The Prince of Cnoc Aine wheeled about and stalked away, his temper clearly getting the better of him.
Eadulf shook his head wonderingly. ‘That is a young man with fire in his head,’ he observed.
‘He will plant thorns and expect to gather roses unless he is dissuaded,’ agreed Fidelma seriously.
The winds had eased a little and they came to a sheltered battlement. Leaning on it, they stared down at the town below them. Although it was growing late, the town seemed to be alive; horses, riders, wagons, and people were thronging the streets.
‘Like an audience waiting for the drama to commence,’ Eadulf observed. ‘It’s becoming like a market day.’
Fidelma did not reply. She knew that Finguine, her cousin, spoke for many people who were now gathering below. Yet if he were so animated in his anger against the Uí Fidgente, what was he doing with Solam? She could not quite accept the idea that he merely escorted Solam to Cashel out of duty. Why were he and Solam riding in the woods searching for Brother Mochta and the Holy Relics? What did they know about them? No, there was something not right there.
She found her eyes suddenly dwelling on the roof of a warehouse on the far side of the market square. She blinked. The warehouse of Samradán.
‘Samradán’s warehouse,’ mused Fidelma. ‘I think part of our answer will be found there.’
‘I am not sure that I understand,’ Eadulf replied, following her gaze towards the building.
‘No matter. Tonight, after dark, we are going to pay a visit to Samradán’s warehouse. It is from there that this mystery started. I suddenly feel that it is from there that this mystery will be resolved.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Obediently, Eadulf followed Fidelma into the night, leaving the dark walls of the palace by a small side door away from the main gates to avoid the speculative gaze of the sentinels. Darkness had spread like a shroud over the town of Cashel. Clouds, scudding at hilltop level, obscured the moon.
However, now and then the round white orb of the bright new moon broke through sudden gaps in the clouds, bathing the scene momentarily with its ethereal light, almost as limpid as day. Apart from the twinkling lights from the buildings, they could smell the pungent smoke rising from numerous chimneys, marking the start of the contest to keep the autumnal chill at bay. There seemed little movement in the town. Most of the visitors crowding the streets a few hours before had taken themselves into the inns and taverns but the din of their entertainment was muted. A dog barked here and there and once or twice there came the scream of enraged cats disputing a territory.
Fidelma and Eadulf reached the market square without anyone observing them in the evening gloom.
‘That’s Samradán’s warehouse.’ Fidelma pointed unnecessarily, for the events of the attempted assassination were still clear in Eadulf’s s memory. The warehouse stood on the far side of the square in complete darkness. It appeared deserted.
They crossed the square quickly and Fidelma made immediately for the side door of the building which she had noticed before. It was shut and fastened.
‘Is it barred from the inside?’ asked Eadulf as Fidelma tried vainly to open it.
‘No. I think it is merely locked.’
She used the word glas. Irish locksmiths were proficient in the manufacturing of locks, keys and even door chains to secure buildings and rooms. Some of them were very intricate. However, when he was a student at Tuaim Brecain, Eadulf had been taught the art of how to unpick a lock by the insertion of a strand of metal into the poll-eochrach or keyhole. He reached into his purse and drew out thesmall length of wire which he had come to carry and grinned in the darkness.
‘Stand aside, then. You need an expert,’ he announced, as he bent to the lock.
It took him longer than he expected and he sensed Fidelma’s growing impatience. He was just beginning to wish that he had not been so confident when he heard the telltale click that told him that he had been successful.
He reached for the handle and the door swung inwards. Then he clambered to his feet.
Without a word, Fidelma went inside. He followed and closed the door carefully behind them.
The warehouse was in darkness and they could see nothing.
‘I have flint and tinder and a stub of candle in my purse,’ Eadulf whispered.
‘We dare not use a light in case we are observed from outside,’ returned Fidelma in the stillness. ‘Wait a moment or two until our eyes adjust to this darkness.’
At the same time the moon broke through the clouds again and the gap seemed large enough to allow the light to bathe through the upper open windows of the warehouse, illuminating it. It was a shell of a building. There was no upper floor. Just the flat roof on which the would-be assassins had found shelter. At the back of the warehouse were bales packed high and stalls in which Samradán obviously stabled his dray horses. Taking up most of the space in the warehouse were the two heavy drays, or wagons, which Fidelma and Eadulf had last seen in the yard of Aona’s inn.
The coverings on the wagons had been stripped back and she could see that only the tools were still piled in them.
‘Samradán appears to have taken the bag of silver and the one of ore,’ Fidelma muttered, looking around.
‘That’s to be expected. He has probably taken it to whoever reduces the ore into the silver.’
Fidelma groaned aloud.
‘Are you ill?’ asked Eadulf in alarm.
‘Ill with stupidity,’ sighed Fidelma. ‘I had forgotten the process. The ore has to be burnt down in a smith’s forge and the silver extracted.’
‘Of course.’
‘Last night, when I was looking through the wagon and found the sack of ore, some of it was already reduced to silver! It had already been extracted from the ore. Samradán had the services of a good smith before he set out from Imleach to Cashel.’
‘When he left Imleach, he must have driven with the mined ore to a smith’s,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘When he told us that he was proceeding north it was to mislead us.’
‘So it seems. But why didn’t the smith reduce all the ore to silver?’
The moon suddenly went behind a cloud, plunging the warehouse into darkness again.
Fidelma remained still. Eadulf had prompted a point. She smiled in the darkness. She realised that she already knew the answer. The moonlight bathed the interior once again, seeping through the high windows.
‘Have you seen enough?’ Eadulf asked.
‘Wait a moment longer,’ instructed Fidelma.
Fidelma moved around the warehouse, examining the odd box here and there before turning eventually to the stable area. By some bales she paused and abruptly dropped to one knee, reaching forward and tugging at something with her hand.
‘Eadulf, come here and help me. I think this is a trapdoor to a cellar. Help me draw the bolt.’
Eadulf went to join her. Sure enough he could see the wood trap secured by two iron bolts. He moved them carefully back and swung the door open. Below was nothing but blackness. Not even the pale moonlight could penetrate into the gloom below.
He was about to say something but Fidelma held out a hand to stay him.
Something was moving in the darkness below.
‘Is anyone there?’ Fidelma called softly.
In the silence they could hear a rustling sound but no one replied.
‘We may chance a candle but keep it covered until we see what is below in this cellar,’ Fidelma instructed.
Eadulf rummaged in his leather purse and found the stub of candle and worked as rapidly as he could with his flint and tinder. It took several moments before he was able to make a spark ignite the tinder before lighting the candle.