Free Verdict of the Court by Cora Harrison Page A

investigation. You wouldn’t keep the young lads at home, would you? They’d be very keen. And Enda, he’d like to come. But most of the women wouldn’t like those marshes – they’d get their gowns wet. You could talk over the case with them. Ellice, now, she’s sharp as a …’ He stumbled, not liking to use the normal comparison
sharp as a knife
about his daughter-in-law. ‘And then there’s Fionn’s wife,’ he went on, ‘and Maccon’s eldest daughter, and Donogh – you’re not too keen on chasing through the marshes, are you, Donogh? You can stay with Mara.’
    ‘I think, my lord, that the murder must take preference over the hunt,’ said Mara. ‘But, of course, it may well be that a confession will have been made, or else the identity of the guilty person proved before your breakfast is over tomorrow morning,’ she added and was amused to see his face brighten. He had a great belief in her cleverness and efficiency.
    ‘You go up to bed,’ she said comfortingly. ‘I’ll follow you in ten minutes. I just wish to have a word with Donogh first.’
    When the physician had finished, she decided, she would summon the captain of the guard and have the body carried into the nearby church and locked inside it. A messenger would have to be sent to his sister and to the servants and workers at Urlan Castle – the burial would take place there, though it would, of course, be obligatory for King and court to attend the funeral.
    She glanced through the scrolls while Turlough was making his farewells to Donogh, and while he was examining in a fascinated manner, once again before he left, the knife in the man’s back. There was little of use to her in her assistants’ written accounts, she realized with dismay. Conor had been sitting on a cushioned bench on the dais for most of the time; Ellice had danced a little, wandered around the room, and eaten, drunk, chatted. Raour, their son, had danced for most of the time, and had talked with Turlough about hunting – he wasn’t sure whether he had gone down to the end of the room, but thought that he hadn’t. Couldn’t remember whether he had noticed the Brehon or not. Fionn O’Brien and his wife were equally vague.
    There was, of course, one person’s evidence missing from those scrolls, thought Mara as she gave Turlough a hug and promised to come up to the bedroom as soon as possible. Tomás MacClancy’s young assistant, who might well hope to inherit the position of Brehon of Thomond, had not been interviewed. Tomorrow she would have to talk to Enda before doing anything else, she planned, as she went across to the window recess where the physician was standing, yawning over the corpse.
    Strange that Donogh O’Hickey didn’t show the slightest sorrow, not even shock, thought Mara. After all law, medicine, music and poetry were, as someone said, the four pillars that held a king in his place. These two men, the Brehon and the physician, must have had quite a bit to do with each other – they were of the same age and had served King Turlough Donn and his two uncles before him, for almost thirty years.
    ‘What do you think was the cause of death, Donogh?’ she asked.
    He looked at her with surprise. ‘The knife in the back, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’
    Mara looked down at the protruding knife doubtfully. Before she could say anything, though, the door opened and a great gust of wind swept in, drawing a billowing cloud of smoke from the burning logs.
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Brehon. I didn’t know that you were still here,’ said Rosta. ‘The King came into the kitchen to say that he was on his way to bed so I thought that we could clear off the table.’
    Mara did not answer for a moment. She was staring down at the table where the body of the old man still sprawled in that undignified pose. Whether it had been the wind that swept in, causing the fire to smoke and the candles to flare and flicker, or whether it would have