“A sad tale.”
“Sad enough,” the abbot agreed shortly.
“Did you know Sister Una?”
“I was a young novitiate in the abbey at the time, but I hardly knew her.” The abbot turned, clearing his throat as if in dismissal of the memories. “And now. . I believe that you are staying with us until the morning?”
“I will be continuing my journey back to Cashel in the morning,” Fidelma confirmed.
“Stay here then and I will send Brother Liag, our hostel keeper, to you. He will show you to the dormitory of the religieuse. We eat after Vespers. You will forgive me leaving you here. There are matters I must now attend to.”
Fidelma watched as he hurried along the aisle and vanished beyond the doors of the chapel. As they banged shut behind him, her eyes were drawn back once again to the extraordinary statuette. It held a curious fascination for her. The artist had, indeed, given the poor Sister Una life and, for a while, she was lost in examining the lines of the fine workmanship.
There was a sound behind her: a shuffle of sandals and an exaggerated cough.
She turned. A religieux had entered and stood a little distance off with his arms folded inside his robe. He was balding and wore a doleful expression.
“Sister Fidelma? I am the hostel keeper, Brother Liag.”
Fidelma inclined her head toward him. Yet her gaze was still reluctant to leave the intriguing statuette. The newcomer had observed her interest.
“I knew her.”
Brother Liag spoke softly and yet there was a curious emotion in his voice that caught her attention immediately.
“Yes?” she encouraged after a pause.
“She was so full of life and love for everyone. The community worshipped her.”
“As did you?” Fidelma interpreted the controlled emotion of his voice.
“As did I,” Brother Liag confirmed sadly.
“It is an unhappy story. I have heard it from your abbot.”
Did a curious expression flit across his features? She was not sure in the gloomy light.
“Did you also know the man who killed her?” she pressed when it seemed that he was saying no more.
“I did.”
“I gather he worked in the gardens of the abbey?”
“Tanaí?”
“Was that his name?”
“That was the man who was lynched by the community for the crime,” Brother Liag affirmed.
Fidelma exhaled softly as she gazed at the marble face of the young girl.
“What a miserable waste,” she observed, almost to herself.
“Grievous.”
“What sort of man was this Tanaí? How did he think that he, a gardener, could steal that precious reliquary and sell it-for presumably he did it for mercenary gain?”
“That was the theory.”
Fidelma glanced quickly at him.
“You do not agree?”
Brother Liag returned her gaze and his expression had not changed. It was still mournful.
“I think that we share the same thought, Sister. The only way such an object could be sold for gain is by its destruction. Where and to whom could such a priceless treasure be sold? The jewels pried from the box might be sold individually. The value of the box itself and the greater value of that which is contained in it would be entirely lost. There would be no market for anything so invaluable. Who would purchase such a treasure?”
“Yet if Tanaí was merely a laborer in the garden here, he might not have considered that aspect of the theft. He might simply have seen a precious jeweled box and been overcome by greed.”
The hostel keeper smiled for the first time, more a motion of his facial muscles than indicative of any feeling.
“It is true that Tanaí worked here as a gardener. He was an intelligent man. He had been an apothecary and herbalist. One day he mixed a wrong prescription and one of his patients died. He answered before the Brehons for manslaughter and was fined. The Brehons said it was an accident, and there was no guilt of intent involved-only the guilt of error. But Tanaí was conscientious and, although he could have continued to practice as a herbalist, he withdrew here to the abbey and did penance by returning to study the plants and herbs, living a life of penury and self-sacrifice.”
Fidelma glanced at Liag cynically.
“Until he coveted the reliquary; for what you are telling me is that he was intelligent enough to know its real value. Maybe he thought he would find someone who would endanger their immortal soul for possession of it?”
Brother Liag sighed deeply.
“That is what everyone has thought these last twenty years.”
“You sound as though you still do not agree?” she commented quickly.
Brother Liag was hesitant, and then he sighed reflectively: “The point that I was making is that he was intelligent enough to know that he could never sell the reliquary, if that was his motive. There are some questions to which I have never found satisfactory answers. Tanaí had removed himself to the monastery with his wife and young daughter because he felt he must do penance for a mistake. That strikes me as the action of a man of moral principle. He worked in the abbey gardens in a position of trust for five years. Never had there been a whisper of anyone’s distrusting him. He could have been appointed apothecary of the abbey for the old abbot-he died many years ago now-who had several times urged him to take the position, saying that he had paid for his mistake more than enough.
“Why did he have such a sudden mental aberration? For over five years he was in a position in which he could have stolen the reliquary or, indeed, any one of the several treasures of the abbey. Why did he attempt the theft at that point? And to kill Una! He was never a violent man, in spite of the mistake that led to the manslaughter charge. The killing of poor Sister Una was so out of character.”
“What actually connected him with the attempted theft in the first place?” Fidelma asked. “The abbot said that he fled without the reliquary.”
Brother Liag inclined his head.
“The reliquary was untouched. Sister Una had disturbed the thief before he could touch it, and she was killed while trying to raise the alarm.”
“Where was Tanaí caught?”
“Trying to enter the abbot’s rooms.” Brother Liag shot her a keen glance. “The community caught up with him at the entrance and dragged him to the nearest tree. God forgive all of us. But Sister Una was so beloved by all of the community that common sense was displaced by rage.”
“The abbot’s rooms? That is a strange place for a man to run to when he has apparently just committed murder,” murmured Fidelma.
“A question that was raised afterward. Abbot Ogán, who was one of the community, a young brother at the time, pointed out that Tanaí must have known that he would be caught and was trying to throw himself on the old abbot’s mercy and seek sanctuary.”
“I suppose that it is plausible,” Fidelma conceded. “What happened to Tanaí’s family?”
“His wife died of shock soon after, and his young daughter was raised by the Sisters of the abbey out of charity.”
Fidelma was perplexed.
“There is something here that I do not understand. If Tanaí was found at the abbot’s rooms, if the only witness was killed and the reliquary had not been touched, and there was no eyewitness, what was there to link Tanaí with the crime? Indeed, how do you know that theft was even the motive for the murder?”
Brother Liag shrugged.
