Lord Jeffries remained composed in his chair. “Being but a junior member of the media, I suspect it highly unlikely you can ever understand my distant relation’s true motive. We are the descendents of a once great dynasty – the once and future rulers of a kingdom that once spanned beyond the sea.
“It is in some ways both a blessing and a curse to be a Plantagenet. Just as it is to be a Winchester.”
Jen failed to get her head round the idea. “Maybe it hasn’t dawned on you yet, but accusing someone of something so great – it’s a pretty big deal. After all, you’re talking about the King of England.”
Still the idea refused to crystallise. She reasoned that sitting in that chair for so long had driven the old man potty.
“I assume you have proof?”
“The man who shot at my son and forced his car from the road was once well known to everyone in my family. He had previously served as chauffeur to one of the earls of Northumberland – it was only in later years that he went on to work for the Duke of York.
“However, the man’s true talent in life had been to serve in the Royal Marines. The man was not only fighting fit, but he was also highly intelligent for his station. His skill was in reconnaissance, showing particular talent for photography. It was that what caught the eyes of the Duke of York, and later those of the King.”
Jen lowered her eyebrows. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“As soon as word began to spread that the King had been unfaithful to the Queen, things started to become quite uncomfortable for him. When rumours of a miscarried or aborted child, too, began to circulate, what began as a rumour threatened to escalate into a PR disaster for the family.
“But of all the people who knew the truth, one stood out both in calibre and in annoyance.”
“Your son?”
“Had the articles my son threatened to publish indeed been published, any thread of credibility that failing house still held would have been practically wiped out in a single day. By the summer of 1994 my son had been leader of the opposition for less than a year, but his rating in the polls was staggeringly high. It was, therefore, vital not only to the King but for every member of his family that the rumours be quashed.”
“So he paid the chauffeur to shoot your son?” Her tone bordered on sarcasm. “There was no guarantee he would even succeed.”
“The original plan, I’m sure, was by no means quite so drastic. As I have already pointed out, Mr Tomkins, if indeed that was his true name, was something of a dab hand when it came to photography. His time in the marines had been cut short due to a landmine incident leading to his requiring a prosthetic limb. Nevertheless, it did not prevent him from carrying out surveillance of my son and daughter-in-law.”
“You’re saying he was sent to spy on them?”
“Many of the photographs that he took were taken prior to their visit to Corsica; some were even mailed directly to my son’s address in a bid to threaten them. Fortunately, as an experienced journalist and politician, he knew better than to waver at such idle threats.”
She begged to differ. “But the threat was genuine?”
“My son and daughter-in-law died on the ninth day of their fourteen-day holiday. My son wrote to me at the end of the fifth day, declaring his love for the scenery, but his contempt for the petty little man who would not leave them alone. He also spared a note for the man he knew had sent him. In a separate letter, he speculated that the man had been with them on every occasion…my son even photographed him once.”
Jen folded her arms and blew her hair away from her face. “If he felt threatened, why didn’t he tell the police? After all, Corsica is out of the king’s jurisdiction.”
If jurisdiction was the right word.
Jeffries looked back coldly. “Let me tell you a little story; not that I expect you to believe it. Many years ago, I had an ancestor…”
She guessed his name was Edward. Either that or Richard.
“He had married a French aristocrat in the late 1780s, and brought her back to England along with certain members of the family.
“As the Reign of Terror reached new heights, the brave young man returned to Paris in a bid to save one of his wife’s relatives – otherwise certain to be guillotined. No sooner had he made it to Calais than the man was arrested and taken to Paris. Despite his obvious Englishness, he was charged with being an aristocrat and guillotined. His father pleaded with the King of England to aid his safe return, but unbeknown to my ancestor he had taken his pleas before the very person who had ordered the execution.”
Jen took a deep breath. “Again, how do you know all this?”
“I have in my possession the letter written in the king’s own hand to the Constable of Dover Castle. Prior to that time, relations between the two families had been slightly better. Never again has a Jeffries been so unwise as to trust the descendents of the red rose.”
Jen listened carefully, knowing that was the best thing she could do.
She assumed Jeffries probably had proof somewhere.
“What happened to the sniper?”
“When the bodies of my son and daughter-in-law were discovered, it was established that they had both been dead for at least seven hours; however, the discovery was made by chance by a passing motorist; no previous call to the emergency services had been made. The car had overturned and fallen into the sea; there was evidence of a blowout from at least two tyres, one of which was caused by gunfire.
“For over ten years I did all that I could to trace the man. When I finally succeeded, his medical records confirmed a past history of alcoholism ever since his dismissal from the forces.”
“So he might not have been under orders?”
The man clearly felt nothing but contempt for the suggestion. “My daughter-in-law had been shot in the head.”
Jen moved on quickly. “But he could have acted the way he did because he was inebriated rather than under order?”
“The exact methods that led to the death of my son and daughter-in-law are known only to the man responsible. Sadly, he is in no position to be questioned on the matter.”
Admittedly his death seemed suspicious. “How can you be sure he didn’t just commit suicide?”
Suddenly Lord Jeffries no longer felt like talking. He pressed a button on the side of his chair. It made a high-pitch shriek, not dissimilar to the setting of a burglar alarm.
She heard someone’s voice, though clearly not in the room.
“Brother Morris. Perhaps Brother Daniel and yourself would be so kind as to join me in the chapel. I think that it’s time our guest was leaving.”
The words alarmed her. She left the room hastily and ran frantically down the main aisle of the chapel, desperately looking for exits. There was a door on the left, smaller than the main exit.
Jen tried to open it, but it was locked. She rattled the handle, but to no avail.
She looked around, her mind racing. There was another door on the opposite side.
That, too, was locked.
The main doors opened.
Seconds later, she heard gunfire.
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Jen’s only reaction was to dive. The floor in this part was tiled, rather than carpet, and well over a hundred years old.
She crashed down on her right side, her elbow taking most of the impact. It jarred, but suddenly pain was no longer her biggest concern.
Sparks were flying everywhere. Debris was falling, both near and on top of her. She tried to scream, but air refused to enter her lungs. Instead, she lay on the floor with her hands over her head, trying as best she could to keep still. The sound of gunfire was deafening, its impact sending vibrations along the walls and floor. She was desperate to leave: run, or at least crawl.
She moved to her right, the area that offered the most cover.
As the gunfire ceased, she heard voices.
Thomas moved in the opposite direction. He had nothing to guide him, other than instinct.
Ed
ward was speaking, but Thomas ignored him. Instead, he dashed along the corridor and through the first door in front of him.
The room was a bedroom, clearly unused.
His fingers on the hands-free, he spoke to Caroline.
Caroline was still looking at the screen, struggling to make sense of the house’s layout.
“Come on,” Thomas shouted in her ear.
Caroline was struggling to keep calm. “Don’t rush me.”
“Left or right, it’s not difficult.”
It was to her. As best she could tell there was no easy way to get to where Jen was.
“Go back to the corridor and through the last door on the left.”
Thomas followed her instructions. Edward was still standing close by, shouting at him.
The second corridor was different, more like a medieval cloister. There were stained-glass windows on the left side, depicting everything from Moses and the Ten Commandments to the Dominicans and the Inquisition, whereas the right was nothing but wall, painted brown and largely unfurnished. The acoustics were impressive: the sound of his footsteps travelled, but so did something else.
Gunfire.
He came to another wall. His only options were to turn right or go back the same way. The gunfire continued, obviously close.
Within a second, it had stopped.
Although the gunfire had stopped, the ringing sensation that replaced it was equally insufferable to Jen. She heard various noises, though without any sense of where they were coming from. It took several seconds to figure out what was making the noise.
Sure enough, someone was shouting.
And not at her.
Two men had entered the chapel, both armed and dressed in white habits and black cloaks.
She crawled along the side aisle, using her hands to support herself. She stopped on reaching the tenth pew and elevated herself, the first opportunity to view the altar.
Lord Jeffries had appeared, standing just inside the doorway.
The old man was furious. He was barking out instructions at the two hooded friars, both of whom were standing before the altar, weapons at the ready. Despite being less than twenty metres away, Jen struggled to hear anything, so bad was the ringing in her ears.
It was like being under water, only without the floating sensation.
She scampered further along the aisle, reaching the fifteenth pew. She ducked down instinctively as she saw Morris turn, and failed to avoid sliding on the smooth floor.
She didn’t need a second look to know they had spotted her.
Jeffries was livid. The debris had created a minor dust storm rising from the floor. It looked like a bomb had gone off. A large crack had appeared along one of the walls, liable to split wide open at any moment. But it wasn’t the safety of others that concerned him.
The damage was sacrilege.
He saw movement to his right, somewhere in the corner of the chapel. He saw blonde hair slowly disappear behind one of the pews.
He looked at the two idiots who had nearly destroyed his chapel.
“Just kill her.”
Jen heard those words clearly. Her heart pounding, she frantically slid her way to the back of the chapel, less than ten metres from the doors. Still, she had a problem.
Leave cover and she was a sitting duck.
The gunfire resumed, this time unsettlingly close to her head. Fragments of plaster fell from above, the debris covering her clothes and hair. There was another noise coming from behind her, this time far more substantial. One of the pews had literally blown apart. There were splinters everywhere, accompanied by the smell of burnt wood.
It hurt to breathe, but this time for a different reason. She tried to move, but her limbs refused to comply. As the gunfire faded, she heard someone shouting, the words on this occasion aimed at her.
She couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Another round of gunshots followed, this time from her left and right. None were close, but the sound was unbearable.
Her instinct guided her behind the final pew. Her biggest fear now was allowing herself to be closed in.
She placed her hands over her head, trying to stay as small as possible. If there was a time and a place for prayer, this was surely both.
In her terrified state, she didn’t notice the main doors opening.
The scene that greeted Thomas as he looked into the chapel was like a bomb site. The lectern to the side of the altar had been totally demolished, as had much of the wall. There was still dust in the air, but it appeared to be settling.
The question was where were the gunmen? And more importantly, where was Jen?
He nudged the right door open slightly, and immediately spun behind the left. Would the gunman attempt to kill him immediately, or would he wait?
If it were up to Jeffries, he knew it would be the latter.
But where is the bastard?
Eyeing the chapel from behind the door, he saw movement to his left, behind the nearest pew. There was blonde hair sticking out from behind one of the kneelers, dirtied by recent debris.
At least Jen was still alive.
He opened the door all the way, allowing himself a view of the entire chapel. In terms of visual splendour, it was magnificent, but he knew that images can be deceiving. Countless rich families from the Georgian and Victorian eras upgraded their otherwise unremarkable mansions with romanticised follies or unfinished walls, but he had never seen anything so elaborate.
Silently, he wondered whether it was genuine.
There was movement around the altar by two hooded figures.
One of them Thomas recognised.
He couldn’t believe the man’s identity.
“Good afternoon, sire,” Morris said coldly. Then without warning he fired.
Thomas dived to his left, the bullets just missing him. On this occasion the damage occurred outside the chapel, destroying a priceless work of art and at least one stained-glass window.
Back in the chapel, he could hear shouting.
Thomas got up slowly, first to his knees, then all the way. He stopped on reaching the door, peering in tentatively.
Immediately he heard a voice.
“Thomas, my lad, come in.”
The invitation came from Jeffries. Incredibly the man was standing, the altar supporting his weight.
“Come in, come, come.”
Thomas edged forward, gun at the ready. He kept an eye on Jen, but also the two armed men.
How the hell had Morris escaped?
He saw movement from the other friar and fired. Immediately the second friar keeled over, his gun sliding beneath the pews.
He aimed at Morris.
“Don’t move,” Thomas shouted. He inched forward and stopped, allowing his eyes to take in the interior, worried there might be another gunman or surveillance equipment watching him.
He heard shuffling behind him.
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Edward had entered, carrying a semiautomatic pistol pointed at Thomas’s head.
“All right, Tom? You find the place all right?”
Thomas couldn’t believe his stupidity.
“No sudden movements, mate.”
Thomas dropped his Glock and watched it bounce away, still less than a metre from his foot.
“Kick it away.”
Reluctantly Thomas did as instructed. His eyes on the altar, he felt himself being frisked, far harder than necessary.
Edward turned his attention to Morris.
“Hey,” he said, gesturing to a sign on the far wall that said ‘Peace, perfect peace, is the gift of Christ our Lord.’ “Can you not read? This is a house of prayer.”
“Edward.” The old man was still standing against the altar.
Edward looked at his grandfather, concerned. “You need to take it easy.”
Edward turned toward Thomas and laughed nervously. “Got me through a lot of tough times this chapel. And my family. Did you know that this was the first new Catholic
Church since emancipation in the Riding?”
Thomas really didn’t care. “It’s magnificent.”
“I’m glad you think so, Tom. It was also the site of the first new Dominican convent, three hundred years after the last. Just think, my ancestors were building this when good Queen Vicky was telling our troops to charge the Light Brigade.”
Thomas found the inaccuracy irritating.
“And do you know what else–”
“Edward,” the old man interrupted, shaking his head, “perhaps it would be wise to leave this in the hands of the authorities.”
Edward eyed his grandfather, then Thomas. He laughed again.
“You know, my mum used to work for the authorities. She was eight years working in the magistrates before she met my dad. She was brilliant, Mum was. She could have been anything she wanted to be.”
Thomas glanced at his gun, trying to remain circumspect. Unfortunately Edward noticed.
Jen had made it to the middle of the pews, so far unnoticed. Progress was only possible beneath the pews, and that required moving the kneelers. She moved the next one gently, trying her best to keep quiet.
Her nerves were starting to get the better of her.
One wrong move and it could all be over.
“Oi, oi, oi,” Edward said, picking up the gun and pressing his own weapon firmly into Thomas’s neck. “I’ll frogmarch you in front of a beak myself if I have to. Better yet, how about the vaults beneath the church?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Thomas said after a while. “The secret’s already blown. One wrong step, your entire family will be serving time.”
“You royals with your stupid threats. You’re not even real military. You’re chocolate soldiers in every sense of the word.”
Edward licked him on the side of the face.
“Um. I was wrong. Butterscotch.”
Thomas flinched. Edward responded immediately, again pressing the gun into his skin.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 42
