Whispers of the Dead (3 page)

“There is no sign of a violent death, Sister. Why would an advocate have an interest in this matter?”

Catching the irritable hardening of her expression, Abbot Laisran intervened quickly: “It is because I asked Sister Fidelma to give me her opinion on this matter.”

Brother Donngal turned to a door.

“The body lies in our mortuary. I was shortly to prepare it for burial. Our carpenter has only just delivered the coffin.”

The body lay under a linen sheet on a table in the center of the chamber that served as the abbey’s mortuary where bodies were prepared for burial.

Sister Fidelma moved toward it and was about to take a corner of the sheet in her hand when the 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.

“We must continue to listen. Perhaps she will tell us. As she tells us other things.”

“Such as?”

“She is married.”

Abbot Laisran snorted with cynicism.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Fidelma simply pointed to the left hand of the corpse.

“There are marks around the third finger. They are faint, I grant you, but tiny marks nevertheless which show the recent removal of a ring that has been worn there. There is also some discoloration on her left arm. What do you make of that, Brother Donngal?”

The apothecary shrugged.

“Do you mean the marks of blue dye? It is of little importance.”

“Why?”

“Because it is a common thing among the villages. Women dye clothes and materials. The blue is merely a dye caused by the extract of a cruciferous plant
glaisin.
Most people use it. It is not unusual in any way.”

“It is not. But women of rank would hardly be involved in dyeing their own materials and this dye stain seems fairly recent.”

“Is that important?” asked the abbot.

“Perhaps. It depends on how we view the most important of all the facts this poor corpse whispers to us.”

“Which is?” demanded Brother Donngal.

“That this girl was murdered.”

Abbot Laisran’s eyebrows shot up.

“Come, come, now. Our apothecary has found no evidence of foul play; no wounds, no bruising, no abrasions. The face is relaxed as if she simply passed on in her sleep. Anyone can see that.”

Fidelma moved forward and lifted the girl’s head, bringing the single braid of hair forward in order to expose the nape of the neck. She had done this earlier during her examination as Brother Donngal and Abbot Laisran watched with faint curiosity.

“Come here and look, both of you. What, Brother Donngal, was your explanation of this?”

Brother Donngal looked slightly embarrassed as he peered forward.

“I did not examine her neck under the braid,” he admitted.

“Well, now that you are examining it, what do you see?”

“There is a small discolored patch like a tiny bruise,” replied the apothecary after a moment or two. “It is not more than a fingernail in width. There is a little blood spot in the center. It’s rather like an insect bite that has drawn blood or as if someone has pricked the skin with a needle.”

“Do you see it also, Laisran?” demanded Fidelma.

The abbot leaned forward and then nodded.

Fidelma gently lowered the girl’s head back onto the table.

“I believe that this was a wound caused by an incision. You are right, Brother Donngal, in saying it is like a needle point. The incision was created by something long and thin, like a needle. It was inserted into the nape of the neck and pushed up hard so that it penetrated into the head. It was swift. Deadly. Evil. The girl probably died before she knew that she was being attacked.”

Abbot Laisran was staring at Fidelma in bewilderment.

“Let me get this straight, Fidelma. Are you saying that the corpse found near this abbey this morning is a woman of rank who has been murdered? Is that right?”

“And, after her death, her clothes were taken from her and she was hurriedly dressed in poor peasant garb to disguise her origin. The murderer thought to remove all means of identification from her.”

“Even if this is true,” interrupted Brother Donngal, “how might we discover who she was and who perpetrated this crime?”

“The fact that she was not long dead when Brother Torcan found her makes our task more simple. She was killed in this vicinity. A woman of rank would surely be visiting a place of substance. She had not been walking any distance. Observe the soles of her feet. I would presume that she either rode or came in a carriage to her final destination.”

“But what destination?” demanded Brother Donngal.

“If she came to Durrow, she would have come to the abbey,” Laisran pointed out. “She did not.”

“True enough. We are left with two types of places she might have gone. The house of a noble, a chieftain, or, perhaps, a
bruighean,
an inn. I believe that we will find the place where she met her death within five or six kilometers of this abbey.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A deduction. The corpse newly dead and the murderer wanting to dispose of it as quickly as possible. Whoever killed her reclothed her body and transported it to the spot where it was found. They could not have traveled far.”

Abbot Laisran rubbed his chin.

“Whoever it was, they took a risk in disposing of it in the woods so near this abbey.”

“Perhaps not. If memory serves me right, those woods are the thickest stretch of forest in this area even though they are close to the abbey. Are they that frequented?”

Abbot Laisran shrugged.

“It is true that Brother Torcan does not often venture so far into the woods in search of fungi,” he admitted. “He came on the corpse purely by chance.”

“So the proximity of the abbey was not necessarily a caution to our murderer. Well, are there such places as I described within the distance I have estimated?”

“An inn or a chieftain’s house? North of here is Ballacolla, where there is an inn. South of here is Ballyconra where the Lord of Conra lives.”

“Who is he? Describe him?”

“A young man, newly come to office there. I know little about him, although he came here to pay his respects to me when he took office. When I came to Durrow as abbot the young man’s father was lord of Ballyconra but his son was away serving in the army of the High King. He is a bachelor newly returned from the wars against the Uí Néill.”

“Then we shall have to learn more,” observed Fidelma dryly. She glanced through the window at the cloudy sky.

“There is still an hour before sunset,” she reflected. “Have Brother Torcan meet me at the gates so that he may conduct me to the spot where he found the body.”

“What use would that be?” demanded the abbot. “There was nothing in the clearing apart from the body.”

Fidelma did not answer.

With a sigh, the abbot went off to find the religieux.

Half an hour later Brother Torcan was showing her the small clearing. Behind her, Abbot Laisran fretted with impatience. Fidelma was looking at a pathway which led into it. It was just wide enough to take a small cart. She noticed some indentations of hooves and ruts, undoubtedly caused by the passage of wheels.

“Where does that track lead?” she asked, for they had entered the clearing by a different single path.