Whispers of the Dead (40 page)

“And no physical damage was done in the chapel nor to this room before Brother Gormgilla had to break in?”

“None, so far as I am aware. Had there been, it might have aroused the community and we might have saved Connla.”

“Was Connla an exceptionally tidy person?”

Brother Firgil blinked at the abrupt change of question.

“He was not especially so.”

Fidelma gestured to the chamber.

“Was this how the room was when he was found?”

“I think it had been tidied up after his body was removed. I think that his papers were tidied and his clothes put away until it was decided what should be done with them.”

“Who did the tidying?”

“Father Máilín himself.”

Fidelma sighed softly.

“That is all, Brother Firgil.”

She hesitated a moment, after he had left, and looked at the area where Connla would have been working, examining the books and papers carefully.

She left Connla’s chamber and went into the chapel. It was small and with few icons. Two candles burnt on the altar. A rough-hewn, wooden crucifix had been positioned in obvious replacement of the stolen one. She examined the interior of the chapel for a few minutes before deciding that it would tell her nothing more.

She left the chapel and paused for a moment in the central courtyard looking at the buildings and judging their position to the chapel. Again, it merely confirmed what Brother Firgil had said. Connla’s chamber was the closest to the chamber.

She felt frustrated. There was something that was not right at all.

Members of the brethren of the community went about their daily tasks, either avoiding her eyes or nodding a greeting to her, each according to their characters. There was no wall around the community and, in that, there was nothing to contradict the idea that a band of thieves could easily have infiltrated the community and entered the chapel.

Half a mile away, crossing a small hill was a wood and this wood was where Brother Firgil had indicated that the itinerants had encamped.

Fidelma began to walk in that direction. Her movement toward the woods was purely automatic. She felt the compulsion to walk and think matters over and the wood was as good a direction as any in which to do so. It was not as though she expected to find any evidence among the remains of the itinerant camp.

She had barely gone a few hundred yards when she noticed the figure a short distance behind her. It was moving surreptitiously: a
figure of one of the brothers following her from the buildings of the community.

She imperceptibly increased her pace up the rising path toward the woods and entered it quickly. The path immediately led into a clearing where it was obvious that there had been an encampment not so long ago. There were signs of a fire, the gray ashes spread in a circle. Some of the ground had been turned by the hooves of horses and a wagon.

“You won’t find anything here, Sister.”

Fidelma turned and regarded the figure of the brother who had now entered the clearing behind her.

“Good day, Brother,” she replied solemnly. He was a young man, with bright ginger red hair and dark blue eyes. He was young, no more than twenty, but wore the tonsure of St. John. “Brother…?” she paused inviting him to supply his name.

“My name is Brother Ledbán.”

“You have followed me, Brother Ledbán. Do you wish to talk with me?”

“I want you to know that the Venerable Connla was a brilliant man.”

“I think most of Christendom knows that,” she replied solemnly.

“Most of Christendom does not know that the Venerable Connla hungered for truth no matter if the truth was unpalatable to them.”

“
Veritas vos liberabit
. The truth shall make you free,” Fidelma quoted from the vellum in her
marsupium
.

“That was his very motto,” Brother Ledbán agreed. “He should have remembered the corollary to that—
veritas odium parit
.”

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I have heard that said. Truth breeds hatred. Was Connla getting near a truth that caused hatred?”

“I think so.”

“Among the brethren?”

“Among certain of our community at St. Martin’s,” agreed Brother Ledbán.

“Perhaps you should tell me what you know.”

“I know little but what little I know, I shall impart to you.”

Fidelma sat down on a fallen tree trunk and motioned Brother Ledbán to sit next to her.

“I understand that the Venerable Connla must have been working on a new text of philosophy?”

“He was. Why I know it is because I am a scribe and the
Delbatóir
of the community. I would often sharpen Connla’s quills for him or seek out new ones. I would mix his inks. As
Delbatóir
it was my task to make the metal covers that would enshrine and protect the books.”

Fidelma nodded. Many books considered worthy of note were either enshrined in metal boxes or had finely covered plates of gold or silver, some encrusted with jewels, sewn on to their leather covers. This was a special art, the casting of such plates called a
cumtach,
and the task fell to the one appointed a
Delbatóir,
which meant a framer or fashioner.

“We sometimes worked closely and Connla would often say to me that truth was the philosopher’s food but was often bitter to the taste. Most people preferred the savory lie.”

“Who was he annoying by his truth?”

“To be frank, Sister, he was annoying himself. I went into his chamber once, where he had been poring over some texts in the old writing…”

“In
Ogham?
”

“In
Ogham
. Alas, I have not the knowledge of it to be able to decipher the ancient alphabet. But he suddenly threw the text from him and exclaimed: ‘Alas! The value of the well is not known until it has dried up!’ Then he saw me and smiled and apologized for his temper. But temper was not really part of that wise old man, Sister. It was more a sadness than a temper.”

“A sadness at what he was reading?”

“A sadness at what he was realizing through his great knowledge.”

“I take it that you do not believe in Father Máilín’s story of the itinerant thieves?” she suddenly asked.

He glanced swiftly at her.

“I am not one to point a finger of accusation at any one individual. The bird has little affection that deserts its own brood.”

“There is also an old saying, that one bird flies away from every brood. However, I am not asking you to desert your own brood but I am asking you to help in tracking down the person responsible for the Venerable Connla’s death.”

“I cannot betray that person.”

“Then you do know who it was?”

“I suspect but suspecting would cast doubt on the good name of Connla.”

Fidelma frowned slightly.

“I fail to understand that.”

“The explanation of every riddle is contained in itself,” Brother Ledbán replied, rising. “Connla was fond of reading
Naturalis Historia
. . .”

“Pliny?” queried Fidelma.

“Indeed—Gaius Plinius Secundus. Connla once remarked to me that he echoed Pliny in acknowledging God’s best gift to mankind.”

He had gone even before Fidelma felt that she should have pointed out that he could be ordered to explain by law under pain of fine. Yet, somehow, she did not think it was appropriate nor that she would be able to discover his suspicions in that way.

She sat for some time on the log, turning matters over in her own mind. Then she pulled out the piece of parchment and read it again, considering it carefully. She replaced it in her
marsupium
and stood up abruptly, her mouth set in a grim line.

She retraced her steps back down the hill to the community and went straight to the Father Superior’s chamber.

Father Máilín was still seated at his desk and looked up in annoyance as she entered.

“Have you finished your investigation, Sister?”

“Not as yet,” Fidelma replied and, without waiting to be asked, sat down. A frown crossed Father Máilín’s brow but before he could admonish Fidelma, she cut in with a bored voice, “I would remind you that not only am I sister to the King of Cashel but, in holding the degree of
anruth
as an advocate of the court, I have the privilege of even sitting in the presence of the High King. Do not, therefore, lecture me on protocol.”

Father Máilín swallowed at the harshness of her tone.

He had, indeed, been about to point out that a member of the brethren was not allowed to sit in the presence of a Father Superior without being invited.

“You are a clever man, Father Máilín,” Fidelma suddenly said, although the Father Superior missed the patronizing tone in her voice.

He stared at her not knowing how to interpret her words.

“I need your advice.”

Father Máilín shifted his weight slightly in his chair. He was bewildered by her abrupt changes of attitude.

“I am at your service, Sister Fidelma.”

“It is just that you have been able to reason out an explanation for a matter which is beyond my understanding and I would like you to explain it to me.”

“I will do my best.”

“Excellent. Tell me how these thieves were able to overpower and hang an old man in his chamber and leave the room, having secured the window on the inside and locking the door behind them, leaving the key in the room?”

Father Máilín stared at her for some moments, his eyes fixed on her in puzzlement. Then he began to chuckle.

“You are misinformed. The key was never found. The thieves took it with them.”

“I am told that there was only one key to that room which the Venerable Connla kept in his possession. Is that true?”

Father Máilín nodded slowly.

“There was no other key. Our smithy had to pick the lock for us to gain entrance to the room.”

Fidelma reached into her
marsupium
and laid the key before him.

“Don’t worry, I tried it in Connla’s lock. It works. I found the key on the floor behind his desk.”

“I don’t… I can’t…”

His voice stumbled over the words.

Fidelma smiled sharply.

“Somehow I didn’t think you would be able to offer an explanation.”

Father Máilín ran a hand, distractedly, through his hair. He said nothing.

“Where are the writings that the Venerable Connla was working on?” went on Fidelma.

“Destroyed,” Father Máilín replied limply.

“Was it you who destroyed them?”

“I take that responsibility.”
“Veritas odium parit,”
repeated Fidelma softly.

“You know your Terence, eh? But I did not hate old Connla. He was just misguided. The more misguided he became, the more stubborn he became. Ask anyone. Even Brother Ledbán, who worked closely with him, refused to cast a mold for a bookplate which carried some Ogham script because he thought Connla had misinterpreted it.”

“You felt that Connla was so misguided that you had to destroy his work?”

“You do not understand, Sister.”

“I think I do.”

“I doubt it. You could not. Connla was like a father to me. I was protecting him. Protecting his reputation.”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“It is the truth that I tell you,” insisted the Father Superior. “Those papers on which he was working, I had hoped that he would never release to the world. He was the great philosopher of the Faith and yet he grew senile and began to doubt his faith.”

“In what way did he grow senile?”

“What other condition could account for his doubt? When I reproved him for his doubt he told me that one must question even the existence of God for if God did exist then he would approve of the homage of reason rather than fear born out of ignorance.”

Fidelma inclined her head.

“He was, indeed, a wise man,” she sighed. “But for those doubts… you killed him!”

Father Máilín sprang to his feet, his face white.

“What? Do you accuse me of his murder? It was the itinerants, I tell you.”

“I do not believe your itinerant theory, Father Máilín,” she said firmly. “No one who considers the facts could believe it.”

The Father Superior slumped back in his seat with hunched shoulders. There was guilt written on his features. He groaned softly.

“I only sought to protect Connla’s reputation. I did not kill him,” he protested.

“You, yourself, have given yourself a suitable motive for his murder.”

“I didn’t! I did not…”

“I will leave you for a moment to consider your story. When I return, I shall want the truth.”

She turned out of his chamber and made her way slowly to the chapel. She was about to pass the Venerable Connla’s door when some instinct drew her inside again. She did not know what made her enter until she saw the shelf of books.

She made her way across the room and began to peer along the line of books.

“Gaius Plinius Secundus,” She muttered to herself, as her eyes rested on the book which she was unconsciously looking for—
Naturalis Historia.

She began to flip through the pages seeking the half forgotten reference.

Finally, she found the passage and read it through. The passage contained what she expected it would.

She glanced quickly ’round the room and then went to the bed. She climbed on it and stood at the edge, reaching her hands up toward the beam above. It was, for her, within easy arm’s length. She stepped down again to the floor. Then she made her way to the chapel and stood inside the door as she had done a short time before.

Her gaze swept around the chapel and then, making up her mind on some intuition, she walked to the altar and went down on her hands and knees but it was not to pray. She bent forward and lifted an edge of the drape across the altar.

Beneath the altar stood a silver crucifix and two golden chalices. In one of them was a rosary of green stone beads. Fidelma reached forward and took them out. She regarded them for a moment or two and then heaved a deep sigh.

Gathering them in her arms she retraced her steps to Father Máilín’s chamber. He was still seated at his desk. He began to rise when she entered, and then his eyes fell to the trophies she carried. He turned pale and slumped back in his seat.