The Grail Murders

by Paul Doherty

  No more snow had fallen, the sky was still overcast but the air was crisp and a little warmer. We left by the back gate of the manor following a trackway through a wood. At first, we rode together but the freshness of the horses, particularly Bowyer's and Southgate's, meant we had to break up. We cleared the trees and stopped on the brow of a small hill which fell down to snow-covered fields, broken here and there by small copses and woods. The trackers and beaters were already there and in a flurry of snow, shouts, cries and yelping barks, the hunters moved down to meet them.

  Roger and I hung back on the hill, watching the rest of the party go into a wood. There was a short silence then the dogs' barking grew into a raucous row; shouts and the shrill of hunting horns carried clear to us as a fat buck, together with two hinds, galloped from the trees and across the meadow in a flurry of snow. Santerre sounded the horn and led the excited hunters down the hill. The buck had already cleared one field. Behind him the dogs raced like dark shapes against the snow. The hunt was on.

  It is difficult to describe exactly what happened. We were a party of horsemen charging down the hill. Santerre, the chief huntsman, Bowyer, Southgate, Mandeville, Benjamin and myself, Lady Beatrice and Rachel having declined to come. Bowyer and Southgate were the first to break away from the rest, their horses fiery, eager for the exercise after close confinement.

  We all spurred and whipped as we reached the bottom of the hill to keep up pace for the snow underfoot made the going heavy, when both Bowyer's horse and that of South-gate suddenly took on a life of their own. They bucked, reared and shot forward like arrows from a bow. Benjamin and I followed quickly afterwards for it was apparent both riders were losing control. Now I realised something was wrong for, as you young men know, if a horse becomes uncontrollable the best thing to do is to dismount as quickly as possible. Bowyer and Southgate tried this but seemed incapable of getting their boots out of the stirrups whilst both were losing control of the reins.

  Southgate managed to move his left foot and swung his leg over but his right boot was still caught. The horse reared, Southgate pitched out of his saddle and was dragged along, one boot still caught in the stirrup. Bowyer's horse was galloping even faster, heading towards the trees. Benjamin shouted at Santerre and Mandeville to follow the sheriff, whilst he and I raced after Southgate, now being dragged along like a rag doll. Benjamin drew level and, in a feat of horsemanship, leaned down and slashed his dagger towards the horse's belly, cutting Southgate's stirrup loose.

  We dismounted and crouched beside him. God knows, he was a grisly mess: the back of his head and legs were a mass of wounds. He groaned, opened his eyes and lapsed into a swoon.

  Bowyer was not so fortunate. His horse reached the trees where he was hit by a thick, low-hanging branch, knocked out of the saddle and, as his horse careered deeper into the wood, dragged through the brambles and undergrowth, his poor body smashing against each tree.

  The hunt was called off: the whippers-in and the huntsmen despatched, Benjamin ordering them back to the manor and telling them to bring down two stretchers, wine and bandages.

  Mandeville and Santerre soon returned from the trees; the latter had a crossbow in his hand, Bowyer's corpse sprawled across the saddle bow. There was no need to ask: Bowyer's body was an open wound from head to toe, his face disfigured by a mass of bruises, and the slackness of his head showed his neck had been broken. Mandeville had had to shoot his bolting horse to cut him free. 'Southgate?' he asked wearily.

  'He will live,' Benjamin replied. 'Or, at least, I think he will.' He pointed to Southgate's left leg. 'Broken cleanly, as is one of his arms. God knows what other injuries he suffered.'

  Mandeville crouched in the snow beside his lieutenant. He looked pathetic.

  'Everything is finished,' he groaned. 'The King will not accept this.'

  Benjamin forced a wineskin between his lips, urging him to drink.

  Bowyer's body was immediately sheeted, placed in a pine-wood box packed with snow, put in a cart and sent off to Taunton.

  Back at Templecombe, now over his shock, Mandeville paced around like an angry cat, hurling abuse at Santerre, telling Lady Beatrice to stop screaming and order servants to go down to the village and bring wise women to attend to Southgate. The injured man was taken up to his chamber.

  Later in the day, two old women arrived. Mandeville, pale as a ghost, promised them anything provided his companion recovered. He then packed his belongings saying he would no longer stay in Templecombe and requisitioned carts and horses for a move to Glastonbury Abbey.

  Any last vestige of merriment at Templecombe completely disappeared. The Santerres stayed well away from Mandeville who stalked the galleries and corridors shouting orders at both servants and the dead sheriff's soldiers. On one occasion he met Santerre inside the main hall. Mandeville pointed an accusatory finger at him.

  'I'm leaving, Sir John, but I'll be back in the spring with His Majesty's Justices and a thousand pikemen!'

  'Sir Edmund?' Benjamin approached him.

  'What is it, Daunbey?' Mandeville snapped, not even bothering to turn his head.

  'You are leaving Templecombe for Glastonbury?'

  'Yes, I am quitting this hell-hole and recommend you do the same.'

  'Southgate cannot be moved.'

  'He'll die if he stays here,' Mandeville hissed.

  Then perhaps only to the village. Perhaps to the priest's house where he can be guarded by soldiers. Sir Edmund, I beg you, wait a while.

  'We can't leave here,' Benjamin insisted. 'Although no snow has fallen, the trackways are frozen hard. Southgate will die before he even reaches the village. Moreover, what will the King say?'

  Mandeville stared into the flames of the fire.

  'I shouldn't have brought Bowyer here,' he moaned. 'I had forgotten about Buckingham.' He chewed his lip and looked at Benjamin. 'Bowyer was involved in the Duke's destruction. He was a marked man. But how?' he asked bleakly. 'How were those horses made to bolt? If you discover that, Master Daunbey, I promise I'll stay until this business is done.'

  'Sirs!'

  We spun round. Rachel, beautiful in a dark purple gown, stood in the doorway of the hall.

  'Sirs,' she greeted us and stepped forward, a determined expression on her face. 'Sirs - especially you, Sir Edmund. My father is distraught, my mother hysterical. I object to you pacing round this house shouting at our servants like some freebooter. We, too, mourn Bowyer's death, and Master Southgate's wounds are being tended.' She looked appealingly at Benjamin. 'We are doing all we can,' she continued gently. 'Southgate will mend, God knows he was fortunate. A broken leg, a fractured arm. The rest are bruises which will quickly heal.'

  Benjamin spread his hands helplessly. 'But the deaths and injuries occurred here, Mistress.' He tapped Mandeville gently on the shoulder. 'However take courage, Sir Edmund, Master Hopkins's riddle may be about to unravel.'

  Mandeville looked up, startled. Rachel looked puzzled but Benjamin shook his head.

  'Not now, there are other matters to deal with.' He gestured at me and we left the hall.

  'What do you mean by that, Master?'

  'Everything in its own season, Shallot. Now I want to look at Southgate's horse.'

  We found the poor animal securely tethered and hobbled in a small, dank stable. It had been unsaddled but its coat was still covered with a thick, sweaty foam though it was now quiet and placid. Benjamin ignored my warnings: he went into the box, talking gently to the horse, smoothing its flanks whilst he examined its underbelly. Then, still talking quietly, he inspected its side.

  'As I thought,' Benjamin murmured, coming out. 'Southgate spurred the horse.'

  'I did the same but mine didn't bolt like a shot from a sling!'

  Benjamin looked round the busy yard where servants were pulling out carts and hitching up horses under the watchful eye of Bowyer's soldiers. Benjamin pulled me into the shadows as Mandeville came out to issue curt instructions for the dead sheriff's body to b
e removed and informed the soldiers that he would stay at Templecombe for a while. Once he had gone, Benjamin led me back to the stable.

  He plucked an apple from his pocket, God knows where he got it from, and gave it to the horse who munched it greedily. Benjamin then dug his hand into the empty manger and plucked out the remains of the horse's feed. He examined this curiously, ignoring my questions, and went into the adjoining stable where his own horse was stabled and did the same. Benjamin muttered to himself, wiped his hands and shook his head.

  'Ingenious,' he murmured. 'Come on, Roger.' He grabbed me by the arm. 'One final call.'

  He led me back into the house and up to Southgate's chamber. The poor man now lay in a great four-poster bed while the two old beldames clacked and muttered to themselves as they fastened splints to his leg and carefully washed his naked, bruised body. Benjamin ignored them as he looked round the chamber.

  'Southgate's boots,' he whispered.

  I saw one lying under the dresser and pulled it out gingerly lest the spur catch my finger. Benjamin hid it under his cloak and hurried back to his own chamber like a schoolboy who has stolen a sweetmeat. He bolted the door behind us, sat on the bed and carefully examined the spur in the light of a candle flame.

  'Perhaps it's washed off,' he murmured. 'But, as Pythagoras said, "Truth can only be found through experimentation".' He lightly scored his finger on the edge of the spur, gasped and quickly dipped it in the bowl of water on the lavarium before bathing it in a little wine.

  'That hurt!' he grimaced.

  'Master, you will tell me?' I asked.

  Benjamin, his wounded finger clasped in a wet rag, grinned from ear to ear.

  'Roger, Roger, isn't the human mind ingenious when it comes to plotting the destruction of another being? When I examined Southgate's horse I saw the spur marks. When I examined the manger where the feed had been put, I found oats and bran. When I examined my own horse's stable I found only traces of hay. And finally, when I scrutinised Master Southgate's spur, I found its sharpness tinged with mercury.'

  'So?' I began slowly, trying to assemble all the facts.

  'So,' Benjamin continued. 'I suspect Bowyer's and Southgate's horses were fed a rich diet of oats and bran both last night and this morning. Now you know, Roger, how that would affect an excitable horse who has had little strenuous exercise? It would become fiery and restless, something I noticed when Bowyer and Southgate left for the hunt. However, can you imagine what would happen if such a horse was not only spurred but goaded by a spur tinged with mercury?'

  'It would bolt.'

  'Which is what happened.'

  'But, Master, Bowyer and Southgate, for all their faults, were expert horsemen. Why didn't they just dismount?'

  'Ah! But what if the stirrups of their saddle had been changed, each being given a narrower set? Now, when you mount a horse, you simply push your boot in to the stirrup. That's the easy part. It's like anything else: you can get a small ring on your finger, the problem is getting it off. Remember, Bowyer's and Southgate's boots were wet and so leather would swell a little. Now, as they left Templecombe, the boots fitted snugly. They would not object to such a tight fit, in fact it would help them keep their restless horses under control, but once they had set spurs and the horses bolted, murder occurred.' He shook his head. 'There's no proof. Bowyer's and Southgate's saddles have now been returned to the stable and the original stirrups probably replaced. Nevertheless, that is how I believe the trap was set.'

  'But the spurs would be kept in their own chambers?' Benjamin shrugged. 'I don't think that need bother us.

  There are probably keys to fit every chamber in this house. It would take only a few minutes to open a door, search out the riding boots and pour a little mercury over each spur.' 'And the murderer?'

  'A vague suspicion as yet but I tell you this: if the murderer strikes again, it will be against us, Roger, so be on your guard!'

  'What about Mandeville?'

  Benjamin peered at me.

  'He could be the murderer, Master. He knew where those agents were in London and about Mistress Hopkins. He could have killed his own men, Cosmas and Damien. Above all, he survived the hunt.'

  '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.

  ‘For 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.