Laws in Conflict (13 page)

‘But there can be a recommendation for mercy?’

‘There has to be, of course!’ Lawyer Bodkin seemed pleased that she had brought up that possibility, though surely that should have occurred to him before since they had discussed this provision when talking about the case of Sheedy. She had even shown him the case from the time of Richard III.

‘I haven’t known it; but, of course, that would be the way to go about it.’ He must have sensed her surprise because he seemed to feel that he had to explain why he had not mentioned this possibility before, citing his tiredness and his shock at the news as excuses, and then finished up by saying, ‘I might just stroll down to see Thomas Lynch and put that idea in his head.’

Mara declined a half-hearted invitation to go with him on the grounds of having some shopping to do before their return tomorrow. She thought she would see how her scholars were getting on. There were only about ten streets in the city of Galway; she would surely meet them sooner or later.

‘I’m sorry that Jane will not be able to go with you; she . . . she is unwell. This terrible news has upset her badly.’

Mara was secretly relieved that there was no sign of her hostess. The last thing she wanted was to go around the streets of Galway with Jane twittering in her ear. However, she did wonder at this excessive sensibility. The women on the streets and in the church this morning were shocked; shocked but not prostrated. Jane had commented severely on how Walter was spoiled by his mother and had not expressed any interest in young Carlos Gomez. Why was she so upset that she had to take to her bed? Jane Bodkin was not the sort of woman who would lightly neglect her guests.

There was an enormous queue stretching right down Courthouse Lane. Mara walked the length of it, people drawing back to allow her to pass and eyeing her with curiosity. The news of the lady judge appeared to have spread through the whole city and everyone seemed to think that she was going into the courthouse. Even those who were already wedged into the doorway stood back to allow her to pass through.

Mara declined their courtesy with a shake of the head and explained that she was looking for her scholars.

‘They’ve already come out, Mistress,’ said one man. ‘Look, the young fellow with the red hair and the other dark lad – they’re over there at the fish market.’

Shane had been talking to a fishmonger, but had now joined Hugh who was conversing earnestly with a dark-skinned man wearing a pair of gold earrings and a flamboyant red cap. It was the Spaniard she had seen earlier following the body of Carlos to the church – probably the captain of the ship. A well-off man, this captain of the ship – the gold in those earrings was considerable and gold rings flashed from his fingers as he waved his hands in talk. This man was unlikely to be an ordinary sailor; he carried his wealth on his person, perhaps, but even so he was wealthy. Perhaps, like some sea captains, he had a share in the enterprises of his masters.

Hugh was certainly growing in confidence on this visit to Galway. There had been a time when Mara had wondered whether she should break the news to his father, an ambitious silversmith, that Hugh was unlikely to pass the difficult examination to be a Brehon, but now she was glad that she had waited. The boy was improving so much as his confidence grew and she would keep him. Even if, like Fachtnan, he needed an extra year, then that was of no importance. He would make a good lawyer and possibly even a Brehon. He, more than Shane, who had always been clever and quick-witted, seemed to be leading this conversation with the ship’s captain, asking questions, obviously stumbling over their translation, but carrying it all with such an air of good-humoured charm that the man was friendly and responsive. He, in his turn, was laughing and apologizing for his bad English.

Mara turned away hurriedly and melted back into the market-goers. She would hear about it later and in the meantime it would be a mistake to interrupt this conversation. She wandered back up through the streets. There was little air of festivity this morning. There seemed to be only one subject of conversation and that was the slaying of Carlos Gomez. There was a little knot of people at the four crossroads where Little Gate Street and Great Gate Street joined on to Skinner’s Street and High Middle Street.

‘He was drunk,’ said one woman. ‘People do terrible things when they are drunk.’

‘God help him; he didn’t have enough sense to go and hide. Just went and lay down inside the windmill not a hundred yards from the body. He was fast asleep when the constables found them. They had to shake him awake. That’s what I heard anyway. Nice young lad. Always polite and well mannered! Just drunk, I suppose!’

‘Drunk or not; he killed the Spaniard. It’s lucky for that young fellow that he is the mayor’s son,’ said one man grimly. He raised his voice. ‘I suppose he won’t hang, like my cousin’s son who was hanged because he killed a man in a fair fight.’

His voice was so loud that several passers-by turned to look at him and a moment later Mara could see why he had spoken in such raised tones.

James Lynch, the mayor, was walking up the street, probably coming from the gaol or from the courthouse. When he reached the four crossroads junction, he stopped by a large tower house at the corner of High Middle Street, took a large key from the purse on his belt, inserted it into the ornately studded door, went in and closed it behind him. His face looked the same as always and, although he could not have failed to hear the words, he betrayed no sign of emotion.

But, thought Mara with a surge of pity, what about his wife Margaret, the adoring mother of the boy who now lay in that filthy gaol? Mara could hardly bear to think of how she must be suffering. She wished that there was something she could do. Was the poor woman sitting inside, weeping? Perhaps waiting for her hard-hearted husband to come home? Perhaps she was even now looking out from that window beside the framed panel which was dedicated to Henry VII, king of England when James Lynch first became Mayor of Galway. Mara stayed for a moment, her eyes on the strangely carved gargoyles that protruded from above the windows on the top storey of the house, and her mind busy with questions about what she could possibly achieve if she interfered in this matter.

‘Walk with me, Mara,’ said a voice from behind her. And then, a little impatiently, ‘I can’t keep calling you “my lady judge” and I can’t get my tongue around “Brehon”. Let me call you Mara. Please, Mara, please walk with me. You are a stranger here and you are not caught in the tangles of relationships.’

‘How are you feeling?’ Mara compassionately studied the face of Valentine Blake.

‘Bad!’ he said abruptly. ‘Will you come with me? I want to go to the King’s Head. That’s probably the last place that Walter visited before he went outside the city. I’ve been trying to trace him, to see if anyone was with him. And I’m looking for that Alfonso Mercandez, the Spaniard, the captain of the ship belonging to the Gomez family. I want to speak to him.’

‘Do you think that Mercandez might have something important to say? Do you think that Walter may not have committed the killing?’ asked Mara, but Valentine shook his head.

‘I’m afraid that might be too much to hope for. But if he was there; if he could have followed the two lads; perhaps give evidence that Walter was badly provoked. There’s no doubt that both of them were drunk. Carlos was as bad as Walter. I heard that the innkeeper at the Unicorn down by the docks had to separate them. Catarina went home in disgust because of something that Carlos said to her in front of Walter; I met her in tears myself. But did they stay together when they left the city?’

‘Why the King’s Head, then?’ asked Mara.

‘Nearest inn to the gate leading out towards Lough Atalia,’ he said briefly. ‘I want to ask the landlord whether they were there last night.’

He was silent for a moment as he fell into step with her and they paced the street together. Most people turned to stare at him and a few greeted him sympathetically. He was well known and well liked in the city, it appeared, and probably everyone knew of his close relationship to the boy who was being spoken of as a murderer.

‘I must see Alfonso Mercandez,’ he burst out after a few minutes’ silence. ‘Why has he to take the body back to Spain? Why has he to go on this very day? Other foreigners are buried in Galway – and Carlos has an aunt and two cousins living here. This matter should not be rushed. I can’t think why James is about to allow this to happen.’ Valentine Blake violently kicked a loose stone out of his way. He ran his fingers through his head of bushy curls, so like that of his unfortunate nephew, and stared at Mara with a look of bitter despair on his face.

‘What am I going to do?’ he said passionately. ‘I’ve tried to talk to James, but I think that I just made things worse. He’s an obstinate devil. If he tries Walter today while this matter is fresh in everyone’s mind then there will be a stink if he is released and the boy will have to leave the town. What James should do, if he had any sense, is postpone the matter for a few weeks. Allow things to cool down. Philip Browne won’t make a fuss. It’s a terrible thing to say, I suppose, but this last night’s business will be a good piece of work for him. His son David will probably inherit the Gomez fortune now – he was in line for it before Carlos was born; I know that.’

‘Perhaps the mayor fears to be blamed if he is thought to be showing favour to his son,’ said Mara quietly. She could understand the feeling. Her own integrity and impartiality was very important to her. James Lynch, from what she had seen of him, was an arrogant man, narrow-minded, obstinate, but a man who would uphold the laws as laid down by the English king, Henry VII, who had ratified his appointment.

‘Stupid man!’ exclaimed Valentine. ‘What about his wife? What about his family? What’s more important than that?’

Justice, thought Mara, and then added the words ‘tempered by mercy’. Mayor Lynch had shown no mercy to Sheedy but had applied justice, as he saw it, though to her it was an ice-cold unfeeling justice, to an old man who had lost his wits and had stolen to keep himself alive. His son, of course, would be a different matter to him. Perhaps Valentine Blake was suffering unduly. Perhaps the mayor would not allow the name of Lynch to be disgraced.

The King’s Head was a wonderfully comfortable place. It had an enormous fire that roared up the chimney; the wooden tables were solid and well polished; chairs, benches and stools were padded by colourful cushions. Not surprisingly it was full of people. The innkeeper and his wife were pouring wine from large jugs and pot boys were running to and from the tables carrying brimming goblets and foaming pots of beer.

When they came in everyone was talking. They did not cease when Mara entered slightly ahead of Valentine, though they eyed her with a friendly curiosity. However, when her companion had hung up their cloaks and joined her, the loud voices changed to a murmur which had almost ceased by the time that they found themselves a small table by the window.

‘Some wine?’ asked Valentine.

‘Please,’ she said, and then with a memory of the mayor’s drink at the courthouse, she added, ‘burgundy, if possible.’

When he came back it was with a flagon of wine, a plate of crisp hot rolls and a dish of some small green fruits.

‘What are these?’ Mara took one up, bit into it and smiled with pleasure. The tangy, slightly salty pungency of this strange fruit was very much to her taste.

‘These are olives,’ said Valentine. ‘Have you never eaten one before?’

‘No, but I’ve read about them. I must buy some to take home with me. I love them,’ said Mara, greedily biting into her third one. She had seen the landlord shake his head at Valentine’s questions so she did not mention the matter of Walter. The chances were that if the two young men were drunk and quarrelsome they would have been refused admittance to a respectable and affluent inn like this one.

‘I’ll send you down a box. I get olives from Portugal from time to time. I’m fond of them too, especially nicely salted before they are potted.’ Valentine was looking more relaxed now – resigned, perhaps, and the conversations from the other tables had begun again.

‘Do you think that Walter killed Carlos?’ asked Mara, swirling her wine and then tasting it. It was full-bodied and warming; she sipped it gratefully and then munched some bread. He had not answered, but a faint frown darkened his face again. She decided not to repeat the question but took another olive and then another bite of bread.

‘That was good,’ she said with a slightly exaggerated sigh of relief. ‘I was so hungry. I’ve had no breakfast.’

That aroused him from his thoughts.

‘No breakfast!’ he exclaimed. ‘Don’t tell that Jane Bodkin allowed you to come out without pressing all sort of food on you.’

‘She’s not well; Henry said that the shock was too much for her. She took to her bed.’

‘Jane Bodkin!’ he called out the words in tones of a man who does not believe his ears. ‘Jane Bodkin,’ he repeated. ‘But she’s as tough as old boots. And she is as curious as a cat; I’d have thought she’d be on the town streets immediately finding out all the details. I can’t see why it should be a shock to her.’

Mara agreed with him, but thought it would not be diplomatic to say so. She recollected that Valentine Blake had called at the household that morning in order to engage Henry Bodkin as a lawyer for the defence of his nephew and thought she would talk about that.

‘Did Lawyer Lynch agree to act for you?’ she asked, and was not surprised when he shook his head.

‘Too worried about offending his worship, the mayor,’ he said scornfully. ‘I managed to get John Skerrett to act, though.’

An old man, nearing retirement, according to Henry Bodkin – however, it was none of her business, so Mara began to discuss the wine and to chat knowledgeably about vintages. He wasn’t listening but it would form a sociable background to his thoughts.

‘You asked me whether I thought Walter killed Carlos,’ he broke into her talk after a minute. He swallowed another gulp of wine and said appealingly, ‘Was there any reason why you said that? Can you think of any other possible explanation?’