Fidelma replaced the book carefully on the table without further comment and glanced round the room.
‘It is strange that there is little sign of writing materials for such a literate man, even a stylus and a ceraculum to make notes on, especially during what was a debate of some magnitude,’ Eadulf said, interrupting the silence.
‘Maybe the notes were taken by one of the scribes or Brother Tuaman,’ suggested Fidelma. ‘In which case, he would not need his own writing materials.’
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Eadulf. ‘Anyway, we are still left with the evidence that only Gorman could have killed Abbot Segdae. So how does investigating Prior Cuan help us?’
‘Perhaps it does not, although it is important for both Imleach and my brother to know more about our friend Cuan and how he was appointed the praepositus or prior, as he likes to call himself. Still, we have learned enough here. Let us examine the other matters.’
They moved on to the chamber which was directly next to the one the abbot had occupied. They had not examined it before, nor did it help them. Its lay-out was almost an exact replica of the others, except that it was devoid of any furnishing. It had but one window and that, like its neighbour, was barred; when tested by Fidelma, she found the iron was immovable. She looked around carefully and even examined the wall separating the room from that of Segdae’s chamber for signs of weakness.
‘We have to conclude that there was no other way into the abbot’s chamber but through the one door,’ she finally admitted.
‘So what now?’ prompted Eadulf.
‘Now we still have a problem to resolve.’
Eadulf hunched his shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘It is a problem only if we accept Gorman’s story – but what if he is not innocent after all? As incredible as it might be to us, that is a logical conclusion. The more we have considered the alternative, the more we come across the fact that Gorman’s story is impossible.’
‘Things are always impossible until they are achieved,’ Fidelma said dryly, turning from the room and moving down the stairs.
Brother Mac Raith was standing at the door of one of the rooms on the lower floor, about to enter it. He looked up in surprise as they descended. ‘Good day, lady … brother,’ he greeted them.
Fidelma returned the greeting and asked his name. He told her, then said, ‘Can I help, for I do not think there is anyone here?’
‘I need to ask you a few questions,’ Fidelma replied.
‘I was not here when the abbot was killed, so cannot help you with any details,’ the religieux offered immediately.
‘So I have already heard. I believe that you and your companion are of the Muscraige Mittine?’
‘That is so, lady,’ he replied nervously. ‘Brother Mael Anfaid and I are cousins. We received our education together and both decided to join the community at Imleach.’
‘Why choose Imleach?’ Fidelma queried. ‘There are many other well-known scholastic communities that are nearer to your homeland.’
‘But which one compares with the reputation of Imleach, founded by the Blessed Ailbe, the Chief Abbey of the Kingdom of Muman?’ Brother Mac Raith responded with a note of pride.
‘Then you were attracted solely by the scholastic reputation of Imleach?’ She was amused by the adulation in his voice.
‘I had developed a fair hand when I was young, lady, and wanted to became adept in calligraphy. Imleach was a natural choice.’
‘How long have you been in that community?’
‘Ten years – and now I am chief scribe. That was why Abbot Segdae chose me to accompany him to this council.’
‘You certainly have a well-chosen name for a member of such a community,’ smiled Fidelma.
The young man hesitated with a frown until he realised that she was referring to the meaning of his name, which was: ‘son of grace’.
‘A better name than my poor kinsman, Mael Anfaid,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Alas, it is apposite in the circumstances.’
Fidelma answered the jest with a smile as the name meant ‘follower of the storm’.
‘It does appear that a storm has erupted here,’ she conceded. ‘But as chief scribe at these discussions, your task must be an onerous one.’
‘It is a task that is not beyond the limits of my capabilities,’ the young man answered with some pride. ‘However, there has been little work for me to do in the circumstances. We were expecting a council of scholars and were faced only with the Abbot of Mungairit and his steward.’
‘So Abbot Segdae was expecting to attend a full council, not just some preliminary talks with Abbot Nannid?’
‘We all thought there would be several leading churchmen of the Ui Fidgente to debate with,’ confirmed the scribe.
‘Have you kept a record of these discussions so far?’
‘Little enough, lady,’ Brother Mac Raith replied. ‘We were only into the second day of discussions when the abbot was struck down.’
‘Is it possible to see those notes anyway?’
‘I do not have them, lady. The custom was that, at the end of the day, I would transcribe from the ceraculum, the wax tablets on which I make the notes. The record was placed on papyrus and would be handed to Brother Tuaman.’
‘He keeps these records?’
‘I suppose so. He doubtless shows or gives them to the abbot and Prior Cuan,’ the man added. They would have to agree that I had made a correct summation of the discussions.’
‘I will ask Brother Tuaman if I might see them. However, out of interest, can you recall what was discussed during those two days?’
Brother Mac Raith actually grinned. There was a lot of posturing.’
‘Meaning?’ Eadulf queried.
‘The Ui Fidgente were determined to justify their cause even though their prince had signed a peace with King Colgu. Abbot Nannid was, indeed, the only spokesman during the entire two days, talking about the claims of his eponymous ancestor Fiachu Fidgennid. I have to say Abbot Segdae was very patient.’
‘What about ecclesiastical matters? Was anything mentioned about the Penitentials?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Abbot Nannid made the claim that all the abbeys and bishops of the Ui Fidgente were now agreed that they would adopt the Penitentials written by someone called Cuimin. He had based his rules on a text called De Paenitate by a Roman writer named Aurelius Ambrosius.’
‘And who is this Cuimin?’ Eadulf asked. ‘Is he an Ui Fidgente scholar?’
‘I believe that he is now dead. Abbot Nannid spoke of him in the past tense. It seems that he was from near Loch Lein where he had established a church. He was mentioned as being the son of Fachna, a chieftain of that area.’
‘Abbot Nannid claimed all the Ui Fidgente abbots and bishops had adopted these rules?’
‘That is so, lady. Yet I heard Abbot Segdae remark that it was curious that only Abbot Nannid represented them at these discussions.’
There was something in his voice that made her say: ‘You sound sceptical of the truth of this?’
The scribe thought for a moment, as if considering what he should say. ‘It is just that the religious community here do not support Abbot Nannid.’
‘Really? In what way?’ she asked sharply.
‘Brother Mael Anfaid and I have a kinsman in the Abbey of Nechta. From what he says, his community were more or less forced to accept the Penitentials by Abbot Nannid.’
She glanced meaningfully at Eadulf. ‘Is this the kinsman that Brother Mael Anfaid and you went to see on the night the abbot was killed?’
‘That is correct, lady. He is Brother Eladach who holds the office of aistreoir, doorkeeper of the community. It was never called an abbey before Nannid arrived and ordered it to be enclosed.’
‘I recall that when we visited here about six or seven moons ago,’ Eadulf remarked, ‘there was a small community around the chapel. It was nothing so grand as an abbey. There were no walls, just a group of people who were part of the township but devoting some of their work to the chapel.’