Condemned to Death (10 page)

‘And he never forgets how much he owes to you,’ said Valentine, adding hastily, ‘But it shall be as you please; you know that you can ask any favour of me, as well as of Walter. We both owe you much. Now, tell me what else brings you here. You spoke of Niall Martin. I know – knew the man. What happened to him?’

Mara paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. ‘Niall Martin came, apparently on many occasions during the last few years, to the seashore on the north-western side of the Burren, to a place called Fanore – a name which is made up of two Gaelic words, the one meaning “slope” and the other meaning “gold”, so the golden slope.’

‘Referring to the sand?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, not committing herself. ‘There are reports that Niall Martin engaged various fishermen from our kingdom – people who sometimes sold fish in Galway – to take him over, leave him for a few hours to explore the area, and then to return with him.’

‘Odd!’ He brooded over this for a few minutes. ‘Not a man that I would have expected to be interested in exploring the countryside, or venturing into enemy territory. If he wanted sea air, well, why not go to Salt Hill?’

‘My own thoughts exactly,’ said Mara and waited to see what conclusion he would come to.

‘In fact,’ he went on, without acknowledging her words, ‘there is only one thing that I would think that he was interested in and that was his trade. He spent all his days in that dark little shop of his in Red Earl’s Lane – not far from here – near to the fish market – you’ll probably remember the place – and never employed even a boy to help him.’

‘How did he dress?’ asked Mara.

‘Very fine,’ said Valentine immediately. ‘He was very careful of his appearance. I’d say myself that he wore a wig – the hair looked too thick and too much of a good colour for a man of his age – didn’t go with his skin – but if he did, it was a very good one. They say that you can get ones that you glue to the scalp and no one is the wiser – or so my wife tells me.’ He swept a hand over his thinning grey hairs and grinned at her ruefully. He was still, she thought, as she smiled back at him, an extremely handsome man.

‘Yes, he was wearing a wig when he was killed,’ she said. ‘He was killed by a blow to the head with some heavy but padded object, and, of course, the thickness of the wig, with the horsehair and the woollen cap that the hair was attached to, well, according to the physician who examined the body, both of these helped to absorb the blow. But when he came to the Burren on other occasions, by evidence of the fishermen who took him, he was not wearing a wig; “
bald as a coot
” as someone described him.’

‘Trying to disguise himself,’ suggested Valentine. ‘He would look different with a bald head. I mightn’t even recognize him myself. It was the first thing that you noticed about him – he wore his hair very fine, right down to his shoulders. Do you know why he was killed?’

‘Not yet,’ said Mara, ‘and, of course, you will understand if I don’t discuss any half-formed theories, any guesses with you.’

‘Of course,’ he echoed, though he looked slightly disappointed. ‘And, so, tell me what I can do for you. I’m sure that you didn’t come all the way just to announce the death of Niall Martin to me, though of course I will proclaim it in the court and discuss what is to be done about it and about tracing any relations.’

‘I’d like to look at his shop, at his residence and at his papers, if that is possible, and I will need your authority for that,’ she said. She smiled at him. ‘You see, I remember from my visit here all those years ago, that the Mayor of Galway acts as a judge, in the same way as the Duke of Venice.’

‘Have you his keys?’

Mara shook her head. ‘He was dressed just in a shirt and hose when I saw him,’ she said, deciding not to give any further details.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to break in, won’t we?’ He gave a sudden, rather boyish grin. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult. Would you like to wait here, or to come with me?’

‘I’ll come with you; I’d like to see the streets of Galway again.’

And, indeed, she thought, it was quite a contrast to her homeland on the Burren with its wide sweeping landscape of white limestone slabs lying flat on the uplands, or piled unevenly on the mountain slopes. Here in this tiny space, probably less than the distance between the law school and her nearest neighbour, Ardal O’Lochlainn at Lissylisheen Castle, a whole city was crammed. Instead of a single meadow paved with clints and boulders and grazed by cattle, there were hundreds of houses almost touching each other, and between them narrow streets – all, she thought, the product of the same limestone that covered the fields and formed the mountains of her homeland.

Valentine led the way rapidly until they reached the courthouse. The court official bowed to them both with great respect. He remembered her, he said, and she remembered him and his kindness in finding a hot brick for her feet when she sat in the chilly courtroom, for which she thanked him, but he said nothing, just ushered Valentine into his office and went off in search of a locksmith.

‘Are you returning the body to us?’ asked Valentine, carelessly scribbling a note and then signing it with a flourish.

‘No, the body was beginning to decompose; we buried it.’

‘So much the better,’ said Valentine, touching a bell on his desk. ‘Take this to Lawyer Skerrett to get it countersigned,’ he said briefly. ‘Just an order to break into the shop and dwelling place of Niall Martin,’ he said when the man had departed. ‘We’ll have to seal it up afterwards, of course. There will be a treasure in gold lying around. I wonder who is the heir to it all? I’ve never known him to have a family, or even a visitor, I’d say.’

‘My son-in-law, Oisín O’Davoren, the merchant, reported Niall Martin saying that he had neither kith nor kin and that he came originally from Bristol,’ said Mara. ‘That was one of the reasons why I took the decision to bury the body in the churchyard at Fanore.’

‘Come now,’ said Valentine looking cheerful, ‘if that’s the case, if he really has neither kith nor kin, then we can probably use the gold for a worthy purpose. The grammar school could do with an endowment. It will have to be decided by the Mayor and the bailiffs – you remember our system of government here – the mayor and the bailiffs have the power to dictate the use of all taxes and money collected – this, I think, if we make an honest effort to trace relations and then fail, this can be counted as a legacy to the City of Galway.’

Mara let him plan while she thought over the matter. Her concern was not with the gold, but with the loss of life. Murder must not be ignored or it can lead to further loss of life. The culprit had to be identified and the community notified of his guilt. The scales of retribution had to be balanced. In this case the fine would perhaps end up in the hands of the authorities of the City of Galway, but so be it. The law could not be bent or twisted in any way. ‘
No Brehon is able to abrogate anything that is written in the
Seanchas Mór
. In it are established laws for king and vassal; queen and subject; for
taoiseach
and liegeman; for the man of wealth and the poor man
.’ It was one of the first things that her father had taught her when she was five years old and beginning work in the law school at Cahermacnaghten.

‘Ah, here he comes,’ said Valentine as a heavy step sounded on the stairs outside the room. ‘Good day to you, Master Locksmith.’ The court official slid the piece of vellum across to him with a scrawled countersignature of Anthony Skerrett, a law student in London when Mara had last visited Galway, but now, apparently, back working in his native Galway. Mara wondered briefly what had happened to the glamorous Catalina, and whether Anthony had married her. But then she decided that this visit was going to be too short a one to look up all of the people whom she had known during that visit in February of 1512.

‘Let’s go,’ said Valentine, barely glancing at the signature. His authority was enough for any tradesman in the city, Mara reckoned as the locksmith nodded to her respectfully and preceded them down the stairs and along the narrow lane.

The gold merchant’s shop was certainly a mean, small building. The only thing impressive or even new-looking about it was the huge oaken door with an iron lock. The mullioned window was tiny, and although it did have two sheets of glass on either side of the stone bar in the centre, the space was too tiny even for a two-year-old child to fit through.

The lock was massive, and secured to the wood with enormous nails. The locksmith grinned at the Mayor, produced several small instruments made of iron, fiddled around with them for a while and then there was a sudden click and the sound of something falling and he pushed the door gently open.

‘Good that you are an honest man,’ said Valentine, looking slightly taken aback at the ease with which the door had been opened.

‘He keeps a lamp there on the counter,’ volunteered the locksmith, not replying to Valentine’s remark, but addressing himself to Mara. Quickly he found a tinderbox by the dim light that came through the opened door into the small, dark shop and lit the lamp for her.

‘I’ll have to put another lock onto it, your worship, unless he keeps a spare key hidden somewhere here,’ he said to Valentine while Mara held the lamp aloft, examined the shelves that held little but dusty instruments of his trade, and then, remembering Ardal’s words, she went behind the counter, lowered it and examined the shelves concealed from the public. There was a large safe, secured by another enormous lock, and above it were open boxes containing many bills of sale, neatly stored in wooden boxes, but one large scroll caught her eye. She did not move or touch it, though, until Valentine and the locksmith had gone back outside the street and were arguing over the security of the door.

‘Three locks, that’s what I would advise,’ the locksmith was saying. ‘Put one lock and a man can work on it quickly while the nightwatchman is in another place. Even two is a possibility if he knows his business, but I defy anyone to get three of my locks open without attracting attention.’

While they were arguing, Mara opened the scroll and had a moment’s thankfulness that some instinct had led her to call in on Ardal O’Lochlainn. This was, indeed, a map of Fanore, done more carefully and much more accurately than her own, she thought with a quick glance. Resolutely she rolled it up again and thrust it into her satchel and then went to the door to join the other two.

‘Finished your business?’ enquired Valentine.

‘Yes, indeed,’ she said briskly. ‘I found the document that I was looking for.’ Quickly she took it from her satchel, showed it to him and then said: ‘Let me give you a receipt. It shall be returned when I have solved the mystery of the man’s death in the kingdom of my legal jurisdiction.’

He protested that this was unnecessary, but she made out a receipt, signed it and gave it to him, describing the document as a map of the seafront and surrounds of the bay of Fanore in the Kingdom of the Burren. He gave it a cursory glance and tucked it away and turned his attention to looking around the shop and her eyes followed his.

It would, she thought, be difficult to steal anything from this place. The back wall of the shop, behind the counter, was lined with shelves and heavy iron safes were placed on these and were, as additional safeguard, bolted to the stone wall. Valentine wandered along, looking up at them with interest, and calling her attention to the huge locks on every one of them.

‘Where is your pottery, Valentine?’ she said after a minute, seeing that locksmith was waiting for his attention. ‘Shall I walk down and wait for you there? I’d like to meet your nephew again.’

Valentine, she guessed, now that he had thought of a worthy use for the goldsmith’s treasure, was eager to make sure that the place was thoroughly sealed up and kept safe. Even as she walked down towards the docks she could hear the blows of a hammer on the tough wood of the door. Probably a couple of soldiers would be left there on duty, until the gold was safely in the hands of the city’s banker, she thought as she made her way down towards the docks and the splendidly impressive pottery building, where Walter greeted her with great warmth and insisted on showing her over the whole premises.

‘The last time I was here it was in February,’ Mara told Finbar as they walked with Valentine towards the Pie Shop in Bridge Street. ‘I remember that we all ate out of doors, though the frost was on the ground and there was a fire going within the yard and boys brought heated blocks of limestone for us to put our feet on.’

Finbar nodded and smiled a little, but he wasn’t really listening. He seemed to be immersed in all he had seen and touched and there was a dazed expression on his face. He had had a wonderful time at the pottery, had been allowed to sketch a design of pansies onto one of the jugs and had the fun of painting it in clear yellow and violet. He was eager and responsive to the men working on the moulding of bowls, plates and pots and when Mara came in he hardly noticed her as he was watching everything so carefully, and she could see that young Walter Lynch, Valentine’s nephew, looked impressed by the few timid suggestions that he made. And then Valentine asked him to copy out a bill of sale, scrutinized it carefully and appeared so impressed by the excellence of the neat script that Finbar glowed with pride. If only his father agreed then he could spend the summer months in Galway. He could stay with Walter in Lynch’s Castle – they seemed to get on well, but Mara thought she would have a word with her daughter, when Sorcha came to spend her usual summer holiday – if necessary Oisín and Sorcha would have him to stay in her fine big house. He could occupy Domhnall’s empty room and would have the companionship of her two remaining children until he found his feet and hired lodgings of his own. However, nothing could be said until Finbar’s father had been consulted. He had placed his son in Mara’s care so that she could instruct him in the law and the next step would have to be his.

By the time that they arrived at Blake’s Pie Shop, Finbar was chattering eagerly about the pottery and Mara could see that his depression had lifted. Joan Blake, primed by the message from Valentine, recognized them instantly and ushered them to an outdoor table already set out with plates and large, colourful ceramic goblets.