Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  Noel laughed, and it wasn’t a kind sound. ‘After all that?’

  ‘After all that,’ Alan agreed, bitterly. ‘I thought – well, whatever I thought back then, what matters is now. And now, I think Adelbert might be a better choice for England. I don’t know, and I need to know. He’s a mystery. Maybe Adelbert can be steered in the right direction, especially by the men who would make him king?’ Turing had no desire to be the puppetmaster behind the throne; the very thought made him want to retch. But was there anyone else better qualified?

  Noel was regarding him steadily, rain dripping off the brim of his hat. ‘Are you sure about this, Turing?’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything, Matthews. But can we risk it, if we’re not sure?’

  Noel snorted. ‘We’d bloody well better get sure. I’ll hold off for a day. I’m not promising more than that – it depends on what I find out. Henry’s an arse, but would this joker be any better? That’s the best I can offer.’

  ‘Fine. If that’s the best you can do, I’ll take it,’ Alan snapped. A headache had started pounding behind his temples. Damnit, Noel. Nothing was ever simple with him.

  Noel frowned. ‘Careful, Enigma. You’re starting to sound as human as the rest of us.’

  Alan took a deep breath, let it out again. ‘I have to go.’

  Alan went looking for Richard after the garden meeting, finding him in the King’s Library, among the books and the tea cups which were being cleared away by a servant. Alan was still carrying Sebastian’s little paper bag of tea, jammed in his pocket. Offering it to Richard as something of a peace offering he said, ‘Sebastian sent this along for you. Maybe we can sit down, have a cup together.’

  Richard took the bag, but handed it off to the servant. ‘Make me a cup,’ he ordered curtly. After the man left he turned back to Alan. ‘But you don’t have time for tea now. You’re supposed to be working on Henry. We need a new tactic now that you’ve completely bungled the Sissel project.’ Richard’s face had gone red, ugly with frustration. ‘Go, think! Use that massive brain of yours. That’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?’ No hint of affection left, no remembrance of pleasant times past. Just orders. Just as well, really.

  Alan nodded curtly and left the Prince to seethe alone. Down the hall, down three flights of stairs, out of the door and buttoning up his coat, bracing himself to face the rain. And then, like the last word of the Sunday crossword, or the final Jenga piece pulled out, bringing it all tumbling down, something clicked in his mind. Finally, finally, a pattern came together, the way it had in the old days. Alan Turing spun around and sprinted back. Through the door, up the stairs, down the hall to the door that was still half-open. Finding the nightmare waiting for him on the other side.

  Alan kept grasping for the right words to describe what he saw, but nothing seemed to fit. A feint? A fool’s mate? No, he was the fool, surely. It was so obvious, in retrospect. That brown paper bag, unlabelled – had Sebastian thought he might get away with this? When he sent his creations out into the world, they usually came with a jaunty little label, a charming scribbled name. Not this time, though. That alone should have made Alan suspicious. If Alan could reverse time, run it backwards to where – Margaret’s death? Restarting the affair with Richard? Meeting Sebastian, perhaps. The moment in that bookshop when their hands reached for the same book, and a bit of make-up brushed off, revealing the silver skin, but Sebastian didn’t flinch away. He had just smiled and said, ‘I think you have my book.’

  I think you have my book.

  Alan should have let him have the damned book, should have turned and walked away, disappeared into the streets of Bloomsbury. Instead, here he stood, witness to the death of a prince of the realm.

  Richard looked so small, lying there. Tea spilled out on the floor, the cup smashed on the fireplace tiles.

  Did Sebastian think Alan would cover for him? It would be simpler not to say anything, less humiliating. It would all come out, if they knew Sebastian had done it: the affair would be a headline in the Guardian. The end of Alan’s career, surely, assuming Noel didn’t think he’d had a hand in it too.

  But if Alan didn’t give Sebastian up, then they’d all be hunting for the murderer. The entire country would be up in arms. Most people would assume some joker had done it, and what nightmare would that unleash?

  And either way, Henry would remain king. Henry! Elizabeth’s child was out there. The old stories would say that it was the lack of a true royal on the throne that was leading to England’s downfall. Everything had started falling apart with Margaret’s death. Alan Turing wasn’t a superstitious man, but at this point, he felt willing to clutch at any straw.

  That was what he had to do. Alan had to know, once and for all, what to do with Elizabeth’s child. Was Adelbert the heir that England needed? He turned and walked out of the room. Someone else could find the body, start the hue and cry. Alan had work to do.

  Noel was getting damned tired of being summoned at all times of day and night. He was frankly exhausted after the events of Monday and his ribs and arm were aching terribly. He couldn’t face transforming again so he ordered one of the junior staff to sign out a car and drive him to Windsor rather than teleporting.

  During the drive he had sat in the back seat reading reports and texting his manager that the Japan tour would have to be rescheduled. He couldn’t do magic tricks with a broken arm. That was going to cost him. Noel spent a few seconds mentally cursing the Green Man. He then realized the absurdity of his thoughts. He led the Helix now. His other life was gone.

  The young driver kept sneaking glances at him from the rear-view mirror. Noel couldn’t tell if it was admiration, curiosity or fear. Perhaps a mix of all three. He had become director in the late hours of Sunday night and rescued a princess by Monday evening. Perhaps the boy really was impressed.

  Once through the gates and into the palace grounds Noel had ordered the driver to park and find himself a warm place to wait until he was called for. It was once again the ever-present Pike who led him across the quadrangle to the private royal apartments. As they walked across the grass Noel reflected that he was getting an in-depth tour of the private lives of royalty in their natural habitats.

  Sebastian’s hand shook a little as he lowered his tea cup to its saucer; it clinked, quite loudly.

  ‘You’re cold. Let me get you your cardi.’ Alan rose from the sofa over Sebastian’s muffled protests, and went to the hall, where the tweed-brown cardigan hung on the coat hook. Alan was forever telling Sebastian to take it upstairs and put it in the wardrobe, but Sebastian couldn’t be bothered. It’s cosier this way. Do you want to live in a show house, or in a home?

  Alan paused in the hall, contemplating the William Morris wallpaper they’d chosen together. Stylized rabbits tumbling endlessly down a flowery field. The paper was in good shape, despite decades in this house. The two of them did manage to keep things reasonably tidy; they’d had a calm life. Nothing like the life they might have had, if they’d ever had children running through here; the wallpaper might not have survived. Sebastian hadn’t been interested, and Alan had been too busy to push.

  But now he had to wonder: if they’d had children, would that have been the path that saved this marriage? Or not. Perhaps the children would have driven Alan out of the house and into Richard’s arms even faster. Maybe choice was an illusion, and every move you made led to the same damned result.

  The doorbell rang. So, they were here already; Scotland Yard could be efficient, on occasion. Sebastian came to stand under the archway to the living room, while Alan opened the front door.

  ‘Sir. We need to speak to your husband.’

  There would have been fingerprints on the paper bag, of course. Alan had no fingerprints himself now: the wild card had stripped him of those. But if Sebastian had worn gloves – there was the briefest microsecond when hope rose, a fluttering bird in Alan’s breast. They could fight this, they could beat it, and go on as if it had never happened!
Sebastian was seventy-four; Alan had been too conservative with the odds before, thinking he’d only have another ten to fifteen years. They could easily have twenty more good years. Mortality tables weren’t everything. Alan Turing turned to his husband.

  Sebastian was gazing at him, but it wasn’t love in his eyes. Just a bitter desperation. ‘Alan?’

  No complicated calculations needed to solve this puzzle, just a husband’s request, plain as day. Help me, take care of me, use your considerable powers and the might of the Silver Helix to make this all go away. Alan could probably even do it, and surely, he owed Sebastian that?

  Or not. The bird fell dying to earth, burned and crisped to ash. A prince of the realm had been murdered, the peace of England gravely threatened. Alan would not, could not, betray his country. If Alan Turing had been wrong, if he’d done damage, he had always at least been trying to do right. Alan couldn’t give up on the last shreds of his honour now.

  He shook his head, the tiniest of gestures.

  Sebastian’s face fell into dull, despairing lines. He turned away from Alan and went towards the waiting men. ‘I’m ready,’ he said to them. ‘I did it, of course. I killed the Prince.’

  They grabbed him, cuffed him, and bundled Sebastian out of the door.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the last man said, in a voice caught halfway between respect and pity. ‘We’ll see you back at the Yard? We’ll need to take your statement.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll be there shortly,’ Alan said. Of course.

  His face impassive, as if turned to stone. Alan closed the door behind them and then carefully, slowly, hung Sebastian’s cardigan back on the cupboard door.

  Inside, a servant took Noel’s hat, overcoat and umbrella, and Pike took him to the study, announced him and discreetly withdrew. Henry was frowning down into the flames dancing in an ornate fireplace.

  Noel waited but the King didn’t speak. Finally he asked, ‘How is the Princess, sir?’

  ‘Frightened. Hurt. Terrible thing to see a child in pain. Still, I suppose it could have been worse.’

  ‘Much worse, sir.’

  ‘Who were they? What have you learned?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘Unfortunately they were not amenable to capture.’

  ‘God damn it! I want to know who was behind this!’

  Noel remained prudently silent.

  Henry crossed to the sofa and indicated that Noel should take a seat in the chair across from him. Henry’s hands were clasped between his knees and exhaustion and worry had sharpened his features so he rather resembled a skull.

  ‘I think we can safely assume that Elizabeth’s child does exist.’

  Noel opened his mouth to answer, to tell the King about Boyd-Brackenbury, but before he could speak Henry removed a sheaf of paper from his pocket.

  ‘I have here a list of all living male jokers born in the latter half of 1948 from the wild card registry.’ He skimmed it across the polished surface of the coffee table that separated them.

  ‘That information is confidential—’ Noel began.

  ‘L’etat, c’est moi,’ Henry drawled.

  A sick certainty began to grow. ‘With respect, sir, Parliament might not agree. Also la tête est sans repos qui porte une couronne,’ Noel retorted.

  ‘Quote Henry V to me?’

  ‘If the crown fits …’ Noel’s voice trailed away.

  ‘It does and I’d like my head to rest easily.’

  They were matching stares. It was a miracle the paper that lay between them didn’t burst into flames. The silence stretched on and on. Finally Henry said, ‘Pick it up.’

  Righteous indignation was not an emotion with which Noel was intimately acquainted. Cynicism about human nature and a life spent in a very dirty business had left him feeling numb to outrage. But not now. Especially in the face of such absurdity.

  Noel surged to his feet. ‘Good God, sir, you would go to such lengths just to spit on your brother’s grave?’ Blood rushed into Henry’s face, leaving it a melange of blotchy red and white. ‘Especially for what is merely a ceremonial position. While we may be sentimental, the Crown’s only useful purpose is to boost the tourist trade. So no, sir, I will not do as you are ever so subtly requesting. I will not kill innocent British citizens.’

  Henry glared at him. ‘Very well, Director, but I’ll have your resignation and you’d best develop amnesia or unfortunate things may happen.’

  ‘You know, I’ve always been very happy to kill people who are simply begging for it or whose removal would improve the state of the world …’ Noel knew his tone was dangerous.

  ‘My people know you are here,’ Henry warned.

  ‘I know. That’s the only reason you are still alive.’ He turned to walk to the door and reflected on how they were both so very English.

  ‘You have not been dismissed!’ Henry snapped.

  Noel paused at the door, hand on the knob. ‘And you are not the King. Good evening, sir.’

  Wednesday

  March 11th

  NOEL LOOKED SERIOUS. THERE wasn’t a hint of the usual cool, detached, mocking attitude about him. Constance was shocked to see an expression of real concern, and maybe even a little fear.

  ‘Good Lord, Noel,’ she said, opening the door wider and letting him in even though it was a ridiculous hour, a little after 3a.m. ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘It’s not what’s happened to me, it’s what’s about to happen to Bobbin.’

  Constance glanced over at Bobbin and he returned her confused expression. ‘What on earth is about to happen to Bobbin? Aside from the current climate where terrorizing jokers is a perfectly fine thing to do.’

  ‘Henry showed me a list. The names were all those of male jokers born in 1948. Not sure how old Bobbin is, but thought I’d best warn you.’ He ran a hand nervously through his hair.

  ‘Warn us about what?’

  ‘He wanted me to kill them. There are fewer of you than one might expect.’

  Constance’s hand fell to her pocket where her scissors were tucked away. It would take only a moment to stab Noel. He wouldn’t be expecting it from her, and he didn’t know that she – and only she – could harm her armoured creations. That was a secret she guarded fiercely. But she was old and Noel, though he was almost forty and beginning to be past his prime, still had thirty good years on her. Bobbin needed to be protected.

  ‘Bobbin,’ she said softly. ‘You should clear out.’

  ‘What are ya talking about?’ he asked. He looked from Constance to Noel. ‘Good Lord, woman! After what you told me about Matthews, if he’d wanted me dead I’d be deader than a … well, a very dead carp.’

  ‘Noel,’ she said as she slipped the scissors from their sheath and started to slide them from her pocket. ‘Then I think you should leave.’

  ‘I’m an assassin, Connie! Put those shears away. Bobbin is right. If I wanted him dead, well, that’s what he’d be. And you as well. I’m here because you’ve always been good to me. Even when I was a lad. I can’t support Henry any more.’ A wry smile, more like the normal Noel, slipped across his face. ‘There are some things even I won’t do.’

  ‘You were a good lad, Noel,’ she replied warily. ‘So, why are you here?’

  ‘I want you and Bobbin to get out of the country. It’s not safe. I won’t do what Henry wanted, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of people who will.’

  ‘This is madness!’ Bobbin cried. ‘People won’t stand for it!’

  ‘The people won’t know,’ Noel said coldly.

  ‘When seventy-year-old jokers start piling up like firewood they will,’ Constance snapped.

  ‘Connie,’ Noel began in a pleading voice. It frightened Constance. ‘I need you and Bobbin to leave now. It’s too dangerous and I can’t protect you.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you like this,’ Constance said. ‘I don’t like it.’

  Noel ran a hand over his face. He looked haggard and his clothes were askew, not
at all his normal state. ‘If I didn’t think you were in terrible danger, Bobbin, I’d never ask this of you. There are other matters I must attend to and I can’t play nursemaid to a pair of geriatrics.’

  Constance stepped forward thinking it might do to give him a good slap. ‘We don’t need a nursemaid, Noel,’ she growled. ‘We are quite capable of taking care of ourselves.’

  ‘Think, Connie! You’re not ready for what’s coming. These are men who kill for money. Professionals. You’re out-matched.’

  It took Constance aback. Seeing Noel worried, almost frightened, was beyond disconcerting – it was terrifying. And she didn’t scare easily.

  Bobbin reached out and took Constance’s hand. ‘Very well, Noel,’ Bobbin said in a remarkably calm voice. ‘We’ll go. I bought a house in France for Constance a few years ago. We’ll go there.’

  ‘You what?’ Constance exclaimed.

  ‘Investment and security, my dear,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘You make rather a lot of money through your licensed properties and clothing lines. I wanted you to have a retreat and maybe even a house to retire to. Of course, you like working too much to take a real holiday.’

  ‘So, I’ve had a house in France for how long?’

  ‘About six years.’

  ‘And you never told me about it?’

  He shrugged. ‘You didn’t seem interested in anything other than work. I knew eventually you’d retire and I could tell you then.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘This is all very sweet and affecting, but the two of you need to fucking stop,’ Noel drawled, then snapped. ‘You have somewhere to go. Go there! Now!’

  ‘We’ll just grab a few things,’ Constance began.

  ‘Have all the shops in France suddenly vanished?’ That was the Noel she knew. ‘Just go to St Pancras, buy a ticket on the Eurostar and get to France as quickly as possible.’