‘Tell me about it.’
‘As you see, Sister, the lock was to be glais iarnaidhi — an iron lock. I understood from Brother Lugna that it had to be unlike any other lock. I think I achieved that.’
‘It is true that I have not seen one like it,’ she agreed. ‘And the key?’
‘I was told that one key only was to be made.’
‘And was it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You fitted the lock yourself?’
‘I did, and I gave the only key to Brother Donnchad.’
‘I was told that the key was found with Brother Donnchad’s body. I hope that it is not lost?’
‘I still have it.’ Bother Giolla-na-Naomh reached into the leather pouch on his belt. He took out a metal key and handed it to her. She glanced at it. It was made of iron and was nearly seven centimetres in length. It, too, showed good-quality workmanship, with several teeth of varying lengths and spaced irregularly. The other end of the key, the part held between thumb and forefinger, was impressively worked with spiral designs. There was a slippery quality about it.
‘And you confirm that this was the key that you made for the lock and found by the body?’
‘I do confirm it.’
‘No one could open the lock without this key, is that right?’ she asked.
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh shrugged. ‘No one can guarantee that, for what a man can make, another man can unmake. Isn’t that the old saying?’
‘But it would take time to unpick the lock and such a method would leave behind markings to show that it had been tampered with.’
‘Abbot Iarnla asked me to examine the lock after I had broken in. I had done no damage to the lock, only splintered the wood of the doorjamb where I kicked it open. There were no signs that it had been tampered with.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Fidelma sighed, examining the key on the palm of her hand. ‘What accounts for the quality of the surface? Do you have to oil it to make it work?’
The smith frowned and looked at the key carefully.
‘The key should need no oil,’ he replied. ‘The lock, when I tried it, was working perfectly. But this is not oil. More like wax … maybe Brother Donnchad spilt some candle wax on it. It can easily happen. A candle by the side of the bed, a key resting nearby …’
Fidelma placed the key in her marsupium.
‘Keep the lock for me and I will keep the key,’ she said.
‘I will do so,’ Brother Giolla-na-Naomh replied. ‘But I would be glad if you did not tell Brother Lugna unless you have no other choice.’
Both Fidelma and Eadulf looked at him in surprise.
‘Brother Lugna asked me this morning, before the morning meal, if I would give him the key. I told him that I had mislaid it.’
‘He probably meant to hand it to me when we were examining Brother Donnchad’s cell.’
Brother Giolla-na-Naomh looked uncomfortable. ‘Perhaps.’ Then he added, ‘I tell you this strictly between ourselves, Fidelma of Cashel. I am a loyal servant to Abbot Iarnla. Loyal to theabbey and to this kingdom. I will say no more except that our steward told me that I should be frugal with the information I gave you. I have refused to obey his instruction and have provided you with what information is in my knowledge. I say to you, be careful. I suspect our steward has given the same instruction to everyone in this abbey whom you may wish to question.’
Fidelma and Eadulf exchanged a glance.
‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Fidelma. ‘I shall do my best to keep what has passed between us strictly to myself unless the time comes when I must use it in my task to uncover who killed Brother Donnchad.’
‘That is fair enough,’ said the smith. ‘All I wish is for the abbey to prosper and peace to follow my craft.’
‘Are we keeping you from the work of rebuilding the community? ’ Fidelma smiled, glancing round at the building works.
The burly man shook his head. ‘Glassán, the master builder, has his own team of workmen,’ he said with some resentment in his voice. ‘They even have their own forge and smithy outside the abbey for their work. My skills remain for the brethren and not for the new building work.’
‘The abbey will be truly magnificent once the new buildings are erected,’ Eadulf observed. ‘When will that be?’
‘Glassán and his men have been working here for two years or so. We estimate that another three years will see all the main buildings in place.’
‘The fees for such professional work must be high,’ Fidelma remarked innocently.
‘I suppose so. Such matters only concern the abbot and Brother Lugna.’ Brother Giolla-na-Naomh rose to his feet. ‘If you will forgive me, I must tend my forge.’
Eadulf sat down beside Fidelma and they watched him walk back to his forge.
‘Well, well,’ said Eadulf. ‘The steward of this abbey doesnot want to cooperate with us at all, it seems. Strange that he doesn’t want people to speak to us.’
‘It is curious,’ Fidelma agreed.
‘Perhaps he murdered Brother Donnchad?’
‘If he did, then he is very stupid to go around trying to stop people speaking to us. It would arouse their suspicions if not ours, and eventually it would get back to us. As it is, I thought the physician’s performance was bizarre and now the smith has explained it. The man was probably trying to obey the steward’s orders. We will have to watch Brother Lugna very carefully.’
A bell started to ring in the distance.
‘What is that?’ demanded Eadulf, raising his head.
‘Judging from the position of the sun,’ Fidelma said, looking up, ‘I would say that it is the bell to summon the community for the eter-shod — the midday meal. It has been an interesting and exhausting morning and I, for one, would welcome some refreshment.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Abbot Iarnla walked across to their table as they were rising to leave when the midday meal had finished. The community took three meals a day. The custom was to rise at dawn, wash one’s face and hands, and break one’s fast with a light meal. The eter-shod, or ‘middle meal’, was taken when the sun was at its zenith. Thankfully, it appeared that Glassán and his assistant Saor ate their midday meal on site and so they were spared another monologue on his craft. Gormán was happily occupying his time fishing along the banks of The Great River. Only Fidelma and Eadulf had been seated at their table.
‘I hope you have had a productive morning,’ Abbot Iarnla greeted them anxiously. ‘Have you reached any conclusions?’
‘We are far from any conclusions yet,’ replied Fidelma. ‘There are many questions that still need to be asked before we can proceed to judgement.’
Abbot Iarnla looked about almost furtively and then, as if assuring himself that no one was observing him, dropped his voice and said, ‘I trust you will forgive me for seating you here, Fidelma. As sister to our King, I considered it more appropriate for you and Eadulf to sit alongside me. However, Brother Lugna informs me that Church customs in Rome …’ He hesitated, not sure how to proceed.
‘We are content here, Abbot Iarnla,’ Fidelma replied softly. ‘Brother Lugna has made no secret of his resent ment of our presence here. We would not wish to impose on him more than we have to.’
‘I apologise for him. He is inflexible when it comes to the rules that he has drawn up for the community.’
‘Rules that he has drawn up?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘I thought the drawing up of rules for the community was the prerogative of the abbot?’
‘He believes that the brethren were too lax and free of discipline and order,’ the abbot confessed. ‘Times change, I suppose. I have tried to run things in the spirit of our blessed founder, Mo-Chuada, but, as you know, the Faith is changing. New ideas are coming in from Rome. So I have been persuaded to let Brother Lugna pursue his course of action to strengthen the community.’
Fidelma was about to say that perhaps he was abrogating too much authority to his young steward but the abbot suddenly turned and motioned to a man who was helping an elderly member of the community along the aisle between the tables towards the door. The younger man hesitated and then guided his companion towards them.