Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

'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 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.'