The Grail Murders (17 page)

'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 Benjamin tried his best to make light conversation but Mandeville and Southgate were withdrawn, Sir John Santerre lost in his own thoughts, Lady Beatrice looked anxious whilst the pale-faced Rachel merely toyed with her food.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 Bowy
er sat at the high table, the Santer
res
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 Londo
n. Nevertheless, I admired Mand
eville'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 apol
ogised, he had no key, so South
gate 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 the 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.

'You will come with us to Glastonbury, though first we have one further task to accomplish.'

He refused to say any more so we collected riding boots, hats and cloaks from our chambers. A white-faced Mathilda sped by me in the gallery but Benjamin was shouting for me so I decided not to accost her. We collected our horses, took leave of Santerre and galloped down the frozen, cobbled track as if Mandeville intended to waste no time in reaching Glastonbury before nightfall. We rode a good way along the track before Mandeville slowed, leaned over and talked quietly to Southgate. Eventually they reined in.

Southgate declared, 'Yes, this is the spot,' and I realised we were going witch-hunting. We dismounted. One soldier was ordered to guard the horses whilst another, a lean whippet of a man with leathery skin and sea-blue eyes, was beckoned over by Mandeville. Sir Edmund grasped the soldier by the shoulder and introduced him.

'Bowyer calls this man Pointer because he is a skilled hunter. If anyone can find his way through the tracks and forest paths to where that hag lives, Pointer will!'

The man grinned wolfishly, showing jagged teeth. He was well named. I have seen better looking hunting dogs. Mandeville fished in his purse and brought out a silver coin, rolling it in his fingers. Pointer watched it greedily.

'Find this old bitch's hut and two of these are yours.'

Pointer needed no further encouragement and I was too intrigued to object to floundering through the frozen bracken. Pointer set off through the trees with a loping stride. God knows how he did, they were clumped together and the undergrowth beneath made more treacherous by a carpet of snow. On no occasion did Pointer seem bemused or in doubt but led us on, disregarding the ankle-deep snow and the sudden flurries and falls from over-hanging branches.

(On reflection, men like Pointer are not so rare. Once, in the wild dark woods of Muscovy, I was hunted by men and dogs in one of the most terrifying escapades of my life. I had been invited to a banquet by some mad Russian prince. What I didn't know was that I was the entertainment afterwards! Before the hunt began, the mad bastard told me that if the yellow-haired mastiffs did not tear me to pieces, I'd be pulled apart by horses. You can be assured I needed no further encouragement to run on that occasion, but that's another tale.)

Now I dislike the countryside at the height of summer, but that forest was bewitched. I protested loudly against the darkness, nature's traps and, above all, kept thinking of those assailants who'd attacked me yesterday.

'A natural place for an ambush,' I cried.

Mandeville grinned and wiped the sweat from his face.

That's why I told no one back at the manor of our visit. I want to give this old bitch the surprise of her life.'

At last the trees gave way to a clearing. At the far end was a small rocky hillock as if huge boulders had been jammed together by the hand of some mythical giant. At the base of this cliff was a large cavern. Mandeville drew his sword and we followed suit, though God knows what we expected to find. We strode cautiously across as if the old hag might appear at the mouth of the cave, uttering curses and dire prophecies, yet everything remained silent.

Benjamin stopped and pointed to the entrance. There had been a light snowfall the previous night but it looked as if someone else had been here, visited the witch then gone back to the line of trees, covering their tracks by using a switch of old branches so no imprint could be seen. We entered the cave. The fire which should have flared at the entrance was a pile of wet ash and the oil-topped torches were extinguished. Mandeville lit one of these and we went deeper in.

A strange place - carvings on the wall which, Benjamin explained, must be centuries old. The cave itself was surprisingly warm and we realised we were walking through a gallery which led us into a lofty underground cavern. It was furnished like any room. The rushes on the floor were clean and sprinkled with herbs. A cooking pot hung on a tripod though the logs beneath were now blackened cinders. I glimpsed a chest and coffer, table and stool. In the far corner was a bed and, beside this, slumped like a disused doll, lay the witch. Benjamin hastened over and grasped the woman's shoulder.

She turned, arms flailing, head back, eyes open - but the gaping mouth would utter no more prophecies, her breath cut off by the red garrotte cord round her scrawny neck.

Mandeville just cursed and lashed out, sending a stool flying. Southgate crouched by my master and felt the nape of the old woman's neck, trying to ignore those staring, popping eyes.

'She's been dead for hours,' he commented. 'Her skin's cold as a dead snake's.'

He got up and wiped his hands. 'Sir Edmund, the old witch apparently played her part and now she, too, has been removed.'

'I agree,' Benjamin replied.

'But who killed her?' Mandeville snapped.

'I suspect the same people or person responsible for the murders of Cosmas and Damien, not to mention your agents in London.'

Benjamin pointed at the grotesque corpse. 'She was only a paid player, a silly old woman. The murderer knew we would make her talk. She may have been killed any time in the last two days.'

'You mean someone from Templecombe?' Southgate asked.

'Possibly,' Benjamin replied. 'One of the family, or a servant, or perhaps by the Templars themselves.' My master shrugged. 'We are strangers and how long did it take us -ten to fifteen minutes - to come here? Yet there must be secret routes and trackways into the forest. The murderer probably came by these, killed the old woman and went back, making sure he removed all trace of his movements.'