The Sting of Justice (16 page)

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Authors: Cora Harrison

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective

BOOK: The Sting of Justice
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Mara smiled. That was an incentive. Cormac had been a bright, clever scholar with plenty of common sense and initiative. She would enjoy meeting him again and, of course, he might be able to give her information about Deirdre’s divorce case.
‘Did you tell him about the murder of Sorley?’ she whispered as they stood for the recital of the gospel.
Turlough nodded and then, as he saw his cousin, the bishop, Mauritius of Kilfenora, turn a cold eye on him, he clutched his rosary beads, and signed himself devoutly with the small silver cross on the top of them.
That will be almost worth putting up with the pompous abbot for an hour or so, thought Mara, sinking down to her knees again at the end of the recitation of the creed.
Cuan had been smartened up, she thought, glancing across at the family group. He was now richly dressed and his hair was clean and well combed. He was kneeling beside his mother who glanced at him proudly from time to time. To her amusement, Ulick had placed himself on the other side of the boy. Deirdre, herself, was also richly dressed and looked indistinguishable now from the wives of the prosperous silversmiths whom Mara had seen at the wake. Una was looking the same as usual, but there was no sign of Rory. Had he already decided that it was not worth his while marrying this plain woman with no fortune? Had he just walked off, or perhaps engineered a quarrel, or possibly just taken too much to drink last night and not bothered to get up in time for the burial?
Daire was there, and Mara was pleased to see how, from
time to time, Deirdre bent down and whispered something in his ear. Obviously they were on good terms with each other and this might mean that the young man might be able to finish his term at Newtown Castle with honour, be spoken for by Deirdre’s brother, or transfer his apprenticeship elsewhere and become a master smith before the year finished.
The service passed in an almost perfunctory manner. The bishop could find little to praise about Sorley, and wisely decided to confine his eulogy to a few facts. Surprisingly, for one of his wealth, Sorley had no personal bard attached to his household, and obviously, Rory had not been deputed to recite his lineage, so quite quickly they were all standing over the newly dug grave watching the body being lowered down into it.
There was a deep silence as the workmen began to fill the grave. This was usually the moment when the bereaved broke into loud sobs and had to be led away by solicitous friends. However, Sorley’s wife and daughter showed no emotion, but stood looking quietly on, obviously waiting for the moment when they could walk away with dignity. Cuan passed his sleeve over his eyes in a childlike manner, but Deirdre gave him a quick glance and a pat on the arm so he controlled the emotion and stood with his eyes fixed on the bare branches of the ash tree above their heads. Anluan, the severely mutilated mineworker, made some inarticulate sound – it almost sounded like a cackle of laughter – and another mineworker took him by the arm and half-helped and half-dragged him away from the graveside.
‘Go and greet the bishop,’ said Mara in Turlough’s ear when all was finished and the procession wound its way
back towards the church. She waited until he had obediently departed and then slipped around to the rough grass behind the ruined wall. The boys had reported that no stick was to be found there and she knew, that under Fachtnan’s supervision they would have searched it thoroughly. They were young and keen and their eyesight was at its strongest. There was no chance that they would have missed anything of significance, and yet she didn’t feel satisfied until she had checked it through thoroughly for herself. The grass was long and interlaced with nettles but she persevered, going over every inch of the ground.
The bishop’s voice was still booming in the distance when she straightened her back. No, there was certainly no stick to be found in the grass, nor was it, as far as she could see, to be found it the sparse hedgerow behind. Mara went around the ruined wall and once again viewed the spot where the hive of bees had been placed in the empty alcove of the ruined church. This was where the stone had been removed and the hole that it had left still showed bright and clean-looking in the lichen and moss-besmirched wall.
There was something else there, though. Mara went closer. It was quite small; perhaps that was why it had not been seen before. It was small, and round and it lay in the shadow on the stone surface. She picked it up and held it to the light and then it flashed silver. It was a small round, hollow object, just the right size to fit over a thumb. She might not have recognized it, she thought, if she had not seen Rory, tuning and plucking his musical instrument, sitting in the gallery in Newtown Castle. It was the silver plectrum for a zither.
‘Brehon.’ It was Giolla’s voice. Hastily she picked up the
small object, put it into her pouch and went out onto the path to greet him. He was carrying something in his hand.
‘This is that skep you wanted to look at,’ he said, holding it out. ‘You can see that the bees have picked it completely clean. You can handle it without fear. There is nothing left.’
Mara stretched out her hand and murmured her thanks. The skep was made from soft rope, spun from the straw of oats after they had been harvested. The sides of the skep were made from coiled rope and so was the base and the roof. She examined it carefully, fascinated by the workmanship. The roof, she saw was detachable, presumably so that the honey could be taken from it with ease, but it was the hole, not much bigger than the girth of her thumb, in the back which held her attention. The soft straws were bent inwards and forced apart, not torn nor cut.
‘What do you think made the hole?’ she asked holding it out to Giolla.
‘A stick poking into it,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Not a knife?’
‘No, not a knife: that would leave a different hole; a knife would cut and would leave a sharp narrow opening. You can see here how the stick has pushed in the straw.’
‘But you haven’t seen any stick?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ His tone was dissatisfied. ‘I’ve searched everywhere trying to find something that would have made that size of hole. I’ll keep my eyes open, though, Brehon, and I’ll let you know if I do find anything.’
Mara nodded. ‘Yes, Giolla, thank you; please keep the skep safe and don’t use it again until I give you the word.’
Where was the stick, she wondered. What had happened to it after the deed had been accomplished?
 
 
Rory and Toin were sitting in the pear orchard when Mara and Turlough came in after Mass. Bran came across to greet them and then returned to the wooden bench where Rory was strumming his zither, taking up his position at his feet. The boys always said that Bran loved music, but Mara suspected that he just liked to be in the centre of any group. Mara crossed over and sat beside Rory, looking closely at the zither. It was quite a new instrument, obviously bought for him by Sorley – there had been nothing but a simple lute in evidence when Rory had played in the garden of Cahermacnaghten during the summer months. He held the instrument flat on his lap, the fingers of his left hand plucked at the strings on the narrow top while his right thumb, gloved with a gold plectrum, softly stroked the notes from the body of the zither.
‘Leave the lad to play and come and have your glass of muscadet,’ ordered Toin. He was looking better than earlier: never better than when he was attending to the wants of his guests, surmised Mara as she came across to him and accepted a pear while Tomas filled the delicate fine glass with the golden wine. Mara bit into the pear, holding the juice in her mouth and then swallowing it with a sip of the sweet perfumed muscadet. Toin was right; they did go well together. She leaned back on the grassy seat and closed her eyes. The November sun was as warm as if it were still September and the bees were searching the flowers at the
side of the orchard. For a while their busy noise was soothing but then it brought her mind back to the graveyard and the man who died there.
‘Toin,’ she said tentatively, ‘I know you were feeling very ill on the day that Sorley was killed, but do you remember seeing Deirdre going into the church?’
Toin nodded vigorously. ‘I do indeed. I remember that she passed me just as Tómas was giving me my poppy syrup. She went down the path and followed Cathal the sea captain into the church.’ He added with a quick smile, ‘and, before you ask it, Sorley was still by the gate at that stage.’
Well, that’s two people off my list, thought Mara. Una, I saw myself. She had her maidservant with her, but Cuan? What about Cuan? From the reports at Poulnabrone, he, as well as Rory, came quite late into the church.
‘No more,’ she said with a smile, shaking her head as Toin held out the flagon invitingly. ‘The king and I have a long ride ahead of us. We are having dinner at the abbey.’
‘Leave Bran and collect him on your way back,’ said Toin. ‘Tomás has taken a fancy to him and he seems fond of young Rory also. Come and look at the rest of my garden before you go. You should see my flowers,’ he boasted. ‘It’s like the height of summer.’
Mara got to her feet willingly. I’m going to miss Toin when he goes, she thought sadly. No one else quite shared her passionate love of flowers.
‘It’s wonderful, this year, isn’t it?’ she said, surveying the ranked masses of peonies, pinks and loosestrife. ‘It almost seems as if winter has forgotten to come, and yet we’re past
Samhain.’
‘The dying of the year.’ Toin’s voice was reflective with no trace of melancholy in it.
Mara stood for a moment looking around. Toin’s garden was packed to the last inch with flowers and the late autumn colours of purple and gold, all blowing slightly in the gentle breeze, seemed like a banner. At the edge of the garden, the tiny Rathborney river curved its way through the flowers, towards the mountain gap. Tall velvet-brown bulrushes lined its sides. Mara bent down and stroked one. Its surface was as soft as fur to her fingers.
‘I wish I had a river in my garden.’ Mara looked admiringly at a few last creamy flowers of meadowsweet, the pale pink bistort and the solitary purple loosestrife that lined the banks. ‘Look at those reeds
still such a vivid green. Don’t they make a gorgeous background to the lovely colours of your flowers!’
‘You should see it in the spring,’ said Toin boastfully. ‘I’ve got primroses and violets and kingcups and marsh orchids all along here.’ He stopped for a moment and then said quietly: ‘You will come and see it in the spring, won’t you? I’d like to think of you doing that.’
‘I will,’ said Mara. She knew; and knew that Toin himself knew; that he would never see the springtime glory of his garden again, but she understood his feeling. The pleasure in a garden was doubled when it was shared with an admirer.
‘You go on, now,’ he said, with a change of tone. ‘King Turlough will be waiting for you. Enjoy your day.’
 
 
There were bees everywhere. Never had Mara been so conscious of them. The slopes of Cappanabhaile Mountain were clothed in brightly coloured pink and purple plants of stiff-stemmed heather. Many beekeepers had moved their hives up here, she noticed as she and Turlough cantered along the path beside the steep slopes of Cappanabhaile. Some were wooden hives, with pointed wooden roofs; others were the old-fashioned straw skeps used by Giolla.
‘Great honey,’ said Turlough following the direction of her eyes.
‘Why? Not that I know much about honey. I don’t really like the stuff. It’s too sweet for me.’
‘Heather makes a lovely honey,’ explained Turlough. ‘Not like ivy; that makes a dark, bitter honey. I think most of the beekeepers just leave ivy honey to be used by the bees themselves. It keeps them alive during the winter months. Now, heather honey, well you can make a great mead with that – but then, you don’t like mead much either, do you?’
Mara shook her head with a smile. ‘Again it’s too sweet for me; I prefer wine. I’d imagine most people do. Otherwise why would so many thousands of tuns of wine be imported into Galway every year? I think that Oisín, you know, my son-in-law, told me that about 120,000 gallons of wine came into the docks in Galway last August, while I was staying with them.’
‘There’s Galway Bay for you,’ said Turlough pointing. ‘I always love the first sign of the sea. I suppose it was because I was born and brought up in an inland place and, you won’t believe this, but I never actually saw the sea until I was fourteen years old. I had finished school at Emly –
the monks had decided that they couldn’t leather anything else into my thick head – so my uncle, Conor na Sróna, big-nosed Conor, he thought I should do some work for my living and so he sent me with his steward to collect tribute from the O’Lochlainn at the Burren. That was Ardal O’Lochlainn’s father and he was a very nice man. He invited us to stay with him, he was living in Gleninagh Tower, over there, just near the sea and I thought it was all wonderful.’

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