The Grail Murders

surprisingly open, off the latch. I knocked loudly and shouted. Even then I had a premonition of danger, of menace. Old Shallot's signs: a pricking at the back of the neck, a churning of the bowels, light sweat on the forehead and this incredible desire to run. 'Mistress Hopkins!' I bawled. 'Mistress Hopkins!'
    The small passageway was shadowy and fetid and my words rang hollow. 'Mistress Hopkins!' I repeated.
    Above us the old house creaked and groaned. Benjamin pushed me in and slammed the door behind us. We groped around in the darkness, found a fat tallow candle and I lit it with my tinder. Hands shaking, I walked deeper into the house, Benjamin behind me. We passed a small, ill-kept chamber, dusty rickety stairs, then entered a scullery or kitchen. This was a little cleaner. A battered pewter cup stood on the table and, at the other end, in a chair facing an ash-filled fire grate, sat a lady, head forward, shoulders hunched, her veil fallen over her face. The place stank of death.
    I walked over, tipped the head back and bit back my scream. Mistress Hopkins, no beauty in life with her scrawny face and wispy hair, had been brutally killed: her eyes popped out of their sockets, her swollen tongue was clenched between gapped yellow stumps whilst her skin was blue-black, the breath throttled by the scarlet garrotte cord still tied round her neck. Benjamin lifted the old woman's hand.
    'Not too cold,' he murmured. 'She probably died within the hour'. 'Why?' I asked. 'Why an old lady?'
    Benjamin covered the woman's face with a cloth and sat at the table. 'Someone,' he declared, 'knew we were coming. But that was no great secret. After all, I hired a servant at Richmond to discover where Mistress Hopkins lived.' He rubbed his chin. 'I suppose it's useless asking him. He could have let others know where we were going without realising it. No,' he sighed, 'someone knew we were coming. Someone who knows the mind of priests. A monk, especially a recluse like Hopkins, would have few friends and would scarcely confide in his brothers at Glastonbury. So perhaps he discussed matters with his sister?'
    Benjamin tapped the table top. 'The sensible conclusion is that our secret assassin decided to remove the danger just in case.' He waved a hand round the silent, smelly room. 'And I suspect it was someone powerful, perhaps the secret Templar my uncle is hunting. After all, Mistress Hopkins would scarcely open the door to anyone. There is little sign of a struggle so I conclude our murderer arrived as a welcome visitor.' Benjamin pointed at the pewter cup. 'Mistress Hopkins probably served him wine.' He looked under the table and picked up another cup. 'She even joined him. The assassin would assure her all was well, slip behind her chair, then fasten the garrotte string round her neck.'
    'He may have also been searching for some of Hopkins's papers?' I added. 'Perhaps something the mad monk entrusted to his sister?'
    We inspected the rooms on the lower floor. Their contents were pathetic though the assassin had made his presence felt; two battered coffers had been prised open, tawdry jewellery cast aside along with scraps of parchment and a thumb-marked Book of Hours, but none of these proved of any value. We went upstairs and searched amongst her paltry possessions in those dusty, shadowy chambers. 'Nothing,' Benjamin murmured.
    'Perhaps there was nothing to begin with,' I replied. 'Perhaps Mistress Hopkins was murdered simply because of what she might know.'
    We left the house and walked up Budge Row into Cheapside. We forced our way through the bustling market which was packed from one end to the other with stalls, carts, horses and people of every station; the poor in their rags, the rich in their costly silks. A group of powerful noblemen pressed their way through, preceded by men-at-arms three abreast, mounted on great destriers and hoisting gilded spears. The standard bearers followed, banners of bright red and yellow depicting strange devices: black griffins, scarlet dragons and silver stags.
    We continued on past the stink and stench of the Shambles where the lowing of the cattle waiting to be slaughtered jangled our nerves and hurt our ears. At last we reached Newgate, that loathsome pit of hell, the city prison built around the gatehouse of the old city wall. We went through Dick Whittington's archway and banged on the metal-studded door for access.
    A greasy tub of lard with filthy hair and a red, unshaven face