Whispers of the Dead

apothecary coughed apologetically.

“I have removed her clothing for examination but have not dressed her for the coffin yet, Sister.”

Fidelma’s eyes twinkled at the man’s embarrassment, but she made no reply.

The corpse was that of a young woman, perhaps no more than twenty years old. Fidelma had not entirely hardened herself to premature death.

“She is not long dead,” was Fidelma’s first remark.

Brother Donngal nodded.

“No more than a day and a night, I reckon. She was found this morning and I believe she died during the night.”

“By whom was she found?”

“Brother Torcan,” intervened Abbot Laisran, who was standing just inside the door observing them.

“Where was she found?”

“No more than a few hundred paces from the abbey walls.”

“I meant, in what place, what were the conditions of her surroundings?”

“Oh, I see. She was found in a wood, in a small clearing almost covered with leaves.”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

“What was this Brother Torcan doing there?”

“Gathering edible fungi. He works in the kitchens.”

“And the clothes worn by the girl. . where are they?” Fidelma asked.

The man gestured to a side table on which clothing was piled.

“She wore just the simple garb of a village girl. There is nothing to identify her there.”

“I will examine them in a moment and likewise will wish to speak to this Brother Torcan.”

She turned her gaze back to the body, bending forward to examine it with careful precision.

It was some time before she straightened from her task.

“Now, I shall examine the clothing.”

Brother Donngal moved to a table and watched while Fidelma picked up the items. They consisted of a pair of sandals called cuaran, a single sole of untanned hide, stitched together with thongs cut from the same hide. They were almost worn through. The dress was a simple one of wool and linen, roughly woven and threadbare. It appeared to have been secured at the waist by a strip of linen. There was also a short cape with a hood, as affected by many country women. Again, it was obviously worn, and fringed with rabbit fur.

Fidelma raised her head and glanced at the apothecary.

“Is this all that she was wearing?”

Brother Donngal nodded in affirmation.

“Was there no underclothing?”

The apothecary looked embarrassed.

“None,” he confirmed.

“She did not have a ciorbholg?”

The ciorbholg was, literally, a comb-bag, but it contained all the articles of toilet, as well as combs, which women carried about with them no matter their rank or status. It served women in the manner of a purse and it was often tied at the waist by a belt.

Brother Donngal shook his head negatively once more.

“This is why we came to the conclusion that she was simply a poor itinerant,” explained the abbot.

“So there was no toilet bag?” mused Fidelma. “And she had no brooches or other jewelry?”

Brother Donngal allowed a smile to play around his lips.

“Of course not.”

“Why of course not?” demanded Fidelma sharply.

“Because it is clear from this clothing, Sister, that the girl was a very poor country girl. Such a girl would not be able to afford such finery.”

“Even a poor country girl will seek out some ornaments, no matter how poor she is,” replied Fidelma.

Abbot Laisran came forward with a sad smile.

“Nothing was found. So you see, Fidelma, this poor young woman cannot whisper to you from her place of death. A poor country girl and with nothing to identify her. Her whispers are silent ones. You should not have been so willing to accept my challenge.”

Fidelma swung ’round on him to reveal the smile on her face. Her eyes twinkled with a dangerous fire.

“On the contrary, Laisran. There is much that this poor girl whispers; much she tells us, even in this pitiable state.”

Brother Donngal exchanged a puzzled glance with the abbot.

“I don’t understand you, Sister,” he said. “What can you see? What have I missed?”

“Practically everything,” Fidelma assured him calmly.

Abbot Laisran stifled a chuckle as he saw the mortified expression on the apothecary’s face. But he turned to her with a reproving glance.

“Come now, Fidelma,” he chided, “don’t be too sharp because you have been confronted with an insoluble riddle. Not even you can conjure facts out of nothing.”

Abbot Laisran stirred uncomfortably as he saw the tiny green fire in her eyes intensify. However, when she addressed him, her tone was comparatively mild.

“You know better of me, Laisran. I am not given to vain boasting.”

Brother Donngal moved forward and stared at the body of the girl as if trying to see what it was that Fidelma had observed.

“What have I missed?” he demanded again.

Fidelma turned to the apothecary.

“First, you say that this girl is a poor country girl. What makes you arrive at such a conclusion?”

Brother Donngal regarded her with an almost pitying look.

“That was easy. Look at her clothing-at her sandals. They are not the apparel of someone of high rank and status. The clothes show her humble origins.”

Fidelma sighed softly.

“My mentor, the Brehon Morann, once said that the veil can disguise much; it is folly to accept the outside show for the inner quality of a person.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This girl is not of humble rank, that much is obvious.”

Abbot Laisran moved forward and peered at the body in curiosity.

“Come, Fidelma, now you are guessing.”

Fidelma shook her head.

“I do not guess, Laisran. I have told you,” she added impatiently, “listen to the whispers of the dead. If this is supposed to be a peasant girl, then regard the skin of her body-white and lacking color by wind and sun. Look at her hands, soft and cared for as are her nails. There is no dirt beneath them. Her hands are not calloused by work. Look at her feet. Again, soft and well cared for. See the soles of the feet? This girl had not been trudging fields in those poor shoes that she was clad in, nor has she walked any great distance.”

The abbot and the apothecary followed her instructions and examined the limbs she indicated.

“Now, examine her hair.”

The girl’s hair, a soft spun gold color, was braided behind her head in a single long plait that reached almost to her waist.

“Nothing unusual in that,” observed Laisran. Many women in the five kingdoms of Éireann considered very long hair as a mark of beauty and braided it in similar style.

“But it is exceptionally well tended. The braiding is the traditional cuilfhionn and surely you must know that it is affected only by women of rank. What this poor corpse whispers to me is that she is a woman of rank.”

“Then why was she dressed as a peasant?” demanded the apothecary after a moment’s silence.

Fidelma pursed her lips.