The Grail Murders

of us, filled them and went back to stand at the door. I caught his warning glance but he didn't have to tell Old Shallot anything. I may have the courage of a wild duck but I have more wits than a dog has fleas. Fat Henry had also been studying me.
    'A rare honour for you, Master Shallot. We do not welcome traitors close to our bosoms – men who kill in our presence.' 'Your Majesty, I was provoked!' I blurted out.
    Henry smirked as Wolsey leaned over and whispered in his ear. The King flicked his fingers contemptuously at me. Wolsey smiled unctuously, like some pompous priest talking to his dimmest parishioner.
    'Master Shallot,' the Cardinal purred, 'so pleasant to see you again.'
    I became more nervous and stared quickly round the room: the windows were all shuttered and none of the cresset torches had been lit. A dark shape lurked in the shadows and I knew Agrippa was standing listening to everything. Wolsey nodded at the King, clasped his hands and leaned forward. Oh Lord, I thought, here comes danger. 'Dear Nephew, you saw Buckingham die?'
    The King sniffed and dabbed at his eyes with one laced cuff.
    'A bosom friend,' he interrupted, 'a man close to my heart. How could he betray his friend and King?'
    I just stared at the fat hypocrite as Wolsey patted him gently on the wrist. One of the finest actors I have ever met, old Henry. He could turn the tears on as easily as the tap on a beer keg. He always delivered a fine performance, almost believable – unless you knew how black his heart was.
    'Buckingham was a traitor,' Wolsey declared sonorously, 'and deserved his death. Dearest Nephew, Hopkins was questioned in the Tower and you have the famous riddle. How does it go? Ah yes: "Beneath Jordan's water Christ's cup does rest, And above Moses' Ark the sword that's best." 'Yes,' he murmured. 'Very clever.' 'Agrippa discovered that,' Benjamin answered sharply.
    'Yes, yes, he did,' Wolsey purred. 'But let us review matters. Buckingham's power lay in the South-West along the Welsh march and in the counties of Somerset, Devon and Dorset. He had Yorkist blood in his veins and a history of treason, for his father also went to the block. Now his treason began when he went to Templecombe…' Wolsey glanced sideways at Sir John Santerre. 'Perhaps, sir, you would like to continue?'
    Santerre cleared his throat. 'My Lord of Buckingham,' he began, then coughed. 'I mean, the traitor Buckingham, came to my house on a Friday evening late last autumn. I thought it strange for, although we corresponded on estate matters, he very rarely travelled so far south, even though I knew he had a special regard for Father Hopkins.
    'Now, Hopkins,' Santerre continued, 'was a London-bora priest, a Benedictine monk from Glastonbury who had been dispensed from his monastic vows to serve as chaplain at Templecombe as well as a priest serving the outlying farms and granges belonging to Glastonbury Abbey.' Santerre looked down the table at us. 'Hopkins was a strange man, an antiquarian and historian. He knew all the legends of Somerset and Devon and could recount the tales of Arthur backwards.'
    'Did he ever talk about the Grail or Excalibur?' Benjamin interrupted, ignoring his uncle's frown of annoyance.
    'Sometimes at the table he would do so, but he spent most of his time either in his chamber or on what he called his travels, visiting the farms or ferreting out new secrets.' 'About what?' I asked.
    'About Arthur, and the whereabouts of his Grail. His chamber was for ever full of manuscripts.' 'Where are these now?' Benjamin asked.
    'Destroyed,' Southgate interrupted lazily. 'The mad priest burnt everything before coming up to London.' 'Continue, Sir John,' snapped Wolsey. 'Dearest Uncle, one more question?' Wolsey nodded angrily.
    'Sir John, was Hopkins friendly with you and your family?'
    'No,' Santerre replied heatedly. 'I have explained that. He kept himself to himself. Oh, he performed his priestly functions, Mass and Confession, but you could see his heart was not in it. They were more duties then priestly celebrations.' Sir John glanced quickly at his wife and daughter. 'He didn't seem to like women. I rarely saw him, nor can my wife or daughter ever remember having a conversation with him, which lasted longer than ten minutes.'
    'This is true,' Rachel added softly, and her dark sloe eyes smiled, making me momentarily forget I was sitting in the presence of a great murderer. 'Continue!' Henry rapped the table.
    'I now know,' Santerre