The Grail Murders (14 page)

'Yes, a pack of lies.' Benjamin drew in his breath. 'But if one part of the pie is rotten,' he concluded, 'how do you know the rest is true? What if there is no Grail or Excalibur or secret Templars? And why were those agents murdered?'

'Mandeville might have killed them,' I suggested. 'Perhaps they objected to the destruction of Buckingham and the web of deceit to which they'd been party?'

'Possible,' Benjamin murmured. 'Possible.' He rose and absentmindedly patted me on the shoulder. 'But come, Roger, we have to wash and change. Our hosts await us.'

My master wandered out and I unpacked my belongings, washed, changed and went down to the sumptuous banquet Santerre's cooks had prepared for us.

The high table was covered in pure silk cloths, bathed in light by countless wax candles which winked and dazzled on the silver trenchers, flagons, glass goblets and knives with precious pewter handles. The meal was delicious: beef and venison pastries and different wines, blood-red claret as well as light, sweet Rhenish.

Conversation was desultory for we were all exhausted though Mandeville declared that tomorrow he would spread his net. Certain questions had to be answered by Sir John and then we would return to Glastonbury Abbey. I ignored the sinister bastard and drank fast and deep with eyes only for Rachel. Dressed in a sea-blue gown with matching headdress, each studded with small mother-of-pearls, she looked so beautiful!

(I see my little chaplain snigger because he knows I have talked about her before. All right, the little sod's reminding me of the truth, so I'll tell it.)

Yes, I was jealous, that's why I drank deep. I could not but notice how tenderly Rachel looked at Benjamin and jealousy, a flame so quickly started, is the most difficult fire to extinguish. After a while I became so deep in my cups I grew surly, said I felt unwell and trotted off to bed where I could nurse my hurt as well as conceal my bad manners. I lay on my
four-poster
ready to bemoan what had happened but the next minute I rolled over and sank into the deepest sleep. God knows when the banquet ended. I remember half-waking and seeing my master bend over me.

'Are you well, Roger? Is it something you ate?'

'Yes, yes,' I murmured bitterly, half-asleep. 'Something I ate.'

My next awakening was more harsh. I was in the middle of my favourite dream, standing in the dungeons, sipping a cup of claret whilst masked torturers had Fat Henry spread-eagled on the cruellest rack. I could smell smoke and hear the most terrible screams. Suddenly I shook myself awake, realising it was no dream; smoke was drifting under my door and, in spite of the thickness of the walls, I could hear the most awful groaning and crashing.

'For pity's sake, fire!' I shouted.

I opened the door and went out. The gallery was filled with smoke, the guttural screams and crackling sounds coming from the chamber occupied by the secretary, Cosmas. Quick-witted as usual, I snouted: 'Fire!' and dived back into my room with only one thought in my mind. The cornerstone of Shallot's philosophy: when danger threatens, collect your possessions and flee like the wind. I ran to find my master who was still fully dressed.

'For God's sake, Roger,' he said, 'what's happening?'

'For God's sake, Master!' I snarled back. 'Isn't it obvious? The silly bastard next door started a fire and I have no desire to join him!'

Benjamin stared at my cloak full of the little trinkets and valuable possessions I had collected.

'Roger, Roger, don't be so modest, you can't break the door down with those!'

He snatched the cloak out of my hand and threw it on the bed. Outside, I could hear doors opening on the gallery and running footsteps. At Benjamin's urging I helped pick up a wooden chest. We staggered out and began to use it as a battering ram against the locked door.

Mandeville and Southgate appeared, followed by the other secretary, Damien, his pallid face even more ghastly as he stared in terror at the fire enveloping his brother's room. He beat the air with his hands and made the most heart-rending cries. God be my witness, Mandeville was as tender with him as a mother with a baby. He grabbed the poor creature by the neck and drew him close, then gazed savagely across at us.

'Come on, you poltroons! Break the bloody door down!'

Assisted by Southgate and two sleepy-eyed, half-dressed servants we hammered again at the door until it buckled, creaking and groaning, before snapping back, breaking the lock. The smoke billowed out, forcing us to drop the chest. Benjamin scurried back to his room and brought napkins soaked in water, flung these at us and told us to cover our mouths and eyes. Other servants appeared led by Santerre. A chamber was opened and I realised that, like many wise householders, Santerre used one room to store huge vats of water against the very fire we were now fighting.

Benjamin and I, however, were first into the room. My master staggered over and opened the nearest window and, as the smoke cleared, we saw that the huge
four-poster
bed was now a sheet of flame.

It was one of the most curious things I had ever seen. You must remember Templecombe was made of stone and the chambers on the top gallery had no wooden wainscoting so the fire hadn't spread. Oh, two rugs on the stone floor were smouldering but the fire was contained. It looked as if the entire bed had simply erupted into a ball of flame.

Even then, as servants pushed by us with buckets of water and began to douse the flames, I knew there was something wrong. Both the braziers near the door had not been disturbed. The fire in the hearth was now a heap of white ash. So where had the flames sprung from? I concluded that I had done enough and was getting ready to sidle away when a servant pushed a large bucket of water into my hands and I realised that, under Santerre's direction, a human chain had been formed. At first the water made no difference but eventually the flames began to die until what was left of the bed was nothing but black smouldering ash.

Mandeville was the first to approach it and, amongst the remains of the bed, we found the charred body of Cosmas. His corpse was nothing but burnt flesh, his features indistinguishable. I glimpsed white teeth and a gaping jaw but the sight of the eyeballs turning to water and the blackened flesh of the man's hands proved too much. I fled back to the privacy of my own room to retch and vomit. Further down the hall, Santerre shouted for the windows to be opened, canvas sheets to be brought, and issued curt requests that Rachel and his wife go back to their rooms.

Mandeville's curses rang out interspersed by the awful, mournful sounds of the dead man's brother. At last I stopped retching and washed my hands and face with a cloth. When I turned Benjamin was standing there.

'What caused that?' I gasped.

'Death by fire!' my master repeated. 'And it was no accident, Roger. Cosmas was murdered. Burnt alive!'

Benjamin would say no more. I finished cleaning my mouth and hands and went back to the dead man's chamber. The flames were now extinguished, windows had been opened in the top gallery and the smoke was beginning to dissipate. Two servants, their mouths and noses covered by rags, removed Cosmas's remains in a canvas sheet. The burnt bed was broken up and pieces tossed through the window into the courtyard below. Benjamin seemed most interested in the charcoal braziers and sifted with his boot amongst the white ashes of the fire but, muttering to himself, claimed he could discover nothing untoward.

By the time we returned to bed, dawn was breaking. A few hours later Benjamin shook me awake.

'Come on, Roger, we have to break our fast. Mandeville's waiting for us in the hall below, talking about God's vengeance come to judgement.'

I rubbed my eyes. 'You still say it was murder?' I asked. 'Why?'

The door was locked from the inside,' Benjamin replied. 'Cosmas remained wrapped in the bedding and was burnt alive. He had only one candle which was not powerful enough to start such a blaze so quickly whilst the fire was whitened ash.'

'What about gunpowder?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, a trail of gunpowder from the bed under the doorway, then someone could have struck a tinder?

Benjamin shook his head doubtfully. 'We didn't see any such marks on the floor.'

(Now I see my little clerk shaking his noddle and giggling to himself. Oh, this master of the secret arts thinks my idea stupid. Well, let me tell you a short story. Many years later I was sent as emissary to Mary, Queen of Scots, when she was playing the two-backed beast with Bothwell. Mind you, I can't blame Mary: her husband Darnley was so pitted with the pox he had to drape a white veil over his face. Anyway, I told Mary about Cosmas's death then forgot all about it. That is, until a few months later when Darnley and his page boy, whilst staying at Kirk o' Fields Palace, were killed in an explosion. I often wondered whether Mary got the idea from me. Ah, well, that's another tale.)

Benjamin was truly perplexed by Cosmas's death: he did admit there were rare cases of human beings bursting into flames. (At the time I thought the idea was ridiculous until many years later when I attended a church in Holborn where the vicar, giving a fearsome sermon, abruptly burst into flames. I have never seen a church empty so quickly.) Anyway, on that snow-laden morning as Benjamin and I went deeper into the Valley of Death, Cosmas's murder remained a mystery. Only one thing stood out: Benjamin said there was a scorch mark on the outside of Cosmas's door but claimed it could be old. No other evidence of anything untoward could be detected. He waved his hands despondently.

'Who knows?' he sighed. 'Perhaps it was an act of God.'

I got up, washed, dressed, and Benjamin and I went down the great sweeping wooden staircase. We heard raised voices from the main hall but Benjamin insisted that we first walk out on to the porchway and take the morning air. We stood on the top step, an icy wind driving any sleep from our eyes and faces, staring out over the snow-carpeted grounds. Rooks cawed in the dark trees which ringed the house and I imagined demons nestling in the branches, mocking us. Southgate came through the door behind us.

'Sir Edmund Mandeville awaits you.'

'Oh dear,' I mocked. 'God can wait, but Sir Edmund
...!'

And, with a mocking haste, I rushed back into the house, Benjamin following more slowly. Southgate caught up with me as I entered the main hall and saw Santerre and others sitting round the high table.

'One day,' Southgate hissed in my ear, 'your wit, Master Shallot, will take you to the scaffold. Or on to the point of someone's sword!'

'One day, one day!' I jibed back. 'Isn't it strange, Master Southgate, you are not the first to say that. And, even stranger, those who do say it meet violent deaths themselves.' I turned and looked him full in the face. 'Don't threaten me,' I whispered in false bravado, 'I am a fighting man!'

(Lord, the lies I told!)

'Your looks are as crooked as your eyes,' Southgate sneered.

(Oh, yes, I was a handsome rogue, tall with jet-black hair, olive-skinned but with a cast in one eye, I always thought it gave me a devil-may-care look.)

I noticed Southgate's hand had fallen to the hilt of his rapier. I gulped and peered over my shoulder to make sure Benjamin was behind me.

'When this business is over,' I scoffed, 'draw your hangar. But as you keep saying, our Lord God, Sir Edmund Mandeville, awaits us!'

Chapter 8

The group at the high table - Sir John, Lady Beatrice, Rachel, Mandeville and the white-faced Damien - had already broken their fast. Sir John clicked his fingers and servants placed a trencher before me with strips of dry bacon, small white loaves and a pot of thick creamy butter; blackjacks of ale were also served.

I gazed around and noticed how white and drawn everyone was. I smiled cheerfully, wished everyone a good morning and began to stuff the food into my mouth. Benjamin, of course, was more courteous. (A proper courtier, my master. He would have shamed an angel with his table manners.) He sipped from a tankard and stared at Mandeville.

'Sir, my condolences on the death of your secretary.' Mandeville nodded slightly. 'Death, Master Daunbey. Death?'

Benjamin coughed. 'No, sir, you are Correct. The word is murder.'

'But how?' Sir John stuttered. 'How in God's name, in my house? The man's chamber was locked. There are no secret entrances or passageways.' He looked away. 'At least not in that room.'

Benjamin smiled. 'So some exist?'

'Well, of course,' Santerre stammered. He shifted his feet nervously. 'Here, beneath us, are cellars and passageways.

The Templars often used them.' He smiled faintly. 'Now, I store my wines, wood for the fire and coals there, nothing singular.'

'What makes you think it's murder?' Mandeville asked sharply.

'Because, sir, beds do not explode into flames,' Benjamin replied. 'If my observations are correct, the mattress and blankets were turned into a roaring inferno within seconds. The braziers had not been moved, the fire was dead, the candle had spluttered out. And yet a powerful fire must have started so quickly it gave poor Cosmas no time even to get out of bed.' Benjamin sipped from his tankard. 'But who or why or how,' he continued, 'is as much a mystery to you as it is to me, Sir Edmund.

'As you say, the door was locked, no one else was in the room and the fire was meant to kill swiftly, expertly, and with little damage to anyone else. Go and check the chamber. The ceiling is of plaster and would take hours to ignite. The walls and floor are of stone. In many another house, the flames would have spread along the top story, but not here. Our murderer knew that!'

'But the bed and blankets,' I intervened (Old Shallot being intent on delivering his pennysworth!), 'would be as dry as tinder.'

'And why didn't Cosmas get out of the bed?' Santerre asked.

'Because,' Benjamin answered, 'he was seriously maimed. But how?' He shook his head. 'You think he was murdered?' Santerre asked. 'Yes,
I have said so but. . .’

Mandeville tapped the top of the table with his empty tankard and glanced accusingly at Santerre. 'The question really is, who was behind this attack?'

Sir John pushed back his chair, his red face bristling with rage. 'Are you accusing me, Sir Edmund, or my family or servants? If so, say it!' He breathed in deeply through his nostrils. 'Remember where we are, Sir Edmund. This is not London but the South-West of England. Memories die hard here. Edward Stafford, my late Lord of Buckingham, was much loved and respected, so remember that. I can no more vouch for the loyalty of every one of my tenants than His Grace the King or my Lord Cardinal can guarantee the loyalty of every Englishman.

'Secondly . . .' Santerre paused to consider what he was about to say.

'Do go on,' Southgate put in silkily. The bastard was really enjoying himself.

'Secondly,' Santerre continued hastily, ignoring his wife's warning glance, 'memories of the Templars still survive here. In their time they were regarded as great magicians who brought prosperity to these parts. They had a reputation as healers, good lords who possessed the secrets of both heaven and earth. Do you think,' he looked straight at Mandeville and I admired the fellow's courage, 'do you really think, Sir Edmund Mandeville, that the people of these parts don't know the true reason for your presence here? That they do not know what you seek as well as your intention of rooting out any trace of an ancient order? Above all, they must know of your part in the destruction of my Lord of Buckingham as, God be my witness, I know mine!'

'Are you saying,' Southgate accused, 'that you sympathise with the dead Duke?'

'No, sir, I do not!' Santerre bellowed. 'And pray do not put words in my mouth. My Lord of Buckingham came here. He sat at this very table and, when he was gone, your two creatures came and asked me what he said. I told the truth. The rest was in your hands.'

Santerre pulled his chair back to the table. 'God knows,' he concluded softly, 'some of the Duke's blood may be on my hands.' He stared round the hall. 'I am not of these parts,' he continued, 'I was Hampshire born.' Santerre clutched his wife's hand firmly in his. 'But when I married Lady Beatrice, she took my name and I took her house. I came here to be a good lord as well as the King's most loyal servant! Think of that, Sir Edmund, before you sit at my table and hint about who was responsible for the death of your secretary! God knows, it wasn't me or mine!'

Southgate sneered. Mandeville simply stroked his dark face as if weighing up carefully what he was to do next.

'Sirs,' Benjamin intervened tactfully, 'before any judgement is passed, we must recognise the truth of what Sir John says. My Lord of Buckingham was of these parts. We have come here to disturb legends which are a part of the very soil of these lands. Sir Edmund Mandeville, think about what has been said. Your two agents, Calcraft and Warnham, may have been followed to London and killed by one of the Duke's retainers or by these secret Templars. Sir John cannot be held responsible for the loyalty of every one of his servants, and Cosmas's death, God rest him, is a mystery.'

'What intrigues me,' I asserted, 'is that the witch we met yesterday prophesied such a death. Don't you remember, Sir Edmund? Death by fire, by rope, by steel and by water? And may I remind you that none of us were exempt from that curse.'

My words created an eerie silence.

*I should have had that witch brought in!' Mandeville cursed.

"The witch can't be blamed,' Rachel declared softly. 'She only spoke the truth: this house is haunted. The spirits of the Templars wander its passageways and galleries. Cosmas's death is not the first tragedy to have occurred here.' Her face hardened. 'Oh, yes, there have been other deaths here, haven't there, Mother?' She did not wait for a reply. 'My own father was killed in a riding accident. Servants have slipped downstairs. An old nurse hanged herself in one of the barns. A gardener was found drowned in the lake. Suicides, or so the coroner declared.'

Rachel's sombre words chilled all our souls.

'Is this true?' Benjamin asked her parents.

Santerre nodded. Lady Beatrice rubbed her face in her hands, distraught, losing her air of frosty self-possession.

'Yes,' she answered reluctantly. 'Many say this house is haunted. The common people do not blame me or my husband for Buckingham's downfall but say his fate was star-crossed by this house. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could burn the entire building to the ground!'

'We could always make a start,' Southgate quipped.

'Nonsense!' Benjamin replied. 'True, I accept the legions of hell are all around us. We fight, as St Paul says, against an invisible foe. Ghosts may walk but so do murderers. Cosmas's death had more to do with flesh and blood than curses, witches or ghosts.' He smiled bleakly at Rachel. 'Though I agree that the old witch has a most singular gift for prophecy. Sir Edmund Mandeville is correct - perhaps she should be brought in for questioning. However, before we consider that, let's establish if anyone went into Cosmas's room.'

Damien the mute had been watching my master's hps intently. He tugged me by the sleeve and pointed to Santerre's wife.

'Lady Beatrice, did you go into Cosmas's chamber?' Mandeville asked.

'Yes, earlier in the day I did. I am mistress of this house and I have to see that all is well.'

'As did I,' Sir John added. 'For the same reason.'

‘I
saw a maid going in,' Southgate declared. 'A brown-haired lass with a white coif on her head. She was carrying blankets and linen.'

'That would be Mathilda,' Sir John replied. 'But she's a simple country girl with hardly a thought in her head. Nevertheless, I'll question her.'

'I don't think a maid,' Benjamin asserted, 'would plot murder. Sir John, how long did yesterday's evening meal last?'

'About two hours.'

Benjamin stared down at the table top. 'Roger was the first to leave, then you, Master Southgate, followed by Lady Beatrice and Sir John. Finally you, sir,' he pointed at Mandeville, 'with your two clerks.'

'And what time did you leave?' Southgate asked.

Benjamin blushed. 'I didn't. Lady Rachel and I remained here. She collected a book from her father's library containing all the Arthurian legends, a copy of Malory's
Arthur of Britain
and the
Knights of the Round Table.’

My heart chilled and I gnawed at my lip to hide my disappointment. Rachel had caught my eye but it seemed her interest was in my master rather than me.

'What are you implying?' Mandeville asked.

'I am implying nothing. I'm just curious if anyone visited poor Cosmas's chamber.'

A chorus of denials greeted his question. Mandeville stood and picked up his cloak, thrown over the back of a chair.

'We were to travel to Glastonbury today but first I must deal with this dreadful business. Sir John, I will need some sort of box to serve as a coffin for poor Cosmas. This can be placed in your manor chapel and perhaps tomorrow, on our way to Glastonbury, we can leave it at the village church. I also have letters to write. His Grace the King will not be pleased by what I have to say. Master Southgate?'

Both the
Agentes
took their leave, followed by a silent, doleful Damien.

Lady Beatrice and Rachel murmured their excuses whilst

Sir John stretched, grumbling that it was all a dreadful business but the affairs of the estate demanded his attention.

Benjamin watched him leave. 'I wonder where Sir John is really going?' he muttered.

'If he had any sense he'd stay here and keep an eye on his daughter,' I quipped back. 'You did not tell me, Master, that you spent the night down here in the hall playing cat's-cradle with Mistress Rachel?'

Benjamin smiled. 'She's beautiful, isn't she, Roger? But she's not for you and she's certainly not for me. This is no game. We are surrounded by death, murder, plot and counter-plot. There is no time for dalliance. Trust no one except me until this matter is finished.'

He stared round. 'Roger, despite the quilted cushions, the golden clocks, the silver spoons and Venetian goblets, this house has the stink of death about it. I did not wish openly to agree with her but
Mistress Rachel was correct. Th
ere is something about this place which reeks of ancient sin and, the sooner our task is completed, the better.'

'Do you think the secret Templars exist?' I asked.

'Possibly. Such societies or covens batten on their own secrecy. They create an exclusive world and, despite its green fields and pleasant villages, the King is right - England seethes with discontent. Great lords with Yorkist blood in their veins hold high office. There's a growing dislike of the Church. The Scots still threaten in the north whilst in Europe great alliances are formed which leave England isolated. In such an atmosphere secret societies like the Templars flourish. You'll always find the strongest weeds on a dung hill.'

'And the Grail and Excalibur?'

Benjamin shrugged. 'The King wants them or, more importantly, if he can't have them, he wants to make sure no one else does. I cannot make sense of that rhyme. What are the waters of Jordan?' He pulled a face at me. 'That's why I was talking to our young beauty last night. Is there, in this God forsaken place, some stream, river, house or church bearing the name Jordan? And where could Moses' Ark possibly be?' 'And could she help?'

'No, nor could her father - or so Mandeville told me last night after you had retired. So Master Hopkins's riddle is still shrouded in mystery.'

'Did he leave any papers?'

'None whatsoever. According to Mandeville, before he left for his fateful journey to London, Hopkins cleared out his entire chamber, the very one you are now using.' Benjamin pointed to the fire flickering in the great hearth. 'He stripped his chamber of everything, and what he couldn't burn, he destroyed.'

'A strange act.'

Benjamin shrugged. 'Perhaps he had a premonition about what might happen in London. Or maybe someone gave him a warning. Or perhaps he knew that Warnham and Calcraft in Buckingham's retinue were really the King's agents.' Benjamin sighed. 'Whatever, Master Hopkins took his secret to the grave.' He leaned closer. 'Roger,' he whispered, 'I wish to stay here, but you go back to your chamber, collect your boots, cloak and that broad-brimmed hat you wear. Sir John will leave within the hour. When he does, I want you to follow him from afar off. I know it will be hard in a snow-covered countryside but see where he goes to.'

The prospect didn't appeal to me but, there again, neither did the thought of lounging around Templecombe. So I slipped back upstairs, taking more careful note of my surroundings, particularly the small gargoyle's heads in the cornices of the ceilings and, above all, the great blackened Beauce crosses. Why hadn't they faded with time? Were they being constantly re-painted and gilded as some sort of memorial to that ancient secretive order? I reached the chamber, found the door half-open and cursed my own stupidity. I don't trust myself and, apart from Benjamin, I certainly didn't trust anyone else yet I had forgotten to take the key down with me.

I pushed the door open quietly. A young woman sat with her back to me on the far side of the great
four-poster
bed. Her head was covered in a white coif with a white shawl shaped in the form of a triangle going down her back like a liripipe. I heard the clink of coins, smiled and tiptoed round the bed.