Temple of The Grail (9 page)

‘Do you think he wrote the note?’

‘Why should he have written it?’ He
continued looking about beneath the seats. I looked away, for it did not seem a
very dignified position for a master.

‘Because he does not want our interference.’
I answered, ‘he may have been warning us not to meddle in the inquiry.’

‘Whoever wrote the note is clever,
for he has a command of Greek, and the inquisitor knows no Greek at all, not
having recognised my vulgar use of it at the dinner table this evening. No,
I’ll wager five hundred Saracen ducats that someone is playing a little game
with us.’

‘So, the librarian? Brother Macabus?’

‘It is possible,’ he nodded, ‘because
he has a good command of the language, however, we must not discount the
possibility that there might be others who know Greek. I suspect that the
author of our little note would not have been so imprudent as to announce his
identity in such an obvious way. Then there is Setubar . . . but he cannot use
his hands, have you seen them? They are so gnarled that he cannot pick up a
spoon, let alone a quill . . .’

‘Why Greek, then?’

‘That is a good question. Perhaps the
author wanted only those who knew Greek to understand it?’

‘Perhaps he did so, master,’ I added,
‘to throw suspicion on the librarian?’

‘Perhaps . . . though monks are
rarely so clever in matters of intrigue. Now help me up.’ I held out a hand to
him and he took it. I knew his knees caused him endless suffering. ‘Damn the
Count of Artois to the bowels of hell for ruining my legs!’ he said
breathlessly, then, after a moment of recovery, ‘Now, we shall hunt for
tunnels, there must be catacombs somewhere down there.’

‘Tonight?’ I inquired, hoping that I
sounded calm.

‘There must be a crypt. A ghastly
cold place . . . no, not tonight. My knees are frozen stiff and also, Asa
awaits us in the infirmary.’

And so saying, we left the church,
stepping out into the cold cloister, and made our way to the aperture. We
found, however, that we could not exit through it because it was locked, so we
tried the kitchen door. It was open. My master ventured to the larder from
which he emerged holding two carrots, one of which he (most graciously) handed
to me. Taking an audible bite of it, he tried the door that led to the garden,
but it had been locked from the inside, forcing us to enter the church once
more and exit through the north transept door which was customarily open
throughout the night.

‘Strange that the cookhouse has one
door locked and not the other . . .’ my master said, thinking out loud as he
chewed.

The night was cold, but the sky was
dotted with flickering stars. I noticed high above in the dormitorium the
circa
or night monk making his rounds and it occurred to me that his life must be
very lonely, for he must pass the endless hours of the night alone, saying
psalms. A moment later we entered the cheering warmth of the infirmary to see
that Brother Asa had already begun his gruesome investigation by washing the
body. Sitting a little way off, near a large fire of smouldering embers, was
old Setubar. Everything in the room seemed moulded by his venerable will,
including his pupil. But the old man’s face, so often sour and impassive,
beamed in a benevolent smile as he offered me a place beside him, and I
wondered what had occasioned his sudden good humour.

‘What have you found, Asa?’ my master
asked almost immediately, carrot in hand.

The man looked up myopically from his
work, a deep scowl creasing his thin face. ‘Nothing. I find nothing.’

‘Well then, the poor man must have
died of excitement,’ my master concluded, ‘and yet I can see why you look
troubled.’

‘You can? I mean . . . I do?’ the
infirmarian asked, as bewildered as I.

‘Yes, of course, and I cannot say
that I blame you.’

‘No? But . . .’ Asa looked to his
master Setubar for guidance. ‘I do not understand, preceptor? You have not even
seen the body?’

‘I do not need to see it, brother, to
know that you have a problem.’

‘I do?’

‘Of course. You have a problem, a
most unfortunate, puzzling one, because you know that the symptoms this corpse
displayed in the throes of death coincide precisely with death by poisoning.’

The man was shocked into silence and
my master savoured his next words. ‘A problem . . . and yet at this point we
must be prudent, my dear colleague.’

‘Prudent?’

‘Yes, Asa,’ the old man broke in, in
the solemn way of Germans. ‘The Templar preceptor, who is also a respected
doctor as you know, is displaying wisdom. We cannot be certain, and so we must
be very circumspect, for we do not wish to alarm our community nor disturb the
inquiry with foolish assumptions.’

Asa’s eyes held the old man’s gaze
for a moment. ‘Master, perhaps . . .’

‘Nonsense!’ the old man exclaimed
with authority, ‘The monk was old, it was time he died, perhaps his heart
ceased to beat?’

My master sensed that he had stirred
up something between the two men, and this pleased him, for he took another
bite and chewed his carrot smiling. ‘Brother Setubar, you were the infirmarian
before Brother Asa?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

The old man eyed Andre with a great,
unreserved suspicion. ‘I held this esteemed position for many years, though I
did not particularly relish it. Now I am enjoying the accomplishments of my
pupil, though he still needs a little guidance.’

‘Was it you then that amassed this
fine collection of simples?’ he asked, investigating the shelves crowded with
vials, earthenware pots, and jars of thick glass in which various coloured
powders were distinguished by labels in strange vernaculars. He stopped more
than once to investigate further, picking one out from the rest, opening its lid,
and sniffing its contents.

‘A small, though comprehensive,
collection that you might find interesting,’ the man said a little proudly,
suddenly unguarded. ‘Some were gifts from pilgrims travelling from every part
of the known world, as repayment for lodgings and food.’

‘And what lies behind this door?’ my
master pointed with his carrot to an aperture on the far wall to one side of
the fire.

The infirmarian, without glancing up
from his work, answered, ‘The chapel, preceptor.’

I knew it was common practice for
monasteries to have a small chapel near the infirmary for those whose illness
prevented them from attending the services in the community church. However, I
noted a lingering curiosity in my master’s eyes.

‘Yes, of course . . . and now, on
another matter, do you keep poisons here or in the herbarium, Asa?’

‘Any
potentia
, used
incorrectly, may be said to be a poison, preceptor,’ Asa pointed out.

‘No, I mean a specific poison,
something very potent, that only requires the smallest amount to kill.’

‘We do have various substances,
powders, derived from herbs we dry in our herbarium,
atropa belladonna,
colchicum autumnale, digitalis purpurea, datura stramonium.
These compounds
are very good in minute amounts for various treatments, but they are at the
same time deadly. You don’t think that . . .’

‘I am exploring all possibilities,
brother, and also I have to admit, all things curious interest me . . .’

‘We are not here to satisfy your
curiosity of insignificant things, preceptor,’ the old man snarled.

‘No, you are quite right, I shall
endeavour to be curious only of significant ones . . . and as it appears
significant, I shall ask you where you keep these herbal compounds. Not in the
reach of any person who might wander in, I hope?’

‘No, of course not!’ Setubar
answered. ‘No one but the infirmarian and I have access to such things in the
herbarium. We alone hold the keys.’

‘A prudent decision.’ There was a
thoughtful pause. ‘On another matter, do you supply the monastery with any
other substances apart from medicinal ones?’

‘We make our own ink,’ Asa said, ‘from
the wood of thorntrees. I collect this wood for I am very often in the forest.
However, the making of amalgam for applying gold leaf, the tempering of
colours, and the production of glue, these things I leave to others who
specialise in these arts.’

‘Yes, I see.’ My master then moved
closer to the body on the great table, whose ashen features were troublesome,
especially since there was a strange redness collecting on those parts beneath
the trunk, lower arms and legs. Later my master was to tell me that when the
heart stops beating the blood no longer circulates around the body, but
collects in the areas where the body happens to be lying for a time after
death, and this sometimes can indicate the length of time between a death and
its discovery.

‘There is no bruising?’ he asked.

‘No, preceptor.’

My master handed me the stub of
carrot and proceeded to his inspection of the body, firstly the feet, noting
that they were covered in a red mud.

‘This is curious . . . clay?’

The infirmarian peered at the dead
man’s feet. ‘So it is.’

‘But the abbey rests on dry, rocky
earth,’ my master said thoughtfully.

‘Indeed, though if one digs lower, as
I have occasion to do in the garden, a moist red earth reveals itself.’

‘I see.’

He continued working his way up the
legs of the body, the torso, arms, and finally the fingers and hands.

‘His hands are sticky.’

‘Brother Ezekiel had a sweet tooth,’
said the old man in reply.

‘Ahh yes, the raisins.’ My master
then searched the cadaver’s face, his ears, his eyes, and mouth. I looked away
as he opened it and sniffed inside. ‘Was the venerable brother suffering from
any illness or disorder that might account for his death? I can see his blood
did not circulate well around his legs for here we see evidence of past
ulceration, am I correct?’

‘Yes, if he were to bump his extremities
in the slightest, his skin would tear, and within a few hours a terrible wound
would develop,’ Asa answered.

‘And he was going blind, was he not?’
my master said, looking up.

‘Yes, for many years.’

‘We are then perhaps looking at the
body of a man who suffered from a disease known in the east whose designation
escapes me . . .’ He then quoted a medical text. ‘Just as the
corpus
of
a man does not respire
aqua
,’ he said, ‘and a fish does not breathe air,
so do many innocent substances kill those whose organisms find them unsuitable.
It is only conjecture at this point, of course,’ my master stated, ‘but much
knowledge can be gained by using the art of diagnostics.’

‘Yes, the skill of the Greeks,’ said
Asa, who then became very thoughtful. ‘You remember his continual somnolence,
Brother Setubar? His thirst, and constant need to relieve himself?’

Brother Setubar grunted a little in
answer.

‘Of course . . . I am a fool!’ The
infirmarian slapped the side of his face with one hand, then.

‘No, it is not always easy to
diagnose,’ my master assuaged, ‘and yet his breath could have secured your
confidence in this hypothesis, for it would have been very sweet. Did his urine
have the familiar smell?’

‘Sweet?’

‘No, caustic.’

‘Caustic?’

‘Caustic . . .’ My master washed his
hands in a bowl of warm water and took his carrot stub from me. ‘One whose body
is afflicted with this condition cannot dissolve the
materia
of sweet
potentia,
it remains in the patient like a
fermentum
and infects the entire
corpus
.
The adepts from the far eastern lands have written a great deal about this
complaint. You see, because the
corpus
is not able to use sweet
substances in the process of combustion, it looks for other calcinated
substances to replace it. And the remnants of these unholy dissolutions are
excreted in the
urina
, leaving an acrid smell. I myself have come across
it several times. Older men of large proportions, and likewise obese women, are
particularly prone to such visceral aberrations. Still, I have heard of some
who are born this way, though they die early.’ He finished his morsel
pensively.

‘But this is caused only through the
ingestion of sweet things, master?’ I asked.

‘No, all foods have a certain measure
of sweet
potentias
, Christian, bread, for example, and wine. The venerable
brother drank his share of wine tonight.’ He pulled a sheet over the body.

‘And yet we cannot be sure he did not
simply die because he was old,’ Setubar said, annoyed.

‘You are correct. This unfortunately
remains a hypothesis,’ my master assented.

‘Yes . . .’ Asa nodded in agreement, ‘whatever
it was, we will perhaps never know.’

‘And yet there is only one likely
cause of death,’ Andre said.

‘You mean poisoning?’ asked Asa.