The Grail Murders

crouched, breathing in deeply to calm himself, whilst Old Shallot dealt with the threat in his usual formidable way.
    'Bastards!' I screamed, jumping up and down on the bank, shaking my fist at the island. 'You murdering, sodding bastards! Come on, Master!' I seized Benjamin by the arm.
    He trotted breathlessly beside me as I strode like a madman through the snow, back to that accursed manor. 'Roger, what are you going to do?' 'I am going to slit that bitch's throat for a start!' 'Roger, don't!'
    'All right, I'll cut her head off! Master, I don't mind being shot at, hunted, trapped, attacked – but to die on a frozen lake at the dead of night!'
    'Roger.' Benjamin grabbed me by my doublet. 'Listen! Mathilda will be well away now. Do you think she's going to wait for you to come back? There was always the possibility you might escape. No, listen, I know who the murderer is. I know where the Grail and Arthur's Sword could be.' I stopped. 'Why didn't you tell me this before?'
    ‘I had to wait. I suspected the murderer would strike at us, and what happened on that lake proved it. Now, Roger, I beg you, let us go back to our chamber, warm ourselves, snatch a few hours of sleep and tomorrow, as we break fast in the hall, I shall confront the murderer.'
    Of course my master had his way. Anyway, by the time we reached our chambers my anger had been replaced by sheer terror at the danger we had just escaped. All the old signs appeared: I wanted to be sick, my knees kept quivering, and it took three deep-bowled cups of claret before I could even remember what day of the week it was. Naturally, I taxed my master on what he had learnt. He merely sat on the only chair in my room, shook his head and told me to sleep, and that it would be best if we shared the same chamber that night.
    The next morning we woke none the worse for our terrible experience. Benjamin insisted that we shave, wash and change our linen and doublets before going down to the hall. On our way I looked for Mathilda but Benjamin was right, there was no sign of the little minx.
    The Santerres were already at high table, Mandeville also. My master waited until a kitchen boy served us, then suddenly rose, locking the great doors of the hall as well as those to the kitchen and buttery. Mandeville broke free of his reverie. Sir John Santerre stared, a ghost of his former self. Lady Beatrice watched fearfully whilst Rachel sat like an innocent child waiting for a play to begin. 'Daunbey, what's all this?' Mandeville grated.
    Now Benjamin had unmasked many a killer and brought numerous murderers to boot. Sometimes he played games, drawing the assassins into verbal battles in which they would confess. But this time it was different. He walked once, twice round the table on the dais, pausing for a few seconds behind each chair. Then he went round again and stopped between John Santerre and Rachel, putting his hand gently on the man's shoulder. 'Sir John, are you the killer?'
    Santerre shot back in his chair. If a man's face could age in a few seconds, his did. 'What do you mean?' he stuttered.
    'On our first day here you claimed you left Templecombe to ride your estates. You did not. Instead you went to Glastonbury.' 'There's no crime in that.' 'And, just before we left London, why did the beggar give you that note?' 'I…'
    'If you lie,' Benjamin snapped, 'these matters will be laid before the King's Council in London.'
    Sir John stretched over and, despite the hour, filled his wine goblet completely to the brim. He gobbled its contents like a thirsty man would the purest water. Mandeville was now alert as a hunting dog. 'Answer the questions, Santerre!'
    Sir John put the wine cup down. 'When I was in London I paid people to ascertain if the Templar church near Fleet Street contained anything resembling the River Jordan or the Ark of Moses.' 'And did it?' 'No.' 'And Glastonbury Abbey?'
    Sir John licked his lips. 'Both Abbot Bere and I wanted an end to all this nonsense.' He glanced at Mandeville. 'No offence, Sir Edmund, but no lord in the kingdom wants you or your sort prying round his estates. I used my wealth to fund the building of a crypt at Glastonbury. I thought that something might be found.' 'And has it been?' I asked. 'Nothing whatsoever.'
    Benjamin stepped beside Lady Beatrice, who sat rigid in her chair. 'Lady Beatrice, what do you know of these matters?' The woman's mouth opened and closed. She shook her head. 'Oh, yes, you know something. Your first