The Monastery Murders

by E. M. Powell

  Next, those who added sin to sin, cast into a horrible furnace, and burned away to nothing by the devil’s horned smiths. Reginald would have had them twisting upon the heated anvil as they were struck with hammers and burned to ash.

  The ash swirled up before him and he blinked hard. The shadows of the storm-battered infirmary returned. Of course there was nothing there. He’d begun to drift into sleep, the sound of the storm finding its way into his dream, that was all.

  God be praised. Rest must not be that far away. He gave a deep yawn. Soon, he’d slip into dark oblivion.

  Dark, like the last fate of Tundale, where the knight descended down and down into the deepest depths of hell, down to where the worst of sinners would be cast, where there was no light, and complete blackness enfolded him like the grave. Down to where the sinful knight would dwell for all eternity.

  And there was one who awaited the knight, one whom Reginald could have shown in terrifying detail. He wondered if his desire to do so was what had brought the punishment of his painful affliction upon him. For in the depths was Satan, the Prince of Shadows himself, waiting for Tundale. Satan’s huge body, dark as pitch, a long, thick, spiked tail trailing behind him. He would have had many arms and hands, a thousand as described by Tundale. And every one huge, with iron nails, ready to grab for sinners and crush them as easily as a man’s hand could crush ripe grapes, scattering the wet, glistening pieces to the corners of hell with his fiery, reeking breath.

  Reginald started.

  Breath. On his face.

  Along with a whisper: ‘You will feel no more pain this night.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Stanton had slept deeply, exhausted by his unsuccessful battle to get out of the valley. He’d had a night of undisturbed rest, one in which he dreamed not of cold and winter, but of warmth and sunshine and meadows full of bright flowers. He’d lain in them, blissful, with his Rosamund in his arms. On waking, his drowsy mind had held his happiness for a few moments before his loss snatched it away once more. He’d saved Agatha, but he hadn’t saved Rosamund.

  Rosamund was dead and this day had no meadows and certainly no sunshine. The tempest had passed and the snow had stopped overnight but in its place a freezing fog had come down, so dense he could only see about twenty paces. Such was the gloom, the daybreak might as well not have happened.

  Yet, as he stood in the churned-up snow outside the infirmary, he still wondered if he slept, for he was looking at a nightmare.

  Half in, half out of the small storage shed next to the infirmary lay the body of William the infirmarer. His snow-covered legs lay outside in a wide scarlet stain in the pristine white. The rest of his body lay inside.

  Philip knelt next to the body, an unsteady hand extended over William, murmuring a prayer for his soul.

  ‘Who found him?’ Barling’s question was directed at the large group of monks and lay brothers who crowded round.

  The clerk was out of breath, Stanton too. They’d been in the guesthouse when the abbey bell had sounded a jangling alarm, over and over. They’d run outside and followed the sound of the shouts of horror.

  ‘I did,’ said Maurice. ‘I was going across to the infirmary to see how Reginald was this morning. I saw poor William. So I ran for the bells.’

  Philip finished the prayer and stood up. ‘The bells brought me as well.’ His voice shook.

  Reginald was also present, bent over his stick, a cloak thrown over his tunic. ‘I heard the commotion,’ he said. ‘I left my sickbed and came to see what it was about.’

  ‘Did you hear anything before that, Brother Reginald?’ asked Stanton.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Reginald looked at him in distaste, that he would dare to ask him about this.

  Stanton didn’t care about the old monk’s pride. ‘You’ll have been close by in the infirmary.’

  ‘No, I did not hear anything,’ he replied. His sharp gaze fixed on Barling, obviously ignoring Stanton. ‘I was in a lot of pain last night. William gave me some of his most powerful herbs to help me sleep. That was the last time I saw him.’

  ‘I see.’ Barling went to examine the body, motioning for Stanton to assist him.

  Stanton stepped with caution, trying not to tread in the stained snow.

  ‘What has happened to him, Barling?’

  William’s kind, round, dead face was dark and suffused with congealed blood.

  ‘I would say suffocation.’ Barling looked over his shoulder. ‘Brother Maurice: did you touch or move anything?’

  ‘I did,’ said Maurice. ‘William’s face was under that full grain sack, the one next to him. I pushed it off, thinking he might still be alive. But it was useless.’

  Barling lowered his voice again and looked at Stanton. ‘Then he was suffocated. Somebody took that sack off that pile in the side of the shed. Either pushed or knocked him to the ground. And then held it over his face.’

  ‘What about the blood near his legs?’

  ‘We shall have to see.’ Barling bent to scrape away the snow.

  Stanton thought he might lose his meagre breakfast.

  William was barefoot. Into the soles of each of his feet, half a dozen nails had been hammered.

  Cries of horror broke from all of the monks and brothers.

  ‘Dear God! It’s the fifth punishment of Tundale.’ Elias’s voice cracked as he put his hands to his face.

  A plea to the saints broke from Philip.

  Stanton looked at Barling. ‘You know what they mean, don’t you?’

  The clerk didn’t answer him directly. ‘Stanton, with me.’

  Barling led the way past the horrified monks and into the infirmary. He walked straight over to the cupboard where William had kept all the items he needed for curing the sick.

  To Stanton’s bemusement, Barling started a careful, methodical search of it, pulling everything out and emptying boxes and baskets.

  ‘And here we are.’ The clerk drew out an object from a tightly knotted bundle of linen bandages.

  Stanton could only stare. It was a chalice. A silver chalice, gilded on the inside.

  ‘Then it is true,’ said Barling. ‘The murderer is bringing The Vision of Tundale to life.’

  Stanton noted the shadows under his eyes. ‘You read it? When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘What? Are you mad, Barling?’

  ‘Of course I am not. I looked carefully at the evidence we had collected so far and I realised it had to be done.’ Barling lowered his voice. ‘As for what I have gleaned from my reading, I now believe there may not be just one killer. There are certainly many monks and others associated with these murders who have links to the book.’ He shared with Stanton the reasoning he had gone through whilst compiling the list of names on the tablet.

  Stanton listened, appalled.

  ‘I think,’ said Barling, ‘the way to put an end to what is happening here is to let the man or men responsible know that we are almost on to them. I will address the monks in the Chapter House with Philip. The lay brothers can listen from the doorways. Right now.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you ask Philip first?’

  Barling held up the chalice. ‘This will be more than enough persuasion. A sacred object found.’ He went to walk out. ‘Watch the faces, Stanton. Watch them all. For anything. Anything at all. Lives may depend on it, including our own.’

  Chapter Forty

  Barling stood next to Philip in the Chapter House, the voices of the monks a shocked chorus of horrified chatter.

  He checked to see that Stanton was in position by the door. Good.

  ‘Brothers!’ Philip raised his voice. ‘Pray silence.’

  He received it instantly from the monks sitting on the seats that lined the walls, the lay brothers crowded in the doorway, every face rapt.

  Philip went on. ‘I share your revulsion of what has happened again this morning. Yet another of our beloved brothers, William, taken from us by an evil hand. However, the King’s man be
lieves he has found a link, which he will now describe to you.’ His gaze went round the room, making sure that he made his point. ‘I would like to remind you that we owe Aelred Barling every courtesy and that we allow him the freedom to speak without hindrance in this room. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, my lord abbot.’ The rumble of voices that came back was not the most unwavering of assents. Never mind. It would have to do.

  ‘Thank you, my lord abbot,’ said Barling. ‘I would like to give much credit to Brother Elias for what I am about to say, for it was he who first came up with the link.’ He gave a nod of acknowledgement to the red-haired monk, which was returned. ‘I believe you are all familiar with The Vision of Tundale.’ He held up the book. ‘I understand that it was a favourite of your previous abbot, Ernald.’

  Blank nods met his words.

  ‘Now, it would appear,’ continued Barling, ‘that there is a marked similarity between the punishments of sinners described in the book and the murders that have taken place.’

  As he’d expected, his words were met with a burst of appalled realisation, followed by questions and conjecture amongst the monks. He waited as brother turned to brother, some calling across to each other, each recalling parts of the book and the fates of those who had died.

  ‘How dare you, sir!’ This from Maurice. ‘I will not countenance that Cuthbert was a murderer.’ He waved an angry fist.

  ‘It would be fair to say that the lady Juliana was proud,’ said Reginald, surprisingly.

  ‘I would say that Silvanus, God rest him, carried tales,’ said Elias.

  ‘Are you in possession of your wits, Elias?’ Maurice shouted again, more riled than ever. ‘And what has possessed you to come up with such utter nonsense?’

  ‘Brothers!’ Barling made his voice heard over the din. ‘The body of Brother William was found only this morning. Yet here, in the book, we have a punishment that talks of a burden of corn. William was suffocated by a sack of grain. The book tells of spikes that pricked the feet of the sinner, a fate that befalls the man who steals those things that belong to the holy Church.’

  ‘Fanciful rubbish!’ called Maurice. ‘Rubbish. And you should be ashamed of yourself, Elias.’

  ‘It is not fanciful, Maurice,’ snapped Elias. ‘William had the missing chalice hidden in the infirmary. He’d stolen it!’

  His reply led to a further wave of noise and questions.

  ‘But.’ The word uttered in the deep voice of Reginald cut through it all. ‘I know the book inside out, for I copied every word. Barling: the fate you describe is the fifth. If William is the fifth, where is the fourth?’

  A deep silence descended.

  Barling looked around the room.

  ‘What of Brother Osmund this morning?’ Philip’s voice sounded as taut as if somebody had placed a hand at his throat. He pointed at a couple of choir monks. ‘Since he did not come to Compline, I ordered you to search at first light. Did you find him?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ they answered together.

  ‘We started our search,’ added one. ‘But then came the news about Brother William.’

  ‘But’ – Reginald again – ‘the fourth fate is for the covetous, is it not?’ He looked directly at Philip.

  ‘It is.’ The abbot’s voice tightened even more. ‘And I have had cause to speak to Osmund in private about his unhealthy interest in the accumulation of extra wealth for the abbey. He is not at all skilled. But he is strangely obsessed.’

  ‘Oh, may God protect us,’ said Maurice.

  ‘I would suggest that a search is undertaken for him as a matter of urgency,’ said Barling.

  ‘And I would suggest’ – Reginald sneered the word – ‘that what we need is to go into the church for Lauds. Prayer. That is what we need. Then we can search.’

  A loud chorus of agreement met his words.

  Reginald rose to his feet. ‘My lord abbot?’

  Philip nodded. ‘I agree.’

  Barling raised his voice. ‘Before you do, I would draw your attention to the remaining punishments and the sins associated with them.’

  Outrage now echoed through the room.

  ‘Barling!’ Philip looked and sounded livid. ‘Are you accusing people here of sin? In my Chapter House?’

  ‘I have had enough of this too.’ Maurice stood up. ‘We must pray and then we must find our brother Osmund. May our prayers lead us to him. Come, brothers.’

  Maurice stormed out, the other monks following.

  Barling opened the book as they did so. ‘Sexual sins. Lustful clergy. Those who have added sin to sin. All of these are still to come.’

  ‘Barling, have you lost your mind? Give it to me.’ Philip grabbed it from him. ‘You have completely overstepped the mark. Completely.’ He slammed the book shut and stormed out after his monks without a backward glance, slowing only a little to help Reginald along.

  Silence fell.

  Barling pulled in a long breath. He hoped his plan to provoke the murderer had worked. He looked at Stanton. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, I saw anger, fury, shock.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing.’ Stanton’s face fell. ‘Barling, I couldn’t see anything else. They were all equally roused. There was nothing at all that made one stand out from another. Nothing.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  The sound of Lauds being sung in the church floated through to the Chapter House. Stanton looked at the clerk, disappointment etched on Barling’s face now as well as exhaustion.

  Without saying a word, Barling went and sat down heavily on one of the seats.

  Stanton’s instincts told him to leave the clerk be, to wait until Barling was ready to speak.

  As the monks sang on for several minutes, Barling seemed to be in a world of his own.

  When he finally spoke, his voice as well as his gaze lacked their usual certainty. ‘I tried, Stanton. Perhaps I tried too hard.’

  While often Stanton despaired of the clerk’s arrogance, he hated to see him as defeated-looking as he was now. ‘Look, Barling, it was certainly worth a try. You’ve confronted them with what we know, which may yet flush someone out.’

  Barling shook his head. ‘God help me, I think I did nothing except make matters worse.’

  ‘I think you should get some sleep, Barling.’

  ‘But I thought that, by saying what I did, I would get a reaction, that someone would stand out.’

  ‘Sleep, Barling. That’s what you need now. You’ll be able to think better once you have.’

  Lauds finished and the sound of the monks hurrying to the cloister echoed in, voices low and anxious as they settled to their devotions.

  ‘Come on, Barling.’ Stanton put a hand under his arm and pulled him to his feet. ‘You need to get to your bed.’

  The clerk didn’t resist but allowed himself to be led out.

  They made their way back to the guesthouse along the path, the fog as bad as ever.

  Ahead, Stanton could hear the sound of an argument by the gate.

  ‘What is going on now?’ asked Barling.

  The sound of definite footsteps marched towards them and a couple of lay brothers emerged from the gloom.

  ‘Excuse me, sirs,’ said one. ‘You don’t happen to know why the front gate is locked, do you? We need to go out and there’s no sign of Brother Lambert.’

  ‘Afraid not,’ said Stanton. ‘We’re only guests here.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The men hurried on their way.

  ‘I hope brother Lambert hasn’t had too much ale again,’ said Stanton.

  ‘No.’

  The clerk’s tone was odd. Stanton turned to look at him.

  Barling had gone deathly pale.

  ‘Are you all right, Barling?’

  ‘Sexual sins,’ he replied. ‘Not just monks. The book mentioned men.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And women.’

  And then Stanton knew what Barling meant.

  Agatha.

&nb
sp; He started to run, run up the path to the gatehouse, hammering on the door, kicking it.

  Then his heart almost stopped. He looked closer at the door lock, at the wood surrounding it. A dark, brownish-red substance smeared them. His nostrils prickled at the unmistakable tang of iron. The stains were of blood.

  He rushed over to the cart used for collecting firewood that the lay brothers had left. His hands closed on the axe, and he ran back to the door. He heaved the long-handled tool at the stout planks, desperately trying to break them open as the fog muffled the dull thuds of the blade.

  But otherwise, there was silence.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Stanton doubted if the sights that met him would ever leave him. Agatha. The blood – so much blood. An abandoned scythe lay on the floor in a pool of it. Sleek rats feeding at the lower half of her body, the vile creatures scattering when he and Barling smashed through the door.

  ‘God preserve us,’ said Barling behind him.

  ‘Where have the rats come from?’ Stanton moved forward, peering in the dim light. ‘And why would they—’ And then he saw. Terrible wounds and something placed in them that the rats had found irresistible.

  ‘There is an empty cage in the corner,’ said Barling. ‘The rats were part of this passage in the book. It speaks of vermin.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Gnawing.’

  Stanton turned and fled for the fresh air.

  This is your fault, your fault. His conscience pounded a fierce chorus in his head. He clenched his fists to hold back the roar of anger that surged in him, thumped at the doorpost with one hand, then the other, over and over.