The Royal Secret

by Lucinda Riley

  “Now, sir.”

  Locked in the bathroom, Joanna feverishly dialed Steve’s number.

  “It’s me. I’ll be out in two minutes. Get the bike ready, okay? And just don’t hang around to ask questions.”

  She’d just unlocked the bathroom door when she heard the sirens wailing and a voice booming out of a megaphone.

  “This is the police. We have a bomb alert in Welbeck Street. Would all residents leave their homes immediately. I repeat, would all resi—”

  Joanna banged her knuckles against the wall in despair. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  * * *

  Simon appeared in the dining room. “We need to leave now, Your Royal Highness, Miss Harrison, please.”

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Zoe asked as she stood up.

  “What’s going on out there?” asked the duke irritably.

  “Bomb alert, sir. I’m afraid we have to evacuate the building. If you’d like to follow me, there’s a car already waiting outside.”

  “Where’s Joanna?” asked Zoe, as she walked with Art behind Simon.

  “She’s up here, in the bathroom. I’ll see her out,” called Monica Burrows from the top of the stairs.

  “We should wait for her,” said Zoe.

  Upstairs, Joanna felt cool hard steel press into her back.

  “Tell them to leave,” the woman whispered.

  “I’ll see you outside, Zoe, okay?” Joanna called out shakily.

  “Okay!” she heard Zoe shout, then the front door slammed and the house fell silent.

  “Don’t move. I’m under orders to shoot to kill.” Monica steered her into Jamie’s bedroom, holding the gun to her lower spine. Simon joined them a few minutes later.

  “Let her go, Monica, I’ve got her covered.” Simon raised his arm and Joanna saw his gun. The muzzle poking into her back was removed and Joanna sank down onto the bed. She looked at the woman and recognized her from the launch of the memorial fund.

  “Joanna.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “Why couldn’t you leave it alone when you had the chance?”

  “Why did you lie to me?! All that bullshit up in Yorkshire! I . . . you let me believe I was right.”

  “Because I was trying to save your life.”

  “You’re too late, anyway,” Joanna said, with a bravado she didn’t feel. “Alec knows it all. By now, he’s probably sent the story down the line. And if anything happens to me, he’ll know why.”

  “Alec’s dead, Joanna. They found him at his mate’s apartment in the Docklands and stopped him in time. The game’s up, I’m afraid.”

  A horrified gasp escaped her. “You bastard! But . . . I have the letter and you don’t,” she added defiantly.

  “Search her, Burrows.”

  “Get off me!” As Joanna tried to struggle free from the woman’s grasp, the sound of a bullet rang out from Simon’s gun. Joanna and Burrows turned and saw the bullet had shot into the wall and embedded itself in the plaster. Raw fear appeared on Joanna’s face as she saw Simon’s cold, hard eyes. And the gun in his hand pointed straight at her.

  “Rather than putting you through the indignity of a body search, Jo, why don’t you just give us what we want? Then no one will get hurt.”

  Joanna nodded brokenly, not trusting herself to speak. She delved into the pocket of her dress, withdrawing a small square of material. She offered it to Simon. “There. You’ve finally got what you wanted. How many have you had to kill to retrieve it, Simon?”

  Simon ignored her, indicating to Burrows that she should take over covering Joanna with her weapon, and concentrated instead on the square of material in his hand.

  Ring a Ring o’ Roses . . .

  The words—and their subject matter—were exquisitely embroidered onto the material. Simon turned it over, and despite her gnawing fear, Joanna was mesmerized by the fact that, after all these years, the truth would finally be revealed. She watched as Simon carefully removed the backing, and there, tacked onto the back of the embroidery itself, was a piece of thick cream vellum paper, identical to that of the other letter Grace had sent her.

  Simon took out a penknife and cut the neat tacking stitches. The paper finally came loose. He read it and nodded to Monica. “It’s the one.”

  Carefully folding the letter into his inner jacket pocket, he aimed his gun at her once more. “So, what are we to do with you? Strikes me you know a bit too much.”

  She couldn’t look up any longer into the eyes that had become cold and flinty. “Surely you can’t kill me in cold blood, Simon? Jesus, we’ve known each other for years, been best friends for most of our lives. I . . . Give me a chance to run away. I’ll . . . I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again.”

  Monica Burrows watched Simon waver. “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “No! This is my job.” Simon took a step forward as Joanna backed away, her heart racing, her head spinning.

  “Simon, for God’s sake!” she screamed as she cowered in the corner of the room. He leaned over her until his face was close to hers, the gun pointed at her chest.

  “Simon, please!” she cried.

  He shook his head. “Remember, Joanna. This is my game. We play by my rules.”

  She stared at him, her voice husky with dread. “I surrender.”

  “Bang, bang! You’re dead!”

  She barely had time to scream as he fired two shots at point-blank range, before she slumped to the floor.

  Simon knelt down and took her pulse, then listened for a heartbeat. “She’s dead. Call in, tell them mission accomplished in all respects. I’ll clean up and then get her out to the car.”

  Burrows studied Joanna’s prone body from where she stood. “You knew her from way back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jeez,” she breathed, “that sure took some guts.” She moved nearer to the body and bent down, about to check Joanna’s pulse.

  He turned to look at her. “You know the rules of service, Burrows. No room for sentiment. I’ll make double sure.” Then he fired again.

  Fifteen minutes later, Welbeck Street was deserted as the front door opened. The surveillance team across the road monitored Warburton and Burrows as they supported the figure between them, heading to a car that was parked a few feet along the road.

  “They’re en route now,” one of them said into his walkie-talkie.

  Ten minutes later, with a backup car tailing them some distance behind, they parked in a street on the edge of a gated industrial estate. Transferring the body from their car to one parked a few feet away, they climbed back into another and drove off at top speed. Twenty minutes later, the sound of a huge explosion shattered the peace of the surrounding streets.

  41

  Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. He handed it across the desk.

  “There you are, sir. Safe and sound at last.”

  Sir Henry Scott-Thomas read it through without a hint of emotion. “Thank you, Warburton. And her body was placed successfully?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Henry studied Warburton. “You look exhausted, man.”

  “I admit it was an extremely unpleasant thing I had to do, sir. She was my childhood friend.”

  “And I assure you that it won’t be forgotten. That kind of loyalty is rare, let me tell you. I’ll be recommending you for immediate promotion. There’ll also be an excellent bonus in your bank account at the end of the month for all your hard work.”

  “I think I need to go home and get some sleep.” Simon’s stomach was churning. “Tomorrow will be another difficult day when they discover exactly who was killed in the bomb blast.”

  Sir Henry nodded. “After the funeral, I suggest you take a short sabbatical; fly away somewhere hot and sunny.”

  “I was thinking of doing just that, sir.”

  “Just two other questions before you go: how did Burrows cope?”

  “She was pretty shaken up afterward. I got the fee
ling she’d never seen anyone killed at close range before.”

  “This kind of thing does tend to sort out the men from the boys, so to speak. Did she see the contents of the letter?”

  “No, sir, she didn’t. I can assure you she had no idea what the hell was going on,” Simon replied.

  “Good chap. You’ve done a fine job, Warburton, a fine job. Now, good night.”

  “Good night, sir.” Simon stood up and walked toward the door. Then he paused and turned back.

  “Just one more thing, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps I’m being sentimental, but do you by any chance happen to know where Grace’s remains are? I rather thought that after all this, it might be the right thing to do to reunite her with the husband she loved.”

  There was a pause before the old man answered. “Quite. I will see to it. Good night, Warburton.”

  Simon just managed to hold it together until he reached the men’s toilets further along the corridor. There, he vomited copiously, then sank to the floor, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, empathizing completely with what had driven Ian Simpson over the edge.

  He’d never forget the fear in her eyes, the look of betrayal as he’d pulled the trigger. Simon put his head in his hands and sobbed.

  * * *

  On the drive down to Dorset at dawn the following morning, Sir Henry Scott-Thomas studied the short article on the third page of the Times newspaper.

  JOURNALISTS KILLED IN BOMB BLAST

  A car bomb exploded near an industrial estate in Bermondsey last night, killing both the driver, a twenty-seven-year-old journalist, and her editor. The explosion came after an evening of hoax calls, which resulted in part of the West End being closed to traffic for two hours due to bomb alerts. The victims are believed to have been Joanna Haslam, who worked for the Morning Mail, and Alec O’Farrell, the editor of the news desk at the same publication. Police suspect they may have been close to uncovering an IRA plot. After the bomb attack at Canary Wharf in February, police have been on high alert . . .

  He sifted through the other articles in the newspaper, until his eyes fell on a short piece at the bottom of page fourteen.

  RAVENS RETURN TO TOWER

  It was announced this morning by the beefeaters at the Tower of London that the world-famous ravens have returned home. The ravens, who have by tradition guarded the Tower for nine hundred years, mysteriously vanished six months ago. A nationwide hunt ensued, but to no avail. Although during the Second World War the disturbances caused by the Luftwaffe bombing raids reduced their number to one bird only, at no time has the Tower been without a raven to guard it. Protected by the royal decree of King Charles II, legend has it that should these birds ever leave the Tower for good, the monarchy will fall.

  It was with considerable relief that the raven keeper found Cedric, Gwylum, Hardey, and the rest of the ravens back at their lodgings near Tower Green late last night. After they’d had a good meal, the keeper pronounced them in excellent physical condition, but was at a loss to explain their temporary disappearance.

  * * *

  “We are here, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  The driver made the necessary maneuvers to remove Sir Henry and his wheelchair from the car.

  “Where to, sir?”

  Sir Henry pointed in the direction of the spot.

  “You can leave me here and collect me in ten minutes.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Once the driver had gone, Sir Henry studied the grave in front of him.

  “So, Michael, we meet once again.”

  It took all of his energy to twist the top off the canister he clutched in his hand.

  “Rest in peace,” he muttered, as he threw the contents of the canister onto the grave. The particles seemed to dance in the glow of the early morning sun, many of them settling on the rosebush that grew atop the grave.

  Sir Henry saw his gnarled hands were shaking and he was aware of a steady and increasing pain across his chest.

  No matter. At long last, it was over.

  42

  Zoe watched the coffin as it made its way into the ground, trying to suppress her sobs. She looked at the drawn, pale faces of Joanna’s parents, standing opposite her by the head of the grave, and at Simon, whose face was a mask of misery.

  When it was over, the crowd began to disperse, some heading for the tea provided at the Haslams’ farmhouse, others straight back to London and their newspapers. Zoe walked back slowly toward the church gate, thinking what a peaceful, beautiful spot this was, tucked away on the edge of the small moorland village.

  “Hello, Zoe. How are you?” Simon caught up with her.

  “Middling to absolutely ghastly,” she sighed. “I just can’t accept it. I remember her hugging me in the kitchen, and now . . . oh God, she’s not here anymore. And James isn’t, and Marcus . . . I’m starting to wonder if our family is cursed.”

  “You can berate yourself forever and a day, but nothing’s going to bring Joanna back, or your grandfather or Marcus.”

  “I know the papers said she was onto a terrorist plot with her editor. She never mentioned a word to me.”

  “Well, you can’t be surprised by that.”

  “No. So.” Zoe swallowed, conflicting emotions rendering her mouth dry. “How are you?”

  “Pretty low too, to be honest. I keep going over and over that night in my mind, wishing I’d waited for her to come with us, as you suggested.” Simon stopped by the gate and looked back at the grave, the bright Yorkshire sun shining on the fresh earth that covered it. “I’ve asked for a sabbatical, I want to take some time to think things through.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe do a bit of traveling.” He smiled at her wanly. “I don’t feel there’s anything to keep me here in England.”

  “When are you going?”

  “In the next couple of days.”

  “I’ll miss you.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  “I’ll miss you too.” He cleared his throat. “How’s the prince and living at the palace?”

  “Okay,” she said. “I suppose it was sensible to move me in there after what happened. To be honest, I haven’t really settled, but it’s early days yet. I have my first official public engagement with him tomorrow. A film premiere, of all things.” She smiled.

  “Ain’t life ironic.” Simon shrugged.

  “It sure is.”

  “Are you coming back to Joanna’s parents’ place for some tea?” he asked her. “I can introduce you to my mum and dad. They’re very impressed that I know you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I promised Art I’d get straight back. My new driver awaits.” She indicated the Jaguar in the small car park. “Well then. I suppose this is goodbye. Thank you so much for everything.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

  He squeezed her hand tightly. “Thanks. Goodbye, Zoe. It’s been an absolute pleasure looking after you.”

  She walked swiftly away from him, not wanting him to see her tears. She heard him mumble something under his breath, so she stopped and turned back, her expression hopeful. “Did you say something, Simon?”

  “No. Just . . . good luck.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Zoe smiled up at him sadly. “Bye.”

  He watched as she got into the Jaguar. “My darling,” he added as the car drove away and out of sight.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Simon walked along the heavily carpeted top corridor of Thames House toward the elderly receptionist.

  “Hello, I have an appointment with Sir Henry at three,” he said, but she did not respond. Instead her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Mr. Warburton!”

  “What?”

  “It’s Sir Henry. He died last night at home. A fatal heart attack, apparently. Nothing anybody could do.” The woman’s face disappeared into her sodden lace handkerchief.

  “I see
. How . . . tragic.” Simon only just managed to stop the word “ironic” from falling from his lips. “It’s unfortunate I wasn’t told.”

  “No one has been. They’re announcing it on the six o’clock news tonight. But,” she sniffed, “we’ve all been told to continue as normal. Mr. Jenkins is waiting for you in Sir Henry’s office. Do go through.”

  “Thank you.” He walked to the heavy oak-paneled door and knocked.

  “Warburton! Do come in, old chap.”

  “Hello, sir.” Simon wasn’t surprised to see Jenkins grinning at him like a schoolboy from behind the huge desk. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Want a drink? Been a bit of a roller-coaster day, as you can imagine. Sorry to see the old boy gone, but I have to admit we’re all a little relieved downstairs. Sir Henry would hang in here. We all indulged him, of course, but I’ve been effectively doing his job for years. Not that I’d want that to go out of this office, of course. There we go.” Jenkins handed him a tumbler of brandy. “Your health.”

  “To your new position?” Simon raised an eyebrow questioningly as they clinked glasses.

  Jenkins tapped his nose. “You’ll have to wait for the official announcement.”

  “Congratulations.” Simon looked at his watch. “Sorry to hurry you, sir, but I’m leaving tonight for my sabbatical and I still haven’t been home to pack yet. Why did you want to see me?”

  “Let’s sit down.” Jenkins indicated the leather chairs in a corner of the room. “The thing is, there’s no doubt you fully deserve your holiday, after that, er, little upset. But it just so happens we might have a job for you while you’re abroad. And I don’t wish to alert anyone else to the situation, given its delicacy.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Monica Burrows has gone AWOL. We know she flew back to the States the day after the Welbeck Street affair, because passport control in Washington have a record of her entry. But so far, she has not turned up at her office.”

  “Surely, sir, if she’s returned to the States, then she’s no longer our responsibility? We can’t be accountable for the fact she’s decided to go home.”