“It is late,” Fidelma sighed. “Before I leave the abbey tomorrow morning, I would like to speak with Brother Duarcán. Where will I find him?”
“He will be in the abbey kitchens. He now works cleaning and cooking for the community.”
The next morning, Fidelma found Duarcán, a tall dark man, washing kitchen utensils. He glanced up as she approached him and paused in his task. He smiled nervously.
“You are Fidelma of Cashel. I have heard of you.”
Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Then you will have also heard, perhaps, that I am an advocate of the Brehon Court?”
“I have.”
“I understand that you were in love with Sister Una.”
The man flushed. He laid down the pot he was cleaning and turned to her, clasping his hands loosely before him.
“I’ll not deny it,” he said quietly.
“I am given to understand that she did not return your sentiments?”
Duarcán’s mouth tightened at the corners.
“That is not so. We were going to be married.”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow.
“What of the story that she was going to marry Liag and set up a school with him?”
“Brother Liag is a liar to tell you that. It is not so. That was our plan; mine and Una’s.”
Fidelma examined his expression carefully. His eyes met hers with a frankness that she found hard to doubt.
“I am told that you were a good sculptor once and that you executed the exquisite statuette of Una in the chapel. Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Why are you now wasting your talent?”
“Wasting? My talent died after I had given Una life in marble. I have nothing else to give. I exist, waiting for the time that I can rejoin Una in spirit.”
The dramatic words were rendered without drama, offhanded, as someone speaks of a mere statement of fact about the condition of the weather.
“Do you recall where you were when Una was killed?” pressed Fidelma.
“Do you think that I would forget the events of that day?” There was a controlled passion in his voice. “Yes, I recall. I was in my studio that overlooked the gardens. I was the abbey’s stonemason and sculptor. Una had been with me that morning, and we were planning to see the old abbot-he is now dead-to tell him of our decision to marry and leave the abbey. When Una left me, I saw her walk toward the chapel.”
“So you saw her cross the abbey gardens?”
Duarcán nodded.
“And you saw her go to the door of the chapel?”
“No. Not as far as that. The door was obscured by the shrubs and trees of the garden.”
“What did you see then?”
“Tanaí and his daughter were in the garden. Tanaí was doing some work. I saw Una pass by, pausing momentarily to speak with them. Then she went on. A few moments later, I was looking out, and I saw Tanaí rise and move off rapidly after Una. There was something suspicious about the way he moved. Rapidly, I mean, purposefully.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Hear anything?” He frowned and shook his head.
“I was intent on cutting some stone at the time. I do not even know what made me glance out the window. It was the sight, shortly afterwards, of people running through the garden that caught my attention rather than the noise. It caused me to go to the door, and that was when I was told that Una had been killed; that Tanaí had tried to steal the reliquary and had killed her.”
“Who told you that?”
“Brother Liag.”
Fidelma looked thoughtfully at him for a while.
“Did it ever occur to you that if Tanaí was going to steal the reliquary, he would hardly have waited for Una to pass by on her way to the chapel and then attempt to steal it while she was actually there?”
Duarcán stared at her as if he had difficulty following her logic.
“But, Brother Liag said. .”
Fidelma raised an eyebrow.
“Yes? What did he say?”
“Well, it became common knowledge that is what happened.”
“Was it at your instigation that the statuette was placed in the chapel?”
Duarcán frowned.
“Not exactly. In those long, lonely days and nights that followed, I felt compelled to recreate her likeness in marble from fear that it would be lost in the mists of receding memories. One day, Brother Ogán, as he then was, came to my studio and saw the finished statuette. It was he who persuaded the old abbot that it should be placed in the chapel, where it has stood ever since. After that, I did no more work as a stonemason or sculptor. I now merely work in the kitchens.”
Sister Fidelma drew a deep sigh.
“I think I am beginning to understand now,” she said.
Duarcán looked at her suspiciously.
“Understand? What?”
“The cause of Una’s death and the person responsible. Where can I find Brother Liag?”
Duarcán’s face filled with surprise.
“I saw him pass on his way to the chapel a moment or so ago. . Are you saying. .?”
But Fidelma was gone, hurrying toward the chapel. Inside, she saw Brother Liag talking with the abbot.
“Sister Fidelma.” Brother Liag seemed surprised to see her.
“I thought that you had already started your journey back to Cashel.”
“There was some unfinished business. Just one question. Cast your mind back twenty years to the events surrounding Una and Tanaí’s death. There was tumult in the abbey gardens, shouting and so forth. You passed by the door of Duarcán’s studio, and he came out to see what was amiss. You told him what had happened. That Una had been killed, that Tanaí had committed the deed, and you also told him the reason-that Tanaí had attempted to steal the reliquary and was prevented by Una.”
Brother Liag frowned, trying to recall, and then he slowly and reluctantly nodded.
“I seem to recollect that I did so.”
“This was before Tanaí had been caught. It was a short time after the community had heard Una’s last scream, and Tanaí was even then being chased across the gardens. How did you know so soon, all these details?”
Brother Liag stared at her, his face going suddenly pale.
Abbot Ogán exhaled loudly.
“Liag, did you. .?”
He left the question unfinished, for Liag was returning the abbot’s look in horror as a further recollection came to him.
Fidelma’s lips compressed for a moment in satisfaction as she turned to the abbot.
“You told Liag your version in the garden. You were heard to cry that Tanaí was the murderer. Your and Liag’s versions differ so much that one of you was lying.
“The truth, Ogán, was that you were in love with Una, not Liag. When you found that Una was going away with Duarcán, that love turned to hatred. Sometimes what is thought of as love is merely the desire to possess, and thus it and hate become two sides of the same coin. Was it here, in this chapel, that Una told you of her love and her decision to leave the abbey? Did you then strike her down in your jealous rage? Her scream of terror as you struck was heard by Tanaí, who came rushing into the chapel. . too late. He was not running to the abbot for sanctuary, but to tell the abbot what he had seen. You raised the alarm, denouncing Tanaí as the murderer, and the first person you told was Liag. The death of both Una and Tanaí are your responsibility, Ogán.”
The abbot stood, head bowed.
When he spoke it was in a dull, expressionless tone.
“Do you not think that I haven’t wished for this moment over the years? I loved Una. Truly loved her. I was overcome with a mad rage that I instantly regretted. Once Duarcán’s statuette had been placed here, I returned each night to seek her forgiveness. .”
“Your contrition could have been more readily believed had you made this confession twenty years ago. I would place yourself in the hands of Brother Liag; prepare to answer for your crimes.”