The Grail Murders

of your sarcasm, Roger. We know only what we have been told or made to see. How do we know Buckingham committed treason? How do we know he wrote those letters to Taplow?'
    'Because the mad bugger confessed!' I interrupted. 'We met Taplow in prison and saw the poor bastard die!'
    Benjamin pulled a face. 'No, the man we met in prison was not Taplow but someone else.' He smiled at my snort of disdain. 'Don't you remember, Roger? Think of that prisoner, with his fat arms and legs. Oh, he was covered in dirt and spoke like an actor reciting his lines but he made one mistake. Taplow was supposed to be a Lutheran but the prisoner said he believed in Purgatory. No Lutheran would have said that.
    'Now, when we went to Smithfield I caught a glimpse of the dying Taplow. Oh, he had the same colour hair as the man we met in prison but he was much more emaciated.'
    I closed my eyes and thought back. Taplow, in his prison cell: the fat on his arms and legs, the chubby, well-fed face beneath the dirt, the reference to his soul going to Purgatory, the fire at Smithfield, the thin, broken body I had glimpsed. My master was right. 'Why?' I asked.
    'Let's remove Buckingham from our investigations,' Benjamin replied. 'He was a great nobleman with Yorkist blood in his veins and Henry wanted his head. The good Duke was foolish enough to make enquiries about certain precious relics and the King's agents closed in. I suspect his letters to Taplow produced during his trial were forgeries, whilst Taplow himself with his tenuous links with Buckingham was used as a catspaw. You know our gracious King. Taplow, the poor sod as you would put it, was tortured, bullied, to say what he did in court but then Mandeville had to make sure he did not tell the truth afterwards. He was removed to some far cell and a minion brought in to act his part. Mandeville thought we would be satisfied with that. He never dreamt that we would go to witness the execution or, even if we did, would get close enough to realise the man being burnt at the stake was not the same person we'd questioned at Newgate. I would have suspected nothing if the counterfeit Taplow had not made reference to Purgatory. So…'
    'So,' I finished for him, 'we can ignore everything the little bastard in Newgate told us!'
    'Yes, a pack of lies.' Benjamin drew in his breath. 'But if one part of the pie is rotten,' he concluded, 'how do you know the rest is true? What if there is no Grail or Excalibur or secret Templars? And why were those agents murdered?'
    'Mandeville might have killed them,' I suggested. 'Perhaps they objected to the destruction of Buckingham and the web of deceit to which they'd been party?'
    'Possible,' Benjamin murmured. 'Possible.' He rose and absentmindedly patted me on the shoulder. 'But come, Roger, we have to wash and change. Our hosts await us.'
    My master wandered out and I unpacked my belongings, washed, changed and went down to the sumptuous banquet Santerre's cooks had prepared for us.
    The high table was covered in pure silk cloths, bathed in light by countless wax candles which winked and dazzled on the silver trenchers, flagons, glass goblets and knives with precious pewter handles. The meal was delicious: beef and venison pastries and different wines, blood-red claret as well as light, sweet Rhenish.
    Conversation was desultory for we were all exhausted though Mandeville declared that tomorrow he would spread his net. Certain questions had to be answered by Sir John and then we would return to Glastonbury Abbey. I ignored the sinister bastard and drank fast and deep with eyes only for Rachel. Dressed in a sea-blue gown with matching headdress, each studded with small mother-of-pearls, she looked so beautiful!
    (I see my little chaplain snigger because he knows I have talked about her before. All right, the little sod's reminding me of the truth, so I'll tell it.)
    Yes, I was jealous, that's why I drank deep. I could not but notice how tenderly Rachel looked at Benjamin and jealousy, a flame so quickly started, is the most difficult fire to extinguish. After a while I became so deep in my cups I grew surly, said I felt unwell and trotted off to bed where I could nurse my hurt as well as conceal my bad manners. I lay on my four-poster ready to bemoan what had happened but the next minute I rolled over and sank into the deepest sleep. God knows when the banquet ended. I remember half-waking and seeing my master bend over me. 'Are you well, Roger? Is it something