The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  The remainder of the priory’s story, she did not know. As far as she was aware, no one knew – at least no one living. In the 19th century, Turner had painted it; in the early 20th century, Francis Gasquet had written about it.

  But the rest belonged to time itself. Even since the era of the watercolour, much of what was once there had itself been reclaimed by the elements.

  For once, Jen had a good idea where she was going. The image on the camera confirmed that the entrance to the secret vault, if that was indeed what it was, would be found in an area overgrown with greenery near the former dormitories. The building itself had practically disappeared, the outline of a large window the main exception.

  As the wall ended and the next one started at a right angle to the left, she recognised the image exactly. The light was now going, whereas the photograph had been taken in broad daylight, but the similarities were evident: the height of the wall, the layout of the stone…

  The only thing missing at present was the entrance.

  “Jen, look.”

  Jen turned. There was a small structure located between the trees, evidently what had once been a grotto.

  “Look.”

  The stones were grey and jagged, but on the whole well built.

  “What?”

  “Look.”

  Jen had no idea what she was looking for. She moved closer to the grotto and continued all the way around.

  Finally she caught on. There was something beneath it that was not grass – it looked like an iron grille.

  Jen checked the images on the camera. One clearly showed the wall of the old chapter house, the second something similar.

  There was nothing of the grotto.

  She could feel the frustration boiling within her. She followed the wall all the way around and then back again.

  Nothing matched what she was looking for.

  She returned to the grotto and then through the trees. For the first time she noticed a circular outline in the grass.

  “This had once been a well.”

  Jen got down on her knees and felt the outline with her hands. The grass was longer here – at least two and a half inches in height. She could feel detail, unquestionably stone. She reasoned that it had once been part of the well, but the upper part had since been dismantled.

  The centre of the well was now grass.

  She rose again to her feet, heading for the wall that separated the ruins from the churchyard. The vegetation was rugged, the red brick covered with moss, ivy, and vines coming down from the other side.

  “Jen.”

  The call was loud and excited.

  Anthea was pointing at the wall that separated the ruins from the cloisters of the church.

  Jen advanced slowly, the greenery so thick she could barely make out the wall.

  She felt herself stumble. Though the ground was rugged, it didn’t take long for her to realise what had caused her to fall.

  The ground beneath her was descending.

  The stairway had clearly been part of the former priory.

  Jen grabbed the rugged vegetation in front of her and tried her best to move it. She made progress, not enough to see everything but enough to start her way down.

  She progressed down twelve steps before coming up against something solid. She activated the flashlight facility on her iPhone and shone it all around.

  There was a passageway heading to the right.

  “Come on.”

  43

  The car picked the princes up at Maryon Park as prearranged, and took them south, then west along the Old Kent Road. They dropped the driver back home on the way, telling him to take the rest of the night off.

  How things had changed since the days of the royal coachmen.

  Thomas took over the driving and pulled up in a large car park near a department store. There was a café nearby, quiet and secluded.

  The perfect place to think.

  Their identities disguised with baseball caps and padded windproof jackets, they went into the café. Thomas ordered a tea and a coffee before joining Stephen at a two-seater table near a window. About a minute later, the same person who took the order brought over the tray.

  “One tea and one coffee,” he said, placing the drinks in front of Thomas and Stephen.

  “Thank you,” Thomas said.

  Stephen watched the waiter leave, thankful he didn’t recognise them. He ripped open the sachet of sugar and poured it into his tea.

  “Could do with this.” The first sip, his face displayed his disgust. “It tastes like something out of the Thames.”

  “Is that really all you can think about?”

  Stephen placed the cup down on the table. “What would you rather I think about? How we nearly got obliterated?” He wiped his mouth. “What the hell happened?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the very s-same question.”

  He took the first sip of his coffee. His cousin was not wrong.

  The taste was horrendous.

  “The explosion was activated from the inside,” Thomas affirmed, “manual detonation.”

  “Really, Thomas, how can you be so certain?”

  “Before the explosion I heard a f-fizzing sound. Now that could only happen when one substance is added to another. The qu-question is what.”

  “I have an even better question: who did it and why?”

  Thomas bit his lip.

  Stephen took another sip of tea. “And here’s another one: how did they know we were coming?”

  Thomas turned to his left, looking outside the window. It was getting dark, the street illuminated in the orange glow of the streetlamps. Cars passed at regular intervals, left and right.

  Turning to his right, Thomas’s attention was drawn to a wall-mounted chrome rack holding a number of national and local newspapers.

  The front page of the London Chronicle caught his eye.

  He left his seat, picked it up and examined a banner headline.

  “Duke of York victim of assassination attempt…”

  Stephen was furious. “Give me that.”

  He scanned the early lines.

  “The Duke of York, 57, was declared to be in a stable condition after falling ill while dining…a spokesman for the palace claimed the duke had suffered a mild heart attack…”

  There was a second article.

  “Assassination attempt linked with the murder of politicians…”

  Stephen threw the paper down on the table. “How the hell did they know all this?”

  Thomas was equally lost for words. He picked up the paper and began reading the second article. While the one on the duke was extremely short, the breaking news on the front page, the second article was far longer and continued on pages four and five.

  Thomas was horrified. “According to an insider, the R-Royal Family have long been p-plagued by the threats of a m-malicious operation. They r-refused to comment on reports that the m-murders of the politicians were themselves c-connected to the death of King James III, who p-passed away less than four weeks ago.”

  Stephen snatched the paper for a second time, his face registering his fury.

  “How dare they print this!”

  Thomas took a deep breath, also struggling to control his anger. “Who was the journalist?”

  Stephen checked. “Neil Atkins.”

  “I suggest we pay him a visit.”

  44

  The way was shut. Judging by the condition of the bars, it had been for some time.

  Jen attempted to open the gate. As far as she could tell, there was no lock on it, but the evidence of rust, particularly around the hinges, made it obvious she was in for a challenge.

  She tried shaking it, pushing it and pulling it. Pulling it worked, but slowly. A couple of minutes later she had opened it about eighteen inches – not a lot, but enough to get through.

  The passageway wound from left to right. The walls were made of stone on either side, a
s was the ceiling, cold but relatively smooth. Judging by its appearance, it had been constructed in the Middle Ages, almost certainly at the same time as the priory. The ground beneath them was solid and complete rather than made up of slabs.

  Whatever it was, it had been built to last.

  Jen shone the light in front of her. There were cobwebs everywhere, particularly on the ceiling. She could feel them touching the side of her face as she walked.

  “I hate spiders, I hate spiders, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them…”

  An open doorway on the left revealed a chamber. There were objects inside, possibly tombs.

  She shone the light in the middle of the chamber.

  “Paupers’ graves,” Jen guessed. Whatever it was, it was in too dilapidated a state to know for sure.

  Standing by the doorway, Anthea was nervous. “Don’t touch anything. You might catch something.”

  Jen doubted that.

  Nevertheless, she decided to move on.

  The passageway contained four similar burial chambers. In each case there were only a handful of tombs, all of which were ruined. As far as she could see, there were no names on the outside.

  Whoever was buried there, it was unlikely they were people of prominence.

  The sixth chamber was different, the archway curiously elaborate, as was the interior. The style was Romanesque, with writing above the door, illegible after centuries of wear.

  There were several graves, all of which had an effigy atop the slab. Jen wandered around the left side of the room while Anthea took the right. There were puddles and debris on the floor.

  It was unclear where the water had come from.

  Anthea walked alongside the grave with the largest effigy. “There’s writing here.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “I don’t know; I can’t read Latin.”

  Jen decided to look for herself. She shone the torch on the verge.

  “There but for the grace of God…Edward Stanley, died 1566.”

  The others were also Stanleys of the same era.

  Jen allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts. “The dates are getting older; we must be getting closer.”

  They passed two more chambers, neither of which seemed to contain anything physical. For the first time Jen considered the possibility that there was actually something in the priest’s plague victims’ story, at least indirectly. The graves were old and heavily weathered. If there was any truth in it, most likely they were from the 14th century rather than the 17th.

  Nevertheless, she was still to find anything that old.

  The evidence came in the next chamber, the largest so far. The roof was vaulted, reminiscent of catacombs.

  Whatever it was, it had clearly been built for a specific purpose.

  There were tombs everywhere, arranged in some kind of order. Most of them lined the walls: they were short, flat, and contained some kind of symbol on the top. The light from their phones revealed it was a long cross, with Calvary steps at the base.

  “This is where the friars are buried.”

  “How can you tell?” Anthea asked, joining her from across the room.

  “It’s obvious from the symbol,” Jen said. “Only a cleric or someone of a monastic order can be buried with a long cross and botonny base. It depicts Christ’s death on Calvary.”

  There were more graves in the centre of the chamber, these containing an effigy on top of the slab. There was also writing along the verge.

  “Reginald, prior of St Michael’s, died 1384.”

  It took several seconds for the find to sink in. The grave was nearly seven hundred years old.

  “Wow.”

  Jen finished her inspection of the elaborate tombs. Once done, she moved on to the ones lining the walls. She finished at the far wall, opposite where they had entered the chamber. She concluded that the surrounding graves were those of the friars, while the ones in the centre, the more prominent graves, belonged to the priors.

  The chamber contained a further doorway, this one even larger, leading in the same direction.

  Jen sensed that this was the one she had been looking for.

  At 9:45 Father Martin’s Vauxhall Corsa made its way along the driveway, heading toward the presbytery. It was getting dark outside, the ruins of the priory nearly invisible.

  He entered the presbytery through the front door and punched in the four-digit code to deactivate the alarm.

  Something was wrong. Though he had entered the code correctly, a second red light was still flashing. He had seen it only once before – exactly a year ago.

  Someone had entered the restricted vault.

  45

  The editor of the London Chronicle was still in his office after 10pm. Most of the journalists had gone home, and he knew that his floor was deserted.

  It was something of a surprise when he heard two lots of heavy footsteps approaching his office.

  The princes entered side by side, Stephen carrying a copy of the Chronicle. Thomas knocked, but both entered without invite.

  “Care to explain this?” Stephen asked. He threw the paper down on the desk.

  The editor was gobsmacked. He recognised the Duke of Cornwall, but not the person with him.

  “Well?”

  The editor remained seated, merely staring.

  “How dare you write this sort of thing about my family!”

  Thomas, meanwhile, monitored the editor from across the desk. He was bearded, brown haired, and aged probably somewhere between fifty and sixty. It looked as if the man had endured quite a long day.

  “Mr Symons,” Thomas said, attracting his attention, “my name is Thomas Winchester, son of the Duke of Clarence–”

  “How on earth did you know that the duke had been taken unwell?” Stephen interrupted. “I demand to know your source!”

  “Mr Symons–” Thomas began.

  “The duke is aware of the article and has already consulted his lawyers.” Stephen pointed his finger at the editor. “I swear to God–”

  “Stephen, please…Mr Symons,” Thomas spoke only to the editor, “you have an opportunity here to make the best of a bad situation. Where is Mr Atkins?”

  The editor remained speechless.

  “Mr Symons.”

  The man made eye contact with Thomas for the first time. His expression was gaunt and clearly overwhelmed.

  “Mr Symons. Where is Atkins?”

  “He-he’s gone for the day,” the editor finally muttered. “Be in tomorrow.”

  “We must see him tonight. What is his address?”

  The man, clearly stunned by the unexpected presence of his high-profile visitors, made no reply.

  “WHAT IS HIS ADDRESS?” Stephen demanded.

  The editor scrambled for his mouse. “It’s here, somewhere…” After a few seconds he started feverishly checking his desk drawers before returning his attention to the computer.

  He found the address listed in a staff database.

  Thomas wrote it down on a piece of paper. “Come on.”

  From behind his desk, the editor watched with a blank expression as the son of the Duke of Clarence left the office.

  “You’re, you’re not going to hurt him?”

  Stephen delayed his exit. “Take a good look around, editor. After all, you never know when it might be your last.”

  Thomas grabbed Stephen’s arm. “Come on.”

  He looked back at the editor and could see that the man was close to tears.

  “Thank you, Mr Symons.”

  Thomas and Stephen left the building via the staircase and through the electronic doors that led out onto the street. Like a number of other London newspapers, the Chronicle’s headquarters was in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. The journey from the Old Kent Road had taken less than twenty minutes through the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

  Judging from Atkins’ address, the next journey would be about the same.

  They had parked on the main road, abo
ut fifty metres from the entrance.

  “What the bloody hell was that about?” Thomas asked as he started the car.

  “What?”

  “Wh-what do you mean, what? Accusations of lying, lawyers, f-for all we know, Uncle Bill hasn’t even seen it!”

  Stephen opened the window and began to smoke. “Never hurts to keep the bastards on their feet.”

  Thomas breathed out heavily. He stopped the car at a red light and entered the postcode of the address he had been given by Symons into the GPS.

  The result was somewhere in between Barking and West Ham.

  He waited for the lights to change before flooring the accelerator.

  If luck was to hold, they would arrive well before eleven.

  46

  Jen felt her breathing become more intense. The archway was peculiarly large and seemed a suspicious and ostentatious prelude for the chamber they were about to enter.

  She had never been so nervous. Or excited. The combination was alluring, but also strangely unique. It was definitely different to a nice surprise – a birthday present, Christmas morning, the start of a holiday – but there was definitely a feeling of anticipation.

  She feared the unknown more than the prospect of further graves.

  The light was non-existent, even compared to a few minutes earlier. As best she could tell, the chamber was even larger than the previous one. The air had improved, despite the smells becoming more dominant. If she was where she thought she was, it was probably about the size of the Jeffries’ vault. Ideally she needed to see it in the daytime.

  Not that that was likely.