The Monk Who Vanished
not.’
    ‘There is always a space somewhere in the earth even for sinners,’ replied Conchobar, gravely. ‘However, the days of their lamentation will not be long.’
    Among the people of Eireann, the funeral obsequies often included twelve days and nights of mourning and weeping over the body which were called laithi na caoinnti - the days of lamentation - before which the bodies were laid in their graves.
    Inside the apothecary there stood a large broad plank table which was more than adequate to take the two bodies of the slain men. Indeed, this was not the first time that the table was used by Conchobar for laying out bodies as he was often called upon to perform the duties of mortician. The corpses lay side by side, naked except, for modesty’s sake, where the old monk had lain a strip of linen to mask their genitalia.
    Fidelma went to stand at the foot of the table, her hands folded before her; her eyes were narrowed slightly and they missed nothing.
    The first thing that she noticed, almost in grotesque amusement, was that one man was tall, thin and balding although his fair hair was worn long at the back as if to compensate for this fact, while the second man was short, of ample girth with a mass of curly, unruly greying hair. Side by side, their physical differences were almost comical. Only the fact that they were cadavers, the wounds of Gionga’s sword marking how they met their deaths, turned the comical into the grotesque.
    ‘Which of these two was the archer?’ Fidelma asked softly.
    ‘The bald one,’ answered Gionga at once. ‘The other was the accomplice.’
    ‘Where are the weapons that they carried?’
    It was Conchobar who retrieved the bow and quiver, which contained a few arrows, and a sword from a corner of the room.
    ‘The warriors who carried the corpses here brought these things with the bodies,’ the old monk explained.
    Fidelma gestured for the old man to lay the weapons aside. ‘I will examine them in a moment …’
    ‘One moment!’ Gionga ignored her. ‘Bring the quiver of arrows here.’
    Brother Conchobar glanced at Fidelma but she made no protest. She knew what Gionga had spotted on the roof of the warehouse and she realised that it was wise not to delay the point he was inevitably
going to make. The apothecary held out the quiver to Gionga. The tall warrior selected an arrow at random and drew it out, holding it out before their gaze.
    ‘What would you say is the provenance of this arrow, tanist of Cashel?’ Gionga asked with a feigned expression of innocence.
    Donndubháin took the arrow and began to examine it carefully.
    ‘You know well enough, Gionga,’ interrupted Fidelma, for she was also versed in such matters.
    ‘I do?’
    Donndubháin looked unhappy.
    ‘The flights bear the markings of our cousin’s people, the Eóghanacht of Cnoc Aine.’
    ‘Exactly,’ sighed Gionga softly. ‘All the arrows in the assassin’s quiver bear the markings of the fletchers of Cnoc Aine.’
    ‘Has that some meaning? After all-’ Fidelma turned innocent eyes on the warrior - ‘arrows are easily acquired.’ She drew out a small knife from her marsupium. ‘This knife was made in Rome. I bought it when I was on a pilgrimage there. It does not make me a Roman.’
    Gionga flushed in annoyance and rammed the arrow back in the quiver.
    ‘Do not try to be clever, sister of Colgú. The provenance of the arrows is clear. And will be borne in mind when I report to my Prince.’
    Donndubháin flushed at the direct insult to his cousin. ‘There is only one dálaigh among us, Gionga, and she will make the report,’ he snapped.
    Gionga merely showed his teeth in a sneer.
    Fidelma ignored him and took the quiver and examined it. Apart from the markings on the flights of the arrows there was no other means of identifying it from a hundred and one other such quivers. She gestured for Conchobar to show her the bow. It was of good, sturdy workmanship and with no other distinguishing marks.

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