The Grail Murders

hysterical, crouching against the wall, covering her face, whilst Rachel tried to comfort her. Santerre was shocked sober whilst Sir Edmund and Southgate were torn between a mixture of anger and fear.
    'Clean the mess!' Benjamin snapped at Santerre. 'Just roll up the carpet, take it and its grisly contents downstairs and have it burnt. The floor can be scrubbed.' He looked at Sir Edmund. 'Roger is correct. The Angel of Death walks this accursed house!'
    'Who could leave such a thing there?' Southgate murmured.
    'One of the servants, someone we don't know,' Benjamin replied. 'But the head and the Hand of Glory come from that poor hag. Oh, by the way, where's our noble Sheriff Bowyer?' 'Drunk as a bishop,' Mandeville snarled. 'Now sleeping like a baby in his cot down in the hall.' Benjamin made to walk away.
    'Master Daunbey,' Mandeville caught him up at the corner of the gallery. 'For God's sake, man, what am I supposed to do? My job is to trap conspirators, plotters… not stumble around in the dark after some secret assassin.' Benjamin muttered something to himself. 'What is it? What is it, Daunbey?'
    My master looked up, his face as hard as stone, the skin drawn tight. 'I was just thinking of what you said, Sir Edmund. This is not poor Buckingham, is it? Or some pathetic tailor like Taplow being trapped in his little cage and taken off to the slaughter house. And Templecombe is not some abbey where you can tap your toe and play the great lord. So how does it feel, Sir Edmund, to be the hunted instead of the hunter?'
    And spinning on his heel, my master stalked off to his chamber.
    (My little clerk is muttering that Benjamin was acting out of character. That's not true! Benjamin was a kind, gentle man. He always hated bully-boys and was correct to do so. Mandeville and Santerre had arrived at Templecombe wanting to make everyone dance to their tune. Instead, they had stumbled into a veritable snake pit.) I wandered round the galleries for a while for the dinner was both spoilt and finished. Sure enough, after a while I caught sight of my quarry, little Mathilda, her chubby arms full of blankets, tiptoeing along without a care in the world. I followed her up to one of the other floors and caught her by the elbow. 'Mathilda, my sweet, a word.'
    She whirled round but she was not frightened and I glimpsed the sparkle of triumph in her eyes. I drew her into a shadowy window embrasure. 'You weren't looking for gold, were you?' She pouted prettily.
    'The money was secondary, wasn't it?' I continued. 'What were you looking for? Did you kill that clerk in the fire? What secret device did you use?' She sighed and sat down in the window seat.
    'Master Shallot, you and your fellow clod-hoppers wander into Templecombe.' She looked out into the icy darkness. 'You are in a place hundreds of miles from London with a few paltry soldiers to guard your back. The Devil and his assistant trapped my Lord of Buckingham, a man much loved in these parts. He was hustled up to London to have his head cut off with less mercy than we would treat a chicken. His lands are seized and the monks at Glastonbury bullied as if they are the inmates of some prison.'
    She looked squarely at me. 'Oh, yes, we have heard of that.' She flounced the sheets in her hand. 'And what do you expect? To come tripping through without a by-your-leave? These are ancient lands, Master Shallot. Arthur and his knights rode here, or so Master Hopkins told us. The Templars are much feared but also respected for their knowledge.'
    Now, I can take a sermon from any pretty woman and Mathilda was no exception, but I also caught the threat in her words. I clapped my hands mockingly. 'So what does all this make you, Mathilda, my dear? A thief looking for gold?' Even in the darkness I saw the flush on her cheeks.
    ‘I am no thief!' she snapped. She drew herself up. 'I am a poor widow. My husband died two years ago from the sweating sickness. Aye, Roger, we marry young in Somerset. I have a child.' 'You also have a father,' I retorted. She caught her lip between her teeth.
    'You do have a father,' I continued smoothly. 'A tall, grizzle-haired fellow who now walks with a pronounced limp. Where did he receive his wound?' 'It was an accident.'
    'Nonsense!' I snapped. 'Do you want me to call Mandeville and Southgate and have him dragged into the hall? I'll wager a piece of gold that his wound resembles a sword cut. Your father was one of those who attacked me.' She mumbled something.