The Relic Murders

relics of Western Christendom. Benjamin found the entry for the Orb of Charlemagne. There was a crude drawing above it which I recognised as the relic. The writing was more accurate: in the main it faithfully described the Orb; how it had been owned by the great Emperor and sent to Alfred of England and how the English kings had kept it in the most secret place. However, when it came to a detailed description of the amethyst the writer was silent. Instead Henley had scrawled in the margin: 'Per ig. Cruc. lxthus vid, 'What is that?' I asked. My master, who was skilled in secret ciphers, studied it. 'A mixture of Latin and Greek,' he replied. 'Ixthus is the Greek title for Jesus Our Saviour.' 'And the rest?'
    'Bearing in mind Henley's request for a candle, I'd say that per ig means per ignem, through fire. Cruc is Latin for cross: vid means Videtur, can be seen.' Benjamin closed the book. 'That's why Henley wanted the beeswax candle. Hold the Orb up, place the amethyst against a brilliant flame and, somehow or other, a cross can be seen in the centre of the stone.' 'Can that be done?' I asked.
    'Not artificially,' Benjamin replied. 'What I suspect is that, when the Orb was made for Charlemagne, this amethyst was particularly chosen because the goldsmith at the time thought it was of a sacred character. That amethyst,' Benjamin continued, 'is probably the only way of ensuring the Orb is genuine.'
    'But that's impossible, master. If Henley knew this, then surely the Emperor Charles V, not to mention his envoys Lord Egremont and Cornelius, would also have known?' Benjamin sat down on a stool.
    4When the Orb was placed in that sealed casket in Berkeley's house,' I insisted, 'Egremont must have demanded that a light be held against the amethyst. He would then know that he was being tricked.' Benjamin rocked himself backwards and forwards, eyes closed. 'Did they know?' he asked.
    'Oh come on, master. If a tawdry counterfeit-man like Henley knew, then surely Charles V's ambassadors would?'
    'The only person who could answer that,' Benjamin replied, 'is Henley himself and he's now a member of the choir invisible. I suspect that Henley was not just a tawdry counterfeit man but an expert on relics. Somehow he found out the real secret and wrote it in the margin of this book.' He sighed. 'Yet, in the end, Henley didn't make the replica, Berkeley did. Is our goldsmith the villain of the piece?'
    'No,' I retorted. 'Berkeley acted on the orders of the King.' I paused. 'And that's where the real mystery begins, doesn't it? If Berkeley put a replica in that chest, he must have done so on the orders of the King. If he did, why is Henry now raging? And I don't believe that he's playing one of his little games.'
    'It's possible,' Benjamin replied slowly, 'that Berkeley acted on his own: that he intended to dupe both Henry and Charles V. That the Orb is still hidden away in his shop or wherever Berkeley wanted to conceal it. Our goldsmith therefore might have fled, taking the Orb with him.'
    I recalled Berkeley's honest face. He would carry out the orders of his king in order to dupe a foreign envoy. But steal the Orb and flee?
    'No, master,' I voiced my doubts. 'If Berkeley was ordered to make a replica, he would do so but I doubt he would steal the genuine article. However, that doesn't solve the real mystery. If the amethyst was special why didn't Egremont notice it was flawed?' Benjamin opened the book and studied the inscription again.
    'The cross of the Saviour can be seen,' he read aloud. He placed the book back on the shelf. 'Come on, Roger, I want to talk to someone.'
    We left Henley's house, collected our horses and walked through the crowds back to Cheapside. It was just after noon: the Angelus bell from St Mary Le Bow was tolling, calling the faithful to prayer. Most people ignored it, more intent on thronging the cookshops and taverns. Benjamin was growing enigmatic. He strode along the broad thoroughfare ignoring my questions. 'In a while, in a while, Roger,' he murmured.
    Near the Great Conduit, he gave a cry of exclamation and pointed to a goldsmith's sign. 'Pasteler!' he exclaimed. 'John Pasteler!'
    We walked across. Benjamin gave an urchin a penny to hold our horses. I followed him into the goldsmith's shop. Pasteler in many ways reminded me of Berkeley: an honest, well-to-do merchant busy amongst his apprentices and journeymen. The shelves and tables around the shop were littered with precious objects: cups, bracelets,