by C. R. Berry
Cats. The Devil’s favourite animal. A witch’s familiar. This woman was truly evil, but Edward stood firm against her threats, refusing to succumb to fear. “I am not afraid. I serve the Lord, and Him alone. Whatever power you possess is no match for Him.”
“Don’t be so sure. Where is the owner of the device we are using to speak?”
Edward glanced at the intruder’s bloody corpse. “You mean the man I just killed?”
“Fuck!”
There was a moment’s silence, then a shrill squeal sliced into his ear, not unlike a bird being throttled. He lowered the black object from his ear and looked at it. Suddenly it was transparent and rippling like water. He blinked hard, did a fast head shake. It made it no difference and he wondered if his vision was failing. Then he glanced around his bedchamber, dimly lit by the oil lamp. Everything was clear.
He closed his fingers around the object. He couldn’t feel it anymore. His fingers fell right through it. He opened his palm again and could see it, hazy as it was, but it had no mass.
How was that possible?
He tried to touch its surface with his other hand. By the time he did, it wasn’t transparent anymore. It was gone. Vanished.
Caught in a wave of dizziness, Edward grabbed a post at the foot end of his four-poster bed to steady himself. In a moment, the feeling passed. The back of his head still throbbed from where the intruder had thrown him against the headboard, but the bleeding had stopped. He would need to see a physician, but there was no time for that now.
He had to move quickly.
He called a servant in the next room to summon Sir Lionel Frensham, one of his favourite and most trusted courtiers, from his bed. Then he dug his legs into a pair of hose and pulled a doublet over his bloodied nightshirt, tying it with a broad leather belt encrusted with gold buttons. He retrieved a key on a silver chain from beneath his mattress and placed it around his neck.
Though he lived on the other side of the palace, Sir Lionel was at the door of Edward’s bedchamber in a matter of minutes, gasping as he entered and cast his eyes on the corpse in the corner, swimming in blood.
“As you can see, I need your help,” said Edward.
“What happened, Your Grace?” Sir Lionel asked.
“Somehow this man got past the guards and found his way into my bedchamber.”
“He threatened you?”
“Yes. He wanted something. And I fear others may follow in his wake.”
“How can I help?”
“I need you to dispose of this man’s body and get this bedchamber cleaned up. But before you do that, I need you to arrange for a carriage to take me to the Tower. I have something urgent to attend to.”
“Now, Your Grace?”
“That is what I meant by urgent, Sir Lionel.”
Sir Lionel’s cheeks flushed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As Edward tugged on his boots and draped a fur-trimmed brocade cloak across his shoulders, Sir Lionel inspected the intruder’s body. “Your Grace, what shall I do with this?” he asked, facing Edward with the intruder’s pot of strange red pills in his hand.
Edward approached him. “I’ll take it,” he said. Sir Lionel handed him the pot and he placed it in a pocket inside his cloak.
Sir Lionel gave a gentle frown. “Your Grace, may I ask what it –”
“No,” replied Edward. “Please have the carriage pick me up from the front gates.”
“Y-yes. Very good.”
“Oh, and Sir Lionel,” Edward added, just as he was about to depart.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Speak to no one about what has transpired here tonight.”
8
October 17th 2019
Ferro’s Rover Metro was dead. Its engine had packed up and it was going to cost way more to get it fixed than the car was worth. Ferro certainly couldn’t afford another right now. He was making ends meet by helping out at Sanjay’s, the corner shop at the top of his road, but it was loose change, not real money. Still, he was trying not to let it hamper his quest. He was getting closer. And if he had to skip a few meals and otherwise live on jacket potatoes and beans for a while, so be it. He needed to lose a couple of stone anyway. The little he earned was much better spent on books and train tickets.
Today he was returning home from Oxford having spent the day at the Bodleian Library studying an exciting new lead: the journal of Sir Lionel Frensham, a courtier to Edward IV. His brain was so bustling with new ideas, new theories, that at 11pm when his train stopped at Basingstoke, he barely noticed Jennifer – that girl he hoped never to see again – step aboard the train.
Small world. Too small.
Ferro ducked down a bit lower in his chair and faced the window, staring into the thick darkness beyond his reflection.
Damn. He could see in the corner of his eye that she was coming this way. Even though there were plenty of seats on both sides, rotten luck or fate or perhaps even God’s will brought her straight to him.
He continued to stare out the window, pretending not to have seen her and praying she didn’t see him.
“Ferro?”
God hates me today.
Ferro turned his head and looked up at her, unsure at first how to respond. Last time they met she’d insulted his faith and called him gullible and obsessed, and he’d got out of that pub as quickly as possible to avoid saying something he’d regret.
At the same time, he wasn’t angry anymore. She was just a stupid kid. Well, not a kid. A history graduate. And she wasn’t stupid, she was clever. Perhaps too clever for her own good. A part of him admired her pragmatism. He just couldn’t abide unnecessary rudeness.
He figured the best thing to do was be polite. “Hi,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
Jennifer looked sheepish, lips pulled into a flat, uneasy smile, cheeks flushing ever so slightly – perhaps she felt guilty. “Me neither.” She glanced at the seat opposite Ferro, which was free. But it was late; most of the seats were free.
Please don’t sit there.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
Ferro’s heart sank but he maintained his polite veneer, if with a pinch of animosity, replying, “Of course. I don’t own the train.”
Jennifer sat down, placing her handbag on the seat next to her. She was wearing baggy, dark green cargo trousers with half a dozen pockets and a jacket that was open over a white sweatshirt with a picture of the TARDIS from Doctor Who and the tagline from The X-Files beneath it: ‘I Want To Believe’. Ferro held back a grin.
“So… how are you?” said Jennifer, a tad awkwardly.
“Fine, thanks,” said Ferro matter-of-factly. “You?”
“Yeah, good. Just been for some drinks in Basingstoke with my friend Adam. Couldn’t go too crazy though. Work tomorrow.”
That didn’t really warrant a response, so Ferro forced a smile and turned his gaze back on the window, even though all he could see was the illuminated carriage – and Jennifer – reflected in the glass.
“So, er… how is the research going?” she asked, needlessly prolonging this uncomfortable exchange.
Ferro replied simply, without looking at her, “Well, thanks.”
“Have you learned anything new?”
“Yes. Several things.”
“I’d love to hear about them.”
Ferro faced her. “But I’m the obsessed and gullible Catholic. Why would you want to hear any more of my – how did you put it – nonsense?” Okay, perhaps he wasn’t totally over the things she’d said.
Jennifer turned even redder. “Alright, fair one. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have said those things. I just… I have a bit of trouble with… religion.”
“And with religious people, it seems.”
“No. It’s not that. It’s the nature of religion as a whole. It just isn’t logical to me – believing in things you can’t prove.”
“Says the woman wearing a sweatshirt with ‘I Want To Believe’ written acros
s it.”
Jennifer looked down at her sweatshirt. “That’s just the X-Files tagline.”
Ferro smiled, nodding, “I know. I’m just pointing out the irony. In any case” – he wondered if he was going to regret getting into this with her, but decided to take the risk – “you’re right. There is a certain illogic in it. But my religion isn’t about logic. It’s about faith.”
Jennifer squinted sceptically. “Yes, but – respectfully – that’s a copout. Faith is just a label. A way of ducking out of a rational argument. It’s… lazy.”
“So I’m lazy now, too?”
Jennifer sighed heavily, grabbed her handbag and stood up. “Look, I’m sorry, I – I’ll just go and sit somewhere else. I don’t want to upset you – again.”
Ferro laughed softly, “It’s fine, sit down. You haven’t upset me. I understand where you’re coming from.”
Jennifer stopped in the aisle. “You do?”
“Of course I do. I’m not stupid.”
Jennifer sat back down as Ferro continued, “I accept that my faith isn’t particularly rational. But I can’t just wish away my beliefs. I’ve had them all my life. Grew up with them. Organised religion has its flaws, but it’s also brought me a lot of comfort. If I’m wrong and there’s no God, no pearly gates, no everlasting life – fine, I’m wrong. But I’m not going to stop believing.”
Jennifer smiled warmly. Even though there was no chance of a meeting of minds on this subject, perhaps she admired his fortitude.
She diverted at just the right time, “And what about time travel? Do you still believe in that?”
“Wholeheartedly. But don’t worry, that’s not a case of ‘believing in things you can’t prove’ because I am proving it. The evidence is starting to stack up.”
“Will you tell me about it? I promise I won’t be as dismissive this time.”
She certainly seemed genuine. Ferro decided there was probably no harm in having another go at convincing her. He opened his messenger bag on the seat next to him, took out some photocopies of handwritten papers in the Chancery Standard of English and handed them to her.
“What are these?” she asked.
“Did you read the article I posted on my blog yesterday?” She was still one of his blog followers, but whether she read all his articles, he had no idea.
“Oh. No. I missed that one,” she admitted.
“Okay. It was about a journal written by Sir Lionel Frensham, one of Edward IV’s courtiers. Those are copies of it. I’ve just been at the Bodleian Library studying the original. For centuries the journal was in the possession of Frensham’s descendants, buried amongst old deeds and records in the cellar of a medieval country manor still owned by the family. One of the descendants discovered it in 2017 and handed it over to the Bodleian Library, who commissioned carbon-dating tests to verify its age.” Knowing Jennifer was a stickler for the evidence, he handed her a folder, saying, “Here’s a copy of the report.”
Jennifer briefly cast her eyes over the report, then looked at Ferro as if waiting for further explanation.
“Go ahead,” Ferro said. “I’ve bookmarked the relevant sections of the journal. I figured you’d prefer to read it yourself. Straight from the horse’s mouth and all that.”
“We are now approaching Litchmere,” said the automated woman over the tannoy.
“Mine’s the next stop,” said Jennifer. “Any chance you can give me the headlines?”
“Okay. Frensham says that one night in June 1482, he was summoned by the king from his bedchamber in the early hours. The servant who fetched him let slip that he’d overheard the king arguing with someone, and that whoever it was had questioned the king about a ‘book’. Frensham attended as ordered, discovering that the king had killed the man he’d argued with. Frensham was ordered to make arrangements to dispose of the man’s body and described finding a small pot of ‘strange red pills’ in the intruder’s hand. The king took the pills and Frensham never saw them again. He was also asked to make arrangements to convey the king to the Tower of London for an unknown purpose that very night.”
“I see.” She wore a squinted frown, now looking more intrigued than sceptical.
“That’s not all,” said Ferro. “Near the end of the journal, Frensham recounts that when Edward IV was on his deathbed less than a year later, he asked Frensham to deliver something to his son, the twelve-year-old Prince Edward. A package. It was sealed and Frensham, though curious, didn’t ask any questions about what was inside. He just did as his king commanded and delivered the package.”
Ferro could see the cogs turning in Jennifer’s head. “Prince Edward… He was… Wait. Wasn’t he the elder of – ?”
Ferro answered for her, “The Princes in the Tower, yes. Britain’s most famous missing persons case. How much do you know about them?”
Jennifer sat back in her seat and entwined her hands. “Well I know that Prince Edward was king for a matter of days before his uncle, Richard III, nabbed the throne for himself. And I know that Edward and his younger brother were sent by Richard to the Tower of London and disappeared. Probably murdered by Richard himself but nobody knows for sure.”
“Yes. Murder’s always been considered most likely, particularly after the skeletons of two children were found buried under a staircase in the White Tower in 1674.”
“Oh. Don’t remember hearing about that. Was it them?”
“No one knows. The bodies couldn’t be identified at the time, so they were buried at Westminster Abbey. They were re-examined in 1933 but the results were hardly conclusive. We don’t even know if the bodies were male or female. Historians have pushed for a re-excavation to identify the bones using DNA testing, but the Queen needs to grant permission for that. She hasn’t.”
“Mmm. So… this ‘package’ Frensham delivered to Prince Edward. What do you think it was?”
“I don’t know yet. But if Edward IV’s attacker was after a book…” Ferro was in speculative territory at this point and restrained himself. Jennifer wanted evidence, not assumptions.
“Do you think it’s connected somehow to the princes’ disappearance?”
“Possibly,” he said cautiously. “I have some books about the Princes in the Tower to go through and see if I can find references to this package. We’ll see.”
“We are now approaching Deepwater.”
As the train slowed, Jennifer opened her handbag and pulled out her phone. “Let me take your number. I’ll call you and we can meet up again, go through all this properly. If you want. I completely understand if you’d rather not.”
Ferro smiled. “That’s fine with me.” He gave her his number and she punched it into her phone.
“Great. I’ll check my diary and call you tomorrow sometime.”
Ferro nodded. “Speak then.”
Jennifer made her way to the doors and stepped off the train, immediately disappearing into the darkness of the platform.
As the train resumed its journey towards Norton Hill, Ferro couldn’t help but feel quietly elated that he was on the road to converting the uber-sceptic.
When Ferro got home, his high spirits dipped the moment he saw the divorce petition on his kitchen table. It had arrived two days ago but he was ignoring it. He had five more days to respond and planned to wait until the very last minute. Virtually everything had been agreed, but he still held out a sliver of hope that Beth might change her mind. Doubtful, but possible.
It was gone midnight but he poured a glass of wine and settled for a bit in the lounge to check his emails.
At the top of his inbox was an email sent a couple of hours ago by someone called Sophie Rousseau. The subject line read: Please can we meet.
He’d never heard of a Sophie Rousseau. Could’ve been junk – some foreigner offering him millions of dollars if he handed over all his personal details – but his spam filters were normally quite good at catching those. He opened the message to shed some light.
Dear Mr Ferro
> I hope you don’t mind me emailing you, but I have just been reading your blog and your theories about time travellers and I have some information. There are some striking similarities between the things you have discovered in your research on William II and the Black Death and something I witnessed myself twenty-two years ago.
I would rather not divulge anything more over email or phone but would like to meet you and explain. I live in France but can be in London next Monday. Can we meet at St Pancras station at around noon?
I look forward to hearing from you.
Regards,
Sophie Rousseau.
Ferro’s deflated spirits rose again. Without thinking, fingers itching with excitement, he typed back a reply that, yes, he could meet her at St Pancras station at noon next Monday.
9
August 30th 1997
Sophie Rousseau, devoted wife of a surgeon and mother to three children, lived in the small town of Lagny-en-Brie in the eastern suburbs of Paris. Sophie’s children had grown up and moved away, the last one having left the nest nearly a year ago. Finding herself alone for long stretches, husband Frédéric working increasingly demanding hours, Sophie decided six months ago to buy a gorgeous liver and white Basset Hound – Kimmy – to ease her loneliness.
Today Frédéric was working an all-day-all-night shift so Sophie embarked on a highly productive day in his absence. She walked Kimmy, cleaned the house, took a fresh bouquet of lilies to her mother’s grave, sewed up all the Kimmy-chewed holes in Frédéric’s socks, cooked dinner, fed Kimmy, walked Kimmy again, then settled finally to rewrite the penultimate chapter of her novel.
As always, work on her novel took place in a different time stream, one in which the minutes passed at twice their normal speed. It got to 1am and, right in the middle of a pivotal scene, Kimmy started whining.
She got up from her desk and saw Kimmy standing by the front door. “Seriously? You need to go out again?”
Kimmy barked and did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn on the spot. A yes.
