Scales of Retribution (5 page)

‘
I
have everything under control. There’s no need for you to worry your head about anything,
Mamó
.’ Young MacClancy gave a roguish grin and Mara scowled. She had made a big effort to dress in her most dignified gown, a magnificent garment made from flowing black silk, its colour relieved by the white lace at the wrists and neck of the linen
léine
that she wore beneath. Brigid had washed her dark hair and coiled the thick braids at the back of her head. A quick glance at the looking glass had confirmed to Mara that, though pale, she was looking well. Who was this bumptious young man to attempt to tease her by pretending to be one of her grandchildren?

‘Brehon,’ she said coldly and with emphasis. Then before he could respond she said swiftly. ‘Just make your report to me, please.’

He swept her a playful bow, but when she didn’t respond he arranged his face in solemn lines.

‘Well, of course, the murder was a very easy matter to solve . . .’ he began, but upon seeing her expression he added kindly, ‘coming fresh to the situation I could see the truth of it. More difficult for you, of course.’

Mara stared at him frostily. ‘I have never come to any conclusion about a murder before I investigated the matter fully,’ she said emphatically. ‘Nor would you, I am convinced,’ she added in a manner that belied her expressed conviction.

‘Oh, I’ve done a bit of poking around,’ he said airily. ‘Youthful energy, you know,
Ma
 . . . Brehon. I do my bit of teaching, set those lads of yours down to work, conduct their examinations and then I go and have a few chats around the place, do a bit of poking around, you know. There are no flies on me.’ He tapped a finger to one side of his broad nose.

‘Examinations!’ exclaimed Mara, distracted from her thoughts about Malachy’s murder. ‘The boys have done their examinations!’

‘Done, marked, moderated by my cousin Fergus, and they all know their results by now,’ said Boetius complacently. He combed his red beard with his podgy fingers and beamed happily at her.

‘B – but . . . how . . . what examinations?’ Mara realized that she was stuttering with rage and pulled herself together. Her voice was cold and hard as she said firmly, ‘I have my own examination papers which are based on the work that my scholars have done here at Cahermacnaghten. It was kind of you to endeavour to test them, but I would prefer to do that myself.’

‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ said Boetius. ‘These were your own examination papers. I took them from the wooden press in the schoolhouse. Your daughter, Sorcha, found your key and gave it to me.’

Now, how do I get around this? thought Mara. There was something about this young man that she disliked very much. On the other hand, there was no denying the fact that between fever and haemorrhaging she had been incapable of any effort for the last week. She couldn’t blame Sorcha – only wished that Boetius had asked Brigid for the key. Her daughter did not have a suspicious nature; her housekeeper would have been very sure that no other than Mara, herself, should handle that key.

‘Two failures, I’m afraid.’ Boetius smiled gently. ‘Still, four passes! Not bad for a small country place like this,’ he said patronizingly.

‘Aidan and Hugh,’ Mara said the words more to herself than to him. Hugh was a sensitive boy and would have been thrown off his stride by her unexpected absence, and she herself had often threatened Aidan with failure if he did not work a little harder.

‘No, Aidan did all right – especially in the
viva voce
– I flatter myself that Aidan has responded very well to my teaching. He likes someone young, someone who will have a laugh with him.’

‘So who failed then?’ Mara decided that she would ignore this young man’s annoying habit of trying to tease her.

‘Fachtnan, of course,’ said Boetius. ‘And Hugh, as you guessed.’

Mara stared at him with consternation. Fachtnan had made enormous progress in the last few months. She had been certain that he would pass. He had some memory problems, but he and Mara had worked on a set of visual memory prompts and mnemonics – something she had read about in a text relating Greek scholastic methods. This would be a crushing blow to the poor lad.

‘And my cousin, Fergus, fully agreed with me.’ Boetius chuckled at her expression. ‘No really, I know what you’re thinking. Dear old Fergus is not too bright, but even he could see that this lad could not qualify as a lawyer. He’s not suitable in any way, you know. He forgot some elementary facts in the
viva voce
and his Latin is poor. No, no, he could not have been passed. It might be best for him to give it up completely. I understand that he has already had an extra year.’

‘Fachtnan has an excellent understanding of the duties of a lawyer and will make a superb Brehon,’ said Mara curtly. ‘I would like to see those examination papers, please.’

Boetius laughed heartily. ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ he said wagging a finger at her, his small green eyes twinkling merrily. ‘Well, I’m afraid that they are no longer here. I’m not one of those people who sit around and let grass grow under foot. I’ve already sent a messenger with the papers over to the Brehon in Thomond.’

Mara was silenced. There was nothing she could do. This obnoxious individual was a fully qualified teacher. If Fergus had not weakly signed the moderation papers she might have been able to hold new examinations. If the papers had not been sent to Thomond, she could have double-checked to make sure that the marking was correct, but she was now left with no way out of the situation. In a moment of weakness, she had tacitly agreed to Boetius MacClancy taking over her duties and she would have to put up with the consequence. It would not do twelve-year-old Hugh too much harm to have an extra year, though she was sorry as the child had little confidence and had been badly affected by the death of his mother eighteen months ago. Fachtnan, however, was a different matter.

This would be a terrible blow.

Mara glared at Boetius. ‘I would have preferred if you had waited,’ she said in tones that would have made the most troublesome adolescent shiver, but had little effect on the self-satisfied individual opposite.

‘No trouble at all, I assure you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Now let me tell you about this murder. It’s a sad case, but justice must be done.’

‘You haven’t summoned the people of the kingdom to the judgement place at Poulnabrone and told them of your conclusions?’

‘Oh, no, I thought I would leave that for you to do.’ Boetius had not picked up on the irony, or else decided to ignore it. ‘There is no hurry,’ he said condescendingly. ‘It’s not yet two weeks since the poor fellow was murdered.’

‘And?’ Mara was determined to say as little as possible. To her annoyance she began to feel slightly weak. Little Cormac cried from the room above and she half-rose and then made herself sit still. Brigid was with him. Between Sorcha and Brigid her child would be well looked after.

‘It’s a delicate matter, you see,’ continued Boetius. ‘I’ve been looking up the law books and, to give you your due, you do have a fine collection . . .’ he paused to be thanked for the compliment, but after a quick, keen glance at her face he continued.

‘I never remember reading of a case like this; and I must say it for myself that I have a great memory. The thing is that there is plenty said about what must happen if a son kills his father, but nothing is said about what should happen if a daughter kills her father.’

And now it was out. Mara had suspected it.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked grimly.

He raised his sandy eyebrows. ‘It’s obvious, surely,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘Motive, opportunity, means. Young Nuala had them all. According to her stepmother, Caireen, who seems a very nice woman, Nuala hated her father and often told him that she wished that he were dead. She had some idea that if he were out of the way, she could set up as a physician in the Burren. Ridiculous, of course.’ He gave another light laugh and looked at her enquiringly, but still she said nothing so he continued.

‘Nuala had the opportunity to kill him; she was actually working in the herb garden at Caherconnell when Malachy died, and of course she could have found the means. Apparently, according to Caireen, Malachy was poisoned. Nuala, of course, would have known where all Malachy’s poisons were kept. Caireen told Siobhan that.’

‘What!’ Mara was jolted out of her resolution to say nothing.

He beamed at her. ‘Yes, I think I’ve got it all worked out – motive, means, opportunity,’ he repeated.

‘You mentioned a discussion between Siobhan and Caireen. Surely that is not evidence.’ With an effort Mara kept the lid on her boiling temper. How dare this young man try to patronize her! However, that was a small matter compared to the danger he represented to Nuala unless she got on her feet quickly and took back her position from Boetius MacClancy.

‘Yes, Caireen has been a great help to me in solving this murder.’ He waited for a question and when none came he exclaimed, ‘but I’m tiring you. Look, why don’t you go back to your bed and leave everything to me.’

‘Go on,’ said Mara. ‘I am perfectly well, thank you. You were saying that you consulted books to no avail. What exactly were you looking for?’

‘What is the correct penalty for a daughter who has murdered her father, of course.’ Boetius nodded his head wisely and raised his sandy eyebrows at her pityingly, as one who is making all possible allowance for the defective memory of an ill person.

‘I must seem very old-fashioned and out-of-date,’ said Mara with false humility, ‘but I normally look for evidence before speculating on the penalty.’

‘The evidence is obvious.’ Boetius was beginning to sound a little impatient now. ‘There is no doubt at all in my mind that Caireen is correct. Nuala murdered her father, Malachy. She was working in the herb garden, she slipped over to the window when no one was looking and put some poison into his drink, then back to the weeding again. The question is what penalty should be awarded? I know there is all that old-fashioned business about putting someone guilty of patricide into a boat without oars and setting them afloat on the ocean, but I can’t find if that has ever been done to a woman.’

‘So, what is your solution?’ enquired Mara.

Boetius flashed a smile at her. ‘Fergus’s lady wife, you know Siobhan, don’t you? Well, she came up with the solution. She and her friend, Ailse, they talked it over with Caireen. Caireen did not want the ultimate penalty – as she truly said, Nuala’s death would be of no use to her. So Siobhan suggested that Nuala should enter a convent, become a nun and spend her life praying for forgiveness. And, of course, her property at Rathborney should be given to Caireen to recompense her for the death of her husband, Malachy.’

‘What! Nuala be forced to enter a convent!’ As soon as the exclamation left her lips Mara felt annoyed with herself. It would have been more dignified to ignore the malice of stupid people.

‘A very humane suggestion.’ Boetius beamed at her condescendingly. ‘As Caireen remarked, if the girl was in Galway she would be hanged.’

‘With no trial! Is that the custom under English law?’ Mara raised her eyebrows mockingly.

‘Well, as I said to Caireen, the judge would be certain to bring in a verdict of guilty.’ Boetius was not disconcerted by her question.

‘So you have discussed the matter with all of these people?’ The baby cried again from upstairs, but Mara’s attention was concentrated on Boetius MacClancy. The baby would be well looked after; little Cormac was gaining weight visibly from Sorcha’s rich milk; Sorcha herself was well and happy, enjoying outdoor meals and fun with her three children who were all growing tanned and rosy in the Atlantic air on the Burren. But Nuala was as dear to her as any of them, and Nuala was in grave danger from this ignorant, opinionated young man.

‘The matter of Malachy’s murder and your surmises should not have been discussed with anyone,’ she said hotly.

‘Oh, I didn’t mention it to any of the scholars,’ he said reassuringly.

‘That was not what I meant. My scholars are trained never to mention any legal matter to outsiders; that would not be true of a gossip party at the MacClancy household.’ And if that observation made its way back to Fergus – well, that was too bad, she thought. What on earth did he mean by allowing that conversation to take place? She rose to her feet.

‘Where are the scholars?’ she asked.

‘I left them some work to do.’ He looked a little bewildered at her question as he, too, rose.

‘Let’s go over there.’ Brigid would fuss, but that could not be helped. The sooner Mara took matters back into her own hands, the greater the chance of preventing irrevocable harm to Nuala’s reputation and her future happiness.

Mara said no more until they had walked the few hundred yards between Cahermacnaghten and the Brehon’s house. In the distance she could hear her grandchildren playing and then a shout of ‘Bran’, and her beautiful white Irish wolfhound came soaring over one of the stone walls and joined her. She patted him and he leaned his muscular body against hers. He would have missed her badly during the last week.

‘It’s all right, Sorcha,’ she called. ‘Bran is with me.’ Hurriedly she turned towards the law school enclosure. Neither Brigid nor Sorcha would dare interrupt once she took her position in front of her scholars. Stiffening her spine and trying to ignore the jellylike state of her legs, she walked through the gate.