“What are you talking about?” asked Perdita, bewildered by the sudden change in the usually cheerful Briony.
“Haberfield, he’s not allowed anywhere near you! He knows that. He’s pushing things because Alistair’s been away.”
Perdita looked back to where Haberfield had been standing, but he had disappeared.
“Briony, what are you talking about?”
“The Milford Haven Treaty.”
Perdita looked blankly at Briony.
“The what?”
“You don’t know about the Treaty?” Briony’s hand had gone to her mouth in horror. “Oh my God, I forgot, you don’t know.”
“Tell me then, what’s the Milford Haven Treaty, and what has it got to do with that man?”
Briony shook her head. Suddenly she was close to tears. “I can’t, Perdita, you’ll have to ask Alistair, I don’t know the details. All I know is that man Haberfield shouldn’t be anywhere near either you or Piper when you are under the protection of Marquess House.”
“Under the protection…? Briony, what are you talking about?”
“You must tell Alistair that man has spoken to you,” she insisted. “He’ll know what to do, how to keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?” snapped Perdita. Briony looked as though she was about to cry. “Safe from what, Briony?”
With great reluctance, Briony spoke in a choked and horrified voice, “From the men who murdered your mother!”
Chapter Two
Murder. It seemed impossible. Her mother had died in a car accident. It was tragic but Perdita wondered how it could have been construed as murder.
She drove back to Marquess House with these questions running around her mind, convincing herself with each mile that Briony must have been mistaken. Yet, even as she thought this, she felt doubt tingeing her reasoning. Briony was the granddaughter of Mary’s best friend, Bethan Bridges, later Bethan Lacey after she had married her childhood sweetheart, Walter. Briony’s mother Jane was Bethan’s eldest daughter. The family had lived and worked in St Ishmael’s all their lives and had been intertwined with the family at Marquess House. Jane’s sister, Sarah, was now the housekeeper at Marquess House, and was married to Alan Eve. They were part of the tapestry of her grandmother’s life, her mother’s life. Briony had always struck her as an honest young woman with no agenda, other than saving and loving animals. Was it possible Briony had let something slip in error? Could the people at Marquess House still be colluding to keep secrets from her and Piper? And if so, why?
None of it made any sense and, as Perdita flung her trusty Land Rover around the tight bend leading up to the gates of Marquess House and sped towards the manor, she once more felt her temper rising. For most of their lives, she and Piper had been cut out of their grandmother’s life. This had been achieved with the cooperation of the vast number of people at Marquess House. When her grandmother had been alive, this had been her directive, but Mary was dead and the house now belonged to her and Piper. They have no right to keep anything from us any more, thought Perdita, furiously. If Mum was murdered, we need to know. It is not Alistair’s decision to keep such vital information to himself.
Skidding to a halt, the engine had barely cut out before she was marching towards the front door. She was only a few steps away from it when Kit walked out, his face starkly white, his blue eyes grim and determined.
“My mother…” began Perdita, her voice harder and higher than usual, but Kit held up his hand.
“Not here,” he said, his voice was so low it was almost a growl. It halted Perdita in her tracks. “Not here,” he repeated. “Come with me.” And taking her arm, he led her down the winding path and through the ornamental garden to the sandy shore of Llyn Cel.
“Kit, what’s going on?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with his determined stride. “What’s happened?”
“My dad…”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, he’s fine, but…” his voice faded away as he came to a halt on the sandy shore of Llyn Cel, where he stared out across the choppy water of the lake. “Remember, a few weeks ago, when Dad told me I had to work with you because ‘there are secrets he’ll have to impart, things which it’ll be vital I understand’, but not until he felt the time was right to tell me?”
“Yes, of course, it was when Warren and I split up…”
“Today,” he interrupted her, sounding desperate, “Dad took me into his confidence and told me those secrets.”
Perdita felt herself go cold. During her journey home, she had been ready to defend her corner and demand to know the truth, but it seemed Alistair had taken advantage of her absence to unload this burden onto his youngest son’s shoulders. If this information had reduced the irrepressibly cheerful, indomitable Kit to this white-faced, wide-eyed state, she was suddenly afraid, unsure whether she did want to know what had really happened all those years ago.
“Perds, we need to sit down,” he said, pulling a picnic blanket from his battered Fred Perry bag, which was slung over his shoulder, and throwing it on the ground.
“Why?” she muttered, stalling for time.
“There’s a lot to tell you and we might as well be comfortable,” he gave her a weaker version of his normally sunny grin.
Breathing in the scent of the water, hoping it would act as a soothing balm to her jagged nerves, she reluctantly stepped onto the rug. As the soft wool gave way slightly under her boot, she felt as though she had moved from the relative safety of her known world into the unsettling darkness of a strange new existence. Once this secret was told, she would never be able to return to her current state of unknowing. Once Kit had spoken, the curse was released. Taking a position opposite him, Perdita sat rigid in a cross-legged position, waiting.
“First,” began Kit in a rush, not meeting her eye, “practical stuff: I spoke to Dr Dade. He’s delighted with his grant for the restoration of the gold cup.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, relieved he was stalling, giving her a few more moments of blissful ignorance.
“I also organised the annual cleaning, mending and general restoration of the chapel,” he continued. “I’m telling you this because, in future, Dad wants me to take more of a role liaising between Marquess House and Jerusalem, as he did with Mary, and his father, my grandfather, Kenneth, did before him.”
“Should I be more involved with the day-to-day running of the manor?” asked Perdita.
“No, it’s what we do. Dad always says the Mackensie family are the Lord Chamberlains for the women in Marquess House.”
Perdita shook her head, slightly bemused.
“Lord Chamberlains?”
“Dad’s words,” said Kit. Perdita watched this new version of Kit with growing dismay. He still would not meet her gaze, instead fiddling with a small pile of stones he had unconsciously gathered while they were talking. As the silence grew between them, she decided to give him some breathing space and voice her own concerns.
“While I was in Dale today, I saw the man who was at my grandmother’s funeral, Stephen Haberfield.”
“What?” said Kit, jerking his head up and finally meeting her eye.
“Then after I’d been to the cathedral, I bumped into Briony. While we were chatting, we saw Haberfield again and she reacted extremely strongly, blurting out that my mother had been murdered and Haberfield was somehow involved. She was wrong though, wasn’t she? My mother died in a car accident caused by Morton Keller. She also mentioned something called the Milford Haven Treaty. Do you know what that is?”
Her words were spoken quietly, but Kit reacted as though she had punched him. He winced and took her hand.
“Oh, Perds,” he whispered, squeezing her fingers, his blue eyes dark with sorrow, “I wish you hadn’t found out that way.”
It was a moment before Perdita understood but as his meaning flooded her, she gasped, finding it difficult to breathe. Briony had been correct.
“What?” her voice was hoarse. �
�Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know until today,” he said. “Dad told me this morning.”
Perdita stared at him, white noise filled her ears and for a moment the world blurred as the horror of his words sunk in.
“Oh, Perds, I’m so sorry, this isn’t going to be easy to hear but there are things I must tell you,” said Kit, lifting her hand to his cheek and cradling it there as though it were a baby bird. “Things you and Piper should have been told years ago. I was furious with Dad for keeping this to himself, but he said it was on Mary’s instructions. Since her death, things have changed and he’s realised you’ll both be safer knowing the truth.”
Perdita dropped her head so her hair fell forward, obscuring her face from Kit. Safer, she thought, there is it again. Safe from what? Whatever it was, she knew she was about to find out and she was ready. She needed to know, there could be no more hiding, no more secrets.
Throwing her hair back, she met Kit’s tense blue gaze with calmness.
“Tell me,” she said. “I want to know everything.”
Taking a deep breath, Kit squeezed his eyes tight shut as though bracing himself, then opening them again, he gave a small smile and began to speak.
“Remember the photographs from your dad? The ones signed, ‘Your loving son-in-law’?”
“Yes.”
“It transpires James was in touch with Mary throughout his lifetime. They spoke several times a week and, from what Dad said, Mary would have loved to have had you both in her life.”
“Why didn’t she then?” asked Perdita, bemused.
“Because she was scared you would be murdered like Louisa was in 1993.”
“But Mum died in a car crash. How can that be murder?”
“It was no accident,” said Kit. “The brakes of the car had been tampered with, so when Morton Keller drove at her at sixty miles an hour, your mum slammed them on but nothing happened — instead, she swerved, lost control of the car on the muddy road, hit a stone wall and skidded over the cliff. Even worse, the seatbelt mechanism had been removed so she was flung through the windscreen. She died from a massive brain injury. Mary was horrified. It was her car, you see, but Louisa had borrowed it because hers had a flat battery.”
Perdita stared at Kit in revulsion at the brutality of his words.
“But, if your father knew it was deliberate and that it was Morton Keller driving the other car, was he arrested?”
“He was questioned then released. The official verdict of Louisa’s death was an accident,” said Kit. “However, Mary knew differently. You see, Morton Keller is what your grandmother always referred to as a Watcher.”
“What’s a Watcher?”
“This is where things become a lot more complex,” said Kit, “so, bear with me.”
Perdita nodded, feeling there was no other option but to listen, even while she dreaded what was to come.
“Dad has always told me that Mary was a talented historian and a fearless teller of the truth, but we both know there is always more than one interpretation of any historical event. As hard as Mary fought to reveal her version of the truth, there were those who were determined to keep the ‘accepted version of history’ in the public domain, even if it meant suppressing new discoveries which might hint at anomalies…” began Kit.
“What do you mean ‘accepted version of history’?” interrupted Perdita.
“I’m getting to it but I need to fill you in on the background first,” explained Kit. “Please, Perds, I know it seems as though I’m rambling, but this is all vitally important. You need to know this, you need to understand.”
She saw the despair in his eyes and squeezed his hand.
“Sorry, I won’t interrupt again, this must be difficult for you, too.”
He shot her a grateful look and, taking a deep breath, continued: “In the early 1900s, my great-great-great grandfather, Douglas Mackensie, formed Jerusalem. He had originally been employed by a lesser-known section of the Secret Service and was tasked with buying and preserving historical documents from all over the world. After a while, he realised that many sensitive or controversial findings were being destroyed. Any documents that contained even slightly dubious content were permanently removed from the public domain and he began to feel increasingly compromised, so he left and set up a similar organisation.”
“Why would the government want to destroy historical documents?” asked Perdita, unable to contain herself. “Were they trying to hide something? Sorry, sorry…”
“When Douglas Mackensie left the Secret Service, he decided to investigate this peculiar department,” continued Kit. “It took him many years and his son, Edward, continued his work after Douglas retired. Through a huge amount of research, they discovered that, sometime in the seventeenth century, an order of guards called The King’s Men was formed. This elite group was tasked with protecting someone called The Scribe. This person, who was working on direct orders from the king, altered contemporary documents.”
“You mean deliberately rewriting events in order to cloud or even hide the truth?”
“Exactly. A precedent had already been set with Henry VII,” continued Kit. “Three months after Henry Tudor had destroyed Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth and seized the crown of England, he had the statute book changed. He backdated his reign to beginning on 21 August 1485 — the day before the battle had taken place. By doing this, the royal records state that he was king when he fought, making Richard the usurper and his supporters the traitors. It was a clever way to bolster his shaky claim to the throne.”
Perdita knew about Henry VII’s deviousness but had assumed it was a unique event, she had never considered other documents could have been altered.
“And you’re saying other official records were changed sometime around 1660?” clarified Perdita, and Kit nodded. “What were they hiding?”
“The King’s Men and The Scribe did a very thorough job and we don’t know,” said Kit. “However, Mary was obviously beginning to uncover too many contentious documents, hence Louisa’s murder.”
“And what happened to The King’s Men?” asked Perdita, floundering slightly with all this new and unexpected information.
“Dad and his predecessors at Jerusalem believe that once all the necessary documents had been recreated, they were executed so the secret and the subterfuge used to disguise it would remain hidden. However, two men escaped long enough to write a confession, which Douglas was lucky enough to buy before the Watchers knew about its existence. It reveals nothing about the secret that was being hidden but it was enough for Douglas to realise how high up this deception went. Further investigation proved that this elite force was once more established during the reign of Queen Victoria, this time named The Queen’s Men, and the Watchers, or MI1 Elite, to give them their correct title, are the most recent incarnation of those first King’s Men, sworn to protect the secret, whatever it may be. Dad suspects that MI1 don’t have a clear idea either. Although, they probably have enough information to form a working hypothesis. They don’t search for evidence, they’re a preventative force, suppressing any information found by historians or researchers that they consider to be contentious.”
Perdita stared at Kit, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“The reason Douglas bought Castle Jerusalem was because, back then, Andorra was almost impossible to access. He felt it was a good place to disappear to for a while. He put it about that he had retired and was simply an enthusiastic amateur collector of historical documents. In reality, he was far from amateur; he was determined to preserve any documents that revealed historical anomalies, as he believed that was where the truth about the past could be found. He named it Jerusalem after a William Blake poem: Jerusalem – The Emanation of the Giant Albion, which tells the story of the fall of Albion, Blake’s embodiment of man. Dad thinks Douglas felt the destruction of our past by the Secret Service was akin to the fall of man.”
“But, Kit, this is madness,�
�� gasped Perdita.
Kit, however, ploughed on. “I thought so at first, but Dad told me to remember that there are many who consider history is in the past so it has no power to hurt us. He said, ‘Those of us with any wit or intelligence, realise this is simply not the case’.”
Unable to help herself, Perdita smiled. She could imagine Alistair’s stance would have become almost Churchillian while he delivered such a line to his youngest son.
“And, he’s right,” said Kit. “How we view ourselves as a nation comes from the way we regard our collective history. But what if it were wrong? What if the version of history we have all been taught, that academics have studied for centuries, is in fact nothing more than a huge fabrication? That we have all been duped into believing lies, and that it’s all been done with the collusion of successive governments.”
“But that would be impossible,” said Perdita.
“Dad claims not. He even gave me a recent example of history changing.”
“What?” gasped Perdita, startled.
“Richard III.”
“Richard III? The last Plantagenet king.”
“Correct and, until a few years ago, he was most famous as the wicked king who murdered his two royal nephews, the Princes in the Tower, in order to gain a throne,” said Kit. “He was the archetypal villain.”
An uneasy understanding bloomed across Perdita’s face. “But now, he’s being rehabilitated in the public domain and questions are being asked as to whether or not he actually did murder the princes. In fact, some historians are trying to shift the blame to the Tudors.”
“Exactly,” said Kit. “Something that was made even more mystifying when his bones were found in the car park in Leicester under a mysterious letter ‘R’ painted on the tarmac. Almost immediately, genealogists traced a descendant who could give DNA to prove whether this was the missing king or not. Richard’s infamous hunchback was proved to be scoliosis of the spine and he was reinterred at Leicester cathedral, his crimes questioned but more or less forgiven. With this discovery, how we viewed this part of our collective consciousness was altered, history was rewritten.”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 30
