Whispers of the Dead (26 page)

S
ister Fidelma glanced up in mild surprise as the red-faced religieux came bursting through the doors into the refectory where she and her fellow religieuses were about to sit down at the long wooden tables for the evening meal. In fact, Abbot Laisran had already called for silence so that he could intone the
gratias.

The man halted in confusion as he realized that his abrupt entrance had caused several eyes to turn questioningly upon him. His red cheeks, if anything, deepened their color and he appeared to wring his hands together for a moment in indecision. He knew well that this was no ordinary evening meal but a feast given in welcome to the Venerable Salvian, an emissary from Rome who was visiting the Abbey of Durrow. The patrician Roman was even now sitting by
the side of the abbot, watching the new arrival with some astonishment.

The red-faced monk apparently summoned courage and hurried to the main table where Abbot Laisran stood with an expression of irritation on his rotund features. He bent forward. A few words were whispered. Something was wrong. Fidelma could tell that by the startled look which formed momentarily on the abbot’s face. He leaned across to his steward, who was seated at his left side, and muttered something. It was the steward’s turn to look surprised. Then the abbot turned to his guest, the Venerable Salvian, and seemed to force a smile before speaking, waving his hand as if in emphasis. The old patrician’s expression was polite yet puzzled.

The abbot then rose and came hurrying down the refectory in the wake of the religieux who had delayed the meal. To her surprise, Fidelma realized the abbot was making directly toward her.

Abbot Laisran was looking very unhappy as he bent down with lowered voice. “I have need of your services, Fidelma,” he said tersely. “Would you follow me to the kitchens?”

Fidelma realized that Laisran was not prone to dramatic gestures. Without wasting time with questions, she rose and followed the unhappy man. Before them hurried the red-faced brother.

Beyond the doors, just inside the kitchen, Abbot Laisran halted and looked around. There were several religieux in the long chamber where all the meals of the abbey were prepared. Curiously, Fidelma noted, there was no activity in the kitchen. The group of religieux, marked as kitchen workers by the aprons they wore and rolled-up sleeves, stood about in silent awkwardness.

Laisran turned to the red-faced man who had conducted them hither. “Now, Brother Dian, tell Sister Fidelma what you have just told me. Brother Dian is our second cook,” he added quickly for Fidelma’s benefit.

Brother Dian, looking very frightened, bobbed his head several times. He spoke in rapid bursts and was clearly distressed.

“This afternoon, our cook, Brother Roilt, knowing that the Venerable Salvian was to be the guest of the abbey at this feast, went down to the river with his fishing rod and line, intent on hooking a salmon to prepare as a special dish.”

Laisran, fretting a little at this preamble, cut in: “Brother Roilt caught a great salmon. He showed it to me. It was just right for the dish to present to Salvian. It would show him how well we live in this part of the world…”

Brother Dian, nodding eagerly, intervened in turn. “The fish was prepared and Brother Roilt had started to cook it a short while ago for we knew that the
gratias
was about to be said. I was in charge of preparing the vegetables, so I was working at the far end of the kitchen. Brother Roilt was cooking the fish over there…” He indicated the respective positions with a wave of his hand. “A short while ago, the chief server entered and told me that everyone was ready at the tables. I looked up to see whether Brother Roilt was ready also so that the servers could take in the fish. I could not see Brother Roilt. I came down to where he had been cooking the fish and… and the fish was gone.”

Abbot Laisran gave a groan. “The fish has been stolen! The delicacy that we were to present to the Venerable Salvian! What shall I do?”

Fidelma had not said a word since she had been summoned from the refectory. Now she spoke. “The fish is missing. How do you deduce it was stolen?”

It was Brother Dian who answered. “I made a thorough search of the kitchens and questioned the kitchen staff.” He gestured to the half-dozen or so brothers who stood gathered in their silent group. “Everyone denies knowledge of the missing fish. It has simply vanished.”

“But what of the cook, Brother Roilt?” Fidelma demanded, irritated by the lack of explanation of the obvious. “What does he say about this matter?”

There was a pause.

“Alas,” moaned Brother Dian. “He, too, has disappeared.”

Fidelma arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying that one moment he was cooking the salmon over a fire in this kitchen, with half a dozen others around him, and the next moment he had vanished?”

“Yes, sister,” the man wailed. “Maybe it’s sorcery.
Deus avertat!
”

Fidelma sniffed disparagingly. “Nonsense! There are a hundred reasons why the cook might have disappeared with his fish.”

Brother Dian was not convinced. “He took such care with it because he knew it was going to be placed before the emissary from Rome. He caught the fish in the River Feoir itself—a great, wise salmon.”

“Show me exactly where he was last seen with this fish,” Fidelma instructed.

Brother Dian took her to a spot at the far end of the kitchen beside an open door leading into the abbey gardens. There was a table below an open window to one side and next to this was a hearth over which hung both a
bir,
or cooking spit, and an
indeoin,
or gridiron.

“It was at this gridiron that Brother Roilt was cooking the fish,” the red-faced brother informed her. “He was basting it with honey and salt. See there.” He pointed to a large wooden platter on the table before the open window. “There is the platter he intended to put it on.”

Fidelma bent forward with a frown. Then she put a finger to the platter where she had seen grease stains and raised it to her lips.

“Which he did put it on,” she corrected gently.

Then her eyes fell to the floor. There were a several spots on the oak boards. She crouched down and looked at them for several seconds before reaching forward, touching one with her forefinger and bringing it up to eye level.

“Has anyone been slaughtering meat in this part of the kitchen?” she asked.

Brother Dian shook his head indignantly. “This area of the kitchen is reserved for cooking fish only. We cook our meat over there, on the far side of the kitchen, so that the two tastes do not combine and ruin the palate.”

Fidelma held her red-tinged fingertip toward Abbot Laisran.

“Then if that is not animal blood, I presume our cook has cut himself, which might account for his absence,” 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.