Writ in Stone (18 page)

‘And the abbot himself?’ queried Patrick.

‘Yes, he, also.’ Mara nodded firmly, thinking of the stony face and then the sudden flare of anger. ‘The strange thing is,’ she went on, ‘although there appears little love between the abbot and this son of his, Father Donogh is obviously trying to get him appointed as abbot of Knockmoy.’

‘Even to the extent of murdering his own brother?’ queried Fachtnan.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mara doubtfully, ‘but somehow, yes, it does seems possible. After all why did he make such a fuss about having someone in the church for the first hour of the vigil? He could easily have got one of the brothers to do it, or else do it himself. It’s almost as if he wanted Mahon there in place of the king.’

‘But if he, your abbot here, were intent on having everything in good order when the abbot from Tintern Abbey arrived, then he would hardly be likely to murder his brother two days before the arrival.’

‘That’s true,’ said Mara slowly, ‘but, you know, something came into my mind, just a while ago, just before you arrived. I was talking to the abbot and his son, this Father Denis, in the church and it struck me that their relationship was not one of love or even of friendliness.’

Fachtnan looked up sharply, his dark eyes alert and curious. He was an intuitive boy, she thought, he knew her well and could read the tone of her voice. She nodded at him, but turned towards Patrick before speaking:

‘It struck me,’ she repeated, ‘that there was a measure of fear in the abbot’s eyes and of mastery in Father Denis’s.’

‘What do you mean?’ Patrick looked puzzled, but Fachtnan sat up very straight.

‘Blackmail!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that what you are thinking, Brehon?’

Mara smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘You see the last thing that Father Donogh wants is to have the abbot from Tintern Abbey discover his guilty secret; if that got to the ears of Rome he would certainly not be promoted; on the contrary, he would be reprimanded, and perhaps even removed from his present position. He could not stand that.’

‘So Father Denis was refusing to budge until the abbot got his brother to nominate him to the abbacy of Knockmoy,’ said Patrick thoughtfully.

‘Or, there could be another possibility. A darker one. Would you like to put the case, Fachtnan?’

Fachtnan sat up very straight, looking pleased. ‘Let me put the case,’ he said with dignity, ‘the abbot appeals to his brother to use his influence, is turned down, according to this Father Peter, and then murders his brother so as to ensure that Father Denis’s path to promotion is smooth.’

‘Or, let me put the case,’ said Shane, his black eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Let me put the case, may I, Brehon, that Father Denis murdered Mahon O’Brien, the abbot knows it but he doesn’t dare say anything because Father Denis is threatening him.’

Mara exchanged a quick glance with Patrick who beamed parental pride for a moment before lowering his eyes again. ‘They could have come to some agreement,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘The price of silence could be that Father Denis will take the first opportunity to leave this abbey and return to Knockmoy and wait there for the O’Brien of Arra to ratify the appointment.’

‘Let’s shelve this for the moment and take the suspects one at a time,’ said Patrick. ‘If the king was murdered then your suspicions would include his son, Murrough, his daughter-in-law, Ellice, possibly with complicity from the
tánaiste
, Conor. And this Brother Francis, a member of the O’Kelly clan, do you suspect him also?’

‘I think it might have been hard for him to get out of the brothers’ dormitory without anyone seeing,’ acknowledged Mara. ‘I must have a word with Father Peter. He is in charge of the dormitory and he is very shrewd. I think it would be difficult for anyone to steal past him.’

‘And what was the church like? You still had the snow then, didn’t you? There would have been footprints. Did you see any?’

‘Only from the bodyguards. They rushed into the church when they saw the body slumped over on the floor. I’ll show you the church afterwards, but there are just two doors that lead outside: the west door that leads to the guest houses’ garth and the door on the south that leads to the cloister garth. The abbot and Father Denis would have come in that way – unless the one or other had stayed behind after the service of prime, of course.’

‘And was there any snow by that door?’

‘No,’ said Mara slowly, ‘but you know that cloisters are sheltered from the north wind and roofed over. Even later in the day there was very little snow on that passageway between the abbot’s house and the church. It would certainly be possible for a man to pick his way, dry-footed, and to arrive at the church with clean boots.’

‘And how do the monks get into the church?’ asked Shane.

‘There is a third door. This just leads to the night stairs and divides at the top. One way leads to the lay dormitory, where Murrough . . .’

‘The king’s son?’ queried Patrick.

Mara nodded, ‘Yes, in his disguise as pilgrim, Murrough was sleeping in the lay dormitory.’

‘And where’s the monks’ dormitory?’ asked Fachtnan, helping himself to another piece of cake.

‘That leads off the night staircase, also. The monks’ dormitory is on the east side of the cloisters, above the chapter house and the abbot’s house.’

‘Let’s turn to the man who was actually killed. You say that his wife, Banna, is a possible, though unlikely, suspect.’

‘I don’t really suspect her,’ said Mara with a small smile. ‘She is immensely fat, and quite lethargic. I think she would moan about her hard lot, but she would not have taken such a drastic step. There is, also, the wife of the second degree. I’m not sure what to think about her.’

Briefly she told the story of Frann and of Mahon’s very generous provision for this late marriage and for a possible son.

‘If it were Frann, she would have had to tramp through the snow so afterwards her gown would have been soaked. You might see if you can find something out from the maidservant if that is the case.’

‘It’s so good to be able to talk things through with you, Patrick,’ said Mara gratefully. ‘You see Ellice, Conor the
tánaiste
’s wife, is on my mind.’ She told him about the episode where the girl aimed the arrow straight at Turlough’s heart and finished: ‘but, of course, anyone going from the guest house to the church would be much more noticeable than someone who just had to come down the night stairs.’

‘Ay,’ Patrick nodded.

‘So if the king were the intended victim, then Murrough could have entered dry-shod, and then stolen away again up the night stairs – he may not even have put on his boots.’

‘Ay,’ Patrick nodded again. The Brehon MacEgan had told her that Patrick’s nickname was ‘the man of short judgements’ and Mara could see why. It was funny, though, but talking with him, or perhaps explaining things to Fachtnan and Shane, seemed to be clearing her mind.

‘What about the blood?’ asked Shane suddenly. ‘Wouldn’t there be blood all over the clothes of someone who did that?’

‘I thought about that,’ said Mara, ‘but the mallet that dealt the blow had a very long handle on it. I think that it would be quite likely that the murderer would not have got blood on him, or her.’

‘Any way of doing a discreet search?’ asked Patrick.

‘Perhaps we could do it now while they are all in the church.’ Shane jumped to his feet, full of the burning energy of a ten-year-old for whom nothing is as tiring as sitting still.

‘I think we are too late,’ said Mara regretfully. ‘Listen; there’s the bell. That is the passing bell.’

The clang of the bell came very clearly, borne towards them by the north-westerly wind. They sat very quietly counting the years of the man who had died that morning.

‘Ten, eleven . . .’ Shane began to count aloud and then stopped. They all listened intently. The bell had stopped tolling. There was a silence for a few minutes and then voices. For the second time that day there was a great clamour of voices. Mara moved quickly to the window and flung open the casement.

Monks, lay brothers and guests, they were all pouring out of the church from the west door. All were shouting the same words. They were calling her; she could hear her name, but there other words, also, that rose high above the strong westerly wind.

‘The assassin again!’

Twelve

(Synopsis of Court Procedure)

Heptad Forty-Nine

•
A slave

•
A castaway

•
A landless man

•
An alien, an insane or senile person

•
A prostitute

•
A robber

•
And a man who ingratiates himself with everyone

In a second Mara was out of the parlour and tugging at the heavy oak door to the Royal Lodge. She was vaguely conscious of someone, Fachtnan perhaps, draping her mantle around her shoulders and then she was outside. The rain was pouring down and light was fading fast, but her eyes were fixed on Teige O’Brien who was running across the slushy grass of the garth.

‘Brehon!’ he was shouting. ‘The murderer has tried again.’

And then, from behind him, Ardal O’Lochlainn: ‘The king is safe, Brehon, but he only escaped by a few inches.’

Mara stopped, breathing slowly and deeply and trying to concentrate. ‘What happened, Ardal?’ she asked.

He looked white and shaken, she noticed, and Teige O’Brien’s high colour had deepened to purple.

‘Come and see for yourself, Brehon.’ He turned and walked beside her as she began to move forward. Patrick walked on the other side, a restraining hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘We were all standing there saying the prayer for the dead and the bell began to toll, the passing bell, and then suddenly a huge chunk of limestone came crashing down and just missed the king by inches. In fact,’ here Ardal hesitated for a moment, and then continued quietly, ‘it’s by the blessing of Our Lord that you yourself were not killed.’

Mara hardly noticed his last words. ‘Please go back into the church, everyone!’ she called loudly and then, as they all turned meekly to do her bidding, she said quietly: ‘Ardal, will you go instantly to the abbot and get him to lock the door to the cloisters and then as soon as everyone is back inside the church he is to lock the west door. Will you, yourself, stand by the cloisters’ door until this is done?’

‘I’ll stand by the west door,’ said Patrick, and quickly he strode ahead of her, still keeping Shane with him and keenly looking at the faces as one by one they obeyed the Brehon’s orders and filed back into the church.

Mara turned around. ‘Fachtnan, go around the buildings and the gates and make sure that no one is lurking.’ She hesitated for a moment, wondering if it were safe for him to do that, and then breathed a sigh of relief as a stocky figure pushed his way towards her. ‘Ah, Cumhal, there you are, will you go with Fachtnan?’ The boy would be safe with Cumhal. She noticed that her farm manager had already slid his knife from his pouch and held it purposefully in his hand.

Mara waited a couple of moments to make sure that everyone had gone back into the church and then glanced all around. There seemed to be no sign of anyone other than Fachtnan and Cumhal and she knew that she could rely on them to make a thorough search of the buildings around the cloister.

When she entered the church, the noise of conversation immediately ceased. Turlough came towards her but she did not look at him. He was safe; that was all that she needed to know, but the next few minutes could be vital if the killer was to be caught. The church was well lit by candlelight and she could see around clearly.

Two chairs had been placed for herself and Turlough at the top of the nave, quite close to the crossing screen. The chairs were placed a distance of about three feet from each other. When he had first seen the arrangement, Turlough had joked about the abbot fearing that they might hold hands during the church services. The king’s chair was large and ornate with carved arms and a well-cushioned seat. Mara’s chair, though also ornately carved, was smaller and without arms. A linen kneeler, well stuffed with springy wool, lay on the floor in front of each chair.

The king’s chair was untouched, but little remained of the Brehon’s chair. A large rounded block of limestone lay smashed on the floor, with the splintered chair beneath it. There was no doubt that if Mara had been in her usual place she would have been killed. However, her eyes did not linger on the floor. She glanced quickly upwards and the jagged, torn hole in the thin timber overhead confirmed that the block had fallen from the bell loft. By some extraordinary mercy it had not fallen on the king.

Ardal, Mara was glad to see, had taken up his position by the door to the cloisters on the south side of the church and the abbot was just locking it. No one else was near by. She glanced back. Patrick was standing like a limestone saint squarely in the middle of the closed west door and again no one was near to him. She waited until the abbot had locked that door also and then spoke:

‘My lord abbot, with your permission, I would request everyone to go to the exact spot of the church where they were standing before the block fell.’

In a few minutes the untidy clumps of terrified people were ranged in orderly rows. Even the abbot himself went to the stone chair by the altar and lowered himself gracefully on to its seat. Ardal waited until all were in place before moving quietly to his position next to Teige O’Brien. Mara looked around. The choir monks were in the benches on either side of the chancel, seven seated beside the prior, Father Peter, and eight on the bench behind the abbot’s chair. The lay brothers and servants, including the two travellers, the carpenter and the mason all stood modestly in four rows at the back of the nave, near to the west door. Chairs had been placed at the top of the nave for the guests. In the centre were the two elaborately carved and cushioned chairs for King Turlough Donn and his intended bride, Mara, Brehon of the Burren, placed at a discreet yard or so apart. Behind them ranged simple
sugán
chairs for the other guests, their straw-rope seats and backs softened by some linen-covered, down-filled cushions.