The Grail Murders (21 page)

'An allegation's one thing,' Benjamin snapped. 'Proving it is another.'

'And the riddle? Have you really resolved it?'

'Perhaps. I have remembered my schooling: baptism is often called "Jordan's water" after the river where Christ himself was baptised.' Benjamin grinned at my puzzlement. 'But let's leave that for the moment. More importantly, I can prove how Cosmas and Damien died. No ghostly intervention but a most subtle assassin.' He grasped me by the shoulder. 'Listen, Roger, go for a walk in the grounds or try and pour more balm on Mandeville's troubled spirit. Visit poor Southgate, flirt with young Mathilda, but come back here,' Benjamin peered out of the window, 'in about two hours.'

I did what my master asked, trailing around the house like a ghost though no one really wished to speak to me. Rachel had gone to her own chamber. Santerre and his wife were in close council with each other. Mandeville still sulked in the hall whilst the old beldames in Southgate's chamber cackled with laughter and asked if I wanted them to wash me? Of Mathilda there was no sight whatsoever and I realised that Bowyer's death had panicked many of the servants into leaving Templecombe.

I went down to the lakeside and stared across at that mysterious island. I wondered if I should climb into a barge and pole myself across but the mists still hung over the water, I was cold, frightened, and so, following Benjamin's instructions, returned to my own chamber.

I found the door unlocked as I had given my master the key before I left; the light was poor but I could see nothing had been disturbed so lay down on the bed, pulling the curtains around me. I was half-dozing when suddenly I smelt something burning, followed by a small bang under my bed which shook me awake. I pulled back the curtains and dashed out of the room to find Benjamin standing there, laughing at my shock.

‘F
or God's sake, Master, what are you doing?' I bellowed.

Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Stay calm, Roger, I could have blown you up but I didn't. Here.' He walked back into the room. 'Help me push your bed away.'

We did so, heaving and pushing until the bed moved a few inches and I saw the slight scorch mark on the stone floor beneath. Benjamin pointed to it.

'I think that's how Cosmas was killed: his door was locked but, before he retired, I suspect someone spread a coat of oil between the mattress and the bed support and then inserted a small bag of gunpowder.'

'How did they light that?'

'Oh, with a slow fuse.'

'Oh,
I see,' I replied. 'They just knocked on the door and asked Cosmas could they light a slow fuse under the bed?'

'No, no, what they did was attach a slow fuse to the gunpowder and left it coiled under the bed.'

'And?'

'When the poor man was asleep, someone came upstairs and began to pull the thread attached to the slow fuse which was left lying out on the gallery. The slow fuse uncoiled like a snake, the assassin pulling it slowly across the floor until the end appeared under the door. A tinder was struck, the fuse lit and Cosmas died.'

'But they couldn't do that! Cosmas would notice.'

'No, he wouldn't. No more than you did. You came into the chamber, you were not looking for an almost invisible line of thread running from your bed underneath the door. Even if, in the poor light, you did see it, you would dismiss it. All the assassin had to do was take the piece of thread as I did, pull it very slowly, which hardly makes a sound, and murder is only a few seconds away. Like you, Cosmas would not hear the fuse. It's meant to burn slowly but very quietly. The only difference with you is that I used two grains of gunpowder and no oil. In Cosmas's case it was different.'

'But we saw nothing. Surely, as the slow fuse burns, it would burn the floor beneath?'

'No, it splutters not burns. And remember, Roger, the thread had been removed, the fuse destroys itself, and people coming in and out of the room, once the bed was on fire, would scarcely think it suspicious even if they saw the odd burn mark on the floor.'

'So how did you discover this?'

'What really intrigued me was the scorch mark on the outside of the door facing the gallery, as well as the damage done to the heavy bedstead. A brilliant piece of murder, Roger. The assassin did not have to enter the room and, in killing Cosmas, destroyed all the evidence except for that small scorch mark on the other side of the door.'

'The murderer could have destroyed the whole house.'

'No, as you noticed before, the floors in all our chambers are stone and there was no combustible material anywhere near. The bed would burn, its occupant die, but the fire would be discovered in time and the flames doused.'

'Why didn't Cosmas just get out of the bed?'

'Ah, now, that did intrigue me until I remembered the gunpowder. There was probably sufficient to injure him badly. Do you remember the corpse? The bottom half of his legs had disappeared completely. The gunpowder either killed the poor man or caused such grievous wounds as to send him into a swoon from which he would never recover. Meanwhile, the oil was ignited. The bed is old wood and would burn as quickly as stubble in the driest summer.'

I stared down at my own bed and accepted Benjamin's conclusions. The fuse would destroy itself, the gunpowder explode, poor Cosmas's legs would be shattered, and even if he wanted to, the fire spread so quickly as to prevent his escape.

'Well,' Benjamin looked round the room, 'all is safe here, eh? No fire, no flames. Now let us go to the church, and I shall show you how Damien died.'

We left the manor and went down to that silent tomb of a church. Benjamin pushed me in, locking the door behind us, and lit two sconce torches. The pitch spluttered and flared into life, making the place more eerie with dancing shadows.

'Now,' Benjamin murmured, 'let's assume I am the assassin. I have come into this chapel to commit murder. Cosmas's body is laid out and his poor brother will come in for the death vigil. Unfortunately, others arrive: Mandeville, Southgate and finally us. Eventually we leave and the murderer, hiding on those steps leading to the tower, is granted an additional advantage by Damien locking the door.' Benjamin walked over, past the baptismal font and stood looking down into the sanctuary.

'Now I have prepared everything well. The crossbow bolts and the arbalest have been hidden away. I have also lifted the catch, both on the outside and inside of one of the windows.' Benjamin, imitating the stance of an archer, pretended to fire a crossbow. 'Damien is killed. I make sure, then prepare to leave, but I want to make it appear that I entered and left the church like a ghost. This is how I do it.'

Benjamin walked into one of the small transepts and stopped beneath the window. He opened this and, from the darkness, picked up a long, narrow ladder, the type soldiers climb when scaling a castle wall, or a tiler might use when working on the roof of a house. Benjamin pushed this ladder through, then hoisted himself up and, with a great deal of huffing and puffing, disappeared down the ladder. I heard it scrape as it was lifted away and his voice sang out.

'So you see, Roger, this is how the murderer left.'

'Very good,' I called out. 'But how do you close the shutters, both from the inside and the outside?'

'Oh, very easily,' my master replied. 'Stand back!'

I did so. The shutters slammed shut and I even heard the catch fall. I ran out. Benjamin was standing a few yards away from the church, the ladder still in his hand. It was apparent that he had used it both to slam the shutters and so knock the simple latch back into place. I walked over to him. He stood, as pleased as a school boy, grinning and clapping his hands.

'You see, Roger, I used the ladder to get out of the church. I leave no footprints under the window and use the same ladder to shut the window and force the catch back.' He blew on his cold fingers. 'I could have opened the outside latch in the same way.'

'But what about the one inside?'

Benjamin shrugged. 'That is neither here nor there. Do you remember when we went into the church with Mandeville and the rest? It was dark, anyone could have slipped along the transept and put the catch down. And don't forget, Roger,' Benjamin added, 'with the window slamming shut, the inside latch might just have fallen into place.' He took

the ladder and slung it into the snow-covered bushes. 'What now, Master?'

He put his arm round my shoulders. 'To be perfectly honest, my dear Roger, I don't really know. But go back to your room and wait for me there.'

Mathilda was waiting for me in my chamber. I grinned and seized her, but she was not in a playful mood. She looked fearfully around and I wondered if there were eyelets or spy-holes in the wall.

'Listen!' she hissed. 'You have not hurt my father, so listen to this. Tonight, the Templars will meet on the island.'

I shook my head disbelievingly.

'Yes,' she persisted. 'I tell the truth. It's all I can or will tell you. Go down to the lakeside. There will be a barge waiting for you but don't cross unless you see the lights. Study the island carefully and you will see.' She pushed me away. 'I'll do no more,' she repeated, and left.

My master came back, slightly bemused, lost in his own thoughts and I had to repeat two or three times what Mathilda had told me. He chewed his lip and looked at me.

'How do we know it's not a trap?'

'I don't think it is. It stands to reason, Master. That island, its awesome long house . . . We both know it lies at the heart of this mystery.'

'Does it?' Benjamin asked. 'Does it really?' and wandered away.

Chapter 13

The mood in the Santerre household was not conducive to any more festive banquets or grand meals. Mandeville kept to himself, fretting about Southgate and when the additional soldiers would arrive. So we snatched mouthfuls of cold food and went back to our own chamber to wait until midnight. It seemed an eternity in coming. We carefully watched the flame of the hour candle eating away the wax from ring to ring.

When it reached the twelfth, Benjamin and I dressed in boots and cloaks, put on our sword belts and quietly left. The house seemed asleep yet, as I have said, it had a life of its own. Time and again we stopped, hearts beating, the hair on our necks prickling with fear at the eerie, creaking sounds which seemed to match our every move. We crept down into the hall, through the kitchen and out by a small postern door.

The night was as black as the Devil would wish. No moon, no stars, just a cold biting wind moaning, shifting the gaunt branches of the trees and throwing icy flurries of snow on to our heads. I would have preferred to have lit torches but Benjamin was against this.

'We hunt creatures of the night, Roger. Let us become like them.'

We slipped and slithered out of the stable courtyard where horses moved and snicker
ed, past the Templar church and
down to the gleaming lakeside. We sat on our haunches, two black shapes against the snow, and peered through the mist at the faint outline of the island. At first we could see nothing, our eyes hurting and smarting at the strain as well as the biting night air. Then Benjamin stirred and seized my arm.

'Am I seeing things?' he hissed.

I stared through the bleak darkness. Still I could see nothing but then I glimpsed the light of a torch. One, perhaps two. The flames seemed to flicker as if someone was moving about on the island.

'Come on, Roger!'

Benjamin and I slithered down the bank. We saw the barge, pole resting in its stern, as if some ghostly boatman was waiting to take us across. We clambered in. Benjamin sat in the prow whilst I grabbed the pole, brushing the ice away, trying to close my mind and senses to the chill wind and the lapping of the cold black lake. At first I was clumsy but then my old skill returned. (Don't forget, I was raised in Norfolk where the skill of punting barges is as natural as walking.) Nevertheless, I make a confession: Benjamin and I were stupid. Now and again we made such mistakes. An excess of impetuosity, the rashness of youth. Time and again it nearly cost us our life and that night, on the frozen lake, was no different. I had made two, maybe three sweeps of the pole, when I felt a wet slippiness beneath me. Benjamin spun round, his face a white mask in the darkness. He, too, had felt the dampness seep in and yet, due to the broad sweeps of my pole and perhaps the motion of the lake, we had already travelled yards from the shore.

'Roger, it's been holed!'

I let the pole slip and crouched, plunging my hand into the bottom of the barge. My heart jumped in fear as I felt an inch of icy water. I put the pole down and clambered on hands and knees round the barge, looking for the hole.

Now this is where my skill as a bargeman saved our lives. You see, on the Broads of Norfolk and Suffolk such accidents are common and the unwary make one of two mistakes, or even both. They try to reach the place they are heading for or else turn back to the shore. Sometimes, due to panic and fear, they try both. But take Old Shallot's advice: if you are in a boat or barge which has been holed, particularly one where the damage is malicious, stop rowing and block that hole for any further movement of the barge simply helps the water rush in.

At last I found it in the stern of the barge, a hole the size of a man's fist as if someone had taken a hammer and smashed through the bottom. I took off my cloak and immediately began to thread the fabric through the hole. My master, who had found a similar one on the port side, first tried his cloak but then cursed as it went into the lake and he had to stop the hole with the heel of his boot. For a few seconds, and it seemed like hours, we just crouched, looking at each other, as the barge danced on the glassy surface. I glanced quickly towards the island where the siren light still beckoned us on.

'I am sorry, Master,' I wailed.

'Oh, shut up, Roger!' he hissed.

I kept my hand pressed to the bottom of the boat, my fingers freezing in the icy water swilling round us, but I noticed it grew no deeper.

'Master?'

'Yes,' Benjamin hissed. 'Now, Roger, my friend, turn this barge round and pull us to the shore, swiftly, with all your skill. If there's another hole and the water swamps us, we will not survive for long in these icy waters.'

Now you know Old Shallot. My heart was pounding, my stomach spinning like a child's top. I wanted to cry, weep and beg the Almighty for mercy. I seized that bloody pole, swinging the barge round even as I felt the water beneath me slop and gurgle as if maliciously laughing at me, waiting to embrace us in its frozen grasp. The barge turned. I closed my eyes and began to pole.

'Roger!' my master screamed. 'You are going the wrong way!'

I opened my eyes and realised the barge had only half-turned and we were now running parallel to both the island and the shore. I began to pole and pray with a vigour which would have astonished any monk. In between snatches of prayer I cursed, using every filthy word I knew, until that bloody barge was heading straight back to the bank. The water lapped round my ankles. We had failed to discover a third or even fourth hole and still the water was rising.

My master manoeuvred himself round, using his hand to scoop out the icy water, shouting at me to pole faster. We skimmed across the surface of that sodding lake whilst all around us gathered the dark hosts of hell. The water rose higher but then, just as Old Shallot's courage began to crumble into blind panic, the barge shuddered to a stop; both my master and I ran ashore, grateful to fall sobbing on to the snow-soaked bank.

My master crouched, breathing in deeply to calm himself, whilst Old Shallot dealt with the threat in his usual formidable way.

'Bastards!' I screamed, jumping up and down on the bank, shaking my fist at the island. 'You murdering, sodding bastards! Come on, Master!' I seized Benjamin by the arm.

He trotted breathlessly beside me as I strode like a madman through the snow, back to that accursed manor.

'Roger, what are you going to do?'

'I am going to slit that bitch's throat for a start!'

'Roger, don't!'

'All right, I'll cut her head off! Master, I don't mind being shot at, hunted, trapped, attacked - but to die on a frozen lake at the dead of night!'

'Roger.' Benjamin grabbed me by my doublet. 'Listen! Mathilda will be well away now. Do you think she's going to wait for you to come back? There was always the possibility you might escape. No, listen, I know who the murderer is. I know where the Grail and Arthur's Sword could be.'

I stopped. 'Why didn't you tell me this before?'

‘I
had to wait. I suspected the murderer would strike at us, and what happened on that lake proved it. Now, Roger, I beg you, let us go back to our chamber, warm ourselves, snatch a few hours of sleep and tomorrow, as we break fast in the hall, I shall confront the murderer.'

Of course my master had his way. Anyway, by the time we reached our chambers my anger had been replaced by sheer terror at the danger we had just escaped. All the old signs appeared: I wanted to be sick, my knees kept quivering, and it took three deep-bowled cups of claret before I could even remember what day of the week it was. Naturally, I taxed my master on what he had learnt. He merely sat on the only chair in my room, shook his head and told me to sleep, and that it would be best if we shared the same chamber that night.

The next morning we woke none the worse for our terrible experience. Benjamin insisted that we shave, wash and change our linen and doublets before going down to the hall. On our way I looked for Mathilda but Benjamin was right, there was no sign of the little minx.

The Santerres were already at high table, Mandeville also. My master waited until a kitchen boy served us, then suddenly rose, locking the great doors of the hall as well as those to the kitchen and buttery. Mandeville broke free of his reverie. Sir John Santerre stared, a ghost of his former self. Lady Beatrice watched fearfully whilst Rachel sat like an innocent child waiting for a play to begin.

'Daunbey, what's all this?' Mandeville grated.

Now Benjamin had unmasked many a killer and brought numerous murderers to boot. Sometimes he played games, drawing the assassins into verbal battles in which they would confess. But this time it was different. He walked once, twice round the table on the dais, pausing for a few seconds behind each chair. Then he went round again and stopped between John Santerre and Rachel, putting his hand gently on the man's shoulder.

'Sir John, are you the killer?'

Santerre shot back in his chair. If a man's face could age in a few seconds, his did.

'What do you mean?' he stuttered.

'On our first day here you claimed you left Templecombe to ride your estates. You did not. Instead you went to Glastonbury.'

'There's no crime in that.'

'And, just before we left London, why did the beggar give you that note?' 'I . . .'

'If you lie,' Benjamin snapped, 'these matters will be laid before the King's Council in London.'

Sir John stretched over and, despite the hour, filled his wine goblet completely to the brim. He gobbled its contents like a thirsty man would the purest water. Mandeville was now alert as a hunting dog.

'Answer the questions, Santerre!'

Sir John put the wine cup down. 'When I was in London I paid people to ascertain if the Templar church near Fleet Street contained anything resembling the River Jordan or the Ark of Moses.'

'And did it?'

'No.'

'And Glastonbury Abbey?'

Sir John licked his lips. 'Both Abbot Bere and I wanted an end to all this nonsense.' He glanced at Mandeville. 'No offence, Sir Edmund, but no lord in the kingdom wants you or your sort prying round his estates. I used my wealth to fund the building of a crypt at Glastonbury. I thought that something might be found.'

'And has it been?' I asked.

'Nothing whatsoever.'

Benjamin stepped beside Lady Beatrice, who sat rigid in her chair.

'Lady Beatrice, what do you know of these matters?' The woman's mouth opened and closed. She shook her head.

'Oh, yes, you know something. Your first husband's name was Mortimer?' Lady Beatrice nodded.

'He came of a crusading line which has held the manor of Templecombe since time immemorial?' Again the nod.

'And the Mortimer family motto is
"Age Circumspecte"
is it not?' Benjamin glanced at me. 'Shallot discovered that in the Book of Legends at Glastonbury Abbey.'

'Yes,' she whispered.

'What's that got to do with us?' Mandeville interrupted. 'Was your husband a member of the Templars?' Lady Beatrice's eyes, glassy with fright, stared down the
hall.

'I think he was,' Benjamin continued, whispering in her ear. 'When the Templars were dissolved some two hundred years ago, some escaped, assumed other identities, married and settled down. Your husband's ancestor was one of these. Nevertheless, the Templars continued meeting in secret, each coven acting like a small community, the mysteries of the Order being passed from one generation to another.' He moved slightly and rested a hand lightly on Rachel's shoulder. 'You were given these mysteries, weren't you, Rachel?'

Do you know, the girl just smiled and played with the ring on her finger.

'You are a Templar, aren't you?' Benjamin whispered. 'Your father passed the secrets on to you. In time you would have married and passed the mystery on to your first born. For generations,' Benjamin's voice rose, 'the lords of Templecombe have been members of the secret Templar organisation.' He paused. 'Oh no, not you, Sir John, nor Lady Beatrice, but I think you both had your suspicions.'

'Impossible!' Mandeville shouted. 'She is a mere chit of a girl.'

'She's eighteen summers old,' Benjamin retorted. 'And if you remain quiet, Sir Edmund, I will tell you what happened.'

He went round the table, stepped off the dais and stood looking at all of us. Santerre and his wife were like waxen effigies but Rachel, her face slightly flushed, leaned forward as if without a care in the world.

The Lords of Templecombe,' Benjamin began, 'were always Templars. They kept the Order's secrets and in dark covens met their helpers, probably in the sombre house on that Godforsaken island. Now in the main these Templars lay sleeping like seeds planted in the soil, though sometimes they would burgeon, quickening into life, particularly in any uprising or rebellion against our Tudor masters. Nevertheless, they were content to sit, watch and wait. Hopkins was one of these, though deranged in his wits.'