by E. M. Powell
‘We are,’ said Barling. ‘And we would, as I have said, like to speak to you about the murder of Cuthbert, sacrist of Fairmore Abbey. You said at the door that you had heard of trouble in the abbey. Is that what you meant?’
‘What else would I mean?’
Barling went to reply but Theobald carried on.
‘Not that they’ve told me or aught.’
‘Then how did you find out?’
‘From the folk that go over there regular, seeking out the monks’ charity. They hear all sorts at the gatehouse.’
‘Such as?’
‘Who’s visiting. Who’s left. Who’s fallen sick. Who’s died.’ Theobald shrugged. ‘Long way to go for a morsel of bread and some gossip. And they don’t have horses like what you have, young sir.’ This last to Stanton. ‘But there we are.’ He returned his unhappy gaze to Barling.
‘Do you visit there regularly, sir priest?’
‘Me? No. Not asked. Been here over five years and never invited. Only seen them on the road. The lay brothers mostly, with the monk that’s in charge of them. The abbot from time to time when he’s off on his travels. Not that the beggars are asked either, mind. But it’s one of the monks’ rules that they provide charity. So they do it. Do it because they have to. And like as always with folk, when there’s something going for nothing, they’ll take it. I should know. I am a charitable man but I get bled dry. Sometimes I think I’m the one who should be getting the monks’ alms.’
‘You collect the tithe?’ asked Barling.
‘I do.’ Theobald picked up the poker and prodded at the fire. ‘But a tenth of what? This is a small parish. You see the land round here. Poor, like the people. Like me. But not the monks. The monks have plenty in their coffers. Stuffed full to the brim, they’ll be.’
The man’s voice dripped with an envy that lay dangerously close to covetousness. ‘Yet the monks of Fairmore live the most modest lives,’ said Barling.
‘Do they?’ Theobald grunted in disgust. ‘Pretend to, more like. Lying on thin beds. Eating neither bit nor sup. And all the while they add to their piles of coin. They bring in dowries with every new arrival. Get huge grants of land and money from the richest knights and barons. Trade in their wool better than any merchant.’ He laid the poker down. ‘All the time seeking ways to get their hands on more. They’ve even started taking my dead parishioners from me.’
As Barling sought a suitable response, Stanton gave one instead.
‘Are you talking about their graveyard?’ he asked.
‘I am, young sir.’ Theobald nodded. ‘I get paid for burying my flock. But only if I bury them outside my church, in my graveyard. The monks put ideas into folks’ heads, tell them the closer they’re buried to the abbey, the closer they’ll get to heaven. And it works. The monks bury my dead and reap the reward. And all the time, my parish gets poorer than ever.’
‘Have you tried appealing to your bishop?’ asked Barling.
‘What’s the point? He’s powerless over the monks. They only answer to each other. They have their world arranged for themselves. Themselves, and no one else.’
‘Yet that world has now been disrupted in the most terrible way,’ said Barling, ‘with the murder of Brother Cuthbert.’
‘I’m sorry the man’s dead,’ said Theobald, ‘but I never knew him. Like I say, I’ve never been there. Looks like you’ve wasted your time coming all the way out here.’
‘It has not been a waste at all, sir priest,’ said Barling. ‘Thank you for explaining what you know about the murder. But the brethren of the abbey are very definite that the murderer must be an outsider. Perhaps you could give some thought to your parishioners, about who amongst them may have a violent past or some other suspicious behaviours.’ He waited for another diatribe.
But Theobald just laughed.
His reaction utterly confused Barling and a quick look at Stanton confirmed that his companion felt the same.
Theobald went on. ‘I’m sure they’re saying it’ll have been an outsider. I wouldn’t expect anything else from them. But I can promise you that there are no murderers in my parish. They may like free bread, but they’re a godly people.’
‘You cannot know all their secrets.’
‘No, I don’t. But I don’t have to. Because I know where they all were, and that wasn’t in Fairmore Abbey murdering Brother Cuthbert. It took place on the eve of Christmas. Every one of them would have been home with their families.’
‘Again, sir priest, I would ask how you know that.’
‘The snow that day was some of the worst we’ve ever seen. It came down like a blanket. And I saw every one of my parishioners in my church on Christmas morning. No one could have made their way to Fairmore and back.’
Barling frowned. This latest revelation had serious implications for this enquiry.
‘With respect, sir priest,’ said Stanton, ‘I would question that.’
‘Are you calling me a liar, young man?’
‘Stanton,’ began Barling, ‘I think you—’
His assistant cut him off. ‘I only question your view, sir priest, because of my own experience. Because I travel often, I think there are still many hours unaccounted for in what you say. Somebody could have slipped from their home while others slept, made their way to the abbey and come back. Travelling in the snow is very difficult, granted. But it is possible.’
‘It is possible,’ replied the priest with a grudging nod of agreement.
Barling let out a quiet, relieved breath. He’d thought Stanton had blundered with the priest. Instead, it was a point well made, which Theobald acknowledged.
But the priest went on. ‘Usually possible. But the old abbot, Ernald, who founded the abbey, chose his site to be as secluded as it could be. An old man in the parish remembers when the monks first came – he told me about it. Ernald was warned about that valley, but he’d have none of it. Monks always know best, you see. The depth of the valley and the steepness and height of the hills around it means that Fairmore Abbey can get completely cut off in the snow. If one of my villagers had got there, they would not have made it back.’ He gave a sombre look at Barling from beneath his heavy brows. ‘You mark my words: it will be somebody from inside. No question.’
Chapter Seventeen
The heavy clouds were bringing yet more sleet and robbing the day’s light early. Stanton and Barling were on the descent back into the valley, with, Stanton was relieved to see, the abbey not far off. He wouldn’t have wanted to guide Barling back in the dark on such treacherous slopes.
For most of the journey the clerk had ridden in silence, telling Stanton that he needed to think undisturbed. That suited Stanton fine. It meant he could enjoy being out of the monastery, enjoy the ride, even if it was slow and the going heavy under his horse’s hooves.
‘I believe we have an answer, Stanton.’
‘Do we?’ Stanton looked over at him. ‘Are you saying you know who killed Cuthbert?’ Hope rose in him, not only for justice for the dead monk but also that he could leave the confines of the monastery and return to the world outside. The real world. A world that had noise and chatter and song. Where he could sleep at whatever hour. His mind went back to Agatha at the gate. And women.
‘No, I said an answer. Not the answer.’
‘Oh.’ Curse it. He’d hoped too soon. ‘But Theobald said he didn’t know anything. Didn’t even know Cuthbert.’ Stanton shook his head. ‘That priest is so bitter. You could almost taste it in the air in that house.’
‘Bitter, but very useful,’ said Barling. ‘And no, as I say, we do not have the answer, the answer to the question of who killed the sacrist of Fairmore. Not a complete one. But a definite one nevertheless. One which helps us to form part of the picture. It would seem that the murderer is likely to have come from within the monastery, which is most concerning.’
Stanton thought back to the disgruntled priest. ‘Do you think that maybe Theobald was lying? He sounded like he’d be happy to see the abbey raz
ed to the ground, and all the monks in it.’
‘He was certainly speaking from the heart, albeit a sour one. But the most important detail that he mentioned can be easily checked.’
‘When he said about this valley being cut off?’
The clerk nodded. ‘Precisely. That is not something that he can invent. Given the lie of the land, I see no reason to disbelieve him. But, to go back to an earlier point, I said that the murderer was likely to have come from within the monastery. We still cannot totally exclude the possibility of an outsider. Yes, this valley may get cut off. But there are woods and other hiding places where the murderer could have sought shelter, including during the worst of the weather.’
‘But Gottburn is the only settlement for miles and sir priest was able to account for all his parishioners.’
‘The murderer may be an individual who is not known to anybody, either in the village or the abbey,’ said Barling.
They had reached the road that approached the abbey.
‘A complete stranger. An outlaw.’ Stanton’s neck prickled as he looked ahead to the high walls. An outlaw had been involved in the murders last summer.
‘Indeed. In which case they may be long gone and we will never know who took the life of Cuthbert in such a violent way.’
‘Or why.’
‘Excellent point, Stanton.’ The clerk actually had the hint of a smile on his face. ‘And an important one. If Cuthbert had been found dead by the roadside, his purse gone, then we could more easily rest with the conclusion that it was a violent robber who killed him. But both the location and the manner of his death would seem to suggest that it was not the result of a chance encounter with evil. That it was very much planned. And that, in my long experience in the law, is the worst kind of evil.’
‘And far harder to see. I know that well.’ Knew it in a way that had shattered his heart.
Barling looked at him with curiosity. ‘To what are you referring, Stanton?’
‘Nothing.’ Stanton shook his head, embarrassed that a past secret would almost slip from his lips like that.
‘It did not look like nothing.’
Stanton’s jaw tightened. ‘I said it was nothing. Do you hear me?’
Barling raised his eyebrows in surprise but backed off. ‘Very well. I have a plan of my own, which is as follows. We need to speak to everyone who could have been involved in Cuthbert’s death. When I say everyone, I mean those individuals who move around the abbey unsupervised. There are several of them we need to see. In order to do that as quickly as possible, we shall divide the work between us.’
‘Divide?’ Stanton didn’t like the sound of this. ‘Does that mean I’ll have to question monks on my own?’
‘Yes, that is what “divide” means. It is not difficult to comprehend.’
Stanton ignored the jab. ‘Barling, truth be told, I’m not sure I can do it properly.’
The clerk made an impatient noise. ‘Ridiculous. You speak to people all the time as part of your work for me.’
‘I know I do. But I speak to people who live out in the world that I know. That makes it much, much easier to tell the truth from a lie. But in the monastery?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t even know if they’ll speak to me on my own. They know you’re a royal clerk and a friend of their abbot. Me?’ He shrugged again.
Barling gave him a long look. ‘Good.’
‘What do you mean, “good”?’
‘I thought it would take me a lot longer to get you to start questioning your own skills, to start to look at the whole picture. I am glad to see its beginnings, though you have a long way to go.’
Stanton held a hand up. ‘Not a lesson. Not now.’
‘I can assure you,’ said Barling, ‘that I am far too cold and weary to even think about such a thing. But I would add, and I was about to before you interrupted me, that you are being too hard on yourself. I agree that you might not know the reality of life as a monk, but you are still a shrewd judge of men. And monks are, after all, men.’
Stanton could’ve fallen off his horse in shock at the unexpected praise. ‘Thank you, Barling.’
The clerk ignored his response but carried on. ‘Therefore, as I had planned, we shall divide our work as the monastery is run: I shall take the senior monks who work inside. I shall start with Philip.’
Stanton gave a low whistle. ‘He won’t like that.’
‘He will not have any choice. I shall speak to him about it before he retires to bed and we shall lay out the plan at the chapter meeting in the morning. Also, he may be more honest with me. He has been saying that all is well within the house, which it clearly is not. I can understand why he would take that approach as he does have a position to maintain and it would be most unsuitable were he to go around airing every quarrel that happens within the cloister. Perhaps if he sees me alone then I can persuade him to be more honest in his appraisal. I will then speak to his deputy, Reginald the prior. Followed by Maurice, the novice master, and Elias the librarian. There is an infirmary monk by the name of William too. The abbot said it was William who discovered that Cuthbert had been strangled. I do not recall having encountered him, but I will track him down.’
Stanton ran through those whom Barling was due to speak to. ‘Faith, I’m glad I don’t have your list.’
‘I suspect they will indeed be quite difficult. You will speak to those who have dealings with the outside. Lambert, the porter, Silvanus, our guestmaster. Osmund, the cellarer. Osmund also oversees all the lay brothers. He will tell you if any brothers work alone. It would appear Daniel does, so include any others with him.’
Stanton nodded. ‘I definitely prefer my list. Even Lambert.’
‘There is one more,’ said Barling. ‘The lady Juliana. Yes, strictly speaking, she is an outsider, but still within the walls. I believe it would be most productive if you and I were to speak to her together.’ He looked right at Stanton, as if daring him to make a remark.
Stanton didn’t want to say anything about Lady Kersley that might get Barling riled again. ‘That sounds like the best—’
‘Sirs!’ The shout came from the gate ahead, interrupting him. ‘Oh, sirs!’
‘What on earth is going on?’ said Barling.
Out of the gate, the huge Brother Lambert came running towards them. Badly. Clumsily. Fighting for breath. But running. And still shouting. ‘Oh, sirs!’
Stanton feared the scarlet-faced man would collapse as he staggered to a halt in front of them, his breath puffing in uncontrolled gasps.
‘Oh, sirs! Thank God you are back. Come quick, sirs. Come.’
‘Brother Lambert,’ said Barling, ‘pull yourself together. What is the matter?’
More agonised, ragged breaths. ‘There’s been another murder.’
Chapter Eighteen
As Barling rounded the corner at the back of the stables, with Stanton and a breathless, gasping Lambert following, the sight that met him made his stomach rebel.
‘Hell’s teeth.’ This from Stanton. Shocked.
The body of Silvanus, guestmaster of the abbey, lay on the muddy ground. The dead monk was on his back, arms flung out to either side. A pitchfork was buried in his chest, so deep that it remained upright, steady as if it had been plunged into a bale of hay. Yet hay did not seep blood like that which stained the front of Silvanus’s white habit.
Despite his repugnance, Barling did not pause but strode up to the body. This was no moment to show any kind of indecisiveness.
Standing over Silvanus was a sobbing Maurice, the novice master’s shoulders heaving in his grief. Another monk, younger than Maurice and about Barling’s own age, stood with the sobbing man, a comforting arm around him. Barling recognised the other monk from the chapter meeting, though the man had not been as vocal as many others. He’d stood out because he was bald as a hen’s egg.
‘He was my boy once,’ Barling heard Maurice say as he reached them.
‘We have only just been informed of this terrible news
,’ said Barling. ‘I do not need to confirm that it is true.’
‘No.’ Maurice turned his clouded eyes to him, venom in his voice. ‘Even I can see what has happened here.’
Barling let the response pass. As always with a crime: emotion. Always emotion. ‘I would ask that you move back a little, please, brothers.’ He directed his request at the bald monk, in the hope of better cooperation.
‘Come now, Brother Maurice,’ said the monk. ‘We need to allow space for the King’s men.’
‘Stanton. With me.’
They squatted down to look more closely at the corpse of Silvanus.
‘Damn it all, Barling,’ came Stanton’s whisper. ‘It’s even worse than it looks from afar.’
Barling nodded. ‘It is.’
Not only had Silvanus been impaled by the pitchfork, but a metal skewer had been shoved into the front of his neck. A dark, thick substance oozed from his lips.
‘And what is that in his mouth? Is it blood?’
Barling leaned down closer to see, then sniffed hard. He gingerly put his fingers into the black substance, anxious not to touch the gaping lips. This felt like enough of a violation of the man as it was. His touch met a stickiness and he withdrew his hand, the tips of his fingers smeared with black. He sniffed at it again. ‘It is wood tar.’
‘Wood tar?’ said Stanton. ‘Why would—’
Barling gave a warning shake of his head. ‘Not now,’ he mouthed. He got to his feet and Stanton rose with him.
‘Who found the body?’ Barling asked Maurice and the bald monk.
‘I did.’ The voice came from behind them. ‘Sirs.’
Barling turned.
Daniel, the bearded lay brother. The broad young man stood next to the back of the stable block. ‘I ran for Brother William. Straight away.’ He nodded at the bald monk.
‘He did,’ replied William. ‘I was in the cloister, at my devotions.’
William. The infirmary monk. Philip had mentioned him, the monk who had found the charred string in Brother Cuthbert’s neck.
‘As was I,’ said Maurice. ‘I overheard the commotion and wondered if I’d fallen asleep and dreamed. But no.’
