The Plantagenet Vendetta (15 page)

20

The offer was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Anthea led the way out of the hairdresser’s, across the high street and past the Hog. Jen followed a pace or two behind, still struggling to adjust to the feeling of the new hairstyle.

In truth, she was undecided what shocked her the most: how good it looked, or that the same girl who earlier that day she thought would struggle to say boo to a goose was capable of carrying out the job.

For now, she focused on the former. Every opportunity she got, she studied her reflection. Fortunately the high street was abundant in glass, so the opportunities were plentiful. The length was slightly shorter than she was used to – a fraction under shoulder length – but what struck her most was how wavy it was. That and the new colour. It was different enough for her to notice, yet also subtle enough for the average guy not to notice. As she passed the Hog, she walked alongside a row of parked cars. The tinted glass offered the best reflections so far. She grinned to herself as she looked.

Enough already with the vanity.

She followed Anthea past the Hog and then right before reaching the church. The churchyard was deserted, which was usual – particularly on a weekday. There were fresh flowers on some of the graves, a stunning bouquet on one. Flowers grew wildly throughout, the colours ranging from purple to orange, with yellow being by far the most common. The smell of freshly cut grass teased her nostrils, causing her throat to itch slightly. The one thing she hated about summer was hay fever. These days it was a minor nuisance, whereas as a kid it could ruin an entire day.

Thankfully, those days were over.

Today, she could enjoy the scenery.

It was warmer than the day before, and the village was in its prime. The afternoon sun beat down brightly on the stone church tower, casting a long shadow across the churchyard, where numerous trees moved softly in the breeze, the sunlight nestling between the foliage. For the first time Jen became aware of the wildlife, the sound of birds whistling or squawking as they hopped from branch to branch.

It still seemed unthinkable such a tragedy could have occurred here.

They took the footpath through the nearby gateway and veered to the right. The path zigzagged, following the natural curvature of the ground as it bisected two hills. The dry mud was comfortable underfoot, while the trees that lined the path took away most of the glare. The temperature had definitely picked up – even since leaving the hairdresser’s. She guessed it was about 27 perhaps even 29 Celsius.

A perfect summer’s day in England.

The path curved away to the left before straightening out. The landscape was more visible now. To Jen’s right, fields and farmland continued as far as the eye could see, while above the horizon the sea was clearly visible, its calm water washing gently against the rocky coast. The location was lonely, but idyllic. The odd farmhouse, occasional villages – perhaps merely hamlets – reminded her that life existed, but for now they were the only signs of civilisation.

To the adopted Londoner, it was like looking at a setting from
Wuthering Heights
.

A few metres along, the illusion became even greater. On the hill to the left were ruins: white stone, the remains of a former wall.

She had learned the day before that a castle had once existed in the village.

“Who lived there?” Jen asked.

“I think it was the Saxons first. After that I think it was the Normans.”

Jen smiled to herself. Ask a silly question.

“In the Middle Ages it belonged to one of the Plantagenets. We had to do a project on it at school.”

The Plantagenets, she thought to herself. Kings of England 1154–1485, ending with the defeat of Richard III at Bosworth and the beginning of the Tudors.

She knew that there was the odd illegitimate branch of the family as well.

“Anything interesting?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Anthea replied, touching her hair. “Apparently it was destroyed in the Wars of the Roses.”

On hearing that, Jen’s mind wandered back to her experiences of the previous day: firstly in the cloisters, then hearing about Catesby, Ratcliffe and Lovell in the Hog.

She assumed the windows were relevant to the village’s history.

“Who owned it? Was it one of the kings?”

“Just cousins, I think.”

That made sense, despite knowing little for sure of the area’s history. Nevertheless, the castle intrigued her. Though only a few minor walls survived, the outline remained visible.

She approved of the setting.

Even the village’s bloody history had been integrated well with the present.

The path forked, giving them the option of left or right.

“That’s the lane what leads to all the posh houses,” Anthea said, gesturing to the right. “It’s this way to the bridge.”

Staying to the left, Anthea led the way. After walking for another two hundred metres the railway bridge came into view, along with the former station in the distance.

“This is where he was found, apparently,” Anthea said, pointing to the bridge. It was obvious to Jen that the place gave Anthea goose bumps.

Jen stopped to take a photo of the bridge on her iPhone before continuing toward it. It was arch shaped, redbrick and dilapidated. Her footsteps echoed as she walked beneath the arch. Although she knew they were her own, the heavy repeated thud unnerved her slightly. Worse still was the darkness. It was brilliantly light outside, the time just before 3pm, but the area beneath the bridge was nothing but a long void. There was a strong sense of loneliness and foreboding about the place that left her feeling uneasy.

Jen returned to the entrance and looked up at the top of the arch. She estimated there was a drop of some ten metres from the top of the bridge to the ground.

She walked to her left, following the footpath, and then left again after about ten metres, taking a scenic route through some wild flowers up the hill to where the railway line had once existed.

“Be careful.”

Jen looked back. Anthea was standing near the bottom of the bridge, clearly reluctant to get any nearer.

Jen lost her footing, but managed to stay on her feet. The ground leading up to the top of the bridge was steep, the grass rugged throughout.

At least the long stems gave her something to grab onto.

She succeeded in getting to the summit, at which point the grass was far shorter. She now had two choices, left or right. She looked to her right. Some two hundred metres away, she could see a derelict building surrounded by shrubbery.

She sighed. Over fifty years after the event, the former station remained a visual reminder of the Beeching Axe.

Jen made her way left, heading toward the bridge. The imprints of the former rail tracks were evident in the mud, becoming less obvious on the bridge itself, where weeds and stinging nettles were growing profusely. Moss infiltrated the gaps between the brickwork, while the bricks themselves were decorated by random graffiti. Reference to the band Velvet Underground confirmed her suspicion that none of it was recent.

She continued all the way to the wall on the left, and leaned over the side. Anthea was standing below her, looking up nervously. She smiled and waved up to Jen, who smiled back.

Jen felt the side of the bridge with her hands before investigating the other side.

Once finished, she looked down again at Anthea. “He definitely hanged himself?”

The girl nodded.

Jen pursed her lips. Although the wall was made up of hundreds of bricks, there was not an obvious place for the rope to be tied.

Jen took some more photos on her iPhone before heading back down the slope. She made it most of the way before slipping near the end. Anthea came to meet her, struggling not to laugh.

Jen accepted the girl’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

“Can we get out of here?”

They returned along the path in the opposite direction, and headed left on reaching the fork. The muddy pathway widened as they walked, eventually developing into a small road lined by several large houses.

“Lovell lives along here,” Anthea said, gesturing somewhere to the left. “I’ll show you.”

The houses on both sides were secluded by a profusion of trees and thick vegetation, prohibiting observation from outsiders. Every so often the greenery would open up, revealing large metal gateways that guarded long, winding driveways.

The setting partially matched what Jen had imagined, but never before had she seen anything so private. She’d learned from her evening in the Hog that there were fifteen houses in total, but that wasn’t obvious from walking in the road. For all she knew there could be hundreds, thousands or maybe just a handful. There were no addresses, no house names or numbers decorating the gateways…

Stranger still was the quietness – even compared to what she had just experienced.

For all she knew, she had slipped back in time.

Lovell’s house was just ahead on the left. As best Jen could tell from spying through the gate, the building was a period house, perhaps Elizabethan, perhaps older, and surrounded by several acres of woodland. A large double garage was attached to the house.

From her vantage point there was no way of knowing whether anyone was at home.

Anthea approached the intercom. “You best let me do the talking. People round here are a bit suspicious of outsiders.”

Jen nodded. If anything, the comment seemed an understatement.

Someone answered, a woman’s voice. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs Lovell, it’s Anthea Brown here.”

“Hello, Anthea.”

The voice was noticeably grand.

“Is Dr Lovell there, please?”

“He went out a few hours ago; I’m afraid he’ll be quite some time yet.”

Jen was disappointed.

Anthea replied, “Okay, thanks.”

They started back the way they came.

“Who are these people?” Jen asked, distracted by the setting. The high level of privacy was starting to intrigue her.

“Most on this side are lawyers,” Anthea said, gesturing to the left. “A couple at the top of the road are politicians.”

“What party?”

“Democrat.”

Jen raised an eyebrow. Originally named the Whigs and dating back to around 1678, the Democrat Party had since developed into the second strongest party in the UK. After winning one election, they were now in opposition to the Tories.

“Anyone famous?”

“Yeah, a few.” Anthea pointed to another house. “That’s where Rowland lives.”

“Stanley?” Jen said, amazed.

Rowland Stanley was the new leader of the Democrat Party.

Hence also the leader of the opposition.

Anthea nodded. “His niece lives next door to him.”

It took a few seconds for the penny to drop. “Stephanie?”

“Yeah.”

“Debra Harrison’s best friend?”

“Yeah.”

“Debra’s best friend was Rowland Stanley’s niece.”

“Yeah.”

Jen was speechless. She hadn’t picked up on that at all.

They passed another gateway on the right. “That’s where Lord Ratcliffe lives. Sir William lives next door.”

As she passed Catesby’s house, she heard something coming from the grounds.

“Is that…chickens?”

“Yeah. He keeps other birds as well.”

Jen loitered, distracted. The sound of clucking had got progressively louder.

“What does he do? Catesby?”

“He owns a farm. His estate is massive. I think he used to be a scientist of some sort.”

Jen was interested. She tried to look through the gate, but as with the others, the shrubbery restricted her view. Next on from the Catesby estate, she briefly saw another house largely hidden by greenery. It was grand, even compared to those she had just seen. The only visible areas were the upper two storeys.

She saw a figure at one of the windows.

“What’s that?”

“Wootton Court. It’s really old.”

Jen recognised the name; she’d seen a print of it in her room.

“Who lives there?”

Anthea glanced to her right. “That’s Lord Jeffries. He’s a bastard.”

Jen laughed, confused by what Anthea had meant. She looked back over her shoulder and shuddered. Even though they were well past the house, the sight of the silhouette at the window had made her uneasy.

“Who is he?”

“Apparently he’s a lord of some description. Being honest, I don’t know much about him.”

“Why’s he a bastard?”

She shrugged. “I dunno, he just is.”

“Has he lived around here long?”

“Yeah, years and years and years. Apparently he’s another one who goes back to the Middle Ages. It’s him that owns the castle.”

That interested her.

“Has he always had that name? It just doesn’t sound medieval.”

Anthea shrugged. “As far as I know. I mean, he has a title, emblem, you know, all the works. When I was at school everyone used to call him Lord Broomshoot.”

Jen was confused. “Isn’t that a flower?”

“Yeah, it’s his symbol.”

“And they’ve always lived in Wootton?”

Anthea nodded and pointed up ahead. “Most of them are buried in there.”

At the end of the lane, they rejoined the path. The church was now visible above the brow of the hill. Thinking about it, Jen didn’t recall seeing anyone of that name in the churchyard.

“They’re definitely buried there?”

“Yeah,” Anthea said, emphasis on the yeah. “There’s lots of broomshoots in the cemetery.”