The Relic Murders

with three locks. The second key will open all three but only in sequence. The middle one first, followed by the one on the right, then the lock on the left.' 'Master,' I asked. 'Why trust me?'
    'I have to.' Berkeley smiled. 'You may be a villain, Roger, but I've watched you. Since you arrived here, not one piece of silver or gold has disappeared.' 'Master!' I stared in mock anger. 'As if I would!'
    'You are a rogue, Shallot,' he quipped back. 'But an honourable one, not a dog that bites the hand that feeds it.' He drummed his fingers on the samite tablecloth. 'On second thoughts,' he declared. 'Stay here.' He walked out of the hall.
    A few minutes later he returned, a velvet pouch in his hand, and beckoned me to follow him. We went along the gallery and he opened the door leading down to the cellar. He paused to light a lamp and then I followed him down the steps into the dank, cold passageway. Berkeley stopped again to light other lamps that were placed on hooks against the brick wall. The gloomy passageway flared into light. I noticed three cells or storerooms, The door to each was reinforced with steel bands and metal studs. Berkeley opened the centre door and went in. The room was a perfect square, no windows, no other opening whatsoever, just a stone floor with brick walls.
    In the centre of the room stood an oaken table and, on it, the metal chest Berkeley had described. He locked the strong room door behind us and showed me how to open the chest. He lifted the lid and carefully took out a brown, velvet bag. He loosened the cord at the top and, with both hands, held up the Orb of Charlemagne. If I had known what that bloody thing meant for me, what danger it would place my tender life in, I would have run screaming from the house. At the time I just stood and stared at this gold ball ringed with bars of silver in which precious jewels glinted and gleamed. At the top of the orb was an amethyst, so pure it caught the light and gave off its own fire. Fixed to the top of the amethyst was a pure gold cross with a ruby in the centre.
    'Hold it. Shallot,' Berkeley whispered. 'Take into your hands the Orb of Charlemagne, held by Europe's greatest Emperor!'
    I did so: it wasn't heavy. 'Why is it here?' I asked, giving it back.
    'Because the King has decided to hand it over to Emperor Charles V. My task is to clean it, ensure it is in perfect condition and then, at the appointed time, deliver it to Charles' envoy, Theodosius Lord of Egremont.' 'Clean it!' I exclaimed.
    'Make sure it's in good order,' Berkeley stammered. 'That there's no damage, nothing missing.' He refused to meet my eye and I wondered what he was concealing. 'And this is what I am really guarding?' I asked.
    'Yes, it is.' Berkeley placed the orb back in the velvet pouch, returned it to the chest, patted me on the shoulder and led me out of the strongroom.
    'Very few people know the Orb has been moved. Soon, however, the tittle-tattle will begin. And you know what happens if you light a torch and put it above a carp pond?' I smiled back. 'All the fish rise to the top.'
    'Precisely,' Berkeley declared. 'It's not the fish which frighten me, Roger. It's the pike and the other dark things that live in the muck and slime at the bottom.' He locked the strong-room door and grinned at me. 'And, before you say it, Roger, you can recognise pikes!' 'You fear for your life?' I asked. 'The love of wealth is the root of all evil, Roger.'
    He led me up out of the cellar. He sighed and rubbed his stomach.
    'The Orb is a precious relic as well as an object of rare beauty. There are men who would give their right hand just to see what you have seen.' He blew out the lantern and put it back on its hook near the cellar door. 'Remember what I've told you.'
    I did and was to thank God that he had warned me. Two nights later I was carousing in a tavern at the top of Goldsmith Row, the Silver Lion, a spacious place where I could sit in the shadows and enjoy my ale. On that particular evening, feeling good and wondering when Benjamin would return, I was about to leave. Indeed, I was just through the door leading into the lane, when two cowled, hooded figures stepped out of the darkness. My hand immediately went to my dagger. 'Don't draw!'
    I recognised the voice, soft as the hissing of a snake. Charon, Lord of the London underworld, pulled back his cowl. In the light from the tavern window his face looked more liverish and ghastly than ever.
    'Well, well, Roger.' He looked me