The Relic Murders

seen at Malevel Manor. I weighed it carefully in my hands. It felt and looked the same.
    'In a sense it's genuine,' Kempe murmured. 'Real gold.' He pointed to the bands round the rim. 'Precious stones. Only the most skilled craftsman could detect that it was made in London just a few weeks ago and is not a seven-hundred-year-old relic'
    'And how in God's name,' Benjamin asked, 'are we to replace one with the other?'
    Kempe shrugged. 'The King has confidence in you and Master Shallot. It has to be done.'
    'Not now,' I replied. ‘I don't want my leg chewed off or an arrow in my gullet.'
    'Do we know when the Orb will be moved?' Benjamin asked. 'Or how?'
    Kempe shook his head. Benjamin beat his gloves against his thigh. 'This is impossible.' Kempe pulled a face and put the Orb back in the bag.
    'I have done my job, Master Daunbey. You must do yours. I will hold this till you are ready.'
    'Why not give the King the replica?' I scoffed. 'Will he know the difference?'
    Kempe smiled. 'I wondered if you'd think of that. Shallot. Berkeley knows the difference and so do I. There's a secret to the genuine Orb.' He brought his hand down on my shoulder. 'But it's my little secret and you've had your orders.'
    We walked back to Malevel, Castor running ahead of us, ears flapping. Kempe collected his horse, hid the Orb in his saddlebag and rode back to The Golden Lion.
    Benjamin and I returned to our constant watch. The days passed. The two cooks, Oswald and Imelda, always arrived on time and always left at six o'clock before the dogs were released. On the third occasion I waylaid them by the gate. 'How are things at the manor?' I asked.
    'Very quiet,' Oswald replied. 'The place is beginning to smell a little, the jakes needs cleaning. The Noctales don't like the archers and the archers don't like the Noctales. They spend their time gambling, drinking and talking.' 'And Jonathan their leader?' 'He seems nervous,' Imelda replied. 'Like a man walking on eggs; he never stays still.' 'Is he worried?' 'Yes, I think he is. But less so than on the first day.'
    The following afternoon Oswald and Imelda left at six. As usual, Cornelius waited for the window to open and, when it did, made the signal back with his own lantern. We spent a desultory evening, my master lying on the bed staring up at the rafters. He had been quiet since his return from Venice. He was pining over the marvellous Miranda, though I also knew that he was deeply worried, not only about the present situation, but about the threats of the Poppletons. He had accepted my assurances that I was innocent of the Great Mouth's death yet he was worried about what would happen if, and when, we returned to Ipswich. I'll be honest: I drank too deeply. I fell asleep wondering how it would be to travel down the west coast of Africa. Nightmares plagued my mind. I envisaged a thousand fearful wrecks; fishes gnawing upon my bones; lying amongst dead mens' skulls or being cast up on some lonely shore waiting for the terrors to appear from the dark forest. I was woken roughly enough by Cornelius kicking at my bed. At first he was so excited he spoke in German but then he calmed down. It was the first time I had seen him look fearful. 'What's the matter?' Benjamin asked. 'It's well past dawn,' Cornelius replied. 'I have seen no signal from the manor!' 'Shouldn't we go up?' I asked.
    'The dogs are still out. Egremont left strict instructions. If that light didn't appear, I was to send for him immediately. One of the archers is already galloping to his lodgings.'
    Castor, who had been taking up more of the bed than I, got up and walked towards the window: he stared, head rigid, towards the darkened manor house. I sensed a real nightmare was about to unfold. As if it sensed something was wrong, one of the guard dogs began to howl at the lightening sky and Castor joined in.
    The bells of some distant church were ringing for morning Mass when Egremont and Kempe, the former accompanied by a large retinue of his personal retainers, galloped up to the gatehouse. The dogs had been put away. Cornelius had spent the time staring at the manor as if, through concentration alone, he could perceive what was amiss. We went up the path. Cornelius opened the door and we entered that hall of hellish murder. An archer lay just within the doorway; a broad pool of blood had gushed out from his slit throat and turned the floor slippery underneath. We went into the parlour where two more archers were sprawled.