“Only in the winter months,” he replied with a smile.
Wilson gestured to the prince.
“Harry, may I introduce a former student of mine: Prince Thomas Winchester, heir to the Duchy of Clarence. Thomas, this is Harry Ainsworth, an old adversary from Magdalen.”
Ainsworth eyed the prince cautiously, offering his hand. “An unexpected honour.”
Thomas accepted it and smiled but for now remained silent.
“I was wondering if we could show Thomas the Bosworth Manuscript?” Wilson asked.
Ainsworth looked back with a neutral expression. Clearly the question was unexpected.
“Of course. Right this way.”
They entered another reading room, this one more modern and located beneath the ground.
“The earl’s reading room has never been open to the public,” Wilson said as they entered, “nor is it ever likely to be.”
Wilson sat down at a large table. Like the previous room, bookcases abounded, though these appeared older and more secluded.
“This is where we keep Bodley’s more valuable treasures.”
Thomas smiled. He was familiar with the Bodleian’s more informal nickname.
Ainsworth removed an item from a large cupboard lining the side of the room, a thick plastic folder that clearly contained something of interest.
“Now, what you are about to see, Tom, has not been seen by your average student. Nor has it been studied in detail. In fact, it was only discovered a few years ago.”
The prince watched as the professor from Magdalen removed a solitary item from inside the folder. It was parchment, unquestionably, and contained several lines of writing.
“What is it?”
“It is a rather rare legal document, and potentially one of the most important ever found. The document appears to be the last will and testament of King Richard III.”
Thomas was speechless.
“We believe that the document has actually been here for centuries,” Ainsworth continued, now standing beside him. “It was discovered about four years ago by accident in the Radcliffe Camera – hidden inside a medical document, of all things. How it came to be there, only God must know.”
“My dear Harry, you still think it was a clerical error?”
The professor from Magdalen grinned at Wilson. “I believe it to be the most likely explanation.”
“You believe it had been hidden on p-purpose?” The final word shot out of the prince’s mouth.
“The Radcliffe Camera building dates back only to the 1730s,” Wilson said of the brilliant Georgian structure that passers-by usually mistook for an observatory. “Since 1810 it has been devoted only to the sciences. Therefore, the document must have been moved there within the last two hundred and ten years.”
“Not necessarily,” Ainsworth retorted. “Prior to 1810 the Camera was used to house a much wider range of subjects. More likely, the mistake dates to that time.”
“The document it was discovered within dates back to the 1650s – it must have been before that time.”
“Not necessarily…”
Thomas was becoming slightly agitated. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He looked at both men in turn. “What does this mean exactly?”
Ainsworth took the lead. “That all depends on whether the document is genuine.”
“Is it?”
Ainsworth remained on the fence. “Parchment is definitely the right age.”
“How about the handwriting?” Thomas asked.
Ainsworth smiled. “Very different.”
The answer irritated Wilson. “Come now, Harry.” He turned his attention to Thomas. “The document itself would not have been written by the king. Furthermore, according to at least one eyewitness, the king fought at Bosworth with an injured wrist.”
“What’s your verdict on the signature?”
“Shaky but potentially sound,” Ainsworth admitted.
“A bit like Guy Fawkes after the torture,” Wilson added.
“How about the date?” Thomas asked.
“A month before Bosworth. Tell him what it says,” Wilson said.
“I think it was something about the winter of discontent…”
“Don’t be so damn childish, Harry,” Wilson replied.
The prince laughed, though silently he found himself remembering events from two days ago.
The letter of the Sons of York.
The man from Magdalen translated as he read.
“I, Richard the Third, by the Grace of God King–”
“Just skip to the succession part,” Wilson interrupted.
Ainsworth took a deep breath and continued.
“To decease without heirs of our body lawfully begotten, to have and inherit the said imperial crown, and other of our late brother’s dominions, according and in such manner and form as in the said Act made in the said xxiii year is declared that then the said imperial crown, and all other the premises specified in the said Act, should be in the Prince Richard, until recently Duke of York, our late brother’s son and brother of the late king, and to the heirs of the body of the said Richard lawfully begotten, with such…”
“Okay, Harry, I think we get the picture.”
Thomas found himself unable to speak.
“You understand, Tom?” Wilson asked.
Though he heard correctly, he was sure that he did not.
“F-forgive me, I don’t think I do.”
“It’s perfectly simple, my boy,” Wilson began. “According to this document, Richard named as his heir to the throne one of the boys he supposedly murdered.”
33
The second interview with the mother of Debra Harrison was scheduled to take place at 1:30 that afternoon. What with everything that had been happening, Jen had forgotten about it, and would probably have missed it had it not been for a well-timed phone call from her producer.
She left Bishopton immediately after leaving the rectory, and headed straight for the Harrisons’ residence.
She took a seat opposite Harrison and crossed her right leg over the left. “I understand your daughter had been working on a project before she disappeared.”
The woman lit a cigarette. “You clearly know more than me.”
It was obvious to Jen the woman’s mood had not improved during the last two days.
“Had she decided what A-levels she was going to take?”
“Yup, Latin, French, English Lit and History.”
“Did she understand Latin?”
The woman exhaled smoke. “Does it matter?”
“No – it’s just something I didn’t know.”
Did Lovell recruit her for her knowledge of Latin?
The woman’s expression softened. “Debra was a natural when it came to languages – had a memory like an encyclopaedia.”
“I understand her ambition was to be a journalist?”
“Yup, but she used to change her mind. When she was fourteen, she wanted to work in fashion, be a designer for one of the big firms. She loved to draw – and paint.”
“I understand she also loved history?”
“Yup. That was one thing that didn’t change.”
“Did she have an interest in local history? History of Wootton, that sort of thing?”
The woman smoked. “Yup.”
“I understand from one of her classmates that she had been working a lot with Dr Lovell. You know anything about that?”
The woman’s expression changed. “Oh, that project,” she said, more interested than before. “That wasn’t for school.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Nuh uh. Debra had it in her head that she’d never get on the course she wanted or get the jobs she wanted on grades alone.”
Jen was confused.
The woman sat up in her seat. “Teachers at St Joseph’s are all obsessed with résumés – they don’t even care if the kids don’t know the subject. The current party line is extracurricular shit: climbing mountains, volunteering
places, you know, the usual.”
Jen smiled. “Did your daughter participate in a lot of extracurricular activities?”
“She had hobbies – lots of them.”
“What were her favourite hobbies?”
“She liked to hike; that was one of her favourites. She liked art…oh, and photography; that was a new one.”
“May I see any of it?”
She shook her head. “I could never find her camera.”
“Did she upload anything onto computer?”
“We bought her a netbook for her birthday – you know, one of those little laptops. Took it everywhere with her.”
“You know where it is?”
She paused before answering. “No.”
“You know anything else about her project with Dr Lovell?”
“Dr Lovell is the editor of the East Riding history bulletin – it’s basically a voluntary thing, kind of like one of those parish newsletters but bigger. Dr Lovell wanted to write a series of articles on the priory and the church at Wootton. He agreed to let Debra help him; in exchange he’d publish some of her articles.”
Jen made a note of the fact, in addition to recording it on her digital voice recorder. “How long had this been going on?”
“Three months, maybe four. She put things on hold for her GCSEs.”
“Had she had anything published?”
“No.”
Jen took a deep breath as she planned her next question. She couldn’t help feel Lovell was the key.
Somehow.
“I understand that Dr Lovell was her former headmaster?”
“Yup.”
“How long have you known him personally?”
“All my life.”
Jen was pleased to see that once again the information agreed with what she had heard earlier. “Was he close with your daughter?”
For the first time the woman’s face practically lit up. “There’s not a person in the village who doesn’t love Dr Lovell. He’s just the loveliest man you could ever meet.”
Jen tucked her hair behind her right ear. “I really can’t wait to meet him.”
“You haven’t met him yet?”
“No. Every time I call by, he seems to be out.”
“Probably out walking; he often goes out walking alone on the moors. He just loves nature.”
For some reason she took that with a pinch of salt. “What kind of things had they been working on?”
“Couldn’t tell you. Something to do with the history of the church.”
“Any idea what the research involved? Was it in libraries, archives?”
“Possibly. Though most of it was either at Dr Lovell’s house or at the church.”
“Any idea what part of the church?”
“Does it matter?”
Jen contemplated a response. “I’d be interested in knowing what the research involved, yeah.”
This time it was Harrison’s turn to be speechless. “Sorry, I really wouldn’t know.”
Jen forced a smile.
“You gonna start filming soon?”
“Friday, I think. Is that okay?”
She smiled faintly.
“Do you have any other photographs of your daughter that we could maybe use?”
The question was clearly expected. “Sure.”
Harrison rose to her feet and made her way into the kitchen. She returned a few seconds later carrying several photographic prints.
“Thanks, Mrs Harrison.”
Jen left the house and walked along the high street. She decided to take the detour to Lovell’s house. She had missed him on every other occasion so far.
She grabbed a sandwich from the Co-op and ate it while on the move. She wanted an egg mayo, but decided chicken salad would be easier on the breath – even after a few Polos. The meat was moist and tender, and the tomato dressing on the salad to die for. It was her first food since breakfast, and throughout the interview her stomach had been rumbling.
Lovell was out, which she was starting to accept as par for the course. On this occasion there was no response at all, meaning his wife must be out as well, perhaps joining her husband on a long, romantic walk across the moors. As she considered her options, she felt sleepy. It was almost 2:30, and she had nothing else planned for now. She would try Lovell again after five.
That gave her over two hours to catch up on sleep.
She returned to the Hog and then went up to her room. She placed her handbag down on the chair and removed the new photographs from her pocket.
She looked at them for the first time. Without question, the girl got prettier every time. Gillian Harrison had given her seven in total, capturing her daughter from the age of four or five to a few weeks before she disappeared.
The photos were useful. Judging from them, the girl’s hair had darkened as she aged, with possible evidence of jet-black dye. She was always tall, no matter what age she was, and was clearly slim, athletic, and undeniably attractive. The possibility of her being a rape victim could certainly not be ruled out. Furthermore, the photos had one very obvious thing in common.
The girl never stopped smiling.
Jen sat down on the side of the bed and scanned the next photo. As she did, something caught her eye. As she continued to look, she felt her body go cold. The photograph was more recent, no more than a year at the most before her disappearance. Debra was dressed in a black top and shorts, her hair done up in a ponytail. A small necklace with a silver cross hung around her neck.
Jen looked to her right. The camera and necklace she had found the previous day in the vaults were lying on her bedside table.
She had all but forgotten about them.
She picked up the necklace and compared it to the one in the photograph. Her breathing began to quicken as she realised they were exactly the same. She took a deep breath and tried to rationalise the situation. The necklace did not look particularly expensive and was probably store bought.
It was certainly not unique enough for her to confirm that the two were one and the same.
She looked again to her right. The camera was still there, lying on its back.
Suddenly the words of Debra Harrison’s mother started to repeat themselves in her mind.
The girl had recently taken up photography – her camera had also disappeared.
A sobering thought overcame her.
If these were Debra Harrison’s camera and necklace, they were potentially a vital clue in ascertaining the place where she disappeared.
Right outside the locked door in the vaults.
34
For several seconds Thomas failed to speak.
“Richard of Shrewsbury was m-murdered in 1483.”
“No, Tom, the Duke of York disappeared in 1483,” Wilson retorted. “Along with his brother, I might add. The debatable King Edward V.”
“The Princes in the Tower,” Thomas said, exasperated.
“Or as they were known to most people, Prince Edward and Prince Richard,” Wilson said.
Thomas shook his head. “The Princes in the Tower were murdered.”
“Says who, exactly?”
Thomas simply stared at his former personal tutor. “Croyland, Thomas More, Dominic Mancini…”
“Philippe de Commines,” Ainsworth interjected.
“Ten out of ten on the choice of your sources, both of you, but just because someone says they were murdered does not make it so.”
“Meaning what?” Thomas asked.
“Meaning exactly what I say.”
“You suggest otherwise?”
“I suggest nothing, only that you must question every angle as opposed to relying on hearsay.”
“Damn it, Patrick,” the prince shouted, the sound of his voice echoing, “why must you always speak in riddles.” He breathed deeply to control himself.
“Sorry.”
For several seconds all was quiet.
“What’s the significance?” Thomas asked.
�
��Nothing,” Wilson said. “For all we know, the document is a forgery.”
“You believe it to be so?”
“I do not believe either way.”
A thought occurred to Thomas. “Even if the princes were not m-murdered, they had been declared illegitimate.”
“By who?”
“By common council.”
Wilson nodded. “Titulus Regius. The only Act of Parliament of Richard III’s two-year reign.”
Thomas nodded. “Exactly.”
“Denounced during the reign of Henry VII, who later married the boys’ sister, I might add.”
Thomas was aware that was correct. Historically, Edward IV had gone against usual protocol and chosen a commoner for his wife: Elizabeth Woodville, famed for her beauty. The marriage catapulted the family into brilliant success at court. When Edward IV died, the scene was set for his son, Edward, to take the throne.
Until the revelation, later denounced, that the king had already been married, resulting in his marriage to Elizabeth Woodville being declared null and void.
“In any case, how could Richard of Shrewsbury be heir to Richard III? For that to happen, his brother must have been murdered.”
“No, for that to happen, Edward must have been dead,” Wilson replied, now smiling. “As for their uncle, his only legitimate son had died.”
Thomas was now riled. “You said earlier he might have had another son.”
“Indeed, he may. In fact, the document goes on to suggest that the son of the Flemish girl, in turn, would be next in line after Shrewsbury; the dispute over his own legitimacy on this occasion acknowledged.”
Ainsworth smiled. “If the document is genuine, there is reason to believe that this was in fact an addendum to Titulus Regius. Unfortunately we don’t know for sure because no copy of Titulus Regius has been found.”
“They were all destroyed on the orders of Henry Tudor,” Wilson added.
Thomas breathed out forcefully. “You suggest the document implies Richard III succeeded Edward f-fairly and Richard of Shrewsbury would reign as Richard IV. You think Richard III only reigned because the Duke of York was a minor?”
The thought seemed plausible to Wilson. “Perhaps, but you are forgetting, Henry Tudor won the Battle of Bosworth.”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 21
