A thought had occurred to Fidelma and she examined the floor of the chapel, tracing her way carefully back to the door and outside. She was looking for blood specks but something else caught her eye-droplets of wax near the sarcophagus. The fact alone was not surprising. She would imagine that many people over the years had entered with candles and bent to examine the stone that had covered the relics of the saint. What was surprising was the fact that the tallow grease lay in profusion over the edge of the sepulcher on which the flat covering stone would have swung shut.
Fidelma, frowning, seized the end of the flat stone and exerted her strength. It swung. It was not easy to push it but, nevertheless, it could be moved with a rasping sound back into place across the tomb. Thoughtfully, she returned it to the position in which she had found it.
She let her gaze wander back to the body to examine the knife again. It was a poor country person’s knife, a general implement used for a variety of purposes.
She made no effort to extract it.
She turned her attention to the accoutrements worn by the girl. A rough, wooden crucifix hung around her neck on a leather thong. It was crudely carved but Fidelma had seen many like it among the poorer religious. Her eyes wandered down to the worn leather marsupium that hung at the girl’s waist.
She opened it. There was a comb inside. Every Irish girl carried a comb. This one was made of bone of the same poor quality as her other ornaments. Long hair being admired in Ireland, it was essential that all men and women carry a cior or comb. She also found, rather to her surprise, there were half a dozen coins in the marsupium. They were not of great value but valuable enough to suggest that robbery was no motive in this killing even if the thought had occurred to Fidelma. It had not.
The more Fidelma looked at the corpse, at the position of it, the more she realized that there was something bizarre about this killing; more peculiar than even the usual aberrant fact of violent death. She could not quite put her finger on it. It was true that the corpse’s facial muscles seemed slightly distorted in death as if there was a smile on its features. But that was not what bothered her.
By the time she left the oratory, three senior religious were entering the low gate to the oratory grounds. Fidelma immediately recognized the pale, worried features of Rian, the Abbot of Ardmore. With him there was a tall woman, whose features were set and grim, and a moon-faced man, whose features looked permanently bewildered, whom she also recognized as the steward of the abbey. What was his name? Brother Echen.
“Is it true, Fidelma?” greeted the abbot. He was a distant cousin and greeted her familiarly.
“True enough, Rian,” she replied.
“I knew it would happen sooner or later,” snapped the tall sister with him.
Fidelma turned inquiring eyes on her.
“This is Sister Corb,” Abbot Rian explained nervously.
“She is the mistress of the novices in our community. Sister Aróc was a novitiate under her charge.”
“Perhaps you would be good enough to explain the meaning of that remark,” invited Fidelma.
Sister Corb had a long, thin, angular face. Her features seemed permanently set in a look of disapproving derision.
“Little explanation needed. The girl was touched.”
“Touched?”
“Crazy.”
“Perhaps you might explain how that manifested itself and why it would lead to her death?”
The abbot interrupted anxiously.
“I think it might be better explained, Fidelma, by saying that the girl, Sister Aróc, isolated herself from most of us in the community. Her behavior was. . eccentric.”
The abbot had paused to try to find the correct word.
Fidelma suppressed a sigh.
“I am still not sure how this manifested itself. Are you saying that the girl was half-wit? Was her behavior uncontrollable? Exactly what marked her out as so different that death was an inevitable outcome?”
“Sister Aróc was a fanatic about religious beliefs.” It was the moon-faced steward of the abbey, Brother Echen, who spoke up for the first time. “She claimed that she heard voices. She said that they were”-he screwed up his eyes and genuflected-“she said they were voices of the saints.”
Sister Corb sniffed in disapproval.
“She used it as an excuse not to obey the Rule of the community. She claimed she was in direct communication with the soul of the Blessed Declan. I would have had her flogged for blasphemy but Abbot Rian is a most humane man.”
Fidelma could not help the censure that came into her voice.
“If, as you say, the girl was touched, not of the same mental faculty as others, what good would a flogging have done?” she asked dryly.
“I still do not see how this behavior would have led to her death. . her death sooner or later was the phrase I think you used, Sister Corb?”
Sister Corb looked disconcerted.
“What I meant to say was that Sister Aróc was otherworldly. Naive, if you like. She did not know how. . how lecherous men can be.”
The abbot seemed to have a coughing fit and Brother Echen seemed to have taken an intense interest in his feet.
Fidelma stared hard at the woman. Her eyebrow rose in automatic question.
“I mean. . I mean that Aróc was not versed in the ways of the world. She let herself enjoy the company of men without realizing what men expect from a young girl.”
The abbot had regained his composure.
“Sadly, Sister Aróc was not possessed of good sense but I think that Sister Corb might be overstating the attraction that Aróc could stir in the minds of any male members of our community.”
Sister Corb’s lips twisted cynically.
“The Father Abbot sees only the good in people. It does not matter the extent of the attractive qualities, a young girl is a young girl!”
Fidelma raised her hands in a gesture indicating hopelessness and let them fall.
“I am trying to understand what is implied here and how this is providing a clue to how and why Sister Aróc came by her death in such bizarre circumstances.”
Sister Corb’s eyes narrowed slightly and she stared across the chapel ground to where Brother Ross was leaning against the low dividing wall, still looking pale and shaken.
“Have you asked him?”
“Brother Ross? Why?”
Sister Corb’s lips compressed.
“In fairness, I should not say another word.”
“You have either said too much or too little,” Fidelma replied dourly.
“Where was he when the killing took place?”
“That I can answer,” Fidelma replied. “Brother Ross was conducting the band of pilgrims around the sites associated with the Blessed Declan. I was part of that band.”
Sister Corb was not convinced.
“How can you be so sure?” she demanded.
“Brother Ross had been with us during the last two hours.”
“So why could he not have killed the girl before he met you?” pressed Sister Corb, refusing to be budged from her suspicion.
“Because”-smiled Fidelma-“she was killed not long before we arrived at the chapel and found her. In fact, I would say she was killed only minutes before.”
Sister Corb’s mouth snapped shut. She seemed irritated at Fidelma’s logic.
“Why would you accuse Brother Ross anyway?” asked Fidelma with interest.
“I have had my say,” muttered the mistress of novitiates, her lips forming into a thin line of defiance.
“I will tell you when you have answered my questions to my satisfaction,” replied Fidelma softly. The fact that there was no belligerence in her voice made it that much more imposing. Sister Corb was well aware of the powers of an advocate of the law courts.