The Plantagenet Vendetta (19 page)

To the prince, it was unrecognisable.

Monitoring the top of the stairway, he approached him slowly. The victim was lying practically still, wheezing, his eyes open and his expression locked in a grimace. He was holding the stomach area, possibly the gallbladder. There was a look of desperation in his eyes…

And perhaps of resignation.

Thomas advanced to the top of the staircase and followed the wall around to the left.

The other two men were nowhere to be seen.

From the prince’s vantage point, the view, in daylight, would extend as far as the surrounding countryside, but at this time of night, it was a lot more restricted. Darkness prevailed, the outlines of the thick walls the only things he was able to distinguish clearly. The reflection of a blue light was visible from somewhere nearby.

He guessed it almost certainly belonged to the same vehicle responsible for the siren he had heard minutes earlier.

The question was why had it taken so long to get here?

Thomas retreated down the stairway. The injured man clearly needed treatment, but public exposure was a significant consideration. Should the press manage to get hold of the story, it was potentially a PR nightmare for the royals.

He had to think quickly.

He crouched down beside the injured man and tried to help him to his feet. Despite his attempt at cooperation, the man’s injury was severe. Placing the firearms inside his jacket, the prince helped the man to his feet and eventually made it to the bottom of the steps. With no more railing to support him, the man fell once again to the ground.

Thomas realised there was only one option. Placing his right hand below the man’s neck and his left beneath his legs, he carried him through the inner chamber.

The castle was now silent and evidently deserted. Up above, the sky was almost pitch black. It seemed like a long time had passed since his arrival, though he guessed it was actually less than twenty minutes. The stunning rays of the large moon, surrounded by a ghostly haze, were his only aid.

Thankfully the walk from the limousine had been largely straightforward.

As he neared the exit, he heard voices. Accompanying them was the sound of footsteps, multiple pairs, some running, some walking. Walkie-talkies crackled violently.

Approaching the final wall, Thomas ducked for cover, silently praying his actions wouldn’t injure the man further.

In silence, they waited. Unmistakeably he heard noises close by. He felt the presence of several people pass, perhaps half a dozen in total. He waited until they had gone before raising his head above the wall. As expected, he saw police uniforms accompanied by torches, batons and stun guns.

Lowering his head, he held his breath. Cradled within his arms, he could feel, but not see, the wounded man breathing against his chest. He made no attempt to attract observation, nor hinder the prince’s progress.

Capture was not an option.

Thomas waited until the lights disappeared and the voices quietened. Finally he moved away, placing the wounded man on the backseat of the limousine. The engine started quietly, as they always did.

No one saw him leave, nor did anyone pay extra attention to the luxurious motor that was quietly making its way through the Wensleydale countryside.

In the London headquarters of a famous English newspaper, the
London Chronicle
, the journalist tapped lightly on the door of the editor’s office and entered without breaking stride.

Had the editor not been on the phone at the time, his passing of the three-page document might have received more recognition than the cursory thumbs up.

Instead, that was his last action of the day.

Alone in his office, the head of personal relations for the Royal Family was genuinely perplexed.

That was the third call today the department had received on the subject.

Biting his lip, he picked up the receiver.

He would have to inform his employer personally.

26

No one spoke for several seconds. Across the table from Jen, Anthea sat with her hands around her face. Although she was not crying, it was obvious to Jen the suggestion about Debra Harrison had taken the wind out of her sails. The idea that her friend had been murdered and her corpse hidden away behind a locked door…

The reality seemed unthinkable.

At the head of the table, Martha had barely moved. Her expression suggested she was disturbed, but more by Jen’s suggestion than the possible reality.

Jen had no idea what to say next. One way or another, she knew she was about to outstay her welcome.

“Who would have the key?” Jen asked after a while. “How many people have keys to the vault?”

Jen waited, but for now received no response. Realistically, she knew there were only two likely options. Firstly, the priest, who had already illustrated his lack of enthusiasm toward opening the door – even if he said yes, unexpectedly, she risked exposing her true purpose. If the priest had some knowledge of the events of a year ago, she risked compromising the entire investigation.

Not to mention the documentary.

The second possibility was the Jeffries family themselves.

After all, the door was connected to their family vault.

Jen looked at both Martha and Anthea intently. “There might be another way, another door.” She turned to Martha. “Please, Martha, you’ve been cleaning that church for years. Please tell me everything you know.”

The woman’s patience was thinning. “Jen, can’t you see you’re upsetting my daughter.”

Jen looked back hopelessly. “Martha, I’m sorry, but I have a really bad feeling about this. For all we know, poor Debra Harrison has been locked in that vault for the last year and no one has even thought about it,” she said, brushing her hair back over her head. On this occasion, the thought that these two women had been responsible for the cut didn’t register.

“Have you ever seen it yourself?”

Martha delayed her response. “No. Not from the inside.”

She looked at Anthea. “You’ve only seen it the once?”

Anthea nodded, incapable of saying anything. Jen was pleased to see that her eyes were still dry.

“Who would have the key?” Jen asked a second time.

This time it was Anthea who answered. “Mum has a set of keys – Father Martin gave her a set for cleaning.”

Jen felt her heart momentarily stop. “Keys to what?”

Martha was angry – this time with her daughter. “I was not given those keys so that I could be party to their misuse.”

“Why does it matter?” Anthea asked. “The church is usually unlocked anyway.”

To Jen, getting into the church was not the problem. “Do you have a key to the vault?”

Martha’s expression was stern. “I have keys to the church and to the cloisters – not for any individual vault.”

“How do you know?” her daughter asked. “There’s like a thousand keys on that key ring.”

Anthea left her seat and entered the hallway. There was a basket near the door, full of various keys and change.

“Here,” Anthea said, picking out the relevant key ring. “How will we know if we don’t try?”

Martha was livid. “Give me that.”

Before she could react, Anthea threw the keys to Jen. She caught them instinctively and incurred a penetrating stare from Martha.

“Martha, please, wait,” Jen said, sticking out an arm. “Please, I just want to have a look. You need play no part in this.”

Martha huffed. “Give me my keys.”

Jen held up the keys and extended her arm. She prepared to give them back to Martha, but changed her mind.

“You needn’t have any involvement in this,” Jen said. “If anyone asks, you can just say I took them.”

The woman placed her hands to her face and shook her head simultaneously.

For the first time Jen felt guilty. She was so wrapped up in finding a way into the vault, she failed to realise that she was pressuring the woman.

“Martha, I promise I will give you them straight back. All I want to see is what’s behind the door,” she said, turning her gaze to Anthea. “Is that the only way in?”

Anthea tucked her hair behind her ears. “If I come with you, I can show you.”

“Anthea Brown!” Martha shouted.

“Your mother’s right,” Jen said. “Besides, I really have no idea what I expect to find down there.”

The idea made Jen feel nervous.

Anthea was adamant. “If you do get into trouble, you’re going to need the help of someone who knows the vaults.

“And I’m probably the only person who’s ever seen it.”

Thomas drove south on leaving Middleham. Ten minutes had passed, but his heart was still thumping. A ring of sweat had formed at the top of his brow, continuing across his forehead and dripping down the side of his face. He wiped it with his sleeve, doing his best to concentrate on the road in front of him.

For now there was no traffic in either direction.

He looked in the rear-view mirror. The injured man was still alive on the backseat; even without the mirror, he could tell by the heaviness of the man’s breathing. His own clothes were stained from carrying the man, while the smell was also becoming more noticeable. He tried opening the window, allowing the blustery air to reinvigorate his stressed body.

He had to think – and quickly. Attracting attention was not an option, but the man needed a professional medic.

Navigating the options on the SatNav, he selected the wider map. About ten miles west, he had a cousin: Stephen Winchester. Like himself, the lad was of military pedigree, but better yet, he’d served in the medical corps. If anyone was capable of assisting the injured man, it was him.

Better yet, Stephen had another major plus point.

He was the eldest son of the king.

Thomas removed his mobile phone from his pocket and quickly scrolled through his contacts. He found Stephen, both home and mobile, and selected the home option.

Seconds later, Stephen answered.

“I’m coming to see you in ten minutes. And I’ll be needing your physician skills.”

Inside the keep, the police officer stood hunched over the figure on the ground. The man carried no wallet, nor did he possess any keys or mobile phone. He had been shot once in the upper chest, the bullet presently unidentified, but as far as the officer could tell, the man had not carried a firearm himself. The apparent cause of death certainly seemed consistent with reports of gunfire being heard in the vicinity moments before he had received the call – he had heard several himself since his own arrival.

Whoever was responsible was long gone.

The question now was who had been found?

The other two men had escaped from a small window near the main entrance of the castle. They avoided attention from police or onlookers and twenty minutes later were driving north in a black Mercedes.

Over thirty years’ experience between them, and that was the closest they had come to catastrophe. What should have been a simple, straightforward task had been compromised into a matter of lost life.

Under normal circumstances, it was the job of the last man standing to put his accomplice out of his misery: whether a sign of brotherly love, to ensure the man suffers no lasting pain, or to ensure he takes his secrets with him to the grave…he assumed the latter was more applicable.

Fifteen years in the business had taught him that the men at the top deemed human life expendable. He knew that was the reason he was chosen – to end the life of his best friend at a moment’s notice if that was what was required. In truth, neither man was sure what had become of their accomplices. Had the light been better, perhaps he would have had to finish the job himself.

But the question remained, what caused the compromise? If the butler was correct, Talbot had died for failing to abide by the cardinal rule. That explained Talbot’s absence, but it did not explain the presence of the newcomer. Bringing a royal, even a minor one, to this forbidden party was like playing with fire. Someone had dropped them in it.

His Highness would need to be informed.

27

Twenty minutes later Thomas pulled up outside an isolated farmhouse on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. The estate was large, gated, and walled on all sides, constructed mostly of white brick dating back to the early 1800s.

The gate was open, as was the front door. A handsome man in his early thirties, with dark hair, a lean build, and smart persona was there to greet him. He helped Thomas unload the body of the mysterious stranger from the backseat before ushering them inside.

The next thirty minutes were frantic. They carried the man into an upstairs bedroom and planted him down on a double bed. The surgeon’s tools were already laid out on a nearby table, accompanied by a large bottle of whiskey. Five minutes later they had succeeded in removing the bullet, but after that things became a blur. The man was gushing blood at an alarming rate.

Survival was now a matter of chance.

For the last few minutes Thomas had been sitting on his own in the lounge, a large and well-decorated room otherwise in keeping with the style of the house. The rest of the furniture pointed to the man’s bachelor lifestyle: forty-eight-inch TV on the wall, Dolby Surround sound and a reclining easy chair with cup holder. Aside from their grandfather’s funeral, Thomas had not seen his cousin for over two years, but he could tell from the furniture, little had changed.

Footsteps on the stairs indicated his cousin was approaching. Seconds later Stephen entered the room.

“He’s sleeping.”

Thomas rose to his feet. “Wh-what are his chances?”

“We’ll have a much better indication by morning – assuming he’s still alive, of course.”

Thomas nodded, returning to his seat. He struggled to prevent his hands from shaking.

“Whiskey? Or would you prefer something stronger?”

Thomas nodded. “Whiskey.”

Stephen removed a bottle of single malt from a container on top of the mantelpiece. “I was hoping to save this for a special occasion,” he said, removing the lid and pouring double shots into two glasses. “But, I suppose, there’s no time like the present.”

He passed the second glass to Thomas and clinked it with his own.

“Cheers.”

Stephen downed his in one and savoured the aftertaste. Thomas began his more slowly before forcing it down. He had never been much of a drinker. The fine liquid burned his mouth and throat, the sensation penetrating all the way through his head.

“Another?” Stephen asked.

Thomas looked up at his cousin. He nodded, but said nothing.

Stephen refilled the glass to about three shots worth. After that, he did the same for his own.

“Would you now mind telling me what the bloody hell you’ve got yourself into?”

Thomas sipped his whiskey – this time slowly. He coughed and spluttered, forcing him to cover his mouth.

“I’m waiting, Thomas.”

The prince looked up at his cousin. “It’s complicated.”

“Fortunately I’m exceedingly clever. Now spit it out.”

Thomas continued to concentrate on his whiskey.

“I can always call Dad, if you prefer?”

“Okay, fine.”

Thomas recounted the events of the past two days.

Stephen listened carefully. He had drained his glass and was halfway through the next by the time Thomas had finished.

“Who knows about this?” Stephen asked after a while.

“Hardly anyone,” Thomas replied. “I’m guessing that you already know m-more than me.”

Stephen nodded, for now keeping his counsel. He continued to sip his whiskey.

“Jack Talbot,” he said at last, swirling the liquid around in his glass. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Whoever he was working for, I th-think he was about to come clean. At least until that b-bloody butler put his f-finger in the way.”

“What was his name?”

“Patterson.”

“First name?”

“Really, Stephen, how many butlers are called by their first name?”

Stephen laughed. “Could you give an accurate description?”

“Of course.”

“Good. At least that way someone might be able to establish a positive identification on him.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult – we already know his s-second name, address, and c-car registration.”

“How about the others?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Not even a description?”

“It was dark; they were professionals. We really must keep this one alive – at least that way we might f-find out who we’re d-dealing with.”

Thomas removed the injured man’s automatic weapon from his jacket. “Look at this.”

Stephen was confused. “What is it?”

“No idea. Never seen one before.”

Stephen was quiet for several seconds. “Tell me what he said exactly.”

“Who?”

“The friar at the Tower.”

Recalling words was difficult, but Thomas told Stephen what he remembered.

“Beware the Sons of York?” Stephen said.

“Among other things, yes,” Thomas said, finishing his second glass. “Have you heard of them?”

“Never. Who are they?”

Thomas shook his head. “I know little more than you.”

“Tell us the little – at least that’ll make us even.”

“Only if you do the same for me.”

“Okay. Fine. You go first.”

Thomas went first, then Stephen.

“Apparently they’ve been d-doing this s-sort of thing for years,” Thomas continued.

“What sort of thing?”

“C-causing mischief. Apparently one or two were involved in the Monmouth risings and other things.”

“Anything more recent?”

“Your father didn’t go into d-detail. He spoke mainly about not having p-paid much attention when he was younger.”

Stephen was still confused. “Who were the historians?”

“Apparently there were two of them. Wrote about the Sons of York in the early 1700 and 1900s. Your f-father seemed to believe the knowledge was r-relevant. Clearly there was s-something that the Sons of York know that others are not s-supposed to.”

“How about the other thing?”

Thomas was confused. “What other thing?”

“The nursery rhyme.”

He told Stephen everything, highlighting the amendments.

He didn’t enjoy mentioning the King’s belief that the queens in the parlour was a reference to Stephen’s late mother and grandmother.

Stephen put his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose and then to his eyes. He lowered himself onto the settee and immediately rose again to his feet. “The princess was in the…what princess?”

“I don’t know.”

“What the hell did Monmouth have to do with this?”

Thomas shook his head. “There was one other thing,” he said, trying to recall the events of earlier that evening. “When the butler t-took me to the castle and introduced me as Clarence, he s-said something rather odd.”

“What?”

“When they inquired of the butler as to why they had not been informed of my coming and of T-Talbot’s death, he said something about His Highness insisted on absolute discretion.”

The physician shrugged. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Thomas said, starting to get slightly worked up. “It was the way that he said it: it was almost…”

“What?”

The prince took a deep breath. “Reverent.”

“And?”

“The two politicians were murdered – tests by MI5 on the car have all but confirmed this. But the King…”

“You think he was murdered by someone of status?”

Thomas failed to respond.

“You said yourself the witness was something of a madman.”

“He was telling the truth about everything else. W-we must face facts, it’s not out of the question.”

Stephen was unconvinced. “Even if he was telling the truth, the situation hasn’t really changed, has it?”

“Our grandfather’s condition weakened considerably in a s-short period – we can practically catalogue the exact schedule. On the Tuesday he returned from Balmoral, the day after the family meal, still a p-picture of good health. The next ten days he b-barely left Winchester. All we know of the poison is it works slowly. If he was murdered, the day at Balmoral was almost c-certainly the day the d-damage was done.

“And I’m afraid that only leaves us with one g-group of suspects.”

“The servants?”

“No. The relatives.”