The Grail Murders

admiring the brilliant carvings on the misericord of each stall. The first three enthralled me: a man, miserably clutching a winding frame, being birched on the buttocks by his wife; a tapster drinking; and two peasants disembowelling a slaughtered pig. Each carving was a breath-taking picture in itself. Benjamin came over to join me.
    'The Templars,' he declared, 'would come into the stalls and raise the seats. The carvings were placed on the reverse, not only for ornamentation's sake but to make the seats heavier.' He grinned and pointed to the woman birching her husband. 'The local craftsmen always enjoyed themselves, depicting scenes far from sacred.'
    Mandeville, however, had finished his search which proved just as fruitless as the previous day's and told us to leave. We all moved out of the church down to the lake which glistened brightly, though the island itself was still mist-shrouded. A number of barges were hidden in the trees along the lakeside and Mandeville and Santerre ordered these to be brought together. They were cleaned of frozen mud, made ready, and we all clambered aboard, Bowyer's soldiers poling us across.
    God be my witness, that island was the most mysterious I had ever visited. It was damp, cold, eerie and uncanny. The trees were too close together and the snow-covered gorse seemed to have a life of its own, blocking our passage with its thick stems. We struggled through, soaking ourselves to the skin.
    'Have you noticed anything?' Benjamin breathlessly whispered. He stopped and looked up at the tangle of gaunt branches above him. 'No birds here! No rooks, no crows, nothing at all!'
    I stopped and listened, straining my ears for any sound above the crashing of the soldiers or the muttered curses as men slipped on the icy ground underfoot. This raucous noise only seemed to emphasize the ominous silence of the island and reminded me of a story I had heard from a traveller who claimed to have sailed the Western Ocean and come across islands inhabited by ghosts of dead sailors. I shivered and muttered a curse. Mandeville and the others had now drawn their swords and were cutting their way through. The Agentes, in particular, seemed to be affected by the oppressive mood of the island and were taking out their fears in the hacking blows of their swords.
    At last we reached a clearing and the desolate building we had glimpsed from the shore. It was of yellowing sandstone with a dark, red-tiled roof, no windows but thin, trefoil arrow slits in the walls. The iron-studded door was padlocked. Santerre apologised, he had no key, so Southgate hacked the padlock off and kicked the door open. We walked in and torches were lit. Believe me, the sombre atmosphere of that place seemed a living thing which clutched the heart and dulled the spirit. Nothing in particular, just a yawning emptiness, a cold chilling air which had little to do with the ice and snow outside. 'A home of death,' I muttered. 'Or a very sacred place,' Benjamin replied.
    Mandeville ordered the soldiers to stand round the walls, taking their torches which spluttered bravely against the darkness. I had the almost childish impression that if we kept within the pools of light everything would be fine but, beyond the flames, shadows lurked and powers even darker waited to catch you by the throat. The floor was hard paving stone, the walls lime-washed, the room devoid of even a stick of furniture.
    The soldiers grew uneasy and grumbled amongst themselves so Mandeville shouted at them to begin the search. Those men were professional foragers and, if there was a loose paving stone or secret passageway, they would have found it, but there was nothing. Benjamin, however, just squatted, moving like a spider from one paving stone to another. He stopped, exclaiming in surprise, so we gathered round as he scraped the floor with his finger.
    'Candle grease,' he observed. 'Someone has been here and fairly recently.'
    Other drops were found but nothing else so Mandeville ordered us to resume our search. I kept a wary eye on Santerre for this bluff manor lord, usually afraid of nothing, stayed near the door like a child frightened of a dark, strange room. 'Is anything wrong?' I asked. Santerre shook his head but his face was pallid and I saw the beads of sweat on his cheeks. 'What is it?' I muttered. The soldiers pushed by us, eager to get out. Santerre just shook his head. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Are you sure?' Benjamin asked, coming up beside