A Prayer for the Damned by Peter Tremayne Page B

observed, Eadulf.’
    She bent down and examined the man’s feet. Then she glanced round and with a grunt of satisfaction reached forward under a side table. Indeed, one sandal had been hidden under it, reinforcing the idea that it had been kicked off while the other was still on the foot. Fidelma rose satisfied.
    Eadulf was now looking at the wounds on the man’s chest.
    ‘I presume that you agree that he was stabbed to death?’ he asked Brother Conchobhar.
    The old apothecary nodded. ‘I am reminded, Brother Eadulf, that you studied for a while in one of our great schools of medicine … Tuam Brecain, wasn’t it?’
    ‘It was.’
    ‘Examining the stab wounds, can you deduce anything else?’
    Eadulf peered at the wounds, frowning before straightening up. ‘The abbot was stabbed half a dozen times.’
    Fidelma raised her eyebrows momentarily in surprise. She moved to Eadulf’s shoulder and glanced down at the body once more.
    ‘Half a dozen?’ There was so much blood staining the clothes and surrounding areas that she had not counted the wounds.
    ‘You remark on that?’ Brother Conchobhar’s tone was approving. ‘It is not my place to draw conclusions but, nevertheless, there is a conclusion to be drawn.’
    ‘The conclusion that here is a killing that was filled with emotion?’ Fidelma said at once.
    ‘One of the stab wounds would be fatal in itself,’ agreed Brother Conchobhar. ‘That one entered the body between the ribs.’ He indicated. ‘The rest were more or less superficial wounds that caused much blood to flow. They seem to have been struck at haphazard as if someone had thrown himself on the abbot with sudden fury. Eadulf rightly says that he fell backwards upon the assault but once that one blow, was struck there would have been no defence. You will perceive the superficial nature of those other wounds … you see that they were not struck deeply. That means the hand that delivered these blows did not have strength behind it … probably surprise more than anything caused the abbot to be thrown backwards on the bed.’
    Fidelma was nodding slowly. ‘In other words, you are saying that we should take notice that the killer was physically weak?’
    Brother Conchobhar pursed his lips in a cynical expression. ‘I am thinking that a strong man would not have struck so many blows which made superficial wounds.’
    Eadulf grimaced. ‘But emotion could explain the weakness,’ he observed quickly. ‘Rage can often reduce even the strongest men to momentary inability and render them weak with the emotion.’
    ‘Has a knife been recovered?’ Fidelma asked.
    ‘Whoever killed the abbot took the weapon with him.’
    Fidelma was examining the coverlet on the bed and she pointed at a spot near the body. ‘Indeed, after having wiped the blade clean on the coverlet.’
    It was true that there were signs that something broad and bloody had been wiped on the cloth by the side of the body.
    ‘That contradicts the idea of an emotional killer, Fidelma,’ Eadulf muttered. ‘That shows the action of someone in control and thinking. Yet why the number of wounds?’
    Fidelma did not reply immediately. She cast another look over the body. Then she moved forward and carefully lifted aside part of the abbot’s robe.
    ‘There seems to be a piece of paper under the robe …’ she began, as she bent down and extracted a small piece of folded paper smudged with blood. She unfolded it, glanced at it and handed it to Eadulf. He took it, read it and then chuckled.
    ‘Well, well, perhaps Abbot Ultán was not the unfeeling and arrogant person we hear about after all. This seems to be a piece of poetry. Love poetry at that.’
    He scanned it once more, reading aloud.
    Cold the nights I cannot sleep,
Thinking of my love, my dear one,
Of the nights we spent together,
Myself and my love from Cill Ria
.
    ‘It shows that Ultán was not without some softness if he could write such poetry,’ offered Brother