The poisoned chalice

you tell me, master, what this has got to do with our present problem?'
    Benjamin smiled and closed the Bible. 'Master Ricard, may we look at your carp pond again?'
    The cure waved his hand airily. 'You know where it is. By all means.'
    We went out. In the late afternoon sunshine the overgrown garden hummed with the buzz of hunting bees. Benjamin led me to the edge of the carp pond.
    'Isn't it strange?' he mused. 'Poor Giles Falconer was interested in birds and their flight and he falls from a tower. The Abbe Gerard was interested in miracles, particularly the one about Christ walking on the water, and he drowns. Waldegrave was keen on horses, and he is pounded to death by a horse's hooves. Do you see the connection, Roger?'
    'Not yet,' I snarled. 'But give me another decade and I will!'
    Benjamin nudged me gently. 'Come,' he said. 'Let's see the abbe's church. Perhaps that will yield a few secrets.'
    The cure was only too willing to show us around. The church was large and lonely, surrounded and shaded by great elms which dominated the cemetery, extending their majestic branches in benediction over the sleeping dead. The large, low porch was guarded by a Norman doorway, heavy and oaken and studded with nails. Ricard unlocked this and we followed him inside. Despite the sunshine it was gloomy and the cure had to light some of the sconce torches. We stood and gazed around. Heavy arches rose into the darkness and between them arrow-slit windows, without glass or horn, dazzled white in the sunlight. At the far end was the chancel where the windows were of rich glass; the sunlight illuminated their noble colouring and lit up the black oak of the altar and other sanctuary furniture. It was a simple church. The walls were unpainted; the rood screen, uncarved, was nothing more than a wooden panel. Ricard pointed out the church's two notable features: the stone, sculpted baptismal font and the ornately carved choir screen above our heads. Benjamin looked at everything carefully as if trying to search out the Abbe Gerard's hiding-place.
    'He can't have hidden his book here,' I said. 'This is scarcely Paradise.' I shivered. 'The place would frighten a ghost.'
    Benjamin smiled absent-mindedly and stared up at the choir loft.
    'A fine church,' he murmured. 'And the Abbe Gerard is buried where?'
    'I told you,' Ricard answered crossly. 'In the churchyard, under one of the yew trees.'
    We followed him back into the warm sunlight along the coffin wall and across the overgrown grass where a simple, white headstone, marked with the cross of Lorraine, stood next to a stunted yew tree. We studied the simple inscription. Benjamin made pleasant conversation, then prepared to leave. We shook Ricard's hand, collected our horses, and made what I thought was our way back to the chateau. Outside the village, however, Benjamin suddenly left the track, pushing his reluctant horse in amongst the trees. 'Master, have you left your senses?' I called.
    Benjamin just waved me forward and I followed him into the forest darkness. God knows the place must not have changed in a thousand years. It was like entering some vast, green cathedral: trees stood like pillars and their rich foliage spanned out to hide the summer sun. Only when we entered a small glade, silent except for the bubbling of a brook which snaked through the green darkness, did Benjamin dismount and unhook the heavy saddle-bags he had swung across his horse's neck.
    'In sweet God's name!' I murmured, almost frightened to raise my voice and break the stillness. 'Have you lost your wits, master?' Benjamin stretched and gazed around.
    'I found this spot when you were in Paris,' he remarked. 'It's secluded, near the road, and there's water to drink.' 'So?'
    'So, Roger, we stay here until darkness. Then we go back to Abbe Gerard's grave. The coffin won't be buried deep. We'll disinter it and see what secrets the grave reveals.'
    'Master, you're insane!' I yelped. 'This is France. Vauban's men are everywhere and the sentence for grave robbing is, I presume, the same as in England. Death by hanging!' 'Tush, Roger, we won't be seen.'
    'And what are we supposed to use?' I shouted. 'Our hands and teeth?' Benjamin kicked one of the sacks.
    'There are small spades and mattocks here. They'll suffice.' Now my master was like that; once he'd decided on the course of action, and that long face became resolute and those soft eyes hard, there was no turning him. We would stay in that damned forest and dig