‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Tell me, why are you so sure that Muirgel was not having an affair with Guss? That is something that I still do not understand.’
Crella raised her jaw defensively.
‘You do not believe me?’
‘Did Muirgel have many affairs?’
‘We were both normal young women. We each had our amours.’
‘So she always told you with whom she was having affairs?’
Crella sniffed defensively.
‘Of course.’
‘When was the last time she told you about an affair?’
‘I mentioned it before. She was having an affair with Cian. In fact, I had a brief affair with Cian before I tired of him.’
‘Isn’t the truth rather that Cian dropped you for Muirgel?’
Crella coloured hotly.
‘No one drops me.’
‘Didn’t that make you jealous and angry?’
‘Not enough to kill her! Don’t be ridiculous. We often swapped lovers. We were close friends and cousins, don’t forget.’
‘And you believe that she was still having an affair with Cian and not with Guss?’
‘Not with Guss, but I think she and Cian had some sort of row just before we set out from Moville.’
‘Why are you so sure that she was not having an affair with Guss? In spite of Muirgel’s frankly libertine views?’
‘Because she would have told me,’ Crella said doggedly. ‘Guss is the last person she would have an affair with. He was too serious. It is obvious to me that when Guss became moonstruck on her and she rejected him, he plotted her death and then killed her.’
‘What’s your explanation as to why and how Muirgel hid herself on this ship for a couple of days, trying to lead people into thinking she had been swept overboard?’
‘Maybe it was to escape from Guss’s unwanted attentions.’
‘Then why didn’t she let you in on the secret? I am sorry, Crella, but I have to tell you that the evidence points to the fact that Guss, indeed, was her lover. There is one other matter. How do you explain about Sister Canair?’
Fidelma looked deeply into Crella’s eyes to judge her reaction.
A slight expression of bewilderment could be discerned there.
‘Sister Canair? What about her?’
‘Are you claiming that Guss killed her as well?’
The bewilderment grew and was unfeigned.
‘What makes you think Sister Canair has been killed?’ the girl demanded. ‘You didn’t even meet our company until after we set sail. How do you know anything about Sister Canair?’
Fidelma stood examining the girl for a moment or two and then she smiled briefly.
‘No reason,’ she said, dismissing the subject. ‘No reason at all.’
She turned and left the cabin holding the knife.
Either Sister Crella was telling the truth, or … Fidelma shook her head. This was the most frustrating case that she had ever been involved in. If Sister Crella was telling the truth, then Guss must have been an exceptional liar. If Brother Guss was telling the truth, then Crella must be the liar. Who was telling the truth? And who was telling the lies? She had always been taught that truth was great and would prevail. But with this matter she could not begin to recognise the truth.
It would serve no purpose to lay the complete story as told by Guss before Crella. She would merely deny it, if she was guilty, and without any further evidence, it would lead nowhere. Fidelma, it seemed, had reached a dead end.
Chapter Sixteen
Murchad pointed to the black coastline emerging from the haze on the sea.
‘That is the island of Ushant.’
‘It looks a large island,’ Fidelma observed, from her position at his side. During the last few hours she had been considering the story that Guss had told her about Sister Canair’s death and the involvement of Muirgel and himself. Had Muirgel been killed because she was a witness? Or had Guss been right that there was another motive? And if he were, and that motive was jealousy, could Crella have been the killer? Had Guss met his own death because of it? Fidelma knew that Crella’s truth was certainly not the truth of Brother Guss but she had no firm evidence to solve the riddle.
An hour or so previously, they had held a service for Sister Muirgel and committed her body to the deep; it was the second service they had held for her, more subdued and restrained than the first. At the same time, they held a remembrance for poor young Guss and commended his soul to God’s keeping. It was odd knowing that one among them did not share the sentiments that had been uttered during the service. Now, it was late afternoon with the sun lowering in the cloudy western sky which was streaked with darkening billows. It was growing chilly and slowly, above the horizon, the dark coastline had emerged and drawn closer. The gloomy coast to which Murchad was pointing must have been a few miles in length.
‘It is a large island,’ the captain replied to Fidelma’s question. ‘And a dangerous one. I think we shall be lucky, though.’
Fidelma glanced at him in surprise.
‘Lucky? In what way?’
‘This haze … it could easily develop into a sudden fog, which is frequent around Ushant, and there are strong currents here and innumerable reefs, added to which, if the wind is harsh one stands in danger of being hurled, if not onto the reefs, then onto the rocky, broken shore. A blow here can last a week or ten days without letting up.’
Even in the haze there seemed something sinister about the low black outline they were approaching. There was no sign of any hills. Fidelma estimated that the highest point of the island could not be more than two hundred feet, but there was still something very threatening about the distant crash and hiss of the waves breaking on the rocks along the shoreline. It seemed an island full of menace.
‘How do you know where to land?’ she asked. ‘I can see only an impenetrable wall of rocks.’
Murchad grimaced.
‘We certainly won’t attempt to land on this coast. This is the northern coast. We must sail south, around a point into a broad bay where the main settlement is situated. There is a church there which was set up a century ago by the Blessed Paul Aurelian, the Briton.’
He pointed.
‘We have to round that headland over there — do you see? Where that ship is standing out towards us.’
Fidelma followed his outstretched arm and saw that a distant ship had appeared from behind the dark headland and was beating around towards them. A voice cried from the masthead.
Murchad took a step forward and shouted back in annoyance: ‘We already see it. You should have let us have a holler ten minutes ago!’
Gurvan appeared from the bow of the ship.
‘She’s a square-rigged ship out of Montroulez.’
‘That’s the type of ship. It doesn’t tell us who is sailing her,’ replied Murchad. ‘A lookout is useless unless he keeps the deck informed.’
Fidelma could make out the square-sail rig, similar to some extent to The Barnacle Goose with its high prow.
Gurvan, who had joined Drogon at the steering oar, was peering forward, straining to take in the details of the approaching vessel.
‘I think there is something wrong with her, Captain,’ he called.
Murchad swung round frowning to examine the other vessel.
‘Her sail is badly set and pulling her too close to the wind,’ he muttered. ‘That’s bad seamanship for you.’
For her part, Fidelma could see nothing wrong with the ship itself but accepted that the trained eyes of Murchad and Gurvan could pick out the faults of their fellow seamen.
Then Murchad let out an uncharacteristic exclamation which caused Fidelma to start.
‘The fool! He should be wearing the ship now. That onshore wind is going to turn the vessel towards the rocks.’
The two vessels were drawing closer together, except that TheBarnacle Goose was standing well out to the west of the grim line of rocks, with plenty of sea room to manoeuvre. The other vessel was straining under the wind towards the shore.