The Plantagenet Vendetta (17 page)

23

The limousine pulled up outside Riverton Court at precisely 6:45pm. Thomas was in the master bedroom at the time, going through Talbot’s belongings. Besides the diary, he was still to find anything conclusive relating to either the Sons of York or the man’s own past – aside from personal keepsakes. He was still to see everything, but he had checked all the usual places, including a badly hidden safe behind one of the portraits.

He guessed if Talbot did have anything to hide, it could well be found down one of those passages.

Thomas saw the limousine from the bedroom window. After making its way through the open gates, it proceeded along the driveway before stopping outside the door. He had taken the liberty of hiding his own car, parking it in a twenty-four-hour car park in the nearby town. He assumed from the diary entry that a car would be sent for him. It made perfect sense.

Even if Talbot knew the location, his employers would not leave anything to chance.

The driver of the limousine rang the doorbell. He was smartly dressed, all in black, with a matching cap. A thick beard, distinctly ginger in colour, covered much of his face. He also wore tinted glasses, not quite sunglasses but dark enough to cast doubt over the colour of his eyes.

Over a minute passed before the front door opened, and a man emerged. He was dressed in a large grey coat, a brown hat that covered all of his hair, and large dark sunglasses that hid much of his face. His skin was wrinkly and wet, and smelt of Old Spice. He walked with a pronounced limp and rested his weight on two walking sticks.

“May I assist you in any way, Sir Jack?” Redbeard asked in earnest.

The response was a vigorous cough, followed by “away”.

Redbeard didn’t ask any questions. He opened the door like a good chauffeur, and waited until the man was safely in his seat before closing it.

“Mustn’t forget the cargo.”

Thomas remained silent as Redbeard entered the house and returned moments later with several black holdalls. He stacked them up carefully in the boot before returning to the driver’s seat.

Seconds later, the black limousine made its way back along the driveway, emerging onto the road. Conversation was non-existent, even the woman on the SatNav had been set to silent.

Sitting alone in the back, the man dressed as Sir Jack Talbot displayed an air of discontent. He crossed one leg over the other with a struggle, and sat with his coat wrapped tightly around himself. For the rest of the journey he would remain silent – his eyes focused on the passing countryside.

If luck were to have it, tonight he would meet the Sons of York first hand.

In the front seat, Redbeard concentrated on the road. Although he drove with a neutral expression, inside he was smiling.

He had to hand it to the prince. The disguise was convincing. Silently he was amazed that any twenty-something could do such a fine impersonation of a crippled seventy-something.

But seeing was definitely believing.

The prince’s disguise was good, but his was even better. With the red beard and dark glasses, he certainly didn’t look like the same man the prince had shot at earlier that day.

And by the time he figured it out, he’d be in no position to argue.

24

The Mass had already begun by the time Jen reached the cloisters. The soothing opening of “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise”, accompanied by the strong base notes of the church organ, reverberated through the deserted corridors before becoming ever louder as Jen reached the door. The lock snapped upwards as she raised the bolt, allowing the door to creak open.

Unsurprisingly, the noise attracted circumspect glances from almost all of the nine people in attendance.

Among them was Martha Brown, standing three pews from the front, with a hymnal in her hand and her mouth wide open. She smiled at Jen as she sang, gesturing for her to join her.

The Mass lasted forty-five minutes. Jen’s first appearance at Mass since sixth form had passed without incident, despite the continuous feeling that she was in the wrong place. She didn’t recognise any others of the congregation, all of whom were women bar one. She placed most of them in their mid-sixties, if not slightly older, with the exception of one pretty woman, probably in her forties.

It took a while for her to realise it was Susan Rankin.

As the service ended, Jen spoke to Martha for the first time. Although she didn’t mention her hair, Jen struggled to shake the feeling that she was looking at her – in a bad way. Ever since her visit to the vaults, she felt as though there was another cobweb there – that elusive bastard that you can never find, no matter how hard you try.

The priest was ignoring her, but he seemed to be doing the same to everyone. She guessed it was probably just his nature, rather than anything she had personally done.

Nevertheless, the episode in the vaults troubled her. Whatever the reason, Rankin’s burial seemed out of place.

Even more intriguing, his mother was at Mass.

Jen left the pew with Martha, waiting until the congregation had dispersed before leaving. She watched Susan Rankin as she left the church, smiling awkwardly, but speaking to no one. She shook hands with the priest as she approached the door, the pinnacle of her communication. On this occasion, the priest appeared to be warmer – as if reserving sympathy. Despite the lack of talking, Jen didn’t get the impression the woman was an outcast.

If anything, she seemed part of the furniture.

Martha Brown spoke to the priest for over a minute before finally leaving, white smiles prevailing. He held his kindness for Jen, enclosing her hand softly between his two, and whispered the words “lovely to see you” as she walked out the door. At face value, the man seemed genuine. Yet the episode in the vault still disturbed her. Either Luke Rankin committed suicide or he didn’t.

There were no in betweens.

“Would you like to join us for dinner, pet?” Martha asked as they walked along the pathway.

The question caught Jen off guard. She figured it was either that or another burger at the Hog.

“Yeah, great – thanks.”

Anthea was thrilled. After remedying the mishaps to Jen’s new haircut, she spent the next half an hour taking her new best friend on a tour of the house – notably her bedroom. Posters of actors, models and celebs prevailed throughout – male and female. The posters were a lifestyle choice – at least that was the excuse. As a hairdresser, she needed to be reminded of style everywhere. Decent advice, Jen thought.

If it was true.

Dinner was served at just before eight, the meal traditional Yorkshire. Toad in the Hole with roast potatoes, gravy and veg came first; curd tart came next.

Fair dos, the woman could cook as well as she could sing.

“So how come Luke Rankin is buried in the vaults beneath the church even though he is generally believed to have committed suicide?” Jen asked as Martha cut the curd tart and offered her a slice.

“Suicide victims are not deprived of being buried in consecrated ground,” Anthea replied. “According to the modern church, they deserve both our sympathy and understanding.”

Jen was unconvinced. “Who told you that?”

“Mrs Beckworth – she was our RE teacher…that’s right, isn’t it, Mum?”

Martha retook her seat at the head of the table. “It is right, pet.”

To Jen that sounded wrong. “So what about all that stuff about people being deprived of burial in consecrated ground: being born out of wedlock, killing someone, committing adultery, not being baptised?”

“You still have to be baptised,” Anthea said, playing with her spoon. “You also have to be a Catholic – or at least a Christian.”

Jen was still unconvinced. She took a first bite of the curd tart and swallowed it down.

Predictably it melted in the mouth.

“So where did all this stuff come from about people being buried at a crossroads in the dead of night and that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, maybe when Dick Turpin was alive,” Anthea said sarcastically. “It has lightened up on some things.”

“In some cases, it all comes down to the discretion of the priest,” Martha said. “Any Christian is entitled to burial. That’s a legal matter.”

That seemed plausible. “How about murder?”

“That depends,” Anthea said.

“On what?”

“On whether they repent.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Martha said. “Murderers are still legally entitled to burial.”

“It also depends on whether they were of sound mind at the time they committed the murder,” Anthea said.

Jen nodded. “That makes sense.”

“So Luke Rankin would not have been deprived of a funeral and burial in consecrated ground because he was a loony.”

“Anthea,” Martha snapped.

Silence fell, noticeably awkward. Jen looked everywhere and nowhere, her eyes alighting on Anthea, who grimaced and returned to her tart.

Jen did the same. “So what would constitute not being of sound mind?”

Martha shrugged. It was obvious the subject was making her uncomfortable. “It can be a number of things, really. It could be someone suffering from mental illness, someone who’s recently suffered something of a shock, someone who’s had an adverse effect to medication…you know?”

Jen got the picture. “Did Luke Rankin come into that category?”

“Definitely,” Anthea replied.

“Martha?” Jen asked.

Martha hesitated. “You’d have to ask Father Martin; he’d know far more than me.”

“I did – he seemed reluctant to talk about it,” Jen said, eating.

“When was this?” Anthea asked.

“In the vaults before Mass started.”

“He was probably in a hurry,” Martha replied.

“Maybe. But something doesn’t add up. First, Debra Harrison goes missing; then this other lad turns up dead – and we visited the bridge; it wasn’t an easy place to hang yourself from. Furthermore, I spoke to your former teacher Miss Cartwright,”
Jen said, looking at Anthea. “She said that Luke Rankin was not mentally retarded, he was just a little slow and nervous – particularly as his father had died.”

“That might count,” Anthea said. “That could count as not being of sound mind.”

Possibly the girl had a point.

For now Jen decided to change the subject.

“I got your joke about the broomshoots, by the way. They’re those bright yellow flowers, right?”

Anthea grinned as she placed the spoon to her mouth. “They don’t often grow here in Wootton.”

“Does someone plant them?”

“I think so,” Anthea said, nodding.

To Jen that was strange. “I assume there is a connection? Between that and the family?”

“Probably,” Anthea replied. “I think it’s stupid, if you ask me. Imagine being married to a Broomshoot.”

Jen laughed at her. “I met one of them today – in the churchyard.”

“The person or the flower?” Anthea asked, giggling.

“The person. He said his name was Edward.”

“Did he like your hair?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. I just thought he might have commented, you know, whether I did a good job.”

Jen grinned back at her. “He said he liked it.”

“Good. Did you like him?”

“Don’t know. He seemed quite arrogant, really. He kept teasing me about Robin Hood being from Yorkshire.”

Anthea laughed. “He can be like that.”

“What does he do?”

Anthea shrugged. “Don’t know, really. His granddad is a lord of the realm, isn’t he, Mum?”

Martha nodded.

“Shame about his parents.”

“What happened to his parents?” Jen asked.

“Died in a car crash before I was born.”

“They were only thirty-seven, the poor loves,” Martha said.

“His dad was a politician. They were on holiday in Corsica,” Anthea added.

Jen smiled sympathetically. “What were their names?”

“Richard and Anne,” Martha replied.

“Where are they buried?”

“Under the church, I think,” Anthea said.

Jen was sure she hadn’t seen either of them in the vault. “Have you been down there before – either of you?”

Anthea nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

“I was down there earlier, just before Mass. I was in the Jeffries’ vault and found this door – it was locked.”

Anthea appeared suddenly nervous.

“What about it?” Martha asked.

Jen didn’t miss a thing. “Nothing. I was wondering what was behind it?”

Martha shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Father Martin said it held the remains of plague victims.” Jen looked at both women in turn. “Have either of you seen it?”

Martha shook her head. “No, luvvy.”

Anthea was unusually quiet, and Jen noticed.

“Have you ever been in there?”

Anthea remained taciturn. She forced an awkward smile and placed a hand to her hair.

“Have I said something?” Jen asked.

Anthea remained silent for several seconds. “This door,” she began. “Was there an archway round it?”

Jen nodded.

“And had an emblem on top of it?”

Jen’s excitement was growing. “Yes, that’s the one.”

For the second time in quick succession, Anthea became distant.

“Is everything okay?”

Anthea spoke quietly. “I got in there by accident when I was a little girl.”

“What was in there?”

“I don’t really remember. I just remember it was really dark – full of strange pictures and tombs and…”

Recalling the matter seemed to make the girl’s skin itch.

“I kept screaming,” Anthea resumed. “I thought I was going to be trapped down there – forever. I kept screaming and screaming and screaming…then after what seemed like forever, Father Martin came in…and he shouted at me.”

The memory clearly upset Anthea – though she kept it together.

“Why did he shout at you?”

Anthea shrugged. “He just said that I wasn’t supposed to be in there – and that if he found me in there again, I’d be in so much trouble.”

Martha placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “There, there, pet.” She looked at Jen. “She was only eight at the time.”

Jen was horrified. Her opinion of the priest had reached rock bottom.

“I’m going to need your help getting into the vault,” Jen said.

Anthea wiped away a tear. Jen was relieved that it was the only one.

“Why? What’s so special? It was just a dark room with a load of old people buried in it.”

Jen frowned. “I’ve got a nasty feeling that it might also have a much younger person buried there.”