The Templar Detective

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Murmurs responded, but the crowd moved back, if only a few paces.

  “Someone was standing by the window.” Simon pointed at the muddy ground to the right of the entrance. Marcus stepped over and examined the ground, dozens of footprints evident, some facing the window, some away.

  “He was here for some time, or there wouldn’t be so many.”

  David glanced around. “From here he’d have a clear view of the street in both directions. Perhaps he was on watch?”

  Marcus pursed his lips. “Perhaps.” He pressed his boot beside one of the prints. “Small feet. Probably a shorter man.”

  “A woman?” asked David. “Or a boy?”

  “A boy perhaps, but I can’t believe a woman would be involved.” Marcus stepped back and headed for the door. “Sergeant, you’re with me. You two make sure nobody comes inside, especially the boy.”

  “Yes, sir,” echoed his squires.

  Marcus pushed aside the door, slightly ajar from when Pierre had fled the scene, and sighed in dismay at the sight. Two bodies lay on the floor in pools of their own blood, the man eviscerated and impaled, the woman’s throat slit.

  And a stain in the blood between them, in the shape of a small boy, heartbreaking.

  He turned away, Simon doing the same.

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a woman slain before,” said his sergeant, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Nor I. And to do it in one’s home, where one should be safe from the dangers of the outside world.” He shook his head. “Unthinkable.” He drew a deep breath then forced himself to look upon the bodies once again, slowly circling them, careful not to step in any of the blood. Everything in the home was in its place, no evidence of a struggle. “Check the door. Was it forced?”

  Simon stepped over to the plain wooden door and opened it, staring at the outside, then the simple latch. He closed the door, shaking his head. “It doesn’t look like it was kicked open, if that’s what you mean. But it’s not like this is a vault. There’s no lock. Anyone could have just opened it and walked in.”

  “We’ll have to ask the boy if he remembers whether the men were invited inside, or forced their way.”

  “Do you really think Templars could have done this?”

  “Never. Unless it was self-defense, but even then, they would stay to answer for what they were forced to do.” He gestured at the scene. “And there are no weapons here. These people were unarmed. No Templar knight would have been in any danger from these two. Especially more than one.”

  “How can you be sure there was more than one?”

  “Because the boy said ‘men,’ not ‘man.’”

  Simon nodded. “You’re far more observant than I, sir.”

  Marcus grunted. “It comes from two decades of keeping an eye open for Saracens intent upon plunging a blade in my back.”

  Simon laughed. “Thankfully, you’ll find none around here.”

  “And let’s hope it stays that way.” He continued circling the bodies, and stopped near the door, his hands on his hips. “I don’t think there’s anything more to learn here. These people were defenseless, and were clearly murdered in cold blood. Nothing is out of order, which suggests no struggle, and if there were any perceived danger, surely the man would have sent his wife away, yet she was killed only paces from him.”

  “How can you be certain? Perhaps they killed her elsewhere in the house and brought her body here?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No, look at the blood. There are no drag marks. No, she was killed where she now lies, as was he.” He stared at the stain where the young boy had lain, the pattern suggesting he had stretched out his arms to hold both their hands, the shape resembling a tiny angel connecting the two lost souls.

  Heartbreaking.

  “I’m going to disembowel whoever did this.”

  Simon grunted. “Only if you get to him before I do. There is no excuse for such barbarism.”

  “Especially in our name.”

  “That’s what bothers me the most about all of this. Whoever this boy’s parents were, they must have been of some importance.”

  Marcus stared about the home then at the man’s clothes, far finer than any he had worn since joining the Order and taking his vow of poverty. “He must be a businessman of some type, or perhaps a government official. This isn’t the home of a laborer.”

  “Didn’t that old man say he was an auditor?”

  Marcus nodded. “That’s right.”

  Someone knocked on the door, and Marcus opened it to find a rotund man standing outside, hat in hand. He stared up at the much taller knight. “Are-are you Sir Marcus?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “I’m Mr. Archambault, the Bailiff’s Delegate for the village. I-I understand there has been a murder?”

  Marcus stepped aside. “Two.”

  Archambault stepped inside and gasped, making the sign of the cross. “Oh no! How horrible! Who could do such a thing?”

  “If the boy is to be believed, Templars.”

  Archambault’s eyes widened. “It can’t be true!”

  “It would appear we are in agreement. It is my belief that men impersonating Templars did this.”

  Archambault stepped closer to the bodies, crushing his hat against his chest as he leaned over. “Mr. and Mrs. Fabron. I had only met her once, but him, I’ve seen almost every day since they arrived a couple of weeks ago.”

  “What was his business?”

  “He was an auditor for the King. He goes from town to town, determining the value of the properties in the area to assess what taxes are owed.” Archambault frowned, staring at the bodies. “Not very popular, I’m afraid.” He quickly turned to Marcus, fingers delicately placed over his lips. “I refer, of course, to the job, not the man. Mr. Fabron was quite delightful. A terrific sense of humor, and very fair. Most auditors I’ve dealt with over the years looked for any excuse to increase taxes. Why, last time, one tried to count the eggs the chickens were laying as ‘prospective livestock!’ Can you imagine such a thing? Just try explaining fertilization to someone who thinks a rooster is just a noisy chicken.” Archambault sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “I fear who Paris will send to replace our good Mr. Fabron. And will his replacement take revenge on our good people because of what happened to his predecessor?” Archambault suddenly reached forward, placing a hand on Marcus’ arm. “Please, sir, you must figure out who did this! Not only to clear the good name of your Order, but to protect these good people from any act of retribution from the King! You must find who did this, so we can prove it wasn’t us!”

  Marcus looked down at the hand and it was quickly removed. “And what if it is found that someone from your town is responsible?”

  Archambault firmly shook his head. “Not possible. Never will I believe someone from my home could do such a thing. I’ve lived with these people all my life.”

  “And no one new has moved here over the past while?”

  Archambault shook his head. “No, no one except Mr. Fabron and his family.” He paused, looking around the room, avoiding eye contact with Marcus and Simon. “And you, of course.” He held up both hands, waving them in front of him. “But I, of course, don’t believe you are the Templars who did this!”

  “Of course.”

  Archambault suddenly appeared nervous. “Umm, what should I do?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Do what you would normally do when you find someone dead. Notify whoever needs to be notified, then tend to the bodies.”

  Archambault’s head bobbed viciously, nerves now ruling him. “Yes, yes, of course. How silly of me. I-I’ll send word to Paris, and have the bodies taken care of.” He flitted back and forth for a moment, then froze. “What of the boy?”

  Marcus pursed his lips. “You’ll have to contact his relatives, I guess.”

  “Paris will know, I suppose. But in the meantime, he’ll have to stay somewhere. And I’m afraid the boy wasn’t very popular.”

  M
arcus’ eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the son of an auditor, you know? In fact, I believe your Jacques was about the only boy he got along with.”

  A pit formed in Marcus’ stomach.

  “Could you, perhaps, take him in?”

  Simon grinned at him from behind Archambault.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I would never be anything but in a time such as this. The boy needs a home, and from what I heard, he seems to have taken a liking to you, despite you being a Templar, and Templars—rather men posing as Templars—killing his parents.”

  Marcus growled slightly, briefly looking up at the heavens.

  Why Lord? Why me?

  He stared down at the bodies, at the two outstretched hands, as if they had tried to feel the warmth of the one they loved in their final moments.

  He froze.

  Something was in the man’s hand. He knelt down and gently pried apart the fingers, revealing a bloodied piece of cloth, only a small fragment the original white.

  “What is it?” asked Archambault as he and Simon stepped closer.

  Marcus rose, holding it up to the light pouring in from the open door. “I’m not sure, but it appears to be a piece of torn cloth. Perhaps from one of the attackers.”

  Simon leaned in. “He must have reached out and grabbed his surcoat, tearing it in the struggle.”

  Marcus nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “Is it from a Templar’s surcoat?” asked Archambault.

  Marcus shook his head. “Impossible to tell.” He headed for the door, his chest tight, more troubled than he could recall being in a long time.

  For he had just lied.

  Something he rarely did.

  The piece in his hand was made of a very poor quality linen cloth, a material so cheap, only knights sworn to poverty wore surcoats made from it.

  Just like those first issued to him twenty years ago.

  By his Templar brothers.

  13

  Outside Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  Sir Valentin raised a fist, bringing his men to a halt. He whistled, and his troops, hiding among the trees, appeared, one of his sergeants stepping forward.

  “Success, sir?”

  Valentin dismounted and carefully removed his Templar surcoat, handing it over to a waiting squire. “In a sense. One of the traitors is dead, but we are no closer to discovering what we are looking for.”

  “Where to next?”

  “Crèvecœur-en-Brie. Another of the traitors lives there. Hopefully, he’ll be more forthcoming.”

  “Isn’t he a Templar?”

  “Yes, an old one. Nothing to fear.”

  His sergeant spit on the ground. “I fear no Templar.”

  Valentin regarded him for a moment. “You should. I’ve seen them in battle when I served in the Holy Land. They are formidable warriors.”

  “Easy to be when death means nothing to you. They believe dying in battle assures them access to Heaven.”

  Valentin smiled slightly. “And wouldn’t you die for your king?”

  His sergeant squared his shoulders. “Without hesitation.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t expect automatic entry into Heaven for doing so. My deeds and actions should grant me that.”

  Valentin slapped his sergeant on the back. “You’re a good man. Now, prepare the men. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Valentin turned to his second-in-command, Sir Bernard. “We should be there by nightfall. We’ll deal with the traitor as we did his comrade.”

  “Are we sure there is another document?” asked Bernard.

  “That is what I’ve been told.”

  “Can we trust the source?”

  Valentin frowned, holding up the document summarizing the meeting held by the Templars and their supporters a week ago, pointing to the bottom corner where inscribed were the numerals three and six, with a slash between them. “Only six copies of this document were made, and the source possessed the third copy. In exchange for his life, he told me everything, and assured me another document existed.”

  Bernard pursed his lips. “Perhaps he was lying. We should question him again.”

  “Not possible. I ran him through the moment I was satisfied he had told me everything he knew.”

  Bernard smiled slightly. “You do have a way with people.”

  “I’m known for my cuddles.”

  His men roared with laughter, even the squires as they returned with water and rations for the weary travelers.

  “Sir, I had a thought.”

  Valentin raised a hand. “Quiet everyone, Sir Bernard has a thought, and we don’t want him to lose it!” More laughter, and Bernard flushed before finally joining in. Valentin took a bite of cheese then tore a piece of bread off with his teeth. He chewed, brushing the crumbs from his beard. “What is this thought?”

  “Well, what if we can’t find this other document, the one that proves these Templars and their supporters are treasonous against the King?”

  “Then we will have killed a dozen men for no reason.”

  “But they are traitors, are they not?”

  “Absolutely. Perhaps I should rephrase. We will have killed a dozen men for good reason, but not ultimately solved the problem these Templars pose.”

  “Which is what the King truly wants.”

  “Of course. They’ve been a thorn in his side, they’ve been a thorn in the kingdom’s side, for decades if not longer.” He held up his cup to those gathered. “The rewards will be great for all of us should we succeed!”

  A roar went up among the men, men who rightfully expected to be richly rewarded for their loyalty. Valentin eyed Bernard. “Why these questions? Do you have something in mind?”

  Bernard shook his head. “Umm, no, sir.” He frowned, then repeated his reply under his breath. “Ah, excuse me, sir.” He walked away, scratching his chin, apparently deep in thought.

  A dangerous thing with that idiot.

  Valentin had not been pleased to receive the new orders adding Bernard to his detail, and as second-in-command, no less. His reputation preceded him, and it wasn’t good. A fool, a bumbler, a coward. He had never heard anything positive about the man, except that he was a constant source of amusement, the young ladies who had gone with him on arranged outings, telling delightful stories of his awkwardness that were the talk of the town.

  How that pathetic fool could be a de Claret, I’ll never know.

  He turned his back on the embarrassment, returning his attention to men he had known for years, men he trusted, men he could count on in battle.

  Men he could respect, and who respected him.

  He might have orders to accept Bernard as his second-in-command, but those orders didn’t mean he had to respect him.

  Nor not kill him should the need arise.

  14

  Fabron Residence

  Crécy-la-Chapelle, Kingdom of France

  “What has you so troubled, sir?”

  Sir Marcus led Simon and the others away from the crowd, then handed his sergeant the small piece of cloth he had recovered. “Feel this.”

  Simon took it, rubbing the rough cloth between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes widened, and his voice lowered to a whisper. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “I fear so.”

  “What?” asked David. Simon handed him the cloth, and David’s eyes widened. He quickly passed it to Jeremy.

  “It can’t be!” hissed Jeremy.

  Marcus took the cloth and stuffed it into a pocket. “Four of us can’t be wrong, and we are all familiar with the feel of the cloth used for our own surcoats and tunics. There can be no doubt this is that same cloth.”

  “Where did you find it?” asked David.

  Simon frowned. “In the victim’s clenched fist.”

  “Then he must have torn it off when he was killed.” David’s jaw dropped. “Could the boy be telling the truth?”

 
; Marcus shook his head. “The boy is telling the truth, as he sees it.” He patted his pocket with the piece of cloth. “This suggests that whoever killed these good people were indeed wearing Templar surcoats, but it, in my mind, in no way proves that Templars actually committed this atrocity.”

  Simon agreed. “So whoever did it must have stolen the surcoats so they could impersonate us.”

  “Exactly.” Marcus glanced over his shoulder at Archambault, speaking with several other town officials. “We must keep this to ourselves, at least for now. It is essential we find out who is behind this, otherwise the good name of our Order could be tarnished beyond repair.”

  Simon stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice further still. “What if he asks for the cloth?”

  “I will make some excuse, but I don’t think he will. I told him it was nothing, and he will believe that, for I am a Templar knight.” Marcus sighed. “I must go to confession soon. First drinking and cavorting with women, and now lying. I’ll burn in Hell for sure should I die without having seen a priest.”

  Simon chuckled. “Unlikely, my friend, but I too miss their counsel. Living so far from the Holy Land makes me feel further from God than I have my entire life. It’s rather unsettling.”

  “Agreed. When we leave here, we’ll pray at the church, and ask the Lord, and the priest, for guidance. We need God in our hearts and at our side if we are to succeed.”

  Something poked his rear, and he turned to find Tanya panting behind him, Pierre at her side. Marcus scratched her behind the ear. “What brings you here, girl?”

  Pierre stared at the ground. “Are my parents dead?”

  Marcus took a knee in front him. “I’m afraid so, son.”

  The boy’s lip trembled, but he managed to keep himself together, trying to be brave in front of the soldiers before him. Tanya pressed against the boy, as if sensing his pain. He wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes.

  Thank God for that dog.

  “My father was a coward,” whispered the boy, tears suddenly streaming down his face.

  Marcus’ eyes widened slightly. “Why would you say that?”

  “He was scared. I heard him. I heard it in his voice. He was scared of the men, so they killed him and my mama.”