Benjamin smiled. 'So some exist?'
'Well, of course,' Santerre stammered. He shifted his feet nervously. 'Here, beneath us, are cellars and passageways.
The Templars often used them.' He smiled faintly. 'Now, I store my wines, wood for the fire and coals there, nothing singular.'
'What makes you think it's murder?' Mandeville asked sharply.
'Because, sir, beds do not explode into flames,' Benjamin replied. 'If my observations are correct, the mattress and blankets were turned into a roaring inferno within seconds. The braziers had not been moved, the fire was dead, the candle had spluttered out. And yet a powerful fire must have started so quickly it gave poor Cosmas no time even to get out of bed.' Benjamin sipped from his tankard. 'But who or why or how,' he continued, 'is as much a mystery to you as it is to me, Sir Edmund.
'As you say, the door was locked, no one else was in the room and the fire was meant to kill swiftly, expertly, and with little damage to anyone else. Go and check the chamber. The ceiling is of plaster and would take hours to ignite. The walls and floor are of stone. In many another house, the flames would have spread along the top story, but not here. Our murderer knew that!'
'But the bed and blankets,' I intervened (Old Shallot being intent on delivering his pennysworth!), 'would be as dry as tinder.'
'And why didn't Cosmas get out of the bed?' Santerre asked.
'Because,' Benjamin answered, 'he was seriously maimed. But how?' He shook his head. 'You think he was murdered?' Santerre asked. 'Yes, I have said so but. . .’
Mandeville tapped the top of the table with his empty tankard and glanced accusingly at Santerre. 'The question really is, who was behind this attack?'
Sir John pushed back his chair, his red face bristling with rage. 'Are you accusing me, Sir Edmund, or my family or servants? If so, say it!' He breathed in deeply through his nostrils. 'Remember where we are, Sir Edmund. This is not London but the South-West of England. Memories die hard here. Edward Stafford, my late Lord of Buckingham, was much loved and respected, so remember that. I can no more vouch for the loyalty of every one of my tenants than His Grace the King or my Lord Cardinal can guarantee the loyalty of every Englishman.
'Secondly . . .' Santerre paused to consider what he was about to say.
'Do go on,' Southgate put in silkily. The bastard was really enjoying himself.
'Secondly,' Santerre continued hastily, ignoring his wife's warning glance, 'memories of the Templars still survive here. In their time they were regarded as great magicians who brought prosperity to these parts. They had a reputation as healers, good lords who possessed the secrets of both heaven and earth. Do you think,' he looked straight at Mandeville and I admired the fellow's courage, 'do you really think, Sir Edmund Mandeville, that the people of these parts don't know the true reason for your presence here? That they do not know what you seek as well as your intention of rooting out any trace of an ancient order? Above all, they must know of your part in the destruction of my Lord of Buckingham as, God be my witness, I know mine!'
'Are you saying,' Southgate accused, 'that you sympathise with the dead Duke?'
'No, sir, I do not!' Santerre bellowed. 'And pray do not put words in my mouth. My Lord of Buckingham came here. He sat at this very table and, when he was gone, your two creatures came and asked me what he said. I told the truth. The rest was in your hands.'
Santerre pulled his chair back to the table. 'God knows,' he concluded softly, 'some of the Duke's blood may be on my hands.' He stared round the hall. 'I am not of these parts,' he continued, 'I was Hampshire born.' Santerre clutched his wife's hand firmly in his. 'But when I married Lady Beatrice, she took my name and I took her house. I came here to be a good lord as well as the King's most loyal servant! Think of that, Sir Edmund, before you sit at my table and hint about who was responsible for the death of your secretary! God knows, it wasn't me or mine!'
Southgate sneered. Mandeville simply stroked his dark face as if weighing up carefully what he was to do next.
'Sirs,' Benjamin intervened tactfully, 'before any judgement is passed, we must recognise the truth of what Sir John says. My Lord of Buckingham was of these parts. We have come here to disturb legends which are a part of the very soil of these lands. Sir Edmund Mandeville, think about what has been said. Your two agents, Calcraft and Warnham, may have been followed to London and killed by one of the Duke's retainers or by these secret Templars. Sir John cannot be held responsible for the loyalty of every one of his servants, and Cosmas's death, God rest him, is a mystery.'
'What intrigues me,' I asserted, 'is that the witch we met yesterday prophesied such a death. Don't you remember, Sir Edmund? Death by fire, by rope, by steel and by water? And may I remind you that none of us were exempt from that curse.'