Hemlock at Vespers

It was Sister Ethne who volunteered the information, punctuating the sentences with sniffs.

“He was an uchadan, an artificer who worked in the mines of Kilmantan; so Follaman, who looks after our hostel, told me.”

“But what was he doing here?”

Did the Abbess cast a warning glance at Sister Ethne? Sister Fidelma caught only an involuntary movement of Sister Ethne’s eyes toward the Abbess and by the time Fidelma glanced in her direction the Abbess’s features were calm and without expression. Fidelma exhaled softly.

“Very well, Mother Abbess. I will undertake the inquiry. Do I have your complete authority to question all whom I would wish to?”

“My child, you are a dálaigh of the Brehon Court.” The Abbess smiled thinly. “You are an advocate qualified to the level of An-ruth. You do not need my authority under law. You have the authority of the Brehons.”

“But I need your permission and blessing as head of my community.”

“Then you have it. You may use the tech-screpta, the library chamber, to work in. Let me know when you have something to report. Go with God. Benedictus sit Deus in Donis Suis.”

Sister Fidelma genuflected.

“Et sanctus in omnis operibus Suis,” she responded automatically.

Sister Ethne had placed two rough, unglazed earthenware lamps, their snouts fashioned to support a wick, to light the dark shadowy vault which was the tech-screpta, the great library of the community which housed all the books and treasures of the House of the Blessed Brigid. Sister Fidelma sat at the library table, in the chair usually occupied by the leabhar-coimdaech, the librarian who guarded the great works contained in the chamber. The treasure trove of manuscript books hung in rows in the finely worked leather book satchels around the great chamber. The tech-screpta of Kildare even boasted many ancient “rods of the fili,” wands of hazel and aspen on which Ogham script was carved from an age long before the scribes of Ireland had decided to adopt the Latin alphabet with which to record their learning.

The tech-screpta was chilly in spite of the permanent fire which was maintained there to stop dampness corroding the rows of books.

Sister Ethne, as steward of the community, had volunteered to aid Sister Fidelma by finding and bringing to her anyone she wished to examine. She sniffed as she endeavored to adjust the lamps to stop abrasive smoke and reeking tallow odor from permeating the library chamber.

“We will start by confirming the cause of Sillán’s death,” Sister Fidelma announced, once she had noticed that Sister Ethne had finished her self-appointed task. After a moment’s reflection she went on: “Ask the Sister-apothecary to join me here.”

Sister Poitigéir was nervous and birdlike in her movements, reminding Sister Fidelma of a crane, moving with a waddling ap-prehensiveness, now and then thrusting her head forward on her long neck in an abrupt jerking motion which seemed to threaten to throw the head forward off the neck altogether. But Sister — idelma had known the Sister-apothecary since she had joined the community at Kildare and knew, too, that her anxious idiosyncrasy disguised a keen and analytical mind when it came to the science of botany and chemistry.

“What killed Sillán of Kilmantan?”

Sister Poitigéir pursed her lips a moment, thrusting her head forward quickly and then drawing it back.

“Conium maculatum,” she pronounced breathlessly.

“Poison hemlock?” Sister Fidelma drew her brows together.

“There was no questioning the convulsions and paralysis. He expired even as we carried him from the refectory hall. Also …” she hesitated.

“Also?” encouraged Sister Fidelma.

Sister Poitigéir bit her lower lip for a moment and then shrugged.

“I had noticed earlier this afternoon that a jar containing powdered leaves of the plant had been removed from my apothecary. They were there this morning but I noticed they were missing two hours before vespers. I meant to report the matter to the Mother Abbess after the service.”

“Why do you keep such a poison in your apothecary?”

“Properly administered, it can have good medicinal use as a sedative and anodyne. It serves all spasmodic affections. We not only have it in our apothecary but we grow it in our gardens which are tended by myself and Follaman. We grow many herbs. Hemlock can heal many ailments.”

“And yet it can kill. In ancient Greece we are told that it was given to criminals as a means of execution and among the Jews it was given to deaden the pain of those being stoned to death. I have heard it argued that when Our Lord hung upon the Cross He was given vinegar, myrrh and hemlock to ease His pain.”

Sister Poitigéir nodded several times in swift, jerky motions.

Sister Fidelma paused a moment or two.

“Was the poison administered in the food served in the refectory?”

“No.”

“You seem positive,” Sister Fidelma observed with some interest.

“I am. The effect of the poison is not instantaneous. Additionally, I have checked the food taken to the refectory for the evening meal. There is no sign of it having been contaminated.”

“So are you saying that the poison was administered before Sillán entered the refectory?”

“I am.”

“And was it self-administered?”

Sister Poitigéir contrived to shrug.

“Of that, I have no knowledge. Though I would say it is most unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Because taking poison hemlock results in an agonizing death. Why drink hemlock and then enter into the refectory for an evening meal if one knows one is about to die in convulsions?”

It was a point that seemed reasonable to Sister Fidelma.

“Have you searched Sillán’s chamber and the guest quarters for the missing jar of powdered hemlock leaves?”

Sister Poitigéir gave a quick, nervous shake of her head.

“Then I suggest that is your next and immediate task. Let me know if you find it.”

Sister Fidelma asked to see Follaman next. He was a big burly man, not a religieux but a layman hired by the community to take care of the guest quarters. Each community employed a timthirig, or servant, to look after its tech-óired. It was Follaman’s job to look after the wants of the male guests and to undertake the work that was too heavy for the female members of the community and assist the Sisters in the harder chores of the community’s gardens.

Follaman was a broad-shouldered, foxy-haired man, with ruddy complexion and watery blue eyes. His face was dashed with freckles as if a passing cart had sprayed mud upon him. He was in his mid-forties, a man without guile rather like a large boy, still with the innocent wonder of youth. In all, a simple man.

“Have you been told what has transpired here, Follaman?”

Follaman opened his mouth, showing blackened teeth. Sister Fidelma noticed, with some distaste, that he obviously did not regard his personal cleanliness as a priority.

He nodded silently.

“Tell me what you know about Sillán.”

Follaman scratched his head in a bemused fashion.

“He was a guest here.”

“Yes?” she encouraged. “When did he arrive at Kildare?”

Follaman’s face lightened with relief. Sister Fidelma realized that she had best put direct questions to the