Whispers of the Dead (2 page)

In Fidelma’s own chronology, “The Blemish” is the earliest story because it occurs while she is still studying law under the Brehon Morann at his law school. The bulk of these stories have been written at the request of editors who sought particular themes, such as my good friend Peter Haining, who wanted to know if Fidelma would be adverse to appearing in a drinking story. “Gold at Night” was the inevitable outcome. Another editor wanted to know if Fidelma ever took a vacation, or what passed as a vacation for a seventh-century
A.D.
religieuse. “Corpse on a Holy Day” was the response. Now and then references have been made in the stories to Fidelma’s interest in cosmology and astrology. Astrology was an art widely practiced in those days. An editor asked me to expand on that and thus we have “The Astrologer Who Predicted His Own Murder.”

With the demand for Fidelma short stories from various quarters, David R. Wooten, the energetic and creative editor of
The Brehon,
the journal of The International Sister Fidelma Society, approached me. The Society produces
The Brehon
three times a year for its members. With such support and a membership spanning many countries, I decided that
The Brehon
should have the opportunity of publishing some original Fidelma stories and “The Blemish” and “Dark Moon Rising” first appeared in its columns.

When my editors asked me if I would consider putting together a second volume of short stories, they also asked me if I could add a couple of original tales on aspects of Brehon Law, which I had not covered in previous stories. For example, how was an Irish Chief elected? That is the theme of “The Heir-Apparent.” What was “foster-age” in ancient Ireland and were there laws to protect children? Hence—“The Fosterer.” And also, of the complicated subject of inheritance from a person deemed to be insane, “Cry Wolf!” is one aspect.

In the short stories, a character for whom I have a fondness has appeared several times: Abbot Laisran of Durrow, County Laois (from
Dearmach
in Middle Irish or
Darú
in Modern Irish, which means “the oak plain”). The abbey was founded by St. Colmcille before his exile from Ireland circa
A.D.
563. Durrow was one of the most important ecclesiastical teaching centers in Ireland and in the mid-seventh century, during Fidelma’s day, it is recorded that its students came from no less than eighteen different nations in Europe. Today, Durrow is best remembered for its famous illustrated Gospel book,
The Book of Durrow,
dated by some to the mid seventh-century.

Abbot Laisran regards Fidelma as his protégée. It was he who persuaded her, once she had qualified in Brehon Morann’s law school to the level of
anruth,
one degree below the highest that the secular and ecclesiastical colleges of ancient Ireland could bestow, to join the abbey of Kildare. As many readers will know, Fidelma is more concerned with law than religion and when she found out that her abbess was not averse to breaking the law, she left Kildare (see
the story “Hemlock at Vespers” in the collection of the same name). For a base, she returned to the court of her brother, Colgú, King of Muman, who ruled at Cashel, in what is now County Tipperary.

In stories such as “A Canticle for Wulfstan” and “The Horse that Died for Shame” (collected in
Hemlock at Vespers
) Abbot Laisran’s good humor acts as a balance to Fidelma’s sterner thoughts of duty and the search for truth. I have received not a few letters from readers asking why I did not bring the good Abbot Laisran into more of Fidelma’s adventures. Those readers will, I hope, be pleased to know that Abbot Laisran appears in the title story “Whispers of the Dead,” “Who Stole the Fish?,” and in “Gold at Night.”

Here, then, are another fifteen mysteries that try Fidelma’s abilities to the limit. As in some of the earlier mysteries, Fidelma, and you, will discover—as in “The Fosterer”—that law is not always synonymous with justice.

WHISPERS
OF THE DEAD

A
bbot Laisran sat back in his chair, at the side of the crackling log fire, and gazed thoughtfully at his cup of mulled wine.

“You have achieved a formidable reputation, Fidelma,” he observed, raising his cherub-like features to his young protégée, who sat on the other side of the fireplace, sipping her wine. “Some Brehons talk of you as they would the great female judges such as Brig or Dari. That is commendable in one so young.”

Fidelma smiled thinly. She was not one given to vanity for she knew her own weaknesses.

“I would not aspire to write legal texts as they did, nor, indeed, would I pretend to be more than a simple investigator of facts. I am
a
dálaigh,
an advocate. I prefer to leave the judgment of others to the Brehons.”

Abbot Laisran inclined his head slightly as if in acceptance of her statement.

“But that is the very thing on which your reputation has its foundation. You have had some outstanding successes with your investigations, observing things that are missed by others. Several times I have seen your ability firsthand. Does it ever worry you that you hold so much responsibility?”

“It worries me only that I observe all the facts and come to the right decision. However, I did not spend eight years under instruction with the Brehon Morann of Tara to no avail. I have come to accept the responsibility that goes with my office.”

“Ah,” sighed the abbot. “‘Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required.’ That is from—”

“The Gospel of Luke,” Fidelma interrupted with a mischievous smile.

Abbot Laisran answered her smile.

“Does nothing escape your attention, Fidelma? Surely there must be cases when you are baffled? For instance, there must be many a murder over which it is impossible to attribute guilt.”

“Perhaps I have been lucky,” admitted Fidelma. “However, I do not believe that there is such a thing as a perfect crime.”

“Come now, that must be an overstatement?”

“Even when we examine a body with no evidence of who he, or she, was in life, or how and when he, or she, died, let alone by whose hand, a good observer will learn something. The dead always whisper to us. It is our task to listen to the whispers of the dead.”

The abbot knew it was not in Fidelma’s nature to boast of her prowess; however, his round features assumed a skeptical expression.

“I would like to make a wager with you,” he suddenly announced.

Fidelma frowned. She knew that Abbot Laisran was a man who was quick to place wagers. Many was the time she had attended the
great Aenach Lifé, the fair at the Curragh, for the horseracing and watched Abbot Laisran losing as well as winning as he hazarded money on the contests.

“What manner of wager had you in mind, Laisran?” she asked cautiously.

“You have said that the dead whisper to us and we must have ears to listen. That in every circumstance the body of a person will eventually yield up the information necessary to identify him, and who, if anyone, is culpable for the death. Have I understood you correctly?”

Fidelma inclined her head in agreement.

“That has been my experience until now,” she conceded.

“Well then,” continued Abbot Laisran, “will you take a wager with me on a demonstration of that claim?”

“In what circumstances?”

“Simple enough. By coincidence, this morning a young peasant woman was found dead not far from this abbey. There was no means of identification on her and inquiries in the adjacent village have failed to identify her. No one appears to be missing. She must have been a poor itinerant. One of our brothers, out of charity, brought the body to the abbey. Tomorrow, as is custom, we shall bury her in an unmarked grave.” Abbot Laisran paused and glanced slyly at her. “If the dead truly whisper to you, Fidelma, perhaps you will be able to interpret those whispers and identify her?”

Fidelma considered for a moment.

“You say that she was a young woman? What was the cause of her death?”

“That is the mystery. There are no visible means of how she died. She was well nourished, according to our apothecary.”

“No signs of violence?” asked Fidelma, slightly bemused.

“None. The matter is a total mystery. Hence I would place a wager with you, which is that if you can find some evidence, some cause of death, of something that will lead to the identification of the poor
unfortunate, then I will accept that your claim is valid. So, what of the wager?”

Fidelma hesitated. She disliked challenges to her abilities but, on the other hand, some narcissistic voice called from within her.

“What is the specific wager?” she asked.

“A
screpall
for the offertory box of the abbey.” Abbot Laisran smiled. “I will give a
screpall
for the poor if you can discover more about the poor woman than we have been able to. If you cannot, then you will pay a
screpall
to the offertory box.”

A
screpall
was a silver coin valued to the fee charged by a
dálaigh
for a single consultation.

Fidelma hesitated a moment and then, urged on by her pride, said: “It is agreed.”

She rose and set down her mulled wine, startling the abbot.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“Why, to view the body. There is only an hour or two of daylight left, and many important signs can vanish in artificial light.”

Reluctantly, Abbot Laisran set down his wine and also rose.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Come, I will show you the way to the apothecary.”

A tall, thin religieux with a beak of a nose glanced up as Abbot Laisran entered the chamber where he was pounding leaves with a pestle. His eyes widened a little when he saw Sister Fidelma enter behind the abbot. Fidelma was well known to most of the religious of the Abbey of Durrow.

“Brother Donngal, I have asked Sister Fidelma to examine our unknown corpse.”

The abbey’s apothecary immediately set aside his work and gazed at her with interest.

“Do you think that you know the poor woman, Sister?”

Fidelma smiled quickly.

“I am here as a
dálaigh,
Brother,” she replied.

A slight frown crossed Brother Donngal’s features.