A shadow crossed the features of the apothecary. He paused a moment and then cleared his throat, his lower lip jutting out like a child about to burst into tears.
‘That will not be possible.’
‘Not possible?’ Fidelma tried to control her irritation. ‘Why not?’
Of all the answers she was expecting, she did not expect his next sentence.
‘I am afraid Brother Ruadán is dead. He died in his sleep during the night.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fidelma paused but a second before she dodged nimbly round the portly apothecary and thrust open the door of Brother Ruadán’s chamber. She could hear Brother Hnikar’s outraged protests behind her. She hesitated briefly on the threshold. Brother Ruadán lay on his bed. Then she strode to the bedside and stood looking down at the body.
The elderly Brother looked peaceful now. It was clear that his body had already been washed and prepared ready for the services that would precede the burial. Then her eye fell on his hands, carefully folded on his breast. Some of the fingernails were torn — split, as if ill-kept — with dried blood visible beneath them. They were not the nails of the hand she had held that morning. One of the things that people of her country prided themselves on were their hands and fingernails. Among the aristocracy and the professional classes, the fingernails had to be kept carefully cut and rounded as a sign of breeding. To be insulting, one of the worst terms one could use against another person was to call them crécht-ingnech or ‘ragged nails’. Between the time that she had seen the old man earlier that morning to the time of his death, Brother Ruadán must have fought with his hands againstsomething, against someone, breaking his nails and causing blood from his assailant to be caught under them.
Her expression was stony as she gazed down at her old tutor. Ill as Brother Ruadán had been, someone had determined to end his life. He had been murdered.
She re-examined his face, the slightly blue texture of the skin and the lips stretched over the yellowing teeth and the eyes that had not been completely closed after death. She noticed little spots of dried blood around the nostrils. In a flash she realised that the killer had probably held a pillow over the old man’s face, holding him down while he made a desperate attempt to push them off, scratching and clawing at the powerful arms of his assailant. That was how he had damaged his hands.
Fidelma glanced up at the apothecary who had followed her into the chamber, still protesting at her behaviour.
‘When did this happen?’ she interrupted him.
‘I told you, it was reported to me that he had died in the night. Really, Sister, you presume too much to enter without approval-’
‘He has already been washed and prepared for burial. Why was I not informed when this happened?’
Brother Hnikar blinked at the sharp tone of her voice.
‘I have known poor Ruadán since I was a little girl,’ she went on. ‘I have a right to know.’
‘You have no right to be here without permission of the abbot.’
‘Then I shall address my questions to the abbot,’ replied Fidelma coldly.
An uneasy look entered Brother Hnikar’s eyes. ‘What questions?’ he asked.
Fidelma did not respond but gave one last took at the corpse, turned and left the room.
Fidelma entered the abbot’s study before he had finished his invitation to enter. He was speaking with Magister Ado and Brother Faro.
‘Have you been informed of Brother Ruadán’s death?’ she demanded without preamble.
Abbot Servillius seemed surprised at her belligerent tone.
‘We have, my child, and allow me to express my condolences to you on the passing of your old friend and tutor. This abbey has lost a good man in his passing.’
‘His body has already been washed and prepared for burial. Why was I not told of his death earlier?’
The abbot’s frown deepened. ‘Earlier than what, my daughter?’ he asked softly. ‘As soon as Brother Hnikar told me the news, I sent Brother Faro to look for you.’
‘I thought you were in the herbarium,’ confirmed Brother Faro. ‘But you were not there and Brother Lonán did not know where you had gone.’
Fidelma swallowed sharply. It was true that she had spent a long time in the library and no one had known that she was there apart from Brother Eolann. It seemed, perhaps, that it might be her own fault that she had not been informed earlier.
‘When did it happen?’ she went on. ‘When was his death known?’
‘Brother Hnikar was informed that something was amiss and went to attend him.’
‘Who informed him?’
‘Probably the steward, as it is his task to make a daily check on all matters. The apothecary came to find me immediately but, of course, we were locked in debate with Britmund. He felt he should not interrupt. So he waited until he heard that we had finished, by which time you were reported to have gone to the herb garden. So we sent BrotherFaro to find you. I appreciate that this is upsetting for you. Such a long journey to see your old mentor and now to find him dead.’ He paused, cleared his throat, and then dismissed Brother Faro.
When he had departed, Abbot Servillius indicated that Fidelma should be seated while Magister Ado said: ‘We must also remember that Sister Fidelma is a lawyer in her own land. As such, perhaps she is used to deaths being reported immediately to her. So we can forgive her agitation at being the last to find out.’
The abbot took a jug from his table, pouring its contents into three beakers.
‘As the Blessed Timothy advised, Noli adhuc aquam bibere, sed vino modico utere propter stomachum tuum.’
Fidelma had heard the saying mentioned before: drink no longer water but use a little wine for your stomach’s sake. She realised that wine would be welcome, for it was hard to take the shock of Brother Ruadán’s murder. And now she did not know whom to trust with her thoughts.
‘Brother Ruadán was fond of our local red wine,’ the abbot said as he handed her the beaker. ‘His body will be taken for burial at midnight in our necropolis. It lies on the hillside behind the abbey buildings. I believe the ceremony is not dissimilar to the one you practise in Hibernia.’
Fidelma sighed deeply as she sipped the wine and tried to gather her thoughts in some order. ‘If there is something, some relic of his, that I could take back to his abbey on Inis Celtra …? That was where he came from and studied, and where I first knew him.’
‘Of course,’ agreed the abbot at once. ‘I also believe it is your custom to have someone who knew the deceased to speak some words about him at the graveside?’
‘That is so.’
‘I shall say a few words of his labours here in the abbey, but we know nothing of his life before he left his own land. I believe God has guided your footsteps here so that you may speak the praises of this worthy servant of His. Will you speak those words?’
Fidelma had no hesitation in agreeing.
‘Death always comes as a shock,’ went on the abbot, ‘even when one is entirely prepared. If Brother Ruadán had a fault it was in his zeal to bring the truth of the Faith to those who had been led astray into heresy. They had no respect for his frail body but they feared the strength of his voice and the truth of his words.’
‘Are you satisfied that your abbey contains no followers of Arius?’ she asked, her mind still thinking over who might have murdered her mentor as he lay helpless in his bed.
The question seemed to startle both the abbot and the Magister Ado.
‘We are a refuge from such heresies,’ said the abbot. ‘What makes you ask such a thing? We are an island of the true Faith. Why would heretics need to send one of their number among us?’