The Last Queen of England

by Steve Robinson

  “At least now we know,” Tayte said. “And this note must mean he’s okay. They’re clearly offering a trade.”

  Jean nodded and Tayte realised he’d been holding her hand the whole time. He smiled and let it go again. “Look, why don’t you finish getting ready,” he said. “I’ll hit the shower. We’ll skip breakfast. First one out of their room can knock for the other.”

  Within twenty minutes they were washed and dressed and pacing across the hotel lobby, heading outside to Jean’s motorbike.

  “Can’t we take the subway?” Tayte said.

  Jean slipped her leather jacket on as they walked. “You’re not wimping out on me, are you?”

  Tayte feigned a smile. “Not at all. It’s just -” He held up his briefcase. “I thought it would be easier, that’s all.”

  “You can hold on to it like before.”

  Tayte was more worried about how he was going to hold on to the bike. “What about helmets?”

  “They’re in the panniers.”

  “Good,” Tayte said without conviction. “Helmets are good.”

  They reached the reception desk and out of the corner of his eye Tayte was aware of two men sitting in the lobby reading newspapers. They were dressed in jeans and polo shirts: one in a green fleece jacket, the other in black leather. They folded their papers, their eyes blatantly on Tayte and Jean as they passed.

  “Mr Tayte? Ms Summer?”

  Tayte and Jean stopped walking. As the men approached, the one wearing the fleece produced a wallet, which he opened to show his ID.

  “We’re with the Security Service. I’m Officer Jackson and this is Officer Stubbs.”

  The other man gave an impassive nod.

  “What’s this about?” Tayte asked.

  “I think you know what this is about,” Jackson said. “We’ve been assigned to stick with you until you find what you’re looking for. There’s a car waiting outside.”

  “I see,” Tayte said. “You mind if I make a quick call first?”

  “Not at all.”

  Tayte called Fable on the BlackBerry, checking his watch while he waited for him to pick up. It was eight-fifteen and he figured the inspector would be on the job again by now - if he’d slept at all. When he picked up, the conversation was surprisingly short, Fable’s tone drained of emotion.

  “That’s right,” Fable said. “The Security Service are running things from here. Until we get a lead on Joseph Cornell, I’m going to be sitting in my office filling out paperwork.”

  Tayte was sorry to hear that, but given the government’s concerns he wasn’t surprised. When the call ended he turned back to Jackson and Stubbs.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  As they followed the officers outside, Tayte whispered to Jean, “Don’t say anything about the note.”

  Jean nodded back, indicating that she understood why. The Security Service wanted them to solve this genealogical puzzle and discover the heir’s identity. Yet when they did, if Jean wanted to see her son again, they had to hand the prize over to the very person they were trying to stop. Tayte felt like he was in a one horse race he couldn’t win and the appearance of the two officers only served to complicate things. Stepping out into the cool morning, he knew they had to lose their escort. They needed to be free agents if they were going to find a way to satisfy everyone and reunite Jean with her son.

  But how?

  The question dominated Tayte’s thoughts all the way to St Paul’s.

  Trenton McAlister was sitting in the back of a silver Mercedes near Buckingham Palace when the call he’d been waiting for came through. His driver had pulled over beneath the trees along Constitution Hill, hazard lights flashing while he set up the folding bicycle from the boot of the car. McAlister didn’t want to arrive at the rally out of breath or heaven forbid, sweating.

  His caller’s tone immediately told him he was not about to receive the news he was hoping for.

  “Further complications have arisen.”

  McAlister felt his skin prickle. “What kind of complications? No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear any of the details.”

  “Then let’s just say that it’s a matter of risk versus reward.”

  “Get to the point,” McAlister said. “What do you want?”

  “I want more money.”

  McAlister smiled to himself. “Of course you do. How much?”

  “Double.”

  McAlister nearly choked on his dry tongue. “As much as that? My, my.”

  As a contingency McAlister had factored in half as much of the asking price again. It was human nature to be greedy and he wasn’t going to play the hypocrite now. But he hadn’t figured on double. He would have to make up the deficit from his own private funds, which amounted to just about everything he had if not a little more.

  “And I want half up front,” the caller said. “Transferred to my account within the next hour. The details will follow after this call.”

  McAlister had to take a deep breath at hearing that. He hadn’t parted with any of his or his associates’ money yet and he had no guarantee that he would ever hear from this man again once he had.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Trust me, don’t trust me. I could tell you that I’m a man of my word but what would that mean to you?”

  McAlister felt trapped. It was a gamble, but all his dreams came down to this and he’d made promises that powerful people expected him to deliver on.

  He gave a long sigh. “Very well. But the payment fixes the price. Don’t try to screw me over a second time.”

  “The price is fixed,” the caller agreed.

  “Good. So when am I going to get what I’m paying for?”

  “It may only be a matter of hours.”

  Hearing that put the smile back on McAlister’s face. “That’s very good indeed.”

  As the call ended and he got out of the car, McAlister wanted to call his journalist, Webber, to instruct him to begin the campaign that he believed would discredit the monarchy beyond redemption. But something told him to wait. If Queen Anne’s heir proved to be real, he could show how the plot that put the Hanoverian bloodline on the throne in the first place was perhaps more than just a theory. It might cause the people to question the Royal Family’s right to be there at all, and if a bona fide heir to Queen Anne could be produced...

  McAlister snapped his bicycle clips around his ankles and took the bicycle from his driver. He felt goose bumps ripple through him as he imagined the royal scandal that would ensue: the manipulation of the royal bloodline, the heinous way in which it had been manipulated and the cries for a royal referendum. He put on a cycling helmet and proudly took up a campaign board on which was written, ‘Republic Britain Now!’. Then he cycled along Constitution Hill towards Buckingham Palace like Don Quixote, the board as his lance and the small bicycle as his mighty charger, galloping to victory.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  St Paul’s Cathedral sits on Ludgate Hill at the highest point in the City of London. Tayte and Jean were standing across the street amidst the morning rush-hour commuters, facing the Great West Gate with officers Jackson and Stubbs close beside them. The air was pungent with acrid engine fumes, not that it bothered Tayte. His attention was focused elsewhere.

  The Portland stone from which the cathedral was built appeared bright against the clear morning sky as Tayte continued to gaze upon it. They were all looking up at the neoclassical structure, with its symmetrical Corinthian portico. The columns led the eye skyward to the relief on the central tympanum depicting the conversion of St Paul, whose statue stood directly above it between the cathedral’s two towers.

  In the background Tayte could just see the top of the great dome and he had to smile at the hypocrisy. Judging by what he’d learnt from Jean over the past few days, the last Catholic king of England, James II, had been forced to abdicate. And later, in 1701, the Act of Settlement had been passed, formally turning the nation’s ba
ck on Catholicism for good. And yet, here was Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, consecrated barely ten years later, whose crowning glory was modelled on the dome of St Peter’s Basilica in Rome - the head of the Catholic Church.

  As the traffic lights changed and Tayte turned his attention to Queen Anne and the statue that was the subject of their first line of investigation, he wondered if Anne had known this. He’d heard about Wren’s secret after-hours meetings at the Royal Society in support of Catholic Jacobitism. Was this a backlash? The great architect’s last laugh? The additional irony of seeing the Church of England monarch standing in the foreground certainly put a smile on Tayte’s face.

  He crossed the street at a pace, making directly for the statue. Anne seemed pivotal to everything that had happened, then and now. The ahnentafel, through Ethelred II, had led them here. It seemed fitting then that the statue of Queen Anne herself, standing before the west gate beneath St Paul’s unceasing gaze, might have some part to play in the puzzle. He studied the figures under the scrutiny of Jackson and Stubbs, who hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the hotel.

  Tayte saw a proud monarch with a golden orb and sceptre atop a high pedestal. Below the central figure at each corner sat four ladies - allegorical representations of Great Britain, Ireland, France and the North American colonies. To the front of the statue between Britannia and France was the Royal Arms, depicting the British lions, the French fleur-de-lis and the Irish harp: those dominions over which Anne considered herself sovereign. Tayte approached the plaque on the north side and read it aloud.

  “This replica of the statue of Queen Anne was erected at the expense of the Corporation of London in the year 1886.” He turned to Jean, disappointed and a little perplexed. “It’s a copy.”

  “Yes, but it’s supposed to be an exact copy,” Jean said. “Francis Bird’s original was sculpted from white marble. This is in stone but that should be the only difference.”

  “1886,” Tayte mused. “Do you know when the original was erected?” To hold any significance, he figured the statue had to have been there before the Royal Society Fellows were hanged.

  Jean turned to the BlackBerry. A moment later she sighed and said, “Not until 1712. Two years after the cathedral was completed.”

  “And four years after the hangings at Tyburn,” Tayte said. He turned away and headed for the entrance. “Come on. Ethelred led us here. Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

  Having not long opened for the day the cathedral was quiet. They were not the first visitors to enter, however, and within the hour Tayte supposed the place would be filled with the murmurs of hundreds of tourists. For now, though, as he peered into the baroque interior, he could count the visitors he could see on one hand.

  He looked back towards the street, wondering if anyone beyond the pediment they had just passed beneath was watching them. Given how quiet it was inside the cathedral he figured anyone following them would be easy to see - especially if that someone was the flamboyant Michel Levant. He saw the same bustle of commuters that seemed to have intensified since they arrived. No one stood out. He paid Jean’s entrance fee along with his own and suggested to Jackson and Stubbs that they wait outside.

  “No sense all of us paying to go in,” he said, thinking that he’d find another way out when the time came. “I doubt we’ll be more than five minutes.”

  Tayte got no comment or expression from either of the Security Service officers - just their steady eyes boring into him. Jackson stepped up first. He handed the admission fee to the attendant and the pair followed Tayte and Jean in. Their countenance was beginning to unnerve Tayte. He wanted to crack a joke just to make one of them smile, but instead he just tried to forget they were there, which was difficult given their insistence on maintaining such close proximity. Tayte imagined they were being overly protective because of what happened the last time two Security Service officers had been assigned to them. Whatever their motives, they were far too officious in their duties for Tayte’s liking.

  “I guess this isn’t your first visit?” Tayte said to Jean as they walked along the nave beneath the high ceiling.

  “I’ve lost count,” Jean said.

  “So we don’t need to ask for directions to the crypt?”

  “No. Access is through the north and south transepts. It wasn’t open last time I was here.”

  “Well, let’s hope it is today.”

  They continued across a black and white chequerboard floor towards the quire and high altar at the east end of the cathedral. Tayte’s neck was already stiff from looking up all the time, trying to take everything in.

  “Queen Victoria commissioned the mosaics,” Jean said. “She thought the place lacked colour, particularly in the quire.”

  They reached the Great Circle beneath the main dome, which formed the centre of the transept crossing.

  “The Frescos in the cupola above us were painted by Sir James Thornhill,” Jean said. “He was the pre-eminent painter of his day.” She guided Tayte to their left, into the north transept, passing a monument to Lord Leighton. “Another great painter,” she said. “Victorian era.”

  “Ever thought of becoming a tour guide?” Tayte said with a grin.

  Jean just rolled her eyes at him.

  The crypt was open. They took a stone staircase down beneath the north transept and Tayte was surprised by what he saw. It was unlike most of the crypts he usually encountered in his line of work. It was not the dark, eerie place he’d imagined it to be. There were no cobwebs, no creeping flora starved of daylight, and for a tourist attraction he was surprised to find no dark mood lighting to set the expected tone. This crypt looked more like a contemporary art gallery. Monuments and inscriptions adorned the walls like paintings. The pillars, walls and ceiling vaults were coloured to match the bright Portland stone and from every pillar the ceiling was lit with uplighters.

  “The layout exactly matches the footprint of the upper cathedral,” Jean said as they walked. “It’s the largest crypt in Western Europe.”

  “Really?” Tayte said, raising his eyebrows without awareness as he continued to take everything in.

  “Apparently, the mosaic floor we’re walking on was laid by convicts from Woking prison.”

  Instinctively, everyone looked down. Even Jackson and Stubbs.

  “Tell me if you’ve had enough of the commentary,” Jean added.

  Tayte turned to her and smiled. “No, it’s fascinating, really. You must soak up information like a sponge.”

  They came to a black sarcophagus that was set out on a plinth in the centre of the crypt beneath the dome.

  “Lord Nelson,” Tayte said, reading the inscription.

  “The Duke of Wellington’s here, too,” Jean said. “And Florence Nightingale, Kitchener, Turner and Lawrence - the list goes on.”

  “Lawrence of Arabia?”

  “The very same.”

  They turned away from Nelson, heading to their right beneath the nave.

  “Any idea where Ethelred’s buried?” Tayte asked.

  “I don’t think we’re going to see much,” Jean said. “It’s not really a matter of where he’s buried. There’s a memorial as I recall but that’s about all. It’s on the 1666 plaque.”

  “The Great Fire,” Tayte said, figuring the date alone told him plenty.

  Jean confirmed it. “His tomb was destroyed along with just about everything else.”

  When they found the memorial, Tayte just stared at it and sighed. It was an unadorned grey tablet, inscribed with the names and dates of those interred at the cathedral before the fire.

  “That’s it?” Tayte said. “Ethelred. 1016. King of the Angles?”

  “I told you there wasn’t much to see.”

  Tayte thought it amounted to nothing at all. He read a few names off the plaque, none of which offered any connection.

  “What are we really looking for here? I mean, I know we’re looking for Queen Anne’s heir, but what form is that likely to t
ake?”

  Jean’s downturned expression gave him no encouragement. He thought it through, wondering how these Royal Society Fellows intended to pass the heir’s identity on when the time came. Had something been hidden in the cathedral? Were they looking for a mason’s mark engraved on a stone? He figured St Paul’s must be riddled with such markings but it seemed too fanciful to contemplate - the stuff of Hollywood film scripts. He kept thinking, and it wasn’t until he thought about the man whom he supposed had created the ahnentafel puzzle - the Reverend Naismith - that he knew he had the answer.

  “He was a genealogist,” he reminded himself, thinking aloud. “We’re trying to discover the identity of an heir. That, and something to confirm we’re looking in the right place. It’s all we can really hope to find, isn’t it? All we need to find?”

  Jean indicated the plaque. “Like a name on a memorial?”

  “Exactly,” Tayte said. “Or on a headstone. In my room last night we established that the heir had to have been switched with a newborn baby from another family on one of three possible dates.” He went for the piece of paper he’d written the dates on but Jean beat him to the answer.

  “The first was in March 1697,” she said. “There was a miscarriage in December the same year, which we’ve ruled out. The next was a year later in December 1698 and the last was in January 1700.”

  “Right,” Tayte said, checking his piece of paper and taking note of the exact dates. He started walking. “Come on. We need to check the burial registers.”

  Jean went after him. “Wait,” she said. “That can’t be right.”

  Tayte stopped and Jackson and Stubbs stopped with him. “I don’t see how it can be anything else. What better way was there for a genealogist to send a message, or a name in this case, forward through time than on a headstone? The ahnentafel led us here to St Paul’s Cathedral. It stands to reason that this is where we’re going to find the name we’re looking for.” He flicked the piece of paper he was holding. “All we have to do is check for burials that match these dates. If we find a matching birth or perhaps an infant burial -”