The Monastery Murders

by E. M. Powell

  A knock at the door interrupted him.

  He raised his voice. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It is Elias, my lord abbot. May I speak to you?’

  ‘Come back later. I am occupied.’ He looked to Barling again. ‘As I was saying—’

  Another knock and the door opened without Elias waiting for a response. ‘My lord abbot, I really need to speak to you.’

  ‘Elias.’ Philip’s brows drew together. ‘I do not know why you would choose to behave in such—’

  Another interruption from Elias. ‘It’s about the murders, my lord abbot.’

  Philip’s look shifted to one of surprise, the same look shared between Stanton and Barling.

  Barling nodded at the abbot.

  ‘Then come in, Elias,’ said Philip.

  The red-haired library monk entered the room and Barling saw that he carried a finely bound book with him.

  ‘I am very sorry to have had to interrupt you, my lord,’ said Elias. ‘But I think I have found a link between the murders that have taken place here. Although it might seem a strange one. The link is this book.’ He held it up. ‘The Vision of Tundale.’

  ‘A book?’ Philip stared at him. ‘Have you lost your reason, Elias?’

  Barling doubted that was the case. Elias seemed to him a man of the utmost seriousness and quite sane. ‘We should hear him out, Philip. At the moment, we are lost.’

  ‘If you must.’ Philip waved Elias over. ‘Though I wait to be convinced.’

  Elias made his way over with his usual quiet steps. He placed the large book on the table and remained standing. ‘I realise that you know Tundale’s story well, my lord abbot.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Philip. ‘It is one much favoured by our order.’

  ‘Have you heard of Tundale’s story, sirs?’ asked Elias of Barling and Stanton.

  ‘I have heard of it,’ replied Barling. ‘But only in its broadest outline.’

  Stanton shook his head. ‘Never.’

  Elias looked at Philip. ‘My lord abbot. If I may?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Philip. ‘But be quick. Do you hear me?’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Barling listened intently as Elias began.

  ‘In the Vision, Tundale is a knight,’ the monk said. ‘A man who is guilty of many sins but who has never repented. He is having dinner with another man, whom he has wronged. Suddenly, Tundale is struck by the most violent fit. He dies and finds himself in a place of terrifying darkness. But then Tundale’s guardian angel appears. The angel reminds the knight that he has spent his life ignoring his angel’s guidance. Tundale admits this and confesses his guilt for all his sins. Then Tundale’s journey begins. The angel brings him down into the darkness, showing him the torments and punishments that await every kind of sinner. Down and down, until he reaches the very depths of hell, where he witnesses the arrival of the Prince of Darkness himself: Satan.’

  The abbot took up the story. ‘But for those who reject sin, there is hope, just as the angel brings to Tundale.’

  Elias nodded. ‘The angel leads the knight back up from the depths where sinners are lost, showing him the rewards of the virtuous. Tundale is rewarded for confessing his guilt. The angel returns his soul to his body. The knight awakens, to the astonishment of those who witness this miracle. Tundale gives all of his wealth away. He spends the rest of his life devoted to God, telling of his journey and preaching the need to repent.’

  ‘A fascinating tale,’ said Barling, ‘and no doubt most suitable for devotional reading.’

  ‘It is,’ said Philip, ‘and it was one of Abbot Ernald’s favourite texts. He based many of his sermons on it. The copy that Elias has there was scribed by Reginald at Ernald’s special request.’

  ‘But,’ said Barling, ‘how does it have any bearing on the murders here in the abbey?’

  ‘Let me show you.’ Elias opened up the book. Its script was expertly and beautifully composed: Reginald had been most talented when his hands had the suppleness and dexterity of youth. Elias turned to a section near the beginning. ‘This passage talks about the punishment of sinners over hot coals, where they are burned so badly that their flesh becomes as molten as wax in a pan.’

  Barling met an equally stunned Stanton’s look. What Elias had just said had a terrible, terrifying resonance.

  Elias turned to another section. ‘This, the next passage: the sinners are tormented by evil fiends with pitchforks in their hands. Glowing skewers too. And the sinners are on a great mountain that stinks of brimstone . . .’ He took in a breath. ‘And pitch.’

  Wood tar. Barling saw Stanton’s lips form the words even as he thought them.

  Elias went on. ‘The third passage has the sinner in—’

  The abbot finished his sentence for him. ‘A stinking pit.’ He stared at the page, his dark eyes glazed, paler than ever.

  ‘Links, then, to the murders of Brothers Cuthbert and Silvanus and of the lady Juliana,’ said Elias.

  ‘It would certainly seem that there are links,’ said Barling.

  ‘I’ll say,’ said Stanton, eyes wide.

  ‘But,’ added Barling, ‘it is easy to see links when often there are in reality none. A fearful mind will see the pattern of tree branches in the moonlight and believe them to be the claws of a monster. But they are no such thing. Given the recent events here, this is indeed a fearful place.’

  A bit of colour came back to Philip’s face. ‘A good point, Barling.’

  ‘It is, sir,’ said Elias. ‘But I fear there are other links to the murders.’

  ‘More weapons that were used?’ asked Stanton.

  ‘No,’ said Elias. ‘The sins that were being punished. The first, with the fire and melting flesh, was the punishment of murderers.’

  ‘Then it does not fit,’ said Philip. ‘In the slightest. Cuthbert was no murderer.’

  ‘But, my lord abbot,’ said Elias, ‘the second sinners are those who utter falsehoods, beguile others, cheat them of their wealth.’

  Barling took in the words. The man could be describing the late Silvanus.

  ‘And the third group of sinners, those in the stinking pit, are the proud,’ said Elias.

  A heavy silence greeted his words, broken only by the moan of the wind outside and the crackle of the fire in the grate.

  The proud. Juliana, with her insistence that she be buried with the monks. Her disgust at the idea of being laid to rest with common people, her delight at being with men of the court.

  The abbot spoke first. ‘What do you think, Barling?’

  ‘I think that we should discuss this in private.’

  ‘Of course.’ Philip looked at Elias. ‘Thank you. You may go.’

  ‘Yes, my lord abbot.’ A disappointed-looking Elias went to pick up the book.

  ‘May I ask that you leave that behind?’ asked Barling. ‘I would like to read it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Elias gave a bow. ‘Sirs. My lord abbot.’ He left at once, closing the door softly behind him.

  ‘I ask again, Barling, what do you think?’ said Philip.

  ‘I am making the assumption that Elias is of sound mind. He certainly seemed so when I spoke to him earlier.’

  ‘He is,’ replied Philip. ‘And the similarities he describes with the Vision worry me deeply. This book does indeed have a great importance for our house, but, like I said, Cuthbert was no murderer. And as you said so wisely, Barling, we do not want to start a panic by making links where there are none. What I – what we – need is more help. Help from other houses in the order to find out who is doing this, and we need it as soon as possible. Monks may speak more freely to other monks. Should we start the letters while Stanton packs and gets his horse ready?’

  ‘We should.’

  Stanton got to his feet. ‘The moment they’re done, I’ll be off.’

  Barling took the writing materials that Philip passed to him and thanked God for the skilled horsemanship of Hugo Stanton.

  Chapter Thi
rty-Two

  Barling stood in the courtyard in front of the stables as a heavily cloaked Stanton prepared to mount up. The snow continued to fall: relentless, unceasing. While they’d been in the abbot’s hall, the whole world had turned white.

  The horse that Stanton had readied wore a trapper as protection against the weather but bowed its head beneath the onslaught.

  ‘Hard to believe the middle of the day isn’t long passed.’ Stanton squinted up at the sky. ‘It feels more like evening.’ He looked at Barling, flakes settling on his hat and lashes. ‘Mind you, we’ve already been awake for twelve hours. Maybe that’s why.’

  ‘You have the letters?’ asked Barling.

  ‘Safe in here.’ Stanton patted his satchel with a thick-gloved hand.

  ‘I think the snow is getting heavier. Much heavier.’ Barling knew he sounded somewhat fretful but he could not help it. He hated sending Stanton out to travel in such weather.

  ‘I know.’ Stanton grinned at him. ‘But I’ve gone through worse. Well, nearly worse.’ He took a quick look around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. ‘Did you get anything of use earlier from Lambert, by the way, before hearing about the lady Juliana?’

  ‘Not a great deal. He favours wine and ale far too much and made little sense. But of interest was how much time he spends in the gatehouse alone and unsupervised.’

  ‘He’s not alone as often as you might think,’ said Stanton. ‘We found Agatha with him today. That’s not unusual, by her account, and the rest of her story was interesting.’

  Barling listened as Stanton gave him a quick summary.

  ‘Then she was here in Fairmore on the night Cuthbert was murdered?’ said Barling.

  ‘Yes. Though she says she knows nothing about it – nothing about Silvanus, either. She really disliked him.’

  ‘Did she have any dealings with the lady Juliana?’

  ‘I don’t know. My lady’s body was only discovered when I was talking to Agatha so I wasn’t concerned about her at the time. I did notice that Maurice seemed angry at the girl, although I couldn’t catch what he said.’

  ‘Interesting. I will try to speak to Agatha again while you are away.’ He cast a glance at the sky. ‘Stanton, you must be off.’

  ‘I know.’ Stanton hesitated. ‘Do you really think somebody is following the punishments in that book, Barling?’

  ‘I honestly do not know. As the abbot says, Cuthbert was no murderer, so that does not fit. The book is in my room. I shall read it as promptly as I can, though it is of substantial length.’

  ‘Why would somebody do all this? It makes no sense.’

  ‘It is just as it was last summer, Stanton. It will all make sense once we have the complete picture.’

  ‘But what if the murderer is planning to strike again? I’m a bit bothered about leaving you here, Barling.’

  ‘You have no need to fear.’ Barling nodded at the horse. ‘I would be in far greater peril on the back of that animal in conditions like this and I would slow you down far too much. You would have to keep stopping to dig me out of snowdrifts.’

  ‘I’m serious, Barling.’

  ‘So am I. I will take every precaution. But you will not be gone long and you can fetch those who will help to make this place safe.’ He handed Stanton another letter. ‘Take this with you also. I know you already have those from Philip that I helped him compose for other holy houses. This one is from me and bears my court seal. It is private and it needs to go to my lord de Glanville. I did not want Philip to know I was writing to him. But de Glanville needs to know what is going on.’

  ‘You want me to go all the way to Westminster?’

  ‘No. You can arrange for it to go from York. And make sure that you alert the folk of Gottburn as well. Who knows where the killer might decide to strike next?’

  ‘We’ll find whoever is responsible.’ Stanton reached both hands up on to his saddle. ‘Just like before.’

  ‘Are you sure about travelling in this weather?’ asked Barling for a final time.

  ‘Yes.’ He pulled himself up into the saddle in one easy movement. ‘I’ll be fine. But you be careful while I’m gone.’

  ‘I will,’ said Barling. ‘I know the rhythms of this place well enough by now to avoid danger.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Stanton flashed him a grin. ‘I’ll see you soon, Barling.’ He clicked to his horse and was gone in a spray of flying snow.

  ‘Godspeed.’ Barling watched him go, offering up a brief prayer for Stanton’s safe return.

  He saw Lambert swing the gate open. Then Stanton was gone.

  Barling set off for the inner precinct of the abbey. He knew who he had to see next.

  One who he guessed would be most displeased at having to speak to the King’s man, let alone answer his questions.

  But answer he would: Barling would make sure of it.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Barling entered the infirmary, stamping the snow from his boots. A separate building to the rest of the monastery, it was located east of the cloister. Unlike the other buildings, it comprised a single storey, no doubt to ensure that a sick or lame monk could easily access it. He closed the door behind him at once to keep out the chill wind. Directly in front of him was a wooden partition, erected to keep the room as free from draughts as possible.

  The partition was open on both sides. Barling chose to enter via the left, assuming correctly that it would make little difference.

  As he turned the corner into the candlelit room, he was greeted with rows of beds similar to those in the dormitory, but far fewer in number. The beds were of a more comfortable design, being the same as those in the guesthouse, with deep straw mattresses in a wooden frame and thick blankets. The smell of food in there told of a better diet then the monks’ usual fare. A fireplace on one wall brought heat and comfort to the room. Towards the back of the oblong room, he could see a number of small chambers similar to those in which Cuthbert the sacrist had slept, although they did not have any doors to them. A large cupboard was tucked into one corner. Its open shelves were neatly stacked with bottles, dried herbs and various instruments.

  Many of the beds were occupied and a few curious faces turned towards him. The occupants of other beds lay still, either in slumber or pain or oblivion, it was impossible to tell. One ancient monk sat bolt upright in his bed, rocking back and forth and humming the first two lines of a hymn, over and over again.

  ‘What brings you here, sir?’ A familiar voice. William, the bald infirmary monk, came bustling towards Barling, a black scapular worn over his clothing to keep it clean. ‘I hope you are not ill?’

  ‘No, I am hale, thank you, brother. I am here because I wish to speak to Brother Reginald.’

  ‘I am afraid that’s not possible, sir. He is still resting after his bloodletting.’

  ‘And I am afraid that I must insist, brother. Please tell me where he is or I shall be forced to disturb every one of your beds looking for him.’

  William shot him a displeased look. ‘I would rather you didn’t do that, sir.’ He pointed to one of the partitioned beds. ‘He’s in there. But, I implore you, please don’t take too long. He needs to build up his strength and if he gets agitated, it’ll set him back.’

  ‘I will be quick, I promise.’ Barling made his way to the bed and found Reginald already sitting up as best his stooped spine would allow. The linen on which he lay was as white as his hair. Instead of his cowl, he wore a tunic, which seemed to greatly diminish him in size. Tiredness was etched into his face. Nothing, however, could diminish his deep voice.

  ‘I could hear you from here, sir.’ Or his piercing grey eyes. ‘I have little desire to speak to you. But this is how you conduct your enquiries, is it not? Going from man to man, questioning, testing out each story with the next, before you put it all together like the tiles on the church floor and make a coherent pattern.’

  ‘You make it sound very simple, brother. I wish it were as easy as that.’
<
br />   ‘But it is not, is it?’ His brows lowered. ‘I heard about the lady Juliana.’ He shrugged, which made him slip down a little but he made no effort to raise himself up again.

  Barling would have to make sure he got his information as quickly as possible. He had no doubt that William would banish him from here soon. ‘It is indeed a shocking thing to have happened.’ There was no point in asking Reginald about his whereabouts. He would have been here, ill and tucked up in bed. ‘Yet I am sure the murders of Cuthbert and Silvanus will have been of a greater shock. Can you tell me anything about them?’

  ‘As you know, sir,’ said Reginald, ‘I have no desire to speak to you. I can assure you that would be the case even if I were well. As I am not, I have even less interest in wasting my strength on you. In order to preserve it, I present to you my tiles.’ The prior gave him a hard smile. ‘When Cuthbert was murdered, I was asleep in the monks’ dormitory. When Silvanus was killed, I was worshipping my God: I was at my devotions in the cloister and in the church for Mass and the Office.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barling.

  ‘As for the remainder of my tiles, you know that I am the prior of this house and have been for the last twenty years. I have been here since its foundation by Abbot Ernald, thirty years ago. He made me his prior, his deputy, and I continue to be prior under Philip. I assign work to the choir monks every morning that is not a feast day. Boot greasing, painting: whatever needs to be done. I have no wish to murder anybody and I do not know anybody who does.’ Another smile, devoid of any warmth. ‘Is that what you came for, sir?’

  Bustling steps behind him announced the arrival of Brother William. He took one look at Reginald and turned to Barling. ‘I’m afraid you must leave now, sir.’ He moved to the prior’s side, helping him to adjust his position in the bed.

  ‘Of course.’ Barling got to his feet and went to leave. ‘I do have one more tile for which I need to find a place, brother.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Barling ignored William’s gestures to leave.

  ‘Did you copy The Vision of Tundale for Abbot Ernald?’