Fidelma nodded absently and sat back.
“I have made some investigation into this matter,” she said slowly. She turned to Olcán. “You may rest easy in that your barges and crews have not disappeared.”
The merchant returned her gaze in astonishment.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Both ships were, indeed, the subjects of theft. Their cargoes were sold, sold to Conna of the Maige Féine. The barges were then disposed of by selling them to local merchants-after they had been repainted, of course.”
Abaoth was shaking his head.
“Who was responsible?” he asked wonderingly. “What has Conna to say of this?”
Fidelma was suddenly grim.
“The crew of each barge willingly diverted from their course and took the barges upriver along the Bríd to Conna’s Fort. There they sold the cargoes and then the barges, and disappeared.”
“The crews were the thieves?” Abaoth sounded aghast.
“They were acting under orders,” replied Fidelma. “They acted under orders of the man who they were working for.”
Abaoth turned to Olcán, whose face was reddening in rage.
“How dare you. .?” he began.
Fidelma shook her head.
“The plot was yours, Abaoth.”
The fleshy merchant was stunned.
“Are you accusing me of robbing my own cargoes?” he demanded, suddenly pale.
“It was a good way at getting double the money for the same cargo. Money you wanted in order to compensate for the loss of one of your ships. You sold your cargo to Lios Mór. Then you did a deal selling your cargo to Conna who, of course, supplies the Prince of Maige Féine. Now, if you could persuade the crews of Olcán to work with you and disappear with their barges after they had delivered the cargoes to Conna then you would have the added bonus. You could also come here and seek compensation from Olcán for the loss of your cargoes. If successful that would cover compensation to Lios Mór and obtain more money for you. It was a complicated and ingenious plot, Abaoth.”
“You cannot prove it.”
“I can so. Olcán’s men were willing to do your bidding because Olcán was not a generous master anyway. There is a lesson for you to learn there, Olcán.”
Olcán scowled angrily but said nothing. Fidelma continued to address Abaoth.
“You paid the crews some initial money but, as their major share of the deal, you allowed them to sell the barges and pocket that money. Now it would look peculiar if the boatmen and all their families disappeared at the same time from Eochaill. When I checked these families I did find that most of them had already left the port. Those that remained behind told me that you, Abaoth, were looking after them. I wondered why. It was not your responsibility. I found it difficult to believe that a man with financial problems would be such a great philanthropist. There was another thing-when I visited Serc I surprised her with her husband Dathal who, I believe, was your main contact with the crews and who acted as your intermediary with Conna.”
Abaoth was standing white-faced and silent.
“Do I have to waste my time in presenting the proof of these matters, Abaoth? I shall not be so generous in allotting fines and compensation if I have to spend unnecessary time in doing so.”
Abaoth’s shoulders had slumped in resignation.
Fidelma turned to Olcán who was a picture of anger as he regarded the merchant.
“Olcán,” she said sharply, “you would do well to ponder on what motivated your men to be persuaded to betray you. There is a saying that a closed hand only gets a shut fist. It is bad fortune that always attends a mean person.”
LIKE A DOG RETURNING.
It’s very beautiful,” Sister Fidelma said softly.
“Beautiful?” Abbot Ogán’s voice was an expression of disbelief. “Beautiful? It is beyond compare. Worth a High King’s honor price and even more.”
Fidelma frowned slightly and turned toward the enthusiastic speaker, a question forming on her lips. Then she realized that the middle-aged abbot was not looking at the small marble statuette of the young girl in the robes of a religieuse, which had caught her eye as she entered the chapel of the abbey. Instead, he was looking beyond the statuette, which stood at the entrance to a small alcove. In the recess, on a small altar, stood an ornate reliquary box worked in precious metals and gemstones.
Fidelma regarded the reliquary critically for a moment.
“It is, indeed, a valuable object,” she admitted. But the reliquary box was not unusual in her experience. She had seen many such boxes in her travels, all equally as valuable.
“Valuable? It is breathtaking, and inside it is the original
Fidelma was unimpressed and not bothered at all by his look of disfavor.
“Who is the young girl whose statuette guards the entrance to the alcove?” she demanded, turning the conversation to what she considered to be the object of greater interest. Somehow the artist had brought the young religieuse to life, endowing her with a vibrancy that burst through the lines of the cold stone: It seemed that she would leap from the pedestal and greet the worshippers in the tiny abbey church with outstretched hands.
The abbot reluctantly turned from his contemplation of his community’s most famous treasure-the reliquary of Saint Patrick. His face darkened slightly.
“That is a likeness of Sister Una,” he said shortly.
Fidelma put her head to one side to examine it from every angle. She could not get over the extraordinary vitality of the piece. It was almost as if the artist had been in love with his model and only thus able to draw forth some inner feeling into the cold marble.
“Who was the sculptor?” she asked.
The abbot sniffed, clearly not approving of the interest she was showing.
“One of our brethren, Duarcán.”
“And why is her statuette in this chapel? I thought only the holy saints could achieve such honor?”
The corner of Abbot Ogán’s mouth turned down. He hesitated and then, observing the determination on Fidelma’s face, asked, “Have you not heard of the story of Sister Una?”
Fidelma grimaced irritably. It was surely obvious that she would not be asking the question had she heard the story. The abbot continued: “She was killed on this very spot some twenty years ago.”
“What happened?” Fidelma’s eyes had widened with greater interest.
“Sister Una entered the chapel when someone was attempting to steal the holy reliquary. The thief struck her down and fled but without the reliquary.”
“Was the thief caught?”
“He was overtaken.”
“How did the Brehons judge him?”
“Sister Una was very beloved by our local community.” The abbot’s features were set in deep lines, and there appeared a defensive note in his voice. “Before the culprit could be secured and taken before a Brehon for judgment, the people hanged him from a tree. This small marble statuette was erected in the chapel in Una’s honor to guard the reliquary for all eternity.”
“Who was the thief and murderer?”
The abbot again hesitated. He clearly was unhappy at her interest.
“A man who worked in the abbey gardens. Not one of our community.”
