The Catherine Howard Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  Kit reached over and squeezed her hand, offering reassurance.

  “Go on,” he murmured as her hesitation became more prolonged.

  “What if it’s empty?” she said.

  “Then we keep looking,” he replied. “But I don’t think it is, do you?”

  “No,” she breathed.

  Bracing herself, she swallowed, attempting to calm her nerves, then she gently removed the leather case from its wooden tomb, laying the two boxes side by side. With the utmost care, she opened the ancient lid revealing its secret for the first time in nearly 400 years.

  “Oh my goodness…”

  Kit gaped in stunned amazement.

  Inside was a soft padded lining of what had once been white velvet. Now the fabric was stained and crumbling. In one corner, nestled into a neat slot, was a heavy red ruby ring.

  “Catherine’s ring,” said Perdita but she did not touch it. Instead her eyes took in the other mysteries within the box. Adjacent to the ring was another slot, and below, an oval indentation. “The other ring and the locket are missing.”

  “Do you think they were stolen?” asked Kit.

  “But why leave this ring behind?”

  Kit shrugged. However, it did not matter. They had been looking for Catherine’s ring and their mission had been successful. The ruby ring, created in the sixteenth century, now presented itself to a new owner, one who had yet to discover its secrets.

  Desperate to examine it further but nervous about touching such a rare and ancient artefact without protective gloves, Perdita wiped her hands on her jeans, then carefully lifted the ring from its velvet lining and began turning it over in her hands.

  The setting was old and cumbersome compared with modern-day jewellery, but there was no denying the beauty of the ruby at its centre. It was oval-shaped with a deep, dark hue, and was encased in a delicate golden filigree cage. This was set on a wide golden band, slightly worn now, and studded with tiny diamonds, five on either side, although only a few of the delicate rose-cut stones remained.

  As Perdita ran her fingers gently over the ring, they snagged on something underneath. Turning it over, she saw a small lever set with an emerald, which once would have sat smoothly in the channel at the side of the filigree cage, but with time and use, it had become twisted and now protruded slightly.

  “A mechanism,” she said, turning the ring so Kit could see the pinprick of green on the golden lever.

  “To reveal the inner cavity that was used for passing messages,” said Kit. “You were right, Perds. Oh my God, you were right. They used the rings to communicate secrets to each other. This is more proof it was Catherine’s ring.”

  Once more, using the narrow metal screwdriver, Perdita lifted the lever, hoping it would release a catch and not simply sheer away from the body of the ring. Gently increasing the pressure, there was a minute click and, to her amazement, the underside of the ring opened. Barely able to breathe now, such was her excitement, she placed the ring on the soft scarf covering the table and with the greatest of care, pushed open the hinged section of the ring. Kit passed her the torch. Flicking its powerful beam onto the cavity, she looked inside.

  For a moment, she felt she might faint. Her hands were shaking and she had to take deep breaths to steady herself.

  “There’s writing engraved in the lid,” she whispered.

  “Is it Spe et nereidum?” asked Kit.

  “No,” said Perdita, her voice faintly surprised. “Although, it’s equally as significant: it says — Luncta Sanguine. Joined in blood.”

  “What?” said Kit, peering in to examine their find.

  “Look,” she angled the ring so he could see.

  “Joined in blood,” he echoed. “Do you think Catherine put it there?”

  “No idea, but it was obviously important because it’s one of the phrases on the frontispiece of The Catherine Howard Codex. Perhaps Penelope Fitzalan put it there to prove the ring and the codex were connected. We’ve done it, Kit,” she said, her voice full of excitement. “We’ve found the proof we needed, this ring places Catherine Howard at Marquess House, we know what really happened to her and she wasn’t executed. Instead, she escaped her loveless and violent marriage and lived the remainder of her life in Pembrokeshire on the banks of Llyn Cel. Her story is complete. Her children, well, that’s a tale still to be told.”

  They stared at each other, beaming. Delight was coursing through Perdita. Mary had led them to the proof they needed.

  “Come on,” said Kit, running his hands through his hair, bemused by all they had discovered. “Let’s get back up to the house and tell Dad. He’s going to be amazed.”

  “Piper, too!” exclaimed Perdita. “This is unbelievable.”

  With great care, she returned the ring to its bed in the leather case before stowing it inside the box. Kit wrapped his scarf around it, then handed it to Perdita, who tucked it under her arm.

  “Let’s go and change history,” she laughed and they clattered back up the corridor, unable to contain their excitement.

  Chapter Two

  Still discussing their discovery, Perdita and Kit hurried back to the chapel. As they clicked the door back into place, Kit’s phone rang.

  “Better take it, it’s Dad and there are, my god, twenty-six missed calls.”

  He moved away and after a short conversation, he hung up, looking uncharacteristically serious.

  “We need to go inside,” he said.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Not sure, but Dad checked you were with me then insisted we meet him in the Lady Isabel Room as soon as possible.”

  Perdita felt a cold shiver travel down her spine. Running through the rain, they were back inside Marquess House within a few minutes. But as they burst into the Lady Isabel room, they came to an abrupt halt. Kit’s parents, the Eve family, Jenny Procter and Izabel, all turned to look at them, their faces pinched with worry.

  “Where have you been?” gasped Susan.

  “In the chapel…” began Kit, but Perdita spoke over him.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” she asked.

  Alistair moved forward, ashen-faced.

  “You must leave now, both of you, or I can’t guarantee safety.”

  “What?” gasped Perdita.

  “Dad?”

  Perdita stared at Kit, then back to Alistair and Susan.

  “A warrant for your arrest has been issued under the authority of The White List, as reinstated by Inigo Westbury, Head of MI1 Elite, three days ago,” he said, his voice crisp, tight, fighting back emotion. “Under the terms of the Milford Haven Treaty, I will be able to halt this action, but I will have to go through the proper channels and that could take time. A minimum of a few days but, at worst, a month, maybe more.”

  “What are we supposed to have done?” asked Perdita, not quite able to comprehend the situation.

  Alistair hesitated.

  “They claim treason,” he said, and Perdita gasped. “It’s a trumped-up charge, created by Inigo Westbury in order to interrogate you…”

  “The White List?” Kit’s voice was so horrified. If Perdita had not seen him speak the words she would not have believed such a tremulous noise could have come from his mouth.

  “What’s The White List?” she asked, fear growing with each second.

  “It’s an assassination register,” said Susan, gravely.

  “What…?” began Perdita, but Alistair cut across her.

  “Nevertheless, it is illegal under the terms of the Milford Haven Treaty and I will be able to revoke it,” he snapped. “But I need you two away from here until it is done. I will not risk your lives.”

  Perdita was struggling to come down from her high of discovering Catherine Howard’s grave, the tunnel and the ring but as the seriousness of the situation hit her, she found another layer of worry erupting within in her heart.

  “What about Piper?” she asked. The distance between herself and her twin had never felt so
vast.

  “She is already en route to Castle Jerusalem in Andorra,” said Susan. “Alistair contacted her immediately because she had planned to hire a car and drive across Italy and France before returning here, but we can’t allow this. Charlie has chartered a private jet to fly her there this evening. Megan will call the moment Piper is safe.”

  “A private jet?” said Perdita, trying to keep the surprise from her voice.

  Their wealth was still new to her, but from the way Susan spoke, this seemed to be an ordinary occurrence. For the first time, she wondered about the true scale and worth of Jerusalem and Marquess House. Since her inheritance, her focus had been on the Marquess House estate and its constant surprises. There had been little room left in her head to wonder about the organisation owned and administered by the Mackensies. Now her curiosity was piqued.

  “…and that is how you and Kit will be reaching Andorra too,” continued Alistair, bringing Perdita back to the moment. “We have a plane at Withybush Airfield near Haverfordwest. It’s only a few miles away. I’ve spoken to the pilot and he’s readying the aircraft as we speak. You two need to pack a few essential items and leave before Inigo can find a way to arrest you. Once he has you, retrieving you will be immensely difficult.”

  “Alistair, this is insane!” exclaimed Perdita. “Why now? Why is he doing this?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware that Susan was hurrying everyone out of the room until it was only her, Kit and Alistair.

  “Perdita, there is no easy way to explain this and, please believe me when I say it had never been my intention to break this news to you in such a blunt and unfeeling manner.”

  “What…?” she began.

  “I believe the warrant has been issued now because the known Watcher who has been tailing you for the past few years has made his final report.”

  “Who?” said Perdita. “A Watcher, you mean, one of MI1 Elite has been following me. Alistair, it’s ludicrous.”

  She looked to Kit for some reassurance, for him to turn this farcical situation into something that made sense. Kit, however, was looking at Alistair, who gave him a sharp nod, then turned away.

  Taking a deep breath, Kit spoke, “Warren works for MI1 Elite, he’s a Watcher. He targeted you deliberately…”

  “NO!” the force of her response forced Kit to take a step away from her. “No, you’re lying…”

  “He isn’t,” Alistair’s stern voice cut across Perdita’s shriek. He was beside Kit. “Look at this first,” he said forcing the brown folder into her hand. “Read it, Perdita. Kit is telling the truth. Warren is a Watcher.”

  Perdita stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. Her panic was making it impossible for her to grasp his words. As the blood thundered in her ears, she felt the world tilt, then she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. Panicking would not help. Instead, she looked at the brown folder that was trembling in her shaking hands and, after glaring at both Alistair and Kit, tore it open and began scanning through the documents Alistair had so painstakingly gathered during Perdita’s relationship with Warren.

  Shaking her head, she shut her eyes as though trying to deny the evidence.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, he was a lecturer, we met through work, he loved me.”

  “I think he did fall in love with you, Perdita,” said Alistair, trying to soften the blow, “but it didn’t begin that way. You were targeted in order to try and discover whether or not you were in touch with your grandmother. Warren, however, is human and I believe his feelings for you, which began as an act, became real.”

  Perdita sank into an armchair, the folder on her lap, the photo of Warren staring up at her like an accusation.

  “There’s something else,” continued Alistair, “and this is only a suspicion, but you need to know.”

  “Go on,” muttered Perdita, not looking either man in the eye but continuing to stare down at the photo of her former fiancé.

  “We think your grandmother was murdered…”

  “No,” moaned Perdita, shaking her head, dreading the words to come.

  “Warren was in the vicinity the night your grandmother died. We didn’t tell you at the time, but a window had been forced at the back of the house. It’s possible he got in there, waited until the house was quiet and made his way to your grandmother’s room…”

  “STOP!” shouted Perdita, unable to listen to the details. “Why didn’t you call the police? Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

  “For the same reason your mother’s death was classed as a tragic accident, we have no proof. And even if we tried to find some, we would be blocked at every turn,” replied Alistair, fear making his tone sharp and brutal.

  “It would explain how he reached me so quickly to break the news. He was supposed to have been giving a lecture in Peterborough,” she said. Then, with a swift, sharp movement, she slammed the folder shut and thrust it back at Alistair. “What do you think was in his report that has triggered off this chain of events?”

  “The key fact is probably that, not only have you re-opened Mary’s research, you have progressed,” said Alistair.

  “But you said continuing with Granny Mary’s work was the only way to keep us safe,” hissed Perdita. “When I asked you if we should put it back in the boxes and lock it away, you were the one who said discovering the truth was our only chance at survival.”

  Perdita’s fury was so intense, Kit stepped between her and his father. She had forgotten that her grandmother had issued identical instructions. Her fear was making her irrational and she wanted someone to blame.

  “Perdita, I still believe that is the case,” replied Alistair. “Westbury would have found another excuse to issue this warrant, even if you had never even discovered the unpublished manuscript. He is determined to make his name in the Secret Service and he has become obsessed with Mary Fitzroy and, by extension, yourself and Piper.”

  “Why though?” she asked, astounded.

  “Unfortunately, I’m unable to answer your question because I don’t know,” sighed Alistair. “However, I do know he is acting in breach of the Milford Haven Treaty and, as I said earlier, I will be able to stop him. The trouble is, if he has already arrested you and spirited you away, then…”

  He turned away from Perdita and his son, unable to finish the sentence.

  Perdita and Kit exchanged a glance.

  “Give me ten minutes,” said Perdita.

  “Me too, Dad,” said Kit and, hurrying over, hugged his father tightly.

  As they fled from the room, neither of them saw the terror on Alistair Mackensie’s face.

  Perdita raced around her rooms, gathering basic items and shoving them haphazardly into a rucksack. First, into a hidden inside pocket, she placed the recovered box containing the ruby ring, still cocooned in Kit’s scarf, followed by her laptop that fitted into a slot at the back and the wallet containing the memory sticks that held her grandmother’s entire collection of work. She felt sure there were probably copies at Castle Jerusalem, but she could not take the risk that they might not be there. In an outside pocket, she pushed the leather roll of jewellery making tools that she used when on digs or examining finds. No matter where she went, she carried it with her, and to leave it behind would have felt wrong.

  Doing a final mental check that she had all she would need to get her through this emergency, she hurried over to the mermaid tapestry that hid the safe. Despite the urgency, she could not help but pause and search the intricate facial details for similarities to the ceiling boss in the chapel. Her scholars eye picked out face and brow shape as well as the colour of the hair. They were there, possibly not identical but close enough. Pushing this thought from her mind, she slid the tapestry aside and opened the safe, pulling out her passport and the final chapter of her grandmother’s book. She slammed the safe shut and repositioned the tapestry.

  With one last sweeping glance, she ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her,
and raced along the corridor. It was only when she reached the top of the enormous, ornately decorated staircase that she halted. Directly opposite her was the carved wooden relief that echoed the beautiful stained glass rose window opposite. For the first time, she noticed the writing carved around the edge. The top of the image was hidden in shadow and for a moment she hesitated, wondering if she had time to dash along the Minstrel’s gallery and take a closer look, then she heard Kit running up behind her.

  “We’ll look at the carving another day,” he said grabbing her hand and pulling her down the stairs. “I don’t know what’s going on but I’ve never seen Dad so scared. For his sake, we have to do as he asks.”

  Perdita glanced at his profile. Kit’s mouth was in a rigid line and his tone had been part apologetic, part entreaty.

  “Of course,” she said, squeezing his hand. “If your dad says we should leave, we’ll leave.”

  Once more they hurried into the Lady Isabel room, where Alistair and Susan were talking to Sarah Eve. All three looked relieved to see them.

  “Billy and Larry will drive you to the airfield,” said Alistair. “The pilot’s name is Elliot, as soon as you arrive…”

  But he got no further, there was the thunder of footsteps and a shout, the door was flung open and Alan Eve hurtled through it, closely followed by his two burly sons.

  “What?” said Perdita, her nerves becoming increasingly ragged. “What’s happened?”

  “All the exits are blocked,” gasped Alan, clutching the stitch in his side. “There are unmarked cars by every gate and at strategic points all around the estate’s boundaries. Worse, there are two black vans blocking the lane leading to the main gates.”