“Your assistance will be most valued, Your Grace,” West added. “With a bit of luck, you might even turn out to be an eyewitness.”
“The thought had occurred to me, Minister,” Clarence replied. “Now then, Home Secretary, do you have that little stick with you?”
The request made Heston uncomfortable. “Why, yes.”
“Would you be so kind as to hand it over?”
The Home Secretary hesitated. “I’m still to see it myself. Perhaps West can email…”
“I have a better idea,” Stephen interrupted. “Hand over the stick. And my uncle can email it to you.”
Clarence didn’t object. “Minister.”
Reluctantly the Home Secretary removed the memory stick from his pocket and handed it to Clarence, who placed it in an inside pocket of his jacket.
“We should have a much better idea of what we’re dealing with when we’ve established the exact cause of the poison,” West said. “Perhaps they used a different substance this time.”
“Different to what time?” Stephen asked.
“And who exactly are you referring to when you say ‘they’?” Thomas added.
“Why, the people who dictated the actions of the friar,” the new Secretary of State for Justice said. “I can only assume that there is a connection.”
All eyes fell on West.
“Okay, West–” Heston began.
“Don’t you think you’re being a tad presumptuous?” Stephen asked.
“Perhaps so, sir, but surely the possibility cannot be disregarded. After all, within the last three weeks two of my colleagues have been found murdered…that, for all we know the King himself…”
“You mind your tongue,” Stephen said.
Thomas placed himself in front of him. “Calm.”
Stephen looked briefly at his cousin, then once again at the minister, their eyes at constant deadlock.
“Gentlemen, time is of the essence,” the King said. “Home Secretary, Justice Secretary, thank you very much for coming. Do, of course, keep us informed of any developments.”
“Of course, sir,” Heston replied.
West nodded at the King and slowly started to leave the room.
He saved the last eye contact for Stephen.
“The insolent bastard,” Stephen exclaimed once the two ministers had left the room.
“Pipe down,” the King reacted. “Like it or not, the boy had a point.”
“I was so busy vomiting from all the arse licking, I’m afraid I must have missed it.”
“I said pipe down.”
The King moved toward his son, looking him in the eye. “One day you will be king. Now grow up and start to act like one.”
The King took a breath and exhaled loudly.
“What news?”
“Talbot is dead; so is the butler. So is the m-man who sh-shot at me at Middleham,” Thomas said.
“Any progress with the phone numbers?” the King asked.
“Yes,” Thomas replied. “Uncle Bill brought us up to speed.”
“I can’t deny, the topic of conversation came up earlier at luncheon,” Clarence said.
“So, who is responsible?” the King asked.
“One of the numbers was registered to the account of one Burghart Stanley,” Clarence confirmed. “The others were all pay-as-you-go.”
The King was confused. “Why did he need an account if they were all pay-as-you-go?”
“Stanley’s must have been a contract,” Thomas answered.
The King accepted the answer. “Very well. Who is this Stanley?”
“Son of Rowland,” Stephen replied.
“The Democrat leader?” the King asked, his eyes narrowing.
“The very same.”
“You know, I actually had the pleasure of meeting him recently,” Clarence said.
“Really?” the King replied. “I’m sure he took kindly to you.”
“No worse than I to him.”
The King laughed softly. “What of his son?”
“Ex Royal Marine, now posing as a politician,” Thomas replied, “at least according to Uncle Bill.”
“You think him unreliable?”
Thomas smiled. “N-not at all. In truth, I had never even h-heard of him until about an hour ago.”
Clarence nodded. “Actually, that pretty much covers him. He’s twenty-nine, six foot one – at least according to his former profile in the marines. Unmarried, no kids as far as we know. Praised by his former commander for his sharpshooting.”
“How about now?” the King asked.
“Failed to become the 31st Democrat to enter Strasbourg last year. Rumour has it he plans to stand for parliament at the next election.”
“What are his chances?”
“Too early to tell, at present – things should be a lot clearer by early next year.”
The King looked at Clarence, not in the slightest reassured. “So what’s his involvement in all this?”
“His recent activities have not been widely catalogued,” Clarence replied. “Nevertheless, I have passed on his details to GCHQ. From what I can gather, he’s been in Greenwich most of the day.”
“Thomas and I thought we might pay him a visit,” Stephen suggested. “Sometime in the region of now.”
The King shot his son a piercing stare. “Out of the question. Cause a scene, the press will be over you in a flash.”
“Father, I wasn’t planning on causing a scene; I merely thought we might, you know, pay him a visit.”
The King remained sceptical.
“Father, come on. After all, I’m a surgeon, not an assassin.”
For now Thomas remained silent. It was obvious that the King was not buying it.
“Then I must go alone.”
The King looked at his nephew. “It sounds dangerous. Very well, go with him if you must. Just be sensible.”
“I’m not planning on getting killed if that’s what you mean,” Stephen replied.
The King turned to Clarence. “I want someone else tracking his father.”
Thomas and Stephen left the palace through a back entrance to await the arrival of the car that had been assigned for them.
“That slimy weasel talks too much,” Stephen said, finally lighting the cigar. “Who told him about the politicians’ murders?”
“He’s a member of the Cabinet – word gets around. Of course s-some things might be p-public knowledge. Freedom of information and all that.”
“Hopefully not too much.”
Their car appeared in the southeast part of the grounds. They got in through the rear right door, and the driver emerged on the A3214, south of the palace.
“What I can’t understand is why the bastard was even there,” Stephen continued.
“It’s his department; technically it’s his job.”
Stephen wound down the window to exhale smoke and flick away ash. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him…what’s the address?”
“742 Drake Gardens, an apartment block in Greenwich.”
“Did you get that?”
The black visor came down, and the driver’s face appeared.
“Caroline?”
“I told the driver he deserved a night off. I’m coming with you.”
Back at the palace, the King looked over his brother’s shoulder. He was looking at a fifteen-inch laptop presently showing CCTV footage from earlier that day of the main entrance and exits of the Marigold.
“Stop right there,” the King said, focusing in on a man wearing a dark suit, aged somewhere between late twenties and early thirties. “Focus in on him.”
Clarence paused the footage and attempted to zoom in. The man had some sort of facial hair, probably stubble.
“Ring any bells?”
Clarence looked at the image for several seconds. “I don’t know.”
Moments later, the data came through on Thomas’s email. He opened it using his iPhone and seconds later was looking at the sa
me footage.
“What’s the matter?” Stephen asked.
“That’s one of the men who got away.”
Stephen’s response was delayed. “You’re quite sure?”
In truth, he wasn’t.
“Positive.”
40
“Ey up, it’s Miss Farrelly,” Brian Hancock said on entering the Hog. Jen was sitting alone at the bar, an almost finished plate of fish and chips in front of her.
“Hi ya,” she said, her mouth full.
He took a seat beside her. “Haven’t seen you about these last couple of days; where you been hiding?”
She pointed to her hair.
It took Hancock a second to twig. “Oh, you’ve had something done to your hair…oh, yes, it looks very nice, that does.” He turned his attention to Mitchell behind the bar. “Hey, doesn’t Miss Farrelly’s hair look nice?”
“Very nice,” he replied, pouring a pint.
“Anyway, when you have a minute, I’ll have a pint of the manliest you’ve got on the premises and same again for Miss Farrelly.”
“Two pints of lighter fluid coming up.”
Jen coughed as she finished her Coke.
“Don’t worry; it still tastes better than his beer.”
Jen laughed.
“So what else have you been doing these last couple of days – besides growing ever more attractive?”
“Just research, really. I’ve been spending quite a lot of time around the church. I never knew it had a vault.”
She was fishing.
“You know far more than me. Got a vault, has it? Down below, is it?”
Mitchell passed Hancock a pint of local ale and another Coke for Jen.
“Bit quiet in here tonight, isn’t it, Harvey lad?” Hancock asked.
“Must be something good on the telly.”
“Is that right? Not the dancing, is it?”
The statement seemed true. Themselves aside, there were only three other people in the bar area, none of whom Jen recognised. The sound of chatter was more evident from the dining area. Several people spoke in low voices, husbands talking to wives, others ordering food. One voice rose above all others, the man’s tone loud and annoyingly ostentatious.
“Where’s your friend?”
“You mean Gavin? I don’t know…he must have fallen off the face of the earth.” He asked the landlord, “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“What – Gavin? I haven’t seen him.”
“He hasn’t seen him, and he would know – doesn’t miss a thing, does Harvey.”
Jen found herself unable to avoid giggling.
“Tell you what, I’ll tell Gavin you asked about him – that’ll make his day, that will, Miss Farrelly.”
Jen took the first sip of her new Coke and stirred it with a straw. She placed the glass on a coaster, her mind again distracted. Laughter from the dining room had become consistently louder.
“Someone’s got the giggles,” Jen said, again unable to avoid smiling.
“That’s just Dr Lovell,” Hancock returned. “He’s a bit of a minor celeb round these parts.”
“Lovell?”
She didn’t mishear him.
She leaned back on her barstool, her eyes on the archway that connected the bar area to the dining room. Although the view wasn’t perfect, she could at least make out the man responsible for all the laughter.
She looked at him, taking note of his features. A large red shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, fit snugly around a large belly, while matching white trousers looked close to bursting point. A fine head of whitening blond hair, combed back smartly and perhaps assisted by some kind of gel or paste, was receding in some places, though she reasoned that might have been a trick of the light.
Either way, not bad for a man approaching seventy.
His face was fixed in a smile that brought joy to all around him – notably the staff. If there was a correlation between jolliness and weight, this man was Father Christmas.
“Is that him?” she asked Hancock.
“That’s him.”
“He’s on his own.”
“He often is. Knows everyone between here and the next five villages, Dr Lovell does…I’m guessing Alma’s gone to stay with her sister again.” The second half of the statement was for Mitchell.
“Got it in one.”
“Happens every middle of July, that does.”
“What does? Sorry,” Jen asked.
“Alma, that’s his wife, she always leaves Wootton this time of year to go and stay with her sister in Scarborough. They say it’s the closest she ever comes to leaving Yorkshire.”
Not for the first time Hancock’s banter made Jen laugh. “He seems very friendly.”
“Why don’t you go have a chat with him?”
Jen was unsure. “Perhaps after dinner.”
“Don’t be shy. Hey, tell you what, if you go now, there’s still time for him to buy you dessert.”
The prospect appealed. “You’re sure he won’t mind?”
“Him? Mind? You’ve got more chance of being bitten by a plague rat.”
The dining area was larger than the main bar area. At least twenty tables, ranging in size from two-seater to eight or more, were arranged evenly on either side of a large partition wall.
All of the walls were painted white, matching the original colour of the stone, and supported by wooden beams that dated back at least four hundred years. The room oozed periodic charm and contained two open fireplaces, neither of which were lit. Historic memorabilia lined the walls, mostly prints depicting the village from anywhere between fifty and two hundred years ago.
Lovell was sitting on his own at a four-seater table, halfway through what looked to be a homemade pie.
“Majestic, my dear, majestic,” Lovell said as he delayed the passing waitress. “I daresay the cuisine of this fine establishment surpasses the cooking of any other in the county…but please don’t tell my wife.”
Jen approached the man from the left, her smile now permanent.
“Excuse me, Dr Lovell?”
Lovell turned to his left, nearly knocking over his glass of red wine.
“My name is Jennifer Farrelly…”
“Miss Farrelly, we meet at last,” the man said, rising to his feet and cupping her hand in his. “I’ve heard so many very good things about you.”
Jen smiled awkwardly, touching her hair with her free hand. “I was wondering if I might…”
The man returned to his seat, unable to hide his delight. “Of course, of course, of course, of course, of course. Please sit down. Samantha, dear…” He caught the attention of the thirty-something waitress as she passed by with two plates, “a second glass for my youthful companion, though please do not inconvenience yourself and carry out my request with those hot plates still in your hand.”
“Be right with you, Dr Lovell.”
“Lovely girl, such manners, such grace…now, my dear, please.”
“You’re most kind,” Jen said, taking a seat opposite, placing her handbag down on the floor. “I’ve actually been trying to see you for quite some time; I’ve passed by your house twice, but you were out.”
Lovell clapped his hands together. “How tragic I should have missed you, and to think how fate might have robbed me of this fine opportunity…my dear, what a pretty necklace you wear around your neck.”
“Thank you,” Jen replied, taken completely off guard. “It was my grandmother’s.”
Nobody ever complimented her like that.
“How remarkable. Such taste, such beauty.”
The waitress returned with an empty glass and smiled at both in turn. Lovell picked up the three-quarter-full bottle of red wine and poured into Jen’s glass.
“That’s more than enough, thank you.”
The glass was well over half full.
“My dear, tell me, how are you enjoying your stay with us?”
“Oh, it’s been lovely; everybody’s just so fri
endly.”
“Oh, I’m quite glad that you think so; so different from London, I’m afraid the modern world is so alien to me.”
Jen smiled weakly. “I understand you’re something of an authority on local history.”
The man laughed as he raised his knife and fork. The aroma of steak, kidney, carrots, swedes and potatoes was simply beautiful to Jen, even on a full stomach.
“Lies, lies, all of it lies – leaving room, of course, for the occasional exaggeration. So many well-wishers, such great friends…please forgive me, Miss Jennifer, I do not wish for this fine cuisine to go cold.”
“Not at all,” Jen said, flicking her hair away from her face. “I understand you were headmaster at St Joseph’s for over twenty years.”
“Twenty-three years and a day – would you believe it? Oh, happy days, oh, how I miss those happy little faces.”
“I understand that you’re also the famed editor of the East Riding history bulletin?”
The man dropped his knife and fork on his plate. “What a most lovely thing to say,” the man said, bringing his hands to his heart, “and such an impeccable piece of research on your part. However did you know?”
“I think one of your former students told me…”
“How incredible…what was their name?”
Jen decided against telling him it was Gillian Harrison. “I think it was Anthea Brown; I went to their salon yesterday to get my hair done.”
“Remarkable, such talent, such grace.”
“I was hoping I might be able to chat with you about the history of the village – there’s still so much I don’t know.”
“And I, too, Miss Jennifer, it is indeed my most solemn opinion that for every nook in Wootton there are at least three crannies, all stuffed to their gussets with titbits, be it from the Romans to the Victorians.”
Jen smiled, noticing his rounded pronunciation of the word Romans. “I’m actually interested more in the Plantagenets. I’ve been able to learn a bit about the church, but I still know little about the rest of the village. How well do you know the priory?”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 24
