Hemlock at Vespers

scarcely concealed by her habit.

“Are you the dálaigh whom I was told to expect?” Father Allan’s voice held an incredulous tone.

“I am Fidelma of Kildare, an advocate of the courts,” affirmed Fidelma. “I am qualified to the rank of Anruth.”

The Father Superior blinked. The qualification of Anruth was only one degree below the highest qualification obtainable either at the ecclesiastic or secular universities of the five kingdoms of Ireland. He swallowed as he eventually remembered his etiquette and thrust out a hand to invite the religieuse in.

“Welcome, Sister. Welcome to our community of piety and peace…”

Fidelma interrupted the ritual greeting with a slight cutting motion of her hand.

“Not so peaceful, I am told,” she observed drily. “I was informed by the Abbot of Lios Mór Mochuda that murder has been committed within these walls and that you have need of the services of a dálaigh. I came as soon as I could.”

Father Allan’s lips compressed into a thin line.

“Not exactly within these walls,” he countered pedantically. “Come, walk with me in our gardens and I will endeavour to explain matters.”

He led the way from the tiny grey monastic building which was perched on a rocky outcrop thrusting itself above a forest, and beside which a winding river meandered. The small, religious community had a breathtaking view across the green vegetation toward distinct blue-hazed mountain peaks.

There was a small enclosed garden at the back of a dry-stone-built oratory. A young Brother was hard at work hoeing in a far corner. Father Allan led the way to a granite wall, well out of earshot of the young man, and seated himself. It was midday and the sun was warming and pleasant on the skin. Fidelma followed his example, perching herself on the wall.

“Now…?” she prompted.

“There has, indeed, been murder committed here, Fidelma of Kildare,” confirmed Father Allan, his tone heavy with sorrow.

“Who was killed, when and how?”

Father Allan waited a moment, as if to gather his thoughts before he spoke.

“Brother Moenach was killed. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“We are many miles from Kildare,” observed Fidelma. “Why would I have heard of this Brother Moenach?”

“He was a saintly youth,” sighed Father Allan. “Yes, a veritable saint. He was a lad of eighteen summers but so steeped in wisdom, in poetry and in song; so serene and calm of nature was he that he was surely blessed by the Living God. His charity and sweet disposition were renowned as much as his musical accomplishments. Abbots and chieftains, even the King of Cashel, sought his musical talent to create solace for their spirits.”

Fidelma raised a cynical eye at Father Allan’s enthusiasm for the virtues of Moenach.

“So an eighteen-year-old member of your house, Brother Moenach, was killed?” she summarized.

The Father Superior of the settlement nodded.

“When?”

“It happened a week ago.”

Fidelma exhaled deeply. That meant that there was little evidence for her to see. And doubtless Brother Moenach had been decently buried many days ago. But she had promised the abbot of Lios Mór Mochuda that she would investigate this affair, for the tiny community fell within his ecclesiastical jurisdiction.

“How?”

“It was a village woman named Muirenn who killed him. We have her locked up to be taken before the chieftain for summary justice…”

“After she has been given a proper hearing before the local Brehon,” interrupted Fidelma. “But I ask ‘how’ not ‘who.’ ”

Father Allan frowned.

“I do not follow.”

Fidelma restrained her irritation.

“Tell me the facts about this incident as you know them.”

“One evening, Brother Aedo came running to find me. It was shortly before vespers, as I recall. He had been returning through the forest from the village with some vegetables for the settlement when he saw a movement through the trees to one side of the path. Curiosity prompted him to investigate. To his horror, in a clearing, he came upon the body of young Moenach. Kneeling beside him was an old woman of the village, Muirenn. She was holding a rock in her hand. There was blood on the stone and on the head of young Moenach. Brother Aedo fled and came straightaway to tell me of this terrible thing…”

“Fled? Yet you tell me that Muirenn is an old woman? What put such fear into a man of God?”

The Father Superior wondered whether Fidelma was being sarcastic but could not make up his mind.

“Muirenn turned on his approach with such a ghastly look on her face that Aedo was afraid for his life,” Father Allan explained. “If Muirenn could kill Moenach then she could equally kill Aedo.”

“Her guilt is supposition at the moment. Then what? What after Aedo reported the matter to you?”

“Some of us went to the spot. Moenach was still lying there. His skull had been smashed in from behind. A bloodstained rock was lying where Muirenn had apparently discarded it. We hunted for her and found her hiding in her bothán in the village …”

“Hiding? Why would she return to her own cabin and her own village? Surely she would have known that she had been seen and recognized? It would be the last place to hide. And how was she hiding? Was she concealed somewhere in the cabin?”

Father Allan shook his head with a soft breath of vexation.

“I do not pretend to understand the workings of her mind. We caught her in her bothán, seated before her own hearth. We have been holding her for your interrogation, pending trial before the Brehon.”

“Hardly ‘hiding,’ from what you tell me,” observed Fidelma somewhat scornfully. “And did she admit culpability for the crime and volunteer a reason why she killed Moenach?”

The Father Superior sniffed deprecatingly.

“She claimed to have no knowledge at all of the murder although we have an eyewitness.”

“An eyewitness?” Fidelma’s voice was sharp. “Who is your eye-witness?”

Father Allan looked pained as if dealing with a dim-witted pupil. “Why, Brother Aedo of course.”

“But you told me that he was only an eyewitness to this woman kneeling by the side of Moenach and holding a bloody rock in her hand. That is not an eyewitness to the actual murder.”

Father Allan opened his mouth to protest and then, seeing the angry glint in Fidelma’s eyes… were they green or light blue?… he fell silent. When annoyed, her eyes seem to dance with a curious ice-colored fire.

“I don’t pretend to be learned in law,” he said stubbornly. “I have no time for such nuances.”

“The law text of the Berrad Airechta states clearly that a person can only give evidence about what he or she has seen or heard and what does not take place before a witness’s eyes is irrelevant. Nor can hearsay evidence be accepted.”

“But it was obvious…” began Father Allan.

“I am here to deal with law, not supposition,” snapped Fidelma. “And as a dálaigh, I would counsel you to be more careful with the words you choose. Tell me more about this… this saintly youth.”

Father Allan heard the slight sarcastic emphasis in her voice. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he should chide her mocking tone, but finally decided to ignore it.

“He was the son of a chieftain of the Uí Fidgente. He displayed a rare gift as a musician, playing the cruit like an angel would play a harp. His poetry was sweet and pure. He was given to us for his fosterage when he was seven years of age and, after reaching the age of choice last year, he decided to stay on with us as a member of our community.”

“So he had a reputation as a musician?”