Whispers of the Dead

she observed dryly.

Abbot Laisran frowned. “I see. He might have cut himself and dropped blood over the fish and, seeing that it was thus tainted, might have been forced to discard it?”

Sister Fidelma smiled at the chubby-faced abbot.

“A good deduction, Laisran. We might make you a dálaigh yet.”

“Then you think that this is the answer?”

“I do not.” She shook her head. “Brother Roilt would not simply have vanished without telling his staff to prepare some substitute dish. Nor would he have deserted his kitchen for such a long period. There are more blood spots on the floor.”

Keeping her eyes on the trail of blood, Fidelma followed it to a small door on the other side of the open door to the garden.

“Where does that lead?”

“A storeroom for flour, barley and other grains. I’ve looked inside. He is not hiding there, Sister,” Brother Dian said.

“Yet the spots of blood lead in there.”

“I did not see them before you pointed them out,” confessed the second cook.

Fidelma opened the door and peered inside. There were several large cupboards at the far end, beyond the stacked sacks of grains. She walked swiftly toward them, having observed where the blood spots led, and opened the door of the central one.

The body of an elderly monk fell out onto the floor to the gasps of horror from those about her. A large butcher’s knife protruded from under the corpse’s ribcage.

“This, I presume, is Brother Roilt?” she enquired coldly.

“Quod avertat Deus!” breathed the abbot. “What animals are we that someone kills the cook to steal a fish?”

One of the younger brothers began to sob uncontrollably. The abbot glanced across in distraction. “Take Brother Enda and give him a glass of water,” he instructed another youth who was trying to comfort his companion. He turned back to Fidelma apologetically. “The sight of violent death is often upsetting to the young.”

“I know who must have done this evil deed,” interposed one of the young men, who was wearing a clean white baker’s apron over his habit. “It must be one of those wandering beggars that were camping by the river this morning.”

The term he actually used was daer-fuidhir, a class of people who were more or less reduced to penury and whose labor was as close to slavery as anything. These were criminals or prisoners taken in warfare who could not redeem themselves and had lost all civil rights in society. They often wandered as itinerant laborers hiring themselves out to whoever would offer them food and lodging.

Abbot Laisran’s face was grave. “We will take our revenge on this band of miscreants if-”

“There is no need for that,” interrupted Fidelma quietly. “I have a feeling that you will not find your fish thief among them.”

They all turned toward her expectantly.

“Abbot Laisran, you must return to your distinguished guest. Is there some other dish which can replace the fish that you were to serve him?”

The Abbot glanced at Brother Dian.

“We can serve the venison, Father Abbot,” the second cook volunteered.

“Good,” Fidelma answered for Laisran. “Then get on with the meal and while you are doing that I shall make some inquiries here and find out how Brother Roilt came by his death and who stole the fish.”

The Abbot hesitated but Fidelma’s expression was determined and confident. He nodded briefly to her and, as an afterthought, directed Brother Dian to obey all her instructions.

Fidelma turned to the table under the window and stared down at the empty wooden platter with the now drying grease marks on it. After a moment or two, she raised her eyes to gaze into the tiny plot beyond. It was a small, enclosed herb garden.

It was clear, from the blood spots, that Brother Roilt had been standing here when he was stabbed. He could not have walked to the store cupboard on his own. The killer would have had to drag him there, probably on his back, pulling him by his two arms. Had he been dragged on his stomach then the blood trail would have been more noticeable. The physical removal of the body would not have been difficult for Brother Roilt was elderly, small and frail in appearance. Indeed, he did not look remotely like the typical cook. But why had no one else in the kitchen seen anything?

She swung ’round.

The kitchen staff were busy handing platters to the servers who were waiting to take them to the tables in the refectory beyond.

There were six workers in the kitchen. It was a long, large chamber but, she realized, it actually was L- shaped. Part of it was hidden from the other part. Brother Roilt would not have been seen by anyone beyond the angle. Furthermore, the center of the room, along its entire length, contained preparation tables and a central oven. The kitchen was fairly wide but, with a series of wooden supports running along its center, it was obvious that certain lines of sight would be met with visual obstruction. Yet while these might obscure vision from various points, it was surely impossible that no one had been in a position to see the killer stab the cook and then drag him to the storeroom, even if the murder had been executed almost sound-lessly.

That a murder could have been done in full view and no one had noticed it was also impossible.

She glanced back down to the platter. Who stole the fish? Why kill someone to steal a salmon? It was not logical. Not even an itinerant worker would come forward and attempt such a thing in these circumstances.

She went to the open door and stood looking out into the herb garden. It was no more than ten meters square, surrounded by a high wall and with a wooden gate at the far end. She walked down the paved pathway toward it and saw that it carried a bolt. The bolt was firmly in place and this would have prevented any access into the garden from the outside. Furthermore, anyone leaving by this means could not have secured the bolt behind them.

She turned and walked back to the kitchen door. There was nothing unusual; nothing out of place. By the door stood a spade and some other gardening tools. Next to them, on the ground, was an empty tin dish. Presumably, the tools were used for tending the garden. Fidelma realized that there was only one conclusion. Brother Roilt must have been killed by someone who had been in the kitchen.

She was so engrossed in contemplating this fact as she re-entered the kitchen and took her stand by the empty fish platter that she did not see Brother Dian return to her side until he cleared his throat in order to regain her attention.

“The dishes have been taken into the refectory, Sister. What do you wish us to do now?”

Fidelma made a quick decision. “I want everyone who was working in the kitchen to come forward,” she instructed.

Brother Dian waved the men forward. “I was here; then there was Brother Gebhus, Brother Manchán, Brother Torolb, Brother Enda and Brother Cett.”

He indicated them each in turn. They stood before her looking awkward, like small boys caught in some naughty escapade and brought before their senior. It had been the youthful Brother Enda who had given way to his emotions at the sight of the dead body. Now he seemed in more control, although his eyes were red and his facial muscles pinched in maintaining his calm.

“I want each one of you to go to the position where you were working at the time when it was noticed that Brother Roilt was missing.”

Brother Dian frowned. “To be truthful, Sister, it was the fish which I noticed was missing first. I was, as I said, at the far end of the kitchen preparing the vegetables. Brother Gebhus was my assistant, working at my side.”

“Go there, then,” Fidelma instructed.

Brother Dian walked to the far end of the room with Brother Gebhus trotting after him. They were hidden from sight by the central obstructions but did not go into the area which was hidden by the angle of the L. She stood at the spot where the murdered man must have worked. She could not see the second cook or his assistant