Paul Doherty: Satan's Fire

‘But we were all gone from York by then,’ de Molay intervened. ‘No Templar was in York when you were attacked.’ The grand master spread his hands. ‘True, one of us could have sent that warning to you but. .’

‘You never sent the warning,’ Corbett declared. ‘Nor was the mysterious archer a Templar. Was he, Monsieur de Craon?’

The Frenchman’s eyes never flickered.

‘Only you,’ Corbett continued, jabbing his finger at de Craon, ‘knew when I left for the archbishop’s palace. You had me followed. You or one of your creatures also arranged that attack and, in doing so, deepened the mystery.’

‘And Reverchien?’ Legrave said hoarsely, not moving his head. ‘None of us was at the manor when Reverchien died.’

‘No, no,’ Corbett replied softly. ‘But you were there the day before he died: that was when the assassin entered the maze, carrying the Greek fire. He went to the centre. On the stone plinth, before the cross, are three candles on their metal stand. The assassin sprinkled the Greek fire over the candles, coating them, the stone plinth and the steps where Reverchien always knelt.’

‘Of course,’ Branquier breathed. ‘And the old Crusader lit those candles, saying his prayers, his mind on God.’

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied.

He turned and gestured at Ranulf in the corner. The manservant came over, carrying a small bowl. Corbett placed it on the table. He smiled apologetically at de Molay.

‘I borrowed it from the scullery.’

He rose and brought back one of the many candles which burnt in their holders along the windowsill.

‘In the bowl,’ Corbett explained, ‘is a very small portion of the powder which causes Greek fire.’ He glanced up as the Templars pushed back their chairs. ‘No, there’s no danger.’ Corbett took a long piece of dried vellum from his pouch, placed it in the bowl and lit one end. The flame licked it greedily, running down into the bowl. Even Ranulf jumped in alarm at the small, angry flame which shot up into the air. ‘Reverchien did that,’ Corbett said, pulling the bowl towards him and peering warily at the black scorch-mark inside.

‘Reverchien lit those three candles, saying his prayers, unaware in the poor light before dawn of the death-bearing powder around him. The candles are lit. The substance is caught. The flames run down the candle stem, catching the powder on the step. It turned Reverchien into a living blaze. How subtle a way to kill your victim when you are far from the place of his death. And the flame burns fiercely,’ Corbett explained, pushing the metal bowl along the table. ‘Not only is it difficult to douse with water but the fire roars, leaving no trace of what caused it or how it began.’

Corbett retook his seat. ‘The other deaths were similar. Peterkin the kitchen boy puts on an apron and oven cloths, not knowing they have been coated with that same powder. As he rakes the burning ash, Peterkin has a faint suspicion of what was happening before he died. Remember, his companions in the kitchen were discussing Reverchien’s death and the other strange happenings. Peterkin made a joke about the air being tinged with sulphur. It was, on the very cloths he was wearing. The rest you know,’ Corbett continued, staring at the murderer. ‘A piece of hot ash or burning charcoal caught the cloths around his hand. The man tried to beat them out against his apron. Of course, the fire spread and Peterkin dies.’

‘But why?’ Symmes asked. ‘Why a poor cook?’

‘Because the assassin wanted to create terror. Spread the rumour, deepen the darkness, how the Templars were cursed, not only harbouring a possible regicide and killing each other, but allowing the flames of hell to burn freely and fiercely even amongst the innocents in their midst.’ Corbett played with the Chancery ring on his finger. ‘On a more practical level, Peterkin’s death led to the flight of all the servants from Framlingham. Servants are curious, they look for the unexpected. Peterkin’s death ended that and so protected the assassin.’

‘And who, sir, is that?’ Legrave snarled.

‘Why sir, you sir,’ Corbett remarked quietly.

De Molay took some time to calm the subsequent uproar. Legrave rose and lunged at Corbett but Symmes, sitting between them, pushed back his chair. De Craon sprang to his feet, snapping his fingers at his black-garbed clerk as if they were on the point of departure. Corbett knew his old enemy and recognised the mummery for what it was: de Craon would only leave when it was to his advantage. Corbett was pleased the other Templars did not spring to Legrave’s defence. There were shouts of disapproval, looks of concern, but the grand master’s stem face and Branquier’s troubled gaze reassured Corbett.

They know something, he thought; what I have said has touched secrets they harbour.

At last Legrave, red with fury, was forced back in his chair.

‘You have no proof!’ he spluttered.

‘I will come to that in due course,’ Corbett replied, ‘when I have described the other deaths. Poor Brother Odo. You caught him as he went out to fish, didn’t you? Waiting for him amongst the trees near the entrance to the jetty. I saw no blood there so you must have struck him a blow on the head, probably cracking his skull. Then you lowered him into the boat, fastening him upright in the seat, whilst in the stem and prow you sprinkled the Greek fire. The oars were tied to the old man’s hands and fastened to their ratchet rings; the fishing line was slipped between the dead man’s fingers and The Ghost of the Tower pushed out into the centre of the lake. A common sight here at Framlingham: old Odo dressed in his usual cloak and cowl, bending over a fishing rod, his boat bobbing on the lake. You hid amongst the trees, shot a fire arrow into the boat, and so the terror spreads. If a man like Odo, a hero of his Order, is devoured by the flames of hell, who can be safe? What is wrong at Framlingham? What is wrong with the Templars? And so the pool of poison spreads.’

‘Why Odo?’ de Molay asked. ‘Why a gentle old man?’

‘Because he was a scholar,’ Corbett replied.

‘And Baddlesmere?’

‘Because he was a source of scandal,’ Corbett continued. ‘Legrave knew about Baddlesmere’s little secrets, his passion for young men and the chilled white wine standing in his chamber. A sleeping potion was sprinkled into the jug; the fire powder spread on the floor beneath the rushes as well as along the leather sheet which hung against the door to keep out the draughts. Only Baddlesmere is not present: there’s been a lovers’ quarrel. Scoudas and Joscelyn drink the wine. Night falls whilst Baddlesmere sulks amongst the trees.’ Corbett looked at Legrave’s ashen face. ‘And back you go, possibly carrying a small bowl containing a piece of burning charcoal. You slip that under the door. The rushes are dry, the powder is caught, the fire rages whilst those two drugged young men slip into death.’

‘Grand Master.’ Legrave pushed himself away from the table but, as he did so, Symmes placed his pet weasel on the floor; the creature scampered off into the darkness as its master caught Legrave’s arm.

‘I think you’d best stay, Brother,’ Symmes remarked quietly. ‘What Corbett says makes sense.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett continued. ‘There was a connection between Baddlesmere and Brother Odo’s death. The librarian was becoming curious. He was beginning to remember stories about the mysterious fire from the east. Legrave, however, was watching him. Perhaps Odo talked to him, told him what he was doing: that’s why you came back into the library when I was there. If that door had not opened,’ Corbett snapped, ‘you’d have killed me as well!’