The Plantagenet Vendetta (32 page)

Less than three hundred metres away, the priest navigated the tunnels with the aid of his flashlight. He was cold, despite the jacket, and completely unprepared for what might await him.

Still, he had come this far.

He remembered what the master had told him on his arrival all those years ago. Four simple words.

Dishonour leads to hell.

47

The drive was completed within fifteen minutes. The journalist’s house, a typical London/Essex two-storey 1930s semi, was located on a moderately busy road and had a white garage door and a small front garden. A blue Ford was parked on the driveway.

There were lights on inside the house.

Thomas stopped briefly outside the house before continuing further along the road. He parked in the most secluded place possible, a leafy area in front of a house with a large garden.

They both got out of the car.

“You think it’s safe?” Stephen asked.

Thomas grinned. “We’re not in Helmand Province.”

“I was talking about the car, cretin. I mean, you hear stories about these places.”

“Why, they are hardly going to get away with stealing a royal B-Bentley. These things do have a t-tendency to stick out.”

They headed up the road toward the driveway of the house. Aside from the lights, there were few signs of life on the street itself.

Thomas rang the doorbell and waited for a response. Alongside him, Stephen was getting impatient.

“You’re quite sure this is the place?”

“It’s the address we were given.”

Stephen also pressed the doorbell. “I suppose he could be otherwise indisposed.”

Thomas laughed under his breath. “All the more reason to be patient.”

He rang the bell again.

Neil Atkins had been home for just under an hour. As a thirty-five-year-old living alone, Wednesday night entertainment consisted of only two reasonable choices: he could either stay in and watch the telly or go over the road to the White Swan. He’d spent a lot of time there recently – beer certainly took the sting out of the divorce. Tonight, however, he was in no mood to go out. His lamb rogan josh, fresh out of the microwave, was still piping hot and created a warm sensation on his lap through the tray. The TV was playing an episode of
EastEnders
, which he had Sky Plused earlier in the week.

He was halfway through his curry when the doorbell rang. He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, undecided whether or not to answer. He waited until the second ring, followed by a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth. He placed the tray down on the coffee table and pressed pause on the TV’s remote control.

Two strangers were standing outside the front door. Both were smartly dressed and over six feet in height.

“Mr Atkins?” the more athletic of the two asked.

“Yes.”

“So sorry to b-bother you at home,” Thomas continued, “but it is most important that we speak with you. Time is really of the essence.”

The man was annoyed. “What the hell are you…my God…it’s you.”

Stephen took a step forward. “You don’t mind if we come in, do you?”

Thomas took a deep breath and exhaled fiercely.

At least they were in.

He closed the door behind him and followed them into the lounge.

Atkins was rattled. “Look, if this is about that damn article, my information came from the best of sources.”

Stephen was unimpressed. “What sources?”

“You know I can’t say.”

“Who told you that the duke had been taken unwell?”

“I don’t know…I had a call from somebody who claimed to have been there.”

“You mean at the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“That’s funny; it happened in a hotel.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“Wh-what do you know about the attacks against the monarchy?” Thomas asked.

“I know nothing.”

“But you mentioned them in your article,” Stephen said.

“I only know what I’ve been told.”

“What was that?”

“I-I-I can’t say.”

Stephen picked him up by the scruff of his neck and flung him against the wall.

“Stephen,” Thomas shouted.

“Tell me your source.”

The man was bewildered. “My God, you’re both mad…that’s criminal assault…”

“Tell me your source.”

“I could have this all over the front page…West Ham knocked out by Cornwall!”

“Right, have it your way.” Stephen removed the Glock from his pocket and aimed it at the man’s temple.

“Stephen…”

“My God.”

“Who told you about the politicians?”

The journalist stuttered terribly. “I-I-I-I-I only have what I was told.”

“Which was?”

“What’s written in the article.”

“And your source?”

“I swear I don’t know.”

Stephen cocked the weapon and pushed powerfully against the man’s head.

“All right, all right, okay, okay, okay, Jeez Laweez, my God…”

“Who was your source?” This time the question came from Thomas.

“He never told me his real name.”

“Then how did you find him?”

“I didn’t – he found me.”

“Liar.” Stephen spat the word out with venom.

“No.”

“How?” Thomas asked.

“He knew I’d been writing about the politicians and the King…he told me there was foul play.”

“Who was he?”

“Told you before; he never told me his real name.”

“What did he tell you?” Thomas asked.

“Only what you saw in the article.”

“He’s lying,” Stephen said again.

“How did he contact you?” Thomas asked.

“Usually by phone.”

“Usually?”

“Yes.”

“But not always?”

“We met once.”

“Where?” Stephen asked.

“Richmond Park.”

“When?” Thomas asked.

“Yesterday.”

“Describe him.” Again the question came from Thomas.

“He was old–”

“How old?”

“Early eighties–”

“How about appearance?” This time the question came from Stephen.

“I don’t know, he was bald, some grey hair, perhaps white.”

“He’s lying,” Stephen said.

“What else?” Thomas asked.

“He wore sunglasses. And the suit…old habits die hard, that sort of thing.”

“What made you so c-certain he was genuine?”

“I don’t know – instinct.”

“Your instinct is going to find you in jail,” Stephen said.

“He said he’d lived at the palace.”

“Capacity?”

The man was now desperate.

“For the last time,” Stephen said, “who was your fucking source?”

“He didn’t tell me his name. But he said he came to me to avert a catastrophe because the royals had a tendency for not being able to look further than the end of their noses.”

The words caught Thomas cold. It felt like a gun had gone off, but inside him.

“Wh-what did he look like?” Thomas stuttered. “Facially?”

“I told you before. He was going bald.”

“Did he have a scar?” Thomas pointed to his right cheek.

The man did not respond immediately. “Why, yes. And not an ordinary scar.”

“In what way?” Stephen asked.

“It was rather large – and cross shaped. Like a war scar.”

Thomas nodded. He felt as though the air had left him.

“And he had another – on his right hand.”

“You’re quite sure it wasn’t the left?” Thomas asked.

The journalist looked at his hands. “Yes, the left, my right looking at him. I mean, it all gets so confusing.”

“Not that confusing,” Stephen retorted.

The journalist looked up at him, emotionally drained.

Thomas walked closer to the journalist and offered his hand. “Thank you, Mr Atkins. My cousin and I will take it from here.”

48

Jen was still shaking. The light of the phone moved like a firefly, dancing from side to side.

She grabbed her left wrist with her right hand in an attempt to control the jumpiness. With that under control, she read the name on the tomb for the second time, then the third, fourth, fifth…

She could not believe what she was seeing.

Anthea was now seriously worried. “What is it?”

Jen was at a loss to explain.

After failing to get a response from Jen, Anthea looked at the tomb for herself.

“Ricardus…” Anthea was confused. “I can’t read Latin.”

“In English it says Richard IV, reigned August 1485 to October 1529.”

She headed to the other side of the chamber and attempted to take a photograph. Unsurprisingly, she got little more than a blur.

Failing that, she removed Debra Harrison’s camera from her pocket. She changed the ISO setting and sat it down on one of the nearby tombs. She held it still and attempted to take a picture. The flash lit up the entire room, momentarily blinding.

She looked at the quality.

For the first time she saw other things hanging from the walls. It was like being in a castle, only underground.

Now she was seriously getting spooked.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Anthea was visibly relieved. She followed Jen back toward the entrance, but almost immediately Jen came to a standstill.

“Jen?”

“Shhh…listen.”

For several seconds neither of them spoke.

There was something moving in one of the nearby passageways.

Both girls were frozen with fear. There was no way out and only the darkness of the room to hide them.

“Switch off the light.”

Anthea did so immediately. With the light gone, her breathing became considerably louder.

“Shhh.”

Jen did the same for her phone and then the camera. As she did, she saw on the camera’s LCD display something located beyond the tombs.

It looked like another passageway.

“Quick.” She grabbed Anthea’s hand and headed straight for the area she had seen on the screen. Despite the darkness, a vague outline was visible. Whether it was a doorway, a passageway, or something smaller, she was still unsure.

She entered it and held her breath.

The priest entered the priors’ vault and paused. There was light up ahead, small but moving.

His heart was thumping. He feared the idea of intruders, but he feared the paranormal more. There was no logical explanation for the light. It was too small to be a torch – yet it moved too wildly to be anything else.

He took a deep breath.

Suddenly the light went out.

Jen edged closer to the wall. They had entered the recently discovered passageway, its appearance not unlike the previous one. The passage headed upwards and east – that was her best guess.

She prayed it was another way out.

Father Martin stopped on reaching the next archway.

The interior was impeccable. Had the circumstances been different, he might well have stayed there to admire it. He had seen them before – but never from this direction.

And never in this light.

He entered the kings’ vault and shone the torch in every direction. He saw nothing unusual, aside from what he knew he was meant to see. Whatever made that strange ghostly light had now disappeared.

He walked toward the door that led back into the main vaults and affirmed it was shut.

Whatever had made the light must be hidden amongst the tombs.

Jen kept edging backwards. There was light coming from the vault, moving slowly. Initially it shone on the other side of the room, then nearer.

Then it came overhead.

She ducked.

The priest was stumped. There was nothing there. Nor was there evidence of anything amiss.

“Show yourself!”

Anthea felt her heart try to escape her chest. She recognised the voice of Father Martin.

Immediately she felt a hand cover her mouth.