by Paul Doherty
'Come on, Roger, we have work to do. I have been thinking about that riddle. Perhaps the old Templar chapel can provide an answer.'
I was warm and sleepy but my master kept haranguing me: compliance seemed the easiest way out so I put on my boots, grabbed my cloak and accompanied him down to the Templar chapel. The door was open. Inside, Mandeville and Southgate were standing near the baptismal font.
'So the wanderer has returned?' Southgate sneered. 'What brings you here?' 'The riddle,' Benjamin replied.
'We've already thought of that,' Mandeville muttered. 'But there's no Jordan water here, or Moses' Ark.' He pointed down the church. 'Damien's in the sanctuary. We found a pinewood arrow box.' Mandeville bit his lip. 'What's left of poor Cosmas has been sheeted, coffined, and lies before the altar. It's the least we could do.' He forced a smile. 'I would appreciate it, Master Daunbey, if you would go there, say a prayer and offer Damien your condolences.'
Benjamin agreed. We walked down the dark, dingy nave under the simple rood screen into the sanctuary. The makeshift coffin lay on trestles before the altar. Six purple candles, three on either side, flickered in heavy iron holders. Someone had nailed a simple crucifix to the top of the lid with the name 'Cosmas' scrawled in black beneath it. On a prie-dieu, at the foot of the coffin, knelt the dead man's brother, his shaven head bowed, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Mandeville came up behind us.
The coffin will lie here tonight,' he whispered. Tomorrow we will take it down to the village church.' He then strode off as Damien turned, his eyes red with weeping, his white face now puffy. Before, he had always been rather frightening but now he looked pathetic with his tear-stained cheeks, grieving eyes and red gaping mouth which could only make gurgling sounds as Benjamin took him by the hand and tried to convey his condolences. The poor mute nodded, his hideous face twisted into a smile, but when he looked at me, his eyes narrowed. Oh no, I thought, here we go. Old Shallot's a suspect again! I tried to look sympathetic but that only made matters worse and the fellow waved his fingers in the air as a sign for us to go and, turning his back, resumed his prayers. We left and he followed us to the church door. We heard it slam behind us and the key turn in the lock. 'The poor fellow wants to be alone,' Benjamin murmured.
'I understand that,' I replied. 'But must he look at me as if I am the murderer?'
Benjamin linked his arm through mine and we walked back to the manor house.
'I know the truth, Roger. But they think differently. After all, you were the first to leave the dinner table. You could have prepared that fire and retired to bed.'
'How could I?' I cried. 'Moreover, Master,' I dragged my arm away, 'you know Cosmas was a professional spy, an agent. Didn't he lock his chamber door?'
'Unfortunately not,' Benjamin replied. He looked at me, his face innocent. 'Don't forget, Roger, the key was on the inside of his chamber. Cosmas thought he was safe. After all, he was protected by the King's chief agent. Remember the old proverb: "It's easy for the hunter to forget how quickly it is to become the hunted." Anyway,' he seized my arm again, 'do you always lock your chamber?'
I wondered if my master knew something about my tryst with Mathilda but he had that distant, innocent expression. Benjamin at his most inscrutable.
'Did you really think,' I asked, quickly changing the subject, 'the chapel could pose a solution to Hopkins's riddle?'
'Not really, but the riddle must refer to a place. Either here at Templecombe or, more likely, Glastonbury.' "There's one other place, Master.' 'Such as?' 'The house on the island.'
Benjamin's face beamed in surprise. 'Of course,' he breathed and, turning round, went back past the chapel and down to the lakeside.
We stood staring across the icy water at the mist-shrouded island. God knows, it was a most desolate place. The water was covered with a film of ice whilst above it a grey mist boiled. It almost disguised the island and its strange Templar house for we could only glimpse the tiles of its roof.
'I wonder what used to happen there?' Benjamin whispered.
I shivered and stamped my feet. You didn't have to have the soul of a poet to conjure up what could have been; in my mind's eye I had a vision of Templars in their faceless conical helmets, red and white crosses on their black cloaks, moving across the island at the dead of night, the barges being soundlessly poled whilst, at prow and stern, huge cresset torches spluttered and flared in the darkness. Why would they go there? I wondered. Some macabre rite? A Satanic mass? The conjuring of evil spirits? Or to indulge in illicit sexual pleasures? 'We should go across,' Benjamin commented.
'Not now, Master,' I said, trying to hide my panic. 'It's growing dark. Heaven knows how thick that ice is. And, if we have to go, I would like to be armed.'
Thankfully, Benjamin agreed and we returned to the manor house. I was cold and stiff, so went back to my chamber to warm myself. I lay on the bed for a while wondering if Mathilda might return, before drifting into a troubled sleep where ghastly figures, masked and hooded, danced on a lonely island before a terrible demon god. Benjamin shook me awake.
'Santerre has returned,' he whispered. 'Let's go down and see where he really went.'
We found Sir John and his family in the great hall, sitting on the coffer-box chairs before the fire. Santerre seemed cheerful enough, shuffling his feet, warming his hands, and loudly declaring how good it was to be back in his own home and with his own people. He smiled and waved us over.
'A good day's business,' he bellowed. 'Despite the snow, all seems well.' He picked up a brimming wine goblet from the small table beside him. 'And you, sirs, you feel at home now?'
Benjamin made the usual tactful responses. I just stared at Santerre's cheery face. The man's a consummate liar, I thought. This bastard, with his bluff ways, merry eyes and welcoming invitations, nearly had me murdered this morning. Santerre patted his stomach.
'God knows, I have an appetite!' he bellowed, smacking his lips. He grinned at his wife. 'Good food, eh, wife?' Lady Beatrice caught his mood and laughed back. 'Only the best for the Lord and Master!'
'Pork roasted in a lemon sauce, with slices of mutton, heavily garnished.' Santerre rubbed his stomach. 'This cold weather puts the wolf in your belly, eh, Master Shallot? A bowl of claret and afterwards a game of dice?'
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 stil
l 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 Glastonbury. 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 w
hat 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.
