Hemlock at Vespers

Irnan paused and stared reflectively at the fire for a moment before drawing her dark eyes back to the graven features of Fi-delma.

“When my father died, I became the Uí Dróna. I was then free to do as I willed. I urged Scoriath to divorce Liadin, making fair settlement on her and the child. He, however, was a man of honor and refused. He did not want to hurt Liadin. So we remained lovers.

“Then came the news of how Scoriath and his son were slain. It was so obvious who did it and why. Liadin must have found out and killed him in jealous passion.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at Iman.

“Perhaps it is too obvious a conclusion? We must take your word alone as to Scoriath’s attitudes. You could just as easily have slain Scoriath because he rejected your love.”

Irnan’s jaw came up pugnaciously.

“I do not he. This is all I have to say.” Irnan stood up. “Have you done with your questions?”

“All for the time being.”

The chieftainess turned and, without another glance at the unhappy Rathend or at Fidelma, strode from the room.

Fidelma sighed. There was something itching at the back of her memory.

Rathend was about to break the silence when the door of the hall opened and a nervous youth in the brown homespun robes of a religieux entered.

“Is the Brehon Rathend here?” he began nervously and then, catching sight of Fidelma, he bobbed his head nervously. “Bene vobis, Sister.”

“I am Rathend,” the Brehon said. “What do you wish?”

“I am Suathar of the monastery of the Blessed Moling. I came to seek the return of the book we loaned to Scoriath. I was told that before I can reclaim the book, I must have your permission.”

Fidelma looked up swiftly.

“Scoriath borrowed the copy of Origenes’s Hexapla from your monastery’s library?”

“Yes; a week ago, Sister,” agreed the young man.

“Did Scoriath request the loan of this book in person?”

Suathar shook his head, puzzled by the question.

“No. He sent a message and asked that the book be delivered the next time someone came to the ráth of the Uí Dróna. I had to come here six days ago because the aunt of the lady Liadin was ill and requested me to bring her to nurse her. I gave the book to Liadin.”

Rathend had handed the book satchel to the monk.

“You’d best check to see whether all is in order,” Fidelma invited as the young man began his thanks.

The monk hesitated, pulled out the leather-bound book, turning it over in his hands. Then he opened it.

“Has someone made a mark on the story of Holofemes?” prompted Fidelma

“The mark was not there when I left it,” agreed the young monk. “Also…” he hesitated. “The dark, brownish stains on the leather binding were not there before. They look like the imprint of the palm of hand.”

Fidelma exhaled sharply, rebuking herself for her blindness. She took the book and, after a moment’s examination, placed her hand palm down over the dark stain to assess the measurement of the imprint.

“I have been a fool!” she said softly, as if to herself. Then she drew herself up again. “Suathar, is the work of Origenes one that is popular?”

“Not popular. As you must know, Sister, it is only of passing interest to we of the Faith because the Hebrew texts, which the great Origenes put together, are of a questionable nature, being the stories which we now call “The Apocrypha,’ from the Greek word-“

Fidelma raised a hand impatiently to silence him.

“Just so. Nowhere else is the story of Judith and Holofernes to be found?”

“None that I know of Sister.”

“Has the lady Liadin ever visited your library at the monastery?”

Suathar pursed his lips in thought.

“Yes. Several weeks ago.”

Fidelma turned with a grave face to the Brehon.

“I have finished my inquires, Rathend. I need to only see Liadin once more. The case may be heard tomorrow.”

“Then you will be entering a ‘not guilty’ plea for the lady Liadin?” asked Rathend.

Fidelma shook her head at the startled Brehon.

“No. I shall be making a plea of ‘guilty.’ Liadin has been clever, but not clever enough.”

Before Sister Fidelma entered Liadin’s small cell, she turned to Conn, the commander of the guard, whom she had asked to accompany her, and told him to remain outside the door in case he was needed.

As Liadin rose with bright expectation on her face, Fidelma positioned herself just inside the door with folded arms.

“I will defend you, Liadin,” she began coldly without preamble, “but only to seek some mitigation for your guilt. It has been hard for me to believe that you would attempt to use me in this evil plot.”

When the horror of realization at what Fidelma had said began to spread across her features, Liadin opened her mouth to protest.

“I know it all,” Fidelma interrupted. “You appealed to my intellectual vanity with a number of false clues which you thought would lead me to suspect Irnan. Above all, you relied on my human weakness, that of my long friendship with you, to convince me that you could never have done this deed.”

Liadin’s face was suddenly drained of emotion and she sat back on the cot abruptly.

“You learnt that Scoriath had never loved you,” went on Fidelma relentlessly. “You learnt that he was having an affair with Irnan. The crime was well planned. If you could not have him, neither would Irnan. You hatched a cunning double plot, You decided to kill him and send for me, leaving me a false trail so that I would defend you by following that trail to Irnan.”

“How could I do that?” The girl was defiant.

“You had discovered the story of Irnan’s parentage and it put you in mind of the story of Holofernes. You were always a good Greek scholar and decided to use that as the intellectual bait which you knew would appeal to my imagination. You checked the story in the Hexapla by Origenes on a visit to the library of the monastery of Moling. When the time was right, you sent to ask Suathar, in Scoriath’s name, to bring the book which would provide me with the next clue after you had dropped into your conversation with me that Scoriath was afraid of someone called the ‘Jewess.’“

Fidelma paused and gazed sadly at her friend.

“You took the book and hung it in the chamber. One unexpected thing occurred. You were overheard by Branar having a row with Scoriath. But that turned out to be no problem because, having convinced myself so firmly of your innocence, I cleverly used a trick to dismiss Branar’s information to my own satisfaction. Cleverness when used with prejudice is a formidable thing.

“You went off to your aunt. Later you returned unnoticed to the rath and entered your chambers. There was Scoriath. He had no cause to suspect you, and you struck him from behind. Perhaps it was then that you remembered… in the row that morning you had neglected to plant the main piece of evidence needed for me to follow the trail. You had neglected to mark the passage about Judith and Holofernes. You did so then, for there was blood which stained the leather binding and went unnoticed.

“Then,” Fidelma went on remorselessly, “then you went to hide in the stables and wait until Conn discovered the bodies. You appeared, pretending to have just returned from your aunt. You knew that you would be accused, but you had already sent for me and laid your false trail. The thing that was irritating my mind was the fact that you must have sent for me before the murder to allow me to reach here on time.”

“It is not true,” Liadin’s voice was broken now. “Even if I did kill Scoriath for jealousy, there is a flaw in your arguments and one I think you know in your heart.”

Fidelma raised her head and returned her friend’s gaze. Did she detect a triumph in that gaze?

“And what is that?” she asked softly.