Deed of Murder by Cora Harrison Page A

stretched out to the length of it. Brigid, Cumhal’s wife, had washed and dressed the corpse and he lay there, his eyes weighted shut, wrapped in his white cloak, his face looking younger than Mara had ever seen it. Mara swallowed hard. Young men died; that was a fact of life. They died in battles, they drowned in stormy seas; they died because they were reckless and they did dangerous things. Fortunately this particular young man, unlike others, had left no one behind to mourn him. Both father and mother were dead; there were neither brothers nor sisters, or, as far as she knew, any near or dear relation.
    But why did this young man die? This was a question that she had to solve.
    ‘What do you think?’ she asked, looking directly at Nuala.
    Nuala made no reply to this; she just undid the fastening on the white cloak and parted it so that Eamon’s neck was visible. Mara leaned over the body. The injury had been hidden by the cloak, but now it was unmistakable – the purple bruise on the base of the young man’s neck showed as shockingly obvious.
    ‘The small bones here have been smashed,’ said Nuala.
    ‘In falling?’
    Nuala hesitated. ‘Of course, there were cuts and bruises on the face, and one bruise here, but . . .’ She did not finish, and, in front of Brigid, Mara did not question her. Brigid was very dear to Mara, had been her nurse, had been everything to a motherless small girl. These days she managed the two households, looked after the scholars, cooking for them, cleaning, washing clothes, mothering them, also. Often, Mara wondered how she could possibly manage without Brigid and Cumhal to support her. However, this death was a matter for the law now and Brigid never interfered in any legal matter. She walked towards the door, obviously wanting to leave them alone together to discuss this untimely death.
    ‘Cumhal has been to the priest, Brehon,’ she said with her hand on the latch. ‘Father O’Connor will bury him tomorrow morning. He wanted to know if there would be a wake and I said that I thought not, but that we would let him know.’
    ‘No,’ said Mara. ‘No wake. He hasn’t been here long. Very few people will know him.’ Wakes were tedious and distressful affairs, she always thought, where newly bereaved and grieving members of the dead person’s family were subjected to a night-long procession of friends and neighbours arriving with condolences and staying to eat and drink the hours away.
    ‘Thank you, Brigid,’ she said affectionately. ‘You’ve done wonders. We’ll coffin the poor lad as soon as Blár, the wheelwright, arrives. I’ll bring the others to say a prayer for him in the church, I think. Is Fachtnan with Cumhal?’
    ‘No,’ said Brigid with surprise. ‘He rode off at least an hour ago. Almost as soon as the body arrived. I thought he had gone over to Ballinalacken Castle. Didn’t you see him, Brehon? You saw him go, didn’t you, Nuala?’
    ‘I must have missed him,’ said Mara hastily. She didn’t like to see the hurt, proud look on Nuala’s face. She would have been upset to see Fachtnan leave as soon as she arrived. What a tangle it had been for the last few months, she thought with a sigh. Nuala in love with Fachtnan; Fachtnan in love with Fiona; Eamon in love with Fiona . . . And Fiona? Just in love with life, probably, thought Mara. ‘Ask Cumhal if he could spare someone to ride over to Ballinalacken and tell the scholars to come here,’ she said aloud. She followed Brigid to the door. ‘Do you know Cathal O’Halloran, Brigid?’ she asked. She need say no more. Brigid would understand that her thoughts had turned towards the inhabitants of the flax garden and to surmises about how the death of the man who had borne the deed for the new lease could perhaps be connected with the O’Halloran clan.
    ‘Don’t know him, Cathal, very well,’ admitted Brigid. ‘But I know Gobnait, of course. She was an O’Connor from Corcomroe before her