Whispers of the Dead

Venerable Connla was disturbed by marauders in the night. He went into the chapel to investigate. They overpowered him and brought him back here, hanged him and then robbed him. Does it occur to you that something is wrong with this explanation?”

Brother Gormgilla looked uncomfortable.

“I do not understand.”

Fidelma tapped her foot in annoyance.

“Come now, Brother. For fifteen years you have been his helper; you helped him rise in the morning and had to accompany him to the chapel. Would such a frail old man suddenly start from his bed in the middle of the night and set off to face intruders? And why would these intruders bring him back here to hang him? Surely one sharp blow on the head would have been enough to render Connla dead or beyond hindrance to them?”

“It is not for me to say, Sister. Father Máilín says. .”

“I know what Father Máilín says. What do you say?”

“It is not for me to question Father Máilín. He came to his conclusion after making strenuous inquiries.”

“Of whom, other than yourself, could he make such inquiries?”

“It was Brother Firgil who told the Father Superior about the itinerants.”

“Then bring Brother Firgil to me.”

Brother Gormgilla scurried off.

Sister Fidelma wandered around the chamber and examined the manuscripts and books that lined the walls. Connla had, as hearsay had it, been an extraordinary scholar. There were books on philosophy in Hebrew, Latin, Greek and even works in the old tongue of the Irish, written on wooden wands in Ogham, the earliest Irish alphabet.

Everything was neatly placed along the shelves.

Connla had clearly been a methodical and tidy man. She glanced at some of the works. They intrigued her for they concerned the ancient stories of her people: stories of the pagan gods, the children of the Mother Goddess Danu whose “divine waters” fertilized the Earth at the beginning of time itself. It was a strange library for a great philosopher and teacher of the Faith to have.

At a little desk were vellum and quills where the Venerable Connla obviously sat composing his own works, which were widely distributed among the teaching abbeys of Ireland. Now his voice would be heard no more. His death at the hands of mere thieves had robbed the Faith of one of its greatest protagonists. No wonder the abbot had not been satisfied with Father Máilín’s simple report and had asked Fidelma, as a trained dálaigh of the courts, to make an inquiry which could be presented to the king himself.

Fidelma glanced down at the vellum. It was pristine. Whatever Connla had been working on, he must have finished before his death, for his writing materials were clean and set out neatly; everything placed carefully, ready and waiting. .

She frowned suddenly. Her wandering eye had caught something tucked inside a small calf-bound book on a nearby shelf. Why should she be attracted by a slip of parchment sticking out of a book? She was not sure until she realized everything else was so neat and tidy that the very fact that the paper was left so untidily was the reason which drew her attention to it.

She reached forward and drew it out. The slip of parchment fluttered awkwardly in her hands and made a slow glide to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. As she did so she noticed something protruding behind one of the stout legs of Connla’s desk. Retrieving the parchment she reached forward and eased out the object from its hiding place.

It was an iron key, cold and greasy to the touch. For a moment, she stood gazing at it. Then she went to the door and inserted it. The key fitted into the lock and she turned it slowly. Then she turned it back and took it out, slipping it into her marsupium.

Finally, she reverted her attention to the piece of parchment. It was a note in Ogham. A line, a half constructed sentence, no more. It read: “By despising, denigrating and destroying all that has preceded us, we will simply teach this and future generations to despise our beliefs.Veritas vos liberabit! ”

“Sister?”

Fidelma glanced ’round. At the door stood a thin, pale-faced religieux with a hook nose and thin lips.

“I am Brother Firgil. You were asking for me?”

Fidelma placed the piece of parchment in her marsupium along with the key and turned to him.

“Brother Fergal?” she asked using the Irish name.

The man shook his head.

“Firgil,” he corrected. “My father named me from the Latin Vergilius.”

“I understand. I am told that you informed Father Máilín about the itinerants who were camping in the woods on the night of the Venerable Connla’s death?”

“I did so,” Brother Firgil agreed readily. “I noticed them on the day before that tragic event. I took them to be a band of mercenaries, about a score in number with womenfolk and children. They were camped out in the woods about half a mile from here.”

“What made you think that they were responsible for the theft and for the killing of the Venerable Connla?”

Brother Firgil shrugged.

“Who else would dare such sacrilege than godless mercenaries?”

“Are you sure that they were godless?” Fidelma asked waspishly. The man looked bewildered for a moment and then shrugged.

“No one who is at one with God would dare rob His house or harm His servants, particularly one who was as elderly as the Venerable Connla. It is well known that most of those mercenaries are not converted to the Faith.”

“Is there proof that they robbed the chapel?”

“The proof is that a crucifix from the chapel and two gold chalices from the altar are gone. The proof is that the Venerable Connla had a rosary made of marble beads from a green stone from the lands of Conamara, which was said to have been blessed by the saintly Ailbe himself. That, too, is gone. Finally, the Venerable Connla was found dead. Hanged.”

“But nothing you have said is proof that these itinerants were the culprits,” Fidelma pointed out. “Is there any proof absolute?”

“The itinerants were camping in the wood on the day before the Venerable Connla’s death. On the morning that Connla was discovered and the items were found missing, I told Father Máilín of my suspicions and was sent to observe the itinerants so that we could appeal to the local chieftain for warriors to take them. But they were gone. That is proof that guilt bade them hurry away from the scene of their crime.”

“It is circumstantial proof only and that is not absolutely proof in law. Was the local chieftain informed?”

“He sent warriors immediately to follow them but their tracks vanished in some rocky passes through the hills and could not be picked up again.”

“Did anyone observe anything strange during the night when these events happened?”

Brother Firgil shook his head.

“The only person who must have been roused by the thieves was poor Connla.”

“How many brethren live in this community?”

“Twenty-one.”

“It seems strange that an elderly man would be the only one disturbed during the night.”

“You see that this chamber lies next to the chapel. Connla often kept late hours while working on his texts. I see no strangeness in this.”

“In relationship to the chapel, where are the quarters of the other brethren?”

“The Father Superior has the chamber next to this one. I, as steward of the community, have the next chamber. The rest of the brethren share the dormitorium.”