A heavy silence descended on the room, almost as if a gun had gone off, leaving all present partially numbed.
The Duke of York was the first to break the silence. “You believe it was poison?”
“At this stage, Your Grace, it would be impossible to say with any certainty–”
“You mean you don’t know?” Heston interrupted.
“Shhh.” The King raised his hand, ordering calm. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Grant. “Go on, Maurice.”
“The tests we have conducted so far confirm only what areas of the body were affected. The King’s death,” the physician felt breathless on saying those words, “was a direct result of failure of the heart and lungs. The initial misdiagnosis of heart failure was consistent at least with the reported symptoms.”
All four waited in anticipation.
“Well–” Heston began.
“Minister, please, I’m sick of the sound of your voice,” York shouted.
Heston breathed out deeply and frowned. He swept his grey hair to one side and shuffled for comfort in his seat.
York looked up at Grant. “Well now, old friend, what’s the official verdict?”
The physician resumed, “The results confirm beyond any reasonable doubt that His Majesty died due to failure of the heart and lungs. The damage to the lung tissues is itself confirmation of contamination.” He took a deep breath. “It is the view of all who have studied the results that the King died of an allergic reaction.”
Silence followed. Again York was the first to respond. “You are quite sure?”
“It is the professional opinion of my colleagues–”
“And what do you think?” asked the son of the king.
The physician paused before answering. “Sadly, I feel sure that their assessments and conclusions are correct.”
The three royals looked at one another.
“Who else has seen this?” the son of the king asked.
“Only us present and two of my colleagues.”
The King nodded. “Make sure it stays that way.”
The black limousine pulled up outside the rear entrance of the college. Unlike the famous Rolls, this one was more discreet and unlikely to be recognised. The glass was cleverly tinted, allowing no observation from the outside.
Seconds later the limousine set off, heading toward the palace.
In the second car, the Home Secretary opened the rear left door and got inside. Immediately the driver set off, heading toward Westminster.
A man with light blond hair was sitting in the seat next to him. “Everything all right, Minister?”
Heston was noticeably rattled. “Get me the Director General of MI5, will you? Find out everything you can about the bugger arrested in Clapham.”
5
The original Church of St Michael’s was once the oldest building in Wootton. According to its official history, it was built on the site of a much older church around 1060 and developed into a Dominican priory. Jen had learned from a free leaflet in the foyer of the inn that the priory had been destroyed in 1490, apparently on the orders of Henry Tudor.
That had surprised her. She knew only too well that most of the religious houses in England and Wales had fallen victim to Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries some forty years later. Assuming the leaflet was correct, the church had been rebuilt in the early 1500s but survived further upheaval following its purchase by a local knight in 1538.
The church was Catholic, which was also a surprise. Jen knew enough about the history of England that most from that age became Protestant. She knew Harrison was Catholic from her research, but the crosses in the family house were an equal giveaway.
One question remained.
Where was the girl?
Jen left the inn through the main door and walked along the road to the churchyard. The lichgate was shut but unlocked, covered by the usual sloping roof that joined at its centre. A large notice had been put up on the inside right wall, listing Mass times and confirming visitors were welcome.
Jen continued across the grass, pausing to investigate the tombstones. Three years studying history at Nottingham University had taught her the basics of reading old lettering, but these were nearly impossible. The stones were evidently not of this century.
Obviously of no connection to Debra Harrison.
In truth, Jen didn’t have a clue what she was looking for. She had learned from her notes, more or less confirmed by Debra Harrison’s mother, that a service had been held in her ‘memory’ in a nearby Catholic church. According to some reports, a coffin had been buried, but its purpose was merely symbolic. Another had claimed there had been no burial, which she guessed was more likely, as officially the service was not a funeral. As a rule, hearsay was something to be avoided. She knew from her research that rumours circulating the Internet were numerous, including that a body had been found and buried in secret, whereas alleged ‘sightings’ of the poor girl had been documented from France to Fiji.
She sighed to herself.
No wonder the mother was so depressed.
Jen walked from grave to grave, noticing nothing of relevance to Debra Harrison. The names had a pattern, Catesby, Ratcliffe, Lovell, Stanley and a few others appearing consistently. She was aware that the village was small and close knit, so evidence of similar names was hardly a shock. The absence of modern graves was more noticeable.
As best she could tell, no one had been buried there for over twenty years.
“Are you lost?”
She looked up, her eyes on the lichgate. A man had appeared, walking toward her through the graves, his accent unquestionably northern. He had a neatly cut beard, dark hair, impressive for his age – she guessed sixty – and a strong physique. She assumed from his appearance, he was probably a farmer.
Accompanying him was a large Alsatian.
She knelt down to stroke it.
The man laughed. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”
Jen smiled awkwardly.
“Thought as much; we don’t get too many visitors round these parts anymore.”
She assumed that was a reference to the disappearance. “I was looking for the grave of the Harrison girl.”
The man disguised his surprise. “You knew Debra?”
“No,” she replied, rising to her feet. “I was told she might be buried around here.”
The man delayed his response, his eyes never leaving her. “There was no burial as far as I’m aware.”
“Mrs Harrison said there’d been a service.”
“You know Gillian?”
Jen nodded.
The man changed his tune. “There’s a small memorial inside the church by the choir. She didn’t want to leave a grave. She still harbours hope her daughter will return.”
Another nod. “Thank you, Mr…”
“Catesby.”
She shook his hand. “I’m guessing these are your ancestors.”
He laughed quietly. “Yes, we do go back a long way, my lot. Many of my forebears used to be friars over there.” He pointed over the wall toward the presbytery.
“Wow.”
“If you ever have any questions about Wootton…”
“Thank you, Mr Catesby.”
The man began to walk away and stopped. “I didn’t catch your name.”
She paused before answering. “Jennifer.”
“Nice to meet you, Jennifer.”
Jen watched as Catesby made his way through the graveyard and along a narrow footpath, heading away from the high street. There were houses in that direction, evidently large, but their exteriors were hidden by dense woodland.
She’d heard a rumour there was significant wealth in the village.
For the first time she examined the church. The grey stone appearance was like any other church in England, but she could tell from the exterior it was bigger than most. She recognised the architecture as Perpendicular Gothic, which made sense given what she’d read in the
leaflet. Flying buttresses supported the church on every side, most prominent around the nave. There was a large clock on the bell tower, a more recent addition.
The church was open. She pulled the door to as she entered and took in the view before her. Her personal tutor at Nottingham had once told her the first thing one must do on entering a church or cathedral is to look up.
She followed his advice and was immediately inspired. Two lines of circular pillars, with numerous arches, led up to a vaulted ceiling, its appearance reminiscent of a cathedral. There were stained-glass windows in the usual places, the most impressive of which were found at either end, all depicting scenes from the New Testament. Over thirty pews were spaced equally on either side of the main aisle that continued all the way to the altar.
Less surprising, the number of visitors.
Her.
Catesby mentioned that a memorial was located in the choir area. Technically, there were two choir areas: one at the top of the church, up a narrow wooden staircase at the back; the other, the original choir, situated in front of the main altar.
Jen guessed he meant the latter.
She walked along the side aisle, doing her best to minimise the constant echo as her high heels made contact with the floor. As expected, several plaques of various descriptions marked the walls, mostly listing the names of soldiers lost in war. Accompanying them were references to former residents of the village, some of whom had been interred below the floor.
Again, she recognised names: Catesby and Ratcliffe being the most prevalent. Less than an hour in Wootton and she could already tell what families had been most prominent in the village’s history.
She stopped on reaching the altar and genuflected tentatively, suddenly feeling guilty she had not been to Mass since leaving home. She moved slowly toward the choir area on the right side and began reading the various wall markings.
The plaques were all in remembrance of something or someone, but none were obviously relevant to Debra Harrison.
She heard a door opening nearby. Turning, she saw a woman appear from the Lady chapel.
The woman smiled as she passed. “Sorry, luvvy, didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The woman was a redhead, probably late forties, and had a kind smile that suited her face. Jen noticed she was wearing an apron, partially covering a slightly overweight stomach.
“You need any help?”
Jen shook her head and smiled. “I’m just passing,” she said, returning her gaze to the wall markings. She continued her search for the stone, only now more circumspect. After examining everything on the right side of the altar, she moved on to the left.
The woman made it as far as the first pew, her hands full with polish and a cloth. “I’ve never seen you in the village before, luvvy. You just passing through?”
Jen smiled and nodded.
The woman delayed making a start on her cleaning, choosing instead to pay closer attention to the newcomer. She watched as Jen began to read the nearest selection of wall plaques.
“I think you’ll find what you’re looking for over there.”
Jen looked toward the pews and saw the woman pointing to the left side of the choir. Jen hesitated before walking slowly in that direction. There was another window behind the lectern, this one depicting one of the archangels surrounded by a heavenly glow.
The woman approached, stopping beside Jen. There was a stone lying atop a wooden stand and below a white tablecloth. The stone was white: chalk or perhaps limestone.
“She didn’t want anything too elaborate,” the woman said, “at least not while they continued the search.”
Jen looked at the stone. It was small, no more than three inches by six. Indeed, there was no name, nor anything that resembled concrete information.
Instead, there was only a quote.
While he was still speaking, there came from the ruler’s house some who said, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?” But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the ruler of the Synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.”
“It’s a verse from the Gospel of Mark,” the stranger said. “I’ll never forget the day she disappeared. I mean, you don’t, do you? After all, it isn’t every day you lose one of your own.”
Jen placed her hand to her heart. “I’m so sorry. Were you related?”
“Distantly,” she replied. “But some things matter more than blood; ask anyone and they’ll tell you. Everyone belongs to everyone – that’s always been the way in Wootton.”
Jen nodded, her eyes fixed on the stone. She read the passage twice, silently troubled by the clinical wording.
“Did you know her?”
Jen shook her head. “No.”
The woman continued to watch her, now with greater scrutiny. “You see her on the telly?”
Jen chose her words carefully. “I’m here to research a documentary. A year ago, the company I work for filmed a documentary on the disappearance. The family hoped it might renew interest.”
The woman nodded. She removed a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.
“If only all companies were so considerate.”
Jen didn’t miss the irony.
“They never did find her,” the woman resumed. “They continued to search, at least for a while. After that…” She ended the sentence with a shrug.
Jen nodded, still distracted by the wording on the stone. There was no closure about the marking, nor any recognition. Had the woman not pointed it out, she would never have guessed it was what she was looking for.
“Do you remember when you last saw her?” Jen asked.
“The day before. She was friends with my daughter, Anthea Brown: she works with me in the hairdresser’s. I’m Martha.”
Jen accepted the woman’s outstretched hand. “Jen.”
The woman smiled.
“I don’t suppose you’d know who was the last person to see her?”
“That’d be Stephanie.”
“Stanley?”
Martha nodded. “Aye. They were all friends; all had been at school together.”
An idea was forming in Jen’s mind. “Would your daughter speak to me about her?”
“Aye. You come pay us a visit; we’ll be in the hairdresser’s.”
Jen smiled. “How about Stephanie?”
The woman became more evasive. “Nay, you best leave that poor soul alone. She hasn’t been the same since.”
Jen detected extra seriousness in the last sentence – not quite a warning but close enough. According to reports, Stephanie Stanley took the news of her best friend’s disappearance badly, choosing to shun the cameras when they arrived. Jen had learned from her colleagues the girl had declined the opportunity to be interviewed.
The woman smiled. “Well, I best be continuing with this; we don’t want Father Martin to think I’ve been slacking.”
Jen watched as Martha Brown headed toward the rear of the church. As she disappeared from sight, Jen heard the sound of a door opening and closing.
Now alone, her mind returned to the matter at hand. She examined the stone a final time before taking in more of the church itself. Through the nearby archway, a small Lady chapel was richly decorated in the usual style and included a large altar at the far end. She poked her head inside before heading toward the nearest closed door.
Jen stopped, surprised. Instead of an exit, the door led to what remained of the cloisters, part of which was surprisingly intact and abundant in glass.
The stonework was impressive. Countless ceiling bosses occupied the gaps between the windows, their sightless eyes staring down from above. The windows, though clearly more modern, were all intact and complete with the original carvings in their stone surrounds. While Jen understood the remainder of the former priory buildings had been dismantled centuries earlier, the cloisters were complete along two sides, and continued all the way to the wall that surrounded the modern-day presbytery.
She looked at the win
dows. Unlike the images of the New Testament inside the church, these depicted nobility from 1100–1300s. Again, she recognised names. The Catesby, Lovell and Ratcliffe families all featured prominently, only now there were faces and bodies accompanying the names.
She turned the corner to her left, navigating the final part of the cloisters. This section had further windows, these depicting members of the Royal Family from the Middle Ages. Starting with William the Conqueror, the chronology of kings continued to Edward III and Richard II. Following on from Richard II, she recognised Edward the Black Prince, father of Richard II, and John of Gaunt, uncle of that king.
Had she not studied history, the scene that followed might have baffled her, but she immediately understood the significance. The House of Lancaster had no mention. She smiled to herself, not missing the irony of being in Yorkshire. The next selection depicted Edward IV, crowned, glowing, magnificent, sitting in his coronation chair. Unlike the typical history book, the window made no mention of his briefly forced abdication for the return of Henry VI.
Next on was Edward V, one of the Princes in the Tower. Like his father, the boy was sitting in splendour, a crown atop his head. That surprised her; she knew the ‘Prince in the Tower’ had never been crowned, despite being later recognised as king.
She heard footsteps to her left, followed by a voice.
“Can I be of any assistance?”
A man had appeared at the top of a staircase that led somewhere beneath the church. He was well built, perhaps over six feet in height, and dressed in black. The dog collar confirmed the man’s occupation.
“I was just admiring the windows.”
“Ah, yes,” the priest said. “The work of my great-great-uncle, no less.”
“Wow,” Jen said, not knowing what else to say. She looked again at the images on the windows, attempting to make sense of them. Although the style was typical of the cloisters of an average cathedral or abbey, the subject matter was unique.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 3