As Sister Brónach warmed to her explanation, she seemed to come alive for the first time in Fidelma’s brief encounters with her.
Fidelma paused for a moment in thought, seeing a path to extend her knowledge.
‘And this water-clock was the method by which you were sure of the hour in which you found the body?’
Sister Brónach nodded absently, as she checked the heat of the water and stoked the fire underneath the big basin.
‘It is a tedious business then, tending this water-clock?’
‘Tedious enough,’ agreed the sister.
‘It was therefore surprising to find the
rechtaire
of the community, the house steward, fulfilling this task,’ Fidelma commented pointedly.
Brónach replied with a shake of her head.
‘Not so; our community prides itself on the accuracy of our clepsydra. Each member of the community, when they join us, agrees to take her turn in keeping the watch. It is written into our Rule. Sister Síomha has been keen that this rule be applied. Why, during these last few weeks, for example, she has insisted on taking most of the night watches herself — that is from midnight until the time of the morning Angelus. Even the mother abbess herself sometimes takes her turn, like everyone else. No one is allowed to keep watch above one
cadar,
that is a six hour period.’
Fidelma suddenly frowned.
‘If Sister Síomha takes this night watch, what was she doing here just now, after noon?’
‘I did not say that she takes every night watch. It would not be allowed for every sister must do her turn. She takes most of them and she is a very meticulous person.’
‘And was Sister Síomha taking the night watch on the night before the body was discovered?’
‘Yes. I believe she was.’
‘It is a long time to be here, just watching, waiting for the bowl to sink and then remembering how many times to strike a gong,’ Fidelma observed.
‘Not if one is a contemplative,’ replied Sister Brónach. ‘There is nothing more relaxing than to take the period of the first
cadar
, that is from midnight until the morning Angelus at the sixth hour. That is the time I like best. That is probably why Sister Síomha also likes to take most of these night watches. One is here, alone with one’s thoughts.’
‘But thoughts can run away with one’s mind,’ persisted Fidelma. ‘You could forget the period that has passed by and how many times you must strike the gong.’
Sister Brónach picked up a tablet, a wooden-framed
construction in which was a layer of soft clay. There was a stylus nearby. She made a mark with the stylus and then handed it to Fidelma.
‘Sometimes it does happen,’ she confessed. ‘But there are rituals to be observed. Each time we sound the gong, we have to record the
pongc,
the
uair
and the
cadar.’
‘But mistakes happen?’
‘Oh yes. In fact the night you were speaking of, the night before we found the corpse, even Sister Síomha had made a miscalculation.’
‘A miscalculation?’
‘It is a very exacting task being a time keeper, but if we forget the number of times to strike, we merely have to look at the record and when the tablet is filled, we simply scrape it smooth again and start all over again. Síomha must have misjudged several time periods for when I took over from her that morning, the clay tablet was smudged and inaccurate.’
Fidelma peered carefully at the clay tablet. She was not so much concerned with the figures that were enumerated there but with the texture of the clay. It was a curious red colour and seemed familiar to her.
‘Is this local clay?’ she asked.
Sister Brónach nodded.
‘What makes it so strangely red in colour?’
‘Oh, that. We are not far from the copper mines and the soil around here often produces this distinctive clay. The copper mixes with natural clay and water to produce that fascinating red effect. We find the clay very good for writing tablets. It keeps its soft surface longer than normal clay, so that we do not have to waste other writing materials. It is perfect for keeping the enumeration of the clepsydra.’
‘Copper,’ breathed Fidelma reflectively. ‘Copper mines.’
She let a finger trail over the surface of the smooth damp clay and then, with an abrupt motion, dug her fingernail into it and lifted a fragment out.
‘Careful, sister,’ protested Sister Brónach, ‘do not damage the enumeration.’
Sister Brónach looked slightly outraged as she gently removed the writing tablet from Fidelma’s hand and carefully erased the disturbance to its smooth surface.
‘I am sorry,’ Fidelma smiled absently. She was examining the reddish material on her fingertips with fascination.
Sister Fidelma left the tower through the library rooms and began to cross the abbey courtyard. She was half-way across when she became aware of the short figure of a heavy-set religieuse waddling towards her with the aid of a stick. She recognised that it was the disabled religieuse whom she had seen at the funeral with Sister Brónach and it was clear that she was attempting to intercept Fidelma. Fidelma halted and allowed the sister to catch up. Once again, Fidelma felt compassion as she surveyed the girl’s broad, rather plain face with pale, watery eyes. But it was a young, intelligent face. When the sister spoke, Fidelma heard that she had a nervous stammer as a further handicap. The girl twisted her lips and made faces as she tried to get her words out, as if it were some painful exercise.
‘Sis … Sister Fidelma? Sis … Sis … Lerben is loo … looking for you … The mo … mo … mother abbess … requests your pres … presence immediately in her cha … chamber.’
Fidelma tried not to alter her expression but she felt a grim satisfaction. She had estimated that Sister Síomha would have immediately complained about her to the Abbess Draigen. It was obvious what the abbess wanted to see Fidelma about.
‘Very well. Will you show me the way? I have forgotten where the abbess’s chamber is, Sister … ?’
She raised her eyebrows in interrogation.
‘I am Sis … Sis … Sister Berrach,’ replied the girl.
‘Very well, Sister Berrach. If you will lead the way?’
The young religieuse nodded her head rapidly several times before turning to lead the way. Her body swayed from side to side on her short, deformed legs, across the courtyard to the group of stone buildings in which the Abbess Draigen had her chambers. She paused before a heavy oak door and tapped timidly with the tip of her staff. Then she swung it open.
‘Sis … Sis … Sister Fidelma, mo … mother abbess,’ gasped the girl and turned, with relief on her face, as if thankful to escape, and disappeared.
Fidelma entered and closed the door behind her.
Abbess Draigen was seated alone in her chamber at her dark oak work table. The room was gloomy, for the windows did not provide much light. Even though it was just after noon, there was a lighted tallow candle on the table by which she was reading. The expression she raised to Fidelma, lit by the flickering candle, was unfriendly and set in pinched lines.
‘It has been reported that you have been extremely discourteous to my
rechtaire
. A house steward is deserving of respect. Surely I do not have to remind you of this?’
Fidelma moved forward and took a seat opposite the abbess. For a moment, Abbess Draigen’s features took on a look of astonishment and then outrage.
‘Sister, you forget yourself. I did not ask you to be seated.’
Fidelma was usually respectful of rules and fairly easygoing but when she felt it in her interests to throw her weight around to achieve an advantage then she was not above doing so.
‘Abbess Draigen, I am in no mood for formalities. Need I remind you that I hold the degree of
anruth
and may sit in the presence of provincial kings, indeed — I may dispute on their level? I may even be invited to sit in the presence of the High King himself, if he so wishes. I am not here to engage in
rituals of etiquette. I am here to investigate a case of unlawful killing.’
If Abbess Draigen had been expecting to exert her authority over Fidelma she was thwarted in her aim. The cold response seemed to impede her power of speech. She simply stared at Fidelma, with hostility showing in her expression.
Fidelma felt a pang of regret for her behaviour. She knew that she was behaving disrespectfully, although within her rights as a
dálaigh,
but there was much on her mind and she felt she had little time for meticulous observance of the conventions. She decided to unbend a little and leant forward with a look that she meant as friendly.
‘Abbess Draigen, I must be blunt for time precludes any other course. I was abrupt with Sister Síomha because I had to cut through her vanity to find answers to my questions. She is very young to hold the position of a house steward. Perhaps, too young?’
Abbess Draigen remained silent for a moment and then she retorted icily: ‘Do you question my choice of a house steward?’
‘You are best suited to make your own decisions, mother abbess,’ replied Fidelma. ‘I observe merely that Sister Síomha is very young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Her inexperience leads to her arrogance. Surely, you have other members of your community who are equally capable to take on the position of
rechtaire
of the community? Sister Brónach for example?’
Abbess Draigen’s eyes narrowed.
‘Sister Brónach She is introverted and lacks ability. My choice was made carefully. You may be a
dálaigh
of the courts but I am abbess here and I make the decisions.’
Fidelma spread her hands.
‘I would not dream of interfering. But I speak as I find. It was my response to Sister Síomha’s conceit and her insolence towards me that made me act as I did.’
Abbess Draigen sniffed.
‘You seemed to imply that Sister Síomha was somehow connected with the corpse. I hardly think that was merely a reaction to someone’s personality.’
Fidelma smiled quickly. Sister Síomha was not unintelligent and had doubtless given Draigen a full report.
‘There were some answers that I was not happy with, abbess,’ she confided. ‘And since we are speaking of this matter, I would like to ask some questions of you.’
Abbess Draigen’s mouth tightened.
‘I have not finished with the matter of the complaints of Sister Síomha.’
‘We will return to that matter in a moment,’ Fidelma assured her with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘How long have you been abbess here?’
It was such an abrupt change of questioning that the abbess jerked her head back in surprise and studied Fidelma’s face carefully. Seeing her calm resolution, the abbess sat back on her chair.
‘I have been abbess of this community for six years. Previously to that I, too, was
rechtaire
here.’
‘For how long?’
‘Four years.’
‘And before that?’
‘I was of the community here for over ten years.’
‘So you have been here twenty years in all? Are you from this part of the country?’
‘I do not see what this has to do with the matter you are investigating?’
‘It is just to give me some background,’ cajoled Fidelma. ‘Are you from this area?’
‘I am. My father was an
óc-aire;
a free clansman of this area who owned his own land but which was not adequate enough to render him self-sufficient.’
‘So you joined this community?’
Abbess Draigen’s eyes flashed.
‘I did not have to, if that is what you imply! I was free to do what I wanted in life.’
‘I made no such comment.’
‘My father was a proud man. They called him Adnár Mhór - Adnár the Great.’
Abbess Draigen’s mouth snapped shut as if she realised that she had said too much.
‘Adnár?’ Fidelma moved forward in her seat and gazed closely at Draigen. Now she realised what she saw in the face of the abbess and her neighbour the
bó-aire.
‘Is Adnár of Dún Boí your brother?’
Abbess Draigen did not deny it.
‘You do not get on with your brother.’
It was an observation but Abbess Draigen did not hide her look of distaste.
‘My brother is nothing that his name implies,’ she said tightly.
Fidelma smiled softly. The meaning of the name Adnár was one who was very modest.
‘Since you observe the meaning of names, I presume that you were the staff of your family?’
Draigen’s mouth quirked into a smile. Her name meant ‘blackthorn’ and she conceded Fidelma was a worthy opponent with word games.
‘My brother Adnár left my father just when my father needed help to work his land. My mother had died and the strength had gone out of my father … the very will to pit his wits against the soil and sustain a living. Adnár went off to serve the chieftain of Beara - Gulban the Hawk-Eyed - who was raiding against the northern clans. When Adnár returned with cattle, as his reward for his services, my father was already dead. I had joined this community and my father’s land had been sold and donated to the abbey. That is why my brother became a
bó-aire
- a cattle chief, a chieftain without land but with wealth which he increases by his service to Gulban.’
The vehemence with which she spoke was such to give Fidelma an indication that the story had never been told before and that Draigen was using Fidelma to release her anger against her brother.
‘I see no reason in this story why you and Adnár should hate each other so violently, unless there was an argument over the disposal of your father’s land?’
Draigen did not deny her ill-feelings for her brother.
‘Hate? Hate is, perhaps, too strong a word. I despise Adnár. My father and mother should have lived out an old age on their land, watching their son rewarding them for his good health and secure upbringing by continuing to farm what they had wrenched from nature. They died too early. My father died doing work he was no longer fit to do. But enmity did start when Adnár demanded our father’s land on his return.’
‘So you blame your brother for your father’s death? But he blames you for the loss of, what he considers, his land?’
‘His claim was ruled on by a Brehon. It was judged that Adnár could not support his claim.’
‘But you blame him for the death of your father. Is that logical?’
‘Logic? That dreary prison cell for human feeling?’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘Logic is the mechanics of making the truth prevail. Without it we would live in an irrational world.’
‘I can live comfortably with my feelings towards my brother,’ advised Draigen.
‘Ah ..
. facilis descensus Averno,
’ sighed Fidelma.
‘I do not need to have Virgil’s
Aeneid
quoted at me, sister. I do not need to be cautioned that the descent to hell is easy. Preach your Latin to my brother.’
‘I am sorry,’ Fidelma conceded. ‘The words simply sprang into my mind. I am sorry for you, Draigen. Hate is such a waste of emotional strength. But tell me, you have given your reasons for hating … despising,’ she corrected herself as she
saw Draigen’s expression, ‘despising your brother, but why should he hate you so much?’
She wondered whether to tell Draigen of Adnár’s claim that his sister had relationships with the younger members of her community; that he went so far as to claim that Draigen might well have been responsible for the murder of a former lover to hide the affair. She wondered how a brother could hold his sister in such bitter hostility as to make such an accusation. Surely not simply over a land dispute?
‘I do not care about his hate. He and his so-called soul-friend may slowly rot of disease. I pray for the sorrow of my brother’s house!’
‘So you know Brother Febal?’
‘Know him?’ Abbess Draigen laughed hollowly. ‘Know him? He was my husband.’
For the second time in a short period, Fidelma was shocked. That Adnár was Draigen’s brother was a matter of surprise. That Febal turned out to be her former husband was almost absurd. There was some deeper mystery here that she could not quite understand.
Abbess Draigen had suddenly drawn herself together and said coldly: ‘I think that is enough prying into my personal life, sister. As you so succinctly put it, you are here to investigate a murder. In doing so, you seem to display a talent to vex people, including my house steward as well as myself. Perhaps you would now confine yourself to your investigation.’
Fidelma hesitated, not wishing to make the situation any worse. Then she decided that she had to continue the road her investigation was taking her.
‘I thought, Abbess Draigen, that I was confining myself to the investigation. You may wish to know that both your brother and Febal suggest that you might be implicated in the murder of the girl found in your well.’
The abbess’s eyes glinted with anger.
‘Yes? For what reason?’
‘They suggested that you had a reputation.’
‘A reputation?’
‘Of a sexual nature. It was suggested that the crime might have been committed to cover such misdemeanours.’
There was no disguising the look of repulsion on Abbess Draigen’s face.
‘I might have expected this from my brother and his lickspittle. Their souls to the devil! May they die the death of kittens!’
Fidelma sighed deeply. The curse of the death of kittens was to wish someone would die of drowning.