The Plantagenet Vendetta (45 page)

75

Jen felt as if she had no control of her movements. Her eyes were fixed on her surroundings, guiding her as if locked in a trance.

Even compared to the vaults, she had never seen anything so bizarre.

A large stained-glass window was located behind the altar, accompanied by at least twelve others on either side of the main aisle. Off the altar was a large choir area containing several wooden pews, portraits from the Middle Ages and a large Victorian baptismal font. There were eighteen pews on either side of the main aisle, allowing a capacity of she guessed five hundred people.

A chapel, Lovell had said of it.

She walked toward the altar, taking in as much as her vision would allow. The iconology was immense – ranging from paintings of the Apostles or the saints to scenes from the Old Testament.

Whoever created it clearly knew the subject well.

She passed the altar and stopped. There were stone slabs beneath her feet, all of which included names, each ending in Jeffries.

All were women, the dates anywhere between the 1700s and twenty years ago.

Lining the walls were several effigies, clearly more modern than those in the vaults. Most of the men had a knighthood or a peerage before their names, which made sense considering what she knew of the family history.

She had a feeling it also answered her question about why the hidden vault only went up to 1688.

Behind the altar was another door, wooden and slightly ajar. She walked toward it, nudging it open all the way.

From the doorway, she saw several other tombs, male and female, many of which included effigies on top of their slabs, the figures either clutching a sword or lying with their hands joined.

She investigated the nearest one, instantly recognising the names. Richard and Anne. Rather than seeing the name of a pretender king or queen, she saw only name and title. Each man was a lord, but nothing more.

Nor was there any hint of a crown covering their heads.

She took a deep breath and looked all around. The colours were bright: red, green, white, gold and perhaps several others. Priceless artwork hung from the walls, mostly oil based. She recognised one immediately, a family painting of the More family, signature Hans Holbein. There were others from the Middle Ages, including various representations of the Plantagenet kings from Henry II onwards.

The last was Richard III, looking far less sinister than normally depicted in portraits.

Without question the room had a feel to it. The light was transfixing, caused by a unique yellow glow as sunlight entered through glass panels in the ceiling. It was like being in the centre of a temple, a place where she could feel the presence of God. For the first time she noticed that the room was circular, a bit like an ambulatory – enclosed on every side. The ceiling was vaulted and extended upwards like a dome.

To Jen, it was like a miniature version of St Peter’s Basilica.

While the architecture might have explained the room’s bizarre acoustics, she sensed there was another presence.

Something was in there.

With her.

Then she heard a voice coming from her right.

“Good afternoon.”

76

The King returned to the palace. He ignored a request from his personal secretary and headed straight for his office.

Clarence and York were already there when he arrived, both standing.

The King closed the door behind him. “I swear I will never know why my father ever hired that berk.”

Clarence and York exchanged glances. Neither of them knew who he was referring to or what they had done to arouse his displeasure.

It was probably nothing.

The King turned to face his brothers. “Well now, chaps,” he said, his tone much calmer, “what now?”

York was the first to speak. “The question is, do we really need to do anything at all? As far as I can see, the situation hasn’t really changed.”

The King walked over to his desk and placed his finger against the intercom. “Get me the Earl of Somerset, will you? Tell him to arrive here within the hour.”

The person at the other end acknowledged his request.

“Perhaps this time he can finally do something right,” the King said before returning his attention to his brothers, emphasis on York.

“William, you were with me this afternoon?”

“The Princes in the Tower, if indeed that is what we are dealing with, died over four hundred years ago whether at the hands of their uncle or otherwise. Their remains lie somewhere, be it Westminster Abbey or not.”

“But their descendents still wander.”

“Whose don’t?”

The King was starting to get angry.

York continued. “If the Sons of York really exist and have carried out what they claim to have done, then our knowledge of the truth will for now make no difference.”

“Except to ourselves,” Clarence agreed.

The King looked at him but said nothing. He returned to his desk and opened a small cigar box, antique with the royal crest marked across the lid. He removed one of the cigars, placed it to his lips, and lit it.

“I find it absolutely extraordinary,” he began, as he removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled, “that something so big can remain hidden for so long.”

“I’ve often found the dead to be particularly skilled at keeping secrets.”

“I assume that’s an attempt at humour?” he asked York. “If you don’t have anything useful to say, I suggest you say nothing at all. If we don’t move now, God knows what might happen.”

“If we do move now, we risk exposing what we already know.”

The King looked at Clarence. “Well now, George, what would you have me do?”

Clarence took his time. “The identity of their descendents is known – according to Thomas, Gardiner has known for some time. We know of their past and also their present. What we don’t know is exactly what present ambitions they harbour.”

“I notice neither of you came to visit me yesterday,” York replied brusquely. “Maybe had you done so, you might have known whether we were dealing with fact or rumour.”

Clarence beat the King to a response. “Your own experience proves only that you were targeted – not that it was the responsibility of Jeffries. The only words we have to go by are those of the friar.”

“And if they are not responsible, then who is?”

The King’s interest had heightened. “Come on then, George, let’s hear it?”

Clarence sought to respond but failed.

“Just as I thought.” The King laughed as he inhaled the smoke from his cigar. To him, the aroma had always been comforting.

“What word of Jeffries?”

“I have spoken to Thomas,” Clarence said of his son. “I understand that both grandfather and grandson still reside at the same place. Caroline was with him as well.”

This was news to York. “My God, he hasn’t dragged her in on this, has he?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have all of the details; it all seemed rather hurried.”

“Where is Thomas now?” asked the King.

“Paying them a visit,” Clarence answered.

“Let’s hope they don’t cause a scene. What of the man at the apartment, by the way?”

“Nothing since his arrival at Wootton-on-the-Moor,” Clarence replied.

“And the other man?” York asked.

“Other man?”

“The man from Greenwich?”

“Well, he was dead to begin with.”

The King remembered. “What of that gruesome scar?”

“Yes, I’ve asked Dr Grant to take a look at it,” Clarence said. “This might take a bit longer.”

The King accepted the answer. “What of the man who Stephen treated the day before?”

“Also dead.”

“Any identity?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, Corporal Mark Percy: twenty-eight, white Caucasian, blond hair, single…his father owns a house on the same street as Jeffries.”

The King gave him a piercing look. “Another boy of recorded ancestry.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Stephen…”

“What of the firearms?”

“According to Bridges, the model was not on record. Inquiries remain ongoing. However, most interestingly, a search has already taken place at the home of Jack Talbot. They found over a hundred more concealed behind a wall.”

“What of the meat found in the man’s pocket?”

“Also new,” Clarence admitted. “And almost certainly the source of the poison. Tests are being carried out.”

“What do they know?”

“Nothing – at least nothing definitive. Though MI5 have speculated the bird might have been genetically modified.”

“Genetic…meaning what exactly?”

Clarence’s response was interrupted by a buzzing sound on the intercom.

The King answered. “Yes?”

“The Duke of Cornwall is about to land, Majesty.”

The helicopter came down in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

Stephen left his seat immediately and sprinted toward the nearest entrance. He carried a small box, worthless in monetary value.

Priceless in everything else.

77

This time Jen really couldn’t move. So many sensations had hit her at once…

It was like being choked all over.

Her pulse was beating so fast she thought it was going to explode. She felt it in her ears, her wrists…even her temples. Worse still was her breathing. Her chest felt so tight it seemed to physically close her throat.

The old man was sitting in an armchair by one of eight circular columns, each a support to the vaulted ceiling. Jen had already formed a perception of him from seeing him that day in the upstairs window, but she was actually quite surprised how small he was. His frame was hunched, and his hands prone to bouts of shaking. He obviously suffered from Parkinson’s, but she assumed there was some arthritis thrown in there as well.

But what struck her most was his breathing. Inhaling was particularly lengthy and plagued, even compared to the sound as he breathed out that reminded her of a passing train. Signs of illness were unmistakeable, be it cancer, bronchitis, an underperforming alveolus…

For all she knew, it was all three if not more.

Nevertheless, his eyes were alert, suggesting his mind was active.

“You were admiring the architecture of the late Reverend Malcolm Pritchard. He was a local man, a good friend of my grandfather. He was responsible for many similar buildings in the Riding but never really received the acclaim he deserved. I don’t expect you to be familiar with the name.”

Jen looked back, mesmerised.

“Do you like my little chapel?”

Jen attempted to respond. “Yes,” she managed timidly. “It’s magnificent.”

The man showed no emotion. “I’m most sorry I have been unable to meet you until now; in my condition it’s rather difficult. Fortunately these days I’m not completely isolated. There are other ways to receive news.”

She swallowed, saliva nearly going down the wrong way. She cleared her throat but avoided a complete cough.

“I understand you’re a TV producer?”

She wasn’t, but she decided it was close enough. “Yes.”

“Here to film a documentary on a missing teenager.”

The way he said the words ‘missing teenager’ troubled her. They were slow and cold, a little too precise for her liking.

“Yes.”

“The family have a long history in these parts – particularly on the mother’s side. The girl’s great-grandfather went on to be rather a skilled tactician in the British Army – rising to colonel, or thereabouts. You know I went to school with him.”

She couldn’t tell whether that was a question or a statement of fact.

“Really?” She felt incapable of saying anything more.

“They were a much different family back then.”

Jen had no idea what he meant by that remark. She had no intention of pursuing the matter.

An awkward silence descended on the room, if anything even worse than talking to him. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end, as were the ones on her legs and arms. It was cold, despite the warmth of the day. She desperately wanted to leave, but she realised that was impossible.

She sought to speak, but had nothing to say.

All she managed was an awkward clearing of the throat.

“I hope that Dr Lovell has not been neglecting you as a guide,” he asked, another rhetorical question.

In a way, Jen was relieved. Even if she was being lured into a trap, at least the old man knew why she was there.

“No…actually he’s just gone to the loo,” she lied. “He left me to visit the chapel.”

She watched for a response, again not forthcoming. The man had a tendency to tilt his head forward, his eyes looking permanently upwards through his bifocals. She sensed great melancholy about his character. There was sorrow in his eyes, the feeling emphasised by the sagging of the skin around his lips. To Jen, it appeared like a permanent frown that she silently believed to be genuine.

Was his physical condition to blame? No.

She sensed it was something more personal.

She moved her legs, firstly in no one direction before finding herself examining the tombs.

“Are these your ancestors?” she asked, already knowing the answer. There were twelve tombs in total: nine joint graves containing married couples, three with just a single name. Again she felt herself drawn to the one of his son.

The oldest dated back to the 1700s.

“I never realised chapels like this were legal in the 1700s.”

His answer seemed to take an age. “That’s quite correct. The chapel to your left was only commissioned in 1872. It was completed in 1877, and the room where we are now added later.”

The answer seemed plausible. “What about these?” she asked about the graves.

“Everything dated before 1895 was reinterred at the turn of the last century.”

“Why wasn’t it used right away?”

“At the time, my ancestors preferred the thought of being buried in consecrated ground.”

“Is this not consecrated?”

“Only since 1895.”

“Is that usual?”

“Is it usual to have a monastery or a chapel within one’s own house?”

She let the subject pass and continued to inspect the writing on the tombs, her focus on the names. As before, most of the men were named Edward or Richard, and many of the women Elizabeth.

She avoided the temptation to ask why.

Suddenly she remembered she was wearing a wire.

“So how come these are not buried in the hidden vault?” she asked, making firm eye contact for the first time. “And how come they don’t have king before their name?”

The man remained speechless, but on this occasion Jen detected venom in his eyes. She knew the question was unexpected, but more importantly she knew the old man must have known about her intrusion into the vaults.

Why else lure her here?

Why else try to kill her in broad daylight?

She asked the same question again, doing her best to make sure her speech was perfect.

She prayed Thomas was listening.