She heard a faint cry from several metres away.
“Anthea.”
“Sorry. I just lost me footing.”
Jen exhaled, relieved. The last thing they needed was an injury.
She shone the phone light in every direction. She could see objects, somehow more foreboding in appearance than the previous chamber. There were statues, possibly wall markings and other things normally found inside the church itself. There were tombs, as she had expected, but these were definitely more elaborate than the ones she had seen so far.
Without question this was what Debra Harrison had photographed.
Father Martin left the house immediately, carrying a torch and a shotgun. He decided against informing the owners of the vault. Instead, he opened the gate that led to the priory ruins and headed across the grounds of the estate.
There was a stone stairway that led into the crypt near the wall. He had never used it, but he’d been told it was there. He shone the torch on the wall and found it almost instantly. The vegetation, though thick, was not how he had expected it to be.
The vines had been moved.
Jen took a deep breath, in then out. The air was dank, perhaps less so than the other chambers, but its effects were far worse. It was the darkness that did it, her other senses accommodating for the decreased visibility.
She couldn’t remember a time when she had experienced anything so pitch black.
The first tomb was located close to the entrance. It was large in height, length and depth and contained a fine effigy of an elegant-looking man lying with his hands together. There was colour on the outline, possibly maroon, the coating partially worn away. He wore some kind of headwear, though definitely not a helmet.
It looked like a crown.
Jen walked to one side and looked along the verge. There was Latin writing on it.
“Ricardus VII, Rex Angliae.”
She translated.
“Richard VII. King of England. 1612–1622.”
She stood there, totally lost.
Richard VII?
There had never been such a monarch.
She moved on to the next, this one equally strange. Richard VI, 1566–1612.
Anthea had joined her, also holding up her phone. The extra light was useful, allowing Jen an opportunity to take in all of the inscriptions.
“I don’t understand,” Anthea said. “Who were these people?”
Jen shook her head, dumbstruck. She pointed the light at Anthea, causing her pupils to contract. Against the dark background, her skin looked even whiter than usual.
“Is this the room you saw when you were young?”
“I think so…Jen, can we leave now, please.”
Secretly she wanted nothing more. The potential seriousness of the discovery, combined with the foulness of the air, was becoming increasingly difficult to stomach.
“Not yet.”
Jen moved onto the next, studying the tombs one by one. She read each name as she passed, making a mental note of them. Names repeated themselves: Richards V–X, Edwards VI–VIII, Johns II–V, and Williams III–VII.
What seemed strangest was how different they were to the real kings of the same name. She had studied history; she knew who Edward VI, VII and William III and IV were.
She knew what she was looking at should not exist.
Jen continued around the far side of the chamber, taking in as much as her eyes would allow. There were things on the walls, possibly paintings or else stained-glass windows – strange considering they were so far underground. There were other decorations, swords, shields, and other things that seemed suspiciously regal.
Whoever these people were, they were clearly revered.
She followed the tombs to the far wall and found a door. She recognised the outline; it was the same one she had tried to open the day before. She tried opening it, but again found that it was locked.
She continued to explore, every tomb seemingly offering more of the same. She saw three in a row, starting with Edward IX, died 1688.
To Jen, the date stood out.
It was the man who had attracted her interest at Bishopton.
Who Lovell claimed was a Barghest.
Jen examined this one in greater detail. Based on the effigy, he was a large man, strong in stature, bearded and with large eyes. She looked for an inscription along the side of the tomb. Like the others, it was written in gold on red.
Yet again referred to as a King of England.
She took in the detail as best she could in the dim light. The effigy seemed to depict a young man of warrior-like appearance.
She now had proof the story recited by Lovell was untrue.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Jen.”
The cry was soft and desperate, the tone enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Numbed by uncertainty, she walked slowly between the tombs and stopped on reaching Anthea, who was standing by the final wall, shaking.
In front of them were four tombs, perhaps the most elaborate in the crypt. There was something on the wall behind them, though neither could make out what it was.
Jen approached the first tomb and read the inscription. The Latin translated:
“Edward V, King of England, March–November 1483.”
She looked at the effigy in detail. It was surely the tomb of a boy.
She moved on, speechless. The next tomb was even more elaborate. The man was a fine figure, although slightly smaller than most. The first thing she noticed was that his shoulders were slightly out of line.
She translated the inscription aloud: “In memory of King Richard III of England, whose body was buried in the Franciscan church of…”
She froze, unable to finish the sentence. She tried to catch her breath, but doing so was becoming difficult. She moved on to the next and looked carefully for a name.
This one was a joint tomb, a man named Edward Plantagenet, 17th Earl of Warwick. Beside him was a woman. The inscription read, Lady Elizabeth, daughter of Edward IV.
Impossible! The woman had married Henry VII.
Finally she moved on to the fourth and final tomb. This was also a joint tomb, a man and his wife.
She looked at the name on the inscription.
Less than three hundred metres away, the priest navigated the tunnels with the aid of his flashlight. He was cold, despite the jacket, and completely unprepared for what might await him.
Still, he had come this far.
He remembered what the master had told him on his arrival all those years ago. Four simple words.
Dishonour leads to hell.
47
The drive was completed within fifteen minutes. The journalist’s house, a typical London/Essex two-storey 1930s semi, was located on a moderately busy road and had a white garage door and a small front garden. A blue Ford was parked on the driveway.
There were lights on inside the house.
Thomas stopped briefly outside the house before continuing further along the road. He parked in the most secluded place possible, a leafy area in front of a house with a large garden.
They both got out of the car.
“You think it’s safe?” Stephen asked.
Thomas grinned. “We’re not in Helmand Province.”
“I was talking about the car, cretin. I mean, you hear stories about these places.”
“Why, they are hardly going to get away with stealing a royal B-Bentley. These things do have a t-tendency to stick out.”
They headed up the road toward the driveway of the house. Aside from the lights, there were few signs of life on the street itself.
Thomas rang the doorbell and waited for a response. Alongside him, Stephen was getting impatient.
“You’re quite sure this is the place?”
“It’s the address we were given.”
Stephen also pressed the doorbell. “I suppose he could be otherwise indisposed.”
Thomas laughed under his brea
th. “All the more reason to be patient.”
He rang the bell again.
Neil Atkins had been home for just under an hour. As a thirty-five-year-old living alone, Wednesday night entertainment consisted of only two reasonable choices: he could either stay in and watch the telly or go over the road to the White Swan. He’d spent a lot of time there recently – beer certainly took the sting out of the divorce. Tonight, however, he was in no mood to go out. His lamb rogan josh, fresh out of the microwave, was still piping hot and created a warm sensation on his lap through the tray. The TV was playing an episode of EastEnders, which he had Sky Plused earlier in the week.
He was halfway through his curry when the doorbell rang. He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, undecided whether or not to answer. He waited until the second ring, followed by a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth. He placed the tray down on the coffee table and pressed pause on the TV’s remote control.
Two strangers were standing outside the front door. Both were smartly dressed and over six feet in height.
“Mr Atkins?” the more athletic of the two asked.
“Yes.”
“So sorry to b-bother you at home,” Thomas continued, “but it is most important that we speak with you. Time is really of the essence.”
The man was annoyed. “What the hell are you…my God…it’s you.”
Stephen took a step forward. “You don’t mind if we come in, do you?”
Thomas took a deep breath and exhaled fiercely.
At least they were in.
He closed the door behind him and followed them into the lounge.
Atkins was rattled. “Look, if this is about that damn article, my information came from the best of sources.”
Stephen was unimpressed. “What sources?”
“You know I can’t say.”
“Who told you that the duke had been taken unwell?”
“I don’t know…I had a call from somebody who claimed to have been there.”
“You mean at the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“That’s funny; it happened in a hotel.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“Wh-what do you know about the attacks against the monarchy?” Thomas asked.
“I know nothing.”
“But you mentioned them in your article,” Stephen said.
“I only know what I’ve been told.”
“What was that?”
“I-I-I can’t say.”
Stephen picked him up by the scruff of his neck and flung him against the wall.
“Stephen,” Thomas shouted.
“Tell me your source.”
The man was bewildered. “My God, you’re both mad…that’s criminal assault…”
“Tell me your source.”
“I could have this all over the front page…West Ham knocked out by Cornwall!”
“Right, have it your way.” Stephen removed the Glock from his pocket and aimed it at the man’s temple.
“Stephen…”
“My God.”
“Who told you about the politicians?”
The journalist stuttered terribly. “I-I-I-I-I only have what I was told.”
“Which was?”
“What’s written in the article.”
“And your source?”
“I swear I don’t know.”
Stephen cocked the weapon and pushed powerfully against the man’s head.
“All right, all right, okay, okay, okay, Jeez Laweez, my God…”
“Who was your source?” This time the question came from Thomas.
“He never told me his real name.”
“Then how did you find him?”
“I didn’t – he found me.”
“Liar.” Stephen spat the word out with venom.
“No.”
“How?” Thomas asked.
“He knew I’d been writing about the politicians and the King…he told me there was foul play.”
“Who was he?”
“Told you before; he never told me his real name.”
“What did he tell you?” Thomas asked.
“Only what you saw in the article.”
“He’s lying,” Stephen said again.
“How did he contact you?” Thomas asked.
“Usually by phone.”
“Usually?”
“Yes.”
“But not always?”
“We met once.”
“Where?” Stephen asked.
“Richmond Park.”
“When?” Thomas asked.
“Yesterday.”
“Describe him.” Again the question came from Thomas.
“He was old–”
“How old?”
“Early eighties–”
“How about appearance?” This time the question came from Stephen.
“I don’t know, he was bald, some grey hair, perhaps white.”
“He’s lying,” Stephen said.
“What else?” Thomas asked.
“He wore sunglasses. And the suit…old habits die hard, that sort of thing.”
“What made you so c-certain he was genuine?”
“I don’t know – instinct.”
“Your instinct is going to find you in jail,” Stephen said.
“He said he’d lived at the palace.”
“Capacity?”
The man was now desperate.
“For the last time,” Stephen said, “who was your fucking source?”
“He didn’t tell me his name. But he said he came to me to avert a catastrophe because the royals had a tendency for not being able to look further than the end of their noses.”
The words caught Thomas cold. It felt like a gun had gone off, but inside him.
“Wh-what did he look like?” Thomas stuttered. “Facially?”
“I told you before. He was going bald.”
“Did he have a scar?” Thomas pointed to his right cheek.
The man did not respond immediately. “Why, yes. And not an ordinary scar.”
“In what way?” Stephen asked.
“It was rather large – and cross shaped. Like a war scar.”
Thomas nodded. He felt as though the air had left him.
“And he had another – on his right hand.”
“You’re quite sure it wasn’t the left?” Thomas asked.
The journalist looked at his hands. “Yes, the left, my right looking at him. I mean, it all gets so confusing.”
“Not that confusing,” Stephen retorted.
The journalist looked up at him, emotionally drained.
Thomas walked closer to the journalist and offered his hand. “Thank you, Mr Atkins. My cousin and I will take it from here.”
48
Jen was still shaking. The light of the phone moved like a firefly, dancing from side to side.
She grabbed her left wrist with her right hand in an attempt to control the jumpiness. With that under control, she read the name on the tomb for the second time, then the third, fourth, fifth…
She could not believe what she was seeing.
Anthea was now seriously worried. “What is it?”
Jen was at a loss to explain.
After failing to get a response from Jen, Anthea looked at the tomb for herself.
“Ricardus…” Anthea was confused. “I can’t read Latin.”
“In English it says Richard IV, reigned August 1485 to October 1529.”
She headed to the other side of the chamber and attempted to take a photograph. Unsurprisingly, she got little more than a blur.
Failing that, she removed Debra Harrison’s camera from her pocket. She changed the ISO setting and sat it down on one of the nearby tombs. She held it still and attempted to take a picture. The flash lit up the entire room, momentarily blinding.
She looked at the quality.
For the first time she saw other things hanging from the walls. It was like being in a castl
e, only underground.
Now she was seriously getting spooked.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Anthea was visibly relieved. She followed Jen back toward the entrance, but almost immediately Jen came to a standstill.
“Jen?”
“Shhh…listen.”
For several seconds neither of them spoke.
There was something moving in one of the nearby passageways.
Both girls were frozen with fear. There was no way out and only the darkness of the room to hide them.
“Switch off the light.”
Anthea did so immediately. With the light gone, her breathing became considerably louder.
“Shhh.”
Jen did the same for her phone and then the camera. As she did, she saw on the camera’s LCD display something located beyond the tombs.
It looked like another passageway.
“Quick.” She grabbed Anthea’s hand and headed straight for the area she had seen on the screen. Despite the darkness, a vague outline was visible. Whether it was a doorway, a passageway, or something smaller, she was still unsure.
She entered it and held her breath.
The priest entered the priors’ vault and paused. There was light up ahead, small but moving.
His heart was thumping. He feared the idea of intruders, but he feared the paranormal more. There was no logical explanation for the light. It was too small to be a torch – yet it moved too wildly to be anything else.
He took a deep breath.
Suddenly the light went out.
Jen edged closer to the wall. They had entered the recently discovered passageway, its appearance not unlike the previous one. The passage headed upwards and east – that was her best guess.
She prayed it was another way out.
Father Martin stopped on reaching the next archway.
The interior was impeccable. Had the circumstances been different, he might well have stayed there to admire it. He had seen them before – but never from this direction.
And never in this light.
He entered the kings’ vault and shone the torch in every direction. He saw nothing unusual, aside from what he knew he was meant to see. Whatever made that strange ghostly light had now disappeared.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 28
