Whispers of the Dead (22 page)

“You think that Tadhg and Blinne plotted to kill Ernán.”

“No!” Bláth’s face was crimson. “There was no reason. If things became so unbearable, Blinne could have sought a divorce.”

“True enough, but the farmstead was an attractive proposition. If Blinne divorced Ernán, she would lose it.”

Bláth sniffed.

“You know the laws of inheritance as well as I do. Land cannot pass to a female heir if there are male heirs.”

“But in Ernán’s case, he had no male heirs. The land, the farm-stead, would go to the
banchomarba,
the female heir.”

Bláth suddenly gave a deep sigh of resignation.

“I suspected something like this might happen,” she confessed dolefully.

“And you invented the story of the Banshee to throw people off the scent?” queried Fidelma.

Bláth nodded rapidly.

“I love my sister.”

“Why not claim an attack by a wolf? That would be more feasible.”

“Anyone would realize the wound in Ernán’s throat was not the bite of a wolf. Questions would be asked of Blinne and…”

“Questions are now being asked.”

“But only by you. Brother Abán was satisfied and people here would not question the old ways.”

“The old ways,” Fidelma echoed the words thoughtfully.

The girl looked nervously at Fidelma.

“I suppose that you intend to have Blinne and Tadhg arrested?”

“Tonight is the funeral of Ernán. We will see after that.”

“There is some doubt about your suspicion of them?”

Fidelma smiled sadly.

“We will see,” she said. “I would like a word alone with your sister.”

Bláth nodded toward the farmstead.

“I forgot something at my uncle’s mill. You’ll find Blinne at the farmhouse.”

The girl left Fidelma and continued up the path to the mill while Fidelma went on to the farmhouse. As she approached she heard Blinne’s voice raised in agitation.

“It’s not true, I tell you. Why do you bother me so?”

Fidelma halted at the corner of a building. In the farmyard she saw Tadhg confronting the girl. Blinne was standing looking distracted.

“The
dálaigh
already suspects,” Tadhg was saying.

“There is nothing to suspect.”

“It is obvious that Ernán was murdered, killed by a human hand. Obvious that Bláth was covering up with some story about a Banshee. It did not fool me nor will it fool this woman. I know you hated Ernán. I know it is me that you really loved. But surely there was no need to kill him? We could have eloped and you could have divorced him.”

Blinne was shaking her head in bewilderment.

“I don’t know what you are saying. How can you say this…”

“I know. Do not try to fool with me. I know how you felt. The important thing is to flee from this place before the
dálaigh
can find the evidence. I can forgive you because I have loved you since you were a child. Come, let us take the horses and go now. We can let Bláth know where we have gone later. She can send us some money afterward. I am sure the
dálaigh
suspects and will be here soon enough.”

With a thin smile Fidelma stepped from behind the building.

“Sooner than you think, Tadhg,” she said quietly.

The young man wheeled ’round; his hand went to the knife at his belt.

“Don’t make it worse for yourself than it already is,” snapped Fidelma.

Tadhg hesitated a fraction and let his hand drop, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

Blinne was gazing at them in bewilderment.

“I don’t understand this.”

Fidelma glanced at her sadly and then at Tadhg.

“Perhaps we can illuminate the situation?”

Blinne’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Tadhg claimed that he has always loved me. When he came back from Finnan’s Height he would waylay and annoy me like a sick dog, mooning after me. I told him that I didn’t love him. Is it… it cannot be… did he… did he kill…?”

Tadhg glanced at her his face in anguish.

“You cannot reject me so, Blinne. Don’t try to lay the blame for Ernán’s death on me. I know you pretended that you did not love me in public but I had your messages. I know the truth. I told you to elope with me.”

His voice rose like a wailing child.

Blinne turned to Fidelma.

“I have no idea what he is saying. Make him stop. I cannot stand it.”

Fidelma was looking at Tadhg.

“You say that you had messages from Blinne? Written messages?”

He shook his head.

“Verbal but from an unimpeachable source. They were genuine, right enough, and now she denies me and tries to blame me for what has happened…”

Fidelma held up her hand to silence him.

“I think I know who gave you those messages,” she said quietly.

______

After the burial of Ernán, Fidelma sat on the opposite side of the fire to Brother Abán in the tiny stone house next to the chapel. They were sipping mulled wine.

“A sad story,” sighed Brother Abán. “When you have seen someone born and grow up, it is sad to see them take a human life for no better reason than greed and envy.”

“Yet greed and envy are two of the great motivations for murder, Brother.”

“What made you suspect Bláth?”

“Had she said that she heard this Banshee wail once, it might have been more credible because she had a witness in her uncle who heard the wail. All those with whom I spoke, who had claimed to have heard it, said they heard it once, like Glass did, on the morning of Ernán’s killing. The so-called Banshee only wailed once. It was an afterthought of Bláth, when she had killed her brother-in-law.”

“You mean that she was the one wailing?”

“I was sure of it when I heard that she had a good voice and, moreover, knew the
caoine,
the keening, the lament for the dead. I have heard the
caoine
and know it was a small step from producing that terrible sound to producing a wail associated with a Banshee.”

“But then she claimed she had done so to lay a false trail away from her sister. Why did you not believe that?”

“I had already been alerted that all was not well, for when I asked Blinne about her sleep, I found that she had not even awoken when Ernán had risen in the morning. She slept oblivious to the world and woke in a befuddled state. She was nauseous and had a headache. Blinne admitted that both she and Bláth knew all about herbal remedies and could mix a potion to ensure sleep. Bláth had given her sister a strong sleeping draught so that she would not wake up. Only on the third night did an opportunity present itself by which she killed Ernán.

“Her intention all along was to lay the blame at her sister’s door but she had to be very careful about it. She had been planning this for some time. She knew that Tadhg was besotted by Blinne. She began to tell Tadhg an invented story about how Blinne and Ernán did not get on. She told Tadhg that Blinne was really in love with him but could not admit it in public. She hoped that Tadhg would tell someone and thus sow the seeds about Blinne’s possible motive for murder.”

Brother Abán shook his head sadly.

“You are describing a devious mind.”

“To set out to paint another as guilty for one’s own acts requires a clever but warped mind. Bláth was certainly that.”

“But what I do not understand is why—why did she do this?”

“The oldest motives in the world—as we have said—greed and envy.”

“How so?”

“She knew that Ernán had no male heirs and so on his death his land, under the law of the
banchomarba
would go to Blinne. And Bláth stood as Blinne’s
banchomarba.
Once Blinne was convicted of her husband’s death then she would lose that right, and so the farm and land would come to Bláth, making her a rich woman.”

Fidelma put down her empty glass and rose.

“The moon is up. I shall use its light to return to Cashel.”

“You will not stay until dawn? Night is fraught with dangers.”

“Only of our own making. Night is when things come alive and is the mother of counsels. My mentor, Brehon Morann, says that the dead of night is when wisdom ascends with the stars to the zenith of thought and all things are seen. Night is the quiet time for contemplation.”

They stood on the threshold of Brother Abán’s house.

Fidelma’s horse had been brought to the door. Just as Fidelma was about to mount a strange, eerie wailing sound echoed out of the valley. It rose, shrill and clear against the night sky, rose and ended
abruptly, rose again and this time died away. It was like the
caoine,
the keening sounds that accompanied the dead.

Brother Abán crossed himself quickly.

“The Banshee!” he whispered.

Fidelma smiled.

“To each their own interpretation. I hear only the lonely cry of a wolf searching for a mate. Yet I will concede that for each act there is a consequence. Bláth conjured the Banshee to mark her crime and perhaps the Banshee is having the last word.”

She mounted her horse, raised her hand in salute and turned along the moonlit road toward Cashel.

T
here’s bound to be trouble. Mark my words!”

Brehon Declan was gloomy with pessimism as he and Sister Fidelma walked slowly across the main courtyard of the rath of Cúan, chieftain of the Uí Liatháin, toward the great feasting hall. Already many others were moving through the darkening twilight in the same direction.

“I don’t understand,” replied Fidelma. She had been on her way to the abbey at Ard Mór on the coast. Her route lay through the territory of the Uí Liatháin, one of the larger and more influential clans of the kingdom of Muman, and she had decided to visit her old colleague, Declan. He had been a fellow student at the law school of the Brehon Morann. On her arrival at the rath, or fortress of the Uí
Liatháin, she found a state of great agitation and excitement. The heir-apparent of the chief had been injured and died in a stag hunt and, having mourned for the prescribed time, the clan was about to elect a new
tanist,
who would be successor to the chief. “I don’t understand,” repeated Fidelma. “Is it that the chief’s nominee for the office, Talamnach, is so unpopular that he will be opposed?”

Declan, a dark, saturnine man, eased his lean features into a thin smile and shook his head.

“You must know that the choosing of a
tanist,
an heir-apparent, to the chieftain, can be a problematic business. At least three generations of the ruling family must meet in conclave and cast their votes for who should be the successor. There are always going to be factions and what suits one group will not suit another, even though they are part of the same family.”

Fidelma sniffed in disapproval.

“Even Cicero, centuries ago, wrote of the
bellum domesticum
—the strife of families. It is nothing new.”

“That is certainly true,” admitted Declan, “but the strife within Cúan’s family is particularly vicious now that he has named his nephew Talamnach as his nominee for successor.”

“Why so?”

“Firstly, Cúan’s own son, Augaire, is unhappy, to say the least. He is nineteen years old but, with youthful arrogance, he was expecting to be nominated. So, too, was his mother, Berrach—I mean that she was expecting her son to be nominated and, so it is said, she has made her displeasure known to her husband.”

“It is not unusual for a mother to have ambition for her child.”

“Berrach is more than tenacious for her son’s future. She dotes on him and panders to his every wish. Now he has outgrown her and nothing will ever bring him to discipline.”

Fidelma smiled softly.

“Remember what Aristotle wrote? That the reason why mothers are more devoted to their children and have more ambition for
them than their fathers is that they have suffered more in giving them birth and are more certain that they are their own.”

Declan pulled a face.

“It is true that Augaire is more akin to Berrach than Cúan and therein is the reason why Cúan has nominated Talamnach instead. Augaire lacks modesty, he is quick to anger and slow to forgive. A hint of any insult will have him reaching for his dagger. He is an immature youth, vain, pretentious and unable to withstand any hint of criticism. That is why he is unfit to be the heir-apparent to the chieftain of the Uí Liatháin. I can say that with authority as his cousin.”