The Plantagenet Vendetta (13 page)

Jen unlocked her Picanto from a distance and switched on the engine on entering. It was 1:30. The traffic was quiet, and would be for another two hours.

She had succeeded in coming and going without drawing unnecessary attention to herself.

While her eyes took in the sights of the B road, her mind was alive with activity.

Rankin had been a borderline recluse rather than anything more clinical – and apparently had no history of medical irregularities. True, Cartwright admitted he had learning difficulties, but most of them seemed attributable to his attitude – particularly since the death of his father. The fact that he had no prior record of disturbances on joining secondary school made her think that Cartwright was correct.

The boy’s problems were more recent.

The move to St Brendan’s had been a success – that much seemed clear. While his academic achievements were hardly spectacular, his grades were more than satisfactory. Should the media reports be believed – not to mention the barflies at the Hog – the boy had no friends and no future.

If anything, the opposite was true.

A disturbing thought entered Jen’s mind. She had been asked by her producer to come to Wootton to research the facts. Yet what they were was now less clear than before.

If Luke Rankin had not killed Debra Harrison, why did he commit suicide?

In a deserted room on the third floor of Riverton Court, Thomas removed yet another document from the drawer of the antique desk and scanned the content.

Riverton Court was a curious place – that much was clear even before exploding windows and secret tunnels. He knew from hearsay that the owner was something of a maverick when it came to collecting things, and the first-hand evidence matched the rumours. Guns were a favourite: Lee-Enfields, Martini-Henrys…in fact, everything from revolutionary muskets to automatic weapons. That caused a raised eyebrow.

How the hell did they get through customs?

The study on the third floor was easily the most bizarre of the rooms he had seen so far. Antiques and memorabilia dominated – but not the usual kind. Most of the artwork was pornographic, and not the alluring sort. As a student of history Thomas knew that tastes change, but this was taking things to an extreme. Much of the art was of animal on animal – and not the same animal. As an outsider it was not obvious whether they were caricature or serious.

Either way, the mind boggled.

Nevertheless, among the elements of weirdness and tasteless sleaze was something more interesting. The man’s diary was in the third drawer – and had a reference for an appointment later that night.

Time: 21:00.

The entry surprised him. As a former soldier, the prince knew that Talbot would not dare allow anything incriminating to fall into the wrong hands. He had heard rumours of dementia, but that was still open to debate.

Certainly nothing of their meeting had given him any indication that was definite.

The other peculiarity was the absence of any mention of the location for the meeting. Perhaps that was a secret even to Talbot; it certainly matched what Talbot had already suggested.

It was also possible the appointment would take place at Riverton. If not, a car would almost certainly be sent.

Either way, someone clearly had an appointment to keep.

18

Jen was back in Wootton just after 2pm. She parked her car outside the Hog, and walked back along the high street to the hairdresser’s.

She entered breezily, expecting to see Martha.

“Oh,” she said. The place was deserted bar her daughter, who was busy sweeping the floor. “Hi.”

The girl held up a hand, a nervous wave.

“Your mum said to come back and finish the cut,” Jen said, looking at the clock on the wall. “I guess I was slightly longer than I thought.”

The girl answered timidly. “She just went out.”

Although Jen was disappointed, she knew her visit to the school had taken longer than she had anticipated. Ideally, she wanted to see Lovell and Ratcliffe before the day was out.

After her hair was fixed.

“Okay,” Jen said, slightly unsure of herself. “Do you know how long she’ll be?”

The girl shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

“Okay…how about I come back in about three quarters of an hour?”

The girl moved her head, not quite a nod but close enough. Jen still wanted to interview the girl herself, but she knew that doing so without Martha being present was a risk.

Even though the girl was over sixteen, the last thing she wanted was to intimidate her.

“I’ll try again in about an hour,” Jen said, smiling warmly. “Thanks.”

“I can cut it…” the girl said, just as Jen was about to leave. Judging by the girl’s expression, she was equally surprised by her own outburst. “You know, like…or if you’d rather wait.”

Jen paused for a few seconds, pretending to weigh up the situation. “Okay. Great,” she said, smiling.

Secretly she was delighted.

The girl smiled widely, displaying evidence of dimples on both cheeks. “I am a real hairdresser – Mum’s been training me for like a year.”

“That’s great. Great,” Jen said – slightly dumbstruck.

“You said you like Kate Hudson, right?”

“Yes.”

The girl picked up a magazine and opened it to a pre-designated page. “That would look great on you.”

The magazine was
OK!
, and the photo was of Kate Hudson attending an awards ceremony.

“Oh my God. There’s no way I could pull that off.”

“Hell yeah. You’ve got great hair…and you’re really pretty.”

Jen was flattered. “Thank you.”

“Can I just make one little suggestion?” The young hairdresser leaned toward the counter and picked up a designer lipstick. “Try this one.”

The colour was slightly darker than Jen was used to.

“Wow,” Jen said, her eyes alight. “I love it.”

The girl smiled, still shyly but more relaxed than before.

“I can see the salon’s definitely in good hands.”

The girl washed her hands in the nearest sink and dried them before picking up the cloak.

“Okay, your highlights are set. We normally offer a wash, cut and blow dry for £35.”

“Great. That’s great,” Jen said, now feeling incapable of saying anything else. For the first time in recent memory she felt a strange degree of freedom.

It reminded her of being back at uni.

“I’m Jen, by the way.”

“Anthea.”

They shook hands gently.

“Well then, Anthea, let’s see what we’re made of.”

The butler drove slowly through the open gateway of the historic mansion and parked in a hidden area around the back.

The orders he had received were specific – not that they needed to be. Fifty years experience had taught him everything he needed to know. He doubted the precaution was necessary. In addition to the natural seclusion, the property was guarded at every corner by either concrete walls or fencing.

The master refused attracting attention.

Patterson entered the house via the back door where his opposite number, the butler of the house, awaited his arrival with folded arms.

“His Highness is most unhappy.”

Patterson did not respond. The butler’s expression was morbid, but that was nothing unusual. The man had been a cellmate years ago, back in the good old days: a fiery old kook named McGregor.

“I’m afraid he’s about to become even more unhappy.”

“Well, in that case, you can be the one to deliver the news.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

McGregor frowned. “Come on. This way.”

He led the newcomer through the kitchen, into the entrance hall and up three flights of stairs.

Patterson took in the surroundings as he walked. The building was magnificent. Like most in the village it was a 14th-century manor house, though this one was clearly the largest. The stairs creaked more than most, but the rest of the interior he approved of. Valuable tapestries hung from the walls, accompanied by priceless works of art, coats of arms, weaponry and other family keepsakes. The items were old and unquestionably authentic.

Yet even to an academic in the outside world, their meaning was beyond comprehension.

McGregor knocked on the door and waited for a reply.

“Try louder.”

“It’s about time you learned some patience.”

McGregor tried again, this time louder.

Eventually he heard a response. “Come.”

McGregor opened the door, revealing a poorly lit room. Three large, typically 14th-century, elaborately decorated windows, each divided into sections by mullions, looked out onto the grounds at the front. The walls were brown, the same colour as the wood, their shade intensifying the lack of light.

By the fireplace, illuminated by the ominous red glow of a smouldering coal fire, a figure sat hunched in the chair, looking into the fire with a distant and distracted expression.

The man seemed oblivious to their arrival.

“Mr Anthony Patterson to see you, Your Grace,” McGregor said. He left the room without direction and closed the door behind him.

For the first time Patterson was worried. He sensed an atmosphere, one he could cut with the proverbial knife. He looked around, his attention mainly on the walls. Like the downstairs and the staircase, the room was filled with countless historical artefacts and curiosities. A large emblem was situated above the fireplace: a yellow shrub, evidently a broom – a trademark of the man’s family. Similar things adorned the windows.

Everything about the room cried out heritage.

And permanence.

The feeling of being watched had become increasingly unsettling for Patterson. He wanted to look but daren’t. The man was old, but his legacy was older still. If he was the shadow, what came before was the tree.

And the roots were deeply entrenched.

The old man shuffled in his seat. He watched the newcomer, his dark eyes magnified by his large glasses.

“Why have you disobeyed my strictest rule and come in the daytime?”

Patterson hesitated for slightly too long.

“Well?”

The man’s tone unsettled him. “There was no alternative. Talbot is dead.”

“That is unfortunate. What happened?”

“I killed him.”

“You…”

“I had to. He was about to confess.”

“Confess what and to whom?”

Patterson hesitated for a second time. “The royals are onto us. They suspect.”

“Suspect what?”

“One of them came today. He was asking questions about the Sons of York.”

This time it was the old man’s turn to delay. “Who came?”

“One of the king’s nephews. He referred to himself as an emissary of the Duke of Clarence.”

Silence followed. The atmosphere was heavy, as if a fog had descended, liable to choke the lungs. The old man breathed deeply and attempted to clear his throat, the sound developing into a cough.

“I have been expecting this.”

To Patterson, the assertion was preposterous. But he knew it was not his place to argue.

“Do you know what today is?”

“Of course. 20 July. The anniversary.”

Patterson looked at the old man for the first time. His white hair had almost completely thinned, leaving a bald head that was plagued by liver spots. The skin on either side of his mouth sagged, as if his face was now incapable of existing on its own.

But what struck him most were the man’s eyes. It was like looking at a demon, a spectre caught somewhere between purgatory and hell.

“Where is this emissary now?” the old man asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“He came after me. He was armed.”

More coughing followed, this time prolonged. Patterson detected anguish in the man’s expression as he attempted to rid himself of phlegm.

He doubted that the old man had long to live.

“Send a car round to the house this evening as planned. If our friend wishes to join us, you can send him to the usual place.”

Patterson bowed and immediately went for the door.

“Mr Patterson,” the old man called, “do not forget the purpose of your master’s appointment.”

Patterson lingered for several seconds before finally leaving the room. He hurried along the corridor, down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later he departed down the driveway behind the wheel of a luxury limousine.

Back in the lonely room on the third floor of the ancient mansion, the butler knocked quietly against the open door. He carried a bottle of medicine and a teaspoon.

McGregor cleared his throat. “Sir, it’s two o’clock.”

The old man did not answer. His eyes were focused on the fire, his expression suggesting he was in the middle of a dream.

“Ahem. Sir.” McGregor tapped the spoon against the bottle.

The man returned to reality. “Oh.”

McGregor put his right hand to the bottle top, only to feel a hand against his left arm.

“Where is my son?”

McGregor closed his eyes and exhaled. “Sir, Richard has been dead for many years. They killed him – remember?”

The man’s eyes were open, but it was evident from his gaze that his memory was all at sea.

The man nodded, but blankly. “Yes…I remember.”

“They got Anne, too.”

The man wheezed, the sound of phlegm evident in his gullet.

“Sir, your medicine.”

The man turned to his right, now ready to take it. He opened his mouth widely and accepted the full spoon of black liquid. The butler didn’t envy him. To him, it tasted like death.

He had only tasted it once.

He wiped the man’s mouth with a handkerchief, taking away elements of spillage. No doubt about it, he was getting worse.

“Where is my grandson? Where is Edward?”

“The young man decided to go out for a while.”

The old man nodded, but McGregor doubted he understood. The bouts of forgetfulness were getting worse – particularly for names and faces.

Yet other things he remembered quite clearly. Even the day before, he accurately recalled that today was the anniversary. Perhaps it was because it had been so central to his whole life that it remained with him now.

Even on the point of death.

McGregor closed the door behind him and headed for the stairs.

Midway down he stopped, his eyes alighting on a magnificent portrait. The painting was relatively new, but it could have been old. The figure’s appearance was impeccable – dressed in ancient regalia, just like they all were. A fine head of fair hair was his crowning glory – at least beside the actual crown. Strange as it sounded, even to him, facially he was almost the same as the man who had lived five hundred years earlier.

At the top of the stairs he heard further coughing. Soon the young man’s time would come.

A new pretender would rise from obscurity.