Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

Nevertheless, he was a man you wouldn't trust. He had piss-holes as eyes, foul breath, decaying teeth and an attitude towards Mandeville which can only be described as servile. The sort of man whose head has been turned by success and left him staring in the wrong direction.

Bowyer's troopers, as professional soldiers are wont, soon made themselves at home in the courtyard and outhouses: within an hour, Sir John was receiving complaints of food being stolen from the kitchen; jugs of wine mysteriously emptying; and chickens, full of life the night before, suddenly being killed, plucked and spitted over makeshift fires. Santerre, however, had problems of his own as Mandeville, assisted by Southgate and a servile Bowyer, had the great hall cleared and turned into a shire court. He and Bowyer sat at the high table, the Santerres and ourselves were treated as onlookers. Mandeville then gathered all the servants, cooks, scullions, chambermaids, Mathilda included, even the men from the stables. He addressed them in short, pithy sentences and promptly began his interrogation of each of them.

'How long have you served here?' 'Does the word "Templar" mean anything to you?' 'Did anyone approach the chapel yesterday afternoon?'

The servants were good but simple people, local peasants who simply shook their heads and stared wide-eyed at this powerful lord from London. Nevertheless, I admired Mandeville's skill for, as he questioned, I caught the unease of some of them. Nothing really significant: a flicker of the eyes, a slight paleness of the face. Answers given too quickly and too readily. Mathilda herself was very ill-at-ease, shifting from foot to foot. Mandeville sensed this and closed like a hawk for the kill. 'You are the linen maid?' Mathilda nodded. 'Aren't you curious about these strangers staying in your master's house?' She shook her head. 'So you have not abused your position by searching our belongings?' Mathilda's eyes flickered quickly towards me. 'No, Master,' she murmured.

'I can vouch for that,' I exclaimed. 'The girl didn't know I was in my room when she was changing the linen. She's the complete opposite to me, Sir Edmund, honest as the day is long.'

Benjamin looked strangely at me but a ripple of laughter lessened the tension and Mathilda was dismissed. The others came up. Mandeville asked the questions, or sometimes Southgate. Occasionally, to show his power, the sheriff would try to hector, though Mandeville kept him firmly under control. At last it was finished but before the servants were dismissed, Mandeville ordered their quarters to be searched. Sir John and Lady Beatrice vehemently objected to this, so Benjamin offered to supervise the soldiers and ensure it was not used as a pretext for theft or pillage.

This search, like the questioning, proved fruitless so Mandeville brusquely dismissed the servants. I watched them leave, paying particular attention to Mathilda and how she held the arm of a grizzle-haired, thickset man who appeared to be her father. I noticed he had a slight limp; I recalled the attack on me the previous day and the wounds I had unwittingly inflicted, but decided to keep the matter to myself. After that we made a thorough search of the chapel, its walls, flagstones and altar, but there was nothing. We even looked under the ancient stalls the Templars once sat in, and I confess (as is the wont of old Shallot) I did little work but spent most of the time admiring the brilliant carvings on the misericord of each stall. The first three enthralled me: a man, miserably clutching a winding frame, being birched on the buttocks by his wife; a tapster drinking; and two peasants disembowelling a slaughtered pig. Each carving was a breath-taking picture in itself. Benjamin came over to join me.

'The Templars,' he declared, 'would come into the stalls and raise the seats. The carvings were placed on the reverse, not only for ornamentation's sake but to make the seats heavier.' He grinned and pointed to the woman birching her husband. 'The local craftsmen always enjoyed themselves, depicting scenes far from sacred.'

Mandeville, however, had finished his search which proved just as fruitless as the previous day's and told us to leave. We all moved out of the church down to the lake which glistened brightly, though the island itself was still mist-shrouded. A number of barges were hidden in the trees along the lakeside and Mandeville and Santerre ordered these to be brought together. They were cleaned of frozen mud, made ready, and we all clambered aboard, Bowyer's soldiers poling us across.

God be my witness, that island was the most mysterious I had ever visited. It was damp, cold, eerie and uncanny. The trees were too close together and the snow-covered gorse seemed to have a life of its own, blocking our passage with its thick stems. We struggled through, soaking ourselves to the skin.

'Have you noticed anything?' Benjamin breathlessly whispered. He stopped and looked up at the tangle of gaunt branches above him. 'No birds here! No rooks, no crows, nothing at all!'

I stopped and listened, straining my ears for any sound above the crashing of the soldiers or the muttered curses as men slipped on the icy ground underfoot. This raucous noise only seemed to emphasize the ominous silence of the island and reminded me of a story I had heard from a traveller who claimed to have sailed the Western Ocean and come across islands inhabited by ghosts of dead sailors. I shivered and muttered a curse. Mandeville and the others had now drawn their swords and were cutting their way through. The Agentes, in particular, seemed to be affected by the oppressive mood of the island and were taking out their fears in the hacking blows of their swords.

At last we reached a clearing and the desolate building we had glimpsed from the shore. It was of yellowing sandstone with a dark, red-tiled roof, no windows but thin, trefoil arrow slits in the walls. The iron-studded door was padlocked. Santerre apologised, he had no key, so Southgate hacked the padlock off and kicked the door open. We walked in and torches were lit. Believe me, the sombre atmosphere of that place seemed a living thing which clutched the heart and dulled the spirit. Nothing in particular, just a yawning emptiness, a cold chilling air which had little to do with the ice and snow outside. 'A home of death,' I muttered. 'Or a very sacred place,' Benjamin replied.

Mandeville ordered the soldiers to stand round the walls, taking their torches which spluttered bravely against the darkness. I had the almost childish impression that if we kept within the pools of light everything would be fine but, beyond the flames, shadows lurked and powers even darker waited to catch you by the throat. The floor was hard paving stone, the walls lime-washed, the room devoid of even a stick of furniture.

The soldiers grew uneasy and grumbled amongst themselves so Mandeville shouted at them to begin the search. Those men were professional foragers and, if there was a loose paving stone or secret passageway, they would have found it, but there was nothing. Benjamin, however, just squatted, moving like a spider from one paving stone to another. He stopped, exclaiming in surprise, so we gathered round as he scraped the floor with his finger.

'Candle grease,' he observed. 'Someone has been here and fairly recently.'

Other drops were found but nothing else so Mandeville ordered us to resume our search. I kept a wary eye on Santerre for this bluff manor lord, usually afraid of nothing, stayed near the door like a child frightened of a dark, strange room. 'Is anything wrong?' I asked. Santerre shook his head but his face was pallid and I saw the beads of sweat on his cheeks. 'What is it?' I muttered. The soldiers pushed by us, eager to get out. Santerre just shook his head. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Are you sure?' Benjamin asked, coming up beside him.