“Is that all you care about?” Miller asked. “I keep telling you, I’ve never heard him say anything about communism.”
“You’ve got to understand,” the man said. “This other matter just isn’t important. The director says we are already fighting the next war, the war against communism. This war is a triumph of truth, justice, and the American way. And it’s over.”
Miller said nothing.
“You can let yourself out,” the man said. Then he turned to his typewriter, rolled a form into it, and began to type.
<
~ * ~
BRENDAN DUBOIS
Richard’s Children
from Much Ado About Murder
For mid-October, the weather in London was quite warm and the sun was out, another rare occurrence in this cloudy town. Kevin Tanner, assistant professor of English at Lovecraft University in Massachusetts, sat on a park bench in the middle of a small courtyard at the Tower of London. He still felt a bit jet-lagged, like everything he saw was too bright and loud, and the scents and sounds were too strong and forceful. He was near one of the largest stone buildings in the Tower of London complex, the White Tower, and there he waited. He had been here once before, as a grad student, more than sixteen years ago, and it seemed like not much had changed over the years. There were manicured lawns, sidewalks, and walls and battlements and towers, all representing nearly a thousand years of English history. And beyond the Tower complex, the soaring span of the Tower Bridge — looking ancient, of course, but less than a hundred years old — and the wide and magnificent Thames.
At his feet was a small red knapsack, and just a half-hour ago — after spending nearly twenty minutes in line for the privilege of spending eleven pounds to gain entry — a well-dressed and polite security officer had examined his bag and its contents. Inside the bag was a water bottle, two candy bars, a thick guidebook to London, and secured in a zippered pouch within the knapsack, his passport and round-trip airline ticket. He supposed that if the security guard had been more on the job, he would have looked at the airline ticket and inquired as to how an assistant professor at a small college with a savings account of just over two thousand dollars could have afforded a round-trip, first-class airline ticket. Now that would have been something worth investigating.
Despite the oddity of this whole trip and the arrangements, he had enjoyed the flight over. He had never traveled business class in his life, never mind first class, and he felt slightly guilty at having all the attention and comforts of being up in the forward cabin. But after ten or so minutes, he quickly realized why it was so special. How could anybody not want to fly first class if they could afford it? The wide, plush seats, with plenty of elbow- and legroom, and the flight attendants who were at his beck and call. That’s when he felt that familiar flush of anger and embarrassment. Anger at being someone supposedly admired in society, a teacher of children, a molder of future generations, and the only way he could come to England and in first class was through the generosity of strangers. And embarrassment, for he was a grown man, had made grownup choices, and he shouldn’t be angry at that.
Still, he thought, looking down at his bag, it was going to be pleasant flying back.
He looked around him, seeing the crowds of tourists. There were two types: those moving about the grounds of the Tower by themselves, with brochures and maps, and those in large groups following one of the numerous Yeoman Warders, dressed in their dark blue and red Beefeater uniforms. Each uniform had ER written on the chest in fine script. Elizabeth Regina. Kevin crossed his legs, waited, checked his watch. It was 11 a.m., and a man came over to him, wearing a red rose in the lapel of his suit coat. He was tall, gaunt, with thick gray hair combed back in a lionlike mane. The suit and shoes were black, as was the tie, and the shirt was white. The man came to him and nodded.
“Professor Tanner,” he said in a cultured English accent that said it all: Cambridge or Oxford, followed by a civil service position at Whitehall, relaxing in all the right clubs, following the cricket matches on the BBC.
“The same,” Kevin said. “And Mister Lancaster?”
“As well,” he said. “May I join you?”
He shifted on the park bench, turned so he could watch the man sit down and see how he carefully adjusted the pleat of his pants.
“I trust your flight was uneventful?”
“It was,” he said.
“And your room is satisfactory?”
Kevin smiled. “The Savoy is just as it’s advertised. I think even a broom closet would be satisfactory in that place.”
If he was hoping for a response from Mister Lancaster, it didn’t happen. The older man nodded and said, “I see. I appreciate you coming here on such short notice. Will your university miss you?”
“No,” he said, a note of regret in his voice, he realized. “I’m on sabbatical. Supposedly working on a book. Which is why I was able to drop everything to come here and see you.”
“Really, then.”
Kevin paused. “All right, I have to admit, you folks raised my curiosity. A round-trip first-class ticket, first-class accommodations, plus a stipend in pounds equal to about a thousand dollars. All to meet with you at the Tower of London. And to discuss what?”
“Quite,” Lancaster said, folding his long hands over his knees. “History, if you don’t mind. Some history old and history new, all starting here in England.”
“Are you sure you want me?” he asked. “I’m an assistant professor of English. Not history.”
The older man shrugged. “Yes, I know you’re not a professor of history. And yet I know everything there is to know about you, Professor Tanner. Your residence in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Your single life. The courses you teach, your love of Shakespeare and Elizabethan England. Your solitary book, a study of gravestone epitaphs in northern New England, which sold exactly six hundred and four copies two years ago. And the fact that you are currently struggling on another book, one that will guarantee you receive tenure. But that book is nowhere near being completed, am I correct?”
Kevin knew he should be insulted by the fact that this pompous Englishman knew so much about his life, but he was almost feeling honored, that someone should care so much. “All right, you’ve done some research. To what purpose?”
“To help you with this book you’re working on,” Lancaster said.
“Excuse me?”
Lancaster turned away and said, “Look about you, Professor Tanner. Hundreds of years of history, turned into a bloody tourist attraction. The other day I was on a tour here, with a visitor from Germany. One of the Beefeaters told the tourists that the ER on his chest stood for ‘Extremely Romantic.’ Imagine that, making sport of our monarch, in this property that belongs to her. And think about all of the people who have been imprisoned here, from Lady Jane Grey to Sir Walter Raleigh to Rudolf Hess. And in this White Tower behind us, do you know what famous black deed happened there?”
He turned on his bench, looked at the tall building, the line of tourists snaking their way in. “The two princes.”
“Yes, the two princes. Young Edward the Fourth and his younger brother Richard, the Duke of York. Imprisoned here by Richard the Third. You do know Richard the Third, do you not?”
“If you know my background, you already know the answer to that.”
“Ah, yes, Richard the Third. One of the most controversial monarchs this poor, green, sceptered isle has ever seen. Made even more famous by our bard, Mister Shakespeare. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent.’ Either a great man or an evil man, depending on your point of view. And what happened to the young princes, again, depending on your point of view. What do you think happened, Professor?”
Kevin said carefully, “There’s evidence supporting each view, that Richard the Third either had the princes killed, to remove possible claimants to the throne, or that he was ignorant of the whole thing. But the bones of two young boys were found there, buried under a staircase, some years later.”
Kevin felt pressure, like he was going up before the damn tenure board itself. “I think he had them murdered. That’s what I think.”
“And what’s your evidence?”
“The evidence is, who profits? After Richard the Third seized the throne, he had to eliminate any possible rivals. Those two boys were his rivals. He did what he had to do. It was purely political, nothing else.”
“Hmmm. And your book, the one you’re working on, compares and contrasts our Richard, our Duke of Gloucester, with another Richard from your country, am I correct?”
“Jesus,” Kevin exclaimed. “Who the hell are you people?”
“Never mind that right now,” Lancaster said, leaning in closer to him. “Correct, am I not? Our Richard and your Richard, the Duke of San Clemente. Mister Nixon. Quite the comparison, eh? Richard the Third and Richard Nixon. The use of power, the authority, all that wonderful stuff. But tell me, the book is not going well, is it?”
Kevin thought about lying and then said, “Yeah, you’re right. The book isn’t going well.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s all surface crap, that’s all,” he said heatedly. “Sure, it sounds good on paper and in talking at the faculty lounge, but c’mon, Richard the Third and Nixon? Nixon certainly was something else, but he didn’t have blood on his hands, like your Duke of Gloucester. And don’t start yapping at me about Vietnam. He didn’t start that war. Kennedy and Johnson did. And for all his faults, he ended it the best way he could. Messily, but the best way he could. And I think, and so do other historians, that his opening to China balanced that out. And that’s why the book isn’t going well. Because it’s all on the surface, like it came from some overheated grad student’s imagination.”
Lancaster nodded again, plucked a piece of invisible lint off his suit coat. “Perhaps you’re ignoring the rather blatant comparisons.”
“What do you mean?”
The older man gestured to the White Tower. “What crime was committed here. The murder of two young princes. And what kind of crime was committed in your own country. In 1963 and 1968. Two young princes, loved and admired, who promised great things to their people. Cut down at a young age.”
Kevin was aghast. “The Kennedys?”
“Of course.”
“You brought me all the way over here to spout conspiracy theories? Gibberish? Who the hell are you?”
“I told you, in a matter of —”
Kevin grabbed his knapsack. “And I’ll tell you, unless you come straight with me, right now, I’m leaving. I’m not here to listen to half-ass Kennedy assassination theories. And you can cancel my room and airfare home, and I don’t care. I’ll pay my own way.”
“And not finish your book?”
“That’s the price I’ll pay,” Kevin said.
Lancaster smiled thinly. “How noble. Very well. Here we go. Leave now and your book will never be completed, you know that, don’t you. Leave now and you won’t get tenure. In fact, your life will start getting unwound. You will be forced out of your college, perhaps be tossed back into the great unwashed. Teaching English at high schools or what you folks call vocational technical schools. Or perhaps conjugating verbs to prisoners. Is that a better life than teaching at a comfortable university?”
Kevin felt his breathing quicken. “Go on.”
“Stay with me and learn what I have to offer, and you’ll not only write your book, you’ll write a book that will become an instant bestseller. You will be known across your country and ours as well. If you want to stay at your university, that will be fine, but I can tell you, once this book comes out, Harvard and Yale and Stanford and Columbia will come begging at your door. That’s your choice now, isn’t it. To stay or go.”
“Yeah, that’s a hell of a choice,” Kevin said.
Lancaster smiled. “But a choice nonetheless. It’s a pleasant day, Professor Tanner. We’re both alive and breathing and enjoying this lovely autumn day in the best city on this planet. Let me continue with what I have to say, and what I have to offer. And then you can leave and decide what to do next. All right? Don’t you at least owe me some time, considering the expense that was incurred to bring you over to our fair country?”
Kevin lowered his knapsack to the ground. “All right, I guess I do owe you that. But make it quick and to the point. And I’m not going to do a damn thing until you tell me who you are, and why you spent all this money to have me fly over.”
Lancaster nodded, folded his long hands. “Very well. That seems quite fair. Well, let’s begin, shall we? Another history lesson, if you prefer. Let’s set the stage, that place, as Shakespeare said, where we are all just actors. But this stage has a bloody history. Tell me, who runs the world?”
Kevin hesitated, thinking that he had fallen into the clutches of that odd group of loons and eccentrics who sometimes haunt college campuses. At one faculty luncheon some months ago, he remembered some physics professor bemoaning the fact that a junkyard dealer in New Hampshire had finally come across a Unified Field Theory and wanted the professor’s assistance in getting his theory published. So now it was Kevin’s turn, and again that temptation came up, to walk away from this odd man.
But...like the man said, it was a pleasant day, he had money and a nice room and a ticket back home, and if nothing else, at least he’d have a good story to tell at the next English faculty function.
So he nodded, gestured toward Lancaster. “All right, a fair question. Who does run the world? I’m not sure the world is actually run. If anything, I think it’s hard to even come to an agreement as to who actually runs the country. As a conservative, I could say legally elected governments, in most cases, run most countries in the world. As a liberal, I suppose I could make a case that in some nations, corporations or the military have their hands in running things.”
“Ah, not a bad answer,” Lancaster said. “But let’s try another theory, shall we? What would you say if I told you that royal families across this great globe actually ... as you say it, run things?”
Oh, this was going to be a great story when he got back to Massachusetts, he thought. Kevin said, “All right, that’s a theory. An odd one, but still a theory. But I’m not sure I understand you. Royal families, like the House of Windsor, actually run things?” Kevin found himself laughing. “Then you’d think they could do a better job in running their own personal lives, don’t you?”
Lancaster didn’t return the laughter. “How droll, I’m sure, Professor Tanner. But when I say royal families, I don’t restrict myself to Europe. To make you feel more comfortable, let’s discuss your own country, shall we?”
“The States?” He tried to restrain a laugh. “What royalty we have resides in Hollywood. Or Palm Springs. Or on Wall Street. They’re involved in entertainment or business, and they get their photos in People magazine when they become famous, and in the National Enquirer when they get arrested or sent into drug rehab. That’s our royalty, Mister Lancaster. Your royalty’s been written up by Mister Shakespeare himself. Our royalty, if that’s what you call it, is a pretty ratty lot, if you ask me.”
Lancaster’s face seemed more drawn. “This isn’t a joke.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t being amusing.”
“You certainly weren’t. And you’re not taking this seriously. Not at all. And I suggest you do.”
“Or what? Will you have me arrested?”
Lancaster’s look was not reassuring. “That would be easier to accomplish than you think, Professor Tanner. So let’s proceed, shall we? I was asking you about royalty in America. I don’t care about your tycoons or your entertainers. What I do care about is the royalty involved in politics, the kind that actually, again as you say, ‘runs things.’”
Kevin didn’t like the threat he had just heard, but he pressed on. “I’m sorry, I don
’t understand. We don’t have any kind of royalty in the United States.”
Lancaster’s look was imperious. “Really? Look at your own history. What names in the last half of the twentieth century have either been in your Oval Office or nearby in your Congress? Let’s try, shall we? Roosevelt, Kennedy, Rockefeller, du Pont, Bush, Gore, Byrd, Russell . . . wealthy families of influence who reside in and maintain the circles of power in your country. Tell me, Professor Tanner, are you really that naive?”
“No, I’m not that naive, and I’m also not that stupid,” Kevin said, thinking again of what a great tale this would make once he got back home. “But you’re reaching, Mister Lancaster, you’re reaching quite a lot. Those families are political families, that’s all, just like other families that have their backgrounds in oil, retail, or other kinds of business. Some families pick cattle, others pick politics. That’s it.”
The Best American Mystery Stories 2003 Page 16