Five minutes later, Jen was standing at the front desk. She dressed in the first thing she could find and was still to shower or put on make-up.
There was no sign of life in the hallway. As best she could tell, the nearest noise was coming from the kitchen. She heard what sounded like water boiling, accompanied by pots and pans moving.
She rang the bell on the desk. Receiving no reply, she tried again.
Then again.
As the seconds passed, she found herself becoming increasingly nervous.
Tara appeared from the kitchen. “You all right, luvvy?”
Jen attempted to remain calm. “Hi, I’m sorry, but I need to check out.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes,” she lied. “I’ve got to go back to London – work.”
“I’ll just get the gaffer.”
Mitchell appeared two minutes later. By now Jen felt her pounding heart was about to explode.
“Ey up. Tara says you’ve got to leave.”
Jen faked a smile. “Work.”
He looked at her, his façade giving nothing away. “Was everything to your satisfaction?”
“It was great.”
The man was taking forever.
“Sorry, but I’m really in a hurry. I’ve got a meeting in, like, two hours.”
“You best tell whoever it is you’re going to be a bit late.”
She faked another smile. “Not an easy man to tell.”
Mitchell offered her a form and bill. “Sign here, please.”
She signed the form and put in the pin on her credit card. Suddenly she no longer cared whether her boss would reimburse her or not.
“Hope to see you again, Miss Farrelly.”
Less than thirty seconds later, Jen fired up her Picanto and reversed onto the road. She continued onto the high street and turned left, the easiest thing to do.
Her eyes were blurry with tears. She tried calling Anthea, but got no response. She followed the high street, heading in the direction of the nearest hamlet.
Breathing was almost impossible. She felt she was having a panic attack, if not worse. She looked in the mirror, her gaze falling on her eyes.
She’d never seen them so red.
She drove through the next hamlet and turned down a quiet lane. The area was wooded, silent and still. She stopped in a lay-by and cried for twenty minutes.
Given the choice of staying or leaving, the choice, it seemed, had now been made for her.
The photographs were revealing. There was no date on them, but she guessed one was recent. A strange ceremony, almost reminiscent of the Masons or the KKK, but the regalia appeared somehow more ancient.
A new king had emerged, his face hauntingly familiar.
The first two photos were less obvious, and she guessed older. Four men, perhaps monks, stood around another figure with a flour bag covering her head.
Her first reaction was to dismiss it, but she recognised the clothes from the photos.
Now she knew the poor girl was dead.
57
Thomas had made it to Yorkshire by 8am. Despite the chaos of the day before, he was feeling better than he had been a few hours earlier. He’d been on the road for most of the night, choosing the motorway rather than a hotel. He hadn’t intended to sleep at all, but tiredness eventually caught up with him. He left the M1 at a service station north of Nottingham, and pulled up in an empty bay in the most secluded part of the car park.
He didn’t emerge for over three hours.
Caroline had chosen a small hotel in a place called Titherton, less than five miles from Wootton. Like most places in that part of the world, the landscape was breathtaking and rugged, and the hamlet a hotchpotch of quiet roads, secluded woodland, farmland and quaint houses.
Chocolate boxy, as Caroline would say.
The hotel was located just off the main road, half a mile out of the hamlet itself. From the outside, it looked just like a boathouse, and sure enough, that was what it was. The river flowed quickly, surrounded by picturesque greenery, a footpath, and the hotel’s beer garden. The car park was on a slope and flanked by trees. Thomas noticed the Rolls parked in a secluded spot, practically invisible from the road. Today, he drove one of his own private vehicles, a new Toyota Corolla, which was less likely to attract attention.
He entered the hotel through the main entrance and continued along the corridor to the stairs. The walls were a mixture of blue and white, and the furniture primarily nautical. He left the stairs on the second of three floors, and walked along the corridor to the far end. The final door was white, furnished with a fake round life-support cushion.
He knocked politely and almost immediately heard movement, followed by the door being unlocked.
The door opened, and he looked inside.
The sight was unexpected.
Over two hundred miles away, the senior physician and the leading scientist were involved in an animated discussion. The samples were still to undergo all the necessary tests, but the initial findings were revealing.
Meanwhile, in the city of Oxford, a large van turned slowly in the car park of the Ashmolean Museum. Several metres away, Professor Emeritus of Keble College Patrick Wilson and esteemed Professor of Magdalen College, Harry Ainsworth, awaited its arrival.
Both had been briefed about the possible ramifications, not that it had been necessary.
This was the second time Wilson had been asked to act as adviser to the royals.
The only time they called was in an emergency.
In Belgium, the third test was about to get underway. In a quiet laboratory, away from public eyes, the two scientists opened the box in front of them.
The results would be ready in less than an hour.
58
Jen was shell-shocked. Even though she had stopped crying, she was still shaking. The images were disturbing, but it was not that which bothered her most. Whoever had sent her the photographs had presumably witnessed the events.
Or worse yet, helped perform them.
She moved the car further along the lane, now adjacent to a footpath that led to sparse woodland overlooking the nearby valley. This was the heart of the North York Moors National Park. At the height of the season, hoards of hikers, tourists and cyclists would frequent this beautiful part of England, their accents ranging from LA to Lancashire. At this early hour, however, the land was lonely. The animals had disappeared, including the birds and the butterflies. In the quiet, even her breathing seemed loud. She sought seclusion, but part of her wanted company.
One wrong move and they could find her.
Assuming, of course, they were looking.
Composing herself, she left the car and followed the footpath for about one hundred metres before stopping on reaching a rocky outcrop that was dusty but otherwise deserted.
She felt cold, but that had nothing to do with the temperature. Normal things felt strange. She tried Anthea again, but got no response. Rationalising she was still in bed, she studied the photographs in more detail. They appeared black and white, which suggested they were intended to be atmospheric, but on closer inspection she realised that was not the case. In the background there was a light, possibly from a candle.
Whatever had gone on had done so underground and in darkness.
Jen looked closely at the first picture. The girl – she could tell it was a girl by her posture – was surrounded by four men, all of whom were dressed in some form of religious habit, though different to anything she had seen on TV or in real life.
The last photo was particularly troubling. It didn’t take a genius to see the lad was being crowned. Had she not seen the vault, the ceremony would have been baffling.
The House of York had a new king.
Or at least a pretender.
She turned to the first photograph and dropped the other two. As she leaned forward to pick them up, she noticed something on the back. There was writing, numbers but no words.
Then she
looked at the back of the one she hadn’t dropped and saw it began with 07.
Her heart missed a beat.
Surely it was a mobile phone number.
She looked at the other two, struggling to decide on the order. She decided the coronation picture was likely to be the newest, meaning it would be the last in sequence.
She put the numbers together and entered them into her iPhone.
It rang.
Two bleeps.
Three…
Four…
“Hello?”
It was a woman’s voice – perhaps a teenager.
Jen struggled to speak. “I got your note.”
Silence lasted several seconds.
“You’re not safe.”
She knew that but felt even worse on hearing her say it.
“Where are you?”
It took Jen a while to answer. “I’m in a wood, near Titherton.”
“Stay there. I’ll come to you.”
Back in London, the royal limousine pulled up in an empty car park. Ordinarily this part of the Royal College of Physicians was off limits to the public.
But he was hardly that.
Stephen was standing by the entrance, a large white building with automatic doors that visually resembled a giant letter T. He had arrived only moments earlier, accompanied by his guards. He watched as the driver of the limousine opened the rear door. Seconds later, the King emerged, followed by the Duke of York.
Stephen was amazed. “You should be in bed.”
“Utter nonsense. All it needed was a good follow-through.” He clapped his hands together.
Stephen rubbed his eyes.
The King was not amused. “Let’s hope they have some good news for us.”
“I’m surprised they have any news at all,” the duke said.
Stephen understood the point. “I have spoken to Dr Grant personally. We should have the preliminary results within the hour.”
59
Thomas followed Caroline through the bar area and into a room that was used for private functions. Although there was nobody in the bar, he was in no mood to take any chances.
Caroline took the first available seat at a large table and immediately started running her hands through her hair. Thomas sat down opposite, his posture altogether more rigid.
“Do you mind telling me what the hell has been going on?”
Caroline stared at him for several seconds. “We could hardly talk with her there, could we?”
His patience was wearing thin. “Who is she?” he asked of the teenage brunette he saw lying asleep in one of the beds.
“I don’t know. I only met her last night.”
Thomas was unimpressed.
“Whoever she is, she could be the key to blowing this whole thing wide open,” she said, pausing. The atmosphere was so heavy it seemed to be affecting her breathing. “How’s my dad?”
“W-well, I hear. He’s already left hospital.”
She smiled, touching her nose. “Sounds like him.”
Thomas took a deep breath. He rubbed his eyes, but tiredness was no longer a problem.
“I’ll get us a coffee.”
“Later,” he replied, louder and more aggressively than he had intended. “Tell me what happened.”
“The bike continued to Wootton,” she said, repeating what he already knew. “I followed it as best I could, but it was difficult to stay with it the whole time. Did you know they sometimes skip red lights?”
“I assure you they’re not supposed to. I assume he was tracked.”
“Yes, that’s what led me here. Our intelligence informs me his destination was a large house in Wootton-on-the-Moor. It belongs to a relative of ours.”
“Jeffries.”
“What’s he got to do with all this?”
The question was where to start. “Believe me, I’ve been asking myself that s-same question.” He shook his head. “What of the girl?”
“I stopped on the high street after following the directions from the palace. The house itself was quite secluded – I thought it best not to park too close.”
Fair enough. “Then what?”
“After stopping on the high street, I spoke to your father and some other fellow, I forget his name, and he told me to stay where I was…I only went out to get a bite to eat. And I really needed the loo. I found myself in a quiet little alleyway. Thinking I wasn’t attracting attention, I…”
“I get the picture.”
“Then I was walking back, and she recognised me.”
Suddenly he was alarmed. “She’s a J-Jeffries?”
“No,” she said, disgusted. “She recognised me from a magazine.”
The prince exhaled furiously. “Why on earth did you drag her in on this?”
“I assure you I had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Turns out she had a rather strange experience the night before.”
“Go on.”
“Yes, seems she’s become friends with a journalist of some kind. Jen, I think her name was.”
“Get to the point.”
She smiled. “I will. And you are going to love this.”
60
The girl arrived twenty minutes later. Jen had been sitting in the same place, her attention on the moors. She hoped that the heavy dark cloud, moving progressively nearer, was in no hurry to unleash its fury. The wind had also picked up slightly, and she knew from past experience that the weather in these parts was often hard.
A deluge was the last thing she needed.
The girl was about five feet eight, slender build, and had dark brown hair. From a distance, she could have been any woman in the UK: a student, a doctor, a housewife, a celeb…
Even one of her friends.
It wasn’t until she saw the girl up close that Jen was confident enough to know for sure.
In truth, she had expected it.
She had seen the girl before: first on the camera, and then in the heritage centre.
And now here.
The girl stopped several metres away. Jen was still to move; she merely watched, taking in her features. An awkward silence overcame them, not just them but the entire valley. The girl was nervous, just as Jen had expected. It was obvious from the photographs that she knew something important, but the girl’s agitation seemed somehow more permanent. It was the eyes that did it: a striking shade of hazel that seemed excessively wide and paranoid. Against the backdrop of her pale skin and dark hair, the effect seemed greater still. Her hair was long, but lacking in volume. Either the girl had the flu or she neglected herself.
Jen sensed it was the latter.
“You’re Stephanie, aren’t you?”
The girl hesitated.
Jen decided not to push her. Remaining on the rock, she adjusted her position, making her body language more open.
“I wanted to see you,” Jen said, testing the water. “Anthea told me about you.”
Again the girl did not respond.
“She said you were Debra’s best friend.”
The girl she thought was Stephanie was becoming increasingly drained. “This was a bad idea.”
Jen leapt to her feet as the girl began to depart. “Wait, please…” Jen grabbed her arm. The girl stopped, but Jen immediately released her.
For several seconds she had no idea what to expect. The girl was rattled, but Jen could see as she looked more closely that there was no malice in her eyes. Just like the Rankin kid, reports of mental instability appeared premature. The girl was not crazy.
Just afraid.
“Why did you send me the photographs?” Jen asked, waiting for a response that never came. “You know what happened, don’t you?”
Again the girl remained quiet. The longer this went on, the faster Jen’s heart was beating.
“Did you take the photos?”
The girl’s breathing had become noticeably louder, almost to the point of hyperventilation.
“Come here.” Jen guided her to the rock
where she had been sitting.
Stephanie removed her inhaler from her pocket and inhaled urgently for several seconds.
Jen’s heart filled with pity. She used to suffer hay fever in the pollen season.
But the girl was struggling on another level.
Two minutes passed before her breathing settled down.
“Thank you.”
Jen moved closer, trying not to invade her space. “I saw you in the heritage centre. Why were you following me?”
This time the pause was brief. “It’s not safe for you in Wootton.”
That was surely an understatement. “What’s this all about?”
“The Sons of York have never been one to tolerate outsiders.”
Jen was confused. “Who are the Sons of York?”
Stephanie lowered her head. “Debra was my best friend,” she said, this time with strength in her voice. “Most people in Wootton are unaware of the true history of the village. For many years, it’s been restricted only to the same families.”
Jen was interested. “What was happening in the photographs?”
“Debra was abducted because she stumbled on the Sons of York’s greatest secret.”
“The tombs in the vault?”
She looked at Jen, but said nothing.
“What did they do to her?”
The question went unanswered. Jen knew from the first photograph that whatever it was, it was far from good.
“What were they doing to Edward Jeffries?”
“The Jeffries family hold much prestige in this part of the world. They are distantly related to the Royal Family.”
“You’re kidding?”
Stephanie shook her head. “In the past, their influence was greater still.”
“I found a monument with Plantagenet names on it.”
“The village began when the manor was given by Edward III to his son, Edmund of Langley.”
“Is that from where the family originated?”
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 34
