The Plantagenet Vendetta (26 page)

37

Westminster

Thomas and Stephen were back in London by 5pm. On the orders of the palace, they parked Stephen’s car en route before being collected and taken by another car to the King Edward VII’s Hospital Sister Agnes in the city of Westminster.

The hospital was the usual port of call for members of the Royal Family. A smartly dressed nurse in her early forties met them on arrival, and led them through the hospital’s immaculate hundred-year-old corridors to a clean, yet inconspicuous, room on one of the upper floors.

The Duke of York was awake when they entered. A heart monitor was connected to his chest by a series of wires, and oxygen via a tube to his nose. His daughter, seventeen-year-old Princess Caroline, was sitting on the side of the bed, stroking her father’s hand. Surrounding them were several carrier bags and get-well cards.

Thomas hesitated before entering. He felt Stephen’s elbow in his back, forcing him inside. The paper bag in his hand rattled as he scrunched it.

“Hello, Uncle,” Thomas said, slightly nervously. “We’ve b-brought you some grapes, I think.”

There were several others already on his bedside table.

“Yes, bloody good that driver – thinks of everything.”

Thomas smiled, whereas behind him Stephen was laughing loudly. He saw Caroline smile, then the duke himself.

Slowly they approached, both shaking the duke’s hand.

“Hello, Caroline,” Thomas said as they kissed one another on the cheek. “So s-sorry it t-took so long.”

“You missed Fred.”

The Duke of York’s eldest son. “I’m sorry to have m-missed him.” Thomas looked at the duke, then Caroline. “How is he?”

“Not deaf for a start.”

The prince smiled weakly.

“They say it was only a mild one,” York said.

Thomas was concerned. “What? Heart attack?”

“No. Dosage. It was bloody poison; there’s nothing wrong with my bloody heart.”

The duke looked at his daughter.

“Cookie, dear, leave us for a second, will you? I’d like to have a chat alone with the boys.”

The girl seemed slightly put out.

“Quickly now.”

Caroline huffed as she strode indignantly out of the room. The princes watched her depart. Three years had passed since Thomas had last seen her, and clearly much had changed. Her face was prettier, but the weight greater. Her jet-black hair was now down beyond the shoulder, a spitting image of her mother.

Stephen closed the door behind her. “Why Cookie?”

Thomas bowed his head into his hands.

“Because we made her out of baking dough,” the duke said, his eyes on the door. “Is it shut?”

Stephen nodded.

“Good.”

He invited the princes to come closer.

“Not as close as that,” he shouted, placing his hand in front of his face. “There’s nothing wrong with my sense of smell either.”

He turned to Thomas.

“How’s progress?”

Thomas hesitated slightly. “To tell the truth, it’s been quite erratic.”

“What do you mean, erratic?”

“You’re aware, no doubt, of his visit to me in the middle of the night?” Stephen said.

The duke looked at him, slightly disturbed. “Yes, your father did say. I assume this has something to do with the one that got away.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “Stephen did his b-best with the s-surgery.”

“The bullet had punctured part of the large intestine. It was only a matter of time.”

The duke exhaled furiously. He tried to sit up in his bed. “Help me with this damn pillow.”

Thomas moved the pillow while Stephen grabbed hold of the duke’s hands.

“That’s better,” York said, sitting up. He removed the air supply from his nostrils.

“Is that wise?” Stephen asked.

“You’re the surgeon; you tell me.”

Stephen decided to remain silent.

“One of the phone numbers you faxed through to your father, Thomas, was registered. Rather unexpected, I might add.”

Thomas took a deep breath. “Who?”

“The name Burghart Stanley mean anything to you?”

Thomas shook his head.

“How about Rowland Stanley?”

“Father of the British colonel who defected to the Spanish in 1586.”

“Try more modern.”

“What? The politician?” Stephen guessed.

“The very same. Democrat MP for the constituency of Maplewell in Yorkshire, and leader of the opposition for the past year.”

“Wh-who’s his son?” Thomas asked.

“Former Royal Marine: left eighteen months ago, officially of his own choice, though my sources tell me it was actually due to a breach of discipline.”

“I’m sure his father approved of that,” Stephen said.

York managed a smile. “Now also a politician, though not an MP – at least not yet. Stood as a MEP in the last election, but lost out to the LibDem. Apparently he’s planning on standing for the real thing in Dewsbury, or somewhere of the sort.”

“It’s a place where the party has always been strong,” Stephen said.

The duke was unimpressed. “I never knew we were a county of socialists.”

“It’s really not as bad as that,” Stephen said.

Thomas chose not to respond.

“Even if he wins, they’re still some way short of a majority,” Stephen added.

“Just as they were the first time,” York fired back. He felt a slight twinge as he spoke.

“I’ll get the nurse,” Stephen said.

“Sit down; you’ll do no such thing.” He looked at his nephew, this time more softly. “I’m sorry, boys. Just damn hard luck being tied up like this.”

Thomas nodded. “Of course.”

The duke sipped from a glass of water. “Now then, boys. The question is, why were these phones entrusted to the people you saw? GCHQ have been informed. We’re looking into past conversations.”

He looked at his nephews.

“Who else was there last night?”

“Four in total,” Thomas began. “The butler and the three accomplices.”

The duke nodded, clearly ruing the fact they had got away.

“Any news of the butler?” Stephen asked.

The duke looked at Stephen. “Good question. According to Scotland Yard, he was named Anthony Patterson and had been butler to Sir Jack Talbot for over fourteen years. Prior to that he had served over ten in nick.”

“What for?”

“Murder and arson. Brought about in the last years of the Thatcher government.”

“He was a unionist?”

“No. Apparently it was something to do with the EU.”

The surgeon accepted the response.

Thomas was more concerned with his uncle’s wellbeing. “Who did this to you?”

The duke fought a sarcastic reply. “I don’t know.”

“Whoever it was, they were clearly not looking to murder. This was surely no more than a warning sign,” Stephen said.

Thomas doubted that. He knew the King had not died immediately.

The duke agreed. “We’ve had a narrow escape, put it that way.”

“Has my father been informed?” Stephen asked.

“Of course, your father’s got ears coming out of every fence in the countryside.” He turned to face Thomas. “I want you to check the surveillance footage. The poison was in the pie; whoever put it there must have acted fast.”

“Pie?” Stephen said.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Thomas was alarmed. His first thought was the nursery rhyme.

“There were no blackbirds in it?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Steve.”

Thomas was concerned. “Uncle said Aunty Matilda and Granny both died of f-food poisoning. The rhyme must be a clue.”

The duke bit his lip. “The pie was chicken. White bird.”

“You’re quite s-sure there were n-no eye witnesses?” Thomas asked. “After all, it’s d-different from the other s-stuff.”

The duke’s stare had hardened. “Perhaps you could ask your father; he was eating from the plate opposite.”

Thomas closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. Almost immediately, he put the surprise behind him.

“The pie was normal?”

“Yes. And don’t you worry; he’s been fully checked out. Old bastard’s as fit as a fiddle.”

Thomas offered a faint smile, slightly reassured. “What more about the mobile phones?”

“Apart from the one registered to Stanley, all were standard pay-as-you-go.”

“Network?”

“Varied. The models themselves are less than a year old. The best guess indicates they were purchased within the last six months.”

“Where’s Stanley now?” Stephen asked.

“Which one?” the duke asked.

“I don’t know – why not both.”

“Burghart, I understand, is presently in London – he has an apartment in Greenwich, though I understand it’s still in the process of being built. According to my sources at GCHQ, he’s been there today making phone calls. His father is alone in the family home in the village of Wootton-on-the-Moor – it’s all part of his constituency.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “That’s the village where that girl disappeared a year ago.”

“Blimey, Stephen, you do have a good memory.”

“Did they ever find the body?” Thomas asked.

“No.”

“Didn’t one of the s-suspects commit suicide?”

“Yes, at least according to the press.”

“Must have been around the time Stanley became leader, mustn’t it?” Thomas said.

“Yes, I suppose it must,” the duke began. “What are you getting at?”

The prince shook his head. “Nothing.”

The duke didn’t buy it. “Anyway, be sure to check it out. And be sure to find out why those mobile phones were in the same hands as those guns.”

Thomas and Stephen left the room and quickly made their way along the main corridor.

“Get me the Duke of Clarence, please,” Thomas said into his mobile phone. He covered the mouthpiece as he spoke to Stephen.

“I say we check out this boy’s apartment tonight.”

“Before he gets away, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

Thomas received a response from the other end of the line.

“Text me the details, please, won’t you? Thanks.”

He ended the call and placed his mobile phone in his pocket.

“At least we have an address.”

“The thought occurs that he might have been one of the boys firing at you. After all, Uncle said the bastard used to be a Royal Marine. Hardly incapable.”

“You might have a point there. I-I wonder why he became a politician?”

Stephen laughed. “Perhaps he’s one of those men of the people who wants to get the old place clean again.”

Thomas grinned at him.

“Thomas.”

The shout came from the other end of the corridor. Caroline was following them.

“Oh, hi, C-Caroline,” Thomas stuttered. He took the time to examine her face, notably her mouth and nose. “I hear you were attacked the other week.”

“I was walking through the grounds of our estate, and some fellow in a hood just came out of nowhere,” she huffed. “It was nothing, just a bloody nose,” she said, covering it with her hand.

Her attention turned to the present. “What’s happening?” There was a look of desperation in her eyes, exaggerated by the appearance of black mascara smudged by recent tears.

“Nothing that need concern you,” Stephen replied. “You can go back to your father now.”

“I can help.”

“Absolutely not,” Stephen replied. “Go back to your father, Cookie.”

“Don’t call me Cookie.”

Her voice was shrill and piercing, the acoustics of the corridor causing it to echo.

Stephen closed his eyes as a reflex. He turned around, coming face to face with her. “Are you out of your mind? For all we know the press could be anywhere.”

The girl looked desperately at Thomas. “Thomas, please.”

“Stephen’s right. Your place is to be b-beside your father.”

He held her gaze for an extended pause before finally walking away.

“I can’t go back; the King wants to see us.”

38

Finding the camera had left Jen rejuvenated. Forsaking her nap, she left the Hog and headed back across the bridge.

She wanted to know more about the history of the village. Accepting she had learned all she could from the parish registers, she entered a 14th-century building located two along from the end of the bridge. According to Mitchell, the building housed the local library and heritage centre.

Not that she would have guessed from the lack of advertisement.

She entered through an original wooden door and espied a nice open-plan room with traditional features, including high beams and stone walls. A small grey-haired woman, probably in her sixties, was sitting behind the front desk. She offered Jen a free leaflet about Wootton’s history before directing her into the next room.

For the next ten minutes Jen explored everything the building had to offer. A neat display had been assembled in the next room, a visual history of the parish from the Roman era to the modern day.

Curiously it mentioned nothing of the so-called village of Ravensfield.

After learning nothing new of the castle, priory or the church, she continued upstairs to where the library was housed. She looked for anything on the church and the vaults.

Again, there was nothing new.

She had been standing in one particular row for less than a minute before noticing movement to her right. At the end of the row, she saw a face, young, brunette…

Almost immediately, the girl disappeared.

For several seconds, Jen stood rooted to the spot. When the surprise had worn off, she walked to where she’d seen the face and looked for her in every direction.

There was movement along the corridor, heading through one of the nearby doorways.

Jen chased after her, but the girl had disappeared. She tried the remaining rooms on the first floor, most of which were empty bar miscellaneous curiosities and writings from the village’s past. Failing to find the girl on the second floor, she took the stairs back down to the main entrance. The woman on reception smiled at her as she passed, thanking her for coming.

Jen opened the door, looking in vain for any sign of the mystery girl.

Instead, she noticed something different.

Lord Ratcliffe was passing.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovely Miss Farrelly.”

Her dry expression warmed into a smile. “I was hoping I’d find you.”

“Me?” Ratcliffe asked. “And what possible thing has an old politician done to deserve such a prestigious honour.”

She walked alongside him, heading across the bridge. “I understand that it was you who discovered the body of Luke Rankin?”

The question was clearly unexpected. “Who, might I ask, told you that?”

“I have my sources.”

The man’s expression changed. “Aye, well, like it or not, find him I did…forgive me, Miss Farrelly, it wasn’t exactly my most favourite of memories.”

She smiled sympathetically. “I was wondering what happened?”

“What…”

“How did you find him?”

He took a deep breath. “Tell you the truth, it all happened so fast. There I was walking Bobby and Bernard, that’s me dogs, you understand.”

She smiled.

“I usually go that way, down by the old train station. Takes you down to the coast. It’s a lovely walk in summer.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Then what happened?

“Anyway, I’d just got up as far as the bridge when Bernard started barking. I thought it strange; he never barks like that, not to me, not Bernard.”

“What time of day was it?”

“Early,” he said, “I always take the dogs for a walk first thing; you know what they say, old habits die hard.”

A wry smile. “Any idea of the time?”

“You’re not a secret copper, are you?”

She laughed. “You say it was early?”

“Aye, now that you mention it, I’d guess it were before seven.”

She made a mental note. “What state was the body in when you made the discovery?”

“You mean, how did he die?”

“That as well.”

“Poor lad hanged himself the night before.”

Jen was confused. “How can you be sure it was the night before?”

“Autopsy confirmed it,” he replied. “Said he’d been dead about five hours.”

Placing the time between 1 and 2am.

“Where was his body?”

“Have you seen the old railway station?”

Jen nodded.

“Well, up there, there’s a bridge, you see.”

She noticed the way he gestured with his hands as he spoke. “I understand it was you who took him down.”

Ratcliffe hesitated before nodding. “Aye. Me and Bill, that’s Sir William, you see. I called for him first. It were impossible just me.”

“Where was the body found? I mean, had he fallen over the side, or was it beneath the arch?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. The rope was attached to the rocks above.”

“The rocks?”

He nodded.

“Could you show me?”

He winced slightly. “I can show you the bridge. The police later destroyed the exact point.”

“They destroyed it?”

The politician nodded. “It was a deterrent, you see. The last thing anyone wanted was for someone else to do the same. Very common, copycat deaths, you see.”

She nodded. She walked with Ratcliffe past the churchyard, heading back to what Edward Jeffries had described as Ravensfield.

She decided to move on. “Did you know them well? Debra and Luke?”

“Not really; I’ve been living down in Westminster these past twenty years. I never really spent much time here before I retired.”

She accepted the answer, albeit convenient. “I understand Debra Harrison was a friend of your nephew?”

That surprised him. “Gary?”

She didn’t know his name. “I think that’s the one.”

“Must be; I’ve only one.”

“Did he go to school with Debra?”

“Gary? No, he’s thirty-two.”

That amazed her. Then again, Ratcliffe himself was over sixty.

“I understand the pair had become friends.”

The politician was baffled. “I’m afraid you know more than me, Miss Farrelly,” he said as they reached the gate of his house. “Would you like a cuppa?”

She smiled, but decided against it.

“Thank you for your time, Lord Ratcliffe.”