Even thrived on it.
Jen removed her iPhone from her ear and disconnected the call.
“Everything all right?” Anthea asked.
“Yeah, fine,” Jen replied, “it looks as if I’m going to be leaving sooner than expected. Filming’s been delayed.”
“Why?”
Jen looked at her with a unique expression, not quite annoyed but not quite humour.
“Oh, right, yeah.”
Jen laughed and shook her head simultaneously. As she did, she allowed herself to enjoy the scenery.
They were sitting in the churchyard, on the bench below the largest tree. Since her arrival, it had become her favourite spot in the village. The view was different than it had been, not visually but the way it felt.
Memories of recent days continued to plague her mind.
“Do you think you’ll ever be back?”
Jen nodded. “Yeah. My producer still wants to do a follow-up. He just wants to see how things develop first.”
Anthea nodded and smiled. “You didn’t really need your hair doing after all.”
Jen laughed. “Absolutely necessary. Thanks for doing it again, by the way. I still can’t believe how much damage I did to it.”
“You’re welcome.”
Silence overcame them, not awkward but pleasant. Though she had known the girl less than a week, strangely it felt like a lot longer.
“Any idea what happened to…you know?”
Jen shrugged. “Nothing, other than he’d been arrested. Along with the others.”
Anthea smiled coyly. “Not them.”
Jen was confused. Then it hit her. “Oh. Nah. I’d forgotten all about him.”
“Who was he?”
“Don’t know, really. One of the royals.”
Anthea’s smile widened. “You do know, really.”
Jen looked at her and laughed.
There was movement on the bridge. A figure emerged through the sunlight, heading toward them. As the person approached, they both saw it was Martha.
“That’s my cue to get back to work,” Anthea said, laughing. She hesitated before leaving. “Will I see you before you go?”
“Sure.”
The teenager smiled and waved before making her way in the direction of her mother. Jen saw them talk briefly before Martha continued in her direction.
The hairdresser stopped on reaching the bench. “I never really said sorry…you know…”
Jen smiled philosophically. “You were right. Looking back, I don’t know what came over me. Anything could have happened.”
Martha smiled weakly. It was obvious to Jen that she had said the right thing.
“Look after yourself.”
“You too.”
Jen held up a hand, a parting wave as Martha retreated in the direction of the bridge. Anthea had waited for her, leaning against the wall. Jen saw her wave, and she waved back. She watched as the girl waited for her mum before disappearing over the bridge.
Jen took a deep breath and sighed. Once again she was alone, and that made her nervous. Three days earlier, she would never have even thought about it. She was used to being alone; most of the time she enjoyed it. Despite what had happened, the village was visually still the same. As her ears adjusted to the quiet, she found herself listening to the sounds of nature. The river was running quickly, the birds were chirping to each other in the trees, bees were pollinating the flowers. A long shadow crossed a field in the distance. There was a heavy presence of white throughout the greenery. She had seen it often since she’d been here. Often throughout the county.
It was a perfect Yorkshire rose.
“Ahem.”
Jen spun around, wondering what made the noise. “Oh…hello.”
Thomas was standing a few metres away, smiling. He was dressed casually: blue jeans, trainers, and polo shirt.
“I wanted to give you this,” he said, taking a seat beside her.
“A red rose,” she said, accepting it. “You are aware that we’re in Yorkshire?”
He laughed. “Actually, this is what historians call a Tudor rose. Apparently it signifies the merger of the two houses.”
She smiled. “I believe that is correct. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly the other day.” He held his palms up. “The life I chose.”
That made her giggle. “You mean you have a say in the matter?”
“Well, so my uncle keeps telling me.”
She laughed softly, flicking her hair with her hand.
Now she was extra glad Anthea had seen to it again.
“I wanted to thank you, for everything. My uncle asked me to pass on his appreciation as well.”
She frowned, taken aback. “Your uncle. Wow.”
He smiled at her, convinced she didn’t believe him. “So wh-what happens to you now?”
“How do you mean?”
“Do they still plan to film the documentary?”
“Oh. No, that’s been postponed.”
“So you’re heading home?”
“Yes.”
“And whereabouts is home?”
“You mean you don’t have my details on the database?”
He grinned at her. “Sadly I’ve always been useless with computers.”
She laughed again, almost a snort. She placed her hand to her face as a reflex, and turned away.
She couldn’t believe she’d just done that.
That was it.
Conversation over.
She placed her shoulder bag over her arm and got up from the bench.
“Well, thank you so much for coming back,” she said, offering the prince her hand. “Tell your uncle it was a pleasure.”
She couldn’t believe she said that.
He laughed. “Well, I’m very much looking forward to your documentary. If there’s anything I can do…”
“Actually, yes,” she said, rummaging through her handbag. She removed a business card. “You never know when it might come in handy.”
He accepted it. “Thank you.”
She looked him in the eye and slowly walked away. She had nearly made it as far as the pathway when…
“Hey, I was just wondering…”
“My number’s on the card.”
Jen had spent the last two nights back at the Hog, despite some initial apprehension. She checked out at just after 2pm, easily the latest she had ever done so. It was the least he could do, said Harvey Mitchell, perhaps feeling some degree of guilt for a couple of days earlier. That said, the place was hardly heaving.
Ironically it could do with some publicity.
She left the Hog through the main entrance and headed straight for her Picanto. As she put her case in the boot, she noticed someone had entered the car park.
“You’re leaving?”
It was Stephanie. “Hi,” Jen said tentatively. “I was thinking of coming to see you.”
A half smile. “I needed to get out of the house. My cousin got bail this morning.”
“How is he?”
“Better than he deserves.”
“Has he been charged with anything?”
“Accessory to murder,” she replied coldly. “I’m sure they’ll find something else before too long. My uncle is still being questioned.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. They’re not nice people.”
Wow, Jen thought. She could never imagine saying something like that about her own uncle and cousins.
Then again, they were nice people.
Jen looked at her, her attention on her face. There was slightly more colour in her cheeks than there had been. A hint of a smile touched her lips, which she hadn’t seen before. Her hair had more volume, the curls more deliberate.
“You look better.”
Her smile widened. “Thanks. Anthea did my hair.”
Jen laughed. “That explains it…I should be back in a few weeks. Maybe we could meet up.”
“I’d like tha
t.”
“Take care.”
Stephanie smiled and began to walk away. Jen, meanwhile, waited by the car.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
The girl stopped.
“Did you ever find out what happened…to Debra?”
“Not after the photo…” She shrugged.
Jen bit her lip.
“You didn’t find anything?”
Jen looked at her. “I have a theory.”
They entered the church through the main entrance and headed straight for the cloisters. Jen led the way down the stairs into the vaults, stopping on entering the Jeffries’ vault. The door to the mystery vault was closed.
But no longer locked.
“You found the key?” Stephanie asked.
“No. I think one of the coppers picked it. They couldn’t find the key.”
“Father Martin didn’t have one?”
“I don’t know.”
Strangely the priest had disappeared.
Jen walked slowly through what remained of the rubble, careful to avoid losing her footing. The kings’ vault was far brighter in the daylight, particularly with the door open. She was able to see the large tapestry draped across the far wall. For the first time she could see colours, maroon with three gold lions at the centre.
The flag of Plantagenet. Soured by centuries of decay.
She walked toward the four main tombs, stopping at the middle left. Ever since she had first seen it, it had bothered her.
Richard III.
Discovered under a car park in Leicester.
Jen stopped alongside it and took a deep breath. She placed her hand upon the lid beneath the effigy. It was cold and rough, typical stone. It looked heavy.
“Try to help me lift it.”
Stephanie stood on one side, placing her hands beneath the lid. They tried to lift it but failed.
“Try the other end.”
Stephanie moved to the end, directly opposite Jen. They both placed their hands to the corners, and tried to lift it as best they could. For several seconds it looked as if nothing would happen, but slowly it came free.
They placed the lid down as gently as they could, careful to avoid doing any damage. Jen looked inside the tomb for the first time, not sure what to expect.
There were bones inside, collarbones, ribcages and several skulls.
Even on initial inspection it was clear there was more than just one body.
She switched on the flashlight on her phone. There was a large bag lying across the bottom: the kind she associated with gangster movies where the victim was placed in one before being moved to the boot of the car.
The stench was awful. Holding her nose, Jen placed a hand inside and attempted to move it. The bag had split, and not recently. There was something black inside, some form of material.
It looked like a dress.
She had seen it before. In a photograph.
She retreated a few steps and looked at Stephanie.
“I think we best be leaving this one for the experts.”
Epilogue
One month later
“She’s dead; I know that she’s dead.”
They were the first words she had ever said on camera. They were the words that made her famous.
She hadn’t had time to consider the implications. Nor had she experience of the press.
The following week, she said the opposite. By then she’d had the time, and the experience. 50, 60, perhaps even 100 million people watched. They heard her say it.
But nobody remembered.
They remembered only what she had said the first time.
“She’s dead; I know that she’s dead.”
They were the words that she’d be remembered for.
Whether she meant them or not.
Gillian Harrison had been standing alone in the churchyard for over an hour, considering the implications. Over the last thirteen months, she’d had plenty of time to consider them. The cameras had gone, as had the press…as had all the other intrusions. The only thing that hadn’t gone was the implications. Not for the wider world, but for her.
During the last year, the churchyard hadn’t changed very much. A new cross had been erected in the far corner, a memorial to a war hero. Just like any other village in England, such things were prevalent. There was a new hole in the ground close to the wall as well, this time for someone’s ashes. She didn’t know who it was for, or who the relatives were.
Though she guessed that she probably knew them.
The monument in front of her was the only other new addition. It was angelic in every sense of the word. It was large, at least three metres in height, making it one of the largest in the cemetery. The only thing greater was the cost, but that had been taken care of by others. It was a tradition in these parts. Some called it generosity. Some, community spirit. Others used a far simpler word.
Love.
It wasn’t just the locals who contributed. Money came from America, Canada, Australia…all around Europe. And not just adults, either. Some had even been in coins, sometimes pennies.
But it was the cards that touched her the most. That and the messages.
Messages of love.
She had incorporated some of them into the body. The face of the angel was also familiar. It was her face, appearing as though it was a genuine statue. That, too, had been a gift from outsiders. No way could she have afforded it on her own. That was another implication of the words she’d said.
This time a positive one.
But among the positives remained the overwhelming negative.
She had been right the first time.
She really was dead.
Gillian Harrison put her hand to her face and felt tears. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop, at least for a while. She felt her eyes close, incapable of reopening. Her cheeks were wet on both sides, and would only get wetter.
When the worst of it was over, she turned to her right, feeling a presence nearby. She wiped her eyes. Despite clearing her vision, she was still to see anything other than a vague outline. The woman had blonde hair, just like her own.
Wiping her eyes again, she walked toward her, not stopping until reaching her. Though the woman said nothing, it wasn’t the silence that was awkward.
It was the implications that were awkward.
Despite not being her fault.
“I’m so sorry, Gillian,” Susan Rankin said, placing her hands on her shoulders.
Gillian Harrison said nothing.
Despite the hardship, she somehow managed a smile.
The Mall was packed, as were the other streets that marked the route between Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. Estimates for the number of bystanders ranged from one hundred thousand to a couple of million, depending on the network that covered the event, or the location they were actually looking at.
In reality, it was impossible to count.
In every direction, the view was glorious. It was a ritual unlike any in the world. Nothing brought out the crowds like a coronation. None carried out the job quite like the British. Even the foreign media agreed.
The fact was indisputable.
At just after 2:30pm they finally saw him. The royal carriage emerged from the gates to make its journey along the Mall to the abbey. A large armed guard moved on horseback, dressed as redcoats like their predecessors. Cameras flashed, the crowds waved, people cheered as they got their fleeting glimpse of the new king and his son.
It was a picture. Dressed in a crimson surcoat like that of his forebears, he appeared just like his father, oozing charisma.
Today, nothing could hide the smiles on their faces.
Inside the abbey, the crowds had gathered. The soft sound of the organ dominated as the organist continued to prepare for the service.
The most important guests sat at the front. Most had arrived recently, while others were still to make their way inside.
Those at the front received the att
ention. Sitting alongside the Duke of York, his daughter, Princess Caroline, had rarely been out of the spotlight. The gossip columns continued to speculate about her appearance; rumours of plastic surgery the most prominent.
Even if it were true, the work had been carried out so neatly the seam was barely seen.
Even a row back, anonymity was almost guaranteed. Behind the Duke of Clarence in the front row, the brown-haired man in his late twenties remained silent. The crowd would be forgiven for not recognising this minor royal.
Even less, the blonde sitting beside him.
In another part of the city, four men were being marched along a well-lit corridor. The lieutenant waited for the high-security door to open before allowing the armed guard to lead them to their cells.
The blond man in his late twenties led the way; following him, the three were much older. They were still to receive an official sentence, but they didn’t need a judge to tell them release was out of the question. While those deemed accomplices had escaped with comparatively light sentences, ninety days for being an accessory to five years in Wandsworth for conspiracy to regicide, these four had no such luck.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 48
