The Grail Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Mandeville and Southgate walked stiff-legged into the hall. Both men were not amused by Sir John's high spirits during a time of mourning.

  'Have you seen Damien?' Mandeville snapped.

  'Yes,' Benjamin replied. 'About two or three hours ago.'

  'But that was in the chapel.'

  Benjamin shrugged. 'You asked, we answered!'

  Mandeville stared into the fire. God knows, perhaps I have a sixth sense, but the hair on the nape of my neck prickled with fear.

  'He can't still be praying,' Southgate insisted.

  The good humour drained from Santerre's face. Rachel and her mother looked agitated. Benjamin got briskly to his feet.

  'Talk is futile. Let us go to the chapel. If he's not there, perhaps he went for a walk in the grounds?'

  We all left, going through the kitchen, out across the courtyard and down the trackway to the church. The door was still locked and, when I peered through the shuttered windows, I could see no sign of candlelight.

  'Damien!' Mandeville roared. He tried the handle but the door was locked. 'Damien!' Mandeville shouted again and, losing his poise, hammered with his fists against the metal-studded door.

  'Mother!' Rachel cried. 'Come with me.'

  The two women went down the side of the church, shouting Damien's name through the shutters. Mandeville continued his knocking. Santerre sent for servants and, at his direction, they dragged out a huge log drying in the stables for Yuletide.

  Mandeville supervised them as if he was besieging a castle. Ropes were wrapped around the log and the servants swung it backwards and forward, hammering at the door until it groaned, cracked, then snapped back on its hinges.

  'Everyone is to stay where they are.' Mandeville wiped the sweat from his face. 'No one is to enter this church until I say.' He went in. 'The key is still in the lock,' he exclaimed. 'And even the bolts were drawn shut!' He walked up the church shouting for Southgate to join him.

  We all clustered silently by the door until a chilling moan from Mandeville and a despairing shout of 'Oh, no!' sent us hurrying into the church. In the nave nothing had been disturbed. Santerre ordered the torches to be lit. In the sanctuary we found Damien sprawled over the prie-dieu. A small crossbow bolt had been sent smashing into the back of his skull. He had been thrown violently forwards, the blood which had spurted from nose and mouth splattering the base of his brother's coffin. Mandeville pulled the corpse back, turning him gently in his arms like a mother would a child. In the flickering cresset torch Damien's face looked horrible: the eyes half-open, the mouth silent for ever now, blood caking his face from brow to chin. Mandeville laid the corpse gently on the floor.

  'Some bastard will pay for this!' he hissed, the glint of madness in his eyes.

  Santerre stepped back, spreading his hands. 'Sir, do not threaten me. You saw the door was locked from the inside.'

  'Where's the other key?'

  'On a ring on my belt. And where I go, it goes.'

  Southgate leaned over and patted Benjamin on the chest. 'You saw Damien last?'

  'What are you implying?' my master retorted. 'Do you accuse me or Shallot of this murder? And if so, how?' Benjamin pointed to the dead man. 'He saw us out of the church and locked the door behind us.'

  Benjamin spun on his heel, grabbed a torch from Sir John Santerre and walked down the nave, beckoning me to follow him. We stopped at the far end just under the small choir loft where there was a recess leading up to the tower. Benjamin gestured with his hand. 'Sir Edmund,' he shouted. 'Put the corpse back as you found it and come here!'

  The two Agentes were about to object but had the sense to see what Benjamin was doing. They joined us at the far end of the church, Benjamin shouting at the Santerres to stand back.

  'Don't you see, Sir Edmund?' he exclaimed. 'Someone could have been hiding here when we came into the church earlier today. We talked and you left, then Damien ushered us out and went back to the prie-dieu. Now, let's pretend we are the assassin, standing here with a crossbow looking up towards the sanctuary.'

  He lifted the torch and Mandeville followed his gaze.

  'Yes, yes,' he muttered. 'I see, Master Daunbey. Poor Damien was kneeling at the entrance to the sanctuary screen, an easy target for someone lurking here with a crossbow.'

  Benjamin lowered the torch close to the paved stone floor, scrabbling round with his fingers.

  'Look, in the torchlight you can see a dark stain. I agree it's hard to distinguish between our footprints but this stain, this wetness, shows someone stood here for some time, their cloak and boots heavy with snow. They must have come here even before Damien. When we all left, and he locked the door behind us, the murderer committed his crime.'

  Southgate clapped his hands slowly. 'Most ingenious, my dear Daunbey. But how did the murderer leave?'

  Benjamin shouted at Santerre now walking down the nave towards us.

  'Sir John are there any secret entrances to this church?' 'None,' Rachel replied.'For God's sake, Master Daunbey, see for yourself.'

  Benjamin asked for more torches and we went round the walls studying the floor. Nothing but hard stone. The only other entrance was a small door to the left of the sanctuary but that was closed with a padlock, rusting with age, and obviously had not been opened for years.

  'There's no sacristy here?' I asked.

  'None whatsoever,' Sir John replied. 'When the Templars used this church, the priests would vest for mass either in the manor or here in the sanctuary.'

  Benjamin took his torch and walked along the walls examining the shutters of each window. All were closed, their clasps firmly in place.

  'A veritable mystery,' he murmured. 'The murderer was locked in but how did he get out? Sir John, these shutters, they are locked from the inside?'

  'And from the outside,' Santerre shouted.

  'Oh, sweet heaven!' Benjamin breathed.

  He led the group out of the church and, in a ring of torchlight, examined each window and the snow beneath. However, this only deepened the mystery for the outside latch on each shutter was also down and, apart from the fresh footprints of Lady Beatrice and Rachel, there was no sign that anyone had used the window to get in or out.

  'Well,' Southgate declared, as we gathered outside the door of the church again. 'Damien's dead, murdered!'

  'Death by steel,' I replied. 'Don't forget the witch's curse.'

  'If it's witchcraft,' Mandeville grated, 'I'll see the old bitch burn within a week!' He glared at Rachel. 'You are right, Mistress, this house is cursed. Two of the King's most loyal servants have died here, foully murdered. The place should be burnt down.'

  'Nonsense!' Benjamin interrupted. 'Damien was killed with a crossbow bolt and ghosts don't leave stains on the floor. We know how the murderer got in and where he lurked, the only problem is how he got out.' Benjamin drew himself up so his shoulders were no longer stooped. 'Can't you see what is happening?' he exclaimed. 'The assassin has marked us down for death, but first he is playing with us like a cat does with a mouse. The fear of death is often worse than death itself. Cosmas and Damien's murders are meant to torture and punish us as well as unnerve and divert us from our true mission. Two men are dead. Yet, Sir Edmund, I am confident the assassin will eventually make a mistake.'

  Mandeville viciously kicked at the snow with the toe of his boot. 'But when, Master Daunbey, when?' He looked at his lieutenant. 'Southgate, have Damien's corpse removed. Sir John, I will need a chest. Tomorrow you will move both bodies down to the village church.'

  Mandeville strode off, then stopped and turned. 'South-gate, before you do that, I would remove everything from Damien's room, all papers and documents. Sir John, dismiss the servants. I need to see you all in the hall.'

  We obeyed and went in to sit in a sombre half-circle round the fire. No thought of food or drink now as Mandeville strode up and down in front of us, so angry he seemed impervious to the roaring flames of the fire.

  Tomorrow,' he began, 'we must go to Gla
stonbury. The snow lies thick but not deep enough to hinder justice.' He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'I could ask where each of you were today but what's the use?'

  I glanced quickly at Sir John. Apart from Benjamin and I, he was the only one who had left the manor so his cloak and boots would have been covered in snow. Had he gone to Glastonbury or come back by a secret route to Templecombe to hide himself in the church? Or was the assassin already here? Could it have been one of the footpads who tried to ambush me earlier that day? I glanced up. Mandeville was staring at me as if trying to read my thoughts.

  'We must be careful,' he murmured, drawing in deep breaths to calm himself. 'We must not start accusing each other of murder. Any one of your tenants, Sir John, and I mean no offence, could be the assassin. Perhaps Master Shallot is right, we must not forget that damned witch.'

  'She may know something, Sir Edmund,' Benjamin tactfully intervened. 'But the murderer of Cosmas and Damien must be in this household.'

  Mandeville agreed. 'Sir John, tomorrow morning at first light, I want all your servants gathered here in the main hall. And pray, sir, do not object. This is the King's business.'

  He pushed by the chairs and strode out of the hall. Benjamin nodded apologetically to Sir John, beckoned to me and hastily followed. Mandeville was already half-way up the stairs.

  'Sir Edmund,' my master called, 'a word!' Mandeville looked down, his eyes glowing with a murderous rage.

  'Piss off, Daunbey! In there I have to be courteous but I'll never forget that you and that bloody rogue of a servant were the last to see my clerk alive!' He came back down the stairs. 'You think it's a game, don't you?' he snarled. 'I have lost two good men. Four, if you include Warnham and Calcraft.' Mandeville pushed his face only inches away from that of Benjamin. 'You may not like what we are, the King's agents, his tools, his spies. You may not even like the King, but he wears the Crown of the Confessor. A strong prince is infinitely better than ten strong princes fighting for the crown.'

  'I accept what you say,' Benjamin quietly replied. 'But that is not the matter at issue.'

  Mandeville looked away. 'You are right,' he breathed. 'It is not. I have lost many agents but Cosmas and Damien were like flesh and blood. I mourn their deaths.'

  'Then, sir,' I exclaimed, 'it is a time for honesty!'

  I approached, shrugging off Benjamin's warning touch.

  'We are the only ones you can trust. Warnham and Calcraft died before we ever entered this play. So let me ask you honestly, the man we met in Newgate wasn't Taplow, was he?'

  The anger drained from Mandeville's face. He beckoned us further down the gallery and into a window embrasure where no one could eavesdrop. He stared through the paned glass and smiled apologetically.

  'You are correct, Taplow died at Smithfield but the man you met was not him.'

  'Why?' I asked.

  'The King's orders.'

  'And those letters Buckingham wrote?'

  Now Mandeville's face paled. He still had a flicker of morality in him.

  'Our King always wanted Buckingham dead, as did the Lord Cardinal. It was simply a matter of fitting a noose round his neck.'

  'And Hopkins?' I insisted.

  'A stupid priest who may have been a secret Templar and had access to hidden knowledge.'

  'And the rest ... the Grail, Excalibur, the Templars themselves?'

  'Oh, that's all true.'

  'Come, Sir Edmund,' Benjamin mocked. 'Just tell us what is really true!'

  Mandeville leaned against the wall and ticked the points off on his fingers. 'First,' he whispered, 'the King wanted Buckingham dead. He was powerful, over mighty, had Yorkist blood in his veins. He also hated the King because of Henry's seduction of his sister. Secondly, Buckingham wanted those relics, the Grail and Excalibur. God knows why. Perhaps as curios, perhaps as a talisman he could use in some conspiracy against the King. Thirdly, Buckingham may not have been a traitor but he undoubtedly entertained treasonable thoughts, perhaps was a secret Templar. Fourthly, Hopkins was a conniving priest, a possible Templar, with an open distaste for our King. Fifthly, Taplow the tailor was a Lutheran, also involved in treasonable practices.'

  'Such as?' I brusquely interrupted.

  'He had tenuous links with Buckingham and also with Master Hopkins. I admit the letters Buckingham supposedly wrote to him were forgeries, as was Taplow's evidence at Buckingham's trial. The poor bastard was tortured so much he would have confessed to anything.'

  'So why,' Benjamin asked, 'didn't you allow us to interrogate the real Taplow?'

  Mandeville stared through the frosted glass.

  'I asked a question, Sir Edmund?'

  'Taplow was promised his life if he supported our destruction of Buckingham but in Newgate he began to recant.' This most sinister of spies shrugged. 'For a short time one of my agents took his place.' Mandeville smiled mirthlessly. 'I wondered if it would work. What made you suspect he wasn't the person he claimed to be?'

  'Lutherans don't believe in Purgatory, the Taplow we met did.'

  Mandeville sniffed disparagingly. 'Did you know Mistress Hopkins was murdered?' Benjamin asked.

  Mandeville shook his head. 'We thought she wasn't worth the bother of watching.'

  'Well, someone thought she was important and garrotted her. By the way, do you know who killed Warnham and Calcraft?'

  'If I did,' Mandeville snapped, 'the murderer would be hanging on the gibbet at Smithfield!'

  'So how much of the rest do you think is true?' I asked.

  'Oh, the Grail and Excalibur exist. The King is most insistent on that.'

  'And the Templars?'

  'Oh, yes, we have been hunting them for years. They are a secret organisation existing in cells of six or seven. No single coven knows much about the others but they are powerful, spread like a net through France, Spain, Scotland and England. They are particularly strong here in the Southwest.'

  'Who is their leader?'

  'A Grand Master, but we don't know his name or which country he lives in.'

  Mandeville suddenly put his finger to his lips and stepped out of the window embrasure. He looked down to the gallery where the Santerres now stood outside the hall door.

  'Sir John,' Mandeville called, 'I should be grateful if you could stay in the hall. Certain questions must be asked.'

  'Look,' Benjamin continued, 'why are the King and his agents so interested in this secret society?'

  Mandeville waited for the Santerres to withdraw before he answered. 'The Templars are particularly hostile to the King and have supported most of the Yorkist rebellions. They circulate stories about the Princes in the Tower still being alive and, during the present King's father's reign, they supported the two imposters, Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck. If you remember your history, Master Daunbey, you may recall the fiercest rebellions were here in the South-West. When the King was a boy, rebels from the West Country made him flee from the city whilst the pretender, Perkin Warbeck, actually laid siege to Exeter.'

  'Is Santerre under suspicion?'

  'Yes and no. Santerre has proved to be a most loyal subject of the King but Hopkins served him as a chaplain and Buckingham came here looking for those relics.' Mandeville snorted with laughter. 'Matters are not helped by the two recent murders.'

  'And Lady Beatrice? Her maiden name is Belamonte.

  Her first husband, Lord of Templecombe, was Sir Roger Mortimer.'

  Mandeville shook his head. 'Her loyalty is really beyond question. After all, it was Lady Beatrice who urged Santerre to confess everything about Buckingham to my two agents.'

  'And the monks at Glastonbury?'

  Mandeville smiled bleakly. 'A pretty mess. Strong links probably existed between the Templars and the abbey. Hopkins was a member of that house and the monks do guard the remains of Arthur whilst this mysterious riddle was found in a manuscript of their library. Mandeville gnawed at his lip. 'I have been honest with you. Now, sir, be truthful with me. What do you know?'r />
  My master described what had happened on the trackway earlier that day.

  'Probably members of the Templar coven,' Mandeville commented.

  'They could have been responsible for the deaths of Cosmas and Damien,' I added.

  'Thus we must resolve the matter,' Benjamin declared. 'The servants of this house could, one or all, be either the assassins or in their pay.'

  'We shall deal with them in the morning,' Mandeville snapped.

  'There's something else,' Benjamin continued. 'Sir Edmund, we must solve the riddle. Yet, as far as I can see, this house or the chapel have nothing even vaguely resembling the waters of Jordan or Moses' Ark.' He shrugged apologetically. 'I have wandered round the galleries but there's no painting or carving to arouse my curiosity. Only two other places remain: Glastonbury Abbey and the desolate building on that lonely island in the middle of the lake.'

  'When we were at Glastonbury,' Mandeville answered, stroking the side of his face, 'I told the abbot to send one of his lay brothers to Taunton with a message for the sheriff to bring armed men to Templecombe. I expect them tomorrow morning. Once they have arrived we will interrogate the servants, cross to the island as well as hunt down that bloody witch.'

  'And the two murders?' I asked. 'Do we have any further evidence?'

  'Nothing,' Benjamin replied quickly. 'One man dies in his bed which mysteriously catches fire. Another is killed by a crossbow bolt but the only door is bolted and the windows shuttered. We have established the assassin had been tramping round in the snow, yet Lady Beatrice and Rachel are wearing the same clothes as they were this morning and, as far as I know, never left the house.'

  'Both of you did,' Mandeville tartly replied.

  '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.'