‘Call it my natural curiosity, Cian. You will doubtless remember that, when I was younger, I lacked curiosity until it was awakened in me that I should be more interested in the reasons and motives for people’s behaviour.’
An aggressive expression crossed Cian’s features but it was gone in a second.
‘As I recall, we were separated from Sister Canair before we reached Ardmore,’ he said.
‘Why was that?’
‘We were going to spend the night at St Declan’s Abbey, but Sister Canair left our company about a mile or so from the Abbey.’
‘Why did she leave you?’
‘She told us that she wanted to meet with a friend or relative who lived in that part of the country. She promised that she would join us in the Abbey, where we were to spend the night. She did not join us at the Abbey, however, and when she did not turn up to meet us on the quay at the time appointed for the ship to sail, it was Sister Muirgelwho took charge. She finally achieved what she wanted — control of the group.’
‘Her control did not last long,’ observed Fidelma dryly. ‘Two of your leaders have not enjoyed that office for long. Are you sure that you still want to aspire to such office?’ There was a cynical smile on her lips.
Cian’s features tightened.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Fidelma’s smile broadened.
‘Just an observation, that’s all. Thank you for your time and for answering my questions.’
Cian turned to leave again and then hesitated. He raised his good arm in a curiously helpless gesture.
‘Fidelma, we should not be enemies. This bitterness …’
She regarded him disdainfully.
‘I have told you before, Cian, we are not enemies. To be enemies means some feeling remains between us. There is nothing between us now. Not even bitterness.’
Even as she spoke, Fidelma realised that she was lying. Her present contempt for Cian meant that there was a feeling there — and she did not like it one bit. If she really had recovered from the hurt he had done to her then, indeed, she would have no feeling at all. That fact worried her more than she cared to admit.
Chapter Eleven
The next person she should question, Fidelma decided, was the Breton mate, Gurvan, who had conducted a thorough search of the ship. She asked Murchad where he might be found, and the captain told her that he was below, ‘caulking’. She did not know what that meant, but Murchad had signalled Wenbrit and instructed the boy to take Fidelma down to where Gurvan was working.
Gurvan was in a forward area of the ship where, it seemed, some stores were kept. It was well forward of the area where the men who formed the crew of The Barnacle Goose slung their hammocks, hanging beds of fibre netting suspended by cords at both ends attached to the beams of the ship so that they swung with the motion of the ship. Some of the crew were sleeping, exhausted from having been up most of the night during the storm. Wenbrit wound his way between the hammocks, holding a lantern, and moving into a cabin space filled with boxes and barrels.
Gurvan had shifted some of the boxes in order to get to the side of the ship. He had balanced a lantern on the boxes and was bent with a bucket pushing what looked like mud between the planking. Wenbrit left them, having been assured that Fidelma could find her own way back to the main deck.
Gurvan did not pause in his work and Fidelma crouched down beside him. She noticed that little rivulets of water were streaming here and there through the planking of the vessel and suddenly realised that the sea was on the other side of those planks of wood.
‘Is it dangerous?’ she whispered. ‘Will the sea flood in?’
Gurvan grinned.
‘Bless you, no, lady. Seepage happens to the best of ships, especially after the rough passage we have had. First the storm and then sailing through the Neck back there. It’s a wonder we did not get some of our planks stove in. But this is a good, sturdy vessel. Our planks are fitted carvel style; they’ll hold back most seas.’
‘So what are you doing?’ She did not feel entirely reassured and did not want to admit that she had no clue as to what ‘carvel style’ meant.
‘It’s called caulking, lady.’ He indicated the bucket. ‘Those are hazel leaves. I press them into the joints of the planking and it serves to make the cracks watertight.’
‘It seems so … so flimsy against such turbulent seas.’
‘It’s a tried and trusted method,’ Gurvan assured her. ‘The great ships of our Veneti ancestors went into battle against Julius Caesar similarly caulked. But you did not come down here to ask me about caulking, did you?’
Fidelma reluctantly nodded agreement.
‘No. I just wanted to ask you about your search for Sister Muirgel.’
‘The religieuse who went overboard?’ Gurvan paused and seemed to be examining his work. Then he said: ‘The captain asked me to conduct a search. In a ship twenty-four metres in length there are not too many places where a person can hide, either by accident or intentionally. It soon became apparent that the woman was not on board.’
‘You searched everywhere?’
Gurvan smiled patiently.
‘Everywhere that a person could possibly conceal themselves if they wanted to. I presumed, however, that the woman would not want to, so I did not look in the bilge — that is, the bottom of the ship’s hull, which is usually where the rats, mice and sediments of refuse congregate.’
Fidelma gave an involuntary shiver. Gurvan smiled a little sadistically at her reaction.
‘No, lady, apart from the passenger cabins which had already been searched, I looked everywhere. The only conclusion is that the poor woman went overboard.’
‘Thank you, Gurvan.’ Fidelma rose and made her way back through the ship.
Fidelma had not thought to question Sister Gorman next, but found herself passing the cabin door. She knocked and looked in. Sister Gorman was sitting on her bunk, looking pale and unhappy.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ Fidelma asked as she entered in response to Gorman’s invitation.
‘Sister Fidelma.’ The young girl looked up nervously. ‘I do not mind being disturbed. This voyage is not as I expected it to be.’
‘What did you expect?’ asked Fidelma, taking a seat.
‘Oh.’ The girl paused as if to give the question some thought. ‘I don’t suppose anything is ever as one would expect, but a pilgrimage, a voyage to a shrine wherein lies the body of one who knew the living Christ … surely that should be a momentous journey filled with excitement?’
‘Is this not a journey filled with excitement? I would have thought so, filled as it is with incident.’ Fidelma kept her tone light.
Sister Gorman pursed her lips. Fidelma waited and when there was no response, she altered her tone to one of seriousness, sitting down on a chair near the girl.
‘Obviously, the loss of Sister Muirgel is a sad blow for your party.’
The girl wrinkled her nose distastefully.
‘Her!’ she said, summoning in that word an expression of dislike.
Fidelma picked up her tone immediately.
‘I gather that you were not a friend of Sister Muirgel?’
‘I regret that she is dead,’ Sister Gorman responded defensively.
‘But you did not like her?’
‘I do not feel guilty about not liking her.’
‘Has anyone suggested that you should feel guilty?’
‘If someone dies one always feels guilty for harbouring bad thoughts about them.’
‘And have you harboured bad thoughts?’
‘Didn’t everyone?’
‘I do not know as I am a stranger. I thought you were all pilgrims travelling together.’
‘That is so. It does not mean we all liked one another. I have nothing in common with the others in this party except …’ She paused and continued quickly: ‘However, Sister Muirgel was a bully and I–I hated her!’