The Plantagenet Vendetta (37 page)

“Gentlemen, as we are all aware, the fate of our organisation, our goal, our mission, can only survive on absolute secrecy. It is for this very reason, any obstacle must be eliminated.”

The men sitting on both sides of the table all looked on with discomfort. The men were professionals in their fields, but their fields rarely involved death.

“And the hairdresser’s daughter?” Ratcliffe asked.

“You are familiar with our laws, Richard. Any obstacle.”

Silently Lovell was suffering. He had known the girl all her life.

History was repeating itself.

“But, gentlemen, before we part this morning, I feel I must leave you with one more pressing concern,” the Hog began.

“As I know some of you are by now aware, the evil that has taken my chest has spread to other areas.” He cleared his throat, a lengthy cough. “I don’t need any medical projections to tell me my time is nigh. I must therefore do what every one of my predecessors has done, and do what is right for the future.”

He paused for breath before delivering the final command.

“It is time for the coronation of my grandson. Together we shall lead until I depart, at which point he shall rule before God without equal. This will mark the first chapter of a new and brighter future.”

Silence followed. At the far end of the table, the main three were less surprised.

“My friends,” the Hog said. “Bring out the crown.”

Watching through a crack in the wall, the shadowy female felt a familiar sense of terror as the strange ceremony took place under the light of the candles.

The quality of the film in her camera was poor, but it was there.

She waited until the crown was placed on the grandson’s head before deciding enough was enough. Departing unseen, she made her way slowly along the passageway.

Just like the last time, there was no detection of her intrusion.

55

City of Westminster, 6am

The sun was rising, but the day was still to begin. Traffic was hectic as it always was, but for now it had yet to reach gridlock. A solitary siren in the distance served as a reminder that the city surrounded them, but the chaos was far from its peak.

The city was still in slumber.

Across the bridge, the Houses of Parliament were shrouded in the usual morning haze. The broken echo of Big Ben, chiming the new hour through the mist, held its great mystique. Even when the mist was thick, their outlines were usually visible. To the artist, the picture was iconic, irrespective of the time of day, year, or decade. The quintessential British picture of fine architecture cloaked by dreariness was out in full force.

At least until the heavens opened.

Less than two hundred metres away, the royal limousine stopped briefly on the unusually deserted A3212 to allow its distinguished passenger to alight. On this occasion, four burly men in dark suits accompanied the son of the new monarch. He walked with a vague swagger. Unlike the others, he dressed in a dark jacket, jeans and shoes.

Stephen walked quickly past St Margaret’s Church in the direction of Westminster Abbey. He took a shortcut across the grass and headed for the Great West Door.

He stopped to take in the sights. The famous Gothic façade towered above him, the summit covered by low mist. At this hour the tourists were absent, a rare change from what would inevitably come when the sun was fully up. He watched with little emotion as the man to his right knocked loudly on the large door, the sound echoing like a giant’s footstep. Almost immediately he heard another noise from within, followed by the creaking of the opening door.

He entered and continued past the coronation chair, through the nave toward the quire.

The dean was present, walking from the altar to the quire, well dressed despite the early hour. The order had come from the highest authority.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Stephen removed a large piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a royal decree ordering the exhumation of two of your tombs.”

The dean didn’t flinch. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s all here,” Stephen said, showing him the paper. “All the usual suspects have signed it.”

The dean read it quickly. At first he failed to believe his eyes.

The monuments were priceless.

“Where are they?” Stephen insisted.

The dean failed to respond.

“Very well.”

Stephen continued past the quire and veered left before reaching the altar. He passed the steps that led up to the shrine of St Edward the Confessor, and the various side chapels located opposite. He allowed himself a brief glance at the tombs of Edward I and Henry III at the top of the stairs to his right. He remembered from his history lessons that those two kings had played the greatest part in the abbey’s history.

Looking around, the finished article was undoubtedly impressive.

There were stairs in front of him, slightly to the right. After continuing past the tomb of Henry V, he made his way to the bottom of the stairs and stopped.

Directly in front of him was the Lady chapel, one of the newer parts of the abbey.

Constructed under the will of Henry VII in memory of his wife and queen.

The woman who united the roses.

Stephen entered the chapel, a three-aisled nave constructed in the Perpendicular Gothic style with the altar located at the apse.

The tombs of Henry Tudor and Elizabeth were located behind the altar. Their gigantic gilt bronze effigies were barely visible behind the grille that covered them on every side.

The dean had caught up with them.

“How do we get in?” Stephen asked.

The man was dumbstruck. “This tomb was designed by Pietro Torrigiano, to excavate would be sacrilege.”

“Uh huh. And what of the princes?”

He was desperate not to answer.

One of the bodyguards offered the prince a leaflet.

“Thank you,” he said, studying it. “Ah.”

Stephen left the Lady chapel and espied an open doorway to his right. He passed the joint tomb of Elizabeth and Mary and continued to the far end.

Among the statues of what appeared to be children, he saw a plain-looking urn with a Latin inscription.

The prince looked at his four accomplices. “Let’s get cracking, shall we?”

Meanwhile, in the city of Mechelen in Belgium, two well-built and suited men walked hastily through the doors of St Rumbold’s Cathedral, approaching a man similar in size, appearance and stature to the Dean of Westminster.

“You have been consulted?”

This dean was far more welcoming. “Follow me.”

Less than an hour later, the various men left the respective holy houses and rejoined the outside world.

In Westminster, Stephen got into the limousine and immediately dialled the phone.

“Father, we’ve done it.”

“Already?”

“Yes, the dean was most insistent we not delay.”

He smiled to himself.

“What now?” Stephen asked.

A delay preceded the answer.

“Take it to the Royal College. Telephone me when the results are in.”

In Belgium a similar event was taking place. The museum usually opened at 8am, though today the first arrivals were earlier.

The eminent academic had been briefed face to face and by telephone.

Now all that was needed were the results.

56

Jen didn’t sleep that night. Every time she tried, it became that little bit more difficult. She tried whiskey from the mini bar; she tried listening to music on her iPhone. Everything but counting sheep.

Even when she was a kid that never worked.

Her mind was active, but not in a good way. The appearance of the bizarre tombs continued to flash in her mind like a slideshow. It was like being part of a film: the images ominously reminiscent of a police scene where the victim was still lying on the ground, surrounded by forensic experts and a dreaded white line.

It simply didn’t seem real.

She turned to her right, her attention on the wall. She looked at the pictures of the priory and the castle, so quaint and charming the day she moved in. She attempted to remember things about the previous day, but the harder she tried, the more difficult it became. How many graves were there?

How many phony kings of England lay buried within that peculiar crypt?

How many phony kings of England would later be buried there?

She turned to the other side of the bed and sipped from the glass of water. The liquid was becoming stale, most noticeable on the back of her throat. Sitting up against the pillows, she switched on Debra Harrison’s camera and looked at the pictures. Then she looked at her iPhone.

She knew what she saw should not exist.

The question was what to do next? The priest had followed her; she knew it was the priest. The sound of his voice, the awkwardness of his gait…the signs were there.

She wondered how much he knew: not just about the crypt, but about what Jen now knew herself. Chances were he guessed it was her, though she doubted he knew for sure. She thought about leaving Wootton, but that itself would surely be seen as a sign of guilt. Besides, there was also Anthea to consider. And her job.

She had almost forgotten filming was due to start on Friday.

Her eyes wandered across the room, settling on the area in front of the door. There was something white on the floor, perhaps an envelope.

How long had that been there?

She left her bed, becoming aware of a horrible feeling of cold sweatiness on her naked legs. She wiped them down with her palms and then dried her hands on her nightshirt.

She picked up the envelope and switched on the light. There was no name on the envelope, no address, no stamp, but it had been sealed. She opened it carefully, the flap coming away easily.

She guessed it had only recently been sealed.

There were three objects inside: no writing, just photographs.

She looked at them one at a time.

Five minutes later, Jen was standing at the front desk. She dressed in the first thing she could find and was still to shower or put on make-up.

There was no sign of life in the hallway. As best she could tell, the nearest noise was coming from the kitchen. She heard what sounded like water boiling, accompanied by pots and pans moving.

She rang the bell on the desk. Receiving no reply, she tried again.

Then again.

As the seconds passed, she found herself becoming increasingly nervous.

Tara appeared from the kitchen. “You all right, luvvy?”

Jen attempted to remain calm. “Hi, I’m sorry, but I need to check out.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes,” she lied. “I’ve got to go back to London – work.”

“I’ll just get the gaffer.”

Mitchell appeared two minutes later. By now Jen felt her pounding heart was about to explode.

“Ey up. Tara says you’ve got to leave.”

Jen faked a smile. “Work.”

He looked at her, his façade giving nothing away. “Was everything to your satisfaction?”

“It was great.”

The man was taking forever.

“Sorry, but I’m really in a hurry. I’ve got a meeting in, like, two hours.”

“You best tell whoever it is you’re going to be a bit late.”

She faked another smile. “Not an easy man to tell.”

Mitchell offered her a form and bill. “Sign here, please.”

She signed the form and put in the pin on her credit card. Suddenly she no longer cared whether her boss would reimburse her or not.

“Hope to see you again, Miss Farrelly.”

Less than thirty seconds later, Jen fired up her Picanto and reversed onto the road. She continued onto the high street and turned left, the easiest thing to do.

Her eyes were blurry with tears. She tried calling Anthea, but got no response. She followed the high street, heading in the direction of the nearest hamlet.

Breathing was almost impossible. She felt she was having a panic attack, if not worse. She looked in the mirror, her gaze falling on her eyes.

She’d never seen them so red.

She drove through the next hamlet and turned down a quiet lane. The area was wooded, silent and still. She stopped in a lay-by and cried for twenty minutes.

Given the choice of staying or leaving, the choice, it seemed, had now been made for her.

The photographs were revealing. There was no date on them, but she guessed one was recent. A strange ceremony, almost reminiscent of the Masons or the KKK, but the regalia appeared somehow more ancient.

A new king had emerged, his face hauntingly familiar.

The first two photos were less obvious, and she guessed older. Four men, perhaps monks, stood around another figure with a flour bag covering her head.

Her first reaction was to dismiss it, but she recognised the clothes from the photos.

Now she knew the poor girl was dead.