Fidelma mentally conceded the point.
“Continue, Conn. You say that you sent the messenger back to Irnan. What then?”
“I was surveying the scene when I heard a noise outside the building. I moved to the door, wrenched it open, and found Liadin attempting to sneak back into the building, presumably in an attempt to retrieve the knife and garment from her chamber.”
“That is surmise on your part,” Fidelma admonished.
Conn shrugged indifferently.
“Very well, I found Liadin outside the door and I arrested her. Irnan came soon afterward with Rathend, the Brehon. Liadin was taken away. That is all I know.”
“Did you know Scoriath well?”
“Not well, save that he was captain of the guard.”
“Were you jealous of him?”
Conn appeared bewildered by the abrupt question.
“Jealous?”
“Scoriath was a foreigner,” Fidelma explained. “A Gaul. Yet he had achieved high office among the Uí Dróna. Did it not annoy you to see a foreigner so well treated?”
“He was a good man, an excellent champion. It is not my place to question the decisions reached by the councils of the king nor those of my chief. He was a good warrior. As for high office … I am the heir-elect to the chieftainship, so why should I be jealous of him?”
“And what was your relationship with Liadin?”
Did a faint color suffuse his cheeks?
“I have no relationship,” he said gruffly. “She was Scoriath’s wife.”
“A good wife, to your knowledge?”
“I suppose so.”
“A good mother?”
“I have no knowledge of such things. I am unmarried.”
“If she had murdered Scoriath as you suggest, do you not question the fact that she also murdered her own child… a three-year-old boy?”
Conn was stubborn.
“I can only state what I know.”
“Did Scoriath ever say anything about a Jewess to you?”
Conn was again apparently bewildered by this abrupt change of tack.
“Never. I have never heard of a woman of that religion in these parts, though it is said that many Jewish traders frequent the port of Síl. Maíluidir on our southern coast. Iman spent some of her youth there and may have an answer for you about such things.”
The servant, Branar, was a raw-boned, fresh-faced girl with wide, guileless-looking blue eyes, and a permanent expression of confusion. She was no more than a year or two beyond the age of choice. Sister Fidelma smiled encouragingly at her and bade her be seated. Rathend sat in place, looking a trifle irritated. Branar had been escorted to the chamber by her mother but Fidelma had refused to allow the old woman to remain with her daughter during the interrogation, showing her to a side chamber. Rathend thought that Fidelma might have showed some compassion for the young girl and allowed the mother to remain. Branar was nervous and awed by the proceedings.
“How long have you been a servant to Liadin and Scoriath?” Fidelma opened.
“Why, not even a year, Sister.” The girl bobbed her head nervously as she sat. Her confused, somewhat frightened gaze traveled from Fidelma to the stony-faced Brehon and then back to Fidelma.
“A year? Did you enjoy working for them?”
“Oh yes. They were kind to me.”
“And you liked your work?” inquired Fidelma.
“Oh yes.”
“And you had no problems with either Liadin or Scoriath? Were there no arguments between them and you?”
“No. I was quite happy.”
“Was Liadin a caring wife and mother?”
“Oh yes.”
Fidelma decided to attempt another tack.
“Do you know anything about a Jewess? Did Scoriath know such a woman?”
For the first time Rathend raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at Fidelma. But he kept silent.
“A Jewess? No.”
“What happened on the day Scoriath was killed?”
The girl looked troubled for a moment and then her face lightened.
“You mean about the argument I heard? I went that morning to clean the house of Liadin and Scoriath as I usually did. They were in the bedchamber with the door closed, but their voices were raised in a most terrifying argument.”
“What were they saying?”
“I could not make out what was being said. The door was closed.”
“Yet you could clearly identify their voices and knew that they were engaged in a violent quarrel, is that it?”
“It is. I could hear only the tones of their voices raised in anger.”
Fidelma gazed at the ingenuous face of the house servant.
“You only heard Liadin’s voice through a closed door but can identify her voice clearly?”
The girl’s nod was emphatic.
“Very well. Do you think that you know my voice by now?”
The girl hesitated suspiciously but then nodded.
“And you would know your own mother’s voice?”
The girl laughed nervously at the apparent stupidity of the question.
Sister Fidelma rose abruptly.
“I am going into the other room. I will close the door and will speak at the top of my voice. I want you to see if you can hear what I say.”
Rathend sighed. He clearly felt that Fidelma was pursuing too theatrical an approach.
Fidelma went into the next room and closed the door behind her. Branar’s mother rose uncertainly as she entered.
“Is your questioning over, Sister?” she asked in a puzzled tone.
Fidelma smiled softly and shook her head.
“I want you to say anything that comes into your head, but say it as loud as you can. It is an experiment.”
The woman stared at Sister Fidelma as if she were mad but, at a nod from Fidelma, began talking a mixture of sense and gibberish as loud as she could until Fidelma signaled her to silence. Fidelma then opened the door and called to Branar. The girl rose uncertainly.
“Well,” smiled Fidelma, “what did you hear?”
“Oh, I heard you speaking loudly, Sister, but I could not understand all you said.”
Fidelma smiled broadly now.
“But you did hear
“Oh yes.”
“Clearly my voice?”
“Oh yes.”
Fidelma turned and pushed the door open. Branar’s mother shuffled nervously forward, as perplexed as her daughter.
“The voice you heard was your own mother’s voice, Branar. Are you still sure you wish to swear that it was
