by E. M. Powell
‘No, sir. Well, one monk here does. He’s not bad.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘Brother Elias. The library monk. He brings books to read to us when we have a rest hour.’
Stanton nodded, recognising the name of the red-haired Elias. ‘You like that?’
‘Yes, sir. They have good stories in them.’ His mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. ‘Like the one called the Aviary – it’s a book of birds, all sorts of birds. Stories in there about how they do good deeds and that. I like it a lot and so do the others. Brother Elias shows us the pictures and explains them. The words too—’ He stopped dead, smile gone.
‘Go on,’ said Stanton.
‘The lay brothers are forbidden from reading, sir. It’s in the Rule.’
‘I didn’t ask you that, Daniel. Have you been reading?’
‘Please, sir, don’t say anything.’ Wary again. ‘I’ll get in the worst trouble, be punished.’
‘I won’t get you into trouble,’ said Stanton. ‘I promise. But I need you to answer me.’
‘Yes, I can read. A bit. Brother Elias has been teaching me. He showed us the letters by the pictures so often, I began to recognise a few. I told him as I helped him carry his things back to the library. He asked me if I’d like to learn some more letters. I said it was forbidden. But he said it could be our secret.’
‘Has he been teaching any other of your fellow lay brothers?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’ Another shrug. ‘I think they’re happy with the pictures.’
The deep bell of the church sounded from outside.
‘That’s Compline, sir. May I go, please? I’ll be punished if I’m late. But I’ll stay if you tell me.’
‘No, you go.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Daniel went to go.
‘One last question, Daniel.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Did any of the horses need looking after on the night of Christmas Eve?’
Daniel thought for a moment. ‘Yes, sir. One of them had a bad leg with a poultice on. I slept in the stables that night.’ His gaze locked with Stanton’s. Hardened. ‘In case that brings another question, sir: yes, I was in the stables all night. And no, I didn’t kill Brother Cuthbert.’
‘Stanton!’ Barling’s call came from outside.
Daniel left without another word.
Chapter Twenty-One
The door to Stanton’s room opened and Daniel walked out.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ The broad lay brother turned sideways to stamp past Barling in the narrow corridor.
Barling went into Stanton’s room and closed the door once more. ‘What have you been talking about with Daniel?’ he asked. ‘He looked most perturbed.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ replied his assistant. ‘I found out that he’s not anything like as slow-minded as the abbot says of the lay brothers.’
‘I see.’ Barling took a seat on the single chair while Stanton sat down on the bed.
‘But I’d still choose to talk to him over the abbot any day, Barling. How did you get on with Philip?’
‘He has agreed that we can start the questioning without waiting to discuss it at chapter. I would have proceeded without his agreement as the murder of Silvanus has brought a new imperative. But I am pleased to have his agreement nevertheless.’
‘Silvanus.’ Stanton blew out his cheeks. ‘I didn’t like the man. But what a way to meet your end. It was savage.’
Barling nodded. ‘And utterly inexplicable. Either the pitchfork in his chest or the skewer in his neck would have ended his life. Why would the murderer have used both?’
‘Unless it was more than one person.’
‘That would be one explanation,’ said Barling. ‘Yet we also have the wood tar in his mouth.’
‘A third way to kill him.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘Why so?’
‘Had someone poured such a foul substance into his mouth when he was still alive,’ said Barling, ‘he would have tried to cough or spit it back out in his struggle for his life’s breath. There was no sign of that. I would surmise that it was poured in once he was already dead.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Stanton. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about otherwise but either way, it’s a very strange thing to do to someone.’
‘It was, as you say, savage. And, although we never witnessed the body of Cuthbert, it would appear that there is more than simply savagery and bizarreness of method linking both murders.’
‘Such as?’ said Stanton.
‘Both murders took place where lay brothers work: the kitchen and the stables. Now, Cuthbert—’
‘Behind the stables.’
Barling paused, distracted by Stanton’s interruption.
‘We must have accuracy, as you’re always telling me, Barling.’
‘Very well, then: behind the stables. But a few feet in this instance makes little odds. As I was saying: Cuthbert. Cuthbert was strangled, which could have been done by anybody. But the infirmary monk said that string or cord was used. The lay brothers use that in their work all the time. Silvanus? Again, tools used by the lay brothers: a pitchfork and a skewer. Wood tar will be kept in the wood shed. Or the forge. Daniel works in the stables. And now you are telling me that Daniel is not as slow-witted as he pretends. Did he tell you anything else of relevance?’
‘That he didn’t like Cuthbert or Silvanus,’ said Stanton. ‘That he slept in the stables and not in the lay dormitory on the night of Cuthbert’s murder.’
‘Relevant indeed.’
‘But he was very open about his dislike. Admitted it straight away.’ Stanton related the tensions between the monks and the lay brothers that Daniel had described. ‘And he says he didn’t kill either monk.’
‘Well, of course he would say that, Stanton.’
‘Yes, but I believed him.’
‘Unless he’s a very good liar. We met such individuals last year, did we not?’
‘We did.’ Stanton gave a sharp sigh. ‘But while he spoke of his dislike for the monks, he did speak well of one.’
‘Who?’
‘Elias, the library monk.’
Barling listened with close interest as Stanton gave him his account of the lay brother’s secret fondness for books. ‘I think your account has settled for me who we should speak to first in the morning. We are still following my plan, but in a slightly different order. I will speak to Elias. You talk to Osmund, the cellarer.’
‘A monk.’ Stanton cast him a wry look. ‘But I’ll do my best.’
‘Of course you will. And yes, he is a monk but he is close to your age. What is more, he is not the most confident of men. I sincerely doubt that he will present you with much difficulty. He is in charge of the lay brothers, as Abbot Philip was before him as cellarer.’
‘Well, we know what Philip thinks of the lay brothers,’ said Stanton.
‘Stanton, take care that you do not allow emotion to cloud your judgement.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you quite liked Daniel. First, you bond over horses. Like you, he is a young man, and like you, he bridles against authority.’
‘That’s hardly fair.’ Stanton scowled.
‘It may not be fair, but it is the truth,’ said Barling. ‘I am simply reminding you of the pitfalls.’
Stanton held up a hand. ‘I take your point.’
‘Good. Once we have spoken to Osmund and Elias, we can meet up briefly here at the guesthouse to discuss our findings in case there is anything of importance to be shared.’
‘Speaking of findings,’ said Stanton, ‘did you get anything else from Abbot Philip beside his permission for us to go ahead with questioning folk?’
‘I did.’ Barling sighed. ‘I learned from him that there is much discord here, as we have observed. A far less harmonious picture than I was given before I came here.’ He went through his exchange with the abbot, his assistant listening in
tently.
‘I would only say one thing,’ said Stanton when he’d finished.
‘What is that?’
‘Take care you don’t allow emotion to cloud your judgement.’
‘What?’ Barling glared at him.
Stanton grinned. ‘First, you bond over Paris. Like you, he’s a man of middling age. Like you, he loves his authority and order.’
Barling drew in a breath to admonish his brazen speech but Stanton held up a hand again.
‘Please don’t think you need to give me one of your speeches, Barling. I was only trying to make you see what you can sound like sometimes.’
‘I see.’ Barling sniffed and got to his feet. ‘Then I shall leave you to get your rest.’
‘It’s not long gone dark, Barling.’
‘We shall be rising at the bell for Vigils, Stanton, only a couple of hours after midnight.’ He walked to the door. ‘Sleep well.’
Barling closed the door on Stanton’s loud groan of disgust. ‘Midnight?’
And allowed himself a little smile.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘By all that’s holy, Barling, I don’t know how the monks do this every night.’ Stanton stood next to him, breath foggy, shuddering with cold, as they waited outside the locked main entrance to the cloister in the pitch dark.
The only light visible was that in the high windows of the church, the rest of the buildings shadows against the darker shadows of the night. Vigils were drawing to a close, the distant sound of the brethren’s voices raised in song echoing from within into the quiet.
‘The priest Theobald was of the opinion that they have an easy life,’ replied Barling. ‘I think it perhaps a lot harder than he imagines.’ A life that Barling had once believed was calling him, though he had not been able to answer.
The singing finished and the light in the church began to dim. The monks and brothers would be leaving the church to make their way to prayer and work.
After a few minutes, sounds of unlocking came from the door and it was pulled open to reveal dim lamplight.
‘Jesu Christus!’ the lay brother who had opened it shouted out in fright, alarmed voices answering it as others rushed to his aid.
‘It’s only us!’ Stanton’s call was immediate.
‘Brothers, brothers,’ said Barling. ‘Do not take fright, it is the King’s men.’
He glimpsed Osmund, the cellarer, amongst them.
‘Stanton,’ murmured Barling, ‘I shall leave you to speak with the monk as discussed. I shall seek Elias.’
‘Good luck,’ came Stanton’s low-voiced reply. He patted Barling on the back then stepped forward. ‘Brother Osmund, a word, please.’
Stanton tried to bring order, started to explain what was going on.
Barling left him to it and set off for the claustral walk, where the monks would have gone to prayer, just as the lay brothers had been assembling for work.
Though lamps lit the way, they did not pierce the wider darkness but seemed only to make it deeper.
The chorus of voices in individual prayer and worship met him. Many of the monks were already settled in their wooden carrels in the cloister.
Barling made his way along, peering into each one as he sought Elias. He’d thought it would be straightforward to discreetly approach the red-haired monk but now he berated himself for his stupidity. Even though the carrels were lit by individual candles, every monk had his cowl raised, so it was impossible to tell one from another. He stopped outside one where the figure looked of the same build as Elias.
‘Brother, if I may.’ He put a hand to the monk’s arm.
The figure turned and a startled-looking choir monk cried out in fright and shrank back.
The murmur of prayer stopped dead. Fearful gasps and calls replaced it.
‘My apologies, brother—’
‘What is happening?’ A familiar deep voice. A furious one. Reginald, the prior.
Barling glanced to his left.
Reginald was looking out from his carrel. ‘You,’ he said in disgust. The white-haired monk emerged, leaning heavily on his stick.
All along the cloister, frightened faces of monks peeped out from their wooden shelters, some whispering to each other.
‘How dare you, sir?’ Reginald made no effort to keep his voice down. ‘How dare you disrupt us from our devotion? Leave. Now.’
‘Reginald.’ Philip, stepping from his own carrel. ‘Desist. The King’s man sought my permission to seek out individuals. I gave it to him.’
‘I am seeking out Brother Elias,’ said Barling. ‘As Stanton is speaking to Brother Osmund. We will not take long and will try not to disturb you unduly.’
But Reginald would not be placated. ‘What are we now, my lord abbot? Peasants to be summoned on a whim?’ His voice rose. ‘Pigs to be driven with a stick?’ Rose further. ‘This is intolerable, intolerable. I . . . I . . .’ He began to sway on his stick.
Philip moved quickly to his side, grabbed his arm to steady him. ‘Reginald? What ails you?’
Barling went to help too, unnerved by the monk’s near collapse, but the monk shook him off.
‘Unhand me.’ Reginald’s knees buckled.
‘Brother, brother. Take deep breaths.’ William, the bald infirmary monk, bustled up. He slipped his arm under Reginald’s free one. He looked from the abbot to Barling. ‘I could not hear all that was being said. Whatever it is, I must insist that Reginald comes with me for bloodletting in the warming room. Then he will be in the infirmary for a day afterward recovering. Whatever you require him for, I am afraid you will have to wait. His health is of the utmost importance.’
‘Of course,’ said Philip. ‘Let us get you there at once, Reginald.’
Reginald mumbled something but did not resist as they helped him away.
‘You asked for me, sir?’ A quiet voice at Barling’s shoulder. Elias.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Barling, struggling to regain his composure. He disliked fuss intensely and his attempt to approach Elias discreetly had gone horribly awry. ‘Shall we go to the library? I would like to speak to you in private.’
‘This way, sir. Follow me.’ The red-haired monk led the way along the cloister.
As they approached the library, Barling saw Philip and William disappear into the warming room with Reginald. The white-haired monk thankfully seemed a lot more revived and was talking freely.
Barling had no doubt that the monk was talking about him.
And he could take a very accurate guess at what he was saying.
Philip entered the light and heat of the warming room with Reginald, his arm still giving support to the older monk.
If Reginald was a little unsteady on his feet, there was nothing wrong with his tongue. Angry words continued to pour from him, directed at Philip. ‘An utter disgrace. To be disturbed like that, in our own cloister, in the midst of our devotions. What was that man, Barling, thinking?’
No ‘my lord abbot’, of which Philip was only too aware. He felt his own ire rise at the open rudeness but he pushed it down, at least for the time being. It would not help matters.
On Reginald’s other side, William offered the prior a calming response as he steered him in the direction of one of the wide stone seats built into the wall beside the huge brick fireplace. ‘Don’t excite yourself any more, brother.’
‘William is right,’ said Philip. ‘It is not good for your health.’
The heat seemed to revive Reginald even further. ‘I am not excited.’ He shook off Philip’s and William’s hands, using his stick to get himself the last couple of steps. He dropped into his seat with a grimace of pain, glaring up at Philip from under his thick white brows. ‘I am wondering what is happening to our abbey.’
‘While you wonder, my good brother,’ said William, ‘I will need your arm.’ The infirmary monk set about rolling Reginald’s sleeve up as he spoke, brisk as ever in seeing to a patient.
Philip remained standing too, the better to asse
rt his authority. ‘You have no need to wonder, Reginald,’ he said. ‘I explained everything at chapter the day before yesterday, as I did just now.’
‘Keep still, please, brother.’ William had his small bleeding knife in one hand and Reginald’s bare arm in the other, the bowl to catch his blood positioned beneath.
‘Of course I can wonder.’ Reginald pointed a gnarled finger at Philip. ‘As I wonder about who leads this holy house.’
While concerns about the King’s man were one thing, such an unacceptable personal challenge was quite another. Philip could hold back his own temper no longer. ‘Reginald, I know you are not feeling well. However, I need to remind you that you speak to your abbot.’ His voice came out higher than he intended, made him sound like the young novice he’d been when he first came to Fairmore and the imposing Reginald had already been the abbey’s prior of many years.
‘Then, father’ – Reginald’s sneer changed to a wince as William slipped the knife into his vein – ‘I continue to ask myself how Abbot Ernald would have guided us through this time.’
Philip swallowed hard to ensure his next words came with full authority. ‘And how, might I ask, do you answer yourself, brother?’ He clasped his own hands together to hide their angry tremor.
‘That Ernald would not have sought the help of those from outside our order. Ever.’
A rattle came from the door before Philip could respond.
He turned to see Maurice enter and his annoyance deepened. Now he would have not one but two dissatisfied voices railing at him. It was so frequently thus now that he was the father of Fairmore: monks, visiting abbots, benefactors, the General Chapter and many more besides. Every one of them with their own particular demands and every one insisting that theirs was the most important.
‘Reginald, I heard you collapsed,’ said Maurice, squinting hard at the prior as he walked over. ‘What ails you?’
‘A few moments of dizziness, Maurice,’ said Reginald. ‘Nothing more.’
‘Is this true, my lord abbot?’ Maurice turned his poor-sighted gaze to Philip.
‘Reginald seems much recovered,’ said Philip. ‘Is that not so, William?’