The Plantagenet Vendetta (43 page)

Sitting alone in his favourite part of the house, Edward Jeffries was a wretched figure. He hated intrusion of any kind, but particularly when he had personally agreed to the invitation.

He looked at his watch, attempting to make sense of the little hand and the big hand as they passed the Roman numerals. In the past, telling the time had seemed such a simple thing.

These days it caused endless confusion.

As best he could tell, it was approaching 3pm.

And the plan would be fully into operation.

In the surveillance room at Balmoral, Stephen watched as the scene before him continued to unfold.

The footage had been recorded over a month earlier, using at least twelve different cameras, all concentrating on different parts of the castle. Most of the surveillance had been on the dining room, the place where the main event had taken place. The table was large, even compared to what he was used to. There were at least thirty people in attendance, all of whom were in some way related – at least through marriage.

He focused on the man at the head of the table. His grandfather was impeccably dressed, on this night wearing his ceremonial naval uniform, including his many medals. Whether standing or sitting, the man’s presence was immense. His expression was nearly always thoughtful, and his lips permanently
displayed a smile. The sight caused Stephen to choke slightly with emotion.

He knew it was only a matter of time before something was about to change.

He was watching a replay of the night of his grandfather’s assassination.

He was there, sitting not five seats away.

And he knew he could do nothing to prevent it.

71

Lovell showed Jen another room.

“Wow,” Jen said, faking interest for the umpteenth time. She had lost count of how many times she had used the word.

They were now on the fourth floor, the highest except for the attic. Unlike the earlier rooms, the third and fourth floors were clearly unused and possessed something of a museum quality. The rooms were darker than the others. Most of the curtains were closed; swarms of dust motes danced in the faint sunlight as it pierced the gaps in the shades.

Judging from their appearance, little or nothing had changed in a hundred years.

Jen checked her watch, again thinking about Thomas. Surely he would have made it inside by now.

She walked to the centre of the room, concentrating on nothing in particular. She muttered beneath her breath, hoping Thomas was listening.

As far as she could tell, Lovell was still buying it.

“So what exactly is a drawing room?” she asked Lovell.

In truth, she knew and had no interest in the answer.

“As the name suggests, it was a room often used for withdrawing, usually after a meal.”

No surprises.

Just as she had done in every room, she moved toward the window. While most of the shades were shut, one was open. She looked across the grounds. On every occasion so far, she had seen no signs of life outside – not even wildlife.

She hoped that was a good sign.

Thomas sprinted toward the nearest hedge and held his breath for several seconds. He watched as the bearded butler entered the topiary-style maze and began to water the plants with a hose.

Thomas’s actions were immediate. He sprung from the traps before the butler had even turned.

Seconds later the man was unconscious.

Thomas hid the body in an area of dense shrubbery and sprinted across the patio toward the partially open door. He entered the house via the kitchen. The room was older than he had expected, he guessed unchanged since the 1920s.

There were cobwebs everywhere, including the pantry area.

A large utility room was located just off the kitchen, while on the other side of the hallway were several sitting rooms, including what appeared to be a study.

He completed a reconnaissance of the downstairs in less than two minutes, and headed for the stairs. He was aware from listening to Jen that Lovell had taken her to the top floor, a fact also validated by Caroline, who was still monitoring the tracker. He kept the earpiece firmly in his right ear. Lovell had taken her to one of the old servants’ rooms; Jen was asking questions about the paintings. The subject matter was dreadful, but he admired her tenacity.

The girl had a talent for faking passion in the boring.

He completed the first and second floors in less than three minutes. Most of the heavy oak doors led to bedrooms or bathrooms, the majority of which were unused. He opened the drawers and doors of the wardrobes just in case they contained something of interest, but so far everything appeared normal.

He took the staircase to the third floor, paying extra attention to his earpiece. If Caroline was correct, Jen and Lovell were only one floor above.

He climbed the staircase slowly, taking as wide a berth as possible. Visually the interior was magnificent. Priceless works of art hung from the walls, the subject matter ranging from equestrian, history, landscapes far and wide to members of the family dating back through the centuries. Impressive antiques, particularly coats of arms, were also prevalent, in keeping with the houses of his own family.

Suddenly he stopped. Level with the third floor he saw a painting of his cousin Edward, adorned with glittering regalia and a crown.

He bit his lip, anger swelling.

The last ounce of doubt had left him.

From there, he had a decent view of the landing of the fourth floor: like the others, it was about five metres in width and was protected by a wooden banister. Thomas listened carefully but heard nothing through either his earpiece or his other ear.

Which probably meant Jen and Lovell were checking out one of the rooms.

He entered the first room on the left of the third floor, another bedroom. He checked it quickly, and moved on to the next. He did the same for the next seven: all bedrooms, all ensuite, all unused.

It was like walking through a bad hotel.

The next room was a study, classy and ornate, but also seemingly abandoned. Dust and cobwebs covered every corner, mostly floating from the gaps between the walls and ceiling. The room had no obvious use, but Thomas knew that appearances could be deceptive.

He started his search with the desk. The drawers were empty, as was the nearby cabinet. He moved on to the brown-coloured bookcases, all of which were Victorian, caged, and locked. The books were library bounds, and included everything from Darwin to the original Jane Austen novels.

Thomas guessed they had never been opened.

He left the room to try the others on the third floor, all of which were bedrooms or simply empty.

Convinced there was nothing in the bedrooms, he returned to the study and started checking things a second time. Despite its bare appearance, instinct told him the trail was getting warm. To all outward appearances, the entire house harboured nothing of interest – but that was impossible. Even if recent rumours were untrue, the family was old. As a relative, he was aware that many of the family had been famed hoarders.

Surely anything incriminating would be well hidden.

He examined the room fully, carrying out a final check of the bookcases, which revealed that they were firmly shut.

On the other side of the room was a fireplace. It was made of marble, which was strange…

Even for the family it seemed elaborate.

It was large, at least three metres in width, with markings of knights, archers, foot soldiers, squires, and other figures of military pedigree that Thomas couldn’t quite place.

The prince was now seriously confused. He moved along by the fireplace in both directions, feeling the figures with his palms. The substance was smooth and precise, slightly cold.

To him, the structure seemed misplaced.

He moved to the left, feeling the ornamentation with his right palm. The wall to the left of the fireplace was made of wood: beige-coloured panelling that continued all the way to the next wall. He placed his hands against the wood and pushed, gently at first and then more firmly. Several thoughts were building.

The episode at Riverton had opened his mind to moving walls.

He bit his lip. Something wasn’t right, and the fireplace was the key. He looked at it again, then the wood.

He tried moving it left and right, then up and down before giving up.

He studied the room again, his eyes wandering from the bookcases to the right wall. He pressed things, now more furiously. Again he found himself in front of the fireplace, the lack of ornamentation on the mantelpiece now his key focus. He moved the items from the fireplace and knelt down to touch the coal.

Or at least what he thought was coal.

The presence of fake things confirmed his suspicion that the fireplace was only for show.

He pressed the artificial pieces of coal. Failing that, he tried to move the accessories.

Then he found a second poker attached to the fireplace itself. He moved it and heard what sounded like a key turning in a lock.

He smiled to himself.

The left wall had opened.

Alone in the surveillance room, Stephen hit the pause button. He rewound the footage ten seconds and pressed play again.

He repeated the process four times.

The action had taken place in the dining room. The King had made a toast, following which all present had stood. Others followed, making toasts about something or other. Though he couldn’t hear what was going on, he remembered the subject matter from personal experience.

The usual drivel, he had joked afterwards to his father.

The key event had taken place nearly three minutes later. Dessert was about to be served, and the dessert wine was just being poured. Now it was another proposing a toast, the man once referred to as his favourite nephew three times removed.

Or some number of the kind.

Stephen bit his lip, angry with himself for not seeing it at the time.

He remembered the message from the Sons of York.

Wasn’t that a dangerous dish to set before a king?

72

What Thomas had assumed to be a small priest hole was, in fact, something far greater. The passageway was short, leading to a large chamber that was clearly an extension of the study.

The room was dark but not pitch black. His first impression was that a curtain or blind was pulled shut, but there was no such thing in the room. There were no windows at all.

Whoever used it clearly had no issues with claustrophobia.

He worked his way along the wall to his left, searching for a light switch. He found one and pressed it. Something flickered above him, and seconds later light engulfed the room.

At first he questioned what he was seeing. Unlike the study, this room was far busier. A large desk, the central feature, was cluttered with countless papers and pads and other items of stationary. A large Apple Mac computer was located on the right side: the model noticeably old, he guessed mid-90s. Alongside it was a projector, its lens focused on a rolled-down white background. Surrounding it were hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs. Each one was different, but the theme consistent.

Richard Jeffries. Son of Lord Edward, father of Edward.

1957–1994.

Former leader of the Democrat Party.

Died in a car crash in Corsica, apparently.

Thomas studied the photographs one by one. Accompanying them were countless newspaper clippings, ranging in subject from the man’s life as a newspaper magnate, minor royal and later MP to his untimely death and the conspiracy theories that surrounded it.

One of which caught his eye, a tabloid piece from 1995.

It told of how the Prime Minister in the making and third cousin of the late king was murdered for his possession of hidden knowledge regarding the King and future plans for the eradication of the Royal Family.

Thomas read the articles carefully. Though he remained sceptical, the content was disturbing. Strangely, he hadn’t heard the accusations before.

Nevertheless, the events it described had happened largely before his time.

The next item of interest was the projector. He pressed play, and the film started immediately. The scene was a boardroom, the setting sometime in the early evening.

He recognised the room, and also two of the people present. Someone was in conversation with the late king, and whoever it was had decided to film the meeting. Also present was Gardiner, the Earl of Somerset.

The last person of note was a woman: brunette, late forties, dressed smartly.

He didn’t recognise her.

The sound quality was slightly muffled, but it improved within seconds. From then on the conversation was cold and extremely businesslike. He didn’t recognise the final voice, but it was evident from the accent that the man was English. By now viewing was physically uncomfortable.

He looked at the date at the bottom of the transmission.

8 October 1991.