“Should that be the case, gentlemen, I’m afraid you must excuse me,” Edward said. “I’ve never been much of a fan of those twenty-four-hour news channels. There would really be little point in me staying without knowing what on earth you’re talking about.”
At the other end of the table, the Cat retained a neutral persona.
It would be impossible to continue the meeting without the Prince of Wales.
“Perhaps it would be wise, my friend, not to gloss over the details,” the Hog said. “Historically it has been something of a curse of my family: how precision has been lost through lack of clarity.”
“Very well,” the Cat agreed. “Gentlemen, as many of you may by now be aware, yesterday an explosion took place in the Borough of Greenwich; most of the news channels have been reporting the issue as a gas leak. Also, thanks to a certain news article, they are presently covering the story of a possible health scare for the Duke of York. The stories are compelling, but largely inaccurate.”
“Where is the duke?” the Rat asked.
“The King Edward,” the Cat replied.
“Actually, the old boy has already discharged himself,” the Dog said.
Catesby and Ratcliffe were stunned.
“You know this?” the Rat asked.
“How?” the Cat asked.
“I have my sources.”
Neither man replied. The answer was sufficient.
“What I can’t understand is how the old bastard survived,” Stanley said.
“The murder of the duke was never our intention,” the Cat replied sternly. “But even if it were, the substance takes time. My guess would be that he had an allergic reaction. Ironically, it might have done him good.”
“The palace has already been put on red alert following the escape of Morris,” the fair-haired man sitting on the right side said. “Understandably neither the palace nor the Ministry of Defence have released the news to the public. The murders of my colleagues are now common knowledge to them, as is that of the former monarch.”
All present watched the politician.
“I was unaware that the palace knew,” Edward said.
“Most of them accept it as likely,” the new Secretary of State for Justice, Dominic West, replied. “Though the King himself is largely in denial.”
“How has the Home Secretary responded?” the Dog asked.
West laughed. “Well, he’s using the usual buzzwords.”
Soft laughter resonated throughout the room, including from some of the friars.
“That’s not an answer,” the Cat said coldly.
“He knows the truth about my predecessor and his alleged involvement with terrorists.” West used his fingers to quote. “For now it is known only to a select few.”
Catesby looked at the friars. “What of Morris?”
“The Home Secretary had been attempting to question Brother Morris himself,” West said.
Sitting among his fellow brothers, the escapee sat in silence.
“How about the royals themselves?” the Dog asked.
At the opposite end of the table, the Hog was unimpressed with Lovell’s choice of words.
“The King, of course, has put his best man on the case.”
“Off the record, of course?” the Cat asked.
“Of course,” West replied. “They’d never let a thing like this reach the public domain.”
“Who, who is this man?” the Hog asked.
“Prince Thomas, son of Clarence…I know very little about him,” West admitted.
“Francis?”
Lovell looked at the Hog. “Prince Thomas, yes, the so-called invisible royal.”
“I’m sorry, the invisible royal?” Stanley interjected.
“Yes, the so-called go-to chap: the person the King will turn to in a time of crisis. Usually a more minor royal, someone unlikely to take the throne, probably a younger son of the younger brother. Every monarch since the Tudors has had one.”
“And what of this Thomas?” the Hog asked.
“Only son of the Duke of Clarence, also his sole heir. A history graduate of Keble College, Oxford; finished Sandhurst with more credibility than usual for a Winchester…unofficially, now a member of the Secret Service.”
“A capable man?”
“Without question. I actually had the pleasure of meeting him myself once,” the Dog replied. “Very nice chap, a strapping build. However, he has a tendency to suffer the same affliction as many of his ancestors.”
“What?” the Cat asked. “Don’t tell me he stammers?”
“More stutter than stammer; usually improves when he’s relaxed or in full flow. However, unlike his ancestor, his was not from birth. From what I could gather, the poor chap was most unfortunate in witnessing some of the things he did in Afghanistan. Rumour also has it that it was he who stumbled across the corpse of his late grandmother.”
No one said a word. They were familiar with the story of the queen’s death.
“Nevertheless, most brutal in his own fashion. And almost certainly,” Lovell turned to face Lord Ratcliffe, “the man responsible for the death of your nephew.”
The Rat was clearly livid.
“What of him now?” the Hog asked.
“I saw him yesterday at the palace with the Duke of Cornwall,” West replied. He hesitated before continuing. “He really is the most vulgar of fellows.”
“He is a man unworthy to be referred to as Prince of England,” Morris said, bowing his head toward the Hog.
Jeffries acknowledged the friar with a smile. “Why was he there?” he asked West.
“I’m afraid I was not party to their conversation.”
On this occasion the Hog seemed to accept the answer.
“Has Stephen senior given any indication of a willingness to comply yet?” the younger Jeffries asked his grandfather.
The Hog changed the subject. “I understand we have a more local problem?”
The Cat turned to his left. “Francis?”
Lovell looked uncomfortable. He had seen the footage, and the footage did not make for pleasant viewing.
“She seemed like such a nice girl.”
“According to you, they’re always nice,” the Cat said.
The Dog did not have a response.
“I saw her myself two nights ago,” the Hog said. “She was making her way out of the sacristy with one of the local teenagers.”
“What’s wrong with that?” his grandson asked.
“It was after eleven at night.”
Edward raised an eyebrow. “I saw them myself last night.”
“What time was this?” Lord Ratcliffe asked.
“Not sure. About midnight.”
To Lovell, the timing made sense.
“Have you spoken to the priest?” the Hog asked.
“I have spoken to Father Martin,” the Dog replied.
“And?”
Sitting among the friars, the priest again allowed Lovell to respond. “It is as I suspected.”
The Hog was silently seething.
“You have seen the footage?” Ratcliffe asked.
“I have,” the Dog replied.
“We have no room for error here. The village is not capable of withstanding another scandal.”
“That may be so,” added the Cat, “but if things remain unchecked, we could be facing an even bigger one.”
“How did they get in?” Stanley asked.
“The priory ruins, or at least so it would seem,” the Dog replied.
“Father?” Catesby asked the priest.
“There was definitely a light within the catacombs,” Father Martin replied.
“It was definitely not natural?”
“I have seen the surveillance footage myself,” Lovell beat the priest to a reply. “There is no room for equivocation.”
The Hog adjusted his glasses. His facial expression had strengthened, as had his resolve.
“Gentlemen, as we are all aware, the fate o
f our organisation, our goal, our mission, can only survive on absolute secrecy. It is for this very reason, any obstacle must be eliminated.”
The men sitting on both sides of the table all looked on with discomfort. The men were professionals in their fields, but their fields rarely involved death.
“And the hairdresser’s daughter?” Ratcliffe asked.
“You are familiar with our laws, Richard. Any obstacle.”
Silently Lovell was suffering. He had known the girl all her life.
History was repeating itself.
“But, gentlemen, before we part this morning, I feel I must leave you with one more pressing concern,” the Hog began.
“As I know some of you are by now aware, the evil that has taken my chest has spread to other areas.” He cleared his throat, a lengthy cough. “I don’t need any medical projections to tell me my time is nigh. I must therefore do what every one of my predecessors has done, and do what is right for the future.”
He paused for breath before delivering the final command.
“It is time for the coronation of my grandson. Together we shall lead until I depart, at which point he shall rule before God without equal. This will mark the first chapter of a new and brighter future.”
Silence followed. At the far end of the table, the main three were less surprised.
“My friends,” the Hog said. “Bring out the crown.”
Watching through a crack in the wall, the shadowy female felt a familiar sense of terror as the strange ceremony took place under the light of the candles.
The quality of the film in her camera was poor, but it was there.
She waited until the crown was placed on the grandson’s head before deciding enough was enough. Departing unseen, she made her way slowly along the passageway.
Just like the last time, there was no detection of her intrusion.
55
City of Westminster, 6am
The sun was rising, but the day was still to begin. Traffic was hectic as it always was, but for now it had yet to reach gridlock. A solitary siren in the distance served as a reminder that the city surrounded them, but the chaos was far from its peak.
The city was still in slumber.
Across the bridge, the Houses of Parliament were shrouded in the usual morning haze. The broken echo of Big Ben, chiming the new hour through the mist, held its great mystique. Even when the mist was thick, their outlines were usually visible. To the artist, the picture was iconic, irrespective of the time of day, year, or decade. The quintessential British picture of fine architecture cloaked by dreariness was out in full force.
At least until the heavens opened.
Less than two hundred metres away, the royal limousine stopped briefly on the unusually deserted A3212 to allow its distinguished passenger to alight. On this occasion, four burly men in dark suits accompanied the son of the new monarch. He walked with a vague swagger. Unlike the others, he dressed in a dark jacket, jeans and shoes.
Stephen walked quickly past St Margaret’s Church in the direction of Westminster Abbey. He took a shortcut across the grass and headed for the Great West Door.
He stopped to take in the sights. The famous Gothic façade towered above him, the summit covered by low mist. At this hour the tourists were absent, a rare change from what would inevitably come when the sun was fully up. He watched with little emotion as the man to his right knocked loudly on the large door, the sound echoing like a giant’s footstep. Almost immediately he heard another noise from within, followed by the creaking of the opening door.
He entered and continued past the coronation chair, through the nave toward the quire.
The dean was present, walking from the altar to the quire, well dressed despite the early hour. The order had come from the highest authority.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Stephen removed a large piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a royal decree ordering the exhumation of two of your tombs.”
The dean didn’t flinch. “I beg your pardon.”
“It’s all here,” Stephen said, showing him the paper. “All the usual suspects have signed it.”
The dean read it quickly. At first he failed to believe his eyes.
The monuments were priceless.
“Where are they?” Stephen insisted.
The dean failed to respond.
“Very well.”
Stephen continued past the quire and veered left before reaching the altar. He passed the steps that led up to the shrine of St Edward the Confessor, and the various side chapels located opposite. He allowed himself a brief glance at the tombs of Edward I and Henry III at the top of the stairs to his right. He remembered from his history lessons that those two kings had played the greatest part in the abbey’s history.
Looking around, the finished article was undoubtedly impressive.
There were stairs in front of him, slightly to the right. After continuing past the tomb of Henry V, he made his way to the bottom of the stairs and stopped.
Directly in front of him was the Lady chapel, one of the newer parts of the abbey.
Constructed under the will of Henry VII in memory of his wife and queen.
The woman who united the roses.
Stephen entered the chapel, a three-aisled nave constructed in the Perpendicular Gothic style with the altar located at the apse.
The tombs of Henry Tudor and Elizabeth were located behind the altar. Their gigantic gilt bronze effigies were barely visible behind the grille that covered them on every side.
The dean had caught up with them.
“How do we get in?” Stephen asked.
The man was dumbstruck. “This tomb was designed by Pietro Torrigiano, to excavate would be sacrilege.”
“Uh huh. And what of the princes?”
He was desperate not to answer.
One of the bodyguards offered the prince a leaflet.
“Thank you,” he said, studying it. “Ah.”
Stephen left the Lady chapel and espied an open doorway to his right. He passed the joint tomb of Elizabeth and Mary and continued to the far end.
Among the statues of what appeared to be children, he saw a plain-looking urn with a Latin inscription.
The prince looked at his four accomplices. “Let’s get cracking, shall we?”
Meanwhile, in the city of Mechelen in Belgium, two well-built and suited men walked hastily through the doors of St Rumbold’s Cathedral, approaching a man similar in size, appearance and stature to the Dean of Westminster.
“You have been consulted?”
This dean was far more welcoming. “Follow me.”
Less than an hour later, the various men left the respective holy houses and rejoined the outside world.
In Westminster, Stephen got into the limousine and immediately dialled the phone.
“Father, we’ve done it.”
“Already?”
“Yes, the dean was most insistent we not delay.”
He smiled to himself.
“What now?” Stephen asked.
A delay preceded the answer.
“Take it to the Royal College. Telephone me when the results are in.”
In Belgium a similar event was taking place. The museum usually opened at 8am, though today the first arrivals were earlier.
The eminent academic had been briefed face to face and by telephone.
Now all that was needed were the results.
56
Jen didn’t sleep that night. Every time she tried, it became that little bit more difficult. She tried whiskey from the mini bar; she tried listening to music on her iPhone. Everything but counting sheep.
Even when she was a kid that never worked.
Her mind was active, but not in a good way. The appearance of the bizarre tombs continued to flash in her mind like a slideshow. It was like being part of a film: the images ominously reminiscent of a police scene where the victim was still lying on the ground, surrounded by foren
sic experts and a dreaded white line.
It simply didn’t seem real.
She turned to her right, her attention on the wall. She looked at the pictures of the priory and the castle, so quaint and charming the day she moved in. She attempted to remember things about the previous day, but the harder she tried, the more difficult it became. How many graves were there?
How many phony kings of England lay buried within that peculiar crypt?
How many phony kings of England would later be buried there?
She turned to the other side of the bed and sipped from the glass of water. The liquid was becoming stale, most noticeable on the back of her throat. Sitting up against the pillows, she switched on Debra Harrison’s camera and looked at the pictures. Then she looked at her iPhone.
She knew what she saw should not exist.
The question was what to do next? The priest had followed her; she knew it was the priest. The sound of his voice, the awkwardness of his gait…the signs were there.
She wondered how much he knew: not just about the crypt, but about what Jen now knew herself. Chances were he guessed it was her, though she doubted he knew for sure. She thought about leaving Wootton, but that itself would surely be seen as a sign of guilt. Besides, there was also Anthea to consider. And her job.
She had almost forgotten filming was due to start on Friday.
Her eyes wandered across the room, settling on the area in front of the door. There was something white on the floor, perhaps an envelope.
How long had that been there?
She left her bed, becoming aware of a horrible feeling of cold sweatiness on her naked legs. She wiped them down with her palms and then dried her hands on her nightshirt.
She picked up the envelope and switched on the light. There was no name on the envelope, no address, no stamp, but it had been sealed. She opened it carefully, the flap coming away easily.
She guessed it had only recently been sealed.
There were three objects inside: no writing, just photographs.
She looked at them one at a time.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 33
