Martha was practically beaming. “I can fit you in right now.”
“That would be fantastic.”
Jen followed Martha to a vacant seat one from the end. She hung up her jacket on the nearby peg before allowing the luxurious texture of the leather upholstery to relax her tense back.
“Is your daughter working today?”
“She’s just put the kettle on. Would you like a cuppa, luvvy?”
Jen answered yes, milk, two sugars.
“Anything else?”
She declined. Was this a hairdresser’s or a café?
“I never did thank you properly for your help yesterday,” Jen said. “Had it not been for you, I’d probably still be looking around the altar.”
Martha smiled as she placed a black cloak around Jen’s shoulders. “It was my pleasure. We don’t often get journalists or TV presenters in these parts…well, at least not normally.”
“Just chancellors of the exchequer,” Jen said, smiling.
The woman laughed. “Aye. Them and a few other politicians, but that’s about it.”
“I met him last night in the Hog. He was having a drink with a friend of his, someone named the Cat.”
Martha giggled. “Aye, that’s it, Sir William Catesby. He owns a farm down the lane. He’s the chairman of the parish council.”
The hairdresser ran her hands through Jen’s hair, silently inspecting the damage.
“How about we start with a nice little wash,” Martha said. “Would you like any highlights?”
“I really love Kate Hudson.”
“Ah, butterscotch blonde – that’s what she’d be,” Martha said, impressing Jen with her instant knowledge.
Martha walked toward the door that connected the salon to the rear of the shop and shouted her daughter’s name. “Anthea.”
Almost immediately she returned to Jen with her hands full of cosmetics.
“One Kate Hudson coming up.”
A young woman emerged through the doorway – evidently the same person Jen had seen from across the street. The girl was brunette, petite – no more than five feet four – and had a slender physique and pale skin. She looked seventeen, which agreed with the known facts.
If Martha was telling the truth, the girl had been in Debra Harrison’s year at school.
Anthea walked shyly toward them and placed two coffee mugs down on the side.
“Anthea, pet, this is Jennifer, the lady I was telling you about.”
Jen held up a hand, the outline of her fingers barely visible beneath the cloak. The girl smiled, but made practically no eye contact. Her gaze instead drifted to the walls.
“Pass me that bottle, will you, pet,” Martha asked.
The girl obliged, again silently.
“Now, you hold the fort while I take care of Miss Farrelly’s highlights.”
“Okay, Mum.”
The girl’s voice was little more than a whisper. Jen smiled at her via the mirror, receiving the briefest of eye contact and another nervous smile before the girl left the room.
“She’s very shy.”
“She’s lovely,” Jen said. “Has she been with you long? As a hairdresser, I mean.”
“Started the day she left school. She was never cut out for the real world.”
“How do you mean?”
“Growing up in Wootton isn’t the same as in the olden days. Back then, the cubs and kittens would follow the parents – most of the businesses in Wootton have remained in family hands. Nowadays, those with ambition move on: university, gap years, corporate jets…it’s all strange to me.”
The hairdresser brushed Jen’s hair to make a perfect middle parting before stopping to examine the results. Satisfied, she opened the nearest bottle of hair dye and made a start on the highlights.
Jen smiled, taking the first sip of her coffee. “What do the teenagers do on leaving school?”
“Most of them go to college.”
“St Joseph’s?”
“That’s right, pet.”
Jen took a second sip of coffee before placing the mug down on the side. “I was thinking of paying a visit later – one of our researchers arranged an interview with one of the teachers. A Mrs Cartwright.”
“Miss Cartwright,” the hairdresser corrected.
Another admin error.
“Miss Cartwright was the English teacher there – everyone’s favourite.”
“I understand the former headmaster also lives in Wootton? Dr Lovell.”
“Aye,” Martha replied. “Another favourite in these parts.”
“I’ve heard he’s quite a character.”
“That’s one way of putting it, luvvy.”
Jen laughed. “I couldn’t help notice that many of the graves in the cemetery were of Lovells, Catesbys or Ratcliffes. I assume they all go back a long way?”
Martha nodded, concentrating on Jen’s hair. “Most of us can trace our roots in Wootton. It’s the same for most places on the moors, really. We never really went in for all that gentrification process up this way.”
The interior of the shop suggested otherwise – less so the personality of the woman.
“You seem to be well informed of the history of the village. In London I don’t even know my own neighbour.”
The comment made Martha laugh. “We’ve never had a lot of people living here in Wootton. Most of the people have roots here.”
“How well do you know Susan Rankin?” Jen asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“All my life.”
“I went to see her today. Has she always lived in the village?”
“Aye. Her mother grew up here.”
“How about her husband’s family?”
“No. He was an outsider – he was originally from another village.” The woman hesitated slightly. “Why do you ask, pet?”
“No reason, my producer asked me to research everything.”
The answer reassured her. “He was a lovely man, at least on the surface.”
“Was he a different man beneath the surface?”
The woman laughed. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t know him as well as Susan, you know?”
Jen nodded. “What was she like? Before, I mean.”
The hairdresser shrugged. “Wouldn’t know how to describe her. Normal, really.”
“Was she popular? Well liked?”
“No different to the rest of us.”
Jen nodded, paying particular attention to the woman’s body language. It was clear the subject wasn’t her favourite.
The woman backed away, her attention on Jen’s hair.
“I think this is coming along nicely. How about we leave this for now, and you can come back in a couple of hours to finish the cut.”
Jen hid her disappointment. Ideally she still wanted to interview the daughter.
“That sounds super,” she said, checking the time. According to the clock on the wall, it was 10:10am. “You wouldn’t happen to know what time they take lunch at St Joseph’s?”
“It depends on the class, pet. It can be anything from 12:15 to 1:45.”
That was the last thing Jen wanted to hear. “I don’t suppose you know what time Miss Cartwright is likely to be free?”
“What day is today?”
“Tuesday.”
“Tuesday she has a half day. She’ll be finished by 12:15.”
Jen smiled. “Thank you so much. I’ll be back about 1:30pm.”
16
Riverton, Lincolnshire
Riverton Court was an imposing sort of place – even in the mist, it was often visible from a distance. Located on the banks of the River Ancholme near the villages of Cadney and Hibaldstow, lying against the picturesque backdrop of the Lincolnshire countryside, it was the type of place where tourists, ramblers, or members of the National Trust might pop in for a couple of hours to admire the architecture, investigate the portraits or the bedrooms, or roam the gardens, enjoying the sparkling scenery.
&
nbsp; Or at least they would if it was open to the public.
The word was that the owner was quite eccentric – reports varying from a bit of a crank, an egotistical bigot, or simply a complete and utter wanker. Either way, not one for outsiders.
So went the local talk.
It was approaching 11:00am when Thomas arrived. He had seen the property before, at least in photographs, and immediately recognised it on leaving the main road. Like many of England’s finest, the mansion was a stunning Elizabethan country estate long used by the lower gentry for fishing and game. As a minor royal, he was used to much bigger, but he wasn’t as snobby as some. Since joining the army, he had got used to the barracks’ life, and since taking on his new position, he had taken to living as and where. In his second year at Oxford he had shared a house with four others, two girls and two guys: none of whom were aware of his exact background. Despite the lies, that year had been his personal favourite.
Now, low-key was often his aid.
The village of Riverton was in keeping with the mansion – picturesque but slightly in decline. Its Saxon church and quaint buildings aside, it was the type of place that had prospered from tourism and fishing enthusiasts in the boom years, but fallen off the pace ever since. Most of the shops on the high street were closed, including the pub, either due to the time of year or because of the economic climate. He watched the river from the window, instantly drawn to the lack of boats despite it being July with the sun beating down and a temperature of around 23 Celsius.
It was like driving through a ghost town.
The entrance to the mansion was easy enough to find: like most properties of its type, it was situated off a quiet side road and gated from the outside. Large areas of woodland surrounded it on either side, its thick vegetation prohibiting the sun from shining through.
Thomas stopped in front of the gate, surprised to find it unlocked. He opened it and then continued driving along the driveway unhindered to the entrance of the mansion.
An elderly man, probably in his early seventies, was busy gardening. He looked up from his duties as Thomas shut the door to his car.
“We’re not open to the public.”
The prince continued. “Kindly inform Sir Jack that an emissary of the Duke of Clarence is here to see him.”
The comment seemed to alert the man.
“Quickly now.”
Though riled, the man took an age to get to his feet. He removed his gardening gloves as he walked toward the front door, throwing them down on the driveway before entering.
“Excuse me, won’t you?”
The gardener walked quickly through the large entrance hall and entered the library, second on the right. An elderly disabled man was sitting in a chair, his head tilted to one side and his eyes closed.
“An emissary from the Duke of Clarence to see you, sir.”
The man snorted as he came to. “What? What?”
“I said there is an emissary from the Duke of Clarence who requires an audience, sir.”
The man was confused. “Does he have an appointment?”
“I believe not, sir.”
The door to the library opened. “Expecting better company, Jack?”
The man laughed in disgust. “You call this an emissary? I might have known. Why pay someone to do a job when you’ve got a son to do it for free?”
The gardener seemed unnerved on hearing the news. After all, he didn’t look like a royal.
“I suppose you’d like some tea, wouldn’t you? It would be proper, after all, wouldn’t it? English noble hospitality and all. Patterson, Earl Grey for His Majesty here, and see if we have any more of those lovely biscuits – you know the ones I mean.”
“Immediately, sir.”
The man bowed, more a half bow than anything, before both men as he retreated from the room. He caught the side of the door as he left, causing furniture to rattle.
An awkward silence followed as the two men were left alone for the first time.
“Fourteen years he’s been with me; still can’t do a bloody thing right.”
Thomas stood with his arms folded, his focus on the man in the chair. Talbot looked older than he had – though four years had passed. The frizzy white hair, the flabby skin…
A large portrait in the corner of the room distracted him. Talbot was in it, standing not sitting, dressed in the uniform of the British Army – a colonel, no less.
“I was younger back then,” Talbot said.
“We all were.”
“You don’t think about it when you’re young. You never think that it might happen to you.”
Thomas walked slowly around the room, his footsteps echoing off the hard floorboards. At times the wood creaked beneath his feet, affecting his balance. He watched the furniture, silently fearing one bad step would cause a breakage somewhere.
“Are we alone?”
“Of course not, you’ve seen the butler with your own eyes.”
The prince smiled. “Beside him?”
The old man shrugged. “I don’t get many visitors – I used to, back when Elsie was alive, bless her. They always came back then.”
The door to the library opened. The butler returned carrying a large tray containing an antique teapot, two cups, a plate of biscuits and all the usual trimmings. The old man looked at him as he placed it down on the table, but said nothing – no sign of acknowledgement.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Would that be all, sire?” the old man asked the prince.
Thomas bit his tongue. “Quite all, th-thank you.”
The butler left the room, this time taking care not to collide with anything.
The old man looked at the young royal. “Well, don’t stand on ceremony. Sit, relax, make yourself at home. That’s what most of your family do.”
Thomas walked toward the nearest chair, dragging it slowly as he sat down. For several seconds he waited, as if enjoying the silence.
To Talbot the pause was infuriating. “Well? State your business. Normally your family have the opposite problem.”
Thomas poured tea into his cup, collecting the leaves in the silver container. He added lemon and sugar, and stirred the liquid carefully, tapping the spoon against the rim. He sipped it slowly before placing it down on the saucer. The sound of the clink was disturbingly loud, emphasising the quietness.
“Ahhh.”
Talbot’s face was reddening. “Well? What is it that you want?”
Thomas continued to bide his time. “Tell me everything you know about the Sons of York.”
“Never heard of them.”
The answer came far too quickly. “I never said they were a them.”
“You said sons. That’s plural, isn’t it? Or perhaps they didn’t teach you that at Winchester College?”
Thomas smiled. “Well, quite,” he said, avoiding a stutter. “Very well, l-let’s try this another way. What do you know about them?”
“I’ve told you before, I’ve never heard of them.”
Thomas continued to bide his time. “Does the name Andrew Morris mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing. What’s this got to do with anything?”
Again, the answer came too quickly. “Well, you tell me.”
“Enough of this drivel. Get to the point.”
The prince gripped both sides of the chair with his fingers. The chair was antique, wooden with a sculpted lion’s head on both armrests. “Two men have recently died, Jack – I’m s-sure you know the chaps I’m t-talking about. A man has confessed – seems convinced of the crime.” He paused for longer. “He claims he was working for something called th-the Sons of York.”
Thomas looked at him seriously. “He also claimed that it was he who killed the King.”
That seemed to affect him. “Killed the…you mean to say he was…”
“Claims to have carried out the wicked act on b-behalf of the Sons of York.”
“I’ve told you already, I don’t know
any Sons of York.”
Thomas rose to his feet and began to pace the room. He sipped from his tea intermittently. He could tell Talbot found the sound annoying.
“How do you know he is even telling the truth?” Talbot asked, his hands fidgeting. “For all you know, he could be just another loony.”
“As a matter of fact, the man is absolutely barking – I visited him myself. Surely being mad makes one even more dangerous.”
The prince walked closer to Talbot.
“He mentioned you personally, Jack,” he said, speaking into Talbot’s ear.
“Rubbish.”
“Is it? I thought so, too. Then again, they were all friends of yours.” The prince circled the man’s chair. “Who was he working for? Who g-gave him the or-orders?”
Talbot’s face brightened. “I see you never did get rid of that stutter, Thomas.”
The prince was angry with himself.
“It only ever seems to happen to the royals. It’s like a curse, a plague as Shakespeare put it: a plague on both your houses.
“I can’t say I blame you. Being out in that dreadful war, it’s enough to make anyone lose the power of speech. I suppose losing your grandmother made it even worse. It could’ve been worse still, you know. You’re lucky it wasn’t more; it could have been an arm or leg – no, you got off lightly.
“But they never go away – the things you see. It’s enough to make one go completely mad. I’ve seen it happen; mad as a brush they were. Perhaps they got you, too; perhaps you’re a bit mad. What’s the matter, Thomas? Cat got your tongue?”
The man laughed, louder and louder. After several seconds he started banging his fist, causing the table to jump.
“Dammit, Jack!” Thomas shouted, his voice loud enough to wake the dead. “I know that you’re involved; I know that you gave Morris directions.”
The prince removed his Glock 17 pistol from his belt and aimed it at Talbot’s head.
“Your family have a history, Jack. Talbots always have a history. Do I really need to remind you?”
He checked the gun was loaded. “Or perhaps you would rather I just shoot you here and now? At least that way we can give you an honest traitor’s death.”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 9
