I stopped myself. I realized I probably wasn't making sense. Peter wasn't listening anyway. I went back to the kitchen, picked up my untouched cognac and took a sip.
It hit the spot after all.
"The Guardian is dead wrong." Peter tapped at my laptop's keys. "It was a bomb. I'm sure of it. These people have been threatening it for months. Pradeep was sure it was simply Internet blather, but I'm afraid he was wrong, too."
I felt a chill. All the anxiety I'd been fighting came rushing back. I tried to reassure myself as I took another sip and went back to the desk.
"Plant looked all right on TV. He was talking to reporters. There was some dust on his tuxedo, but otherwise, he looked fine. Although he didn't make a lot of sense."
Peter kept tapping. Somehow he managed to pull up the video of Plant.
I stood behind him in silence as it played.
"I suppose he may be in a hospital somewhere," I said, hoping to break the tension. "Should I try calling hospitals? I remember the hospital where they took the wounded was called Chelsea and something. Of course, he's probably perfectly fine and on his way to Swynsby..."
"Swynsby-on-Trent?" Peter turned and looked me full in the face. His eyes got scary. "Your friend is going to Swynsby? After saying that about Richard's burial? Good god, whatever for?"
"To see the Sherwood people, of course. About my royalties. I haven't been paid, you know." Now he had me seriously frightened. "Do you know something about what's happened to him?"
"No, but I know what's going to happen to him. You need to get hold of him now."
"Why?"
"He's in terrible danger. You saw what these people are capable of. Tell him he must not under any circumstances go to Swynsby."
Chapter 28—Plantagenet
Plant stood and tried to give the disapproving nun-like woman a friendly smile.
"I'm so glad you warned me. Being a werewolf would be awfully inconvenient, wouldn't it? Actually, I'm not the one who picked the monkshood..."
She gave him a skeptical look.
"It's just the sort of herb garden they would have grown in Richard's day. We try to keep things historically authentic."
The woman had the air of a person in charge. Maybe she could help find Vera.
"I don't suppose you know someone named Vera Winchester, do you?" Plant felt silly as soon as the words came out. "She used to work as the office manager at the publishing company a few blocks from here. Sherwood, Ltd."
"Sherwood? The place that publishes smutty books? I wouldn't know anybody there." The woman shook her head and pursed her lips. "I did hear about some bad business over there. Hooligans from West Yorkshire, they said. Made a right mess of the old place."
"Do you work here at the Old Hall?" Plant decided to play tourist. "I'd love to know more about this event. Is it to commemorate something?"
The woman looked pained.
"Oh my. Don't tell me you've just arrived? It's nearly done now."
"It's over? But what about all these people?"
The musicians and dancers didn't seem in a hurry to leave.
"There will be Morris dancing and such until sunset, but you only have about fifteen minutes before they close up the Hall. You must see it." The woman handed him a brochure that showed a photo of the famous painting of Richard III—the same painting referenced in Josephine Tey's book.
"I'm a docent here," she said. "I volunteer of a Sunday. We don't often have such exciting goings-on. Do make sure you see the bedrooms upstairs, where King Richard slept. And don't miss the view from the tower."
"It is 1483," the glossy brochure said. "Richard III has announced a grand tour of his kingdom to mark his recent coronation. The Hall at Swynsby-upon-Trent is on the king's royal itinerary, and now the lord of the manor has engaged musicians, cooks, and fighters to entertain the king. See, hear, smell and experience the Wars of the Roses in a very special event!"
"Hurry." The woman pointed to the doors at the back of the building and a sign for The Old Hall Gift Shop. "There may still be some reenactors inside, although I think most are at the mead wagon by now."
Things did seem to be getting noisy in the food vending area, which smelled of beer and honey and roast pork.
Plant walked quickly past the drinkers and headed for the Hall—which was possibly the oldest building he'd ever visited. Parts of it were built before Columbus landed in the Americas, the brochure said. He was overwhelmed at the thought. He was walking into history. It was like time traveling.
But his way was blocked by a large man wearing tights and puffy little trousers.
"We close in fifteen minutes. Nobody allowed in," the man said.
"Can't I just have a peek inside the Hall?" Plant said. "I've come all the way from San Francisco."
"You've come from California to Swynsby? By choice? Are ye daft?"
"I only came from London today." Plant gave what he hoped was a self-deprecating smile. "I saw a wonderful production of Shakespeare's Richard III last night. And I heard I about this place. They say King Richard slept here? Everyone says I must see the inside. Unfortunately, I have to go back to London tomorrow."
Plant hoped he came across as a bumbling tourist. The airplane carry-on bag should give the man a clue.
He studied Plant for a moment. "Don't I know you from someplace?"
"Not unless you've been to California recently. Or you watch American awards shows. I won an Oscar once."
The man smiled. "Oh we watch the Academy Awards here. Because Brits usually win them, don't we? Are you an actor?"
"No. Just a writer."
The man studied Plant as if "writer" might be tattooed somewhere on his person.
Finally he stepped aside.
"I reckon I can let you in, but it'll still cost you six quid."
Chapter 29—Camilla
I felt like strangling Peter Sherwood—or whatever his name was now. He had left me at the computer and gone off to the kitchen to refill his glass as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on my head.
I ran into the kitchen after him and yanked the bottle out of his hand.
"What do you mean Plant's in danger? What the hell is going on? No more cognac until you tell me. Everything!"
"Oh, my, what happened to the Manners Doctor?" He gave me one of his puckish grins.
It didn't work.
"The Manners Doctor is officially angry. Sit down and tell me everything." I filled a tall glass with tap water so I couldn't be accused of withholding hospitality. I pointed to the dining table that sat between the kitchen and living room areas.
Unfortunately Buckingham had taken up residence on one of the two chairs.
"Over there, then." I pointed to the couch. "Sit."
Peter accepted the water glass, went to the living room couch and sat. At least he was more obedient than Buckingham.
"Where should I begin?"
"The beginning is always good." I sat opposite him in my reading chair.
"That might be tedious. It began in 1483, when Richard III came to Swynsby-upon-Trent. The town was divided, even then, between Yorkists and Lancastrians. And of course Richard III was from the house of York and his successor, Henry Tudor claimed the throne through his mother, who was the great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster."
He took a sip from the glass.
"Your water is bloody awful."
It was true Morro Bay water had a brackish taste that was hard to get used to. I usually bought bottled water, but money had been so tight, I had to drink it. So Peter would too.
"Talk," I said, even though I knew I was being rude. "And skip the history lesson. I've read Philippa Gregory. I know about the Wars of the Roses."
Buckingham sauntered over and jumped on Peter's lap.
This did nothing to soothe my anger. So far, the cat had shunned my own lap and had only ventured as far as sitting next to me on the couch.
"All right." Peter stroked Buckingham, who immediately began t
o purr. "I suppose you know about how they recently found Richard's bones in a car park in Leicester, not far from Swynsby."
I nodded. I realized I'd put myself in a corner here. I would have liked to finish my own cognac, but I'd be wildly impolite to drink it in front of him when I was forcing him to drink tap water.
"But you probably don't know about The Poisonous Bunch-Back Toad." Peter made a face as he sipped more water.
"Isn't that what Shakespeare called Richard III in the play?"
Plant had been telling me about the play, since he was so excited about seeing Kevin Spacey in the part.
"It's also the name of a novel. A rather good novel, written by one Hinckley Lutterworth. Published by our Major Oak imprint several months ago."
I gasped as things started to fall into place. That's why the Lutterworth name had sounded slightly familiar.
"Oh, yes. It's a bestseller. We've ordered it but it hasn't come in."
Peter nodded. "Mr. Lutterworth attempts to prove that Mr. Shakespeare was right in his portrait of Richard III and portrays Henry Tudor as the heroic savior of England. Pradeep Balasubramariam, who edited your book, acquired Lutterworth's book for us. Henry Weems approved it. I would have too, if I'd been available, although unfortunately I was living in a remote part of Tasmania at the time. Whilst I was in Risdon Vale, I had no access to communications from the outside world..."
I found this all rather ominous. Not only was Hinckley Lutterworth the name mentioned in my threatening reviews and email, but I also knew the name Risdon Vale. It had featured in an Australian crime novel I'd read a few weeks ago.
"Risdon Vale?" I said. "Isn't that a prison? Have you been smuggling faux designer handbags again?"
Peter gave me an infuriatingly cute smile.
"Not handbags. Never again. No this was watches. And yes, Risdon Vale is a prison." Peter took another gulp from his glass. "But they served me considerably better-tasting water."
Chapter 30—Plantagenet
Plant counted out the big brown pound coins and gave them to the man in puffy pants.
"You'll want to see upstairs first," the man said with a begrudging smile. "They close up the bedrooms first. And the tower."
Plant climbed the narrow stairs. People must have had much smaller feet 500 years ago. He had to balance on his toes.
They'd obviously been shorter, too. The elegant canopied bed in the master bedroom looked as if it would accommodate maybe a ten-year-old and a smallish cocker spaniel.
Plant checked his watch. Ten minutes until four. If he was going to get his six pounds worth, he should probably go to the tower first. The brochure said the views were spectacular.
The lights dimmed—probably a signal for visitors to wrap up their tours.
He followed the floor plan printed on the brochure and walked quickly past the bedrooms, heading for the small arched doorway to the tower.
He could hear someone coming down the hallway at a run. Another tourist in a hurry to see everything, no doubt.
But when runner came around the corner, Plant could see he was one of the performers. He wore velvet and gold cloth, and a rather spectacular hat. Young and handsome, with a black Prince Valiant haircut. He held is right shoulder slightly higher than his left.
This was somebody impersonating Richard III himself.
He must have been recently reenacting the battle of Bosworth or some other strenuous historical scene. His pale face glistened with sweat. There was a smear of something reddish on his sleeve that looked like blood.
He grabbed Plant's arm.
"So much for Buckingham," he said.
Plant gave what he hoped was an appreciative smile.
"Of course," he said, remembering his Shakespeare class at Princeton. 'Off with his head. So much for Buckingham': the most famous line of Shakespeare that Shakespeare never wrote. As I remember it was added by some eighteenth-century actor..."
"We had nowt to do wi' it," the man said in some archaic dialect. "Them in the Tower. It weren't us what killed them."
He seemed to be speaking with the royal "we". Apparently the actor/reenactor was staying in character—very much the Josephine Tey version of Richard: A bit of a victim, very good-looking, and oh, so innocent.
"So I've read." Plant moved toward the tower door. "I've just been reading The Daughter of Time. I understand many people believe you were an excellent king who didn't murder any princes."
"Not princes. Dukes," Richard said. "Two dukes. Dead as doornails. In the bleeding tower."
The man might look the Richard part, but he seemed a bit confused. Maybe even high. His eyes were glassy. Plant made a dramatic look at his watch.
"I only have ten more minutes, they tell me. Is that the tower door?" He pointed at the archway.
The actor nodded. "You don't want to go there. Not now."
"I realize I only have a few minutes. I'll walk fast".
"You have been warned." Richard dashed down the hallway in less than regal fashion. Probably running outside for some of that mead. He looked as if he might have worked up a powerful thirst.
Behind the arched doorway was a spiral staircase enclosed in stone: a steep, claustrophobic tube. The tower was taller than it had looked from the ground. Plant was panting by the time he got to the top.
He heard the minstrels from the green below as he stepped out onto the tower roof. Unfortunately the place gave off a god-awful smell, as if somebody had been using the roof as a toilet.
He could see the Morris Dancers—tiny from here—doing their ritualistic steps out on the green.
But he was not alone in the tower.
A reenactor was still here. Not two princes—or dukes—but one. One man dressed in aristocratic medieval finery. Taking a nap. Maybe passed out from too much mead.
The actor lay on his side, with his face toward the wall, in what looked like an uncomfortable sleeping position.
Then Plant saw he lay in a pool of ooze—a reddish puddle that stained the floor of the tower. And some spatter on the stone wall beside him. Plant felt queasy. He'd never been able to stomach the sight of blood.
As he fought dizziness, he stepped around to look at the man's face, hoping somehow he might be alive—simply reenacting a bloody historical scene.
But he looked quite dead.
He also looked quite like Neville, his mysterious friend from the Old Vic.
Chapter 31—Camilla
Peter's elfin grin filled me with a combination of anger and what I had to admit was attraction.
The man could still charm me.
Why wasn't I immune by now? He'd just admitted he'd recently been in prison.
"The book?" I said, trying to get back to the situation at hand. "What do Hinckley Lutterworth and his book have to do with me?"
Peter petted Buckingham, who was purring away on his lap. They looked totally at home, lounging happily on my couch. I wished I could feel that relaxed.
"The Poisonous Bunch-Back Toad is a brilliant book," Peter said. "Well written and fast paced. We got it to a reviewer at the Times who compared Lutterworth favorably to Hilary Mantel. He hit the bestseller lists in England and America within weeks."
"Yes. I know. I remember the title now. I do run a bookstore. My Sherwood order hasn't arrived yet from Ingram."
"And it won't, I'm afraid. Our inventory was destroyed. The attackers broke into the factory and dragged the pallets of Lutterworth's books into the car park and set them on fire. In the name of Richard III, apparently. They also trashed the building. As you saw.”
"That was over a historical novel?" I wondered if Peter might not be making this up as he went along. "I can't believe people would be that violent because of a man who's been dead for over 500 years. Are they still fighting the Wars of the Roses?"
Peter let out a big laugh.
"Yes. That's exactly what they're doing. They were joined by some tossers from Doncaster—Yorkists all—who were in town for a football match and fueled b
y quantities of beer from the Merry Miller down the road. They took all the pub's dustbins and hurled the contents at the factory. Broke several windows, injured Henry Weems, and terrified Vera out of her wits. Liam and Davey, apparently trying to protect her honor, were swept up in the melee and when the police arrived, they arrested Liam and Davey as well as the miscreants."
"Oh, my goodness. Are they still in jail?"
"No. They weren't charged with anything, but they were shaken. They've both been inside before, you know. Now they've gone to stay with friends, since the Maidenette building isn't habitable with so many windows broken. Vera escaped with a few cuts and bruises, and Henry is still recovering after a night in hospital in Nottingham. "
"What about everybody else? Charlie Vicars and Pradeep and Meggy—did they get hurt?"
"Luckily Pradeep and Meggy are safely off in Mumbai. He's come into some money, so they've been taking an extended vacation to introduce their new baby to his relatives. But the place is unusable until clean-up can be done, which won't happen until Henry is back to health and can hire some cleaners and glaziers."
"What about the author? This Hinckley Lutterworth? Why are they attacking him on my book pages? Why aren't they stalking him?"
"Because nobody knows where he is. Nobody's even met him. Well, except Pradeep, but he's keeping everything very hush-hush. Mr. Lutterworth has no online presence and all we know is he lives somewhere in the East Midlands. Perhaps Leicester."
"Where they found Richard III's body?"
Peter nodded and took a sip of water—without the drama this time.
"Yes. And if they find him, he'll be in serious danger from these lunatics. Henry managed to contact me and convinced me it was time for Peter Sherwood to be resurrected from his watery grave to deal with the crisis. And the first thing I discovered when I came ashore and went to an Internet café was that the attacks had gone digital and landed on the pages of all the Sherwood authors. You included."
So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 Page 9
