The young man nodded briefly. “You all saw me do so,” he confirmed, pointing out the obvious.
“Where did the wine come from? Was it a special wine?”
“No. It was bought a week ago from a Gaulish merchant.”
“And did Nechtan drink the same wine as was served to his guests?”
“Yes. Everyone drank the same wine.”
“From the same pitcher?”
“Yes. Everyone had wine from the same pitcher during the evening,” Ciar confirmed. “Nechtan was the last to ask for more wine from the pitcher and I noticed that it was nearly empty after I filled his goblet. I asked him if I should refill it but he sent me away.”
Marbán pursed his lips, reflectively.
“This is true, Fidelma. We were all a witness to that.”
“But Nechtan was not the last to drink wine from that pitcher,” replied Fidelma. “It was Cuill.”
Daolgar exclaimed and turned to Cuill.
“Fidelma is right. After Ciar filled Nechtan’s goblet and left, and while Nechtan was talking to Dathó, Cuill rose from his seat and walked around Nechtan to fill his goblet from the pitcher of wine. We were all concentrating on what Nechtan had to say; no one would have noticed if Cuill had slipped the poison into Nechtan’s goblet. Cuill not only had the motive, but the means and the opportunity.”
Cuill flushed. “It is a lie!” he responded.
But Marbán was nodding eagerly in agreement.
“We have heard that this poison is of the same material as used by artists for coloring their works. Isn’t Cuill an artist? And he hated Nechtan for running off with his wife. Isn’t that motive enough?”
“There is one flaw to the argument,” Sister Fidelma said quickly.
“Which is?” demanded Dathó.
“I was watching Nechtan as he made his curious speech asking forgiveness. But I observed Cuill pass behind Nechtan and he did not interfere with Nechtan’s goblet. He merely helped himself to what remained of the wine from the pitcher, which he then drank, thus cormrming, incidentally, that the poison was placed in Nechtan’s goblet and not the wine.”
Marbán was looking at her without conviction.
“Give me the pitcher and a new goblet,” instructed Fidelma, irritably.
When it was done she poured the dregs which remained in the bottom of the pitcher into the goblet and considered them a moment before dipping her finger in them and gently touching her finger with her tongue.
She smiled complacently at the company.
“As I have said, the poison is not in the wine,” she reiterated. “The poison was placed in the goblet itself.”
“Then how was it placed there?” demanded Gerróc in exasperation.
In the silence that followed, Fidelma turned to the attendant. “I do not think that we need trouble you further, Ciar, but wait outside. We will have need of you later. Do not mention anything of this matter to anyone yet. Is that understood?”
Ciar cleared his throat noisily.
“Yes, Sister.” He hesitated. “But what of the Brehon Olcán? He has just arrived. Should I not inform him?”
Fidelma frowned.
“Who is this judge?”
Marbán touched her sleeve.
“Olcán is a friend of Nechtan’s, a chief judge of the Múscraige. Perhaps we should invite him in? After all, it is his right to judge this matter.”
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.
“Was he invited here this night?” she demanded.
It was Ciar who answered her question.
“Only after the meal began. Nechtan requested me to have a messenger sent to Olcán. The message was to ask the judge to come here.”
Fidelma thought rapidly and then said: “Have him wait then but he is not to be told what has happened here until I say so.”
After Ciar had left she turned back to the expectant faces of her erstwhile meal guests.
“So we have learnt that the poison was not in the wine but in the goblet. This narrows the field of our suspects.”
Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra frowned slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that if the poison was placed in the goblet then it had to be placed there after the time that Nechtan drained one goblet of wine and when he called Ciar to refill his goblet. The poison had to be placed there after the goblet was refilled.”
Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra leant back in his chair and suddenly laughed hollowly.
“Then I have the solution. There are only two others in this room who had the opportunity to place the poison in Nechtan’s goblet,” he said smugly.
“And those are?” Fidelma prompted.
“Why, either Marbán or Gerróc. They were seated on either side of Nechtan. Easy for them to slip the poison into the goblet which stood before them while we were concentrating on what he had to say.”
Marbán had flushed angrily but it was the elderly physician, Gerróc, who suffered the strongest reaction.
“I can prove that it was not I!” he almost sobbed, his voice breaking almost pathetically in indignation.
Fidelma turned to regard him in curiosity.
“You can?”
“Yes, yes. You have said that we all had a reason to hate Nechtan and that implies that we would all therefore wish him dead. That gives every one of us a motive for his murder.”
“That is so,” agreed Fidelma.
“Well, I alone of all of you knew that it was a waste of time to kill Nechtan.”
There was a pause before Fidelma asked patiently: “Why would it be a waste of time, Gerróc?”
“Why kill a man who was already dying?”
“
“I was physician to Nechtan. It was true that I hated him. He cheated me of my fees but, nevertheless, as a physician here, I lived well. I did not complain. I am advancing in years now. I was not going to imperil my security by accusing my chieftain of wrongdoing. However, a month ago, Nechtan started to have terrible headaches, and once or twice the pain was so unbearable that I had to strap him to his bed. I examined him and found a growth at the back of the skull. It was a malignant tumor for within a week I could chart its expansion. If you do not believe me, you may examine him for yourselves. The tumor is easy to discern behind his left ear.”
Fidelma bent over the chief and examined the swelling behind the ear with repugnance.
“The swelling is there,” she confirmed.
“So, what are you saying, Gerróc?” Marbán demanded, seeking to bring the old physician to a logical conclusion.
“I am saying that a few days ago I had to tell Nechtan that it was unlikely he would see another new moon. He was going to die anyway. The growth of the tumor was continuing and causing him increased agony. I knew he was going to die soon. Why need I kill him? God had already chosen the time and method.”
Daolgar of Sliabh Luachra turned to Marbán with grim satisfaction on his face.
“Then it leaves only you, Tanist of the Múscraige. You clearly did not know that your chieftain was dying and so you had both the motive and the opportunity.”
Marbán had sprung to his feet, his hand at his waist where his sword would have hung had they not been in the feasting hall. It was a law that no weapons were ever carried into a feasting hall.
“You will apologize for that, chieftain of Sliabh Luachra!”
