The Grail Murders(68)

The King's torturers in the Tower will find it!' Mandeville retorted.

Benjamin walked in front of Rachel and studied her carefully. I watched, fascinated, for this was the first time he had confronted a murderer with a plausible explanation but very little proof. The deaths of the agents, Cosmas and Damien, Bowyer and those terrible injuries inflicted on Southgate, would in a court of law puzzle any jury. They might declare there was a case to answer, but what proof? (Mind you, Mandeville was right! Henry VIII cared little about evidence or the finer points of law. I always remember him turning to Thomas Cromwell about the trial of an abbot who had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy. 'Give him a fair trial,' the fat bastard roared, 'and then hang him from his own gate!')

Benjamin beckoned Rachel. 'Mistress, a word by ourselves, please?'



She rose, tripping round the table as if Benjamin had asked her for a dance. They walked down the hall and stood near the fireplace. Benjamin whispered to her and I heard her hissed reply, followed by silence. She then spread her hands and Benjamin led her back to the table where she stood defiantly before Mandeville.



'Master Daunbey is correct,' she murmured. 'I am a member of the secret Order of the Templars. I am responsible for the deaths he has listed.' She smiled obliquely. 'I pay respect to his brilliance and subtle astuteness but I am proud of what I did. My Lord of Buckingham's death is avenged. Those responsible, except you, Sir Edmund, have received their just deserts.' She lowered her voice. 'But don't sleep easy, Mandeville, for your time will come. Beware of every alleyway, of every drink and bite you swallow, of every horse you mount, every stranger you meet, because in time, when you least expect it, other Templars will finish what I have begun!'



'And us?' I shouted.



(Isn't it strange? This mere slip of a girl responsible for at least seven deaths. A self-confessed killer who could, even on the brink of her own destruction, still hold us with a threat. And you know Old Shallot, I have a well-developed sense of my own preservation. Yes, I will be honest, Rachel Santerre, or more correctly Rachel Mortimer, chilled my soul to the marrow.)



The young woman stared at me. ‘I like you, Shallot,' she murmured. 'No, for the moment you are safe. What happened last night should never have taken place.'



Now Mandeville got to his feet. 'Rachel Santerre,' he intoned, 'I arrest you for treason and the most horrible homicides. You will be taken to London and stand trial for your life before King's Bench at Westminster. Sir John, Lady Beatrice, you will accompany her.' Mandeville walked to the door and called for some of Bowyer's soldiers. 'Take this woman,' he ordered, pointing to her, 'to her chamber.



One man is to stay on guard in the room, two others outside! She is to be chained hand and foot. Do it!' he ordered the surprised soldier.



The fellow grasped the unresisting Rachel and pushed her out of the hall. Mandeville glared back at Santerre.



'I will now search this house,' he barked, 'beginning with your daughter's chamber!' And swept out of the room.



'Roger,' Benjamin whispered, 'come with me.'



He hurried out of the hall. The soldiers were already putting manacles around Rachel's wrists. Her face was marble-white, Even then I knew she was determined not to become the plaything of the London mob.



'Mistress Rachel,' Benjamin asked, ignoring Mandeville's protests, 'is there anything we can do?'

She forced a smile and shook her head. Mandeville pushed her further down the gallery.

'Sir,' Benjamin intervened, 'the woman is your prisoner, there is no need for such rudeness.'

Rachel shrugged off Mandeville's hand and looked once more at Benjamin.

'Ever the gentleman, Master Daunbey. I am sorry about last night. I was ordered not to touch you.' And without explaining that enigmatic remark further, she allowed the soldiers to lead her away.

Benjamin and I walked back into the hall. Lady Beatrice was sobbing hysterically. Sir John Santerre looked an old, beaten man.



'Master Daunbey,' he pleaded, 'what shall we do?' Benjamin climbed on to the dais and leaned over the table.

'You have interests abroad, Sir John?' Santerre nodded.

'And gold with the Antwerp bankers?' Again the nod.

Benjamin looked at Lady Beatrice. 'You knew, didn't you?'



The woman's thin face was a mask of terror. 'I couldn't stop her,' she whispered hoarsely. 'When I married my husband, I knew the legends, the stories, the whispers.' She glanced round the deserted hall and glared at Santerre. 'I hate this place!' She spat out the words. 'I asked Sir John to burn it to the ground but Rachel played him like a piece of string around her finger. She could always do that! Templars, ghosts, curses - and now we shall answer for it with our lives!'



'Sir John,' Benjamin replied briskly, 'there are secret entrances and passageways out of Templecombe, are there not?'