The Plantagenet Vendetta (28 page)

Back at the palace, the King looked over his brother’s shoulder. He was looking at a fifteen-inch laptop presently showing CCTV footage from earlier that day of the main entrance and exits of the Marigold.

“Stop right there,” the King said, focusing in on a man wearing a dark suit, aged somewhere between late twenties and early thirties. “Focus in on him.”

Clarence paused the footage and attempted to zoom in. The man had some sort of facial hair, probably stubble.

“Ring any bells?”

Clarence looked at the image for several seconds. “I don’t know.”

Moments later, the data came through on Thomas’s email. He opened it using his iPhone and seconds later was looking at the same footage.

“What’s the matter?” Stephen asked.

“That’s one of the men who got away.”

Stephen’s response was delayed. “You’re quite sure?”

In truth, he wasn’t.

“Positive.”

40

“Ey up, it’s Miss Farrelly,” Brian Hancock said on entering the Hog. Jen was sitting alone at the bar, an almost finished plate of fish and chips in front of her.

“Hi ya,” she said, her mouth full.

He took a seat beside her. “Haven’t seen you about these last couple of days; where you been hiding?”

She pointed to her hair.

It took Hancock a second to twig. “Oh, you’ve had something done to your hair…oh, yes, it looks very nice, that does.” He turned his attention to Mitchell behind the bar. “Hey, doesn’t Miss Farrelly’s hair look nice?”

“Very nice,” he replied, pouring a pint.

“Anyway, when you have a minute, I’ll have a pint of the manliest you’ve got on the premises and same again for Miss Farrelly.”

“Two pints of lighter fluid coming up.”

Jen coughed as she finished her Coke.

“Don’t worry; it still tastes better than his beer.”

Jen laughed.

“So what else have you been doing these last couple of days – besides growing ever more attractive?”

“Just research, really. I’ve been spending quite a lot of time around the church. I never knew it had a vault.”

She was fishing.

“You know far more than me. Got a vault, has it? Down below, is it?”

Mitchell passed Hancock a pint of local ale and another Coke for Jen.

“Bit quiet in here tonight, isn’t it, Harvey lad?” Hancock asked.

“Must be something good on the telly.”

“Is that right? Not the dancing, is it?”

The statement seemed true. Themselves aside, there were only three other people in the bar area, none of whom Jen recognised. The sound of chatter was more evident from the dining area. Several people spoke in low voices, husbands talking to wives, others ordering food. One voice rose above all others, the man’s tone loud and annoyingly ostentatious.

“Where’s your friend?”

“You mean Gavin? I don’t know…he must have fallen off the face of the earth.” He asked the landlord, “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“What – Gavin? I haven’t seen him.”

“He hasn’t seen him, and he would know – doesn’t miss a thing, does Harvey.”

Jen found herself unable to avoid giggling.

“Tell you what, I’ll tell Gavin you asked about him – that’ll make his day, that will, Miss Farrelly.”

Jen took the first sip of her new Coke and stirred it with a straw. She placed the glass on a coaster, her mind again distracted. Laughter from the dining room had become consistently louder.

“Someone’s got the giggles,” Jen said, again unable to avoid smiling.

“That’s just Dr Lovell,” Hancock returned. “He’s a bit of a minor celeb round these parts.”

“Lovell?”

She didn’t mishear him.

She leaned back on her barstool, her eyes on the archway that connected the bar area to the dining room. Although the view wasn’t perfect, she could at least make out the man responsible for all the laughter.

She looked at him, taking note of his features. A large red shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, fit snugly around a large belly, while matching white trousers looked close to bursting point. A fine head of whitening blond hair, combed back smartly and perhaps assisted by some kind of gel or paste, was receding in some places, though she reasoned that might have been a trick of the light.

Either way, not bad for a man approaching seventy.

His face was fixed in a smile that brought joy to all around him – notably the staff. If there was a correlation between jolliness and weight, this man was Father Christmas.

“Is that him?” she asked Hancock.

“That’s him.”

“He’s on his own.”

“He often is. Knows everyone between here and the next five villages, Dr Lovell does…I’m guessing Alma’s gone to stay with her sister again.” The second half of the statement was for Mitchell.

“Got it in one.”

“Happens every middle of July, that does.”

“What does? Sorry,” Jen asked.

“Alma, that’s his wife, she always leaves Wootton this time of year to go and stay with her sister in Scarborough. They say it’s the closest she ever comes to leaving Yorkshire.”

Not for the first time Hancock’s banter made Jen laugh. “He seems very friendly.”

“Why don’t you go have a chat with him?”

Jen was unsure. “Perhaps after dinner.”

“Don’t be shy. Hey, tell you what, if you go now, there’s still time for him to buy you dessert.”

The prospect appealed. “You’re sure he won’t mind?”

“Him? Mind? You’ve got more chance of being bitten by a plague rat.”

The dining area was larger than the main bar area. At least twenty tables, ranging in size from two-seater to eight or more, were arranged evenly on either side of a large partition wall.

All of the walls were painted white, matching the original colour of the stone, and supported by wooden beams that dated back at least four hundred years. The room oozed periodic charm and contained two open fireplaces, neither of which were lit. Historic memorabilia lined the walls, mostly prints depicting the village from anywhere between fifty and two hundred years ago.

Lovell was sitting on his own at a four-seater table, halfway through what looked to be a homemade pie.

“Majestic, my dear, majestic,” Lovell said as he delayed the passing waitress. “I daresay the cuisine of this fine establishment surpasses the cooking of any other in the county…but please don’t tell my wife.”

Jen approached the man from the left, her smile now permanent.

“Excuse me, Dr Lovell?”

Lovell turned to his left, nearly knocking over his glass of red wine.

“My name is Jennifer Farrelly…”

“Miss Farrelly, we meet at last,” the man said, rising to his feet and cupping her hand in his. “I’ve heard so many very good things about you.”

Jen smiled awkwardly, touching her hair with her free hand. “I was wondering if I might…”

The man returned to his seat, unable to hide his delight. “Of course, of course, of course, of course, of course. Please sit down. Samantha, dear…” He caught the attention of the thirty-something waitress as she passed by with two plates, “a second glass for my youthful companion, though please do not inconvenience yourself and carry out my request with those hot plates still in your hand.”

“Be right with you, Dr Lovell.”

“Lovely girl, such manners, such grace…now, my dear, please.”

“You’re most kind,” Jen said, taking a seat opposite, placing her handbag down on the floor. “I’ve actually been trying to see you for quite some time; I’ve passed by your house twice, but you were out.”

Lovell clapped his hands together. “How tragic I should have missed you, and to think how fate might have robbed me of this fine opportunity…my dear, what a pretty necklace you wear around your neck.”

“Thank you,” Jen replied, taken completely off guard. “It was my grandmother’s.”

Nobody ever complimented her like that.

“How remarkable. Such taste, such beauty.”

The waitress returned with an empty glass and smiled at both in turn. Lovell picked up the three-quarter-f bottle of red wine and poured into Jen’s glass.

“That’s more than enough, thank you.”

The glass was well over half full.

“My dear, tell me, how are you enjoying your stay with us?”

“Oh, it’s been lovely; everybody’s just so friendly.”

“Oh, I’m quite glad that you think so; so different from London, I’m afraid the modern world is so alien to me.”

Jen smiled weakly. “I understand you’re something of an authority on local history.”

The man laughed as he raised his knife and fork. The aroma of steak, kidney, carrots, swedes and potatoes was simply beautiful to Jen, even on a full stomach.

“Lies, lies, all of it lies – leaving room, of course, for the occasional exaggeration. So many well-wishers, such great friends…please forgive me, Miss Jennifer, I do not wish for this fine cuisine to go cold.”

“Not at all,” Jen said, flicking her hair away from her face. “I understand you were headmaster at St Joseph’s for over twenty years.”

“Twenty-three years and a day – would you believe it? Oh, happy days, oh, how I miss those happy little faces.”

“I understand that you’re also the famed editor of the East Riding history bulletin?”

The man dropped his knife and fork on his plate. “What a most lovely thing to say,” the man said, bringing his hands to his heart, “and such an impeccable piece of research on your part. However did you know?”

“I think one of your former students told me…”

“How incredible…what was their name?”

Jen decided against telling him it was Gillian Harrison. “I think it was Anthea Brown; I went to their salon yesterday to get my hair done.”

“Remarkable, such talent, such grace.”

“I was hoping I might be able to chat with you about the history of the village – there’s still so much I don’t know.”

“And I, too, Miss Jennifer, it is indeed my most solemn opinion that for every nook in Wootton there are at least three crannies, all stuffed to their gussets with titbits, be it from the Romans to the Victorians.”

Jen smiled, noticing his rounded pronunciation of the word Romans. “I’m actually interested more in the Plantagenets. I’ve been able to learn a bit about the church, but I still know little about the rest of the village. How well do you know the priory?”

“I’ve known it ever since I was a small boy. It used to be Dominican, you know and before that Augustinian: first built in 743AD, one of the oldest in Yorkshire.”

“Was it important?”

“I’d say not, at least compared to the great and nearby abbeys of Fountains and St Mary’s. It never had more than thirty friars living there at any one time.”

Jen made a mental note, but wasn’t convinced it was particularly relevant.

“How about the castle?”

“Oh, goodness gracious, you have been busy. The castle was once an absolute treasure trove – and still there is much to be investigated by the archaeologist.”

“Who owned it? Originally, that is?”

“Originally it was built by William II, son of the famous Conqueror. Later it was owned by the de Vaullis family, prominent Norman noblemen.”

Jen was more interested in the later period. “Where were they buried? I didn’t see anything in the vault.”

“Ah, you wouldn’t. You see, the vault only dates from about 1540.”

She bit her lip. “Who owned the castle after the…what were they called?”

“De Vaullis,” he said. “They lost the castle and their inheritance for fighting for Simon de Montfort in the Second Barons’ War. Following that, the castle spent several decades as a royal castle before it was given away by one Edmund of Langley, second youngest of the sons of Edward III, to one of his…one of his…”

“Illegitimate sons.”

“Quite right.”

Jen smiled; she had learned as much from the vicar at Bishopton. “I saw a Plantagenet monument in the graveyard; I assumed there was a connection.”

The man was gobsmacked. “What frightening powers of observation you have. There is only one such example in the entire five-village area.”

To Jen, that definitely made it more significant. “Then what happened?”

“The castle was destroyed at the culmination of the Wars of the Roses,” the man replied. “It was Henry VII’s intention, you know, that no physical creation would remain of connection to the House of York…apart from his wife, of course.”

She grinned. “I understand your family traces its own history back to that time.”

“You know, I do believe a link in the chain can be found going back all the way to King David of Jerusalem…that is a fabrication, of course…” the man was practically beaming, “but I am sure a more accurate representation exists of my forebears going back at least to the reign of King Henry I.”

“Wow. Did you research this yourself?”

“Ah, I cannot deny I owe much to the endeavours of my forebears…not to mention my noble cousins Catesby and Ratcliffe.”

“I understand your families once filled the entire government.”

The man laughed. “Something of an exaggeration, I think, but the famous rhyme of Collingbourne was not without accuracy. It is because of my famous ancestor, I owe my own nickname, the Dog.”

“How well do you know the Jeffries family?”

“I should say I’ve known them my entire life. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, I was just visiting the vaults beneath the church the other day. I’ve never seen such elaborate tombs.”

“Nor, I’m sure, will you see any finer. They are the hallmarks of one of the most distinguished families ever to grace our green and pleasant land.”

“When I was visiting the vault, I noticed there was a door; I assume there is a second part of the vault.”

The man nodded sombrely. “That would be the one leading to the crypt of Lord Edward.”

“Lord Edward?”

The waitress returned to collect Lovell’s plate. “Would you like any dessert?”

“My dear, I have deliberately saved room for Mrs Mitchell’s exquisite apple pie.” He looked at Jen. “My dear, you must try some.”

Jen accepted without argument.

“Who was Lord Edward?” Jen asked once the waitress had left. Aside from them, the dining room was now practically empty.

Though she assumed Lovell’s voice travelled much further afield.

“Lord Edward was a noble companion of the Duke of Monmouth and an heir to the throne in his own right.”

“How exactly?”

“Well, Monmouth himself was a bastard of Charles II, or so we believe – you must forgive me, Miss Farrelly, for my vulgarity.”

A wry smile.

Lovell continued, “Lord Edward, on the other hand, we know even less of his parentage. His mother, we know, was one Mary Jeffries, eldest daughter of the previous Jeffries. Now, according to some, Lord Edward was the illegitimate son of one of our neighbours; however, there was an even stronger rumour that he was Monmouth’s half brother.”

Jen raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“Following Monmouth’s execution, in the eyes of their followers, Edward was now the rightful king.”

The arrival of the apple pie delayed her next question.

Lovell took his first bite. “My dear, exquisite as always.”

Jen tapped the pastry with her spoon. Her thoughts returned to the burial records at Bishopton. The Latin,
Rex Angliae
, was mentioned next to an E Jeffries, the dates matching what Lovell had explained.

“This is delicious,” she said, tasting the apple pie. The hot sugary pastry nearly took off the inside of her cheeks before it slowly melted in the mouth.

“Speciality of the house, one of many I can assure you.”

She didn’t doubt it. “What happened to him? Lord Edward?”

“Executed on the orders of the usurpers, William and Mary.”

She detected bitterness on the word usurpers, if that was the right word.

“And he is now buried in the vaults of St Michael’s?”

Lovell nodded, his mouth full.

“Is the crypt not open to the public?”

“Alas, no, for you see, the people of Yorkshire are most superstitious.”

Jen raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m not following.”

“I’m quite sure that you are not, as an outsider – unfamiliar with local customs – it would be impossible to understand fully. You see, Lord Edward was a particularly violent man, and due to his position of such prominence, he was sentenced to a similarly appropriate execution.”

“You mean he was hung, drawn and quartered?”

“Precisely. However, Lord Edward’s execution was particularly grisly. His head was placed on a pike on one of the bridges of London, while the rest of him was scattered among the four corners of the kingdom.”

“Okay.” She was determined not to be put off her food.

“After a period of several months, his eldest son returned to the family estate at Wootton having successfully accomplished his ambition of collecting every part of his father’s body except, of course, the head. His remains were placed in the family vault, and for several weeks, so the story claims, rested peacefully. It was after that, however, a peculiar series of events occurred, which has given rise to Wootton’s greatest legend.”

“What is that?”

“The legend of the Barghest.”

Jen’s hand stopped just before the fork reached her mouth. “The what, sorry?”

“The Barghest is a legendary creature, a bit like the beast of Bodmin. According to accounts from the late 1680s, the Wootton Barghest was first seen on a wet November night by the innkeeper of this very location. Over the next few weeks, the beast was seen by no fewer than twelve independent eyewitnesses. Well, you can just imagine the commotion, can’t you? Villagers were afraid to travel alone after sundown.”

Jen took the last bite of apple pie. “Forgive me, I don’t see how this is connected to Lord Edward. You seem to be suggesting that they believed he was a monster.”

“Indeed they did, right or wrong, I cannot tell you. What you must remember is that their world was most different to ours. Folklore was still prominent, despite the advances in science. The beast captured the imagination of the public, and many believed it to be the tormented spirit of Lord Edward.”

Jen accepted the reasoning. “What happened?”

“According to an account written by the parish vicar, from January 1689, the beast, after being spotted in local woodland, was set upon by the villagers. The contents of the grave were blessed and perhaps burned, accounts vary, and finally a wall was built around the late Edward’s tomb.”