The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  “Actually, I’m originally from Edwinstowe.”

  “Edwinstowe?”

  “In Nottinghamshire.”

  “In Nottinghamshire?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I guess Nottinghamshire is kind of north,” the man said, grinning.

  “I used to live on the boundary of Sherwood Forest.”

  “The boundary of Sherwood Forest?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know Robin Hood?”

  “Not personally.”

  “He was from up this way.”

  She shook her head, looking away. “I thought he was from Barnsdale.”

  “Nah. That was Friar Tuck.”

  Jen fought to avoid a smile, but failed. She flicked her hair behind her ears. “Well, you clearly know more than me.”

  The stranger lowered his head, his grin widening. “So, I’m guessing from your slightly northern accent and the fact that I’ve never seen you in these parts before, you must be this pretty new girl I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  This time she managed a stronger façade. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “It’s a small village, Wootton.”

  Small village or not, she doubted it. “So you think you know everyone in the village?”

  The man shrugged. “Basically. I mean, I’ve lived here my entire life.”

  Jen forced a smile. “I’m Jen.”

  “I’m guessing that’s short for Miss Farrelly.”

  Okay, so you have heard of me.

  “And you are?”

  “My name is Edward,” he said, offering his hand. “Edward Jeffries.”

  This time she managed to avoid laughing. “You live over there, right?” She pointed in the direction of the castle.

  He released his hand from hers. “I see nothing gets past you, does it, Miss Farrelly?”

  “Do you live there with your family?”

  “Just me granddad, really. And his carers – he’s not been well recently.”

  She lowered her head. “Sorry.”

  “You’re welcome to see it, if you like.”

  The perfect summer’s day was interrupted by the rumble of distant thunder. The clouds had darkened, threatening a downpour.

  “Perhaps some other time,” Jen said, silently approving of the offer. She knew a trip around Wootton Court might be useful.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  She smiled. “Yeah, maybe.”

  The man smiled, not quite arrogant but not unsatisfied either. He held up his hand as he walked toward the footpath she had walked with Anthea.

  “How will I know if you’re in?” Jen shouted.

  “It’s quite easy. See we have this thing in Wootton called a doorbell.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and blew her hair away from her face.

  “Or failing that, you could check the driveway. I’m the one with the Ferrari.”

  Jen smiled, walking toward the church.

  And I’m the one with the Picanto.

  She passed a gravestone and looked instinctively at the name.

  She turned. “Hey. How come so few of you are buried here?”

  The man with blond hair stopped and turned. “Most of our family live longer because of the vampire gene.”

  Again she fought the urge to laugh.

  “You’re looking in the wrong place; most families from Ravensfield have their own vault.”

  “Ravensfield?”

  “That’s technically the name for the village this side of the river.”

  She might have guessed.

  “Just take the stairs down from the cloisters. It’s through the door.”

  “Thanks.”

  She followed his advice and headed for the main entrance to the church. There was a notice on the door stating that the evening service would begin at 6:30. That gave her thirty-five minutes – perhaps less than ten before the first arrivals.

  The church was deserted, as usual. She walked along the main aisle and through the door to the cloisters. For the first time she noticed a plaque on the wall, in memory of a Sir John Jefryes, apparently buried in the vaults below.

  She continued along the cloisters, passing the array of stained-glass windows – the work of the priest’s ancestor, no less. Ignoring the temptation to get sidetracked, she walked down the stone steps that she had seen the priest emerge from the day before, and turned the handle on the door.

  It was locked. Or was it? For some reason the door opened toward her, when it looked as if the opposite would be true. Successfully inside, she entered the narrow passage lined on both sides by yellow stone, and lit only by the flickering of dim wall lights. After about ten metres, she came across the first vault, enterable through an open doorway. The name in question was Stanley, a name she had heard on more than one occasion.

  Thanks to Anthea, she knew the gist.

  After a brief search, she saw that there were a few prominent graves, while most of the others had been buried behind the walls.

  Leaving the Stanley vault, she continued in the same direction, passing the vaults of four other families.

  The fifth name stood out a mile. Rankin.

  Unlike the previous vaults, this door was locked.

  She assumed from the modern spelling it was the same family.

  She removed her iPhone from her handbag and navigated the options. Incredibly she had a signal, albeit a faint one. She went through her list of contacts, stopping on the newest entry.

  She dialled Anthea’s mobile number and immediately received an answer.

  “Hey, Jen, what’s up?”

  “Hi, Anthea. Nothing really, just at the church. Hey, can I ask you something? Where was Luke Rankin buried?”

  “I think he’s buried there.”

  Still she struggled to process the find. “I’m just down in the vaults; there’s one down here with the name Rankin.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right, his mum wanted him to be buried in the vault – she thought being buried outside might attract vandals.”

  At least that explained why it was locked. “Did he have a funeral?”

  “Yeah, but there weren’t that many people there.”

  Jen nodded to herself. “Okay, thanks.”

  She ended the call and for several seconds just stared at the closed door. Its very existence made no sense to her. Officially, Luke Rankin’s death had been classed as suicide – she had seen the press reports and spoken to the police. He was also an alleged murderer.

  Yet he had received a Catholic funeral and burial.

  Next was the Catesby vault, followed by those of Ratcliffe and Lovell. All were open, elaborate and ornate, and each threw up surprises.

  As expected, there were a number of elaborate graves with effigies – mostly from the 17th and 18th centuries – depicting men dressed in clothing from that time. In the Catesby vault, one name stood out from the rest.

  Robert Catesby, died 8th November 1605. Famed leader of the Gunpowder Plot. Originally buried in the church at Holbeach, disinterred on the orders of the Earl of Northampton, buried in this vault 25 January 1892 by bequest of Sir William Catesby, died 1901.

  She knew for a fact that the leader of the Gunpowder Plot had met his end in grisly circumstances and had been disinterred as a mark of treachery.

  The reinterment amazed her. If nothing else, it seemed incredible that someone kept hold of the body.

  Equally astounding, it proved that the current Catesbys were of the same lineage. She wondered how far back they went. As far as she could tell, Robert Catesby was the oldest in the vault – the majority dating back to the 18th century.

  Similar dates were true of Ratcliffe and Lovell.

  The Jeffries’ vault was easily found – the next one on from Lovell. Most of the early tombs were more modern, 19th century the most common. Most of the graves were lengthways, with large bronze effigies above the slabs. The inscriptions indicated that the majority had been clergymen or politicians
– one rising to a Cabinet minister.

  The family motto was displayed prominently, accompanied by an elaborate crest. Like many from the Middle Ages, it was a flower, probably a broom based on what Anthea had told her. Thinking it over, she remembered something about the real thing being yellow. She had seen something similar scattered throughout the graveyard. An ironic thought occurred to her. Anthea wasn’t kidding after all.

  The graveyard was full of broomshoots.

  She examined the rest of the vault. As expected, there were older tombs: at least one per generation dating back to the mid 1600s.

  She read the plaques for each, finding herself fascinated by the stories. Many of them had been knights, and evidently significant landowners. One of the most prominent was a Sir John Jefryes – the same name she had seen mentioned on the plaque in the church and, judging by his effigy, an old man of substantial build. According to the plaque, the man had been notorious in the English Civil War. There were similar reports of two other members of the family: this time for the Glorious and Monmouth risings during the reign of James II. A strange pattern was emerging.

  The family had a habit of opposing the monarch.

  She headed left, making her way past the other graves. There was a lot of debris and floodwater in this part. The smell was off-putting, as was the appearance. She made her way through the puddles, her attention on the far wall. There was a door in it, surrounded by an exquisite archway.

  She had nearly missed it, thanks to the debris.

  Moving closer, she felt the door with her hand. It was sturdy – typical of an entrance to a cellar. She turned the handle, but the door didn’t move. She tried again before accepting it was locked. Moving on, she felt the surrounding archway. The stone was smooth, unexpectedly so, the cold sending a chill down her spine.

  She concentrated on the area above the door. It was covered in cobwebs and dust that was falling onto her pretty new hairstyle. The Jeffries’ logo had been placed above the door; its appearance suggested it was perhaps 17th century. She guessed that behind the door was another section of the vault.

  She looked down at the floor, the area around the rubble, and saw something sparkle, almost like a diamond.

  She bent down for a closer look. It was a necklace with a cross, modern but probably inexpensive. On moving the rubble, she saw there was also a camera, a small digital 12-megapixel model, probably worth about £100.

  She looked at it, lost for words.

  Judging by its condition, it had been there for some time.

  Nearby footsteps alarmed her. Seconds later, a figure appeared by the entrance to the vault.

  “Everything all right?”

  She recognised the voice before recognising the face. “Father Martin.”

  “What on earth are you doing down here?”

  The question was accompanied by a laugh, yet his tone suggested the area was off-limits.

  “I met Edward Jeffries in the graveyard,” she said. “He said that his family vault wasn’t one to be missed.”

  The priest relaxed slightly. “He certainly isn’t wrong.”

  Jen forced another smile. She placed a hand to her hair, removing cobwebs.

  “I was wondering about this door,” she said, gesturing toward it. “Is there something behind it?”

  “Apparently it was built for victims of the great plague,” the priest replied.

  That was the last thing she had expected. “Can I see it?”

  “Unfortunately no. It would be against regulations. Sanitation – you understand.”

  She nodded, studying the priest’s expression.

  Something had changed.

  “Sorry, Father, I hope I’m not keeping you.”

  The kind smile returned. “I really must prepare for Mass. It’s twenty-two minutes past.”

  Jen looked at the clock on her phone. She had been down in the vaults for nearly thirty minutes.

  “Will you be joining us this evening?”

  She felt herself on the spot. “Thank you, Father.”

  “See you in a few minutes.”

  The priest left the vault and continued along the corridor. Jen, meanwhile, was deep in thought.

  “Excuse me, Father,” Jen said, catching him. “I noticed that Luke Rankin was buried down here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t realise that was normal.”

  The priest was confused. “Normal?”

  “I thought the Catholic Church refused to bury people like him in consecrated ground.”

  The priest’s expression had become sterner. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Luke Rankin,” Jen said. “He died by committing suicide, surely.”

  A pause preceded the reply. “Luke Rankin’s death was a tragedy – for everyone in Wootton. Now, Miss Farrelly, I really must be getting ready.”

  Jen stood in silence, literally rooted to the spot. She shook her head.

  Was her view of Catholics so out of date?

  “Wait,” she said, catching him again. “Are you saying he didn’t commit suicide?”

  “Miss Farrelly, please, I really must prepare for Mass.”

  Jen watched, almost in disbelief, as the priest made his way toward the cloisters.

  Luke Rankin had committed suicide – that was the general consensus. Thanks to Anthea, she knew there were eyewitnesses – she still didn’t know exactly how many – and she had also seen the area where the boy had supposedly died. She knew from talking to Martha, and indirectly from Anthea, that Rankin’s position as murderer was by no means clear cut.

  Evidently, the priest must have agreed with that.

  Either that or she was missing something.

  23

  The limousine pulled up outside Riverton Court at precisely 6:45pm. Thomas was in the master bedroom at the time, going through Talbot’s belongings. Besides the diary, he was still to find anything conclusive relating to either the Sons of York or the man’s own past – aside from personal keepsakes. He was still to see everything, but he had checked all the usual places, including a badly hidden safe behind one of the portraits.

  He guessed if Talbot did have anything to hide, it could well be found down one of those passages.

  Thomas saw the limousine from the bedroom window. After making its way through the open gates, it proceeded along the driveway before stopping outside the door. He had taken the liberty of hiding his own car, parking it in a twenty-four-hour car park in the nearby town. He assumed from the diary entry that a car would be sent for him. It made perfect sense.

  Even if Talbot knew the location, his employers would not leave anything to chance.

  The driver of the limousine rang the doorbell. He was smartly dressed, all in black, with a matching cap. A thick beard, distinctly ginger in colour, covered much of his face. He also wore tinted glasses, not quite sunglasses but dark enough to cast doubt over the colour of his eyes.

  Over a minute passed before the front door opened, and a man emerged. He was dressed in a large grey coat, a brown hat that covered all of his hair, and large dark sunglasses that hid much of his face. His skin was wrinkly and wet, and smelt of Old Spice. He walked with a pronounced limp and rested his weight on two walking sticks.

  “May I assist you in any way, Sir Jack?” Redbeard asked in earnest.

  The response was a vigorous cough, followed by “away”.

  Redbeard didn’t ask any questions. He opened the door like a good chauffeur, and waited until the man was safely in his seat before closing it.

  “Mustn’t forget the cargo.”

  Thomas remained silent as Redbeard entered the house and returned moments later with several black holdalls. He stacked them up carefully in the boot before returning to the driver’s seat.

  Seconds later, the black limousine made its way back along the driveway, emerging onto the road. Conversation was non-existent, even the woman on the SatNav had been set to silent.

  Sitting alone i
n the back, the man dressed as Sir Jack Talbot displayed an air of discontent. He crossed one leg over the other with a struggle, and sat with his coat wrapped tightly around himself. For the rest of the journey he would remain silent – his eyes focused on the passing countryside.

  If luck were to have it, tonight he would meet the Sons of York first hand.

  In the front seat, Redbeard concentrated on the road. Although he drove with a neutral expression, inside he was smiling.

  He had to hand it to the prince. The disguise was convincing. Silently he was amazed that any twenty-something could do such a fine impersonation of a crippled seventy-something.

  But seeing was definitely believing.

  The prince’s disguise was good, but his was even better. With the red beard and dark glasses, he certainly didn’t look like the same man the prince had shot at earlier that day.

  And by the time he figured it out, he’d be in no position to argue.

  24

  The Mass had already begun by the time Jen reached the cloisters. The soothing opening of “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise”, accompanied by the strong base notes of the church organ, reverberated through the deserted corridors before becoming ever louder as Jen reached the door. The lock snapped upwards as she raised the bolt, allowing the door to creak open.

  Unsurprisingly, the noise attracted circumspect glances from almost all of the nine people in attendance.

  Among them was Martha Brown, standing three pews from the front, with a hymnal in her hand and her mouth wide open. She smiled at Jen as she sang, gesturing for her to join her.

  The Mass lasted forty-five minutes. Jen’s first appearance at Mass since sixth form had passed without incident, despite the continuous feeling that she was in the wrong place. She didn’t recognise any others of the congregation, all of whom were women bar one. She placed most of them in their mid-sixties, if not slightly older, with the exception of one pretty woman, probably in her forties.

  It took a while for her to realise it was Susan Rankin.