Chain of Evidence (20 page)

‘Come here, Tomás’ she said to him curtly and led him over to a small wall table beside the ornately carved fireplace. She seated herself, allowing him to remain standing beside her.

‘Your name is Tomás MacNamara,’ she said, reading aloud as she added the words ‘
taoiseach
elect of the MacNamara clan’ inside two brackets, a new form of punctuation that she had recently picked up from the Latin works of Erasmus of Rotterdam.

‘And where were you when the cows stampeded through Carron?’ she asked with an air of polite indifference, pen in hand and her eyes fixed on the lines that were being efficiently marshalled by Fachtnan.

‘At supper,’ he replied, ‘entertaining the guests that had been abandoned by their host and hostess. Even young Jarlath had left us.’

‘And before that?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Before that I walked around the hillside.’

‘Alone?’ she queried. It was an odd place to walk, she thought. The hillside around the MacNamara castle was no gentle slope but a vertiginous, perpendicular outcrop of limestone.

‘Alone,’ he repeated, staring at her belligerently. ‘And no, I had nothing to do with Garrett’s death. How could it have benefited me at the time? I was not the one who had been left a fortune in goods and possessions.’

Mara ignored this clear reference to Slaney. ‘And when did you last see Garrett alive?’ she asked.

‘At breakfast time,’ he said curtly and made as though to rise.

‘And what did you talk about?’ she asked with genuine interest. Tomás had been such a shadowy and anonymous figure up to now. She found she could hardly recollect him from before the night of the wake and even then he had just seemed sensible and level-headed.

He hesitated and she said swiftly, ‘I can always ask that question of someone else. No doubt there were others around.’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing of importance,’ he said. ‘We spoke only of Jarlath and his love of the sea.’

That, however, might be of importance, thought Mara. Her lively mind began to picture the conversation. ‘
I can’t believe that Jarlath will settle down as
tánaiste
or
taoiseach
here in this little backward kingdom
,’ Garrett might have said in his pompous way. And Tomás, what would he have said? What would he had thought? Would dreams of a bright future have come to him? A future where, he, not Garrett, not Jarlath, would rule the powerful clan of the MacNamaras – spread over two kingdoms? There had been a time when the MacNamara clan had been almost as important as the O’Brien clan, when they had tried to take the kingship of Thomond into their own hands. Did that vision of Tomás’s lead him into murder? A subtle and clever murder. Stephen Gardiner had made no secret of the fact that he knew all about this planned cattle raid; that he knew that O’Donnell’s men had been ready for the moment when the men from the Burren were, like their ancestors before them, climbing the sacred mountain in order to celebrate the feast of Bealtaine? Had he passed on that information to Tomás? The two men seemed extremely friendly at the moment. Was there a pact or an alliance between them? Mara looked at Tomás speculatively. Was he clever enough to plan a murder that looked like an accident? She thought that he probably was.

But was he unscrupulous enough to murder his cousin on the guess that Jarlath might, if prompted, decline the office of
taoiseach
?
Now, of that she was not sure. Tomás was a
clear-h
eaded, practical man. He would know the terrible
consequences
of his deed and the unlikelihood of its success. But ambition was a very potent force and she had met murderers who had taken greater risks.

‘Thank you, that is sufficient for the moment,’ she said coldly. Let him guess what her thoughts were. ‘Now, on another matter, my physician tells me that Slaney, poor woman, still appears to be drugged by some herbal mixture. She is not in her right senses. I thought I forbade giving her anything of the sort so I questioned her personal maid servant who tells me – what was it she said?’ Mara pretended to think for a moment and then when she saw an uneasy look come to his eye, she finished with: ‘She said: “It was not I who gave her the dose, Brehon
.
” Now who do you think did administer a dose of this herb which is robbing her of her wits and keeping her in sleep?’

‘I don’t know, Brehon.’ His voice was stiff, but he had called her Brehon and she felt that she was beginning to get
ascendancy
over him. Quickly she pushed her advantage home. ‘See that no more is given to her; I will hold you personally responsible for her health and safety. We may have to move her from here in order to restore her to herself. Now are all arrangements in place for the burial? My lord, the king, will attend – at this moment he is at Cahermacnaghten and has travelled here from Thomond for this purpose.’

‘The clan wishes the inauguration of the new
taoiseach
take place first,’ he said. ‘This is the custom.’

He was right about that. It was customary to perform the inauguration ceremony before the burial – probably so that the clan never felt that they were left without a leader. In England, she had heard, the saying was: ‘the king is dead; long live the king’ as power automatically descended from father to eldest son. Nevertheless this case was different as Tomás had not been
tánaiste.
Garrett’s death and then Jarlath’s surprising refusal of the position had suddenly left two offices open. Mara’s mind scanned through her books. Yes, she thought reluctantly, she did own a book, a prize possession of her father’s, written by Maghus O’Duigenan, a student at the MacEgan law school in East Galway, which did describe such an incident, where in battle with the O’Rourkes, the
taoiseach
and
tánaiste
and their uncles and brothers had all been killed. No burial could take place; she remembered that the scribe had written, until the clan had elected a new leader.

‘The body has waited long enough; it can wait another day,’ said Tomás breaking into her thoughts.

‘I shall consult with the king,’ said Mara haughtily, but she knew that Turlough, in his easy-going way, would be happy to leave it to the clan to make their own arrangements and he would turn up and do his part. This was her husband’s way of ruling over his territory and no one could say that it was a bad one since there had been peace within the three
kingdoms
since the year of 1499 when he had succeeded to that position after the death of his uncle. She stood up and nodded at him coolly. She walked across to where Fachtnan stood, supervising the scholars.

‘Anything interesting turn up yet?’ she asked.

‘Shane suggested asking who they were with, so I told them all to do that,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This means that we can double-check on their statements. So far no one has said that they were with Tomás; his wife, Cait, was with their son. I checked the cowherds myself. No one had anything to say. The raid occurred just when they were all having their supper.’ He looked over her shoulder and his face brightened. ‘Here’s Nuala,’ he said.

Nuala was followed by Peadar, carrying the battered old medical bag as though it were some sort of holy relic. The case had belonged to Nuala’s grandfather, a highly esteemed physician whose notes had been used by the child Nuala as she struggled to attain her dream of being a physician. Nuala was a rich young woman who could buy the finest leather bag but she chose to retain her grandfather’s possession.

‘Just thought that you might like to have a word with Slaney,’ she said. ‘I’ve managed to purge her and get a lot of the poison out of her system. She’s in a pretty strange state still. That cowbane gives strange dreams and visions – terrible nightmares if too much is taken. Come and see her.’

‘I’ll leave you here in charge,’ Mara told Fachtnan. She lowered her voice and added, ‘And give a sharp answer to Tomás if he tries to impede you in any way.’

He nodded with a half smile and when they were outside the door Nuala chuckled. ‘Can you imagine Fachtnan giving sharp answers?’

‘Nevertheless, in his own quiet way he gets what he wants,’ said Mara.

‘You don’t need to tell me about Fachtnan’s good points,’ said Nuala quietly. Then she raised her voice a little. ‘Peadar,’ she said, ‘go ahead to the patient’s room. Announce that I am coming and that I am bringing the Brehon with me. Try to see if you can get her as alert as possible. It’s not good for her to sleep so we must keep on preventing her doing that. Her maid is scared of her,’ she added when Peadar had gone bounding up the stairs, and then in a different tone of voice she continued, ‘I wanted to have you to myself for a minute to talk about Fachtnan,’ she said and Mara’s heart sank. Nuala was as beloved to her as was her own married daughter Sorcha. If she could have bought her what her heart desired she would not have grudged a box of silver. But life was not that simple. Fachtnan showed no signs of tiring of his love for Fiona who still treated him with friendly affability. He had never, Mara now realised, shown the same intensity for Nuala. He was fond of her; that was all.

And yet the match would be ideal and it would restore Nuala to the Burren.

‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked looking at the girl affectionately. Nuala had not the perfection of looks that Fiona owned. She was tall; Fiona was tiny. Nuala had the dark eyes and the glossy black hair of the O’Davorens, whereas Fiona was primrose fair with eyes of cornflower blue. Nuala was respected; Fiona was adored by all who met her.

Nuala did not speak for a moment. A thoughtful girl, considered Mara; a girl who had had an unhappy childhood with a father who was indifferent and then hostile to her ambition to become a physician and a mother who had been ill of a malady in the breast for years and then had died before Nuala was eleven.

‘I suppose I just want you to tell me whether I might have a chance,’ she said eventually. ‘Or is he heart and soul belonging to Fiona?’ she added in a tone which she endeavoured to make light.

‘Not that; certainly.’ Mara was prompt with her reply. ‘Fiona doesn’t want him. She’ll flirt and amuse herself, but she’s just as happy joking with Moylan and Aidan. Fiona will qualify – possibly next year, certainly the year after that, and then, I hope, she will go back to Scotland. Her father would be broken-hearted if she were to stay here in Ireland. I would not want an Irish match for her and I think she has no plans whatsoever for anything like that.’ Once again she thought of Ardal O’Lochlainn and his tender expression and resolved to discourage this as much as possible. It would bring little happiness to either, she told herself and rejected the notion that it was none of her business. Fiona is my business, she thought.

She turned to the girl beside her. ‘I almost feel like a
soothsayer
, now,’ she said impulsively, ‘but I have an odd feeling that things will work out eventually between you and Fachtnan. Remember men grow up slowly – some of them never become adult, but I don’t think that Fachtnan is like that. He is mature, but not very confident. He may well feel that he is not good enough for you.’ She stopped and said no more. They had rounded the corner in the stairs and Slaney’s maid stood there, holding the door open for them.

‘How is she?’ Nuala frowned to see Slaney sleeping. ‘I thought I asked you to keep her awake,’ she said to the maid. She leaned over and pulled up an eyelid and then straightened with an angry frown. ‘She’s had some more of that stuff. How did she get it?’

‘She’s had n . . . n . . . nothing but spring water to drink . . .’ The woman stuttered in her alarm at Nuala’s expression.

‘Nothing else?’ Nuala looked puzzled and then pounced on a plate of sweetmeats by the bedside. ‘Where did these come from?’

The maid looked at her guiltily. ‘My lord Jarlath sent these up. He said that they had come all the way from Spain. I thought a few would not hurt her. She was awake, but depressed and weeping. She does love sweet morsels like these.’

Rapidly Nuala picked one of them up and sniffed it. ‘Smell that,’ she ordered the maid, fiercely thrusting the sweetmeat under the woman’s nose. The servant flinched and looked at her appealingly.

‘Let me smell,’ said Mara, feeling rather sorry for the servant. Slaney had always treated her abominably and the woman had become cowed over the years. ‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘there’s a dust on them.’ She cautiously licked a finger tip. ‘Sugar, isn’t it? I tasted that when I was in Galway some time ago. They grow it on an island in the middle of the ocean near Spain, I was told – the sugar is inside a cane, like a stout reed, I seem to remember.’ She talked on, giving the woman time to recover.

‘I just didn’t think,’ said the maid apologetically. ‘My mistress did enjoy them. She seemed so much better, but then those terrible dreams and visions came back again.’

‘Do you think something was put into the sweets?’ Mara queried and saw Nuala take out a tweezers and pull out some coarse fibres from the centre of the paste. Now that she sniffed again, there was something else, something slightly unpleasant.

‘Mice!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yes, you’re right, Nuala. There is a smell of cowbane from it. I remember Cumhal giving a crushed stem to the boys to smell and getting them to notice the smell of mice. He was warning them that they should keep away from cowbane unless they wanted to be like mice and to disappear underground.’

‘Now I’ll have to purge her again! It’s fortunate that she has plenty of flesh to spare,’ muttered Nuala. ‘No good you staying, Mara; it will be useless trying to talk to her tonight. Peadar, we have more work to do; let’s hope this time is the last time.’

‘I think,’ said Mara, ‘that I will have a word with Jarlath and find out about those sweets.’

She went down the stairs meditatively and the first servant that she met she sent in quest of Jarlath. He came to her almost immediately.

‘Was out looking at that property of mine,’ he said when she met him in the entrance hall. There was an air of buoyancy about him and his white teeth flashed in his sea-browned face.