by Paul Doherty
'I cannot believe,' Mandeville jibed, 'that this girl garrotted two experienced agents, Calcraft and Warnham.'
'Oh come, Sir Edmund,' Benjamin replied. 'I have heard how in Spain there are beggar children so skilled with the garrotte they can kill a fully grown man in a matter of seconds. It would have been simple for Rachel.' Benjamin spread his hands. 'Calcraft, and on another occasion Warnham, were invited down to a meeting in some tavern by the riverside where Mistress Rachel was waiting to talk to them. After her coy glances and generous cups of wine, they were lured out into the dark so Rachel might speak where no spy could overhear. Perhaps they sat down. Mistress Rachel would find it so easy; a desolate spot, the garrotte cord in her hands, men in their cups. Just a few seconds, Sir Edmund, and the cord slips round their throat; fuddled in their wits they would struggle but only briefly before lapsing into unconsciousness. If the garrotte cord did not kill, the cold water of the Thames would. Then Rachel would flit back along the alleyways to Richmond Palace.'
'You have proof of that?' Sir John blustered, though his eyes betrayed him.
'Yes and no.' Benjamin replied. 'Except I was intrigued why a scarlet cord should be used. So, before I left London, I took it to one of the maids at Richmond Palace, and do you know what she said?'
Santerre shook his head.
'That it is a sort of material women might buy to serve as piping on their dresses, gowns or cloaks. At the time I dismissed this but later it was a piece which fitted the puzzle.'
Rachel, her lower Up caught between her teeth, shook her head disbelievingly. I felt a chill of fear at her complete imperviousness to what my master was saying.
'Hopkins's sister,' I intervened, 'was also a victim of the garrotte. Rachel, you see, overheard us as we left the hall in Richmond Palace. She subtly covered this up by appearing to be concerned about what dangers might face us here at Templecombe.'
'Why should she kill Hopkins's sister?' Mandeville asked.
'Because,' I replied, 'there was always a danger that Hopkins, who confided in so few people, may have said something to his sister which could have threatened her. And it was so easy.' I spread my hands. 'Rachel slipped out of
Richmond Palace and went hot foot to the house of Hopkins's sister who would, of course, admit her as a friend, the daughter of the lord whom her dead brother had served. Rachel would reassure her, they even shared a goblet of wine, before Rachel slipped the garrotte round her throat. The old woman died, Rachel searched the house for anything which might incriminate her, and then disappeared.'
'That poor old woman was murdered,' Benjamin declared, 'not because she had said or done anything wrong but simply because of what she might know. We tell the truth, I believe, Rachel?'
The girl stared back silently.
'Once we left London,' Benjamin continued, 'the real dance began, didn't it, Roger?'
'Oh, yes,' I replied. 'When we stopped at Glastonbury, Mistress Rachel sent a message, God knows how, to that old witch who was waiting for us with her prophecies. Look, it stands to reason,' I continued. 'No man, or woman could read the future so clearly. Even before we reached Templecombe our deaths were planned. The old hag was really a mummer mouthing lines taught to her and, once her part was played, she too had to die. An easy feat. There must be secret passageways and entrances out of Templecombe. Mistress Rachel used these, first to silence the witch; secondly, to cut off her hands and head in order to frighten us on our return to Glastonbury.'
'And the deaths of Cosmas and Damien?' Mandeville asked.
Benjamin gave a pithy description of how both men had died.
'Cosmas was the easiest,' he concluded. 'On our first evening here, after you had all retired, Rachel allegedly left the hall to collect a manuscript. I am sure she went up to the poor man's room, picked up the thread lying there, pulled out the slow fuse, lit it with a tinder and then came back down here.'
'Was she so certain Shallot would be roused?' Mandeville asked.
'Oh, if Roger hadn't woken, she always had me. After she returned, she could feign sleep and say she wanted to retire. I would go to my chamber on the same gallery as poor Cosmas and, of course, notice something was wrong.
'However,' Benjamin stared at Rachel, his face betraying his hurt at being used by her, 'only after examining the Templar chapel following Damien's death did I really begin to suspect Mistress Rachel. You see, in the chapel, near one of the windows, I noticed bits of wood from a ladder which had been left there. Only a member of the Santerre household would have access to such a ladder.
'Secondly, when I simulated what she had done, I found the window was rather narrow. Even I, slender as I am, found it difficult to squeeze through.' He paused. 'So it had to be someone young and supple and only Rachel fitted that description.
'Finally, there was something else. Did you notice, Sir Edmund, when we were trying to force the door of the church, how Rachel and her mother hurried along shouting for Damien through the window? At the time I thought it was strange but, on reflection, Rachel was simply checking that no trace of her departure from the church remained. Once we were inside, she was also most assiduous in accompanying us as we searched for any secret entrance or passageway. I recall her being near one of the windows. I am sure it was then she either brought the latch down or, if it had already fallen, made sure it was in place.'
'But the snow?' Mandeville interrupted. 'You said someone who had been travelling through snow stood at the back of the church.'
'No, that was just a clever ploy to tangle matters even further. Rachel could have brought the snow in and let it melt so as to distract attention from herself. She had ostensibly stayed in the manor house all day.'
Benjamin paused and we all stared at the young woman now sitting back in her chair looking up at the rafters, tapping the table top and humming a tune to herself. She was one of the most curious assassins I had ever met. Benjamin had levelled the most serious allegations against her, yet never once had she protested, objected or interrupted. Even my master seemed unnerved by her cool demeanour.
'Daughter,' Sir John grated, 'have you anything to say against this?'
'I am not your daughter,' she replied flatly. She then sat up straight and stared at my master. 'Where's your proof that I lit the slow fuse? Where is your proof that I garrotted two men, not to mention an old woman, in London? Where is the proof that I lurked in a church and killed Mandeville's servant with a crossbow bolt? Or that I killed and mutilated a half-mad witch?'
Benjamin pulled a face. 'Aye, Mistress, you are correct. Other people could have bought the scarlet cord. Other people could have committed these terrible crimes. But, think carefully. Someone at Templecombe knew where to get gunpowder, oil and a slow fuse. Someone at Templecombe knew where to hide both herself and a scaling ladder in the church, as well as how to use that poor hag; first to deliver messages and then, as a warning to the rest of us, as a victim.'
The same is true of Bowyer and Southgate,' I interrupted. Their horses were fed a meal of oats and bran to make them more fiery. Who else but someone at Templecombe could manage that? And then you changed their stirrups and tainted their spurs with mercury?'
'So Bowyer's death was no accident?' Mandeville interrupted.
'Of course not!' Benjamin replied, and gave a short description of what we had found in the stables and in Southgate's chamber. Rachel heard him out. She placed her elbows on the table, resting her face between her hands, nodding approvingly as if Benjamin was some favoured pupil who had learnt a poem by rote.
'But you have no proof,' she repeated.
'There's the proof!' I snarled, pointing to her white-faced mother and the haggard Sir John. 'They know! They suspect!'
The young woman shrugged.
'Then there's the servants,' I continued. 'Those who carried out your orders. You dragged down everyone with you.'
Rachel daintily arched one eyebrow as if I had mentioned inviting her servants to some feast or revelry. Benjamin wa
tched her curiously.
'You are not afraid of death, Mistress?'
'Why should I be frightened of the inevitable?' she replied. 'And why threaten me with death? As I keep repeating, you have no proof.'
The King's torturers in the Tower will find it!' Mandeville retorted.
Benjamin walked in front of Rachel and studied her carefully. I watched, fascinated, for this was the first time he had confronted a murderer with a plausible explanation but very little proof. The deaths of the agents, Cosmas and Damien, Bowyer and those terrible injuries inflicted on Southgate, would in a court of law puzzle any jury. They might declare there was a case to answer, but what proof? (Mind you, Mandeville was right! Henry VIII cared little about evidence or the finer points of law. I always remember him turning to Thomas Cromwell about the trial of an abbot who had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy. 'Give him a fair trial,' the fat bastard roared, 'and then hang him from his own gate!')
Benjamin beckoned Rachel. 'Mistress, a word by ourselves, please?'
She rose, tripping round the table as if Benjamin had asked her for a dance. They walked down the hall and stood near the fireplace. Benjamin whispered to her and I heard her hissed reply, followed by silence. She then spread her hands and Benjamin led her back to the table where she stood defiantly before Mandeville.
'Master Daunbey is correct,' she murmured. 'I am a member of the secret Order of the Templars. I am responsible for the deaths he has listed.' She smiled obliquely. 'I pay respect to his brilliance and subtle astuteness but I am proud of what I did. My Lord of Buckingham's death is avenged. Those responsible, except you, Sir Edmund, have received their just deserts.' She lowered her voice. 'But don't sleep easy, Mandeville, for your time will come. Beware of every alleyway, of every drink and bite you swallow, of every horse you mount, every stranger you meet, because in time, when you least expect it, other Templars will finish what I have begun!'
'And us?' I shouted.
(Isn't it strange? This mere slip of a girl responsible for at least seven deaths. A self-confessed killer who could, even on the brink of her own destruction, still hold us with a threat. And you know Old Shallot, I have a well-developed sense of my own preservation. Yes, I will be honest, Rachel Santerre, or more correctly Rachel Mortimer, chilled my soul to the marrow.)
The young woman stared at me. ‘I like you, Shallot,' she murmured. 'No, for the moment you are safe. What happened last night should never have taken place.'
Now Mandeville got to his feet. 'Rachel Santerre,' he intoned, 'I arrest you for treason and the most horrible homicides. You will be taken to London and stand trial for your life before King's Bench at Westminster. Sir John, Lady Beatrice, you will accompany her.' Mandeville walked to the door and called for some of Bowyer's soldiers. 'Take this woman,' he ordered, pointing to her, 'to her chamber.
One man is to stay on guard in the room, two others outside! She is to be chained hand and foot. Do it!' he ordered the surprised soldier.
The fellow grasped the unresisting Rachel and pushed her out of the hall. Mandeville glared back at Santerre.
'I will now search this house,' he barked, 'beginning with your daughter's chamber!' And swept out of the room.
'Roger,' Benjamin whispered, 'come with me.'
He hurried out of the hall. The soldiers were already putting manacles around Rachel's wrists. Her face was marble-white, Even then I knew she was determined not to become the plaything of the London mob.
'Mistress Rachel,' Benjamin asked, ignoring Mandeville's protests, 'is there anything we can do?'
She forced a smile and shook her head. Mandeville pushed her further down the gallery.
'Sir,' Benjamin intervened, 'the woman is your prisoner, there is no need for such rudeness.'
Rachel shrugged off Mandeville's hand and looked once more at Benjamin.
'Ever the gentleman, Master Daunbey. I am sorry about last night. I was ordered not to touch you.' And without explaining that enigmatic remark further, she allowed the soldiers to lead her away.
Benjamin and I walked back into the hall. Lady Beatrice was sobbing hysterically. Sir John Santerre looked an old, beaten man.
'Master Daunbey,' he pleaded, 'what shall we do?' Benjamin climbed on to the dais and leaned over the table.
'You have interests abroad, Sir John?' Santerre nodded.
'And gold with the Antwerp bankers?' Again the nod.
Benjamin looked at Lady Beatrice. 'You knew, didn't you?'
The woman's thin face was a mask of terror. 'I couldn't stop her,' she whispered hoarsely. 'When I married my husband, I knew the legends, the stories, the whispers.' She glanced round the deserted hall and glared at Santerre. 'I hate this place!' She spat out the words. 'I asked Sir John to burn it to the ground but Rachel played him like a piece of string around her finger. She could always do that! Templars, ghosts, curses - and now we shall answer for it with our lives!'
'Sir John,' Benjamin replied briskly, 'there are secret entrances and passageways out of Templecombe, are there not?'
Sir John nodded. 'Yes, yes,' he said absentmindedly.
'Then, sir,' Benjamin declared, 'I would collect up all that is valuable, leave immediately, get to the coast and put as much distance as you can between yourself and the King's fury. It's your only chance,' he persisted. 'Otherwise the King's lawyers will spin their web and have you hanged at Tyburn. You'd best go now.'
Benjamin straightened up as if he was listening carefully. 'Your servants are wise, Sir John. They have already gone. I suggest you do likewise.'
Chapter 14
We left the hall and I became aware of how true Benjamin's words were. We wandered into the scullery. The fires had been doused and only a half-witted spit boy sat smiling amongst the ashes. Outside in the cobbled yard the story was the same; ostlers, grooms, stable boys, all had fled. (Looking back there was nothing singular in that. I had been to enough great houses where the lord had fallen from royal favour and it's eerie how quickly the word spread. The effect was always the same: desertion and flight.) The only sounds were the soldiers hurrying along the corridors.
Sir John and Lady Beatrice left the hall and slipped like shadows up the stairs. Benjamin was right. For the moment Mandeville was concerned only with Rachel but, once more soldiers arrived, Sir John and Lady Beatrice would be arrested. Old Henry would have little compassion for them.
'Come,' Benjamin muttered, 'let us ride out the storm in your chamber.'
We walked up the stairs. The soldiers were already breaking into rooms, intent on full-scale pillaging. The chamber servants had also disappeared and I marvelled how quickly this stately mansion was collapsing in chaos. I was all agog with curiosity but Benjamin refused to say anything until I locked my chamber door behind us.
'Did you always know it was Rachel?' I asked.
'No, I had a number of suspects. They included Mandeville and Southgate and Sir John Santerre and his wife. But I suppose murder has its own logic and everything pointed towards Rachel.' He ticked the points off on his fingers. 'The scarlet cords, the easy access to gunpowder in Templecombe's cellars, the litheness and suppleness of the assassin in the Templar church, as well as the young woman's movements both on the night Cosmas died and when we discovered Damien's body in the chapel.'
'But how did you make her confess?'
'Ah!' Benjamin lay down on the bed and stared up at the rafters. 'That, my dear Roger, will have to wait until our return to London. But for the moment, let us be patient and wait a while.'
He closed his eyes and I was left to twiddle my thumbs whilst all around us I could hear the sound of breaking doors and the running steps of soldiers. Mandeville came up to render grateful thanks, though he had the look of a vindictive hunter.
*I cannot find Sir John or Lady Beatrice,' he stated.
Benjamin hardly moved.
'Do you know where they are, Master Daunbey?'
'Oh, for God's sake, Sir Edmund, you have found your quarry and the Ki
ng will have Templecombe and its estates. If the Santerres have fled, let them go!'
Mandeville shifted from foot to foot. 'The King will hear of this.'
'His Grace the King will also hear of our great industry in this matter,' I taunted back. 'If it had not been for Master Daunbey, who knows where this would have ended?'
'How is Mistress Rachel?' Benjamin asked.
'Cold, distant and unrepentant.'
Benjamin rolled over on the bed, resting his head on his hand. He looked up at Mandeville. 'She is not to be harmed. No brutality or violation.' Mandeville looked away.
'Sir Edmund, I want your word on that, or I promise you this - the Lord Cardinal will get to hear of it! Sir Edmund,' Benjamin insisted, 'you owe me something.'
'You have my word,' Mandeville muttered. 'She will be given food and drink. Tomorrow morning she will be taken to London.' He moved to the door then suddenly turned back. 'Southgate will be left here with some of the soldiers until my return when I will root out this nest of traitors!' He left, slamming the door behind him.
We stayed in my chamber most of the day. A soldier brought up some badly cooked meat and a jug of wine after which I walked along the gallery. The cloths and tapestries had been wrenched from the walls whilst in the hall every precious object had been removed. The kitchens were pillaged, the soldiers were even defecating and relieving themselves in the corners of rooms, whilst some heartless bastard had shot two of the greyhounds. Templecombe now looked as if the French had landed and the manor been turned over to pillagers.
I wandered out into the chill night air, wondering if I should visit Rachel Santerre and ensure that Mandeville was keeping his word. Behind me I could hear the sound of breaking furniture, the shouts of soldiers and the stench of cooking fires. Even I, a professional thief, felt sickened at the wanton vandalism. I was half-way between Templecombe and the chapel, about to turn back, when a dark shape stepped out of the bushes.