The Plantagenet Vendetta (46 page)

78

Thomas didn’t feel how he expected to feel. Yet how, exactly, he expected to feel, he was still unsure. The information he had received from Caroline, though he was sure he heard correctly, was difficult to digest.

He looked intently at the face in front of him.

The face of a murderer.

Edward was standing about ten metres away, his frame leaning against one of the walls. He stood with his arms folded, as he always seemed to do. To Thomas, he was like the stereotypical student.

It was like looking at a man who had just got out of bed.

Thomas walked slowly toward him, doing his best to listen to what was around him while still trying to concentrate on his earpiece. Jen was no longer talking, but her breathing was loud.

His primary concern was locating the missing gunman.

He turned in the opposite direction.

“Aren’t you even going to say hello?” Edward asked in his soft Yorkshire tone.

Thomas stopped, returning his attention to Edward. Again he looked, but said nothing.

“Didn’t your father ever tell you that it’s rude not to show honour to your host? Dear me, our standards must be slipping. Must be all that common blood you’ve let into your family.”

Thomas heard him speak without really listening, choosing to concentrate instead on his earpiece. Nevertheless, the feeling was strange. Technically, the man was his flesh and blood: third cousin once removed, or something of the sort. In truth, he was unaware of even half of the branches that made up his unique family tree.

Edward moved closer, his gait not quite a swagger, but not far from it. It was like the walk of a teenager who had just punched far above his weight.

“Can I offer you a drink? Something to eat? Smoke?”

Again the prince said nothing.

“Don’t you remember our old school motto, Tom? Manners makyth man?” Edward smiled. “Cat got your tongue?”

Thomas wetted his lips. “Where is she?” He managed to avoid a stutter.

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Edward pretended to ponder the question. “What? Jen?” He laughed aloud. “Blimey, I knew some of you royals liked it rough, but I never realised she were your type. How long have you even known her?”

“Where is she?” he asked again. The lack of talking in his earpiece was causing him concern.

Edward shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you – she keeps running away from me.”

The smile had returned, only this time Thomas found it even worse to deal with. His recent conversation with Caroline still dominated his thoughts.

The idea seemed impossible.

“What brings you here, anyway? I never realised you were capable of making it this far north,” Edward said, laughing at his own joke. “I hear you had rather a narrow escape yesterday? Down in Greenwich – I’m guessing that was you?”

Thomas was surprised by the accuracy.

“Any idea who they were?”

“Cut the crap!” His voice echoed.

Edward looked at the prince, dumbstruck. “Wow. Okay. Did you say you would like a drink, by the way?”

“Just stop,” Thomas shouted. “Just s-stop.”

Thomas took a deep breath, in and then out. He knew he needed to calm himself, but doing so wasn’t easy.

Thomas looked him in the eye. “Which one of you is responsible?” he asked, this time more quietly. “You or your g-grandfather?”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Thomas shouted, with intense anger in his eyes. “I’ve seen the photos, Edward. I-I’ve seen them.”

Edward shrugged. “I have seriously no idea what you’re talking about.”

“She showed me everything. I know about the girl that disappeared. I know about the Sons of York. I know about your c-coronation.”

Thomas looked at him with a resigned expression.

“And I know that it was you who murdered my grandfather.”

For what seemed like several seconds, Edward didn’t flinch.

“Are you feeling all right? Did that explosion give you brain damage or something?”

“Stephen told me everything,” Thomas replied, a partial truth. “He’s s-seen the footage from Balmoral. The King knows.”

“Stephen’s s-s-s-s-s-seen the f-f-f-f-footage?” Edward mimicked. “Are you out of your mind? Can you even hear yourself? What footage, Tom? What footage?”

Thomas squared up to him, their faces almost touching. “How dare you,” he said, a look of staunch determination present in his eyes. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Though Thomas centred his attention on Edward, he heard something in his earpiece. Jen was speaking to someone, he didn’t know who.

Nor could he hear the other person.

At least the gunshots had ceased.

“Now wh-where is she?”

Edward’s expression had hardened slightly, as if he was finally taking things seriously.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tom. Honest to God, I do. But you still don’t understand, not really. You might say you do, but you really, really don’t,” he said, moving away. “It’s not your fault, Tom, you can’t possibly understand – no one can.”

Thomas watched him as he began to pace from side to side. He knew it was impossible to predict his next move.

“What are you talking about?”

Edward laughed. “Oh, Tom, I only wish I could explain – I know what you must think of me, but even I wasn’t brought up with this.

“You remember when we were at school and our history tutor would tell us things: when was the Battle of Hastings, when was the Great Fire of London, when was the Battle of Trafalgar, you know, all that kind of stuff…imagine learning all that, only to find that there’s this other side, a side practically no one knows existed. And then, imagine finding out not only that it exists, but that you’re part of it.”

Thomas stood with his arms folded. Unbeknown to Edward, he was also listening to Jen’s voice.

“It was never my intention to hurt anyone, believe me. I’m not like that; you know that,” Edward said, making passing eye contact. “If I wanted you dead, I could have shot you just now in the corridor – you would never even have known it was me. For all I knew, you were never to be involved.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“I know what you must think about the Sons of York; I expect you heard it all from that silly historian years ago. I saw the article in the
Chronicle
– I expect it was actually him. I’m right, aren’t I?”

The prince said nothing.

“In all fairness, Tom, it’s true: in the past, members of my family did try to usurp the throne – the same throne, had it not been for some guy named Tudor, would quite possibly be mine right now.”

Though he heard correctly, what was said beggared belief.

Edward Jeffries, King of England.

Or Edward XIV, as he was known locally.

At least according to Jen.

“The original Sons of York actually expired in about 1688 – just after the Glorious Revolution. In a sense, that really was the end of the Plantagenets and the Woodvilles. The direct male line had died out. Ironic, as your blood now is mostly German.”

Thomas bit his lip but again said nothing.

“I was eighteen when I learned the terrible truth about the rift that has plagued our separate families. All through school I didn’t have the slightest inkling. My initial thought was to dismiss it. I mean it sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it? The offspring of the Princes in the Tower, or the offspring of the son of Clarence and Elizabeth of York, still walking the earth, looking to wreak their vengeance on the ones who betrayed them…it’s oh so perfect…

“But there’s something else, Tom; something that, in all fairness, you probably don’t even know.”

He guessed Edward was talking about the projector in the hidden room. Based on the footage, it didn’t make for pleasant viewing.

“So in return, you commit regicide?”

“Call it by whatever name you wish, it’s all the same. A man’s life is a man’s life – king, lawyer, a worker in McDonald’s…the feudal system ended centuries ago, but in some ways not much has changed. The same things happen, things that could be avoided. Why should there be one rule for one and another for others.”

“When you p-poison the K-King of England, the penalty is no different to any other: one or the other it’s life in prison, prince or p-peasant.”

“Is that right? One or the other, the penalty is no different. No exception.”

The pretender came slightly closer.

“Then tell me why the former King of England never did jail time for the murder of my mother and father?”

Three guards stood outside the office, their eyes focused on the corridor in front of them. The orders were specific, as always.

No one would be allowed to enter under any circumstances.

Inside the room, York, Clarence and Stephen all stood hunched around the desk, their eyes on the TV screen. The King was sitting. Despite the gravity of what he was seeing, his façade was calm, his hands clasped loosely together as though in deep contemplation.

“Switch it off.”

Stephen did so, and the screen went blank. He had seen it many times already, but it still made for unpleasant viewing.

“Who knows about this?” York asked.

“Possibly only us – and Caroline,” Stephen replied. “I assume the guards at Balmoral may have seen it without understanding its importance.”

Clarence agreed. “How often the subject of enquiry appears much clearer to the person who knows what it is they are looking for.”

The King looked at Clarence, then at his son. “Get me the DG of MI5. Then, if you can manage it, the son of my third cousin.”

79

“Have I the honour of addressing the real King of England? Or is that office now the sole preserve of your grandson?” Jen asked.

The question was far too condescending. Jen immediately sensed the old man’s anger. His jaw had tightened; the sagging skin that flanked it on either side was now somehow smoother than it had been. If the malevolent expression was not enough, the extension of the man’s breathing made it all the more obvious. The combination was enough to make her feel threatened.

She reminded herself she was wearing a wire. If she played her part well, Thomas would hear everything.

“Well?” She pushed him.

Across the room, the sound of laboured breathing had become steadily greater.

“How dare you!” he said at last. Although the words came out as little more than a mutter, his tone pierced with aggression. “You enter into my house, into my family chapel, and pay insult to the memory of the greatest family in the history of England!” The volume of his voice picked up, which unsettled her further. “Do you not realise, had a certain battle been won by the opposing side, I, and not my snivelling distant relation, would currently be king.”

The response left Jen momentarily speechless. Till now she was still to consider the possibility that theoretically at least he could be right.

Her thoughts turned again to finding a way out.

She still had no idea what had happened to the gunman.

Or Lovell.

For now, at least, she and the old man were alone.

“Is that what this is all about? All these deaths? Just to satisfy your lust for what might have been?”

“I don’t expect many people to be capable of understanding even the most elementary of truths. People come and people go, but for every man who lives well, a mark is left that betters the fabric of mankind. And when a man lives badly, there are repercussions.”

He spoke strongly, but she was still to grasp the relevance to the modern day.

“You’re angry at Henry Tudor?”

“My dear, having broken into my family vault, I shall spare you the insult of preserving the importance of my lineage. It is unfortunate, shall we say, that fate was at its most stupid in depriving my family of their royal birthright. But please spare me the ignominy of addressing me like a common cook.”

Secretly, she was still undecided. “But that would depend. I mean, it’s either that or you have a pretty extreme case of narcissistic personality disorder…after all, you are the people responsible for Debra Harrison’s murder.”

The man took a deep breath but remained silent.

“What happened to her?” she asked. “Her parents have a right to know.”

“Ah, yes, to be a parent.” He cleared his throat, a lengthy and chesty cough that she feared might be contagious. “Only when a loving parent has had their son or daughter taken away from them can they possibly understand the unique hurt and longing for the loss of the irreplaceable.”

Jen was confused.

The man continued. “In the past, as a member of the Wootton community, any person would have been able to count on the protection of my friends and family. For centuries, we have overseen the safety of our neighbours. However, there have been times when even our own citizens have chosen to betray their roots.”

Jen crossed her arms. “Are murderers not deserving of contempt?”

“Precisely,” he said coldly.

The comment threw her slightly. “But you are the people responsible for Debra Harrison’s murder, for her mother’s unbearable pain.”

“It may surprise you to learn that many years ago, I, too, found out firsthand what it is like to suffer the unbearable pain of losing a beloved child.

“My story began on a cold day in November 1991, and in many ways the story is still to end.

“Listen if you will. For what good it will do you.”