The Plantagenet Vendetta (12 page)

“Dammit, Jack!”

“All right, all right, please don’t shout – my ears can’t take it anymore.”

Thomas looked at him seriously. “Well?”

“Apparently it all goes back to the medieval times.”

“When, exactly?”

“Back to the power struggles – I don’t know exactly. History was never my strong point.”

Thomas took a deep breath. “Go on.”

“Let’s just say that some of your ancestors should have been more careful about who they offended.”

“This is far too vague,” Thomas replied, watching Talbot, who appeared unmoved. “You s-seem to suggest that the Sons of York hold a g-grudge against the royals?”

The old man nodded. “Yes, but that’s only the beginning.”

“Tell me more.”

“The society has changed, even in the last twenty years.”

“I thought you knew nothing.”

The man exhaled furiously. “I thought you wanted my help.”

“How can I find them?”

“I told you before, they find you.”

Thomas held up the gun again. “I really had hoped you would cooperate, Jack.”

“All right, all right, please just settle down…I…”

A loud crash, apparently coming from within the room, took them both by surprise. Unmistakeably glass had broken, but the other noise was difficult to decipher. It sounded like wood, thick wood, possibly being crushed, but by what?

Acting on instinct, Thomas dived for cover, banging into the table to his right and knocking a book clean off it. Under different circumstances the prince might have regretted nearly destroying the valuable manuscript, but now he felt only panic.

For several seconds he lay still with his hands covering his head, the two noises still echoing in his ears. Looking up, he noticed that the window in front of Talbot had smashed: a hole had appeared, almost the size of a cricket ball, accompanied by a large crack. His attention moved to his left.

Talbot’s head had been ripped apart.

The man had been shot.

Dumbstruck, Thomas moved toward him. The bullet had travelled through the window to the old man’s head and into the wooden headboard at the back of the chair. A large hole had appeared in the wood, presumably accounting for the clunk he had heard.

Thomas moved over to the window and saw movement in the direction of the far wall – the east wing.

He left the room and ran through the large hall to the main entrance. Strangely, the front door was still open.

Outside, all was quiet except for the sound of the bullet on the wood, which still resonated in his ears. The gardener/butler was absent, which was suspicious – it seemed unlikely that he would have failed to hear the sound of the glass breaking.

Now sprinting, the prince headed for the east wing – the place where he had seen movement through the broken window. He held his gun as he ran, checking the ammo and cocking it. Gun at the ready, he slowed his pace on reaching the far wall and continued round the corner, his back to the wall. The wall went on for another ten metres, turned at a right angle and on again for about thirty metres – the east wall of the property.

Whoever it was had disappeared. Heading south, in the direction of the grounds, Thomas passed several windows, each divided by mullions into panels of six, the dark, patterned glass giving little away of the interior.

It was obvious from the design that the windows could not be opened.

He found a door – evidently locked. He rattled hard against the lock and, after failing to make any progress, fired a shot at it. The wood around the lock shattered with a snapping sound, following which the door opened.

Thomas entered the kitchen: a large area with an adjacent pantry and utilities that was dirty and dated, probably dating back to the ’30s.

He heard a sound close by and headed through the door, finding himself in a long corridor hung with original portraits and historical wall hangings.

He looked both ways. Again there was movement, this time at the far end, a shadowy shape moving left. As Thomas chased after it, he heard what he guessed was a door closing, followed by further movement somewhere up ahead.

Cautiously, he opened the door, gun at the ready. He had entered a small sitting room furnished with antiques. The figure was approaching the wall, moving puzzlingly slowly under the circumstances.

Less surprising was the man’s identity.

The gardener/butler.

Thomas sought to speak, but his stutter let him down. Eventually he forced out the words, “Stay where you are.”

The man turned, also armed. He fired without warning, missing Thomas by a matter of inches. The prince dived to his left, taking out a cabinet and smashing the crockery inside. In the melee Thomas hurt his shoulder and narrowly avoided being shot a second time, as the impact of the bullets brought debris off the wall.

He waited until the mayhem died down before rising to his feet. He saw movement from the other side of the room, but what happened next he had not expected.

The wall was moving, closing as if it was a door.

Thomas wasted no time. He sprinted to the area of the wall that had moved and pushed against it, feeling for any kind of groove – any clue. He knew that houses of that type and age often concealed priest holes from recusancy times, but he guessed that this wall contained something more elaborate:

Most likely a staircase or passageway.

Thomas retreated and examined the rest of the room. He kicked the cabinet in frustration, breaking further crockery. He considered firing at the wall, but he knew that was probably a waste of bullets.

The butler was undoubtedly long gone by now.

His mobile phone began to ring, echoing throughout the deserted room. He reached for his pocket and answered.

“Hello?”

“Where the devil have you been?”

He recognised the voice of his father. “Lincolnshire,” he stuttered. “Talbot’s dead – I saw it myself.

“This time the butler really did do it.”

17

The drive to St Joseph’s took less than fifteen minutes. Jen listened to the hairdresser’s advice, and waited till ten to noon before setting off.

She parked on a quiet road outside the school, deciding against using the main car park. Her time in Wootton had already attracted unwanted interest, and the last thing she wanted was to add to it. She remembered from watching the news a year ago, how much of the footage centred on the school.

If her luck held, she would get out without causing a scene.

She waited in the car until 12:10 before making her way toward the main entrance. St Joseph’s RC secondary school was an assortment of several buildings: a mixture of old and new, with blue walls and lots of windows. The entrance was obvious enough, located at the centre of the main building and guarded by automatic doors. To the right of the main building, detached from the school, was an elegant and more modern building, evidently the sixth form.

Jen guessed it was only a few years old.

She headed toward the main entrance, her presence so far unnoticed. If the woman at the hairdresser’s was correct, there were still five minutes before the lunch break started, giving her an ample head start.

As Jen entered, she noticed a large reception area. A nice-looking blonde lady, probably in her early fifties, was standing, practically leaning, against the desk, a telephone receiver held to her ear. She spoke to the unseen listener for over a minute before hanging up.

She smiled at Jen. “Hi.”

“Hi, I was looking for Miss Cartwright.”

“She’s just finishing a lesson in the sixth form.”

“I know,” Jen replied confidently. “Any idea what room?”

“36.”

“Thank you.”

Jen left the reception area through the same door and headed for the isolated building at the far end of the campus. The loud ringing of a bell, heralding the beginning of the lunch break or the end of a lesson, caught her by surprise.

Jen hurried toward the sixth form, arriving as several people exited. For the first time she felt nervous – almost as if she was trespassing. Entering through the glass door, she caught a glimpse of her reflection; Martha Brown had done a good job on her highlights, but the half-completed do was still a mess.

If the reports she had heard were correct, at least Miss Cartwright would not be overly judgemental about her appearance.

The corridor was tidy and airy – except for the students, most of whom defied generalisation. Hordes of teenagers, ranging in style from trendies to goths, made their way in and out of classrooms, many laughing and talking, some hurrying – even running – in various directions as they attempted to make it to their next destination on time. Jen ignored the come-ons of one or two, putting it down to inexperience and testosterone.

She followed the sequence of numbers on the left and right, and arrived outside number 36. The room was almost deserted, the last few remaining students just leaving. Jen caught the closing door as a young brown-haired boy left. Inside, the room was large and modern, with its desks laid out in a horseshoe, as opposed to rows, painted white and lit by natural light. At the head of the class, a large desk was situated in front of double whiteboards covered by marker pen writing. A woman was standing by the desk, preparing to leave. She was about five feet seven, with reddish/blonde hair, blue eyes and wearing rimless spectacles.

“Excuse me, Miss Cartwright?”

The woman smiled. “Hello.”

“My name is Jennifer Farrelly; I’m a researcher with Raleigh Five, a TV productions company. I understand you spoke to one of my colleagues recently?”

It took a few seconds for her to catch on. “Oh, you mean about the documentary?”

“I’m sorry to bother you while you’re working; I wasn’t sure when was the best time to catch you.”

“That’s quite all right, really. I’ve actually just finished for the day.”

The response was good news. Martha was right.

“I was hoping I might be able to ask you a few questions. Is now a good time?”

“Of course.”

Jen removed a digital voice recorder from her handbag. “Would you mind if I record this? I find it so much easier than taking notes.”

The request made the woman slightly nervous – nevertheless, she said that it was okay.

Jen placed her hand behind her ear, her mind briefly on her highlights. The sooner she got back to the hairdresser’s, the better.

“I understand you worked with some of my colleagues a year or so ago.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, right now we’re in the process of putting together a little documentary, a follow-up, so to speak, of what happened in Wootton a year or so ago.”

Jen touched her hair again as she made a start scanning her notes. “I understand that you taught both Debra Harrison and Luke Rankin?”

“That’s right – though Luke only briefly; he only attended St Joseph’s for two years.”

“Were you teaching him around the time he changed schools?”

“Yes, I taught him all throughout the time he attended the school in years seven and eight.”

“How would you describe his personality and character?”

The woman shrugged. “Luke suffered with learning difficulties from an early age,” she said, her expression suggesting she was slightly uncomfortable. “He was also something of a shy lad.”

“I understand he was autistic.”

That seemed to upset her. “No. That’s a widespread misconception.”

If it was a widespread misconception, it was very widespread. “Okay. So he didn’t have any mental problems?”

“Not in the clinical sense.”

“You mentioned he did suffer from learning difficulties.”

The woman smiled ironically. “He was, as some of his classmates would have put it, slightly dumb. The fact that he was so shy probably escalated the problem.”

Jen nodded. “Did he interact at all with other kids?”

“Yes, of course. He wasn’t a complete loner as some of my students would say – despite what some people have made out. He had a select circle of friends – mostly people of similar identity.”

“You mean learning difficulties?”

Cartwright smiled kindly at Jen. “My dear, I know exactly what you’re thinking; given all the media attention, it’s hardly surprising. If the rumours are to be believed, Debra Harrison was the perfect A-grade student: kind, bright, beautiful – destined for great success – only to have her time cut short by a dangerously obsessed retard.”

The point was clinical, but not inaccurate.

“Come with me – there’s something I’d like you to see.”

Cartwright led Jen through the main corridors – now back in the main school. Most of the kids were taking lunch in the dining hall, the chaos of over a hundred people dining, chatting, taunting and screaming coming through as little more than white noise.

Jen followed the teacher along the corridor that led to the reception area, and stopped in between two classrooms – one empty, the other packed to the rafters with pupils.

“Here,” Cartwright said, pointing her index finger at a boy in an old class photo. “That’s him.”

Jen followed Cartwright’s finger. The child was small and awkward looking, standing in the third row on steps. He had dark hair, noticeably so – even compared to the Asian lad next to him.

It wasn’t difficult to see where Rankin’s sinister reputation came from.

“Why did he leave?” Jen asked.

If he wasn’t medically challenged, the reasons made less sense than before.

“Luke was always an awkward child,” Cartwright said sympathetically. She looked to her left; three students were running toward them. “No running in the corridors.”

The students stopped running immediately.

The teacher gestured to the nearby empty classroom. “We can talk in here.”

Jen followed her inside. The room was bigger than the last one and more in keeping with a traditional classroom. Charts of all kinds, ranging from history to maps of the world, covered the walls, accompanied by various quotes, prints of art and other learning aids.

“Luke Rankin was one of those strange boys: both bullied and a bully; fearless and always afraid; lazy but full of energy; full of hate but desperate for love. Unsurprisingly most of the teachers here didn’t really know what to make of him.”

Jen sat down opposite Cartwright. “You think he struggled with identity issues? Crisis of confidence? That sort of thing?”

The woman laughed. “Without question,” she said, “but so do most of the pupils here. If I could use one word to describe adolescence that would be: confusion.”

Jen smiled, understanding she had a point. Not for the first time she found herself playing with her hair.

“What made him leave St Joseph’s?”

“The poor boy hated being here – even to the point that he would throw a tantrum just to get his mother not to bring him,” she said, adjusting her glasses.

“Would you say his behaviour was far in excess of what might be considered normal? I mean, I remember faking the odd illness to get out of school myself.”

Cartwright grinned. “Off the record, I do know of many people who would accept that view. However, they never taught Luke first hand. He was often frustrated – most of the time his frustration was caused by being frustrated.”

“In general how were his relationships with other teachers? Did any other teachers encourage him?”

The woman hesitated. “I know that most of my colleagues found him awkward.”

“How about after he left? Where did he go?”

“His mother took him to St Brendan’s – about eighteen miles away. I know his mother well; it was the nearest Catholic school, and I know most of the teachers well.”

Jen was interested. It sounded as if the woman was directly involved in choosing the new school.

“Was the school better positioned for dealing with children with learning disabilities?”

“No, not really.”

That astonished her. “So…it was really just about having a fresh start?”

“The former headmistress at St Brendan’s was very understanding about Luke’s predicament. On Luke’s arrival, she earmarked one particular pupil to be his first friend. Both had similar backgrounds – I’m sure you’re aware that Luke’s father passed away some two years earlier.”

Jen nodded.

The teacher smiled awkwardly. “Mrs Hopegood – she was the head – thought that Luke might benefit from someone who understood his problems, someone he could open up to, rather than have to face his problems himself.”

“How did he fare at the new school?”

“Better – at least according to his mother. He was certainly less troublesome. He left the school with seven GCSEs, and later three A-levels. He was all set to go to university to take a science degree.”

Jen was now seriously confused. While parts of what she had learnt tallied with the early reports, the testimony of Cartwright certainly painted a more positive picture of the boy.

“How was he at primary school?”

“A bit of a maverick, but nothing dangerous.”

“Miss Cartwright, in your opinion, how much of Luke Rankin’s problems were down to the death of his father?”

The woman shrugged slowly. “I’m sure it was an important factor.”

To Jen, her face suggested it was probably the only factor.

“How about Debra Harrison? I understand you taught her all her life.”

The teacher smiled and nodded – there was clear evidence of a tear from her right eye. She wiped her eyes quickly and readjusted her glasses. It was becoming obvious to Jen why everyone loved the woman so much. She was overwhelmingly friendly, caring and sensitive. She guessed from speaking to the woman, and the miss in her name, that she was minus a man in her life.

Always a bridesmaid never the bride.

“Tell me about Debra.”

“She was lovely, really: bright blue eyes, lovely dark hair – the kind like a model might have. She was always smiling, always positive,” the woman said, nodding.

“Was English her favourite subject?”

“Yes – that and history. I teach A-level history here as well.”

“Did you teach Debra history?”

“No. I only teach A-level.”

Jen nodded. In the moment she had forgotten that Harrison was only sixteen when she disappeared.

Jen placed her hair behind her ear. “Just one last question, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

“Did Luke Rankin and Debra Harrison have any kind of relationship or friendship of which you were aware?”

The woman’s expression turned colder. “No, none whatsoever.”

Jen switched off her digital voice recorder and placed it in her handbag.

“Thank you so much for your time, Miss Cartwright.”