‘The useless arm,’ agreed Fidelma.
‘Now, we were discussing Sister Muirgel.’ Murchad changed thesubject when he saw that Fidelma was uncomfortable. ‘You said that the answers were not easy; I did not expect that they would be. But is there any indication at all of what happened?’
Fidelma uttered a short sigh of exasperation.
‘I think it is obvious that murder was done aboard this ship. But I cannot say with certainty who is the culprit.’
‘But you have an idea, some suspicion?’
‘Sister Muirgel seems to have been someone who was intensely disliked by several of those aboard and, when she was not disliked, she was the object of a jealousy that might have no bounds. One thing I am certain of is that the person who plunged the knife into her habit is still aboard. But whether I shall have time to find them before this ship reaches Iberia, I am not all that certain.’
‘But you are going to try to discover the murderer?’
‘That is my intention. However, it will take time,’ Fidelma agreed gravely.
‘We still have several days’ sailing before we reach Iberia,’ Murchad reflected sombrely. ‘I don’t like to think that we shall be sailing without knowing the identity of the murderer. We could all be in danger.’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘I don’t think so. I believe that the killer selected Sister Muirgel because she was the object of a particular hatred which overwhelmed them. I doubt if anyone else is in immediate danger.’
Murchad looked at her in apprehension.
‘But you do have a suspicion as to who this killer is, Fidelma?’ She detected the hidden tension in his voice as if he were pleading for reassurance.
‘I never speak until I am sure,’ she replied. ‘But don’t worry; as soon as I am sure I will inform you.’
She had finished nibbling at some selected morsels of the food which Wenbrit had served. Fidelma was never one to eat a large breakfast and some fruit usually sufficed. Now she rose to her feet.
‘What is your next move?’ enquired Murchad.
‘I am going to have a thorough search of Muirgel’s cabin and belongings.’
Murchad accepted her departure reluctantly.
‘Well, do keep me informed. And be careful. A person who has killed once usually has no compunction about killing again, especially if they believe that you are getting close to them. I do not share your belief that there is no further danger here.’
She smiled briefly from the cabin door.
‘Don’t worry on my behalf, Murchad,’ she said. ‘I am sure that this is a crime of some passion and involves only Sister Muirgel.’
Outside, it was fully light now. The morning was clear and blue but the wind had risen fresh and chilly. The reddening sky had vanished but while it usually heralded a period of stillness, it also meant that bad weather would soon follow. Indeed, no changeable weather arrives without warning. Fidelma, from her childhood, had been taught that the signs were usually to be seen in the sky. It was a matter of observation and interpreting the evidence correctly. It might look bright now, with the hope that the pale sun would grow warmer, but she doubted it. There was bad weather coming. She wondered what had happened to the captain’s faith in ‘St Luke’s Little Summer’.
She made her way below decks to the cabin area and paused to hear the sounds of voices from the mess deck. The pilgrim band were still at their breakfast. It was an ideal time to search Sister Muirgel’s cabin and belongings without being disturbed. Later she would have to tell the company of her suspicions, but she wished she could do so at the same time as revealing who might have pushed her overboard.
The problem was that there were several people who could easily have killed Sister Muirgel; several on whom an obvious suspicion fell. In her experience, it was never the obvious that counted. But what happened when you had many obvious suspects? She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she wished Brother Eadulf was with her so that she could discuss her ideas with him. Often his comments put things into a sharp focus for her.
She entered the dark, odorous cabin and paused on the threshold to light a lamp from the lantern that swung on its hook in the passageway. Glancing round to ensure that she had not been observed, she entered and closed the door.
A couple of blankets were heaped carelessly on the bunk which Sister Muirgel had used. Fidelma held the lamp high and peered round. There was hardly anything of interest in the cabin at all. No baggage, papers or books that might furnish her with clues.
She frowned and made a more careful examination, standing still but turning to search the corners of the room for any cupboards or hooks. There was no obvious sign of Sister Muirgel’s baggage nor any other belongings. Someone must have placed the baggage beneath the lumpy heap of blankets on the bunk. She did not remember it being so untidy when she had last been in the cabin with Wenbrit to examine Muirgel’s robe, which she had given to the charge of Murchad, as captain of The Barnacle Goose, in case it was needed as evidence.
Setting the lamp down beside the bed, she bent forward. It was onlythen that a cold feeling of anticipation gripped her. The blankets, she now saw, were concealing the shape of a body. Hesitating barely a fraction of a second, she reached forth a hand and drew back a fold of cloth.
There, on her back, lay the form of a woman, clad in bloodstained undergarments. Her eyes were still open and blood was pumping in little spurts from a jagged knife-wound across her throat, where it had penetrated the jugular vein. Even as Fidelma gazed down, the dark glazing eyes turned to her, silent and pleading. The lips twitched, a gurgling sound came forth and blood began to form on them.
Fidelma bent forward quickly.
There was a gulping breath, but no words came. The dying woman seemed to he pushing a clenched hand towards Fidelma.
Then her head flopped uselessly to one side and blood fountained out of the half-opened mouth. Something fell with a clatter from the dead woman’s fist as her fingers relaxed and unfurled. Automatically, Fidelma bent down and picked it up. It was a small silver crucifix on a broken chain.
Fidelma rose slowly, holding her lamp high, in order to examine the woman’s face. She stood looking down in bewilderment for a few moments, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with the events of the last twenty-four hours.
The body of the woman who lay sprawled on the bunk before her, with her throat just recently cut, was Sister Muirgel.
Chapter Fourteen
‘I don’t understand it,’ Murchad announced, not for the first time, as he scratched the back of his head and stared down at the body. Fidelma had called him down to the cabin without informing anyone else. He looked utterly bewildered. ‘Are you sure that this is Sister Muirgel? I only saw her for a few moments on the day when they all came aboard. Maybe it is another of the Sisters?’
Fidelma shook her head firmly.
‘I saw her only for a few minutes as well when I went into her cabin, but I am certain that this is the same woman. It is certainly none of the other three.’
Murchad heaved a frustrated sigh.
‘It seems, then, that this Sister Muirgel has been murdered twice,’ he observed dryly. ‘Once during the first night out when her bloodstained robe was found but not her body, and once just now when someone stabbed her and cut her throat. What can it mean?’
‘It means that Sister Muirgel initially wanted us to believe that she was dead … whereas in reality she was still aboard, hiding somewhere … or being hidden by someone. Remember what Wenbrit said about the missing food? I suspected immediately. That was why I wanted another search. Muirgel was faking it. Yet there is no sign of the knife.’
‘But why did Muirgel want us to believe that she had been stabbed or swept overboard in the storm?’ asked Murchad. ‘Why was the robe planted so that we would then immediately suspect that she had been murdered?’