“You must be the priest.”
The man smiled. “I’m Father Martin Fisher, priest of the parish.”
“Jen.”
He smiled warmly at her. “I’m pleased to meet you, Jen. I take it just a flying visit.”
She hesitated and revealed her purpose.
“What a fascinating career,” the priest replied.
She smiled. “Thanks. I was thinking just now how great it would be to do some filming here. The memorial stone is obviously relevant…who would I need to ask for permission?”
“Me.” He smiled.
She laughed awkwardly. “Would it be possible, perhaps Friday?”
“I would have no objection whatsoever.”
She smiled again, this time less forced. Almost immediately they heard a voice from nearby, evidently the woman Jen had just been talking to.
“Please excuse me.”
“Sure. Thank you, Father.”
Jen watched the priest depart, heading toward the interior of the church. Jen, meanwhile, returned her gaze to the window. A metre to her right the cloister came to an end as it joined with the wall that surrounded the presbytery.
She turned away, heading toward the door from where the priest had come. She could tell from the doorway the passageway led to an underground vault.
As she considered entering, her phone rang.
6
Buckingham Palace
Buckingham Palace is a place that needs no introduction. Situated at the end of the Mall, the half-mile-long road at the heart of the City of Westminster, it is famous for one thing.
Being the home of the British Royal Family.
Originally constructed in 1705 as a home for the Duke of Buckingham, it was bought by George III in 1761 as a present for his wife, Queen Charlotte, and renamed from Buckingham House to The Queen’s House. After its enlargement in the 19th century, the expanded palace became the primary residence of Queen Victoria and has been the home of the Royal Family ever since.
Escorted by an armed guard, three men made their way along the main corridor of the third floor of the palace and through an elaborate set of double doors.
Inside, the room matched all prior expectation. Red carpet and drapery decorated the floor and large windows, perfectly complementing a further three strong walls, painted bright yellow and decorated by priceless works of art. A large Belgian chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling, an exquisite shade of white that matched the original fireplace. A number of Victorian busts and small statues were located at various points around the perimeter. Unlike most of the offices or conference rooms that the three men were used to, the chairs in the reception room were also one hundred years out of date and monetarily priceless. All were vacant bar one, the room’s owner.
The King of England.
The King rose quickly to his feet. Unlike his appearance of several hours earlier, he now wore his trademark military regalia.
The dark navy blue uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet in the Royal Navy.
“Let’s keep this brief, shall we, chaps? As I’m sure you are all aware, I have one or two rather pressing engagements to follow.”
The Home Secretary looked on uncomfortably. “Sir, may I introduce my right honourable friend, Mr Dominic West, one of my ministers at the Home Office, and our Tory MP for somewhere up in the north, no joke intended, West.”
The man with fair hair smiled nervously. Unlike the Home Secretary and the other man present, this was his first trip to the palace.
The Home Secretary resumed. “You, of course, already know Bridges, Director General of MI5.”
The man from MI5 smiled weakly as he placed his glasses to the corner of his mouth. Like the Home Secretary, his once dark hair was now largely grey.
The King eyed each man in turn, ending with Bridges. “I trust Tim has given you the brief, Colin?”
The man from MI5 glanced at the Home Secretary and nodded. “Yes, sir, he did.”
The King began to pace. “Now then, gentlemen, what in heaven’s name are we dealing with?”
None of the three were willing to speak.
“Colin, let’s start with you.”
“The man’s name, Majesty, is Andrew Simon Morris. Born 15 August, 1979, in the city of Leeds; baptised six months later and raised Catholic; left school with practically no qualifications; eventually he found work with the merchant navy and later the royal before leaving to apparently become a Dominican friar.”
The King nodded, taking it all in. “I suppose the most important question I could ask is, is this man telling us the truth?”
The DG of MI5 was unconvinced. “The man is clinically insane, sir.”
“Is that an opinion or a diagnosis?” the King asked.
“It is the firm opinion of three independent psychiatrists, sir. I trust their opinion.”
“Insane or not,” West began, “everything that the friar has told us so far that has been possible to verify has indeed been verified. Like it or not, two of my colleagues have recently been found dead. Had it not been for this man, the death of my boss would have been wrongly written off as accidental.”
The King accepted the point. “Have you made any progress regarding what caused the explosion?”
Bridges nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And?”
The man from MI5 hesitated, slightly uncharacteristically. “Tests on the car suggest evidence of tampering.”
West was not surprised. “Well, there you have it,” he said, buoyed. “Majesty, surely this proves it.”
The King remained unmoved. “Has this friar fellow been interrogated since?”
“Sir, the man has been interrogated on several occasions,” Bridges began, “and every time the result has been the same. As I say, the man has been proven insane.”
“Just because one is insane, does not mean one is a liar,” said West.
“How exactly were they killed?” asked Heston.
“Some form of remotely controlled explosive device,” West interrupted. “I’ve read the report. As I’m sure you’re aware, following the death of the Secretary of State for Justice, the responsibilities of the office now lie solely with me. And frankly, it is sadly my opinion that the JIC seems to be dragging its heels somewhat.”
The King looked on, now slightly worried. He knew from his meeting with Dr Grant that the exact method of his father’s death was still to be proven.
Despite confirmation of foul play.
“How exactly were they murdered, Colin?”
“From initial examination, it seems that some form of manually detonated explosive is the most plausible explanation.”
The King nodded. “And you agree that this friar was the man responsible?”
“There is no concrete evidence for that, sir.”
“No evidence,” West said, dumbstruck. “The man has already confessed.”
“We have the man’s word,” Bridges replied. “The word of a madman alone is not proof, nor is the word alone of a sane man.”
“That’s quite true.” The King nodded, still pacing slowly across the carpet. Today, no one was sitting. “What else ties the killings to him?”
“Only conjecture,” Bridges said.
“Majesty, the case against Morris is watertight,” West said.
“The case against Morris is strong,” Heston corrected.
“Has he provided us with any further explanation as to why he carried out the killings?” the King asked.
Bridges shook his head. “No, sir.”
“How about his employers?”
“He merely repeats the same words: Beware the Sons of York.”
The King nodded.
Nothing new.
“What of his more recent history?”
Bridges answered, “Morris left the merchant navy at the age of twenty-one and signed up with the RN until he was kicked out at age twenty-seven–”
“On what grounds?” the King interrupted.
&nbs
p; “Dishonourable discharge.”
“For hitting a superior,” West added.
Bridges was unimpressed.
“How about since then?” the King asked.
“Nothing concrete. His navy record confirms his age is now thirty-four. He hasn’t given any details of his present life.”
“What of his order?”
“His personal keepsakes suggest he’s a Dominican. Initial inquiries into his mother house have come up fruitless.”
The King nodded. “And what of his present location?”
“The usual place.”
“Which is?” asked West.
“Sorry, Minister, I am not at liberty to say,” Bridges replied.
The King turned his back on the three visitors and headed toward the window. Outside, a large number of tourists had gathered as they always did around the gate or the statues while others made their way toward St James’s Park.
“Keep trying,” Heston said to Bridges. “Soften him up a bit. Perhaps he might feel like talking.”
“I’ve already put five of my best men on him, Minister.”
The King continued to look out across the grounds.
“As, gentlemen, shall I.”
7
Jen returned to her room after leaving the church. She had started the day in London before six and felt the worse for wear because of it.
She lay on the bed, her eyes on the window. In the distance she could just about see the sun sinking slowly behind the distant hill. For several minutes she focused on it. The brightness of the sun shining on the perfect scenery somehow created the illusion of timelessness.
It seemed impossible the village was the scene of such a heinous crime.
She had spoken to her producer on returning to the room. She assumed the worst from their conversation earlier that day, and sure enough, that was now confirmed. The documentary would be delayed for at least three days, perhaps longer.
Ideally she wanted to return to London, but her producer suggested otherwise. Put the time to good use, ‘make sure every angle gets covered’, her boss’s exact words. Had the documentary been for something else, the setting might well have been enjoyable, but the situation was disturbing. She remembered from watching the news a year earlier that the locals could be protective of their privacy. Even today, she had detected as much. Ideally she wanted to question some of the locals.
But she knew she must do so with tact.
By 7:20 she was feeling lonely, and, more importantly, she hadn’t eaten for over eight hours. After changing her clothes and checking her appearance in the mirror, she made her way down to the bar area.
The White Boar Inn was the heart of the village, and even on a Monday it was not deserted. Known locally as the Hog, it was the kind of place where a local could come along for a few pints with the regulars or for a couple to enjoy a quiet meal.
In the main dining area, at least four tables were in use, its wooden chairs frequented by local families. In the bar area, most kept themselves to themselves, the odd curious gaze in Jen’s direction reminding her she was on unknown ground. Two rugged locals were propping up the bar, their attention alternating between each other and their pints. One was fat, one was thin; one had grey hair, the other brown. Directly opposite them, the owner stood silently, his hands busy wiping a dirty glass.
The thin man with brown hair eyed Jen inquisitively as she passed.
“Ey up,” the man said. “Who do we have here?”
“That there is Miss Farrelly,” the owner of the White Boar, Harvey Mitchell said, still drying a glass. “She’s the one with the Picanto.”
“A Picanto?” the man said. “What’s a Picanto?”
“You don’t know what a Picanto is?”
The man looked back with a blank expression.
“I know what a Picanto is,” said the fat man sitting alongside him.
The thinner man looked at him. “Well, go on then, smarty-pants.”
“A Picanto is a piece of art by Picanto.”
Mitchell’s expression was one of disbelief. “That’s Picasso, you great twit, not Picanto.”
The thinner man turned around, now looking at Jen. “It isn’t a type of dog, is it?”
Jen looked at them both, then Mitchell, for now unable to respond.
“Ey, I know,” the thinner man said. “Maybe a Picanto is simply…a Picanto.”
For several seconds no one spoke.
“By gum, I think he’s cracked it this time,” Harvey Mitchell said, as the three locals burst into laughter. Standing alongside them, Jen smiled.
Silently she was dumbstruck.
“So what exactly is a Picanto, Miss Farrelly?” the thinner man asked.
“A Picanto’s a car, you great Jessie,” Mitchell said. “Pay no attention to these barnpots, love; they’ve never been quite right in the head.”
Leaning against the bar, Jen struggled to keep a straight face.
“Oh, right,” the thinner man said. “I’d like to see your Picanto if you don’t mind, Miss Farrelly.”
“Well, it’s just outside, so be my guest.”
“Well, thanks very much, I think I might just do that,” he said, laughing.
“Miss Farrelly is just with us for the week,” Mitchell said. “She’s researching a documentary on the disappearance.”
“Is that right, Miss Farrelly? Are you here to research a documentary?”
Jen looked inquisitively at the landlord. “I never told you I was here to research a documentary.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. I was told by that one who cleans the church.”
“Cleans the church,” the thinner of the two barflies said. “You haven’t been speaking to Martha Brown, have you?”
The fatter barfly laughed. “Gossip central, she is. Pound to a penny it’ll be all over Wootton by closing time.”
Jen smiled half-heartedly. She knew that the disappearance was a sensitive issue, but at least these three seemed undisturbed by the memory of it all.
“Ey, pay no attention to our Gavin,” the thinner man said. “His mouth has always been larger than his forehead. Here, let me buy you a drink, Miss Farrelly.”
“I was actually hoping to get some food,” Jen said, looking at Mitchell.
“Restaurant is open until nine, or if you prefer, you can get bar food here – that way you can continue to talk to these two idiots.”
Jen laughed, not knowing what else to do. “Do you have a menu for the bar?”
Mitchell passed Jen a menu. She scanned it quickly and settled for the cheeseburger with chips.
“Anything to drink?” Mitchell asked.
“Just a Coke, please.”
“Here, let me buy this,” the thinner man offered.
“Thanks,” Jen said, placing her hair behind her right ear, “Mr…”
“Hancock. Brian Hancock.”
The man offered his hand, and Jen accepted. “Thank you, Mr Hancock.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Farrelly, please call me Brian.”
Jen smiled, this time more warmly, half amused, half not wanting to offend. She looked around the bar area, taking in the sights. No matter where she looked, she saw thick wooden beams crossing the large beige-coloured ceiling, reflecting the yellow of the wall lights. Although the inn was far from empty, many of the tables and booths were vacant.
It was cosy, but she guessed it wasn’t a place that was regularly frequented by outsiders.
“So you work in telly? I always fancied myself as a bit of a film star, me.” Hancock laughed as he reached for his pint. “You weren’t down here before, were you? I mean a year ago?”
“No, I was working on something else then.”
“Ah, I thought I didn’t remember seeing your face. Never forget a face.”
“Just everything else,” Mitchell said, as he passed Jen her Coke. “That’ll be £7.49, then, please, Mr Hancock.”
Hancock smirked as he passed over the change. “Don’
t forget to take one for yourself, Harvey.”
“Did you know her well?” Jen asked.
“What? Debra?” Hancock asked. “Not a person in the whole village who didn’t.”
She expected nothing less. “How about the boy?”
So far no one had spoken of the alleged culprit.
“Again, they were both local, you see. It’s a small village here, Wootton. Everyone knows everything about everyone in these parts.”
Jen sipped her Coke as she listened. The thought intrigued her. In London, she was used to the opposite. Though she was reluctant to take gossip on face value, she knew that local knowledge could be a reputable source.
And often an easy one to tap.
“What was he like, the lad?”
“I never liked him,” the man named Gavin said, beating Hancock to a response. Until now he had seemed less interested in Jen.
Jen was intrigued. “Any particular reason?”
“Mainly his personality.”
Jen smiled. “Was he selfish? Unpleasant? Arrogant?”
“No. He was one of those.”
“One of what, sorry?”
“He wasn’t quite right in the head.”
Hancock shook his head. “Poor lad was autistic.”
“You’re certain?” Although Jen was aware of the rumours, she had yet to hear any firm confirmation.
“Well, that might not be the technical name for it.”
Jen nodded, unwilling to push the issue. “You didn’t know him well?”
Hancock shrugged. “Didn’t really see him that much, to be fair. He didn’t appear that much in public.”
“Any idea where he went to school?”
“St Joseph’s secondary, that’s the Catholic school.”
“No,” Gavin interrupted. “He didn’t go to St Joseph’s; he went to that special school.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Hancock remembered. “He used to go to St Joseph’s. Then his mother took him to another school.”
For the first time Jen was learning something new. Right or wrong, she knew it would be easy enough to check.
“Why did he leave St Joseph’s?”
“Ah, well, it’s quite sad, really. The poor lad was being bullied.”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 4
