Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

Again Santerre nodded. Benjamin looked up at the whitewashed wall above the door. He waited until the rest had left. 'Sir John, I think something is very wrong and Mandeville, in his haste, has overlooked it.' Santerre just stared at him.

'It's the walls,' Benjamin continued. 'They have been recently white-washed. Now why was that done, eh?'

'I don't know,' Santerre mumbled and trudged off to join the others.

We crossed back to the other bank, Mandeville striding away from the barge, shouting orders at Southgate. A cart pulled out from the courtyard, driven by a soldier taking the two coffins down to the village church where the priest would sing a requiem and those two pathetic brothers be buried and, in time, forgotten. Mandeville made ready to follow. The pompous Bowyer was ordered to stay at the manor but Sir Edmund waved us over.

'You will come with us to Glastonbury, though first we have one further task to accomplish.'

He refused to say any more so we collected riding boots, hats and cloaks from our chambers. A white-faced Mathilda sped by me in the gallery but Benjamin was shouting for me so I decided not to accost her. We collected our horses, took leave of Santerre and galloped down the frozen, cobbled track as if Mandeville intended to waste no time in reaching Glastonbury before nightfall. We rode a good way along the track before Mandeville slowed, leaned over and talked quietly to Southgate. Eventually they reined in.

Southgate declared, 'Yes, this is the spot,' and I realised we were going witch-hunting. We dismounted. One soldier was ordered to guard the horses whilst another, a lean whippet of a man with leathery skin and sea-blue eyes, was beckoned over by Mandeville. Sir Edmund grasped the soldier by the shoulder and introduced him.

'Bowyer calls this man Pointer because he is a skilled hunter. If anyone can find his way through the tracks and forest paths to where that hag lives, Pointer will!' The man grinned wolfishly, showing jagged teeth. He was well named. I have seen better looking hunting dogs. Mandeville fished in his purse and brought out a silver coin, rolling it in his fingers. Pointer watched it greedily. 'Find this old bitch's hut and two of these are yours.'

Pointer needed no further encouragement and I was too intrigued to object to floundering through the frozen bracken. Pointer set off through the trees with a loping stride. God knows how he did, they were clumped together and the undergrowth beneath made more treacherous by a carpet of snow. On no occasion did Pointer seem bemused or in doubt but led us on, disregarding the ankle-deep snow and the sudden flurries and falls from over-hanging branches.

(On reflection, men like Pointer are not so rare. Once, in the wild dark woods of Muscovy, I was hunted by men and dogs in one of the most terrifying escapades of my life. I had been invited to a banquet by some mad Russian prince. What I didn't know was that I was the entertainment afterwards! Before the hunt began, the mad bastard told me that if the yellow-haired mastiffs did not tear me to pieces, I'd be pulled apart by horses. You can be assured I needed no further encouragement to run on that occasion, but that's another tale.)

Now I dislike the countryside at the height of summer, but that forest was bewitched. I protested loudly against the darkness, nature's traps and, above all, kept thinking of those assailants who'd attacked me yesterday. 'A natural place for an ambush,' I cried. Mandeville grinned and wiped the sweat from his face.

That's why I told no one back at the manor of our visit. I want to give this old bitch the surprise of her life.'

At last the trees gave way to a clearing. At the far end was a small rocky hillock as if huge boulders had been jammed together by the hand of some mythical giant. At the base of this cliff was a large cavern. Mandeville drew his sword and we followed suit, though God knows what we expected to find. We strode cautiously across as if the old hag might appear at the mouth of the cave, uttering curses and dire prophecies, yet everything remained silent.

Benjamin stopped and pointed to the entrance. There had been a light snowfall the previous night but it looked as if someone else had been here, visited the witch then gone back to the line of trees, covering their tracks by using a switch of old branches so no imprint could be seen. We entered the cave. The fire which should have flared at the entrance was a pile of wet ash and the oil-topped torches were extinguished. Mandeville lit one of these and we went deeper in.

A strange place – carvings on the wall which, Benjamin explained, must be centuries old. The cave itself was surprisingly warm and we realised we were walking through a gallery which led us into a lofty underground cavern. It was furnished like any room. The rushes on the floor were clean and sprinkled with herbs. A cooking pot hung on a tripod though the logs beneath were now blackened cinders. I glimpsed a chest and coffer, table and stool. In the far corner was a bed and, beside this, slumped like a disused doll, lay the witch. Benjamin hastened over and grasped the woman's shoulder.

She turned, arms flailing, head back, eyes open – but the gaping mouth would utter no more prophecies, her breath cut off by the red garrotte cord round her scrawny neck.

Mandeville just cursed and lashed out, sending a stool flying. Southgate crouched by my master and felt the nape of the old woman's neck, trying to ignore those staring, popping eyes.

'She's been dead for hours,' he commented. 'Her skin's cold as a dead snake's.'

He got up and wiped his hands. 'Sir Edmund, the old witch apparently played her part and now she, too, has been removed.' 'I agree,' Benjamin replied. 'But who killed her?' Mandeville snapped.

'I suspect the same people or person responsible for the murders of Cosmas and Damien, not to mention your agents in London.'

Benjamin pointed at the grotesque corpse. 'She was only a paid player, a silly old woman. The murderer knew we would make her talk. She may have been killed any time in the last two days.'

'You mean someone from Templecombe?' Southgate asked.

'Possibly,' Benjamin replied. 'One of the family, or a servant, or perhaps by the Templars themselves.' My master shrugged. 'We are strangers and how long did it take us -ten to fifteen minutes – to come here? Yet there must be secret routes and trackways into the forest. The murderer probably came by these, killed the old woman and went back, making sure he removed all trace of his movements.'

We could do nothing further. Mandeville said he would report the woman's death when we returned to Templecombe and so we continued our cold journey through the bleak Somerset countryside. We arrived at Glastonbury just after dark. The trackways were nigh impassable, the weather so icy we could hardly talk, and Mandeville shouted with relief when the walls of Glastonbury came into sight.

A lay brother let us in through a postern gate where others took care of our horses and baggage. Once again Abbot Bere came to greet us in the guest house, accompanied by a monk who had been absent at our earlier meeting. A vigorous young man, ruddy-faced and bright-eyed, he was scholarly and courteous. I liked him, whilst he and Benjamin struck up an immediate rapport.

This is Brother Eadred, our archivist and librarian,' Abbot Bere declared. 'He will assist you in your enquiries. He knows our manuscript room like the palm of his own hand and is a pertius, an expert in Arthurian life.'

'Did you know Hopkins?' Southgate brusquely enquired, taking off his coat and shaking the damp from it.

'Yes,' replied Eadred. 'Brother Hopkins was a man not at peace with himself or his order. He was not a historian but a collector of legends. He found our monastic rule hard to bear so spent every second he could in the library.'