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Day Two
Conall
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Conall definitely was not calm. In fact, he was in a rage, and the only saving grace for him was that he’d spent most of his adult life hiding his emotions from everyone so as never to appear vulnerable. Otherwise, by now he would have slammed a fist into the wall.
Seeing as the closest wall was made of stone, that would have been a mistake, but it might also have made him feel better to have physical pain to deal with instead of what was roiling him.
He hadn’t really known it, or admitted it for many years now, but he loved and admired his uncle. And someone had tried to kill him not an hour ago. It wouldn’t have borne thinking about if not thinking about it wouldn’t have left his uncle wide open to another attempt.
And really, to murder only Diarmait by putting a bit of shellfish in a dish to be served to the high table took a certain degree of genius. It was horrifying, to be sure, but smart.
It also exposed the culprit in a way he might not have realized. When Gareth and Gwen had asked how many people knew about Diarmait’s affliction, Conall had implied it wasn’t a secret in Leinster. And it wasn’t. The fact that he had a food taster truly should have been common knowledge. All kings did. But either the assassin didn’t know about Banan, or he knew so little about the ailment that he was unaware of how quickly death resulted and that Banan could die in the time it took for him to put down his spoon—long before the food reached the high table.
Which meant, at the very least, the killer wasn’t a close confidant to the royal family. He was on the outside looking in, which pointed a finger more and more to a Dane or another Irish clan.
The group re-entered the kitchen, and Conall took stock of the staff present. There were at least a dozen people working, several running every which way as the meal was in full swing. Nobody seemed concerned they had a dead man in their pantry, though since he was an Irishman, many might have thought good riddance.
Conall put up his hands. “I want everyone to stop.” He spoke in his best authoritarian tone and in Danish. While most workers glanced at him, only a handful stopped what they were doing.
Then Jon stepped into the center of the kitchen and barked, “Stop. Now!”
Everyone froze.
Accepting Jon’s authority rather than being irritated by it, Conall nodded. “Thank you. If an item is going to burn, you may take care of it. I want the rest of you to look at me and answer my questions.”
Thankfully, his Danish had become fluent over the last year, and they all understood and most nodded.
“Am I correct in thinking there was no shellfish dish served tonight?”
A man at a worktable wearing an apron covered in food residue and flour shook his head. “No shellfish dish. It isn’t harvest time.”
That’s what Conall had understood, but to clarify and to get the man talking, he asked, “When is?”
“No harvesting from one moon after the spring equinox to one moon before the autumn equinox.”
“What happens if you eat them in the summer?”
The cook turned to one of his underlings and consulted briefly. “They are not as flavorful or plentiful the following years. The summer is the time the females spawn.”
“So you can eat them.”
The man looked as if the very idea was distasteful, but he nodded.
It was the rule Conall had understood as well. He turned to the phalanx of friends behind him and said in Welsh, “Watch their faces.”
All of them were experienced investigators, knowing what to do and why he’d asked it of them without needing further explanation. He turned back to the room. “Raise your hand if you have eaten shellfish this summer.” He raised his own hand encouragingly.
Most of those facing him did not, but the woman stirring the pot of stew over the fire moved her right hand jerkily, and a boy who’d come in the back with a load of firewood, having missed the initial discussion, put his hand all the way up.
He was behind everyone else, so they couldn’t see him. Conall jerked his head at Dai and Llelo, who went straight to him and herded him outside almost before anyone else noticed he’d raised his hand.
Conall went back to his questions. “Did you hire any new workers for the kitchen in the last few days?”
The head cook answered confidently again. “No.”
“How about servers?”
“Yes.” He bobbed his head. “Two boys and a girl. They are in the main hall now.” He frowned. “But they don’t come in here. We put the food on the galley, and they take it from there so they don’t get underfoot.”
“Was the food meant for the high table on the galley or in the kitchen when the food taster died?”
“In the kitchen. It had been set on the worktable for final assessment.”
Conall rubbed his chin, thinking of what to ask next.
Jon touched Conall’s elbow with his own, indicating he wanted to speak, and Conall gestured that he should.
“What are you feeding the kings now?”
The cook stabbed a finger towards the roasting fireplace. “As you saw, my lord, we cut a new haunch, and it went straight to the table after Edvin ate of it.” Edvin was King Brodar’s taster. “We took loaves, uncut, and fresh from the oven, and newly pressed butter and decanted honey from the pantry.” Finally he indicated a woman sautéing vegetables in a pan. “The parsnips and onions went directly from the pan to the table as well. And, of course, we opened a new barrel of salted herring.”
“Of course, you did,” Conall said, under his breath. Herring was a Danish staple, and he noted out of the corner of his eye that Gwen’s Danish was good enough for her to wrinkle her nose at the mention of herring too.
She had been surveying the table of tainted food, leaning forward and sniffing as he’d been questioning the staff. Into the next pause, she looked up. His audience was getting restive, but he nodded at her. “What is it?”
“I don’t see any dish here that smells or looks of shellfish. Am I not understanding what such a dish might look like?”
Conall glanced down at the array of food, frowning. Then he turned back to Jon. “Tell them they can work again.” Jon did so, but Conall pointed at the cook. “I need a few more moments of your time.”
The cook started to balk, but Jon glared at him. “A man died in your kitchen, eating your food. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to find out why?”
The cook immediately modified his expression and posture. “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.” Maybe he was even sincere, though Conall could understand the desire to put the incident behind him as quickly as possible.
Conall swept a hand out to indicate the table. “Where could shellfish be hidden?”
“That’s why you were asking about shellfish? That’s what killed him?” The cook frowned as he studied the food. “If any were diced fine, they could be in any of the dishes, though my guess is the chicken and mushroom pie or the stew.”
Before Conall could stop him, the cook picked up a spoon, scooped up a bite of the pie, now cooled since it had been nearly an hour since Banan had died, and ate it. Smacking his lips, he said, “Good.” He put down the spoon. “I don’t taste anything amiss.”
“And you’re not dead, which is good,” Gwen said in an undertone, in Welsh.
They dismissed the cook and trooped outside, Gareth and Jon joined them. Both servants who’d indicated they’d eaten shellfish—the woman, who’d been stirring the stew, and the boy—waited for them. It turned out, perhaps unsurprisingly, they were grandmother and grandson.
“When did you eat them?” Jon demanded, far less polite than he’d been to the head cook.
The older woman bit her lip and glanced at her grandson. The boy, who might have been a man by Welsh standards, simply blinked, as if confused by the question.
Jon glared harder. “What’s wrong with him?”
The woman put a hand on her grandson’s arm. “Hans is simple. He wouldn’t remember when and, even if he could, he can’t speak. I am surprised he remembered we ate them at all.”
“So when was it?” Jon said. “And what was it?”
She made a dismissive gesture. “Two days ago. We are fed in the kitchen, but I love shellfish, and I don’t think they taste bad this time of year—just different.”
“So you harvested ... how many?”
She shrugged. “Two dozen mussels, plus a few oysters, and a prawn caught in the rocks. Hans and I ate them in a mixed boil that night.”
“Did you bring any here, to the palace kitchen?”
“No.” Now that she’d started talking, she was sure.
“Why didn’t you want to tell us the truth?”
Her chin jutted out for a moment before she answered, somewhat less defiantly than her stance indicated. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing if the King of Leinster died, would it? Even if Prince Godfrid takes that Irish bride, we still could be free.”
Conall had been mostly hidden behind Jon’s bulk, but now he stepped more into view. The woman’s eyes widened, indicating she really hadn’t seen him. Her eyes were rheumy, and he guessed she saw well only up close.
“Begging your pardon, my lord.” She curtseyed. “I meant no disrespect.”
“You did, actually,” Conall said, “but I appreciate the truth.”
All that remained was to carry the dead man out of the kitchen, a task Llelo and Dai took upon themselves. As Conall held the rear door wide, he said to Gareth, “Here’s the difference between you and me. A certain part of me doesn’t care whether or not Donnell did it. I believe he did it, and even if you find evidence to the contrary, I still want to kill him.”
“You wanted to kill him before,” Gareth said reasonably, “so nothing has changed, only the fervor of your conviction.” He put a hand on Conall’s shoulder. “I feel the same way about Prince Cadwaladr. I genuinely do know how you feel.”
Conall nodded, supposing Gareth did, at that, and somehow feeling better about his own anger in the process. Gareth hadn’t tried to deny or dissuade him from his hatred. He’d acknowledged it and, in so doing, acknowledged his own. “You still wouldn’t hang him for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Gareth scoffed. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
Conall still thought he did, and thought, when it came to it, that Gareth wouldn’t be able to condemn an innocent man—not that Cadwaladr was innocent. He would go to the gallows one day because his impulses would lead him to it, as inevitably as Conall now believed Donnell would die for his crimes against Leinster and Dublin, if not by Conall’s hand, then by Brodar’s or Diarmait’s.
Conall just had to furnish them with the weapon.
