Hemlock at Vespers

their identity, should be swept away.”

Irél groaned. Again Fidelma had pointed this out to him and it had not registered as important.

“Go on,” he urged. “You have told us why Fiacc died. Now tell us how exactly he died.”

“It was after the spoils had been removed and the cleaning finished that Garbh, using a fé, the measuring stick for graves, stabbed Fiacc in the back and thought he had killed him. He then left the tomb, resealed the entrance, and went back to the grave he was digging, perhaps filling in the tunnel after him. We shall see that later. I would imagine that he has stored his spoils in or near his cabin.”

Garbh shifted uneasily at this and Fidelma smiled in satisfaction.

“Yes, Irél, I think you will find the treasure of Tigernmas hidden at Garbh’s cabin.”

“But Fiacc was not killed immediately,” Tressach interrupted. “Garbh left him wounded in the tomb when he resealed it.”

“Garbh did not realize this. He thought he had killed Fiacc. The wound made Fiacc pass out. He was badly hurt. He was dying. But he came to consciousness and realized that he was sealed in the darkened tomb. He realized, in terror, that he himself was entombed. He gave a scream of dread, which you, Tressach, in passing the tomb, heard. He began to drag himself to the wooden doors, crying in desperation. Not knowing that Tressach had heard his scream, he began to scrabble at the doors until, in that fearful moment of horror, death overtook him.”

“I did not mean to kill him. It was an argument,” Garbh said slowly, speaking now for the first time and admitting guilt. “It was Fiacc who wanted the greater part of the wealth for himself. He said that he would only give me a small portion of the spoils. When I demanded a fair and equal share, he attacked me. He picked up the old grave measure and attacked me and I defended myself. In the struggle, he was stabbed. I was not responsible for murder. You cannot punish me for that.”

Fidelma shook her head.

“Oh no, Garbh. You plotted to kill Fiacc from the very beginning. As soon as Fiacc had explained the plan to you, you decided that you wanted all the spoils from the tomb. You kept Fiacc alive long enough for him to be of help in gaining entrance to the tomb and taking out the treasure. You planned to kill him and leave him in the tomb, hoping that no one would ever open the tomb again. Your mistake was twofold: firstly, not ensuring that he was dead when you left him, and secondly, vanity.”

“You cannot prove I set out to kill Fiacc!” cried Garbh. “If I had meant to kill him I would have taken a weapon into the tomb. Fiacc was killed by an old grave measurement left lying in the tomb. Even Irél will bear witness to that.”

Irél reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“That seems so, Sister. It was a fé that killed Fiacc. You know that. And there was Ogham carved on it. I know the ancient script. It read, ‘May the gods protect us.’ The reference to the gods and not God shows that it belonged to the pagan tomb. It must have been lying in the burial chamber.”

“Not so. The grave measure was made by Garbh,” insisted Fi-delma. She pointed to the table in the Abbot’s room on which she had already laid the fé taken from the tomb.

“That was not the fé that measured the tomb of Tigernmas. Look at it closely. The wood is new. The Ogham notches are clean-cut. Examine the cuts. There are traces of sap still drying. Who ever cut this cut it within the last twenty-four hours.”

Colmán had picked up the stick, taking care to genuflect to keep himself from harm at the handling of such an unlucky instrument, and examined it carefully.

“The piece of aspen is still in sap,” he confirmed wonderingly.

“Garbh had burnt a point on it to ensure that it was hard and able to be used as a dagger. He carved some Ogham on it as an afterthought. That was his vanity. He had taken notice of Fiacc’s exhortation to detail and thought of a great joke to play on Fiacc. If the tomb was ever excavated, they would find Fiacc with an ancient pagan fé stuck into his heart. Garbh was too clever for his own good. It was easy to see that the fé was new-cut. And it proves that Garbh premeditated the murder. He prepared his murder weapon before he entered the tomb. It was not a spur-of-the-moment argument.”

Garbh said nothing. The blood had drained from his features.

“You may take him away now,” Fidelma instructed Irél. “And you may make the arrangements to reseal the tomb … but after the treasures of Tigernmas are replaced in it.” She grinned impishly. “It would not do, this night of all nights, to provoke the spirit of Tigernmas by keeping back any of his gold or silver, would it?”

Abbot Colmán was pouring more mulled wine and handed the goblet to Fidelma. “A sorry story, indeed,” he sighed. “An avaricious official and a corrupt judge. How can such wickedness be explained?”

“You forget Étromma in that summation,” replied Fidelma. “She was the catalyst who made Fiacc’s need of money so desperate and who started this chain of events. It was her lack of love, her selfishness, and, above all, her greed that caused this human tragedy. It is said in the book of Timothy: radix omnium malorum est cupiditas.”

“The love of money is the root of all evil,” translated Abbot Colmán and then bent his head in agreement.

THE HORSE THAT DIED FOR SHAME

“Horse racing,” observed the Abbot Laisran of Durrow, “is a cure for all the ills of humankind. It is a surrogate for people’s aggression and for their greed. We would find the world a harsher place without its institution.”

The Abbot was a short, rotund, red-faced man with an almost exuberant sense of humor. In fact, the Abbot’s features were permanently fixed in a state of jollity for he was born with that rare gift of fun and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it.

Sister Fidelma of Kildare, walking at his side, answered his philosophical pronouncement with an urchinlike grin which seemed to belie her calling as a member of the religieuse of the community of Kildare.

“I doubt that Archbishop Ultan would agree with you, Laisran,” she responded, raising a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to push back the rebellious strands of red hair which tumbled from beneath her head- dress.

The Abbot’s lips quirked in amusement as he gazed at his onetime protégée, for it had been Laisran who had urged Fidelma to study law under the renowned Brehon, Morann of Tara, and, when she had reached the qualification of Anruth, one degree below the highest rank of learning, becoming an advocate of the courts of law, he had persuaded her to join the community of Brigid.

“But the Bishop Bressal would agree with me,” he countered. “He has two horses which he races regularly and he is not averse to placing wagers on them.”

Sister Fidelma knew that Bressal, who was Bishop to Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, king of Laighin, was a keen supporter of the sport but, then, there were few to be found in the five kingdoms of Éireann who were not. Even the ancient word for a festival in Éireann, aenach, meant “the contention of horses,” when people came together to discuss weighty matters, to race their horses, to place wagers, to feast, to make merry and generally indulge in celebrations. Only recently had Ultan of Armagh, the Archbishop and primate, begun to denounce the great fairs as contrary to the Faith for, so he claimed, the fairs were merely an excuse for the people to indulge in idolatry and pagan dissoluteness. Mostly, his denouncements were ignored, even by his own clergy, for the ancient customs were so instilled in the people’s lives that it would take more than one man’s prejudice to alter or dilute them.

In fact, Ultan’s pronouncements were being ignored that very day by Abbot Laisran and Sister Fidelma as they strolled through the crowds gathering for the Aenach Life, the great annual fair held on the plain which, since the days of the High King Conaire Mór, had been called the Curragh Lifé, or “the race course of the Life,” after the name of the broad river flowing close by, twisting under the shadow of Dún Aillin. Indeed,