What Thomas saw left him speechless. It was as if the prison cells of the past, like those of the building above, had been established again in this modern-day facility, over fifty metres below the surface.
“Here he is,” Edmondes said, pointing.
For several seconds Thomas looked at what appeared to be an empty cell. Then, he saw movement on the floor. Something was there, definitely alive. He could see blond hair, probably bleached, and crew cut.
The man sat with his back to the newcomers, stripped to the waist and with his hands joined together. From Thomas’s position, the man appeared to be meditating.
Thomas placed his head to the bars, the cold metal bracing against his forehead. The air was heavy and musty, the smell, he guessed, a depressing combination of steel, a recently painted wall and the man’s natural odour.
The prince looked at Edmondes. “I need not detain you any longer, sir. You may go about your business.”
The request made Edmondes uneasy. Metal railings or not, he didn’t feel safe leaving the prince alone.
“Capt–”
“I said that will be all, sir.”
Edmondes nodded and reluctantly left the room, the automatic door closing swiftly behind him.
Now alone, Thomas concentrated on the cell. A basic single bed had been placed in the corner where two walls met. The paint was fresh, explaining the smell. All of the walls were painted a monotonous grey. The toilet aside, the only other furniture was a small desk in the opposite corner.
There were no windows, no televisions, no reading material.
To the prince, looking at the grey walls and panelled lights on the ceiling was like looking into a pit of despair.
Thomas stood with his arms folded, his eyes on the prisoner.
“Who are you?”
He received no response; instead the man continued to sit perfectly still with his back to the railings and his hands joined together.
“Show yourself!”
Again there was no sign of acknowledgment. The prince walked to one side of the bars and then back to the other. He stopped again, his head leaning against the railing.
Even topless the prisoner looked like a monk. Looking him over completely, the humble barefoot appearance and grey trousers – approximately half of the standard uniform of the prison inmates – suited a man of piety. The man carried himself with a certain radiance, even purpose.
Inwardly, Thomas admired the man’s concentration.
“Who are you?”
Again nothing.
Just complete and utter stillness.
Thomas stood still for at least another minute. Looking at the man’s back, it was impossible to see whether he was even awake.
He pretended to leave.
“I have been waiting a long time for you, Captain. It saddens me that you should give up so quickly.”
The prince stopped and looked again at the man in the cell.
Apart from his mouth, the man had still not moved.
“Didn’t they teach you in the navy that you must stand to face a superior?”
The prince waited for a reaction, but again none was forthcoming. He swallowed, composing himself.
“Enough playing games. On your feet. Stand!”
He shouted the final word, which echoed around the cell. Although the prisoner remained initially unmoved, Thomas noticed a slight turn of his head.
The figure turned further, revealing other parts of his body. For the first time Thomas could make out facial features. The man appeared younger than he had expected, looking no more than thirty. He was white, slim but well built, and, judging from his accent, a native of the north of England.
Morris looked at the prince for the first time, his eyes on the uniform. He made lengthy eye contact before looking up at the silver panels on the ceiling.
“They can see us, you know.”
Thomas remained unmoved. “Who can?”
The man rose to his feet and walked toward the bars. “For over five hundred years your ancestors have sat on the throne of England. Even to this day your family refuses to give up what has never been rightfully yours.”
Thomas folded his arms, confused. “And what might that be?”
The friar laughed, his smile immediately fading. “Soon the rightful inheritors will at last be restored. Accept it, and you may yet live…”
The man gripped the bars.
“Or perhaps you would prefer a different fate.”
Again Thomas was rendered speechless. He looked the prisoner directly in the eye, the window to the soul. Out of keeping with his hair, the man’s eyes were a deep shade of caramel, broken by red veins, perhaps evidence of an infection. In the light, one eye seemed slightly darker than the other, be it a trick or the use of a contact lens, the prince, in truth, was unsure.
“Enough games. Who are you working for?”
“They can see us. Even now. They’re watching us.”
Thomas maintained eye contact as the friar tightened his grip on the bars. He considered speaking but for now decided against it. The man’s concentration was resolute and unblinking.
Almost as though he was looking at a statue.
Morris moved. “Boo!”
The prince jumped, only slightly but enough to excite the prisoner.
“I must say I expected better of you, Captain. A prince of the realm. You are unworthy to be classed in the category of the princes of old.”
“So you know who I am?”
“I know many things.”
Thomas folded his arms, his attention on the man’s torso. There was a tattoo below the left side of his collarbone. It looked like a flower.
“How long have you had that?”
No response, just eye contact.
“Wh-who are you working for?”
The friar moved closer, his body touching the bars.
He spat in Thomas’s face.
The prince remained unmoved. He kept his eyes shut, a reflex from the spit. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the saliva.
The prisoner placed his head to the bars a second time. “Enjoy yourself, son of Clarence. Soon the rightful inheritors shall return. And my work will just be beginning.”
Thomas moved closer to the bars, his face almost touching them. He held the prisoner’s gaze.
The expression in the man’s eyes confirmed his initial suspicions.
Thomas’s reactions were too fast. The prince placed his hands through the bars, grabbing the prisoner’s upper body.
The friar was struggling. The strength of his arms caused Morris to leave the floor. With one swift movement, he turned, his back now to the bars.
“Right, time to drop the charade.”
All Morris could feel was a hand to his neck and another to his upper body.
“Who put you up to this?”
Morris wriggled uncomfortably. Despite the choking sensation, the friar was able to laugh scornfully.
Thomas held him tightly, his hand restricting his air passages. “Tell me, who are you working for?”
The prisoner continued to struggle. He laughed, managing little more than a gagging sound against the prince’s firm hand.
“Tell me who you are working for, and I shall release you.”
“I do not crave release. Nor do I fear death.”
Thomas pounded him against the bars, causing red marks to appear on the friar’s back. “You really believe it to be a secret worth dying for?”
The man struggled to breathe. He fought the feeling of gravity, kicking against the bars. All the while Thomas’s grip remained strong.
Morris choked. “Talbot.”
As the kicking became wilder, the prince dropped him to the floor. Morris fell heavily, the impact hardest on his right knee. The sound of squealing aside, the first thing Thomas noticed was a definite change in the atmosphere.
Gone the resolute hatred and arrogance.
Replacing it, heavy breathing.
<
br /> “Talbot?” Thomas repeated. “J-Jack Talbot?”
The question went unanswered. He considered asking again, but the prisoner was breathless.
At least he had something worth checking.
The prince straightened his jacket and headed for the door.
“You will never find them,” the friar said. His voice had changed slightly; without question it was less powerful. Slowly he rose to his feet. As he approached the bars, he gestured the prince to approach.
Tentatively the prince came nearer.
“Beware the Sons of York. Beware!”
The prince eyed the prisoner for what seemed like a lifetime before turning away, heading through the door.
“They can see you.”
Back at ground level, the son of the Duke of Clarence marched swiftly along the side of the River Thames, still riled by the recent episode. He got into a black Ford, parked discreetly some twenty metres from the nearest lamppost, and began heading east.
He looked to his right as he drove. Out of the window, the Tower dominated the view, its foreboding structure backlit by the night sky like a halo. Quietly, Thomas replayed in his mind the recent events in the facility below the ground.
Though it had been frustrating, he had unearthed one important lead.
Alone in his cell, the prisoner gazed up at the ceiling. The lights above were blinding, partially reflected by the white panels that surrounded them.
He lowered himself onto one knee and concentrated on the area where the walls met the ceiling.
“Forgive me, Father.”
Over 250 miles north, a lone figure sat quietly, his eyes on the screen in front of him. The scene he had just witnessed had been revealing. He had already seen at least twelve different men interrogate the prisoner, but this man was by far the most high profile yet.
Part one of the plan had indeed succeeded.
The royals were taking him seriously.
12
Jen was awake by 8:30 the next morning. She heard a noise coming from the corridor, possibly another guest, possibly the maid, closing a door and walking toward the stairs.
Jen rolled over in the bed, yawning. The location was charming; in truth even better than she had remembered. The room was bathed in a bright yellow hue caused by the sunlight against the colour of the curtains. The large oak tree that had occupied the site outside her window for the last five hundred years created a shadow across the far wall, even through the curtains. Outside, she could hear the chirping of birds and the flapping of wings. It had been a long time since she had woken to such a sound.
She could tell it was shaping up to be a warm day.
She sat up slowly, placing her back against the pillow. The soft, thick duvet that had wrapped itself around her snugly, creating a nice heat against her legs, loosened slightly, allowing some of the air to escape. For the briefest of moments she considered staying there, fleeting her time away within the comfort of the soft linen.
The ringing of the telephone spoilt the quietness.
She answered.
“This is your wake-up call. Your wake-up call.”
Jen smiled as she put down the receiver. The American accent of the automated voice seemed completely at odds with her present location. She wondered whether anyone had ever thought about recording a more local version: something like ‘get out of bed, you big Jessie,’ or ‘ey up, you’re gonna be late’. She laughed to herself as she considered the local candidates: Ratcliffe, Hancock…Harvey Mitchell.
Reluctantly she removed the duvet, at last coming to terms with her life outside the bed. She entered the ensuite and looked herself over in the mirror.
What she saw disgusted her, even though many would have said the opposite. Her shoulder-length, sandy-coloured hair was straight and surprisingly presentable, despite nine hours on the pillow. She had meant to get it cut last week; she had said the same thing the week before. Ever since moving to London, time always seemed to get away from her. Lack of vitamin D was another negative. Coming from Nottinghamshire, she was used to living without sunlight, but living in the capital was starting to play havoc with her fitness. Her skin was white, ghostly white to her, and added at least ten years to her in her mind.
She concentrated on her forehead: traces of acne were beginning to present themselves, more obviously visible as she wasn’t wearing make-up. She screamed to herself in a low-pitched whine as she stared incessantly at the huge volcanoes occupying the areas between her eyebrows and hair. She rubbed against them vigorously, then decided not to proceed.
Maybe one of these days she’d finally clear adolescence, she thought to herself. Maybe then she’d find herself a real boyfriend.
Rather than the muppets she seemed to be a magnet to.
Her telephone rang for the second time in five minutes. Leaving the ensuite, she answered.
“I have that address you were asking for, Miss Farrelly,” a woman began, “the one for the old school.”
Jen recognised the voice of Tara Simpson, the kind barmaid/receptionist/waitress/goodness knows what else who had shown her to her room yesterday.
“Thank you, Tara, let me just write this down.”
Jen left the inn at just after 9:30 and headed toward the high street. She exchanged banter with Harvey Mitchell on the way down, and told him of her wish to stay for another three nights. That was fine, the man said; it was evident from the quietness that the inn was hardly overbooked. Jen smiled at his compliment that she brightened up the place, and that the barflies will miss her when she goes. She was still to hear from her producer regarding a definite schedule for filming, but she knew from past experience it wouldn’t be sooner than any time in the next two days.
On the plus side, Wootton-on-the-Moor wasn’t turning out to be the worst place in the world.
Jen made her way over the bridge that led to the high street and continued left on crossing the street.
The busiest part of the village.
According to her sources, it was somewhere around here that Mrs Susan Rankin lived – and had done for most of her life. After considering the matter carefully, she had decided to visit Rankin first. She knew from her experience at the Hog that news of her arrival in the village was becoming more widely broadcast – credit in part Martha Brown – and that was bound to escalate before the day was out. She knew it was possible Rankin was now aware of Jen’s arrival, but there was nothing she could do about that. Her favourite professor at Nottingham once told her, always play the percentages: at least that way you are always guaranteed a certain amount of success. If a successful interview with Susan Rankin was possible, she figured her best chance was before the gossip column tainted her reputation.
She headed for a location called Fox Lane, a pleasant side alley off the high street flanked by red walls. Tree branches and plant life spilled over from the gardens of nearby houses, giving off a pleasant rustic vibe. The location was lonely, but not unsettling, rather like having a quiet walk in the country on a peaceful summer’s day.
The end of the pathway led to a clearing, giving Jen the choice of turning either left or right. Choosing the right, she followed the pathway for another thirty metres. There were twelve houses in total, four lots of three in a row that formed a square around a cobbled courtyard. The houses were old, stone construction, black and white terraced, and dated back to the 16th or 17th centuries.
She assumed from the exterior they were Grade II listed.
Jen double-checked the address against what she had written down and walked slowly to the middle of three houses. A small plaque on the right side of the strong wooden door confirmed the address: 8 Gallacher’s Court.
She rang the doorbell, a loud high-pitched dingdong that sounded unexpectedly modern. She waited patiently for several seconds, considering trying again, before hearing the sound of metal against metal coming from inside.
A woman appeared, aged somewhere in the mid-forties. She was about five feet six – three inches
smaller than Jen – and her weight insufficient for her size, perhaps partially accounting for the gaunt expression on her face. Had Jen not known the woman’s back-story, she might have put her appearance down to illness.
But she knew in the case of this woman the reason was probably more straightforward.
“Mrs Rankin?” Jen asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Jennifer Farrelly; I’m a researcher for a TV productions company…I was wondering if you had a few minutes?”
The woman delayed her response. “I know why you’re here, Miss Farrelly. Isn’t a person in the whole village that doesn’t.”
The comment was a setback. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Rankin.”
“Martha told me all about you.”
That was another setback. “You’re good friends with Martha?”
“He was a good boy, Luke was.”
“I’d love to hear more about him.”
The woman folded her arms. “I’ve said everything I want to say.”
“Mrs Rankin, please,” Jen said as the woman sought to close the door. “I’m not here to take sides. I understand what you must be going through.”
Jen instantly regretted saying that.
“How?” Susan Rankin replied, colour returning to her cheeks. “You know nothing of my son. Nothing!”
The woman closed the door in Jen’s face and retreated hastily, her footsteps audible even outside. Jen took a step backwards and looked longingly at the exterior. She muttered the word ‘great’ under her breath and walked back toward the pathway.
She considered her options. There was no point going to the school: most of the teachers would be in class.
Lunch or after school was surely the best time to catch her.
She thought about visiting Ratcliffe, but she felt underdressed. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t be in anyway.
The best option was Lovell – the retired former head teacher at St Joseph’s, described by the barflies as something of a character. She had learned from Hancock that the man lived on the other side of the village in a grand manor house once owned by his ancestors – all twenty-three generations of them. According to the barflies, Lovell lived in the same part of the village as Ratcliffe and Catesby.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 7
