Hemlock at Vespers

“There was no need to bother you with this matter, Sister Fi-delma. It is quite straightforward. There was no need to bring you out from the mainland.”

Sister Fidelma regarded the young man with a soft smile.

There was no disguising the fact that the young man felt put out. Sister Fidelma was an outsider interfering with his jurisdiction.

“Are you the bó-aire of the island?” she asked.

The young man drew himself up with a posture of dignity in spite of his youth.

“I am,” he replied with a thinly disguised air of pride. The bo-aire was a local magistrate, a chieftain without land whose wealth was judged by the number of cows he owned, hence he was called a “cow chief.” Small communities, such as those on the tiny islands off the coast, were usually ruled by a bo-aire who owed allegiance to greater chieftains on the mainland.

“I was visiting Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne when news of this death reached him,” Fidelma said softly.

Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne was the chieftain over all these islands. The young bó- aire stirred uncomfortably. Sister Fidelma continued:

“Fathan requested me to visit and aid you in your inquiry.” She decided that this formula was a more diplomatic way of approaching the proud young magistrate than by recounting the truth of what Fathan had said. Fathan knew that the bó-aire had only just been appointed and knew, too, that the matter needed a more experienced judgment. “I have some expertise in inquiry into suspicious deaths,” Fidelma added.

The young man bit his lip sullenly.

“But there is nothing suspicious about this death. The woman simply slipped and fell down the cliff. It’s three hundred feet at that spot. She didn’t have a chance.”

“So? You are sure it was an accident?”

Sister Fidelma became aware that they had both been standing on the quay with the wind whipping at them and the salt sea spray dampening their clothing. She was wet in spite of the heavy wool cloak she had put on for the crossing from An Chuis on the mainland.

“Is there somewhere we can go for shelter? Somewhere more comfortable to talk this over?” She posed the second question before the young man could reply to her first.

The young bo-aire reddened at the implied rebuke.

“My bothan is up the road here, Sister. Come with me.”

He turned to lead the way.

There were one or two people about to acknowledge the bo-aire as he passed and to cast curious glances at Sister Fidelma. The news of her arrival would soon be all over the island, she thought. Fidelma sighed. Island life seemed all very romantic in the summer but even then she preferred life on the mainland, away from the continually howling winds and whipping sea spray.

In the snug, grey stone cabin of the bó-aire, a smoldering turf fire supplied a degree of warmth but the atmosphere was still damp. A young woman of the bo-aire’s household provided an earthenware vessel of mead, heated with a hot iron bar from the fire. The drink put warmth and vigor into Fidelma.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she sipped the drink.

“Fogartach,” replied the bo-aire stiffly, realizing that he had trespassed by neglecting to introduce himself properly to his guest.

Sister Fidelma felt the time had come to ensure the proud young man knew his place.

“Well, Fogartach, as local magistrate, what qualification in law do you hold?”

The young man’s head rose a little in vanity.

“I studied at Daingean Chúis for four years. I am qualified to the level of dos and know the Bretha Nemed or Law of Privileges as well as any.”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly at his arrogance.

“I am qualified in law to the level of Anruth,” she said quietly, “having studied eight years with the Brehon Morann of Tara.”

The bó-aire colored, perhaps a little embarrassed that he had sounded boastful before someone who held a degree that was only one step below the highest qualification in the five kingdoms of Eireann. Little more needed to be said. Sister Fidelma had, as gently as she could, established her authority over the bó-aire.

“The matter is straightforward enough,” Fogartach said, a little sulky. “It was an accident. The woman slipped and fell down the cliff.”

“Then the investigation should not take us long,” replied Sister Fidelma with a bright smile.

“Investigation? I have my report here.”

The young man turned with a frown to a sheaf of paper.

“Fogartach,” Fidelma said slowly and deliberately, “Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne is anxious that everything is, as you say, straightforward. Do you realize who the woman was?”

“She was a religieuse, such as yourself.”

“A religieuse? Not just any religieuse, Fogartach. The woman was Cuimne, daughter of the High King.”

The young man frowned.

“I knew her name was Cuimne and that she carried herself with some authority. I did not realize she was related to the High King.”

Sister Fidelma grimaced helplessly.

“Did you also not realize that she was the Abbess Cuimne from Ard Macha, personal representative of the most powerful churchman in Éireann?”

The young bó-aire’s face was red with mortification. He shook his head silently.

“So you now see, Fogartach,” went on Fidelma, “that the chieftain of the Corco Dhuibhne cannot allow any question to arise over the manner of her death. Abbess Cuimne was an important person whose death may have ramifications at Tara as well as Ard Macha.”

The young bó-aire bit his lip, seeking a way to justify himself.

“Position and privilege do not count for much on this little wind-swept rock, Sister,” he replied in surly fashion.

Fidelma’s eyes widened.

“But they count with Fathan of the Corco Dhuibhne, for he is answerable to the King of Cashel and the King of Cashel is answerable to the High King and to the Archbishop of Ard Macha. That is why Fathan has sent me here,” she added, now deciding the time had come to be completely brutal with the truth.

She paused to let the young man consider what she was saying before continuing.

“Well, take me through what you know of this matter, Fogar-tach.”

The bó-aire sat back uneasily, bit his lip for a moment and then resigned himself to her authority.

“The woman… er, the Abbess Cuimne arrived on the island four days ago. She was staying at the island’s bruighean, the hostel run by Be Bail, the wife of Súilleabháin, the hawk- eyed, a local fisherman. Be Bail has charge of our island hostel. Not that we have much use for it, few people ever bother to visit our island.”

“What was Abbess Cuimne doing here?”

The bó-aire shrugged.

“She did not say. I did not even know she was an abbess but simply thought her to be a member of some community come here to find isolation for a while. You know how it is with some reli-gieuses? They often seek an isolated place to meditate. Why else should she be here?”

“Why indeed?” Fidelma echoed softly and motioned the young man to continue.

“She told Be Bail that she was leaving the island yesterday. Ciardha’s boat from An Chúis would have arrived about noon. She packed her satchel after breakfast and went off to walk alone. When she didn’t return at noon, and Ciardha’s boat had left, Be Bail asked me to keep a lookout for her. The island is not so large that you