Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

Then, Sir Edmund,' Eadred replied coolly, 'discover such evidence.' Mandeville shoved back his chair and walked to the door.

'I shall inspect this abbey myself!' he shouted over his shoulder. 'Southgate, when you have finished with that manuscript, look around carefully.' He left, slamming the door behind him. Eadred seemed unmoved by Mandeville's threats.

'Perhaps we should go,' he whispered, glancing sidelong at Southgate who sat poring over the book. 'Sir Edmund does not believe me, yet he'll find nothing in this abbey or elsewhere.' We left the library, went round the north part of the church and into the abbey church through the Lady Chapel, now covered in sheets and dust.

'Abbot Bere,' Eadred explained, 'is now digging a crypt. This will run under the Lady Chapel and Galilee porch.'

He pulled the sheets aside and led us down some steps. The crypt was a high vaulted room, the roof being supported by thin ribs of stone which spread out from the centre, giving the impression of a bursting star. The crypt was not yet finished and, strangely enough, was the only place in that entire abbey where Eadred seemed rather nervous and unwilling to linger. We then returned to the Galilee porch, past another small chapel and into the great white-stoned nave. We examined the north and south transepts, went under the ornate rood screen and into the sanctuary beneath which lay Arthur's tomb.

'Is there any way,' Benjamin asked, 'that the tomb can be reached?'

Eadred shook his head. 'Of course not. The coffin is sealed in a great vault below. Only the Holy Father can give permission for such a tomb to be opened.' Eadred spread his hands. 'And why should it be opened? The Grail and Excalibur were seen centuries after Arthur's death and the monks who reinterred his body here would scarcely bury such sacred relics.'

We agreed and continued our tour out of the church, following the snow-covered, pebbled paths past the Chapter House, dormitory, rear dorter, monks' kitchen, into the abbot's garden; the latter was enclosed by a high brick wall and carpeted by snow but in the summer must have been beautiful. My eyes, however, were continuously drawn to the great Tor which loomed high above the abbey and the small church of St Michael on its summit. 'Could that contain anything?' I asked.

Eadred smiled and shook his head. 'Everyone who comes here thinks that, yet compared to the abbey, the church is quite new. You are welcome to go there but your climb would be fruitless. I strongly recommend that we leave such arduous duties to your two companions, who will undoubtedly have asked themselves the same question.'

We returned to the guest house, Eadred ordering mulled wine from the kitchen to warm us. He and Benjamin soon became immersed in a discussion on alchemy and the philosopher's stone: the librarian also offered to take my master to see Narepool at the bottom of which, according to legend, Arthur's Sword still lay. I became bored and wandered back to the library.

Thankfully, Southgate had gone. Some of the brothers were busy in the scriptorium but I was greeted courteously and no one objected when I began to leaf through the manuscript Southgate had left upon the table.

Brother Eadred was correct. The manuscript contained a collection of writings describing the legends of Glastonbury, Avalon, Arthur, the forging of Excalibur, and even the fanciful story of how, when Christ was a boy, Joseph of Arimathea brought him to Glastonbury to buy tin and precious oils from the natives. The book also contained writings on topographical and biblical matters of a general nature; one entry caught my eye. I remembered what Agrippa had told me and a faint suspicion stirred.

I closed the book hastily and sat thinking, trying to apply my discovery to the murderous maze I found myself lost in. I resolved to keep silent on it.

(Oh, excuse me a minute, my little chaplain is jumping up and down, splattering the parchment with ink. Tell me!

Tell me!' he whines. 'There are no clues, no indication, no resolution to the mystery.' I pick up my black ash cane and rap him smartly across the knuckles. Hasn't he read the Book of Ecclesiastes? 'There's a time and place under heaven for everything.' So let me tell my tale. The little turd would never dream of standing up during one of Will Shakespeare's plays and shouting, 'Tell us what happens! Tell us what happens!' He would be pelted with fruit. In fact, that's not a bad idea… If he's not careful, he'll get my empty wine goblet on the back of his little noddle. Ah well, good, that settled matters.)

Suffice to say we spent two fruitless days at Glastonbury and left as we came with only two scraps of information: first, Hopkins had been a monk at the abbey, and secondly had discovered his famous riddle there. Brother Eadred rode with us for a while, two or three miles from the abbey gates. At the crossroads he bade us adieu and warmly clasped Benjamin's hand. My master then turned to us.

'Please ride on,' he asked, 'all of you. I wish to raise a personal matter with Brother Eadred.' I was a little hurt, Mandeville outraged. 'What is it?' he spluttered.

'Sir Edmund,' Benjamin quietly insisted, 'it is a matter of conscience, a confessional matter!'

Well, who could object? Sir Edmund made a sign and the soldiers, myself included, followed him further down the track. I looked round and saw my master in earnest conversation with the monk. Whatever he was saying clearly discomfited the librarian. Even from where I stood, I glimpsed Eadred's agitation. After a while Benjamin caught up with us. 'What was it, Master?' 'Not now, Roger,' he whispered. We continued on our journey to Templecombe. No snow had fallen during our stay at Glastonbury but the sky was growing overcast and threatening. Once we were past the village on the road up to the major, Sir Edmund, recalling my story about the ambush, ordered the soldiers to fan out before us. We made our way slowly. A biting wind tore at our cheeks, turning our fingers to blocks of ice, whilst our horses scrabbled to maintain a secure foothold. Suddenly, just as we rounded the bend and were able to glimpse the gables and turrets of Templecombe above the trees, one of the soldiers came riding back so fast his horse, slithering and clattering on the path, almost crashed into Mandeville's mount. 'What is it, man?' Southgate snarled.

The soldier's face was like a ghost's. The fellow opened his mouth soundlessly and pointed back down the track. Mandeville pushed his horse forward and we rounded the corner. At first, in the fading light, we could see nothing but the icy path, the snow-covered trees on either side -but then the flicker of a candle flame caught our eyes. It seemed to be standing in the snow, a little metal cap protecting it against the biting breeze, but as we approached closer, my stomach turned. Our horses became skittish. Mandeville and Southgate loudly cursed for the dirty white candle was held in the snow by a greyish-green, severed hand. 'Witchcraft!' Mandeville breathed. 'I'm not passing that!' one of the soldiers exclaimed. 'Remove it!' Mandeville ordered Southgate. 'In this matter, Sir Edmund, I would prefer not to act.' 'Come on, Roger,' Benjamin ordered.

We both dismounted and went to examine the obscenity. The hand was decomposing, the bloody stump of its wrist had turned into a black, congealed mess. The nails were discoloured, the fingers beginning to flake. The breeze shifted and we caught the stench of putrefaction. 'What is it?' Benjamin asked. (Oh, I knew what it was! Even though I was still an innocent youth, Old Shallot had met the most fierce and sinister of warlocks, magicians and witches: men who used dark powers to unhinge the mind of their opponents. You take Shallot's advice on this: the power of witchcraft lies in what you can make other people think. I recently recounted such a theory when I met Will Shakespeare and Richard Burbage at the Globe. Old Will, God bless his kind eyes, was really taken with the idea: in a play he is now busily writing, he has a scene where witches, on a blasted heath in Scotland, put insidious ideas into the mind of a murderous nobleman called Macbeth.)