bit her lip.

“And then?” she prompted.

“Peering down, I could see that she was dead. I knelt a while in prayer, seeking to absolve her for her sins, of which audacity and arrogance were the only ones I knew. Then a thought struck me, which grew in my mind and gave me comfort. We are all in God’s hands. It occurred to me that it was His intervention. He might have saved the abbess. Instead, perhaps it was His will that had been wrought, a miracle which prevented the reliquary being discovered. One death to prevent a great evil, the destruction of our community. The thought has given me comfort, my daughter. So I simply picked up my broken crucifix, though some of the chain was missing. Then I forced myself to walk back to the path, walk down to the beach and search her. I found her missal and inside the piece of paper that had given her the clue, the one written by the Blessed Patrick. I took them both and I returned here. I was silly, for I should have simply taken the paper and left her missal. I realized how odd it must have looked to the trained eye that it was missing. But I was exhausted. My health was none too good. But the reliquary was safe … or so I thought.”

Sister Fidelma gave a deep, troubled sigh.

“What did you do with the paper?”

“God forgive me, though it was written in the hand of the Blessed Patrick, I destroyed it. I burnt it in my hearth.”

“And the missal?”

“It is there on the table. You may send it to her kinsmen.”

“And that is all?”

“It is all, my daughter. Yet my conscience has troubled me. Am I, in turn, arrogant enough to think that God would enact a murder… even for such a pious purpose? My grievous sin is not coming forward to the bó-aire with my story. But my main purpose was to keep the secret of the reliquary. Now I am dying. I must tell someone of the secret. Perhaps God has willed that you, a total stranger to this island, should know the truth as you had learnt part of that truth already. What is the old Latin hexameter? — quis, quid, ubi, quibus, auxilius, cur, quomodo, quando?”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly at the old man.

“Who is the criminal? What is the crime? Where was it committed? By what means? With what accomplices? Why? In what way? When?”

“Exactly so, my daughter. And now you know these things. You suspected either Congal or myself of some dark crime. There was no crime. If it was, the cause was a miracle. I felt I had no choice but to tell you and place the fate of this island and its community in your hands. Do you understand what this means, my daughter?”

Sister Fidelma slowly nodded.

“I do, Father.”

“Then I have done what I should have done before.”

Outside the priest’s cell a number of islanders had gathered, gazing at Sister Fidelma with expressions varying between curiosity and hostility. Corcrain looked quizzically at her but Fidelma did not respond to his unspoken questions. Instead she went to find Congal to tell him about the cave at Aill Tuatha. That was Congal’s responsibility, not her burden.

The gulls swooped and cried across the grey granite quay of the island. The blustery winds caught them, causing it to seem as if they had stopped momentarily in their flight, and then they beat their wings at the air and swooped again. The sea was choppy and through its dim grey mist Sister Fidelma could see Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis, heaving up and down over the short waves as it edged in toward the harbor. It was not going to be a pleasant voyage back to the mainland. She sighed.

The boat would be bringing a young priest to the island to take over from Father Patrick. He had fallen into a peaceful sleep and died a few hours after Sister Fidelma had spoken with him.

Fidelma’s choice had been a hard one. She had returned to the bó-aire’s cabin and pondered all night over the young magistrate’s official report in the light of what she now knew.

Now she stood waiting for the boat to arrive to take her away from the island. At her side the fresh-faced young magistrate stood nervously.

The boat edged in toward the quay. Lines were thrown and caught, and the few travelers climbed their way to the quay up the ancient rope ladder. The first was a young man, clean-featured and looking appallingly youthful, wearing his habit like a brand-new badge of office. Congal and Corcrain were standing at the head of the quay to greet him.

Sister Fldelma shook her head wonderingly. The priest did not look as if he had learnt yet to shave and already he was “father” to one hundred and sixty souls. She turned and impulsively held out her hand to the young bó-aire, smiling.

“Well, many thanks for your hospitality and assistance, Forgar-tach. I’ll be speaking to the Chief Brehon and to Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne. Then I’ll be glad to get back to my interrupted journey back to my Abbey of Kildare.”

The young man held on to Sister Fidelma’s hand a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his worried eyes searching her face.

“And my report, Sister?”

Sister Fidelma broke away and began her descent, halting a moment on the top rung of the ladder. In spite of the young man’s arrogance, it was wrong to continue to play the cat and mouse with him.

“As you said, Forgartach, it was a straightforward case. The Abbess Cuimne slipped and fell to her death. A tragic accident.”

The young bó-aire’s face relaxed and, for the first time, he smiled and raised a hand in salute.

“I have learnt a little wisdom from you, Anruth of the Brehon Court,” he said stiffly. “God keep you safe on your journey until you reach your destination!”

Sister Fidelma smiled back and raised a hand.

“Every destination is but a gateway to another, Fogartach,” she answered. Then she grinned her urchin grin before dropping into the stern of the gently rocking currach as it waited for her below.

TARNISHED HALO

Father Allan looked up with a frown from his interrupted devotions as Sister Fidelma opened the door of his cubicu-lum unannounced.

“I am told that you have urgent need of a lawyer,” she said without preamble.

As he scrambled from his knees, making a hasty genuflection to the crucifix that hung on the wall and before which he had been praying, she noticed that his face was graven in lines of anxiety. Once on his feet he turned and surveyed the young religieuse who stood poised within the door frame. From the surprise on his face, she was clearly not what he had been expecting. She was tall, with rebellious strands of red hair escaping from her cabhal or head-dress; her figure, lithe and vital, clearly indicated a joy in living,