The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  He had to think – and quickly. Attracting attention was not an option, but the man needed a professional medic.

  Navigating the options on the SatNav, he selected the wider map. About ten miles west, he had a cousin: Stephen Winchester. Like himself, the lad was of military pedigree, but better yet, he’d served in the medical corps. If anyone was capable of assisting the injured man, it was him.

  Better yet, Stephen had another major plus point.

  He was the eldest son of the king.

  Thomas removed his mobile phone from his pocket and quickly scrolled through his contacts. He found Stephen, both home and mobile, and selected the home option.

  Seconds later, Stephen answered.

  “I’m coming to see you in ten minutes. And I’ll be needing your physician skills.”

  Inside the keep, the police officer stood hunched over the figure on the ground. The man carried no wallet, nor did he possess any keys or mobile phone. He had been shot once in the upper chest, the bullet presently unidentified, but as far as the officer could tell, the man had not carried a firearm himself. The apparent cause of death certainly seemed consistent with reports of gunfire being heard in the vicinity moments before he had received the call – he had heard several himself since his own arrival.

  Whoever was responsible was long gone.

  The question now was who had been found?

  The other two men had escaped from a small window near the main entrance of the castle. They avoided attention from police or onlookers and twenty minutes later were driving north in a black Mercedes.

  Over thirty years’ experience between them, and that was the closest they had come to catastrophe. What should have been a simple, straightforward task had been compromised into a matter of lost life.

  Under normal circumstances, it was the job of the last man standing to put his accomplice out of his misery: whether a sign of brotherly love, to ensure the man suffers no lasting pain, or to ensure he takes his secrets with him to the grave…he assumed the latter was more applicable.

  Fifteen years in the business had taught him that the men at the top deemed human life expendable. He knew that was the reason he was chosen – to end the life of his best friend at a moment’s notice if that was what was required. In truth, neither man was sure what had become of their accomplices. Had the light been better, perhaps he would have had to finish the job himself.

  But the question remained, what caused the compromise? If the butler was correct, Talbot had died for failing to abide by the cardinal rule. That explained Talbot’s absence, but it did not explain the presence of the newcomer. Bringing a royal, even a minor one, to this forbidden party was like playing with fire. Someone had dropped them in it.

  His Highness would need to be informed.

  27

  Twenty minutes later Thomas pulled up outside an isolated farmhouse on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. The estate was large, gated, and walled on all sides, constructed mostly of white brick dating back to the early 1800s.

  The gate was open, as was the front door. A handsome man in his early thirties, with dark hair, a lean build, and smart persona was there to greet him. He helped Thomas unload the body of the mysterious stranger from the backseat before ushering them inside.

  The next thirty minutes were frantic. They carried the man into an upstairs bedroom and planted him down on a double bed. The surgeon’s tools were already laid out on a nearby table, accompanied by a large bottle of whiskey. Five minutes later they had succeeded in removing the bullet, but after that things became a blur. The man was gushing blood at an alarming rate.

  Survival was now a matter of chance.

  For the last few minutes Thomas had been sitting on his own in the lounge, a large and well-decorated room otherwise in keeping with the style of the house. The rest of the furniture pointed to the man’s bachelor lifestyle: forty-eight-inch TV on the wall, Dolby Surround sound and a reclining easy chair with cup holder. Aside from their grandfather’s funeral, Thomas had not seen his cousin for over two years, but he could tell from the furniture, little had changed.

  Footsteps on the stairs indicated his cousin was approaching. Seconds later Stephen entered the room.

  “He’s sleeping.”

  Thomas rose to his feet. “Wh-what are his chances?”

  “We’ll have a much better indication by morning – assuming he’s still alive, of course.”

  Thomas nodded, returning to his seat. He struggled to prevent his hands from shaking.

  “Whiskey? Or would you prefer something stronger?”

  Thomas nodded. “Whiskey.”

  Stephen removed a bottle of single malt from a container on top of the mantelpiece. “I was hoping to save this for a special occasion,” he said, removing the lid and pouring double shots into two glasses. “But, I suppose, there’s no time like the present.”

  He passed the second glass to Thomas and clinked it with his own.

  “Cheers.”

  Stephen downed his in one and savoured the aftertaste. Thomas began his more slowly before forcing it down. He had never been much of a drinker. The fine liquid burned his mouth and throat, the sensation penetrating all the way through his head.

  “Another?” Stephen asked.

  Thomas looked up at his cousin. He nodded, but said nothing.

  Stephen refilled the glass to about three shots worth. After that, he did the same for his own.

  “Would you now mind telling me what the bloody hell you’ve got yourself into?”

  Thomas sipped his whiskey – this time slowly. He coughed and spluttered, forcing him to cover his mouth.

  “I’m waiting, Thomas.”

  The prince looked up at his cousin. “It’s complicated.”

  “Fortunately I’m exceedingly clever. Now spit it out.”

  Thomas continued to concentrate on his whiskey.

  “I can always call Dad, if you prefer?”

  “Okay, fine.”

  Thomas recounted the events of the past two days.

  Stephen listened carefully. He had drained his glass and was halfway through the next by the time Thomas had finished.

  “Who knows about this?” Stephen asked after a while.

  “Hardly anyone,” Thomas replied. “I’m guessing that you already know m-more than me.”

  Stephen nodded, for now keeping his counsel. He continued to sip his whiskey.

  “Jack Talbot,” he said at last, swirling the liquid around in his glass. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Whoever he was working for, I th-think he was about to come clean. At least until that b-bloody butler put his f-finger in the way.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Patterson.”

  “First name?”

  “Really, Stephen, how many butlers are called by their first name?”

  Stephen laughed. “Could you give an accurate description?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. At least that way someone might be able to establish a positive identification on him.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult – we already know his s-second name, address, and c-car registration.”

  “How about the others?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Not even a description?”

  “It was dark; they were professionals. We really must keep this one alive – at least that way we might f-find out who we’re d-dealing with.”

  Thomas removed the injured man’s automatic weapon from his jacket. “Look at this.”

  Stephen was confused. “What is it?”

  “No idea. Never seen one before.”

  Stephen was quiet for several seconds. “Tell me what he said exactly.”

  “Who?”

  “The friar at the Tower.”

  Recalling words was difficult, but Thomas told Stephen what he remembered.

  “Beware the Sons of York?” Stephen said.

  “Among other things, yes,” Thomas said, finis
hing his second glass. “Have you heard of them?”

  “Never. Who are they?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I know little more than you.”

  “Tell us the little – at least that’ll make us even.”

  “Only if you do the same for me.”

  “Okay. Fine. You go first.”

  Thomas went first, then Stephen.

  “Apparently they’ve been d-doing this s-sort of thing for years,” Thomas continued.

  “What sort of thing?”

  “C-causing mischief. Apparently one or two were involved in the Monmouth risings and other things.”

  “Anything more recent?”

  “Your father didn’t go into d-detail. He spoke mainly about not having p-paid much attention when he was younger.”

  Stephen was still confused. “Who were the historians?”

  “Apparently there were two of them. Wrote about the Sons of York in the early 1700 and 1900s. Your f-father seemed to believe the knowledge was r-relevant. Clearly there was s-something that the Sons of York know that others are not s-supposed to.”

  “How about the other thing?”

  Thomas was confused. “What other thing?”

  “The nursery rhyme.”

  He told Stephen everything, highlighting the amendments.

  He didn’t enjoy mentioning the King’s belief that the queens in the parlour was a reference to Stephen’s late mother and grandmother.

  Stephen put his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose and then to his eyes. He lowered himself onto the settee and immediately rose again to his feet. “The princess was in the…what princess?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell did Monmouth have to do with this?”

  Thomas shook his head. “There was one other thing,” he said, trying to recall the events of earlier that evening. “When the butler t-took me to the castle and introduced me as Clarence, he s-said something rather odd.”

  “What?”

  “When they inquired of the butler as to why they had not been informed of my coming and of T-Talbot’s death, he said something about His Highness insisted on absolute discretion.”

  The physician shrugged. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Thomas said, starting to get slightly worked up. “It was the way that he said it: it was almost…”

  “What?”

  The prince took a deep breath. “Reverent.”

  “And?”

  “The two politicians were murdered – tests by MI5 on the car have all but confirmed this. But the King…”

  “You think he was murdered by someone of status?”

  Thomas failed to respond.

  “You said yourself the witness was something of a madman.”

  “He was telling the truth about everything else. W-we must face facts, it’s not out of the question.”

  Stephen was unconvinced. “Even if he was telling the truth, the situation hasn’t really changed, has it?”

  “Our grandfather’s condition weakened considerably in a s-short period – we can practically catalogue the exact schedule. On the Tuesday he returned from Balmoral, the day after the family meal, still a p-picture of good health. The next ten days he b-barely left Winchester. All we know of the poison is it works slowly. If he was murdered, the day at Balmoral was almost c-certainly the day the d-damage was done.

  “And I’m afraid that only leaves us with one g-group of suspects.”

  “The servants?”

  “No. The relatives.”

  Still in his office at 9pm, the editor of the London Chronicle scanned the document in front of him.

  The piece differed from the journalist’s usual style, but the article was not uninteresting. It was just the opposite, in fact. If it was true, the revelations were startling.

  Better yet, apparently he had a source.

  He double-clicked on his mouse and copied and pasted the original article into the new document.

  The article would be ready for tomorrow’s evening edition.

  28

  It was dark by 9:30. Along the high street, buildings were closed for business, their interiors revealing no sign of life. The only illumination was the white glow of the streetlights, radiating a warm atmospheric haze above the pavement. Between Dovecote Ridge, where Martha and Anthea lived, and the middle of the high street, there was not a soul to be seen, apart from Jen and Anthea. And that boded well; even for such a short walk it would be unwise to be conspicuous. As they passed the estate agent’s, the dim glow of what appeared to be a backlight served as a reminder that observation could come from any corner.

  But as far as they could see, the building was deserted.

  The light was merely a deterrent to put off potential thieves.

  There was activity across the bridge. Lights were on in the Hog, as expected. Laughter and chatter resonated within its ancient walls – as it surely had done for centuries. Jen thought she heard the sound of Brian Hancock laughing boisterously, but she knew she couldn’t be sure.

  Among the sounds of many, those of the few were lost.

  About an eighth of a mile further on, the church was dark and deserted. On warm and still nights, the sight of passing teenagers, lonely figures walking their dogs or local residents taking in the night air was not uncommon, but tonight there was not a soul to be seen. Even the birds had disappeared.

  Like the monks of old, a vow of silence had taken over the village.

  Making her way through a cluster of gravestones, Jen headed for the main doors of the church.

  A sudden glare of bright lights caught her completely off guard.

  “Shit,” Jen said, taking cover behind the nearest gravestone. She realised her mistake immediately. The security lights overlooking the main door were obviously movement activated.

  Two minutes in and the plan had failed.

  “That always comes on,” Anthea said. “People’ll just think it’s a squirrel or a bird.”

  Jen was unconvinced.

  “Come on, before it goes off and comes on again.”

  This time Jen followed Anthea, sprinting for the front door. Her gut feeling was she had made a mistake – potentially a huge one. Until this point she had not considered the possibility that CCTV cameras could be in operation. The sleepy nature of the village made her think it unlikely, but she reminded herself she was living in the 21st century. Technically, she was considering breaking and entering.

  And the law was pretty clear on the matter.

  Anthea inserted the main key into the lock and opened the door. She locked it immediately from the inside, and for several seconds they both held their breath. The lights outside the church went out after about fifteen seconds. Even the interior of the church seemed darker. As best they could tell, nobody had seen them enter; aside from the Hog and the presbytery, there were no nearby buildings, and Jen knew from personal experience that visibility from the Hog’s windows was poor. For now she was satisfied.

  At least they were in.

  Jen followed Anthea toward the cloisters, concentrating on her footing. As expected, the door was locked, but that was remedied thanks to a small key on the key ring. The cloisters appeared lighter than the main church; the faint gleams of moonlight, entering through the windows, shone down on the tiled floor and reflected off the walls. The images in the glass appeared different at night, the patterns causing unique shadows. Even though she knew they were more modern than they looked, tonight they appeared somehow more sinister.

  If that were possible.

  “What are these?” Jen asked, now unconvinced by the priest’s answer the day before.

  “Heritage,” Anthea replied. “People of the village were prominent supporters of the House of York.”

  Jen accepted the response – though still confused by the relatively modern design.

  They made their way to the bottom of the steps and opened the door to the vault.

  Predic
tably, the tunnel was shrouded in darkness. Jen activated the flashlight facility on her iPhone, and Anthea did the same. Despite the improvement, the dense colour of the stone absorbed more light than it reflected. She remembered from earlier that the passage wound gently from left to right.

  In theory, all they had to do was follow it.

  They passed the vaults Jen had visited earlier and continued all the way to the one belonging to the Jeffries. Jen entered through the same open archway and into a desolate chamber that on this occasion seemed even gloomier than when she had seen it earlier. Inside, the chamber was pitch black – the dim glow of the surrounding wall lights that had lit up the vicinity a few hours earlier was no longer present. There was obviously a light switch somewhere – or switches – but even Anthea didn’t know where.

  Their mobiles were the only aid.

  The locked door was visible in the torchlight, as was most of the debris. A large spider web had appeared in front of the door, beginning at the top corner and continuing all the way to the nearest tomb.

  Jen saw movement and jumped. A small spider was floating across the torchlight. She batted it immediately, not knowing whether or not she killed it.

  She heard laughter developing into intense giggling. She pointed the light at Anthea.

  “What? It was only a spider.”

  Jen’s breathing returned to normal. She ran her fingers through her hair, assuming she had fallen victim to another cobweb. “I hate spiders.”

  “I’d never have guessed.”

  Jen attempted to regain her composure, but it was becoming difficult. Enclosed spaces were a no-no, and had been since she had become lost at Wookey Hole when she was seven. The chamber had seemed more open in the day – and certainly less dusty.

  She sneezed, causing several motes to move in the torchlight. She shone the light on the door and turned her attention to Anthea.