The Monastery Murders

by E. M. Powell

  After, Stanton would think of Philip’s slipping, sliding feet as a long dance, one that tipped him towards the torrent as he fought, failed, fought to regain his footing.

  In truth, it was a blink of an eye.

  Philip fell in, his mouth open in a high cry that cut off as soon as he hit the roaring water. The torrent pummelled down on him, flung him from side to side against the brutal rocks for a few moments, then swallowed him down into its depths.

  ‘Two of these.’ Daniel held up both hands. ‘Two rocks.’ He spat hard into the water. ‘Folk never see what’s in front of them.’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  ‘And we pray, dear brothers, that God will help guide us in our deliberations this morn. Amen.’ Brother Reginald finished the prayer.

  Barling joined in with the loud response of ‘Amen’ that sounded in the Chapter House, as Stanton, sitting next to him, did too. All the monks were assembled, with the lay brothers standing in the doorways.

  ‘My brothers,’ said Reginald, ‘with the authority that my office of prior gives me, and in recognition of the nature of this special chapter meeting, I have invited the King’s men to sit amongst us.’

  As the prior carried on with the formalities, Barling kept his expression composed. It did not matter that he was not the one leading the announcement of the findings of the enquiries at Fairmore Abbey. He was lucky to be alive. He should not feel the twinge of envy at Reginald that he did.

  ‘To commence,’ said Reginald, ‘I will ask the King’s men, Aelred Barling and Hugo Stanton, to give their accounts, which they have already shared with me. There has also of course been a great deal of discussion over the last couple of days between many individuals and me. We will draw all the information together. I will be formally notifying the General Chapter of our order. Barling will share his findings with Ranulf de Glanville, justice of the King.’ Reginald looked at Stanton. ‘You and Daniel, lay brother of this abbey, pursued Philip after he fled the abbey. He lost his life in the river during the pursuit. Can you revisit your account, please?’

  Stanton did so, providing a clear and concise summary.

  Barling listened with approval at how well Stanton acquitted himself. He had heard the full version from Stanton and Daniel in private with the prior. To Barling’s relief, Reginald had decided not to punish Daniel in any way for his actions against Philip. Barling thought that Reginald would perhaps have done exactly the same thing, should the old monk’s hands have been in full working order.

  ‘That is my true account, brother,’ finished Stanton.

  More than a few quiet, stifled sobs came from the gathered audience.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Reginald. ‘And not only for your account. Our sincere thanks also for being the man who found the truth. Yet while your account is of great value in establishing how the wicked Philip met his deserved end, we also need to have a full account of what he did, and we also need to examine why. I will ask Aelred Barling, the only victim of Philip to survive, to tell us what Philip spoke of to him when he imprisoned him in the crypt. I know that there are many of the brothers present who will add to it. Barling, would you like to begin?’

  ‘I will, brother.’ Again, it felt odd to be on the receiving end of the questions. But that was nothing compared to revisiting that terrifying time in the crypt. A time when he was sure that he was going to die. Yet he would push aside such feelings here. Emotion had no place in the law, he had said that enough times. ‘Philip, as you have mentioned, was taking a depraved delight in what he was doing. Like many who are so driven, he wanted to boast of it. So he boasted of it to me, even as he was preparing my death.’

  Barling repeated Philip’s foul list as sensitively as he could, aware that he spoke of so many horrific deaths.

  Reginald nodded when he had finished. ‘Then that tells us all how Philip went about his crimes.’ He shook his head. ‘By using the sacred order and structure of our lives against us.’ He passed a gnarled hand over his face. ‘As to why, we have heard some of it from Stanton. But Philip also spoke of that to you, Barling, did he not?’

  ‘He did,’ replied Barling. ‘Like so many who go down the path of wrongdoing, his actions were born from a place of deep, deep anger. He told me that he had never wanted to enter a monastery. That he had hated the idea. But that it was his father who had insisted, a man who, in Philip’s eyes, was devoted to Philip’s older brother but had little time for him. Philip was particularly aggrieved by this, as he believed his older brother to be of vastly inferior intellect to him.’

  ‘His father’s choice would not have been out of favouritism,’ said Reginald, ‘but by right of order of birth. As it should be.’

  ‘I agree entirely,’ said Barling. ‘But Philip did not see it that way.’

  ‘I concur with all that,’ said Maurice. ‘As a young novice, Philip arrived under my tutelage in a state of constant anger. So arrogant, so sure of his own great worth. He hated his father for sending him away. And he hated being here: away from the world and denied all its earthly pleasures. He found all sorts of ways in which he could cause trouble. I used every method of discipline and punishment that I could. He ended up in the cell many times.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘I should say that Philip was not unique in this. I have had many novices cause me heartache and headaches. But what was of note was just how creative he could be in his bad behaviour. I had to seek help from Abbot Ernald in the end. Something I very, very rarely had to do.’

  ‘And that was the turning point, Philip told me,’ said Barling. ‘Ernald warned him that he would be locked up for good by the order if he carried on the way he was. But Ernald had recognised his outstanding cleverness. He told Philip that if he were to embrace life within these walls, he could do great things. It worked. Eventually Philip became cellarer at a very young age.’

  ‘That was indeed a gift of Ernald’s: finding exactly the right talent for an individual monk or brother,’ said Reginald, his words bringing forth many nods and murmurs of agreement. ‘Letting them serve their God through work in which they thrived.’

  ‘I have seen that that is the case here in the abbey,’ said Barling. ‘But for Philip, there were darker forces at work. His words to me were: “I think Ernald always saw me as his greatest triumph. In his eyes, I was the sinner who not only repented but who embraced God fully and completely. If only he knew.” Indeed.’ Barling paused so that all could grasp how Philip’s thoughts ran. ‘Nonetheless, Philip told me he loved being cellarer and was good at it, especially as so much of it was to do with finance and commerce and nothing whatsoever to do with endless devotions. He always wanted to do more but Ernald kept a tight rein on him, reminding Philip that his earning of money should be to serve the glory of God within this secluded holy house, away from the world and not for wealth for its own sake.’

  ‘But all that time, Philip was not working for God’s glory, was he?’ asked Reginald.

  ‘No,’ said Barling. ‘He enjoyed amassing wealth. He particularly enjoyed his power as cellarer over the lay brothers. Here were men who had to obey his bidding, whether they liked it or not.’

  ‘Here I must pause to address something which is shameful on my part, on the part of all the brothers,’ said Reginald. ‘Barling and I have spoken to the lay brothers, with Daniel’s help. It would appear that Philip had instilled great fear in them over the years. Where Ernald disciplined for sin, it would appear that Philip did it for pleasure. Not as Abbot Ernald would have done, with the lash of the whip. But with humiliations dragged out and unjust punishments and false accusations. Those spread to here, as well. We heard over and over from Philip about how the lay brothers needed the strongest of guidance as they had little wit of their own. To our shame, we stopped questioning it as we had no reason to think otherwise. I offer my heartfelt sorrow, brothers, and a promise that things will not be like that again.’

  The lay brothers responded with humble thanks of their own and a nod from Daniel.

&nb
sp; ‘And then,’ said Barling, ‘Abbot Ernald died last summer. Setting these horrific events in motion.’

  ‘A loss we all felt and still feel, Barling,’ said Maurice. ‘Even though it was expected. Ernald had known he was dying for some time. He will be in God’s arms for all eternity.’

  ‘Philip said he genuinely grieved too,’ said Barling. ‘He said that Ernald was more of a father to him than his had ever been.’

  ‘Then came the elections for the new abbot.’ Reginald’s mouth set in a thin line. ‘And we elected Philip.’

  ‘Which caused Philip great elation,’ said Barling. ‘No longer an unwanted son, he had become the beloved father – father of the whole house. He believed his talents were finally being recognised by every monk here. But they were not, were they, brothers?’ His gaze moved to Reginald, then Maurice.

  ‘No,’ said Reginald. ‘Ernald had made all of us senior monks, his obedientiaries, swear to keep our duties after his death.’

  ‘Indeed he did,’ added Elias. ‘Ernald told me, as I am sure he told everyone, that he had chosen us for our worth and experience and that Fairmore was a great house because of it.’

  ‘As for Philip,’ said Reginald, ‘Ernald told Maurice and me, the only two monks who remained from the foundation of the house, that Philip should become the next abbot.’

  ‘When we objected,’ said Maurice, ‘citing Philip’s past sinful conduct, Ernald reminded us of the parable of the prodigal son. Philip was his redeemed son and that was that. Ernald told us that we were like the sons who worked steadily and dependably, and would receive our reward in heaven.’

  ‘I wish to confess to all here,’ said Reginald, his voice low, ‘that I was bitterly disappointed in being passed over for the position of abbot. So, although I knew of Philip’s past, as did Maurice, we did not say anything to the King’s men. I knew I would never get to be abbot of this great house, but at least I was still its prior. I feared that, should we say anything, I might lose my post, for the Rule says a prior can be deposed. I was well aware of Philip’s vindictive streak. I put the maintenance of my own position above the good of the house. For that I am deeply sorry.’

  The old man looked utterly dejected. Diminished.

  Barling carried on. ‘Philip now decided he would grow the wealth of Fairmore exactly as he pleased. He didn’t want any opposition so he appointed Osmund as cellarer. Osmund could easily be ordered to do anything he said. Philip was, in effect, still cellarer. You have found evidence of that, have you not, Elias?’

  Elias nodded. ‘I have been through the books that Osmund kept. Osmund had no idea of what he was doing. But I also found many examples of where a page was missing, or half-torn. I believe that this was done on purpose, as even with the most detailed examination it renders many of the records meaningless. Osmund would have had no way of deciphering what was going on.’

  ‘Do you suspect the work of Philip’s hand?’ asked Reginald, a little more restored-looking now.

  ‘Very much so.’ Elias gave a sad smile. ‘If only because our dear brother Osmund would not have had the wit to do that himself.’

  ‘Philip formed falsehood after falsehood about those he killed,’ said Reginald. ‘He essentially concocted sin where there was none. He told Stanton and Daniel that at the river.’

  Now the murmurs of the monks and brothers were of disgust, of anger.

  Barling did not join in. He could not truthfully speak of his own spotless conscience.

  ‘I would ask for your attention, brothers,’ said Reginald. ‘Please continue, Barling.’

  Barling did so. ‘Within a couple of weeks, Philip found out that he hadn’t been appointed out of admiration by his peers. Silvanus let it – how shall I put this? – slip. But it didn’t upset Philip at all. In fact, it made him very happy. It had taken him the best years of his life, but he had made a complete fool of a father, his father Ernald. Now Philip had what he had always been denied: he had control over his destiny.’

  The monks and brothers had quietened, hanging on every word of Barling’s.

  ‘Philip had no wish to leave the monastery and go out into the world. The power of the abbacy was immense and now he had it. But, he said, his plan was to bring the world to him. And the way to do that was through the spectacle of sin. He’d seen the huge crowds at the ordeal in York. The wealth, the fame that would follow: Fairmore would become one of the greatest sites of pilgrimage in the world. And Philip would be at its centre, lauded and renowned. So he set about bringing The Vision of Tundale to life. The story of Fairmore would be that sinners fell to Satan, but that through prayers and repentance, Satan was defeated.’ He clasped his hands. ‘While all the time, the only devil here was Philip.’ He was done.

  A great silence followed.

  It was Reginald who broke it. ‘Philip carried out acts of great evil. It is tempting to believe that our house will never recover from this. But no matter how hard the work is ahead of us, we should remember that Tundale’s vision is not just about darkness. Tundale comes back into the light. And we will too.’ He raised a hand in blessing. ‘Thanks to Aelred Barling and Hugo Stanton: the King’s men.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The rumble of the river torrent never seemed to change or lessen, whether in snow or rain or fog. Or, as on this morning, a frost-edged morning with a bright blue sky and a sun that dazzled. Maybe the force of the water died down in the summer.

  Stanton didn’t care. He wouldn’t be here to see it. He and Barling would be leaving soon. As he walked up the steep slope along the river, he could see Barling sitting on a rock near the edge, watching its unceasing flow.

  The clerk had been unusually subdued since his rescue from the crypt. Not surprising, given the horrors the man had been through and how close he had come to death. But his quietness hadn’t been consistent. Barling had been as efficient as ever in dealing with the aftermath of the recent events. Remarkably so. He’d helped Reginald with speaking to the lay brothers. He’d written many notes. He’d spoken calmly at the chapter meeting, giving his account to the monks and lay brothers in a clear and thorough way. No, his quietness was only around Stanton.

  He looked up at Stanton’s approach.

  ‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ said Stanton. ‘But Daniel told me he saw you heading off up here.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Barling. ‘Daniel. The man responsible for Philip meeting his end. A hero, in many eyes.’

  ‘I’d give him that.’ Stanton took a seat on the wide rock next to Barling. ‘And this is where it happened.’ He looked at Barling. ‘But you knew that.’

  ‘I wanted some time to think,’ said Barling.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Stanton. ‘There’s been quite a lot going on, hasn’t there?’

  As ever, the clerk didn’t respond to his smile in kind.

  ‘I needed time to think, Stanton, because I did not solve this enquiry.’

  ‘You weren’t brought here to solve it. You were brought here to die. It was all part of Philip’s plan. Like I already told you, it was your words that gave me the answer: planned evil. The very worst there is. You were certainly right about that.’

  ‘Not right enough.’

  ‘You were an innocent victim, used by Philip. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘Not innocent. At all.’ He turned to look at Stanton with the haunted look on his face that Stanton had seen before. He’d witnessed it a couple of times last summer, and again when they’d first arrived at the abbey, when Stanton had joked to Barling about the clerk’s past life in Paris.

  ‘Barling, I don’t know what’s troubling you. But just before Philip fell into the water he said I should ask you about Paris. Should I? Because if it’s something that you don’t want me to know about, then that’s the end of it.’

  ‘I would rather you did not. But because of me, because of my past sin, you were dragged into Philip’s plan too. You could have died out in the storm. And he didn’t care if you did. He simply w
anted you out of the way.’ He pulled in a long breath. ‘You have always spoken of the need to get at the truth, Stanton. I need to tell you mine. It is the least I can do.’

  The clerk’s look hadn’t improved but Stanton was intrigued to finally hear its cause. ‘Then let me hear it.’

  ‘You already know I went to Paris to study as a young man.’

  Stanton nodded. ‘Yes, you and Philip.’

  ‘Along with many, many hundreds of others. Nothing, but nothing, could have prepared me for it. My feast of learning became one of gluttony, greedily consuming what I was being taught by my many masters. There were also luxuries beyond measure before my eyes, even as many of us students lived in squalor, albeit a type of squalor that had its own glory. So many taverns. So many young men, all learning, debating. Which is how I knew Philip, if only vaguely. He was only one among a huge number of acquaintances.’

  ‘But he knew you.’

  ‘I shall come to that,’ said Barling. ‘There is good reason why he did. The taverns were called the devil’s monasteries, and rightly so. We drank pots and pots of wine, talking long into the night. Along with the drink, there was so much temptation. The call of so many young women from dark corners, offering their bodies with skill and cunning. I never paid them any heed, save just once when I won a wager. The other student paid the girl and staggered off into the night leaving her for me. It did not go well. She was willing, lively. Pretty.’ He paused while he collected himself.

  Lively. Pretty. Stanton thought of poor Agatha. He hoped a demon was pouring pitch into Philip’s weak maw for all eternity.

  Barling went on, but it was as if Stanton wasn’t there now and he spoke only to the river. ‘Yet I could not service the girl to begin with. I managed it in the end. But only because she helped me with her mouth first and I imagined it being that of another.’ He paused.

  Stanton waited, picked up a few snow-covered pebbles and threw them into the water.