“Why did he have such a sudden mental aberration? For over five years he was in a position in which he could have stolen the reliquary or, indeed, any one of the several treasures of the abbey. Why did he attempt the theft at that point? And to kill Una! He was never a violent man, in spite of the mistake that led to the manslaughter charge. The killing of poor Sister Una was so out of character.”
“What actually connected him with the attempted theft in the first place?” Fidelma asked. “The abbot said that he fled without the reliquary.”
Brother Liag inclined his head.
“The reliquary was untouched. Sister Una had disturbed the thief before he could touch it, and she was killed while trying to raise the alarm.”
“Where was Tanaí caught?”
“Trying to enter the abbot’s rooms.” Brother Liag shot her a keen glance. “The community caught up with him at the entrance and dragged him to the nearest tree. God forgive all of us. But Sister Una was so beloved by all of the community that common sense was displaced by rage.”
“The abbot’s rooms? That is a strange place for a man to run to when he has apparently just committed murder,” murmured Fidelma.
“A question that was raised afterward. Abbot Ogán, who was one of the community, a young brother at the time, pointed out that Tanaí must have known that he would be caught and was trying to throw himself on the old abbot’s mercy and seek sanctuary.”
“I suppose that it is plausible,” Fidelma conceded. “What happened to Tanaí’s family?”
“His wife died of shock soon after, and his young daughter was raised by the Sisters of the abbey out of charity.”
Fidelma was perplexed.
“There is something here that I do not understand. If Tanaí was found at the abbot’s rooms, if the only witness was killed and the reliquary had not been touched, and there was no eyewitness, what was there to link Tanaí with the crime? Indeed, how do you know that theft was even the motive for the murder?”
Brother Liag shrugged.
“What else could have been the motive for killing poor Sister Una? Anyway, everyone was crying that it was Tanaí who did the deed and that he had been seen running from the chapel. I presumed that this was without question since everyone was shouting it.”
“How much time had passed between the time the crime was committed and when Tanaí was found?”
Brother Liag shifted his weight as he thought over the matter, trying to stretch his memory back two decades.
“I can’t really recall. I know it was some amount of time.”
“An hour?”
“No, well under an hour.”
“A few minutes?”
“More than that. Perhaps fifteen minutes.”
“So who identified Tanaí as the culprit?”
Brother Liag gestured helplessly.
“But everyone was shouting that. . I saw Brother Ogán, the abbot as he now is. In fact, it was Ogán who was foremost in the hue and cry; but there was Brother Librén, the rechtaire. . the steward of the abbey. Everyone was shouting and looking for Tanaí. . I have no idea who identified him first.”
“I see,” Fidelma replied with a sigh. “Why do you now have doubts of Tanaí’s guilt?”
Brother Liag appeared slightly uncomfortable.
“I know that his community has his death on its conscience because he was unjustly killed by the anger of the mob and not by legal process. That is enough to lay the burden of guilt on us. There is always doubt if a man has not had a proper chance to defend himself.”
Fidelma thought for a moment.
“Well, on the facts as you relate them, you have a right to be suspicious of the guilt of Tanaí. Had I been judging him at the time, I would have acquitted him on grounds that there was insufficient evidence. Unless other witnesses could have been produced. However, there is little one can do after twenty years.”
Brother Liag gave a troubled sigh.
“I know. But it is frightening to consider that if Tanaí was not guilty, then all this time the real murderer of Sister Una has dwelt within these walls nursing this dark secret.”
“We all live cheek by jowl with people who nurse dark secrets,” Fidelma pointed out. “Now, perhaps you’ll show me to my room?”
After the evening Angelus bell and a frugal meal in the refectory of the abbey, Fidelma found herself almost automatically making her way to the chapel to once again examine the marble statuette of Sister Una. She disliked unsolved mysteries; they kept nagging at her mind until she had made some resolution of the problem. The face of Sister Una, alive in the marble, seemed to be pleading, as if demanding a resolution to this now-ancient murder.
Fidelma was standing before the statuette when, for the second time, a voice interrupted her meditation.
“He didn’t do it, you know.”
The voice was a soft feminine one. Fidelma quickly glanced around and saw a religieuse standing nearby. She was, so far as Fidelma could place her, somewhere in her thirties. The face could have been attractive, but even in the softening candlelight it seemed bitter and careworn.
“To whom do you refer?” Fidelma asked.
“To Tanaí, my father. My name is Muiríol.”
Fidelma turned to her and examined the woman carefully.
“So you are the daughter of the gardener who was hanged for the killing of Sister Una.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Unjustly so, for, as I say, he did not do it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I was here at the time and he was my father.”
“Daughters are not the best witnesses to their father’s deeds. I would need more than a statement of belief. You were surely young at that time?”
“I was twelve years old. Do you think that day is not impressed on my mind? I was with him in the abbey gardens, for I used to often play there. I remember seeing Sister Una passing to the chapel. She greeted us and asked my father a question about his work. Then she passed on into the chapel.”
Muiríol paused and swallowed slightly. Her dark eyes never left Fidelma’s face. There was a haunted look in them as if again seeing the scene-a vivid scene that appeared to torment her.
“Go on,” Fidelma encouraged softly.
“A few minutes after she passed into the chapel, there came a scream. My father told me to remain where I was and ran to the chapel. He disappeared inside. Others of the community had heard the scream, and some came into the garden to inquire what it portended. There came shouting from the chapel, a man’s voice was raised.”
“Was it your father’s voice?”
“I did not think so at the time. But time often confuses some details.”
“Your memory appears clear enough.”
“It is the truth, I tell you,” she replied defensively.
“What happened then?”
“I saw my father emerge from the chapel. A voice was crying-‘Tanaí has murdered Una!’-or words to that effect. I saw my father running. Later I realized that he was running to the abbot’s rooms in fear for his life. But there was an outcry, and the people were angry. I did not know what had happened. I was taken to our rooms by one of the religieuse and remained there until my mother, prostrate with grief, was carried inside. She had seen my father being. .” Her voice caught and she paused a second before continuing. “She had seen my father being lynched outside the abbot’s rooms. She never recovered and died soon afterward.”
There was a silence between them for a while.
“From what you tell me, your father could not have killed Una,” Fidelma finally observed. “Did you never tell your story?”
Muiríol nodded.
“I told it to the old abbot, but I was not believed.”
“But did you tell it to the Brehon who investigated the matter?”
“The matter was kept secret within the abbey for years until the old abbot died. The abbot felt guilty that the lynching had taken place with members of the community involved, and he wished to conceal it. So it was not reported to the Brehons. That was why the religious here were kind to me and raised me as one of the community. After the old abbot had died, no one bothered about the story of Una and my father.”