The Grail Murders srs-3

by Paul Doherty

  'He had tenuous links with Buckingham and also with Master Hopkins. I admit the letters Buckingham supposedly wrote to him were forgeries, as was Taplow's evidence at Buckingham's trial. The poor bastard was tortured so much he would have confessed to anything.'

  'So why,' Benjamin asked, 'didn't you allow us to interrogate the real Taplow?' Mandeville stared through the frosted glass. 'I asked a question, Sir Edmund?'

  'Taplow was promised his life if he supported our destruction of Buckingham but in Newgate he began to recant.' This most sinister of spies shrugged. 'For a short time one of my agents took his place.' Mandeville smiled mirthlessly. 'I wondered if it would work. What made you suspect he wasn't the person he claimed to be?'

  'Lutherans don't believe in Purgatory, the Taplow we met did.' Mandeville sniffed disparagingly. 'Did you know Mistress Hopkins was murdered?' Benjamin asked.

  Mandeville shook his head. 'We thought she wasn't worth the bother of watching.'

  'Well, someone thought she was important and garrotted her. By the way, do you know who killed Warnham and Calcraft?'

  'If I did,' Mandeville snapped, 'the murderer would be hanging on the gibbet at Smithfield!' 'So how much of the rest do you think is true?' I asked.

  'Oh, the Grail and Excalibur exist. The King is most insistent on that.' 'And the Templars?'

  'Oh, yes, we have been hunting them for years. They are a secret organisation existing in cells of six or seven. No single coven knows much about the others but they are powerful, spread like a net through France, Spain, Scotland and England. They are particularly strong here in the Southwest.' 'Who is their leader?'

  'A Grand Master, but we don't know his name or which country he lives in.'

  Mandeville suddenly put his finger to his lips and stepped out of the window embrasure. He looked down to the gallery where the Santerres now stood outside the hall door.

  'Sir John,' Mandeville called, 'I should be grateful if you could stay in the hall. Certain questions must be asked.'

  'Look,' Benjamin continued, 'why are the King and his agents so interested in this secret society?'

  Mandeville waited for the Santerres to withdraw before he answered. 'The Templars are particularly hostile to the King and have supported most of the Yorkist rebellions. They circulate stories about the Princes in the Tower still being alive and, during the present King's father's reign, they supported the two imposters, Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck. If you remember your history, Master Daunbey, you may recall the fiercest rebellions were here in the South-West. When the King was a boy, rebels from the West Country made him flee from the city whilst the pretender, Perkin Warbeck, actually laid siege to Exeter.' 'Is Santerre under suspicion?'

  'Yes and no. Santerre has proved to be a most loyal subject of the King but Hopkins served him as a chaplain and Buckingham came here looking for those relics.' Mandeville snorted with laughter. 'Matters are not helped by the two recent murders.' 'And Lady Beatrice? Her maiden name is Belamonte. Her first husband, Lord of Templecombe, was Sir Roger Mortimer.'

  Mandeville shook his head. 'Her loyalty is really beyond question. After all, it was Lady Beatrice who urged Santerre to confess everything about Buckingham to my two agents.' 'And the monks at Glastonbury?'

  Mandeville smiled bleakly. 'A pretty mess. Strong links probably existed between the Templars and the abbey. Hopkins was a member of that house and the monks do guard the remains of Arthur whilst this mysterious riddle was found in a manuscript of their library. Mandeville gnawed at his lip. 'I have been honest with you. Now, sir, be truthful with me. What do you know?'

  My master described what had happened on the trackway earlier that day.

  'Probably members of the Templar coven,' Mandeville commented.

  'They could have been responsible for the deaths of Cosmas and Damien,' I added.

  'Thus we must resolve the matter,' Benjamin declared. 'The servants of this house could, one or all, be either the assassins or in their pay.'

  'We shall deal with them in the morning,' Mandeville snapped.

  'There's something else,' Benjamin continued. 'Sir Edmund, we must solve the riddle. Yet, as far as I can see, this house or the chapel have nothing even vaguely resembling the waters of Jordan or Moses' Ark.' He shrugged apologetically. 'I have wandered round the galleries but there's no painting or carving to arouse my curiosity. Only two other places remain: Glastonbury Abbey and the desolate building on that lonely island in the middle of the lake.'

  'When we were at Glastonbury,' Mandeville answered, stroking the side of his face, 'I told the abbot to send one of his lay brothers to Taunton with a message for the sheriff to bring armed men to Templecombe. I expect them tomorrow morning. Once they have arrived we will interrogate the servants, cross to the island as well as hunt down that bloody witch.'

  'And the two murders?' I asked. 'Do we have any further evidence?'

  'Nothing,' Benjamin replied quickly. 'One man dies in his bed which mysteriously catches fire. Another is killed by a crossbow bolt but the only door is bolted and the windows shuttered. We have established the assassin had been tramping round in the snow, yet Lady Beatrice and Rachel are wearing the same clothes as they were this morning and, as far as I know, never left the house.' 'Both of you did,' Mandeville tartly replied.

  'But why should we kill Damien? Others were in the house.'

  Mandeville caught Benjamin's steady glance. 'Well, before you ask me, Master Daunbey, I stayed here, though Southgate did leave to ride the estate.'

  He tilted his head and stared down the gallery. 'And, of course,' he whispered, 'there is always Sir John Santerre.'

  I looked sharply at my master. He tugged his ear lobe, our agreed sign for the other to remain silent. Benjamin did not fully trust Mandeville and was unwilling to admit that Sir John Santerre might have gone to Glastonbury.

  Our meeting then broke up, Mandeville stalking back into the hall whilst we returned to our chambers. Benjamin became lost in his own thoughts so I left him alone and lay on my own bed thinking about Mathilda until the bell sounded for supper.

  Despite the rich food, the meal was a sombre affair. Benjamin tried his best to make light conversation but Mandeville and Southgate were withdrawn, Sir John Santerre lost in his own thoughts, Lady Beatrice looked anxious whilst the pale-faced Rachel merely toyed with her food. Once the table had been cleared and everyone was preparing to leave, my master suddenly stood up.

  'This house must be searched,' he declared. 'Every room, every closet.' 'What for?' Mandeville asked. *I don't really know though I will when I see it.' Santerre bristled with rage. 'You may accompany us,' Benjamin added softly. 'Must it be now?' Lady Beatrice asked.

  'I agree,' Mandeville insisted. 'Either now or tomorrow when Sir Henry Bowyer will arrive with armed men from Taunton.' Sir John flinched. 'Is that necessary?'

  'Yes, I sent the message when I was at Glastonbury. The sheriff's men will be able to assist us. Now, after the death of two of my colleagues, I need them for my own protection. Anyway, I am sure you prefer myself and Master Daunbey to search the house rather than clod-hopping shire levies?'

  Sir John did not demur but insisted that he join us. Servants were called, torches and lamps brought and we began our search. Believe me, Templecombe proved to be an even larger house than I thought. The cellars were huge and cavernous but contained nothing remarkable; beer barrels, wine tuns, cut logs, sea coal and other stores. At the far end of the cellar, we found one chamber where the door was padlocked and barred. Santerre hastened to open it but told us not to bring any torches in.

  'Gunpowder and oil are stored here,' he explained. 'We use it for taking rock from the local quarries.'

  The door was opened and I went in. The room was nothing more than a dry, musty cell. Benjamin followed, studying the coiled slow fuses, jars of oil and small barrels of gunpowder piled there. He cocked his head to one side and I could see that something had caught his attention. 'What is it, Master?' 'Nothing, nothing
at all.'

  We continued our search and, I tell you this, if any place was haunted, it was Templecombe, particularly those cellars. We then returned upstairs, going from room to room, only to discover nothing untoward.

  At last Mandeville himself called off the search, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

  'We have done what we can,' he commented. 'Tomorrow we search the church and cross to the island.' Benjamin objected. 'There are still the servants' quarters.'

  Mandeville made a face. 'Let the sheriff's men deal with them. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'

  We returned to our chambers, Benjamin joining me in mine. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to recite all he knew as if memorising some poem: 'Buckingham dies, the agents die, garrotted to death.' He looked up. 'Did you know you can garrotte someone in a few seconds?'

  'Is that relevant?' I asked. I felt so tired I just wanted to go to sleep.

  'No. No,' Benjamin murmured absentmindedly. 'Then we come here and a witch warns us, prophesying death by various means. Cosmas is burnt to death in his bed; Damien killed by a mysterious archer who apparently can pass through thick walls, but there's no clue to the riddle, no sign of the Templars and not a shred of evidence to indicate where the Grail or Excalibur lie.' He rubbed his chin. 'But there must be a solution. Perhaps the sheriff's men will help.'

  Chapter 10

  We were awakened the next morning by Sir Henry Bowyer's rough arrival accompanied by at least a dozen likely-looking rogues. These were not shire levies but professional soldiers who acted as the sheriff's posse in the pursuit of criminals. Bowyer was a short, squat man with very little hair and a cheery red face. He was always smiling and greeted us most amicably as we broke our fast in the great hall.

  Nevertheless, he was a man you wouldn't trust. He had piss-holes as eyes, foul breath, decaying teeth and an attitude towards Mandeville which can only be described as servile. The sort of man whose head has been turned by success and left him staring in the wrong direction.

  Bowyer's troopers, as professional soldiers are wont, soon made themselves at home in the courtyard and outhouses: within an hour, Sir John was receiving complaints of food being stolen from the kitchen; jugs of wine mysteriously emptying; and chickens, full of life the night before, suddenly being killed, plucked and spitted over makeshift fires. Santerre, however, had problems of his own as Mandeville, assisted by Southgate and a servile Bowyer, had the great hall cleared and turned into a shire court. He and Bowyer sat at the high table, the Santerres and ourselves were treated as onlookers. Mandeville then gathered all the servants, cooks, scullions, chambermaids, Mathilda included, even the men from the stables. He addressed them in short, pithy sentences and promptly began his interrogation of each of them.

  'How long have you served here?' 'Does the word "Templar" mean anything to you?' 'Did anyone approach the chapel yesterday afternoon?'

  The servants were good but simple people, local peasants who simply shook their heads and stared wide-eyed at this powerful lord from London. Nevertheless, I admired Mandeville's skill for, as he questioned, I caught the unease of some of them. Nothing really significant: a flicker of the eyes, a slight paleness of the face. Answers given too quickly and too readily. Mathilda herself was very ill-at-ease, shifting from foot to foot. Mandeville sensed this and closed like a hawk for the kill. 'You are the linen maid?' Mathilda nodded. 'Aren't you curious about these strangers staying in your master's house?' She shook her head. 'So you have not abused your position by searching our belongings?' Mathilda's eyes flickered quickly towards me. 'No, Master,' she murmured.

  'I can vouch for that,' I exclaimed. 'The girl didn't know I was in my room when she was changing the linen. She's the complete opposite to me, Sir Edmund, honest as the day is long.'

  Benjamin looked strangely at me but a ripple of laughter lessened the tension and Mathilda was dismissed. The others came up. Mandeville asked the questions, or sometimes Southgate. Occasionally, to show his power, the sheriff would try to hector, though Mandeville kept him firmly under control. At last it was finished but before the servants were dismissed, Mandeville ordered their quarters to be searched. Sir John and Lady Beatrice vehemently objected to this, so Benjamin offered to supervise the soldiers and ensure it was not used as a pretext for theft or pillage.

  This search, like the questioning, proved fruitless so Mandeville brusquely dismissed the servants. I watched them leave, paying particular attention to Mathilda and how she held the arm of a grizzle-haired, thickset man who appeared to be her father. I noticed he had a slight limp; I recalled the attack on me the previous day and the wounds I had unwittingly inflicted, but decided to keep the matter to myself. After that we made a thorough search of the chapel, its walls, flagstones and altar, but there was nothing. We even looked under the ancient stalls the Templars once sat in, and I confess (as is the wont of old Shallot) I did little work but spent most of the time admiring the brilliant carvings on the misericord of each stall. The first three enthralled me: a man, miserably clutching a winding frame, being birched on the buttocks by his wife; a tapster drinking; and two peasants disembowelling a slaughtered pig. Each carving was a breath-taking picture in itself. Benjamin came over to join me.

  'The Templars,' he declared, 'would come into the stalls and raise the seats. The carvings were placed on the reverse, not only for ornamentation's sake but to make the seats heavier.' He grinned and pointed to the woman birching her husband. 'The local craftsmen always enjoyed themselves, depicting scenes far from sacred.'

  Mandeville, however, had finished his search which proved just as fruitless as the previous day's and told us to leave. We all moved out of the church down to the lake which glistened brightly, though the island itself was still mist-shrouded. A number of barges were hidden in the trees along the lakeside and Mandeville and Santerre ordered these to be brought together. They were cleaned of frozen mud, made ready, and we all clambered aboard, Bowyer's soldiers poling us across.

  God be my witness, that island was the most mysterious I had ever visited. It was damp, cold, eerie and uncanny. The trees were too close together and the snow-covered gorse seemed to have a life of its own, blocking our passage with its thick stems. We struggled through, soaking ourselves to the skin.

  'Have you noticed anything?' Benjamin breathlessly whispered. He stopped and looked up at the tangle of gaunt branches above him. 'No birds here! No rooks, no crows, nothing at all!'

  I stopped and listened, straining my ears for any sound above the crashing of the soldiers or the muttered curses as men slipped on the icy ground underfoot. This raucous noise only seemed to emphasize the ominous silence of the island and reminded me of a story I had heard from a traveller who claimed to have sailed the Western Ocean and come across islands inhabited by ghosts of dead sailors. I shivered and muttered a curse. Mandeville and the others had now drawn their swords and were cutting their way through. The Agentes, in particular, seemed to be affected by the oppressive mood of the island and were taking out their fears in the hacking blows of their swords.

  At last we reached a clearing and the desolate building we had glimpsed from the shore. It was of yellowing sandstone with a dark, red-tiled roof, no windows but thin, trefoil arrow slits in the walls. The iron-studded door was padlocked. Santerre apologised, he had no key, so Southgate hacked the padlock off and kicked the door open. We walked in and torches were lit. Believe me, the sombre atmosphere of that place seemed a living thing which clutched the heart and dulled the spirit. Nothing in particular, just a yawning emptiness, a cold chilling air which had little to do with the ice and snow outside. 'A home of death,' I muttered. 'Or a very sacred place,' Benjamin replied.

  Mandeville ordered the soldiers to stand round the walls, taking their torches which spluttered bravely against the darkness. I had the almost childish impression that if we kept within the pools of light everything would be fine but, beyond the flames, shadows lurked and powers even darker waited to catch you by t
he throat. The floor was hard paving stone, the walls lime-washed, the room devoid of even a stick of furniture.

  The soldiers grew uneasy and grumbled amongst themselves so Mandeville shouted at them to begin the search. Those men were professional foragers and, if there was a loose paving stone or secret passageway, they would have found it, but there was nothing. Benjamin, however, just squatted, moving like a spider from one paving stone to another. He stopped, exclaiming in surprise, so we gathered round as he scraped the floor with his finger.

  'Candle grease,' he observed. 'Someone has been here and fairly recently.'

  Other drops were found but nothing else so Mandeville ordered us to resume our search. I kept a wary eye on Santerre for this bluff manor lord, usually afraid of nothing, stayed near the door like a child frightened of a dark, strange room. 'Is anything wrong?' I asked. Santerre shook his head but his face was pallid and I saw the beads of sweat on his cheeks. 'What is it?' I muttered. The soldiers pushed by us, eager to get out. Santerre just shook his head. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Are you sure?' Benjamin asked, coming up beside him.

  Again Santerre nodded. Benjamin looked up at the whitewashed wall above the door. He waited until the rest had left. 'Sir John, I think something is very wrong and Mandeville, in his haste, has overlooked it.' Santerre just stared at him.

  'It's the walls,' Benjamin continued. 'They have been recently white-washed. Now why was that done, eh?'

  'I don't know,' Santerre mumbled and trudged off to join the others.

  We crossed back to the other bank, Mandeville striding away from the barge, shouting orders at Southgate. A cart pulled out from the courtyard, driven by a soldier taking the two coffins down to the village church where the priest would sing a requiem and those two pathetic brothers be buried and, in time, forgotten. Mandeville made ready to follow. The pompous Bowyer was ordered to stay at the manor but Sir Edmund waved us over.