The Grail Murders

him.
    Again Santerre nodded. Benjamin looked up at the whitewashed wall above the door. He waited until the rest had left. 'Sir John, I think something is very wrong and Mandeville, in his haste, has overlooked it.' Santerre just stared at him.
    'It's the walls,' Benjamin continued. 'They have been recently white-washed. Now why was that done, eh?'
    'I don't know,' Santerre mumbled and trudged off to join the others.
    We crossed back to the other bank, Mandeville striding away from the barge, shouting orders at Southgate. A cart pulled out from the courtyard, driven by a soldier taking the two coffins down to the village church where the priest would sing a requiem and those two pathetic brothers be buried and, in time, forgotten. Mandeville made ready to follow. The pompous Bowyer was ordered to stay at the manor but Sir Edmund waved us over.
    'You will come with us to Glastonbury, though first we have one further task to accomplish.'
    He refused to say any more so we collected riding boots, hats and cloaks from our chambers. A white-faced Mathilda sped by me in the gallery but Benjamin was shouting for me so I decided not to accost her. We collected our horses, took leave of Santerre and galloped down the frozen, cobbled track as if Mandeville intended to waste no time in reaching Glastonbury before nightfall. We rode a good way along the track before Mandeville slowed, leaned over and talked quietly to Southgate. Eventually they reined in.
    Southgate declared, 'Yes, this is the spot,' and I realised we were going witch-hunting. We dismounted. One soldier was ordered to guard the horses whilst another, a lean whippet of a man with leathery skin and sea-blue eyes, was beckoned over by Mandeville. Sir Edmund grasped the soldier by the shoulder and introduced him.
    'Bowyer calls this man Pointer because he is a skilled hunter. If anyone can find his way through the tracks and forest paths to where that hag lives, Pointer will!' The man grinned wolfishly, showing jagged teeth. He was well named. I have seen better looking hunting dogs. Mandeville fished in his purse and brought out a silver coin, rolling it in his fingers. Pointer watched it greedily. 'Find this old bitch's hut and two of these are yours.'
    Pointer needed no further encouragement and I was too intrigued to object to floundering through the frozen bracken. Pointer set off through the trees with a loping stride. God knows how he did, they were clumped together and the undergrowth beneath made more treacherous by a carpet of snow. On no occasion did Pointer seem bemused or in doubt but led us on, disregarding the ankle-deep snow and the sudden flurries and falls from over-hanging branches.
    (On reflection, men like Pointer are not so rare. Once, in the wild dark woods of Muscovy, I was hunted by men and dogs in one of the most terrifying escapades of my life. I had been invited to a banquet by some mad Russian prince. What I didn't know was that I was the entertainment afterwards! Before the hunt began, the mad bastard told me that if the yellow-haired mastiffs did not tear me to pieces, I'd be pulled apart by horses. You can be assured I needed no further encouragement to run on that occasion, but that's another tale.)
    Now I dislike the countryside at the height of summer, but that forest was bewitched. I protested loudly against the darkness, nature's traps and, above all, kept thinking of those assailants who'd attacked me yesterday. 'A natural place for an ambush,' I cried. Mandeville grinned and wiped the sweat from his face.
    That's why I told no one back at the manor of our visit. I want to give this old bitch the surprise of her life.'
    At last the trees gave way to a clearing. At the far end was a small rocky hillock as if huge boulders had been jammed together by the hand of some mythical giant. At the base of this cliff was a large cavern. Mandeville drew his sword and we followed suit, though God knows what we expected to find. We strode cautiously across as if the old hag might appear at the mouth of the cave, uttering curses and dire prophecies, yet everything remained silent.
    Benjamin stopped and pointed to the entrance. There had been a light snowfall the previous night but it looked as if someone else had been here, visited the witch then gone back to the line of trees, covering their tracks by using a switch of old branches so no imprint could be seen. We entered the cave. The fire which should have flared at the entrance was a pile of