Monks, Murder, and Defeating the Dragon of Sin

Or, the best fairy tales are actually detective novels

I’ve always had a horror of horror movies. Even most psychological thrillers are too much for me (Shutter Island, for example, haunted me for weeks). Blessed with a vivid imagination as a child, and asked to bear the cross of OCD as an adult, I sometimes struggle to “let go” of unsettling, violent, or macabre images and ideas. Which is why my family is occasionally puzzled by my love of literary murder mysteries. Sherlock Holmes, Father Brown, Brother Cadfael, Lord Peter Wimsey, and Harriet Vane are all familiar friends whose stories I love, despite the fact they confront evil in its various disturbing forms.

I’ve struggled to articulate why, exactly, I find classic murder mysteries so comforting when they deal with topics and images that, in other contexts, I might find upsetting. Thankfully, one of my favorite detective writers, G.K. Chesterton, has the answer. As Haley Stewart and Nancy Carpentier Brown discuss in the first episode of Stewart’s new podcast, detective fiction “satisfies something in our human soul.”¹ This is because detective stories contain what G.K. Chesterton believed were the three “essential elements” of a good story: the dragon, the princess, and St. George. Classic detective fiction is, in fact, “one of the only genres left out there where the bad guy is actually defeated in some way.”² This is because Chesterton believed that, “the plots of the classic detective stories were designed to vindicate good and to rebuke evil.”³ Indeed, “he saw the great fictional detective as an urban version of a knight errant backing the cause of law and order against the forces of crime and disorder.”⁴

It is this depiction of the battle between good and evil, and evil’s ultimate defeat, that I love most about classic detective fiction. That defeat is often lacking in modern nihilistic and relativistic novels, where the dragon of evil wins the day or, worse, is identified as the “real” hero. This is not to say that detective stories must be devoid of moral nuance or complex characterization. Detectives can, like every human person, struggle with their own sins and imperfections. The motivations of criminals may inspire some level of sympathy, or the criminals may themselves be victims of other’s sins. However, in truly satisfying detective fiction, the detective’s flaws don’t ultimately prevent them from saving the day, and the criminal’s sympathetic features don’t blur the line between good and evil deeds and their consequences.

Another favorite writer of detective fiction, Ellis Peters, is especially skilled at preserving the essential fairy tale features of the genre while depicting moral complexity. Interestingly, this is because, like Chesterton himself, she chose a Catholic religious figure as her St. George. Brother Cadfael is a Benedictine monk of Shrewsbury Abbey, located in Shrewsbury, England. He is living through the tumultuous 12th century period known as the Anarchy, when the violent conflicts between rival claimants to England’s throne divided the country. Cadfael is no stranger to violence, having spent many years as a Crusader before discovering peace in his religious vocation. Cadfael’s former life has left him with experiential knowledge of, and compassionate tolerance towards, man and his faults. Peters, through Cadfael, can occasionally take this “tolerance” in somewhat anachronistic directions.⁵ Nevertheless, her Brother Cadfael is a man of profound faith. Love of God, who is both perfectly just and perfectly merciful, and love of neighbor, who is the object of both God’s justice and mercy, are what motivate Cadfael to look beyond the surface of a crime and seek the truth.

(Note-spoilers ahead for the novel Monk’s Hood)

In Monk’s Hood, for example, Cadfael investigates the poisoning of wealthy landowner, Gervase Bonel, who has recently vowed to disinherit his temperamental stepson in favor of giving his lands to Shrewsbury Abbey. All assume that the culprit is this stepson, Edwin. After all, Bonel and his stepson had an explosive argument just before the man’s death. And with Bonel dead before reworking his will, Edwin will inherit Bonel’s lands. Despite the evidence stacked against Edwin, Cadfael is careful not to make assumptions. He listens when those who know Edwin best assert that he cannot be the “dragon” of this tale. Upon meeting with young Edwin, Cadfael uses both cunning and discernment, gifts left over from his former life, to ascertain that Edwin cannot possibly be the murderer.

Cadfael ultimately discovers that the true murderer is Meurig, the illegitimate son of Bonel. Meurig had hoped to claim ownership of his father’s estate (located in Wales) through Welsh law, which does not discriminate against illegitimate children. However, Bonel’s plan to deed his estate to the Abbey of Shrewsbury would prevent Meurig from making his claim. Chancing upon a poison while visiting a relative in the monastery’s infirmary, Meurig desperately resolves to murder his father and prevent the property transfer. Cadfael, himself a Welshman, reveals Meurig’s crime at the Welsh courts just after Meurig has asserted his right to inherit Bonel’s estate. Cadfael calls it a “great pity” that mere chance put Meurig in the way of acquiring the poison used to murder Bonel, for, “he was never meant to be a murderer.” Even so, Cadfael is adamant that the guilty Meurig “cannot enter into possession of the fruit of his crime.”

Our St. George defeats the guilty “dragon,” Meurig, both by uncovering his crimes and preventing Meurig from possessing the “treasure” gained by evil deeds. Neither his compassion for the ways in which Meurig is a victim of social stigma, nor his perception that Meurig is not a cold-blooded killer by nature, tempt Cadfael to pretend that Bonel’s murder is anything other than an act of evil. Cadfael is determined to protect the “princesses” of the tale: the unfairly accused Edwin, and the community that Meurig would essentially rule if he becomes lord of his father’s estate.

However, as a man of faith, Brother Cadfael is out to do more than just defeat the guilty dragon-criminal. He hopes to be an instrument of the dragon’s redemption. Or rather, one could say that Brother Cadfael recognizes what the real dragon is: sin itself. After Meurig escapes from the court in the wake of Cadfael’s accusations, Cadfael orchestrates another encounter with the desperate fugitive. Meurig initially threatens to kill Brother Cadfael for exposing his crimes. However, Cadfael is neither afraid of death, nor afraid of Meurig. He says: “we have to die, every one of us, soon or late. But we do not have to kill. You and I both made a choice, you only a week or so ago, I when I lived by the sword…Now take what you want of me.”

Brother Cadfael knows what it is to kill. He knows the internal cost of taking another’s life. Unlike Meurig, Cadfael has defeated the dragon within, the dragon which led him to become a sword for hire following his Crusading days. Cadfael has repented of his sins and found peace in a life of prayer and penance, appropriately as an herbalist and healer. Therefore, Cadfael can face death with equanimity. And it is Cadfael’s calm in the face of death that causes Meurig to break down: “Oh, God, that I could so face my death…for I owe it, I owe it, and dare not pay! If I were clean…if only I were clean again.” As a result of Cadfael’s example, Meurig begins the first step of defeating the dragon of sin: he acknowledges that he is “unclean” and that he owes a debt to God for his evil deeds.

A true St. George, Brother Cadfael continues to lead Meurig down the path that will save him from the dragon of sin. The pity he openly expressed for Meurig’s situation, even as he exposed Meurig’s crime, gives Meurig hope. Brother Cadfael asserts again that is is a, “pity, indeed, that ever you went so far aside from your own nature, and poisoned yourself as surely as you poisoned your father.” Meurig, in sinning, has also become a victim of sin. He has perverted and poisoned what is otherwise good in himself. We are made in the image and likeness of God. And that image and likeness can never be erased, but only disfigured by the dragon of sin. Inspired both by Cadfael’s pity, and the reminder of his inherent goodness, Meurig begs Cadfael to hear his confession. Cadfael rightly points out that, as he isn’t a priest, he can’t offer sacramental absolution or penance. However, he is willing to listen to Meurig’s explanation and assign him a non-sacramental penance, knowing that refusing to do so could lead Meurig to despair.

Cadfael listens as “the story spilled out in broken gouts of words, like blood from a wound.” Again, we see that Meurig, the dragon-criminal, is simultaneously a victim of sin. Reflecting that Meurig is “all too aware of his mortal sickness” and that another death will accomplish nothing, Cadfael offers the following ‘penance:’

“You lay your life in my hands, and I find that I cannot take it either, that I should be wrong to take it. What benefit to the world would your blood be? But your hands, your strength, your will, that virtue you still have within you, these may yet be of the greatest profit. You want to pay in full? Pay then!…I rule that you shall live out your life…and pay back all your debts by having regard to those who inhabit this world with you. The tale of your good may yet outweigh a thousand times the tale of your evil.”

Here, Brother Cadfaels articulate the theme that lies at the heart of classic detective fiction: that good will triumph over evil. And in this particular detective novel, there is hope that the triumph of good over evil will occur in both the external world of knight-detective vs dragon-criminal, and the internal world of the dragon-criminal. It is a beautiful, and comforting, hope. For, like Meurig, I too am a character in a story, the plot of which is also the struggle between good and evil. Like Meurig, I have let the dragon of sin wreak havoc within me, and in doing so have wounded others. However, like Meurig, I am also the “princess” in need of rescue from the overwhelming power of the dragon of sin, and the debt I owe for submitting to his power.

The rescue that Brother Cadfael, our detective-St. George, offers to Meurig is the good news that Christ offers all of us: that He will, if we let him, conquer the dragon of sin and evil within us. Indeed, Christ promises us that His victory over the dragon is so absolute, that He can and will bring ultimate good even out of our sins and suffering. What Brother Cadfael says may yet be the case for Meurig is what Christ promises will definitely be the case for our individual story, and that of the whole world: the “tale of [the] good” will “yet outweigh a thousand times” the tale of evil.

This promise can often seem like an impossible dream. Like the characters in a detective story, it isn’t until the end that we recognize the way in which all circumstances tend to evil’s ultimate defeat. Yet, we are called upon to remain hopeful, and in the meantime, play our part in the ongoing battle. We are meant to be the crusading knight-detective, using our discernment to bring to light both the evil within and without, discovering the truth about ourselves and the world in which we live. We are called to use “[our] hands, [our] strength, [our] will[s], that virtue [we] still have within [us],” to make reparation to God and man when we reject our calling, and act instead as the dragon-criminal. Finally, in confronting sin, particularly our personal sinfulness, we must avoid the temptation to give into despair. As Brother Cadfael advises a wayward soul in another book (in a quote that made its way into my commonplace journal): “Leave agonizing too much over your sins, black as they are, there isn’t a confessor in the land who hasn’t heard worse and never turned a hair. It’s a kind of arrogance to be so certain you’re past redemption.”⁶

In reading detective fiction, I am reminded not to give into the arrogant certainty of my own, my neighbor’s, or the world’s, inability to be redeemed. God knows that individual souls may reject the good news, may arrogantly assume that they are beyond redemption, or worse, not in need of redemption. There is a reason we pray that Jesus “lead[s] all souls to heaven, especially those in most need of [His] mercy.” Plenty of the criminals in the Brother Cadfael novels fail to express sorrow for, or acknowledge the reality of, their sins. Even so, the novels will always end in one way, and one way only: with the triumph of good over evil. And that is why I can read stories that contain instances of murder, theft, greed, sexual sin, and more. Because I know that such evils will have neither the most important word, nor the last word.

1. Quoting Nancy Carpentier Brown in the Apple Podcast transcription of the episode

2. Ibid.

3. https://www.chesterton.org/detective-stories/

4. Ibid.

5. In one book, for example, a young couple sleeps together before they are married (in a chapel no less). Cadfael’s response: “Where mutual love is, I find it hard to consider any place too holy to house it. Our Lady, according to the miracles they tell of her, has been known to protect even the guilty who sinned out of love. You might try a few prayers to her, that will do no harm. Don’t trouble too much for what was done under such strong compulsion and pure of any evil intent.” To be fair, Cadfael knows the couple intends to marry if all goes well, he does at least imply that the act was sinful (“guilty who sinned out of love”), and he urges prayer as a remedy. He is also rightly speaking of love as a good thing, and a gift from God. Alas, we can sometimes misuse good things or enjoy them in the wrong context. The problem here (and elsewhere in the series) is that with Cadfael, Peters sometimes flirts with the modern assumption that you cannot love your fellow man if you happen to speak the truth about sin, particularly sexual sin, to him.

6. A Morbid Taste for Bones By Ellis Peters