A shocked silence overcame the dark catacombs. Thomas felt his insides both boiling and freezing at the same time, as if an inescapable storm was about to be unleashed.
He took a deep breath. “It’s over, Edward. Even if you kill me, you can’t win. The palace knows, Scotland Yard knows. MI5 will be on you in a flash, not to mention the regular beat. This has to end.”
Edward cricked his neck to one side, then the other. He cocked his gun and fired twice, the bullets missing Thomas by inches. He continued to fire, but got only blanks.
He was out of ammo.
Jen looked at Thomas, his face barely visible in the darkness. She moved toward him. As she did, she noticed that he moved in front of her.
Shielding her.
“Kill them,” Edward said.
His order went unanswered.
“Did you not hear what I said? Kill them.”
All who surrounded Jeffries looked on uncertainly.
“Dawson, Percy, Stanley, what are you waiting for?”
Again they refused to comply, infuriating Edward. He snatched a gun from one of the friars and immediately began firing.
Jen and Thomas both hit the floor, taking shelter behind one of the tombs. Sparks flew throughout the chamber, ricocheting off the stone and creating holes in the walls. Several people screamed, some scattered, heading back down the corridors.
Again he was out of ammo.
He looked at another of the hooded gunmen. “Give me your fucking gun.”
As the gunfire ceased, Jen noticed movement from the blocked passageway.
“Mum.”
Martha looked around, recognising the voice. “Anthea.”
Several silhouettes had appeared in the doorway, the sound of shoes on stone accompanied by that of guns locking.
The next person to appear was Stephen, surrounded by his guards, two of whom approached Edward.
“Edward Jeffries, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder, attempted murder and treason. You don’t have to say anything–”
“Get him out of here,” Stephen shouted. He looked at his distant cousin as he was cuffed, wrestled and pressed up against one of the tombs.
“Wait.” Stephen moved closer. He punched him in the face.
“Now you can take him.”
The guards took Edward out through the previously blocked corridor, now well lit thanks to the evening sun that was still visible beyond the distant hills. Thomas looked Edward in the eye as he passed. His nose was disjointed; blood streamed down his face, congregating around his mouth.
Still he smiled, only different than before.
The man was broken.
Anthea entered timidly. She saw Martha immediately and ran to her open arms.
Stephen, meanwhile, continued to Thomas. “You okay?”
Thomas nodded. “Fine. Thanks.”
Stephen looked at Jen for the first time.
“You must be Miss Farrelly.”
92
Buckingham Palace, two days later
The King was in his office at 10:45. He had barely slept for forty-eight hours, and exhaustion was taking its toll.
In recent days he had got used to the view through the window of his new study. The forecourt was deserted, but it wouldn’t stay that way. Any minute now the bands would arrive, as would the new dispatch of guards. Today it was the Coldstream Guards, or at least that was what he thought. Then the crowds would arrive, usually around 11:30. It was funny. People flocked from all around the world to witness the Changing of the Guard. It had been described as one of the most iconic British moments.
A moment when the past meets the present.
He remembered the first time he saw it. He had been a child then, and a prince. Images came to him, still frames, like photographs in the mind. Whether ghosts of the past or of his own imagination, he was in truth unsure.
The two seemed to merge into one.
He turned away from the window and moved toward his desk. He had a visitor, as usual. In the past, a visit from his nephew would have been a joyful occasion.
Today, it was merely enlightening.
The King placed the iPad down on the desk and raised his hand to his eyes. This was the first time he had seen the images. To him, it was like looking through a telescope at a distant planet, but not knowing which one. The crypt could have been anywhere in the world, from any time.
And of anyone.
“You’re quite certain there is no alternative explanation?”
The visitor was in no doubt. “No,” Thomas replied.
Sitting on the other side of the desk, Thomas watched the King pace across the room. He had been doing that a lot of late.
“Did you speak to Jim?”
“Oh yes,” the King replied, still pacing.
“Did you find his words enlightening?”
The King took an extended pause. “Well, I suppose I no longer doubt them if that’s what you mean.”
In truth Thomas didn’t know what he meant. Like the King, images kept flashing through his mind, though his were different. He thought about Edward Jeffries, the grandfather and grandson. According to official reports, the old man was still alive, albeit in a bad way. If the medical reports were accurate, he didn’t have more than six months anyway.
But that was now down to weeks.
“What happened?” Thomas asked.
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me. After all, you seem to have been in the thick of it.”
Thomas bit his lip, his mind still on Edward. “I meant with his mother and father.”
The King stopped, now standing in the middle of the room. He looked at his nephew, and then walked on, passing a grandfather clock from the Georgian era. It chimed eleven o’clock, accompanied by a bell sound.
“I never realised their deaths were caused by anything other than what is common knowledge.”
“Were they murdered?”
The King lowered his head slightly, his attention once again on the window.
“Father was a difficult man in many ways. At least that’s what my mother always said.” He laughed. “Obstinate, I think was the word she used to use.”
“Did you know?”
“What? About the affair?”
The prince bit his lip. “Well, that as well, I suppose.”
“There are certain things that one shouldn’t ask.”
“There are other things that one surely can’t ignore, or at least shouldn’t.”
The King turned away from the window, lowering the curtain. The ceremony would be starting soon.
He sat down, leaning forward on his desk. “What difference would it make? Huh. You’re a student of history; you tell me what usually happens? Better yet, what happens when the vultures begin to circle?”
He breathed out deeply, somewhere between a cough and a sigh. Sitting opposite, Thomas sensed the King’s tiredness.
Just as he felt his own.
“I had my suspicions,” the King said after a while. “In truth, I wasn’t around much at the time.”
Thomas decided not to push the issue. “How about the other thing?”
The King looked up, his eyes wide open. He had seen the video footage only the day before.
“No.”
Thomas watched the King’s facial expression. There was withering around his cheeks and eyes. Without question it was an expression of a man who was exhausted. But also one who had been betrayed.
An honest answer.
“So Tomkins was sent there?”
Again the King took his time. “When I was seventeen, I met an old Gurkha. He had been living here for about twenty years, after which time he won a medal, bravery or something of the kind. On his day of presentation, your grandfather took something of a shine to him. Later awarded him the King’s Medal, you know, gallantry, acts of bravery, whatnot…”
Thomas nodded, but remained silent.
“As time passed, the man got old. And when he approached retirement, my father offer
ed him a job – nothing official, just a job.”
Thomas smiled. “Eyes and ears.”
“Something of the type. It just so happened, one night in the early 1990s, he should be in the same room as the president of a certain African nation – I’ll leave it to your imagination which one. He had the opportunity, so to speak, to take him out.”
“Did he?”
“He put a call through to the palace. Father was dining at the time and had given orders not to be disturbed. But the man must have been most persuasive on the telephone, because within ten minutes Father spoke to him in person. The man told him about the predicament and asked what he wanted done.”
“How could he be s-sure that the line was safe?”
The King smiled thoughtfully. “Perhaps that thought influenced Father’s decision. But one way or another, the chance was declined.”
He leaned back in his chair and then forward again.
“It’s been something of a recurring theme over the years, you know,” he resumed. “Stories often sound a lot better in the press. I daresay in some parts of the world this sort of thing happens almost on a daily basis.
“In the early 1990s, Father was under a lot of…stress. It was a difficult time for the country: the recession, the start of Europe, Thatcher…a number of celebrities had fallen foul of PR stings. Mother and Father were fighting more, I suppose.”
Thomas nodded. He tried to picture the other woman, his mind on the film he had seen in the hidden study.
“What was she like?”
“Joanna? Don’t know how to describe her, really. She was a Tory, of course.”
Thomas laughed. “How about Richard Jeffries?”
“Different to his father: more outgoing, for a start. He enjoyed the social set, partying with the stars and whatnot. As a magnate, he was powerful…of course, sport was his passion,” he said, laughing softly. “I went to an Arsenal game with him once in the late ‘80s, you know. Oh yes. He wrote an article later that evening, which appeared in one of the nationals the following day. Didn’t go down well with Graham, I assure you.”
Thomas laughed, as did the King. As the laughter faded, an awkward silence overcame them. There was something different about him now.
It was as if he was talking about a friend.
“Then he went all high profile – went into politics. He bought the London Issue in ’87 and ran the place like a bull in a china shop. I fell out with him myself in ’92 when he accused your uncle Bill of having a gambling problem.” He shook his head.
“Was he a problem?”
“Richard Jeffries was a problem for everyone who Richard Jeffries didn’t like. Other journalists hated him, politicians either hated him or idolised him. He did a sting on two Tory ministers in early ‘89. Now that was particularly nasty. Apparently the poor idiots got mixed up in some rather bad business in Soho that the PM didn’t approve of – nor did their wives, of course. As far as I’m aware, it was something of a one-off, though once Jeffries had his way they were both made out to be amateur the devil incarnate.”
Thomas grimaced. “Was Granddad ever, you know, threatened?”
The King considered the question. “I don’t think Father would ever let on even if he was.”
“But Jeffries was a problem?”
“Well, he clearly found out about the affair, and obviously he knew about this other business as well. Which is more than me, so I suppose I have to hand it to him.”
Thomas searched his memory, but again he failed to picture the man. He’d seen photographs on the Internet, but as far as he could tell, they had never met.
“Perhaps I’m being a tad presumptuous, but it sounds to me as if our cousin had our family in a position where he could, you know, blackmail.”
The King took a deep breath. “Exactly what he wanted to think. He only had one problem, at least so it would seem.”
“Proof?”
The King rose to his feet and made his way across the room, stopping at the ornate fireplace. He poured whiskey into two glasses and added ice.
“So Granddad decided to fight fire with fire, so to speak?”
The King offered him a drink. “I suspect it rather the case that Daddy got some rather poor advice. And that Mr Tomkins, instead of keeping our friend under surveillance, forgot himself.”
Thomas wrapped his fingers around the glass, but for now refrained from drinking. “Do you think it’s possible that Jeffries became aware of his presence, and perhaps, you know, threatened him?”
The King took a deep breath before drinking. “That would seem plausible.”
Thomas raised the glass to his mouth. “And what of our friend Mr Tomkins? I’m pretty sure he didn’t, y-you know, d-die of natural causes.”
Thomas eyed him, lengthily.
“Well, clearly,” the King replied. “But even in those days he was an alcoholic.”
“You knew him?”
“Oh yes, he would often drive me whenever I was in a car with your uncle.”
“Was he a g-good man?”
“In the early days, yes; his military record speaks volumes. I think that was his problem, you know, he was never really cut out for the civilian life.”
“So it was accidental?”
The King seemed to hesitate.
“If Tomkins had gone rogue, there would have been a motive,” Thomas said.
“If that were so, surely the same motive would exist for all of our enemies. And we can’t exactly see off all of them, can we?”
Thomas pondered the statement before finally sipping his whiskey. It was far too early for that sort of thing.
“Still one thing puzzles me. The Sons of York. You really had no idea they existed?”
The King put his glass down on the desk and returned to his seat. “Gardiner warned me about them once, about ten years ago. Did again when Mother died.”
“You didn’t take it s-seriously?”
For several seconds the King’s expression was soured. Then from nowhere, he laughed. “Even in those days he was a boring old bastard.”
The prince laughed, perhaps more so knowing the situation was at an end.
“Looking back, did they ever have a claim?”
“The past is the past. And his was another country. Perhaps it’s just something one can never get out of one’s head.”
Thomas massaged the fine glass with his fingers, watching from across the desk as the King drained his glass. The trials and tribulations of recent days had left their mark, and not just around the eyes.
“Does it make a difference?”
The King didn’t understand.
“That the princes survived. That Tudor was a usurper.”
The King looked at him for several seconds and smiled. “According to Gardiner, the prince’s line died out in 1688. What remains are of the weaker line, as he put it. The son of Clarence himself was barred by Act of Attainder. When Elizabeth I died without an heir and the Crown fell to the Stuarts, the Crown also fell to the next surviving descendent of the alleged Elizabeth of York, but also now the best surviving line of Edward III. Should the Tudors have been above themselves, as soon as the male Jeffries line died out, so too did the Plantagenets.”
He took a deep breath, his attention on a painting behind him. It so happened to be of Elizabeth I.
“But between you and me, I think she happened to be a damn good queen.”
Thomas took a second to take it in, carefully weighing up each point. He guessed some would put forward an alternative argument, whereas others might agree.
“It doesn’t make any difference, you know. Granddad.”
The King smiled weakly. “I know. I just…”
“You think if people knew, they’d think less of him?”
He looked up and nodded.
Thomas smiled sympathetically. “Granddad was a good king,” he said, rising to his feet.
“But I daresay England might now have a better one.”
T
homas left the study and descended the stairs to the second-floor corridor. Gardiner was sitting in a chair, studying one of the paintings.
“I’ve always admired this painting,” he began. “Without question Anthony van Dyck will always remain one of the geniuses of European art.”
Thomas didn’t break stride.
“Shut up, Jim.”
93
Wootton-on-the-Moor
It was cold, despite the warm temperature. It was cloudy, despite the clear skies. A shadow had engulfed the village, at its most prevalent between the churchyard and the castle. Everyone was aware of it.
That was why they avoided it.
The village was literally a ghost town. The high street was largely deserted, including the shops. The few who did walk it did so slowly, and with their heads down. There was no hint of communication. If a passer-by should come across someone they knew, a friend or neighbour, the interaction would be limited to a nod of the head or a forced smile. Should a newcomer so happen to chance by on this of all days, an intended visit or as a journey break on their way elsewhere, they would find no source for their confusion. No evidence of two days earlier remained. The crime scene had been patched up, and the entrance to the vault shut – at least from the outside. The press had been warned about asking questions, and on this occasion none dared to dispute the matter. It was the way the words were spoken. It was more serious than usual. A footballer caught cheating on his wife or girlfriend might set about to prohibit print by dangling a piece of paper in a journalist’s face, but such things rarely worked long term. And in such cases, the matter was usually over before it was begun.
There was once a saying in these parts:
Today’s news is tomorrow’s chip paper.
But where there is silence, there is often inquisition. And the role of the inquisitor is often taken by the curious mind. It was a practice that spanned centuries, if not millennia; countries, if not continents. The search for truth is human nature, just as the tendency to lie. And when history fails to exclude the liars, the truth becomes contaminated.
For those who lived in the village, there would be no public inquisition. Should a young man, the latest descendent of a family of high esteem, go on trial for murder, attempted murder, aggravated assault, or something along those lines, then so be it. Should a prominent politician and scientist be taken into custody as accomplices, then the same applied. Should a further twenty men be taken in for questioning regarding their affiliations with the men in question, it made no difference. It was a tradition that had lasted five centuries. And if a king should become famed for walking with a hunchback, born with hair already down to the shoulders, a full set of teeth, and a withered arm in order to hide the truth, the same rule applied. In England, history has a knack for somehow concealing its most dubious events, even if it calls for framing its participants. Even if such mishaps were to leave a stain on the families, it was a small price to pay. Life in the village would return to normal – at least in time. That was another pattern that spanned five centuries. Should a curious individual from outside suspect contamination, then their research will itself be subject to the same thing. For the contamination began even before the village was born. It had grown up with it.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 47
