As the service ended, Jen spoke to Martha for the first time. Although she didn’t mention her hair, Jen struggled to shake the feeling that she was looking at her – in a bad way. Ever since her visit to the vaults, she felt as though there was another cobweb there – that elusive bastard that you can never find, no matter how hard you try.
The priest was ignoring her, but he seemed to be doing the same to everyone. She guessed it was probably just his nature, rather than anything she had personally done.
Nevertheless, the episode in the vaults troubled her. Whatever the reason, Rankin’s burial seemed out of place.
Even more intriguing, his mother was at Mass.
Jen left the pew with Martha, waiting until the congregation had dispersed before leaving. She watched Susan Rankin as she left the church, smiling awkwardly, but speaking to no one. She shook hands with the priest as she approached the door, the pinnacle of her communication. On this occasion, the priest appeared to be warmer – as if reserving sympathy. Despite the lack of talking, Jen didn’t get the impression the woman was an outcast.
If anything, she seemed part of the furniture.
Martha Brown spoke to the priest for over a minute before finally leaving, white smiles prevailing. He held his kindness for Jen, enclosing her hand softly between his two, and whispered the words “lovely to see you” as she walked out the door. At face value, the man seemed genuine. Yet the episode in the vault still disturbed her. Either Luke Rankin committed suicide or he didn’t.
There were no in betweens.
“Would you like to join us for dinner, pet?” Martha asked as they walked along the pathway.
The question caught Jen off guard. She figured it was either that or another burger at the Hog.
“Yeah, great – thanks.”
Anthea was thrilled. After remedying the mishaps to Jen’s new haircut, she spent the next half an hour taking her new best friend on a tour of the house – notably her bedroom. Posters of actors, models and celebs prevailed throughout – male and female. The posters were a lifestyle choice – at least that was the excuse. As a hairdresser, she needed to be reminded of style everywhere. Decent advice, Jen thought.
If it was true.
Dinner was served at just before eight, the meal traditional Yorkshire. Toad in the Hole with roast potatoes, gravy and veg came first; curd tart came next.
Fair dos, the woman could cook as well as she could sing.
“So how come Luke Rankin is buried in the vaults beneath the church even though he is generally believed to have committed suicide?” Jen asked as Martha cut the curd tart and offered her a slice.
“Suicide victims are not deprived of being buried in consecrated ground,” Anthea replied. “According to the modern church, they deserve both our sympathy and understanding.”
Jen was unconvinced. “Who told you that?”
“Mrs Beckworth – she was our RE teacher…that’s right, isn’t it, Mum?”
Martha retook her seat at the head of the table. “It is right, pet.”
To Jen that sounded wrong. “So what about all that stuff about people being deprived of burial in consecrated ground: being born out of wedlock, killing someone, committing adultery, not being baptised?”
“You still have to be baptised,” Anthea said, playing with her spoon. “You also have to be a Catholic – or at least a Christian.”
Jen was still unconvinced. She took a first bite of the curd tart and swallowed it down.
Predictably it melted in the mouth.
“So where did all this stuff come from about people being buried at a crossroads in the dead of night and that sort of thing?”
“Yeah, maybe when Dick Turpin was alive,” Anthea said sarcastically. “It has lightened up on some things.”
“In some cases, it all comes down to the discretion of the priest,” Martha said. “Any Christian is entitled to burial. That’s a legal matter.”
That seemed plausible. “How about murder?”
“That depends,” Anthea said.
“On what?”
“On whether they repent.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Martha said. “Murderers are still legally entitled to burial.”
“It also depends on whether they were of sound mind at the time they committed the murder,” Anthea said.
Jen nodded. “That makes sense.”
“So Luke Rankin would not have been deprived of a funeral and burial in consecrated ground because he was a loony.”
“Anthea,” Martha snapped.
Silence fell, noticeably awkward. Jen looked everywhere and nowhere, her eyes alighting on Anthea, who grimaced and returned to her tart.
Jen did the same. “So what would constitute not being of sound mind?”
Martha shrugged. It was obvious the subject was making her uncomfortable. “It can be a number of things, really. It could be someone suffering from mental illness, someone who’s recently suffered something of a shock, someone who’s had an adverse effect to medication…you know?”
Jen got the picture. “Did Luke Rankin come into that category?”
“Definitely,” Anthea replied.
“Martha?” Jen asked.
Martha hesitated. “You’d have to ask Father Martin; he’d know far more than me.”
“I did – he seemed reluctant to talk about it,” Jen said, eating.
“When was this?” Anthea asked.
“In the vaults before Mass started.”
“He was probably in a hurry,” Martha replied.
“Maybe. But something doesn’t add up. First, Debra Harrison goes missing; then this other lad turns up dead – and we visited the bridge; it wasn’t an easy place to hang yourself from. Furthermore, I spoke to your former teacher Miss Cartwright,” Jen said, looking at Anthea. “She said that Luke Rankin was not mentally retarded, he was just a little slow and nervous – particularly as his father had died.”
“That might count,” Anthea said. “That could count as not being of sound mind.”
Possibly the girl had a point.
For now Jen decided to change the subject.
“I got your joke about the broomshoots, by the way. They’re those bright yellow flowers, right?”
Anthea grinned as she placed the spoon to her mouth. “They don’t often grow here in Wootton.”
“Does someone plant them?”
“I think so,” Anthea said, nodding.
To Jen that was strange. “I assume there is a connection? Between that and the family?”
“Probably,” Anthea replied. “I think it’s stupid, if you ask me. Imagine being married to a Broomshoot.”
Jen laughed at her. “I met one of them today – in the churchyard.”
“The person or the flower?” Anthea asked, giggling.
“The person. He said his name was Edward.”
“Did he like your hair?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing. I just thought he might have commented, you know, whether I did a good job.”
Jen grinned back at her. “He said he liked it.”
“Good. Did you like him?”
“Don’t know. He seemed quite arrogant, really. He kept teasing me about Robin Hood being from Yorkshire.”
Anthea laughed. “He can be like that.”
“What does he do?”
Anthea shrugged. “Don’t know, really. His granddad is a lord of the realm, isn’t he, Mum?”
Martha nodded.
“Shame about his parents.”
“What happened to his parents?” Jen asked.
“Died in a car crash before I was born.”
“They were only thirty-seven, the poor loves,” Martha said.
“His dad was a politician. They were on holiday in Corsica,” Anthea added.
Jen smiled sympathetically. “What were their names?”
“Richard and Anne,” Martha replied.
“Where are they buried?”
> “Under the church, I think,” Anthea said.
Jen was sure she hadn’t seen either of them in the vault. “Have you been down there before – either of you?”
Anthea nodded. “Yeah. Why?”
“I was down there earlier, just before Mass. I was in the Jeffries’ vault and found this door – it was locked.”
Anthea appeared suddenly nervous.
“What about it?” Martha asked.
Jen didn’t miss a thing. “Nothing. I was wondering what was behind it?”
Martha shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Father Martin said it held the remains of plague victims.” Jen looked at both women in turn. “Have either of you seen it?”
Martha shook her head. “No, luvvy.”
Anthea was unusually quiet, and Jen noticed.
“Have you ever been in there?”
Anthea remained taciturn. She forced an awkward smile and placed a hand to her hair.
“Have I said something?” Jen asked.
Anthea remained silent for several seconds. “This door,” she began. “Was there an archway round it?”
Jen nodded.
“And had an emblem on top of it?”
Jen’s excitement was growing. “Yes, that’s the one.”
For the second time in quick succession, Anthea became distant.
“Is everything okay?”
Anthea spoke quietly. “I got in there by accident when I was a little girl.”
“What was in there?”
“I don’t really remember. I just remember it was really dark – full of strange pictures and tombs and…”
Recalling the matter seemed to make the girl’s skin itch.
“I kept screaming,” Anthea resumed. “I thought I was going to be trapped down there – forever. I kept screaming and screaming and screaming…then after what seemed like forever, Father Martin came in…and he shouted at me.”
The memory clearly upset Anthea – though she kept it together.
“Why did he shout at you?”
Anthea shrugged. “He just said that I wasn’t supposed to be in there – and that if he found me in there again, I’d be in so much trouble.”
Martha placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “There, there, pet.” She looked at Jen. “She was only eight at the time.”
Jen was horrified. Her opinion of the priest had reached rock bottom.
“I’m going to need your help getting into the vault,” Jen said.
Anthea wiped away a tear. Jen was relieved that it was the only one.
“Why? What’s so special? It was just a dark room with a load of old people buried in it.”
Jen frowned. “I’ve got a nasty feeling that it might also have a much younger person buried there.”
25
The limousine pulled up at the pre-designated location at just before 9pm. Despite the recent downpour, it was still light. A glorious sunset burned across the western sky, descending into the distant hills and painting the skyline in vivid orange and red.
The image was a photographer’s dream, but not just because of the sunset. The landscape was pure green, lined with fields and dense forests that seemingly continued forever. Even the occasional villages or towns barely made a mark on the landscape – and even those that did were for the most part as old as the trees. The area had a sense of timelessness, the type of place where every house could tell a story.
But also a place where most chose not to tell.
The landscape, despite the endless beauty, was not necessarily the area’s greatest feature. Merely metres from the secluded car park, magnificent walls, reminiscent of the mighty Camelot, rose impressively into the sky. The white stone structure was completely intact, though nothing more than a shell. It was a place where history merged with the present day, and where the echoes of the past continued to be heard like a song being played on a continuous loop.
And while it continued to play, peace would remain impossible.
The journey had taken a fraction under two hours – one hour fifty-seven minutes according to the clock on the dashboard. Watching through the rear left window, the son of the Duke of Clarence had been able to follow the route with relative accuracy. Motorways and A roads dominated the itinerary, making the general direction easy to follow. The M180 gave way to the M18, then to the M62 and from there the A1. As time went by, the large blue signposts, listing the distance to nearby destinations, turned into blurs. He knew the roads well – he’d been travelling them all his life.
On leaving the A6055, he paid closer attention. The destination was somewhere in Yorkshire – had it not have been, the driver would not have left the A1. As the driver negotiated a series of roundabouts, Thomas watched, concentrating hard. In hindsight, the precaution proved unnecessary. There was no doubt regarding his current location.
The poetic irony was not lost on him.
Middleham Castle.
A Yorkist stronghold.
Once home to a King of England.
Patterson parked the car southwest of the castle. It was not a visitor car park; instead, it was an area where a lorry or large van would pull up to make a delivery. In his experience, it was the only area where anonymity was guaranteed. The castle itself was integrated within the larger community: a small market town of about eight hundred people. The locals usually kept themselves to themselves, but it never did to take chances. A bad move in the wrong place – a passing car, an overeager tourist, or a local walking his dog – could put everything in jeopardy. Fate rested on such mishaps being avoided.
Just as it had five hundred years earlier.
The driver turned to face the impostor, now minus his tinted glasses. As soon as Thomas saw the man’s eyes, he realised his mistake.
The man waved a black revolver in his face.
“Kindly step out of the vehicle, Your Highness.”
The traditional entrance was through a tower located at the northeast point of the structure. Instead, Patterson took them in through a more discreet passage. The walls were lower there, allowing easy access to the heart of the castle.
The interior was enormous – but compact. A large curtain wall surrounded the square keep: a dense, imposing structure that still looked capable of withstanding siege. It was darker here than outside, the sunlight failing to rise above the western wall. It was approaching twilight, and a half moon was now visible.
Thomas guessed there was little more than thirty minutes left of actual daylight.
He led the way, though not by choice. The black revolver, pushed forcefully into the small of his back via Talbot’s grey raincoat, limited his choices. He walked with his hands behind his head, his eyes on the walls. He knew from past visits that the main entrance was the only viable exit – aside from the way they had just entered. Even if he managed to escape, his choices were limited.
Worse still was the silence. Even on grass, noises had a nasty tendency to echo, which unnerved him further as his reality continued to dawn on him. Somewhere within these ruins, someone – or some people – was lurking: someone with the potential to do him much harm. Whoever it was, they clearly knew that Talbot was dead.
Worse still, they probably thought he did it.
They continued along the outer wall of the keep. Several birds, possibly rooks, perched on the curtain wall, the sound of their fierce squawks magnified by the acoustics of the layout. In the fading light, it was like the walls were closing in on them. The sense of timelessness seemed to escalate. For the first time that day Thomas thought back to his meeting with the King. The message: apparently a calling card of the Sons of York. In his mind he could hear a majestic voice reciting the words:
“Now is the winter of our discontent; made glorious summer by this sun of York.”
Though the temperature remained warm, the prince found himself plagued by a bitter chill.
He remembered the other message.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
Whoever they were, they had surely killed his grandfather.
Perhaps his aunt and grandmother, too.
The keep was similar to many from the Middle Ages: a large square structure, divided in two by an internal wall, and flanked by turrets at every corner. The original stone staircase had been destroyed long ago; in its stead, a modern wooden staircase led to the southeast corner.
His heart missed a beat. Three men, each wearing identical dark jackets, occupied different parts of the staircase, automatic weapons in their grasp. Thomas could not see their faces, but it was obvious they were highly trained – probably military.
He entered the chamber, followed closely by the butler.
“Here Clarence comes, brother, good days, what means this armed guard that waits upon Your Grace?”
The response was delayed. “We have no time for playing games,” barked one of the three. “Where is Talbot?”
This was surely too good to be true. Was it possible that the butler had actually sprung this on them?
“Sir Jack is dead,” the butler replied, the pause between each word lengthy. “I was the one that killed him.”
Thomas was amazed by the admission. He sensed the others shared his surprise.
“You murdered your own master?” another of the three asked, his voice razor sharp.
“Forgive me, sir, I had no choice. You see, Sir Jack was being made subject of a most vicious inquisition from this minor royal,” he said, the disgust evident on the words ‘minor royal’.
Suddenly the man’s admission made perfect sense.
“Minor royal?” the final man asked.
“May I introduce to you, Prince Thomas William Henry Winchester, heir to the Duchy of Clarence.”
For several seconds there was no sign of any acknowledgement.
“Why have you brought him here?”
“Forgive me, sir, I know that you should have been informed in advance,” the butler said. “But His Highness was most insistent on absolute discretion.”
The words shocked the prince. “I beg your pardon.”
He felt the barrel of the gun move against his back.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 15
