Hemlock At Vespers by Peter Tremayne

shoes, was following Corcrain along the pathway.
    “Had you seen Abbess Cuimne before the accident?” Fidelma asked as she panted slightly behind her guide’s wiry, energetic form as Corcrain strode the ascending track.
    “It’s a small island. Yes, I saw and spoke to her on more than one occasion.”
    “Do you know why she was here? The bó-aire did not even know that she was an abbess. But he seems to think she was simply a religieuse here in retreat, to meditate in this lonely spot away from distraction.”
    “I didn’t get that impression. In fact, she told me that she was engaged in the exploration of some matter connected with the island. And once she said something odd …”
    He frowned as he dredged his memory.
    “It was about the bishop of An Chúis. She said she was hoping to win a wager with Artagán, the bishop.”
    Sister Fidelma’s eyes widened in surprise.
    “A wager. Did she explain what?”
    “I gathered that it was connected with her search.”
    “But you don’t know what that search was for?”
    Corcrain shook his head.
    “She was not generally forthcoming, so I can understand why the bó-aire did not even learn of her rank; even I did not know that, though I suspected she was no ordinary religieuse.”
    “Exploration?” Sister Fidelma returned to Corcrain’s observation.
    Corcrain nodded. “Though what there is to explore here, I don’t know.”
    “Well, did she make a point of speaking to anyone in particular on the island?”
    The apothecary frowned, considering for a moment.
    “She sought out Congal.”
    “Congal. And who is he?”
    “A fisherman by trade. But he is also the local seanchaí, the traditional historian and storyteller of the island.”
    “Anyone else?”
    “She went to see Father Patrick.”
    “Who?”
    “Father Patrick, the priest on the island.”
    They had reached the edge of the cliffs now. Sister Fidelma steeled herself a little, hating the idea of standing close to the edge of the wild, blustery, open space.
    “We found her directly below this spot,” Corcrain pointed.
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “That outcrop of rock is a good enough marker.” The apothecary indicated with the tip of his blackthorn.
    Fidelma bent and examined the ground carefully.
    “What are you looking for?”
    “Perhaps for the rest of that chain. I’m not sure.”
    She paused and examined a patch of broken gorse and trodden grass with areas of soft muddy ground. There were deep imprints of shoes, which the faint drizzle had not yet washed away. There was nothing identifiable, just enough remaining to show that more than one person had stood in this spot.
    “So this area is consistent with the spot she must have gone over from?”
    The apothecary nodded.
    Fidelma bit her lip. The marks could well indicate that more than one person had left the path, which was two yards away from the edge of the cliff at this point, and stood near to the edge of the cliff. But the most important thing about the cliff edge here was the fact that it was at least six feet away from the worn track. There was surely no way that the Abbess Cuimne could go over the cliff by accident while walking along the path. To fall over, she would have had deliberately to leave the pathway, scramble across some shrub and gorse and balance on that dangerous edge. But if not an accident … what then?
    There was something else, too, about the cliff edge. But she did not wish to move too close, for Fidelma hated high, unprotected places.
    “Is there a means of climbing down here?” she suddenly asked Corcrain.
    “Only if you are a mountain goat, I reckon. No, it’s too dangerous. Not that I am saying it is totally impossible to get down. Those with knowledge of climbing such inaccessible spots might well attempt it. There are a few caves set into the face of the cliff along here and once some people from the mainland wanted to go down to examine them.”
    “At this spot?”
    “No. About three hundred