Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  The darkness worked in our favour. We extinguished our night lights, slunk out of the pod and stood just outside the door for a moment, waiting for our eyes to adjust. The moon was dodging in and out of the clouds and the wind scudded off the river dragging hot, moist air with it. I wondered if there was a weather front coming through.

  Hardly any lights showed in the houses around us. Most people couldn’t afford candles or lamps so they tended to get up and go to bed with the sun. The night was full of shadows and the Tower of London was just a gaping hole of blackness in the dark.

  We waited quietly, pressed against the side of the pod. I’ve no idea what we were waiting for. Normally I’d have been sniffing around all over the place but since I had two VIPs with me, I rather thought it might be wise to exercise a little caution. I could hear voices in the far distance and lights were showing from the boats on the river, but gradually all sounds died away, the wind dropped and stillness fell. And the night was so muggy. It was almost as hot as during the day. There was an air of apprehension. I could feel a prickling on the back of my neck. Something was going to happen and I was right in the middle of it. It’s a great feeling.

  Far off in the distance, thunder rumbled.

  We stood for what seemed like hours – and might well have been – and then, just as I was beginning to wonder if we were wasting our time after all and this dousing of the lights was perfectly normal behaviour – although given the date and the location that seemed very unlikely – not far off, something sounded in the dark. Something rasped against a stone wall. Something metallic. A sword, perhaps.

  I couldn’t tell from which direction it came and it struck me we had the worst of both worlds here. We were close enough to be at risk but not close enough to see what was going on. I threw caution to the winds. I would never have this chance again.

  I breathed, ‘Stay behind me,’ and off we set and they did. If only I commanded such obedience from my own department.

  The Wharf was scattered with all sorts of stuff. Barrels, casks, crates and so forth, some just stacked up, others covered with tarpaulins. I found a convenient heap and we crouched behind it. When trying to avoid detection, keeping above or below people’s eyeline is always a good idea.

  This stack of crates wasn’t really big enough to conceal the three of us. I could only cross my fingers no one came this way. We had our backs to the river. Henry III’s Watergate – a small gate which opened out into the area between the inner and outer walls – was just opposite us. This gate had been closed during our afternoon visit because the gates in the Middle and Byward Towers seemed to be the preferred option for normal, everyday use.

  We were still uncomfortably exposed. We had no night vision and no torches. Not that I would have allowed torches anyway. Too much of a giveaway. I had a nasty idea that anyone caught in the near vicinity tonight would soon find themselves in the Thames with a knife between their shoulder blades and a pocket full of rocks.

  Thunder rumbled again. It seemed a little closer this time. No lightning. Not yet. I wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad thing. Lightning would enable us to see but also to be seen. Yes, I really wasn’t happy with our position at all.

  And then, all of a sudden, I was. Because the Watergate was opening. Silently, and in the dark, the gate was opening. Whatever was kicking off, it was all going to happen right in front of us. Good luck like this doesn’t come our way very often. I could hardly believe it. Just for once, we were in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

  My heart was hammering away and not just because this was such an exposed, dangerous place to be. There was excitement and adrenalin as well because, if we were very, very lucky, we could be about to solve one of History’s greatest mysteries. What happened to the Princes in the Tower. Not the whole mystery, of course – if they were dead then we still wouldn’t know who had ordered their murder. King Richard himself? His friend and ally, the Duke of Buckingham? But this could give us a useful starting point for future jumps. Perhaps we would actually be able to get someone into the princes’ lodgings and once there . . .

  I had my recorder. I’d shoved in new power packs and was all ready to go. Fortunately, it was soundless although I had to remember not to hold my breath because that makes my hands shake.

  The sky flashed pinkly and a man’s deep voice rumbled, cut off as if someone had shushed him. Like us, they had no lights, either. Whatever they had done or were doing, it was to be performed in silent darkness.

  A small boat – almost a punt – appeared. One man was standing at the rear with the pole. Two other men sat at the front. The boat nosed its way silently through the Watergate and then stopped. They were waiting to see whether the coast was clear.

  Eventually, one of them climbed out, hooded and cloaked despite the heat. I could just make out a sword in one hand and what looked like a dark lantern in the other. As far as I could see, his sword was clean. No blood. He stood in the shadow of the Tower, looking out across the river. Motionless. Waiting.

  Now I really did hold my breath, staring at him in the darkness, willing him not to look our way. He was closer to the river than to us but if he turned to look . . . It was very tempting to try to shuffle around our pile of crates and barrels but the slightest sound would be a disaster so I crossed my fingers and waited.

  He stood, turning his head from side to side for what seemed like a very long time. There was no guilty haste here. Whatever he was up to – whatever he’d done or was about to do – he was making absolutely certain no one was around before . . .

  Before what? What was he waiting for? Well, if we lived long enough, we’d find out.

  Having completed a very thorough scrutiny of his immediate surroundings, he turned back to face the Tower. Head tilted back, he scanned the walls, the towers, the whole massive structure rearing up before him, dark and silent, keeping its secrets just as it’s always done. Which was all very well, but if he lit his lantern now . . . We were rather closer than was probably wise.

  I froze – which was the best thing I could have done and I suspected Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown were doing a fair amount of freezing as well. And the worst thing was – if we were attacked then I’d do what I could to save them, but that was all I could do. A quick zap with my stun gun and a mad dash in the dark back to the pod. Because that would be all I was allowed to do. We’re not supposed to interfere. In any way. Because even the slightest action can have the most enormous consequences.

  19

  I’ll never forget that moment. For me, time had stopped. The whole world seemed still and silent. The only sound was the occasional gurgle of the river as it flowed past. For how much longer would the man with the lantern stand there – just staring into the night?

  Louder and closer, thunder rumbled again. On and on as if it would never stop. The storm broke and the rain came down in stair rods, hitting the ground so violently it splashed a good twelve inches back into the air again.

  Almost as if he’d been waiting for this moment, he moved. With that endless thunderclap still curdling the heavens, he gestured to the boat to follow him and strode across the Wharf to a set of rough steps leading down to the river. Uncovering his lantern, he held it high and swung it left and right. A tiny gleam of light showed through the driving rain. For a few seconds nothing happened and I wondered if his light was so weak that even if there was anyone out there then they’d miss it, but I was wrong. Out on the river, an answering beam showed. There was a boat out there. Waiting.

  He set down his lantern, and holding his cloak tightly against the wind and rain, he strode back to the punt, now tentatively emerging from the Watergate. There was a murmur of voices. I rubbed the rain out of my eyes and kept recording.

  The man at the back poled slowly and silently – not that I would have heard anything over the drumming rain. Was that why they’d chosen a punt? Less splash than oars? It w
as such a tiny thing, though. They surely weren’t proposing to set off into the night in it. Especially a night like this.

  They weren’t. The tide was in and they were able to clear the gate and glide silently down towards the river. Where they stopped.

  Whatever was going on here, they really had a brilliant night for it. I was only fifty feet away and I could hardly see a thing. Anyone further away than that wouldn’t have a clue. And that was supposing anyone other than villains and historians would be out on a night like this.

  The first man picked up his lantern and opened it. The tiny gleam of light broadened into a golden circle. Setting it down, he assisted one of the men climbing out of the punt which I thought a very gentlemanly thing for him to do until I saw why. The other man was carrying a long, limp, closely-wrapped bundle over one shoulder.

  The cloaked man held the punt steady as the second man climbed out, also with a similar bundle. And all the time, the rain was coming down in stair rods.

  Job done, the punt backed silently out of the circle of light, back into the shadows of the Watergate. Within a few seconds it was completely out of sight.

  Behind me I heard Mrs Brown inhale sharply. Fortunately, the rain drumming on the tarpaulin drowned all sound. The three men made their way to the steps, concentrating on finding their way through the rain and keeping their footing on suddenly greasy paving. In single file they waited at the top and stood, huddled together, shoulders hunched in the rain, under the weight of their cargo.

  I never had any proof – there was absolutely nothing to identify these men – but if Peterson had been here with me, we’d have been placing bets we were looking at James Tyrrell, trusted servant of Richard III; John Dighton, a groom and generally reckoned to be a nasty piece of work; and Miles Forrest, one of the gaolers. They had their backs to us and it was too dark to see their faces anyway, but I reckoned I’d have been accepting my winnings from Peterson as soon as he could be persuaded to hand them over.

  Closer this time, a light shone out again. The rain was slackening after the initial heavy downpour; enough to make out a rhythmic splashing as a largish rowing boat appeared out of the darkness. I could hear its oars creaking. It bumped against the steps with a hollow, wooden noise and two men jumped out to hold it in place.

  We’re supposed to be professionals. At least, that’s what I tell everyone. We’re trained to keep recording, no matter what’s going on in front of us. Keep recording. Sort out the details later. Just get a record of everything that’s happening because you can’t come back and do it again. The urge to stop recording and watch the scene unfolding in front of me was so overwhelming. Because I wanted to see this for myself. But I couldn’t. I had to keep going. It occurred to me that this might be the most important recording I’d ever made.

  The first bundle was handed over and placed in the bottom of the boat. Whatever or whoever it was – and I think we all know the answer to that one by now – was quite still. And floppy. Dead already, perhaps? I zoomed in for a close-up, looking for anything that might tell us. The only clue I had is that the bundle seemed to be laid down quite gently. It might be that they simply didn’t want to make any sort of noise, of course. The second man unhitched his bundle and as he passed it across to the boat – it jerked.

  Bloody hell – it moved. It was a person and it was alive. I thought I caught a faint cry.

  The men were galvanised into action. They dropped the bundle into the boat – not anywhere as gently as the first one – and again I thought I heard a cry. The two men climbed back into the boat in a hurry and the others shoved it roughly out into the river almost before they were aboard. It was lost to sight almost immediately. The remaining men hurried back towards us.

  And now we had a big problem. Their lanterns, weak though they were, had lost them their night sight and they’d become disorientated. I didn’t know whether they were heading for the Byward Tower or back towards the Watergate. What they were doing was half-walking, half-running directly towards us.

  I didn’t know what to do. If we moved, even in this weather, they’d both see and hear us and if ever there was a time and place in English History where witnesses were not required – this was it. We could be dead in seconds.

  I didn’t know if their plan was to try to grope their way back to the Watergate, but the punt had gone, so why would they? Thunder boomed again. But no accompanying lightning flash, thank goodness. It would seem the god of historians was on the job. I could see their dark shapes working their way closer and closer to us. I could hear their panting breath and splashing footsteps in the puddles of water.

  There were three of them. The one with the sword, the others almost certainly with daggers. Or cudgels, possibly, concealed under their cloaks. I could probably take out one with my stun gun. Dr Bairstow had his swordstick. Yes, we’d have the element of surprise – but I doubted we could overcome all three of them. I was certain someone would be watching from the Tower. Someone would be covering their backs as they brought the princes out. A shout – an arrow in the dark – or three – and that would be the end of us.

  I had no idea what to do but, in the end, we were saved by pure luck. They were only eight or ten paces away from us. We were slightly to their right, crouching in the downpour, hardly daring to breathe, when another shadowy figure emerged from the night, shouted the medieval equivalent of, ‘Hoy, over here, idiots,’ and they veered away from us. Moments later, they were around the corner and out of sight. I have no idea if they returned to the Tower or pushed off while the going was good.

  Silence fell. Well, apart from the rain. And my still thumping heart.

  I got my passengers back on their feet. We needed to shift while we still could. I suspected we had only a few minutes. They would want to give the boat time to get clear before relighting the torches and braziers. If they could in this storm. What an excellent reason for all the lights going out. Had that been planned? Or just good luck?

  I thought quickly. We should pull ourselves together and then make a quick dash to the pod, no more than a couple of hundred yards away, for a swift mug of tea and a conference. And a towel. I had an idea this storm hadn’t even begun to get going.

  I was soaked to my skin. The rain had slowed right down but that initial downpour – in the way of summer storms – had been substantial. The night had turned cold and excitement, terror, adrenalin – all the usual stuff for a St Mary’s assignment – was coursing through my bloodstream. Still, as I said, a cup of tea would soon sort us out.

  I took a quick look around and then gave them the nod. We backed away from the barrels, careful not to disturb anything and send it rolling noisily across the Wharf, and crept off through the night, back towards the pod. Not far now.

  And then, just as I thought our exciting night was over, I heard a cry. From out across the river. A boy’s high voice, shrill with fear. And then a man’s shout. The boy cried out again. And then – a faint splash. And then more splashing. I knew what that was. Someone was in the river.

  Somewhere out there, upriver and over to our right, there was a brief flash of light again. Someone had risked opening his lantern. I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the front of the rowboat. His arm was illuminated as he held the lantern high. I heard him shout. I saw him lean out over the boat and point and there, in the water, not too far from where we were standing, I caught a quick glimpse – no more than that – of a small white face and flailing arms, and then it was gone as the river swept it out of the beam of light.

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Mrs Brown and before I could do anything – she was off, running towards the steps.

  I said, ‘Shit,’ because that’s always useful and Dr Bairstow said, ‘After her, Max.’

  I shoved my recorder at him for safekeeping and took off.

  She could really move. She reached the river well ahead of me, and plunged straight in. I had no choi
ce but to follow her. Because now she was in real trouble. Not just because of the danger of her being swept away and drowned – a very real possibility and not to be completely ignored – but the much bigger and far more serious problem of her doing something that would interfere with History. I’ve said it before. You can’t interfere with History. History doesn’t like it. And before anyone says anything – yes, I know, I’ve interfered all over the place and sometimes it’s gone well and sometimes it’s been a bit of a catastrophe – but this was serious. Because this was a turning point. Whatever happened to those little boys must be allowed to happen. There was never an Edward V. He never came to the throne. He vanished from History. As did his brother. And now we had a good idea of how that had happened.

  I know the bones of two children were found a couple of centuries later, buried in a box ten feet down under a staircase leading to the chapel in the White Tower, and I’ve always been a bit suspicious about that. Digging a hole that deep isn’t something that could be accomplished in ten minutes. Some people think they were the remains of the princes. Charles II chose to believe they were and had them reburied in Westminster Abbey, but I’ve always wondered. Why would anyone do that? Why go to all that fuss? Digging up stone floors isn’t something you can do quietly. You need a pickaxe to prise up the stone slabs. You need to dig the hole. You need somewhere to put the spoil. And there would be a lot of it. A ten-foot hole would produce ten feet of spoil. And were the bodies buried intact? Or were they taken away, rendered down – with all the difficulties that would entail – and just the bones buried there? It didn’t make sense. Did no one notice what would have been quite a sizeable hole being dug? Did no one say, ‘Actually, chaps, has anyone seen young Edward and his brother today? No, neither have I. Mind you don’t fall into that hole.’