Shroud for the Archbishop (13 page)

Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #tpl, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Shroud for the Archbishop

4.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

‘An accomplice. An excellent thought. An accomplice who was able to avoid the guards? It does not sound quite right, Furius Licinius. You have killed someone and then wait in their chamber while your accomplice makes at least two journeys back and forth to take away the valuables and hide them whilst avoiding the guards. Then you wait further until the accomplice is well clear before you make your own empty-handed exit from the murder room and … and are then caught.’

‘Then it must be the first solution. That Ronan had already hidden the treasure when he was caught,’ Eadulf said. Thinking aloud, he added: ‘But if Ronan was in the process of hiding the treasure he would not have gone back to Wighard’s chamber after removing the last load. The quicker he removed himself from the scene of the crime the better.’

‘Who said that Ronan Ragallach was coming from Wighard’s chambers when the
decurion
Marcus saw him?’ Fidelma suddenly asked.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Eadulf, as he and Licinius turned to her with frowns on their faces.

‘It was something which Furius Licinius said earlier that made me think …’

‘Me?’ asked the young officer, puzzled.

Fidelma nodded thoughtfully. ‘Say Ronan did kill Wighard for the treasure. Wighard is dead. Ronan has to put the treasure into at least two sacks. How can he hide them? He has to make two journeys. And it is after having completed his last journey that Marcus Narses sees him, not coming from
Wighard’s chamber but from the very place in which he has hidden the treasure on the same floor.’

‘Well?’ prompted Eadulf, when Fidelma paused again.

‘But where could he hide it?’ demanded Licinius, interrupting. ‘I told you there are no secret rooms or alcoves or cupboards anywhere in the vicinity where the treasure could be hidden. Marcus Narses has twice searched the rooms that were unoccupied that night.’

‘You said so, indeed. And the
custodes
looked in all possible places …’ Fidelma suddenly broke off, staring pensively at Licinius.

‘Marcus Narses has …
what?’
Her voice was like a whiplash.

The young
custodes
tried to remember what he had said to provoke such a reaction.

‘I simply said that Marcus Narses has obeyed your instruction and twice searched the rooms what were unoccupied that night.’

‘I thought
all
the rooms had been searched?’

Licinius made a puzzled gesture.

‘Surely Brother Ronan Ragallach would not have attempted to hide the stolen treasure in any of the rooms occupied by Wighard’s entourage? We naturally thought that …’

Fidelma groaned softly.

‘All the rooms, occupied or unoccupied, should have been searched.’

‘But …’

‘For example, did Marcus Narses search Brother Eadulf’s room?’ demanded Fidelma.

Licinius looked from her to Brother Eadulf as if they were both mad.

‘Of course not,’ he replied.

‘My room was unoccupied that night,’ Eadulf observed slowly, trying to keep his voice calm.

‘Let’s go!’ Fidelma snapped her fingers causing the
tesserarius
to start in surprise as she rose quickly to her feet.

Licinius looked bewildered.

‘I don’t understand. Go where?’

Fidelma gave him a scornful glance.

‘Eadulf’s room was unoccupied because he was at the basilica of Santa Maria at the midnight mass for the Blessed Aidan of Lindisfarne.’

Chapter Eight

The search of Eadulf’s
cubiculum,
for it was far less grand than Wighard’s palatial rooms, proved disappointing. Fidelma had not really expected to find the missing valuables. Nevertheless, she had hoped that there might have been some sign of their passing, of their being temporarily hidden, in order to explain the conundrum which had annoyed her from the start. But there was no sign of anything which ought not to have been there, in spite of a detailed examination of every aspect of the chamber.

Furius Licinius pulled a face.

‘Then it is as I said – this Brother Ronan Ragallach had an accomplice. When the
custodes
seized him, the accomplice simply went off with the treasure.’

Sister Fidelma was not satisfied although she was beginning to accept the logic of the young man’s argument.

‘I presume Brother Ronan Ragallach’s lodgings were also thoroughly searched?’ she asked.

Furius Licinius nodded vigorously.

‘Marcus Narses himself searched them but there was no sign of Wighard’s treasure.’

‘I would like to examine Ronan’s lodgings myself.’

Licinius’ eyes were disapproving.

‘Now?’

‘Why not?’

As they turned to the door there was a figure standing framed within it. The figure was tall, so tall that it seemed it would be unable to pass under the wooden lintel. The face was darkly personable yet, at the same time, Fidelma felt it was somehow repulsive. It was that lack of compassion which she had noticed before on the face of the Abbot Puttoc of Stanggrund. His was a swarthy face, with a cruel mouth and ice-blue eyes set well back under black cavernous brows. No, the Abbot Puttoc was not a man Fidelma would find immediately attractive, although she would conceive him handsome to some. He seemed to have a speculative gaze as he examined her, the intense look of a cat observing its prey before pouncing.

‘I hear that you wish to question me, Fidelma of Kildare,’ the abbot said in a soft, modulated voice though with little warmth in it. He seemed to ignore Brother Eadulf entirely. ‘There is no time like the present.’

His tall figure pushed into the chamber, towering over everyone. Behind him came another, a comparatively more diminutive figure; Puttoc’s
scriptor
and servant, Eanred. He was a self-composed and gentle man who was easily passed by in a crowd as he was unassuming and not particularly memorable in features. Fidelma noticed that he appeared like a faithful shadow, always hovering behind Abbot Puttic’s shoulder.

Fidelma frowned. She disliked Puttoc’s assured manner and attitude that everyone must dance to his tune.

‘I was going to call upon you later, Puttoc …’ she began,
but the abbot made an impatient wave of his hand.

‘We will conclude this matter now, for I am busy later. I have an appointment with the Bishop Gelasius.’

He paused to raise a hand and wipe it across his forehead.

‘Now,’ the abbot crossed to Eadulf’s bed and slumped down heavily on it, staring up at them with his chill-blue eyes, while Eanred, arms folded in his habit, stood dutifully by the door. ‘What are these questions which you must ask me?’

Furius Licinius’ expression was impassive as Fidelma exchanged a glance with Eadulf. The Saxon monk was clearly suppressing his mirth at the way the abbot seemed to propel his will without argument. But Eadulf, under Fidelma’s look, swiftly composed his features into a more serious expression. He knew what the tight lines around Fidelma’s mouth could portend.

‘Speak now!’ Puttoc ordered, oblivious to the anger his attitude caused, ‘my time is precious.’

‘So is our time, Puttoc of Northumbria.’ Fidelma’s tone was coldly studied, as she suppressed the more irritable answer which had initially sprang to her lips.

The dark-featured abbot merely smiled thinly. The smile made him appear more sinister.

‘I doubt that,’ he replied, missing her anger entirely. ‘Now that Wighard is dead, I have to take charge. It is obvious that we cannot return to Canterbury without an archbishop and who among we Saxons is qualified to receive the Holy Father’s blessing?’

Fidelma stared at the complacent tall man in surprise.

‘Have you been nominated in Wighard’s stead?’ she asked.

‘I am sure Brother Eadulf here would have told me if he had known this.’

‘I have no knowledge …’ Eadulf had begun but Puttoc was not perturbed, smiling in self-satisfaction.

‘I have yet to put my arguments to the Holy Father but the selection is obvious.’

Eadulf’s face became serious.

‘But the bishops and abbots of the Saxon kingdoms elected Wighard …’

The ice-blue eyes turned on Eadulf. The expression was withering.

‘And Wighard is dead. Who else is here, in Rome, qualified to take his place? Name the man!’

Eadulf swallowed, at a loss for words.

The abbot turned, still confidently, back to Fidelma.

‘Now, as to these questions …?’

Fidelma hesitated and shrugged. Now was as good a time as later, even if it meant giving in to the man’s bombast.

‘I wish to know where you were at the time of Wighard’s death.’

Puttoc stared at her. Only the eyes seemed to carry any emotion. Those pale eyes shone with a strange malignancy.

‘What are you implying, sister?’ his soft voice became sibilant.

Fidelma’s jaw tightened.

‘Implying? I have asked a question which is plain enough. I have the authority of the papal household to ask these questions of everyone who occupied this floor with Wighard of Canterbury. Is this quite clear?’

The abbot blinked, the only sign of his surprise that this young Irish girl could speak so bluntly to him. Yet he was not cowed by her authority.

‘I think that you forgot your position, sister. As a member
of the community of St Brigid of Kildare …’

‘I do not forget my position, Puttoc. I speak, not as a member of the community of Kildare, but as an advocate of the Brehon courts of Ireland, empowered by Bishop Gelasius and the military governor of the Lateran Palace, together with Brother Eadulf here, to investigate the death of Wighard. I have asked you a question and wish it answered.’

The abbot stared back again, his mouth opened but words did not come. Finally, his mouth closed. The chill eyes blinked again.

‘That being so,’ he began huffily, ‘there is no need for discourtesy on your part. I will bring this behaviour to the attention of Bishop Gelasius.’

As he turned for the door, Fidelma called sharply: ‘You have not answered my question, Puttoc of Northumbria. Do you wish me to inform Bishop Gelasius that you refuse to cooperate with the inquiry he, as
nomenclator
of the Lateran household, has commissioned?’

The tall abbot froze. There was an uncomfortable silence at the clash of wills.

‘I was fast asleep in my chamber,’ the abbot replied eventually, turning his head to stare at Fidelma, the eyes like gimlets, boring hatred.

‘At what time did you go to bed?’

‘Early. Not long after the evening meal.’

‘That is early, indeed. Why did you go to bed at that hour?’

Again there was a pause and Fidelma wondered if Puttoc would continued to indulge in a verbal duel. But the abbot, after a moment or so’s hesitation, seemed to shrug his shoulders.

‘One thing I shared with Wighard was that this climate does
not agree with me and neither does the food. I did not feel well last night. The sooner I sail again for the shores of Northumbria or Kent the better.’

‘So you fell asleep immediately? When did you wake?’

‘I had a restless night. I thought I heard some disturbance at one point but I was too fatigued to investigate. It was at two o’clock that my servant awoke me and told me the sad news of Wighard’s death. May he rest in eternal peace.’

There was no feeling in the pious expression.

Fidelma had the impression that the news was not sad at all to Puttoc. His ambitions were obvious. He was excited by the prospect of stepping into Wighard’s shoes.

‘You heard and saw nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ affirmed Puttoc. ‘And now I will go to see Bishop Gelasius. Come, Eanred.’

The abbot made to push his way beyond Brother Eanred and into the corridor.

‘Wait!’

The abbot turned abruptly at Fidelma’s command, his jaw dropping at her continued defiance of him. Never had anyone confronted him thus, and for a mere woman and a mere Irish woman at that …! Words were beyond him. Eadulf was hiding his mouth behind his hand, as he pretended to wipe something from his face.

‘I have not questioned Brother Eanred,’ smiled Fidelma evenly, ignoring the outraged face of the abbot and turning to the quiet, unassuming monk.

‘He will tell you no more than I,’ snapped Puttoc angrily before she could start her questioning.

‘Then let him speak,’ came Fidelma’s uncompromising tone. ‘I have finished with you, Puttoc of Northumbria. You may go or stay as you wish.’

Puttoc swallowed at the air for a few moments and then turned sharply to Eanred, like a master commanding a dog.

‘You will attend me in my chamber as soon as you have finished,’ he snapped, thrusting his way from the room and stomping off along the corridor.

Brother Eanred stood, hands still folded, looking at Fidelma with an expression of docility on his features. He seemed unruffled by what had passed, as if the tensions of the last few moments meant nothing him.

‘Now, Brother Eanred …’ began Fidelma.

The monk waited, an almost vacant smile on his lips. His eyes were pale, but almost expressionless.

‘Where were you last evening? Describe what you did after the evening meal.’

‘Did, sister?’ The man continued to smile. ‘I went to bed, sister.’

‘Immediately after the meal?’

‘No, sister. After the meal I went for a walk.’

Fidelma raised an eyebrow. She had already assumed that Eanred’s placidity disguised a simple mind. The monk was a willing servant but had to be directed the whole time.

‘Where did you go for a walk?’

‘To see the great arena, sister.’

Eadulf interrupted. He had not spoken for a long time.

‘Do you mean the Colosseum?’

Eanred nodded calmly.

‘That is what it is called. The place where so many people were slaughtered. I had a mind to see such a place.’ He smiled contentedly. ‘There was a torchlight procession to the arena last night.’

It had been the same procession that Eadulf and Fidelma had participated in before going on to the midnight mass for the soul of Aidan of Lindisfarne.

‘When did you return here?’

Eanred frowned momentarily before the vacant smile returned.

‘I am not sure. There were many people about by then and soldiers thronging the rooms.’

‘Are you saying that you arrived back after Wighard had been killed? But that would be after midnight. Did anyone see you when you arrived back?’

‘The soldiers, I suppose. Oh, and Brother Sebbi. He was in the corridor and asked me to wake and inform Abbot Puttoc that Wighard was dead. I did so.’

‘You must have spent hours at the Colosseum to return here so late,’ intervened Eadulf.

‘I was not there the whole time.’

‘Then where did you go?’

‘I was invited for a glass of wine at a fine villa not far from here.’

Eadulf exchanged an exasperated look with Fidelma.

‘And who invited you to this fine villa, Eanred?’

‘The Greek physician that I have seen here so often.’

Fidelma raised her eyebrows in surprise.

‘Cornelius? Do you mean Cornelius of Alexandria?’

Eanred smiled happily and nodded.

‘That is his name, sister. Yes, Cornelius. Cornelius invited me back to his villa nearby to show me some ancient works of art he has and invited me to drink with him. I love to hear him speak of tales of far away places, even though my Latin is poor, for I am not a scholar, you know.’

‘So you spent the evening with Cornelius and he will undoubtedly confirm this?’

‘I was with him,’ frowned Eanred, apparently not understanding what Eadulf meant.

‘I see. And when you returned and discovered what was happening, you say that Brother Sebbi told you to wake the Abbot Puttoc. Did you do so?’

‘I did.’

‘Abbot Puttoc was in his chamber asleep?’

‘He was in his chamber fast asleep,’ agreed the man.

‘And what happened?’