Condemned to Death (16 page)

‘I do,’ said Cormac defensively. He scratched the soft hair behind his pet’s floppy ears. ‘Me and Art have been so busy training him to track that we haven’t had time for all this “
come
” business. I’m going to set him to look for that gold this morning and I bet you anything, Brehon, that he’s going to be the one to find the clue.’

‘You’d better keep him away from Etain’s samphire or he’ll dig the lot of it from the rocks while you are calling him to come,’ said Mara, but she could not help a smile at the picture of her son standing outlined against the silver-grey of the limestone, with his gold-red hair and the enormous dog beside him. They looked like a legendary Celtic boy hero with his wolfhound. ‘That smells good,’ she added as they came further down and the unmistakable smell of frying fish rose up in the morning air. And then she thought of the solitary dejected figure at the water’s edge and said impulsively:

‘I think I saw Finbar down by the sea, Cormac. You and Dullahán go on down there, bring him back for his breakfast and I’ll make my own slow way down.’

To give Cormac his due, she thought proudly and tenderly, about her scapegoat son, he was a great friend – the concerns of the other scholars were always important to him. He suddenly looked very worried and left her instantly, sliding rapidly down the slippery stones, followed by his four-footed accomplice in crime barking excitedly at the prospect of a chase.

Mara followed, seeing thankfully how Finbar, in the distance, turned at the sound of the barks that echoed off the rocks and drowned the noise of the waves. No one, she thought, could be depressed and anxious in the company of Cormac and Dullahán. Together they exuded an air of excitement, pleasure and joy in life.

Fernandez was swallowing a mug of beer and chewing on an oatcake when she came into the small kitchen beside the hall in the castle. He had the look of one who had taken a little too much to drink the night before, but he immediately exerted himself to provide her with breakfast, offering to go down and get some fresh fish for her as he knew that Setanta had planned to go out soon after midnight, before the tide was too low for the use of the pier. She refused the offer, declaring herself content with an oatcake, and spread it with some butter.

‘Have you any milk?’ she asked. Fernandez, she noticed, had no servants. Strange, but, she supposed, indicative of the fact that any silver that he had with him on his return from Spain had been used in the building of his castle. This was, indeed, a man who could use buried treasure to great effect, a man who would know where to sell it and how to do it unobtrusively. He had, after all a fine ship, big enough to sail to Ireland from Spain, so he could easily go off in it, on a feigned fishing trip, and could sell the gold anonymously in Limerick, Cork, Waterford or even in Dublin itself, where he could easily pass for a trading Spaniard. He looked relaxed and happy, she noted; a man at peace with the world and at ease with his legal guest as he readily answered her query about milk.

‘Yes, Michelóg filled our barrel this morning – brought some news, too. I hear that you’ve found the dead man’s clothes.’

‘Yes, we did. At least I think we might have. It was a black hat with purple silk tassels, tunic of black broadcloth …’ She went on detailing the clothes, and the boots, finishing up by saying carelessly, ‘Would that be what he was wearing?’

If he saw the small trap, he made no acknowledgement of it, merely remarking that he had never seen the man in his life and then going on to say: ‘Well, he’s buried and will soon be forgotten. We may never know what happened to him.’

‘That’s not really good enough for me,’ she remarked. ‘I can’t look at it as a piece of inconvenience to be tidied away. A man was killed and someone tried to disguise the facts about his death. As Brehon, representing the King’s justice, I cannot allow this event to go without doing my best to discover the culprit and to impose a penalty.’

‘He was an outsider. You owe no duty to him.’ His voice was harsh and abrupt. She had never seen that side of him before.

And, to a certain extent, he had justice on his side. The original Brehon laws were indeed administered to right a wrong done to a member of the kingdom, to settle disputes between them and to give impartial judgement on matters concerning property and livestock. However, Mara felt firmly, and knew that others of her colleagues felt like this, that, they had to uphold justice for all, not just for those who could pay the lawyers to enforce it, if they were to resist the criticism levelled on them by the English, that their laws were barbarous and fit only for savages. The man had, as far as they knew, done no harm in coming into the kingdom and taking a few shellfish for his supper – the question of the buried treasure was, perhaps, a different matter, but the facts remained that he came to the Burren, spent some nights in the old house, rooted around on the beach, uncovered some sand piles and then was killed.

‘I am determined to solve this murder, Fernandez,’ she said aloud and with great firmness. ‘I do not like the thought that a murderer is loose in this kingdom. One death can lead to another and I expect every inhabitant of the Burren to assist me in my task.’ And then she paused, looked at him very directly and said: ‘On the night of the murder, Fernandez, on the night when you were good enough to house my young scholars in the castle, did either you or Etain climb the mountain behind the house – it would perhaps have been some time after midnight or in the early morning.’

He gave her grin which, somehow, she thought was forced. ‘Etain and I were otherwise engaged at that hour, Brehon.’

‘And yet, Etain, at least, must have been up at sunrise,’ she said sharply. ‘I understand from the woman in Galway, Joan Blake of Blake’s Pie Shop, that Brendan delivered a load of samphire to her early on Tuesday – that would have been midsummer’s day.’

‘No, you’re mistaken, Brehon,’ said Fernandez. ‘It was Brendan himself that picked that load and he was off before we were up, before any of us was up. Etain went with the second load after midday.’

‘I see,’ said Mara. ‘So if I were to tell you that a figure had been seen climbing the mountain, who would you guess that it could have been?’

Fernandez shrugged. He didn’t appear to be alarmed, but there was a slightly wary look on his face. ‘I’d say it could be anyone, Brehon. I put up no barriers; have no savage dogs guarding the place. I say to all of my clan to treat this place as their own, to come and to go as pleases them. All are welcome.’

An owner is responsible for all damage caused by his dog.

A fine must be paid if the dog digs under another’s house.

If a dog defecates on another’s land, then the owner must remove the faeces, and give the landowner the weight of it in curds or butter as recompense.

W
hen Mara came down onto the beach after her breakfast, Cormac, Art and Cian were running up and down the uncovered half of the strand and over the rocks, shouting, ‘Seek! Seek!’ while Dullahán, barking hysterically, his very deep-throated voice sounding oddly ill-fitted to his puppy-like behaviour, raced from one end of the beach to the other, splashing into the sea and skidding on the dark strip of black limestone which slanted across the orange sand, then turning to follow the others up beside the Caher River. There was no sign of Síle, but Cael was standing beside Domhnall and Slevin listening to the two older boys respectfully and ignoring the three younger ones. From time to time, the dog was encouraged to dig in various places, but all that seemed to be achieved were flying sandstorms and shrieks of laughter. Whenever Dullahán got tired of being directed to do these incomprehensible searches, he turned his attention back towards his primary purpose in life at the moment, which seemed to be to rid the beach of seabirds, even putting to flight a pair of black, hunch-backed and sharp-beaked cormorants, who shrieked rusty, broken sounds of rage over his head for the next few minutes.

Mara watched the dog tolerantly. There was always a hope, she thought, that Dullahán was a late developer and that he would turn into a reasonable dog who could manage to walk quietly and to bark only when strangers arrived. At the moment, though, honesty forced her to admit, that there was little chance that he was ever going to be of the slightest use, other than to keep Cormac and his friends amused and to reduce gardeners like herself and farmers like Cumhal to a state of near apoplexy. Still, she had other more serious matters on her mind so she walked away and began to consider the problem of Fernandez. The thing is, she thought, I know so little about him, other than the fact that his father was in all probability the brother of the present
taoiseach
. Other young men of the neighbourhood she had seen grow up, had watched them turn from engaging boys into troublesome adolescents and then mature into adults. Fernandez had arrived fully made, so as to speak, full of charm and self-assurance. But what was he like in reality, what were his hopes, his inner dreams and his ambitions? A man who could use some gold treasure, according to Michelóg, and Mara had to acknowledge that there was a lot of truth in that. Fernandez, she thought, was a man full of ideas and such men are ambitious – and ambitions such as his had to be financed.

So, she thought to herself,
make the case
, as she would tell her scholars to do.

The case against Fernandez was that he could have been roused by the early midsummer dawn, could have got out of his bed in the castle, seen only by Etain who would certainly have been devoted to his interests. He could have slid past the door leading to the great hall where the scholars slept, could have noiselessly opened the unlocked front door, then could have climbed the mountain to see what Niall Martin was up to. And then, by a piece of luck, he may have seen the old man, finally on the right track, whether by the chance remark of a Greek sailor, or whether by sheer luck, but whatever it was, Niall Martin may have uncovered the treasure trove, enjoyed his triumph for a few minutes, holding up a necklet to the morning sun, perhaps, then was attacked by a determined young man. What did he hit him with – well, Mara guessed the answer to that. Standing just inside the door of the castle there was a bundle of sticks, stout ashplants, useful for climbing mountains, and perhaps lethal if brought down on the head of an old man. Mara shook her head. She had made her case and it was a good one, if – and she did not know the answer to this ‘if’ – if Fernandez O’Connor was ruthless and evil and would take a life to get his hands on some gold. Somehow, her instinct seemed to tell her that he was not like that, but the possibility lay there.

And at that moment there was an excited scream from Cormac. She had been aware during her musing that the boys were still chasing after Dullahán the Wild, endeavouring to block him as he dodged between outstretched arms. He had fortunately stopped that ear-splitting barking and seemed to be getting enough amusement from eluding his pursuers.

‘Dullahán, sit!’ yelled Cormac.

‘Dullahán, give!’ tried Art.

‘Dullahán, come!’ The commands filled the air and several seagulls drifted overhead to see what was happening, associating a lot of shouting with the landing of a catch of fish, perhaps. The women tending the fires and packing away the smoked mackerel stopped their work to stand and laugh at the scene.

‘That wretched dog’s got something in his mouth,’ said Cael, appearing by her side. She sounded elderly and disdainful.

‘Probably a dead and very stinking fish,’ said Mara with resignation, thinking that at least the dog could be led into the sea afterwards.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Cael. ‘I can see what it is now. He has one of our maps. It’s a leaf of vellum. Dullahán,’ she yelled crossly, ‘give that to me.’

Whether it was because Dullahán bowed to the note of irritated authority or whether he had got tired of running around the beach, but he came up to Cael with his long, whip-like tail wagging and sat down, panting heavily and allowing her to take the partially-chewed piece of vellum from his slobbery mouth.

‘Y … y … yuck!’ Cael dropped it on the sand and dipped her fingers into a convenient rock pool.

‘That’s a piece of vellum that he had,’ shouted Cormac, running up. ‘Perhaps it’s a clue. Don’t throw it down, birdbrain. He’ll take it again.’

‘Is it your map, Cormac?’ asked Mara, though she thought that the leaf looked too small for that.

‘No,’ said Cormac picking it up and frowning at it. ‘That’s not our map. It is a map of Fanore beach, but look it’s got strange signs on it. No …’ he said, his voice high and excited, ‘no, not signs!’ Suddenly he stopped. And then he turned to where the two older boys were talking and he yelled out: ‘Domhnall, come here. Come quickly. Come and look at this.’

‘What? What’s all the excitement about?’ Domhnall was smiling, though Slevin looked rather irritated by the interruption. His eyes widened though when he saw the piece of vellum that Cormac was holding up.

‘That’s a Greek letter, a word in Greek. They’re Greek letters, aren’t they, Domhnall,’ he said. He took the leaf from Cormac and held it out towards Domhnall. This was too much for the wolfhound, which snatched it neatly from him and set off, ears flying behind him, racing towards the sea with the vellum held firmly in his mouth.

‘Cormac,’ yelled Domhnall. ‘Get it from him quickly. This could be important. That was definitely Greek, wasn’t it, Brehon? Could you read it?’

‘I think,’ said Mara slowly, ‘that I might have seen the word “gold”. Of course, it might be my imagination, but I don’t think so. It definitely started with the X – oh that wretched dog. Cormac, get him back.’

Cormac was running at full tilt and Cian was aiding him as much as he could, trying to corner the enormous dog which twisted and turned and leaped over rocks. Art and Finbar joined in, though in a slightly half-hearted fashion of those who felt that this was not going to end in success. There had been many a chase after Dullahán back at the law school when he had got hold of a hurley ball, a sandal or even a leather satchel. Whether the sketched map would ever be readable again was another matter. Each time that one of his pursuers approached Dullahán he seemed to pull some more of the vellum into his mouth until now only a small edge of it dangled from his teeth.

‘Dullahán, come,’ shouted Mara in a voice which she had never used to her beloved Bran, but Dullahán had a different nature to Bran and her intervention seemed to spur him on to new levels of complete disobedience. He dodged Art’s outstretched arm, flew past Finbar and plunged into the sea, his long legs moving effortlessly through the water. Cormac went after him, but in a moment Dullahán was swimming fast, heading out to sea. Then Cormac stopped and stood very still, and despite her fury, Mara shared his anxiety for a moment. It would break Cormac’s heart if anything happened to his unruly pet.

However, Dullahán, once he had outdistanced his playmates, had turned and began swimming strongly towards the rocks. The tide was now almost full and the water lapped on the edge of the pier. Dullahán placed one paw on a rock and then a second and heaved his streaming hindquarters out of the sea and onto the pier. He shook himself violently two or three times and then ran back towards the beach, prancing up to his master with the expression of angelic obedience on his hairy wet face. Mara strode grimly down to the water’s edge and stood waiting while boy and dog did a little dance of joy. One glance had been enough.

‘He’s dropped it somewhere in the sea,’ she said and wondered whether there was anything in Brehon laws about the punishment due to disobedient dogs. However, it was, she knew, her own fault. A large dog like a wolfhound should have been trained from the moment it came into her house and Cormac had been too young really to train a dog. She should have taken matters into her own hands. And yet, that wouldn’t have worked. If she had trained the dog, then it would no longer be Cormac’s dog and the whole point of getting him something to make him feel special and very loved, of making him feel that his birth parents, whom he normally referred to as ‘Brehon’ and ‘the King’, wanted to buy him something precious, would then have been completely lost. She sighed and took a hold on her temper.

‘Never mind, Cormac,’ she said. ‘You did your best. And I did see the Greek word on it and taken with the fact that Niall Martin was probably talking with a Greek sailor on the day before his murder I think that Dullahán’s find was really quite significant, and who knows,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful, ‘when the tide goes out we just might find it again. It would be a good idea to come down to the beach tomorrow morning very early, as near to daybreak as possible, at dead tide, and have a look.’

She wasn’t sure whether the writing would survive a twenty-four-hour immersion in the salty sea. If it had been written with carbon ink the vellum would be wiped completely clean, but if it was iron-gall ink, then there might be a chance. In the meantime, however, there was something that needed to be done.

‘Domhnall and Slevin,’ she said, ‘I wonder could I ask you to ride to Galway for me. I want a letter delivered to the Mayor, to Valentine Blake. You should stay overnight in your father’s house, Domhnall. I’m sure that he and your mother will be delighted to have the two of you. Come up to the castle with me now and I’ll write the letter and seal it and give it to you.’

They left Cormac lovingly rubbing his pet’s wiry coat with the hem of his
léine
and went up towards the castle. Fernandez was coming down to meet them and Mara explained the matter about the map to him. He was highly amused and offered to ride to Galway himself, but Mara refused the offer.

A letter, she thought, could be unsealed, and then resealed, by someone with a candle and plenty of patience. And she had in her mind to ask Valentine to check up on some matters other than the question about whether the Greek ship was still moored in Galway’s docks, and whether the sailor who ate the pie with Niall Martin could be traced.

There were some other questions that she had for Valentine Blake – simple questions, but of vital importance to her quest for the truth in the matter of this death that she was investigating.

Did Etain deliver the samphire on that Monday when she was at Joan Blake’s shop, or did someone else, her brother Brendan, come back with it?

Who delivered the next lot of samphire on the morning after the death of Niall Martin?

And had Fernandez O’Connor ever appeared in the company of Niall Martin, the goldsmith?

‘You see,’ she said, looking intently up into the intelligent faces of her two oldest scholars, ‘I suppose it would be a good solution if this Greek sailor had in some way heard of the finds here in Fanore, had drawn a map, had inveigled Niall Martin to come with him, had rowed or sailed the boat over to Fanore, but you know,’ she said, impatiently putting her pen down onto the tray, ‘it really does not make sense to me. What do you think?’

‘I’m a bit doubtful, myself. Well, first of all the Greek sailor would not have easily found a small boat to take him here to Fanore. And this coast is very tricky. It’s hard enough for the fishing boats to land here; they have to wait for high tide. And then there are terrible rocks stretching under the sea at Black Head, just before you come down the coast to Fanore. I can’t see a stranger able to take a small boat past them safely unless he had a very good guide.’ Slevin made the point but then looked at his friend.

‘What I was thinking, Brehon,’ said Domhnall slowly, ‘as well as Slevin’s points about the difficulties of the boat, is that no Greek sailor would have knowledge of our Brehon law. They would not know about
fingal
, about casting a man afloat in a boat with no oars. They would not know how to set up an appearance like that, to simulate death by thirst with this business of pulling the tongue out deliberately. That was all done to present a certain image, to put a certain idea into your head, to distract you from the real story about a gold merchant who came here to find a hidden treasure, something that, I would think, many people here knew. Why did they think that he came otherwise? No one would look for shellfish up by the Caher River. I think that Niall Martin was murdered because he found the gold and I think that he was murdered by someone here at Fanore.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Mara.

‘So the sooner we get going the sooner we will return,’ said Domhnall, rising to his feet. ‘We could easily come and go on the same day, Brehon, if you wish.’