Paul Doherty: The Grail Murders

He trotted breathlessly beside me as I strode like a madman through the snow, back to that accursed manor. 'Roger, what are you going to do?' 'I am going to slit that bitch's throat for a start!' 'Roger, don't!'

'All right, I'll cut her head off! Master, I don't mind being shot at, hunted, trapped, attacked – but to die on a frozen lake at the dead of night!'

'Roger.' Benjamin grabbed me by my doublet. 'Listen! Mathilda will be well away now. Do you think she's going to wait for you to come back? There was always the possibility you might escape. No, listen, I know who the murderer is. I know where the Grail and Arthur's Sword could be.' I stopped. 'Why didn't you tell me this before?'

‘I had to wait. I suspected the murderer would strike at us, and what happened on that lake proved it. Now, Roger, I beg you, let us go back to our chamber, warm ourselves, snatch a few hours of sleep and tomorrow, as we break fast in the hall, I shall confront the murderer.'

Of course my master had his way. Anyway, by the time we reached our chambers my anger had been replaced by sheer terror at the danger we had just escaped. All the old signs appeared: I wanted to be sick, my knees kept quivering, and it took three deep-bowled cups of claret before I could even remember what day of the week it was. Naturally, I taxed my master on what he had learnt. He merely sat on the only chair in my room, shook his head and told me to sleep, and that it would be best if we shared the same chamber that night.

The next morning we woke none the worse for our terrible experience. Benjamin insisted that we shave, wash and change our linen and doublets before going down to the hall. On our way I looked for Mathilda but Benjamin was right, there was no sign of the little minx.

The Santerres were already at high table, Mandeville also. My master waited until a kitchen boy served us, then suddenly rose, locking the great doors of the hall as well as those to the kitchen and buttery. Mandeville broke free of his reverie. Sir John Santerre stared, a ghost of his former self. Lady Beatrice watched fearfully whilst Rachel sat like an innocent child waiting for a play to begin. 'Daunbey, what's all this?' Mandeville grated.

Now Benjamin had unmasked many a killer and brought numerous murderers to boot. Sometimes he played games, drawing the assassins into verbal battles in which they would confess. But this time it was different. He walked once, twice round the table on the dais, pausing for a few seconds behind each chair. Then he went round again and stopped between John Santerre and Rachel, putting his hand gently on the man's shoulder. 'Sir John, are you the killer?'

Santerre shot back in his chair. If a man's face could age in a few seconds, his did. 'What do you mean?' he stuttered.

'On our first day here you claimed you left Templecombe to ride your estates. You did not. Instead you went to Glastonbury.' 'There's no crime in that.' 'And, just before we left London, why did the beggar give you that note?' 'I…'

'If you lie,' Benjamin snapped, 'these matters will be laid before the King's Council in London.'

Sir John stretched over and, despite the hour, filled his wine goblet completely to the brim. He gobbled its contents like a thirsty man would the purest water. Mandeville was now alert as a hunting dog. 'Answer the questions, Santerre!'

Sir John put the wine cup down. 'When I was in London I paid people to ascertain if the Templar church near Fleet Street contained anything resembling the River Jordan or the Ark of Moses.' 'And did it?' 'No.' 'And Glastonbury Abbey?'

Sir John licked his lips. 'Both Abbot Bere and I wanted an end to all this nonsense.' He glanced at Mandeville. 'No offence, Sir Edmund, but no lord in the kingdom wants you or your sort prying round his estates. I used my wealth to fund the building of a crypt at Glastonbury. I thought that something might be found.' 'And has it been?' I asked. 'Nothing whatsoever.'

Benjamin stepped beside Lady Beatrice, who sat rigid in her chair. 'Lady Beatrice, what do you know of these matters?' The woman's mouth opened and closed. She shook her head. 'Oh, yes, you know something. Your first husband's name was Mortimer?' Lady Beatrice nodded. 'He came of a crusading line which has held the manor of Templecombe since time immemorial?' Again the nod.

'And the Mortimer family motto is "Age Circumspecte" is it not?' Benjamin glanced at me. 'Shallot discovered that in the Book of Legends at Glastonbury Abbey.' 'Yes,' she whispered. 'What's that got to do with us?' Mandeville interrupted. 'Was your husband a member of the Templars?' Lady Beatrice's eyes, glassy with fright, stared down the hall.

'I think he was,' Benjamin continued, whispering in her ear. 'When the Templars were dissolved some two hundred years ago, some escaped, assumed other identities, married and settled down. Your husband's ancestor was one of these. Nevertheless, the Templars continued meeting in secret, each coven acting like a small community, the mysteries of the Order being passed from one generation to another.' He moved slightly and rested a hand lightly on Rachel's shoulder. 'You were given these mysteries, weren't you, Rachel?'

Do you know, the girl just smiled and played with the ring on her finger.

'You are a Templar, aren't you?' Benjamin whispered. 'Your father passed the secrets on to you. In time you would have married and passed the mystery on to your first born. For generations,' Benjamin's voice rose, 'the lords of Templecombe have been members of the secret Templar organisation.' He paused. 'Oh no, not you, Sir John, nor Lady Beatrice, but I think you both had your suspicions.'

'Impossible!' Mandeville shouted. 'She is a mere chit of a girl.'

'She's eighteen summers old,' Benjamin retorted. 'And if you remain quiet, Sir Edmund, I will tell you what happened.'

He went round the table, stepped off the dais and stood looking at all of us. Santerre and his wife were like waxen effigies but Rachel, her face slightly flushed, leaned forward as if without a care in the world.

The Lords of Templecombe,' Benjamin began, 'were always Templars. They kept the Order's secrets and in dark covens met their helpers, probably in the sombre house on that Godforsaken island. Now in the main these Templars lay sleeping like seeds planted in the soil, though sometimes they would burgeon, quickening into life, particularly in any uprising or rebellion against our Tudor masters. Nevertheless, they were content to sit, watch and wait. Hopkins was one of these, though deranged in his wits.'

Benjamin paused to collect his thoughts. "The Templars always coveted the great relics, the Grail and Arthur's Sword, Excalibur, but these remained hidden. They were content with that, provided no one else discovered them.' Benjamin stared at Mandeville. 'Hopkins began the drama. He had a passion for the relics and believed their discovery would strengthen the Order. My Lord of Buckingham, also a Templar, was drawn into the mystery. He received a message from Hopkins and came to Templecombe but then blundered into the trap My Lord Cardinal had laid for him. Hopkins and Buckingham were killed.' Benjamin glanced at Rachel. 'But I suspect the Templars have a code. No one strikes at their interests and walks away unharmed. Moreover, there was a greater danger: His Grace the King was now interested in these relics and was insisting on a thorough search for them. So the Templars struck.' Mandeville tapped the top of the table with his knuckles. 'You say Buckingham was a Templar?'

Benjamin smiled thinly. 'Oh, come, Sir Edmund, he could have been a Cardinal of Rome and his fate would have been the same. Don't play games. Buckingham was baited, trapped and killed because my uncle hated him and because he had royal blood in his veins.' Benjamin glared at him. 'Hopkins was a traitor, perhaps deserved his death, but Buckingham was innocent. His death was murder made legal.' 'I will tell My Lord Cardinal your words!'