“He was a unionist?”
“No. Apparently it was something to do with the EU.”
The surgeon accepted the response.
Thomas was more concerned with his uncle’s wellbeing. “Who did this to you?”
The duke fought a sarcastic reply. “I don’t know.”
“Whoever it was, they were clearly not looking to murder. This was surely no more than a warning sign,” Stephen said.
Thomas doubted that. He knew the King had not died immediately.
The duke agreed. “We’ve had a narrow escape, put it that way.”
“Has my father been informed?” Stephen asked.
“Of course, your father’s got ears coming out of every fence in the countryside.” He turned to face Thomas. “I want you to check the surveillance footage. The poison was in the pie; whoever put it there must have acted fast.”
“Pie?” Stephen said.
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Thomas was alarmed. His first thought was the nursery rhyme.
“There were no blackbirds in it?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Steve.”
Thomas was concerned. “Uncle said Aunty Matilda and Granny both died of f-food poisoning. The rhyme must be a clue.”
The duke bit his lip. “The pie was chicken. White bird.”
“You’re quite s-sure there were n-no eye witnesses?” Thomas asked. “After all, it’s d-different from the other s-stuff.”
The duke’s stare had hardened. “Perhaps you could ask your father; he was eating from the plate opposite.”
Thomas closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. Almost immediately, he put the surprise behind him.
“The pie was normal?”
“Yes. And don’t you worry; he’s been fully checked out. Old bastard’s as fit as a fiddle.”
Thomas offered a faint smile, slightly reassured. “What more about the mobile phones?”
“Apart from the one registered to Stanley, all were standard pay-as-you-go.”
“Network?”
“Varied. The models themselves are less than a year old. The best guess indicates they were purchased within the last six months.”
“Where’s Stanley now?” Stephen asked.
“Which one?” the duke asked.
“I don’t know – why not both.”
“Burghart, I understand, is presently in London – he has an apartment in Greenwich, though I understand it’s still in the process of being built. According to my sources at GCHQ, he’s been there today making phone calls. His father is alone in the family home in the village of Wootton-on-the-Moor – it’s all part of his constituency.”
Stephen raised an eyebrow. “That’s the village where that girl disappeared a year ago.”
“Blimey, Stephen, you do have a good memory.”
“Did they ever find the body?” Thomas asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t one of the s-suspects commit suicide?”
“Yes, at least according to the press.”
“Must have been around the time Stanley became leader, mustn’t it?” Thomas said.
“Yes, I suppose it must,” the duke began. “What are you getting at?”
The prince shook his head. “Nothing.”
The duke didn’t buy it. “Anyway, be sure to check it out. And be sure to find out why those mobile phones were in the same hands as those guns.”
Thomas and Stephen left the room and quickly made their way along the main corridor.
“Get me the Duke of Clarence, please,” Thomas said into his mobile phone. He covered the mouthpiece as he spoke to Stephen.
“I say we check out this boy’s apartment tonight.”
“Before he gets away, you mean?”
“Precisely.”
Thomas received a response from the other end of the line.
“Text me the details, please, won’t you? Thanks.”
He ended the call and placed his mobile phone in his pocket.
“At least we have an address.”
“The thought occurs that he might have been one of the boys firing at you. After all, Uncle said the bastard used to be a Royal Marine. Hardly incapable.”
“You might have a point there. I-I wonder why he became a politician?”
Stephen laughed. “Perhaps he’s one of those men of the people who wants to get the old place clean again.”
Thomas grinned at him.
“Thomas.”
The shout came from the other end of the corridor. Caroline was following them.
“Oh, hi, C-Caroline,” Thomas stuttered. He took the time to examine her face, notably her mouth and nose. “I hear you were attacked the other week.”
“I was walking through the grounds of our estate, and some fellow in a hood just came out of nowhere,” she huffed. “It was nothing, just a bloody nose,” she said, covering it with her hand.
Her attention turned to the present. “What’s happening?” There was a look of desperation in her eyes, exaggerated by the appearance of black mascara smudged by recent tears.
“Nothing that need concern you,” Stephen replied. “You can go back to your father now.”
“I can help.”
“Absolutely not,” Stephen replied. “Go back to your father, Cookie.”
“Don’t call me Cookie.”
Her voice was shrill and piercing, the acoustics of the corridor causing it to echo.
Stephen closed his eyes as a reflex. He turned around, coming face to face with her. “Are you out of your mind? For all we know the press could be anywhere.”
The girl looked desperately at Thomas. “Thomas, please.”
“Stephen’s right. Your place is to be b-beside your father.”
He held her gaze for an extended pause before finally walking away.
“I can’t go back; the King wants to see us.”
38
Finding the camera had left Jen rejuvenated. Forsaking her nap, she left the Hog and headed back across the bridge.
She wanted to know more about the history of the village. Accepting she had learned all she could from the parish registers, she entered a 14th-century building located two along from the end of the bridge. According to Mitchell, the building housed the local library and heritage centre.
Not that she would have guessed from the lack of advertisement.
She entered through an original wooden door and espied a nice open-plan room with traditional features, including high beams and stone walls. A small grey-haired woman, probably in her sixties, was sitting behind the front desk. She offered Jen a free leaflet about Wootton’s history before directing her into the next room.
For the next ten minutes Jen explored everything the building had to offer. A neat display had been assembled in the next room, a visual history of the parish from the Roman era to the modern day.
Curiously it mentioned nothing of the so-called village of Ravensfield.
After learning nothing new of the castle, priory or the church, she continued upstairs to where the library was housed. She looked for anything on the church and the vaults.
Again, there was nothing new.
She had been standing in one particular row for less than a minute before noticing movement to her right. At the end of the row, she saw a face, young, brunette…
Almost immediately, the girl disappeared.
For several seconds, Jen stood rooted to the spot. When the surprise had worn off, she walked to where she’d seen the face and looked for her in every direction.
There was movement along the corridor, heading through one of the nearby doorways.
Jen chased after her, but the girl had disappeared. She tried the remaining rooms on the first floor, most of which were empty bar miscellaneous curiosities and writings from the village’s past. Failing to find the girl on the second floor, she took the stairs back down to the main entrance. The woman on reception smiled at her as she passed, thanking her for coming.
<
br /> Jen opened the door, looking in vain for any sign of the mystery girl.
Instead, she noticed something different.
Lord Ratcliffe was passing.
“Well, if it isn’t the lovely Miss Farrelly.”
Her dry expression warmed into a smile. “I was hoping I’d find you.”
“Me?” Ratcliffe asked. “And what possible thing has an old politician done to deserve such a prestigious honour.”
She walked alongside him, heading across the bridge. “I understand that it was you who discovered the body of Luke Rankin?”
The question was clearly unexpected. “Who, might I ask, told you that?”
“I have my sources.”
The man’s expression changed. “Aye, well, like it or not, find him I did…forgive me, Miss Farrelly, it wasn’t exactly my most favourite of memories.”
She smiled sympathetically. “I was wondering what happened?”
“What…”
“How did you find him?”
He took a deep breath. “Tell you the truth, it all happened so fast. There I was walking Bobby and Bernard, that’s me dogs, you understand.”
She smiled.
“I usually go that way, down by the old train station. Takes you down to the coast. It’s a lovely walk in summer.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Then what happened?
“Anyway, I’d just got up as far as the bridge when Bernard started barking. I thought it strange; he never barks like that, not to me, not Bernard.”
“What time of day was it?”
“Early,” he said, “I always take the dogs for a walk first thing; you know what they say, old habits die hard.”
A wry smile. “Any idea of the time?”
“You’re not a secret copper, are you?”
She laughed. “You say it was early?”
“Aye, now that you mention it, I’d guess it were before seven.”
She made a mental note. “What state was the body in when you made the discovery?”
“You mean, how did he die?”
“That as well.”
“Poor lad hanged himself the night before.”
Jen was confused. “How can you be sure it was the night before?”
“Autopsy confirmed it,” he replied. “Said he’d been dead about five hours.”
Placing the time between 1 and 2am.
“Where was his body?”
“Have you seen the old railway station?”
Jen nodded.
“Well, up there, there’s a bridge, you see.”
She noticed the way he gestured with his hands as he spoke. “I understand it was you who took him down.”
Ratcliffe hesitated before nodding. “Aye. Me and Bill, that’s Sir William, you see. I called for him first. It were impossible just me.”
“Where was the body found? I mean, had he fallen over the side, or was it beneath the arch?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. The rope was attached to the rocks above.”
“The rocks?”
He nodded.
“Could you show me?”
He winced slightly. “I can show you the bridge. The police later destroyed the exact point.”
“They destroyed it?”
The politician nodded. “It was a deterrent, you see. The last thing anyone wanted was for someone else to do the same. Very common, copycat deaths, you see.”
She nodded. She walked with Ratcliffe past the churchyard, heading back to what Edward Jeffries had described as Ravensfield.
She decided to move on. “Did you know them well? Debra and Luke?”
“Not really; I’ve been living down in Westminster these past twenty years. I never really spent much time here before I retired.”
She accepted the answer, albeit convenient. “I understand Debra Harrison was a friend of your nephew?”
That surprised him. “Gary?”
She didn’t know his name. “I think that’s the one.”
“Must be; I’ve only one.”
“Did he go to school with Debra?”
“Gary? No, he’s thirty-two.”
That amazed her. Then again, Ratcliffe himself was over sixty.
“I understand the pair had become friends.”
The politician was baffled. “I’m afraid you know more than me, Miss Farrelly,” he said as they reached the gate of his house. “Would you like a cuppa?”
She smiled, but decided against it.
“Thank you for your time, Lord Ratcliffe.”
Ratcliffe made the short walk through the grounds of his house and crossed the threshold into the Catesby estate.
Catesby was in the lab as usual. He was dressed in grey overalls and wore goggles to shield his eyes. He held a pipette in one hand, protected by rubber gloves, while steadying a Petri dish with the other.
He looked over at Ratcliffe. “It isn’t time yet, is it?”
The Rat shook his head. “No, it’s nothing to do with that.” He gestured with his fingers, and Catesby dropped what he was doing.
“I were just having a chat with the lovely Miss Farrelly.”
39
The King was in his study at 6pm. Through the window behind his desk, he watched in silence as the newest batch of guards marched smartly across the forecourt. Though he had witnessed the Changing of the Guard countless times, it never failed to make the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“Tell me, George. Is Britain at war?”
Standing behind him was his brother, the Duke of Clarence. Like most of the family of that generation, he was in his late fifties and had previously served in the armed forces before concentrating on his business ventures.
He was a dead ringer for his brother, apart from his beard.
“Aren’t we always?”
The King smiled – he knew in his heart of hearts, it was the first genuine one he had managed all day.
His pondering was disturbed by a knock at the door. He answered, “Come in,” and in walked the Home Secretary, followed by West.
“George, you are familiar with Mr Heston, and the new Secretary of State for Justice, Mr West?”
“How do you do?” Clarence said, shaking hands. “Congratulations on your new appointment.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” West replied.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” the Home Secretary added.
The King checked his watch; it was now approaching a quarter past seven.
“I have spoken to Thomas,” Clarence said. “He and Stephen will be arriving shortly.”
The King nodded. “I had hoped Fred might have joined us as well, but understandably his place is with his father.”
“Quite understandable, Majesty,” West said.
The Home Secretary held his tongue.
A few minutes later the doors opened for a second time. “The Duke of Cornwall and Prince Thomas,” the two men were announced. Thomas didn’t recognise the man with Heston, but the sight of his father warmed him.
“Father,” he said, embracing him.
“I’m quite all right, Tom. There’s no need to fuss.”
“Ahem.”
West was standing with his fist covering his mouth.
“I do hope it’s not contagious, West,” Stephen said as he entered.
Although he had never met the man, Thomas could sense a dislike between the two.
“Nothing to worry about, sir, I assure you.”
Stephen removed a cigar from the box on the desk, unwrapped it, and put it to his lips. “I hear you got promoted. Medical expenses gone up, I assume?”
Awkward laughter followed.
Stephen addressed the King for the first time. “Father.”
“You’re not going to light that, are you?”
Stephen removed the cigar from his mouth.
The King turned his attention to the politicians. “You know my son, the Duke of Cornwall, and my nephew Thomas.”
Thomas acknowledge
d both men in turn. “How do you do?”
“An overdue honour, sir,” West said, shaking hands with Thomas.
Standing behind West, Stephen made a gesture with his mouth.
The King was unimpressed, but quickly moved on. “Well, now that we are all here, let’s not waste any more time. Tim, perhaps we might start by telling me what the bloody hell happened today?”
In truth, the Home Secretary had no answers. “Sir, I have spoken personally with the owner of the Marigold, Scotland Yard, and the head of Special Branch. All have reassured me that the matter is fully in hand.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean: the matter is fully in hand?” Stephen asked.
“How is he?” the King asked before Heston had a chance to respond.
“Good, already barking out orders,” Thomas said, avoiding a stutter.
“Yes, good old Uncle Bill, already up to his old tricks. Giving poor Cookie one hell of a run-around,” Stephen said.
The King laughed. “Well, that’s certainly a relief all-round.”
He returned his attention to Heston. “Do we have a suspect yet?”
Heston replied, “Special Branch has already been given footage; I understand the hotel staff are also presently examining CCTV. We should have a far better idea over the next few hours.”
“During which time our man could have got halfway across Europe – if not further,” Stephen said.
“Unfortunately there is still no news on the exact source of the duke’s illness,” West interjected. “Even with the footage, it remains unclear what we are looking for.”
Stephen removed the unlit cigar from his mouth.
“My son is quite correct,” the King said, his point not questioned. “We need to nail this bastard now, while the iron is still hot.” He brought his fist down on the desk with a thump.
“Have you seen the footage?” the King asked Heston.
“No, sir, but thanks to the owner of the Marigold, I am now in possession of a copy on a data stick,” the Home Secretary responded.
“I should very much like to see that myself, Minister,” Thomas said. “After all, protection of my family is my field.”
“What a wizard idea,” Stephen added. “There’s a good chap, Minister, hand it over.”
“Your co-operation would be much appreciated, Minister,” Clarence added, he had been quiet so far. “I would also like to view it myself at some stage. As I’m sure would my brother, the Duke of York.”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 23
