“Why do you ask?”
“Indulge me for a moment, Lord of Conra.”
“Of twenty years, golden hair and blue eyes. What is the meaning of these questions?”
Fidelma did not reply directly.
“The road from Tir Bui would bring a traveler from the north through Ballacolla and around the abbey, wouldn’t it?”
Conri looked surprised.
“It would,” he agreed irritably. “I say again, why these questions?”
“I am a dálaigh,” repeated Fidelma gravely. “It is my nature to ask questions. But the body of a young woman has been found in the woods near the abbey and we are trying to identify her.”
Conri blinked rapidly.
“Are you saying that this might be Segnat?”
Fidelma’s expression was sympathetic.
“We are merely making inquiries of the surrounding habitations to see if anything is known of a missing young woman.”
Conri raised his jaw defiantly.
“Well, Segnat is not missing. I expect her arrival any time.”
“But perhaps you would come to the abbey this afternoon and look at the body? This is merely a precaution to eliminate the possibility of it being Segnat.”
The young man compressed his lips stubbornly.
“It could not possibly be Segnat.”
“Regretfully, all things are possible. It is merely that some are more unlikely than others. We would appreciate your help. A negative identification is equally as helpful as a positive one.”
Abbot Laisran finally broke in.
“The abbey would be grateful for your cooperation, Lord of Conra.”
The young man hesitated and then shrugged.
“This afternoon, you say? I shall be there.”
He turned his horse sharply and cantered off.
Laisran exchanged a glance with Fidelma.
“Was this useful?” he asked.
“I think so,” she replied.
“We can now turn our attention to the inn which you tell me is north of the abbey Ballacolla.”
Laisran’s face lightened.
“Ah, I see what you are about.”
Fidelma smiled at him.
“You do?”
“It is as you said, a negative is equally as important as a positive. You have produced a negative with young Conri, so now we will seek the identity of the murdered one in the only possible place.”
Fidelma continued to smile as they turned northward back toward the abbey and beyond to Ballacolla.
The inn stood at a crossroads, a sprawling dark building. They were turning into the yard when a muscular woman of middle age driving a small mule cart halted, almost blocking the entrance. The woman remained seated on her cart, glowering in displeasure at them.
“Religious!” She almost spat the word.
Fidelma regarded her with raised eyebrows.
“You sound as if you are not pleased to see us,” she observed in amusement.
“It is the free hospitality provided by religious houses that takes away the business from poor people such as myself,” grunted the woman.
“Well, we might be here to purchase some refreshment,” placated Fidelma.
“If you can pay for it, you will find my husband inside. Let him know your wants.”
Fidelma made no effort to move out of her way.
“I presume that you are the innkeeper?”
“And if I am?”
“I would like to ask you a few questions. Did a young woman pass this way two nights ago? A young woman who would have arrived along the northern road from Tir Bui.”
The big woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What is that to you?”
“I am a dálaigh and my questions must be answered,” replied Fidelma firmly.
“What is your name, innkeeper?”
The woman blinked. She seemed ready to argue, but then she compressed her lips for a moment. To refuse to answer a dálaigh’s questions laid one open to fines for obstructing justice. A keeper of a public hostel had specific obligations before the law.
“My name is Corbnait,” she conceded reluctantly.
“And the answer to my first question?”
Corbnait lifted her heavy shoulders and let them fall expressively.
“There was a woman who came here three nights ago. She merely wanted a meal and fodder for her horse. She was from Tir Bui.”
“Did she tell you her name?”
“Not as I recall.”
“Was she young, fair of skin with spun gold hair in a single braid?”
The innkeeper nodded slowly.
“That was her.” Suddenly an angry expression crossed the big woman’s face. “Is she complaining about my inn or of the service that she received here? Is she?”
Fidelma shook her head.
“She is beyond complaining, Corbnait. She is dead.”
The woman blinked again and then said sullenly: “She did not die of any food that was served on my premises. I keep a good house here.”
“I did not specify the manner of her death.” Fidelma paused.
“I see you drive a small cart.”
Corbnait looked surprised at the sudden switch of subject.
“So do many people. I have to collect my supplies from the outlying farms. What is wrong with that?”
“Do you also dye clothes at your inn?”
“Dye clothes? What games are you playing with me, Sister?” Corbnait glanced from Abbot Laisran back to Fidelma as if she considered that she was dealing with dangerous lunatics. “Everyone dyes their own clothes unless they be a lord or lady.”
“Please show me your hands and arms,” Fidelma pressed.
The woman glanced again from one to another of them but seeing their impassive faces she decided not to argue. She sighed and held out her burly forearms. There was no sign of any dye stains on them.
“Satisfied?” she snapped.
“You keep your hands well cared for,” observed Fidelma.
The woman sniffed.
“What do I have a husband for if not to do the dirty work?”
“But I presume you served the girl with her meal?”
“That I did.”
“Did she talk much?”
“A little. She told me she was on the way to join her husband. He lives some way to the south of the abbey.”
“She didn’t stay here for the night?”
“She was anxious to reach her husband. Young love!” The woman snorted in disgust.
“It’s a sickness you grow out of. The handsome prince you thought you married turns out to be a lazy good-for-nothing! Take my husband-”
“You had the impression that she was in love with her husband?” cut in Fidelma.
“Oh yes.”
“She mentioned no problems, no concerns?”
“None at all.”
Fidelma paused, thinking hard.
“Was she alone during the time she was at the inn? No one else spoke to her? Were there any other guests?”
“There was only my husband and myself. My husband tended to her horse. She was particular about its welfare. The girl was obviously the daughter of a chieftain for she had a valuable black mare and her clothes were of fine quality.”
“What time did she leave here?”
“Immediately after her meal, just two hours to sunset. She said she could reach her destination before nightfall. What happened to her? Was she attacked by a highway robber?”
“That we have yet to discover,” replied Fidelma. She did not mention that a highway robber could be discounted simply by the means of the poor girl’s death. The manner of her death was, in fact, her most important clue. “I want to have a word with your husband now.”
Corbnait frowned.
“Why do you want to speak with Echen? He can tell you nothing.”
Fidelma’s brows drew together sternly.
“I will be the judge of that.”
Corbnait opened her mouth, saw a look of steadfast determination on Fidelma’s face, and then shrugged. She suddenly raised her voice in a shrill cry.
“Echen!”
It startled the patient ass and Fidelma’s and Abbot Laisran’s horses. They shied and were skittish for a few moments before they were brought under control.
A thin, ferret-faced man came scuttling out of the barn.