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getting on her nerves. What sound did penetrate the
solid stone walls, was muted by a light fall of snow. As
she poured her third glass of whisky she recalled her
childhood, the anticipation of Santa Claus s arrival, the
pantomimes and her longing for a White Christmas .
Now she only sought warmth, and mouthed a silent
profanity against the blanket of snow covering the
countryside.
On the table before her was a bizarre jigsaw puzzle
she was creating, rather than solving. The colourful
pieces lay scattered over the tabletop, some spilling
down onto the kitchen floor. She shivered from the
cold, as much as from the whisky, as its compassionate
warmth flowed through her. The large dressmaker s
scissors she held weighed her hand down as she
reached for the final piece of her puzzle. She drew it
towards her.
It was the photograph from the Bayeux Tapestry of
King Harold s slaughter. Many times she had seen it
displayed in the chapel, many times she had been
stimulated by it. Now she felt nothing but revulsion. The
heavy photographic paper yielded reluctantly to the
sharp blade of the scissors, but her determined fingers,
sore and pinched from her efforts, forced the blades
closed. Filled with determination, she cut the
photograph into strips.
As she released them, the scissors clattered onto
the stone floor. Pausing only for a moment to massage
her bruised fingers, she began to tear the strips into
shreds. She worked steadfastly, until all that remained
was a pile of coloured scraps. They joined the other
fragments. Pausing a moment for breath, she gathered
as much as she could hold, carried them to the fire and
handful by handful, heaped the debris onto the hot
coals. The fire, welcoming the nourishment, blazed
enthusiastically. Mrs Godwin stood, her hands raised
onto the mantelpiece, staring down into the feverish
eruption. Her eyes gleamed with reflected light, while a
satisfied smile curved her lips. Standing aggressively
over the fire, she fed the flames, until all sign of the
photographs had vanished; until the heat receded and
all that remained was the shimmering coals, with an
occasional blue flame dancing wraith-like over the
surface. Only then did she sigh and relax. She dropped
to her seat at the table and drained the whisky glass of
its contents.
A distant clock chimed the hour of nine. Mrs Godwin
looked out of the window into the dark night.
Reluctantly she rose. Taking a knife from a drawer, she
sliced some bread from a large loaf and placed some
cheese between the slices. Icy water from the kitchen
tap flowed into a plastic cup. Then taking a large
electric torch, she gathered up the rough-hewn
sandwich and water and stepped out into the darkness.
The beam from the torch cut a swathe through the
falling snow. It fell in regimented vertical lines through
the still air.
Crossing the yard, she came to the barn, opened
the door and entered. The yard, now deprived of the
torchlight, reverted to the ghostly grey of the tumbling
snow.
Inside the barn, Mrs Godwin stepped tentatively
over the straw covered floor. She found her way to the
foot of worn wooden steps and flinched with
nervousness in the dark, evil smelling surrounds.
Cautiously she made her way up, the torchlight creating
accompanying phantoms on the grimy walls.
Before her, on the landing, was a door with a hefty
padlock. She fumbled with the key, juggling the food,
water and torch. The lock fell free and she pushed the
door open. Holding the torch before her, so that the ray
of light illuminated a small room, she stepped forward.
As her eyes grew familiar with the half-light, she saw
amid mounting alarm, that the room was empty.
At the same time she acknowledged this, a black
apparition flew through the air and struck her down.
Mrs Godwin fell as though lifeless onto the squalid
floor.
Vital, Turgold, Aelfgyva and Wadard.
The words flickered onto the notebook computer
screen. Seated in a secluded corner of the London
hotel, Belinda and Mark, refreshed by a satisfying
dinner, had taken their coffee in the lounge and set the
notebook up on the coffee table. There were few
guests to disturb them, so they were able to peruse the
information contained on Sir Gerald s disc with ease.
They re the words I saw on the piece of paper in Sir
Gerald s study.
Let s see what they mean, said Mark, as he
scrolled down the screen.
They re the names of associates of Odo, William
the Conqueror s half-brother, Belinda read aloud,
pointing to the information as it was divulged. Odo was
the Earl of Kent and Vital and Wadard managed lands
for him there. Probably they were his henchmen.
Henchmen? What a quaint expression, said Mark,
with a smile.
Well, you know what I mean. If Odo was like a
mediaeval Godfather &
Godfather? Do you think he stuffed cotton wool in
his cheeks and sounded like Marlon Brando?
Idiot, replied Belinda tartly. All I mean is that they
were probably in Odo s pay and did his dirty work.
But that doesn t explain why Sir Gerald would use
one of the henchmen s names as his code word to gain
access to the files.
Belinda shrugged. Who knows why? Perhaps he
thought it obscure enough for no one to decipher.
Further information spilled onto the screen. And look,
she cried excitedly, their names appear on the Bayeux
Tapestry. I wonder why?
Here s the reason. Mark gulped down his coffee
and gestured at the screen. See. A man named as
Vital informed William that King Harold s army had
been sighted, before the Battle of Hastings.
So, he was an important man not only to William
but to Odo as well? Do you think he was a double
agent?
Mark sank back into the leather-covered chair. I had
no idea you had such a command of underworld
expressions. Henchmen. Double agents. But it s
peculiar how we keep coming back to Odo. He was
William s half-brother and, as the Earl of Kent, held
most of the land around Canterbury, which meant he
probably had a lot of power.
And Canterbury distrusted Odo, or at least the
church hierarchy did, because they thought he wanted
their wealth, said Belinda thoughtfully. I remember
now, the Vicar told me that Odo was accused of
stealing the treasures held by the abbeys and churches
in Kent. In fact, I believe the Archbishop of Canterbury
took him to court. She glanced across at Mark. Should
we go to Canterbury tomorrow?
I can t see what good it can do. It would be like
Waltham Abbey. Just a collection of inarticulate stones.
We need to do some serious thinking. I believe we ve
most of the clues. It s just a matter of piecing them
together into some semblance of order. He stood up.
Besides, there s something you seem to have
forgotten.
Belinda snapped the laptop shut and rose. What s
that?
What s happened to Hazel?
A flush of guilt overcame Belinda. She realised that
she had indeed temporally forgotten her friend. You re
right, she remarked guiltily.
I think we d better head home first thing in the
morning. If there s still no sign of her, we must check
with the police. Belinda nodded her silent agreement.
They began to walk towards the lifts. Suddenly, Belinda
grasped Mark s arm.
Look, she whispered urgently, and nodded towards
the hotel foyer.
Making his way across the lobby was Charles
Godwin. He paused midway and appeared to be
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