The posh side.
Even if the man was out, it was definitely the most sensible option.
If all else failed, at least it would give her the opportunity to see where the other half lived.
Susan Rankin watched from the window as the girl from south of Yorkshire retreated in the direction of Fox Lane. She waited until the girl had disappeared completely before returning to the heart of the living room.
In truth, she had lied to the poor girl. She had no idea why she was there. She had not spoken to Martha Brown for over a year – she had barely spoken to anyone for that matter. The fact that the girl had bought it confirmed her suspicions.
History repeats itself.
It certainly felt like the last time. She recalled a phone call from a few weeks back: another interview request, a different company. She guessed the two were connected. Jennifer Farrelly was certainly not the first, though she was the first for a while – at least six months had passed since the last.
Susan Rankin walked across the living room, stopping on reaching the bookcase. She picked up a photograph, a nice silver frame surrounding a colour print taken about two years earlier. She looked at it for several seconds, focusing on the lad standing beside her. He was smiling in this one – he smiled in all of them. He certainly didn’t look like a boy who had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Over a year had passed, but it seemed to her like an eternity.
She held the photo tightly to her chest and slowly started to cry.
13
The old man was standing by the doorway, looking outside. Catesby was in the usual place, doing the usual things. He looked completely different in his overalls. He could have been a farmer or a scientist, but not both.
That was almost unheard of.
The old man cleared his throat, but failed to attract Catesby’s attention. Instead he remained preoccupied with his animals, the sound of the cough overwhelmed by the consistent clucking of chickens, not to mention other birds. The old man had never seen so many in one place, even in an aviary.
He cleared his throat again.
This time Catesby noticed. He turned away from the cages, his eyes on the door that connected the back of the house to the garden.
“Ah,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”
The old man did not respond. If nothing else, it was energy badly spent. And these days he needed that just to stand. Even with the stick, walking was difficult.
He hated the wheelchair, but he hated being without it even more.
There were four people with him, three dark-haired men in their late twenties, and another who was noticeably older.
“Ey up, Rowland,” Catesby said to the eldest of the four. “Long time no see.”
The man smiled, slightly sinisterly. As usual he wore a suit, far too well dressed for the farm. He had silvery grey hair, piercing eyes, and a face that certain members of the press had often likened to that of a gopher.
“We’re not looking to disturb you long, William. We were merely wondering how’s progress.”
Catesby put the bucket of bird feed down on the concrete. “Follow me.”
He led them through the doorway of an outbuilding. There were sacks of bird food everywhere, ranging from chicken feed to old bits of bread. He crossed the floor and continued down the stairway and through another door.
The sight was confusing, particularly for the three younger men who had never seen it before.
They had entered a laboratory, visually as good as any science institution in the world.
Catesby walked toward the other side of the lab. There were cages here as well, also housing various birds. Catesby smiled at them as he opened the fridge and removed a vacuum-sealed package not obviously identifiable to an outsider.
“This is the best so far,” Catesby said. He passed two of the young men rubber gloves. “You’ll need these. Keep the meat under four degrees. Otherwise the effects won’t be the same.”
“You’ve done well, my friend,” the old man said.
Catesby lowered his head, almost a bow.
“How long for the rest?”
“Days,” Catesby said. “A week tops.”
“I want it ready in three days.”
14
Clare, Suffolk
The sun was up, but it was still early. The main roads were deserted, as was the high street. Even the interiors of the ancient buildings displayed no sign of life. Drawn curtains shaded most of the windows. Should one have succeeded in peering in through a small gap in an upper-floor window, they were more likely to see a stationary bulge beneath a quilt than anything that resembled movement. It was the same story every year. Those who weren’t sleeping were simply absent.
Like most areas in the height of summer, the majority had moved out, a necessary sabbatical after eleven months of hardship.
The residential areas were equally quiet. Thin mist rose from the river, crossed the banks, and coated the town in an atmospheric haze. From the castle mount, the view never changed. In the spring and summer months, the town bloomed with flowers of all sorts, its colours crossing the entire spectrum.
It was a setting that encapsulated beauty and former glory.
The town of Clare is one of the oldest in England. Situated on the banks of the Stour and fourteen miles from Bury St Edmunds, the so-called ‘heart of Suffolk’ is a unique amalgamation of the old, the slightly less old and the relatively modern. The community thrived on the market, particularly cloth. The Domesday Book highlighted the market, and even today it thrived on tradition. One hundred and thirty-one listed buildings, ranging from stone to timber, Norman to Victorian, stood alongside three-bed terraced houses from the 1950s and ’60s, and some more modern. If the locals were to be believed, its history went back further still, even to a time before time itself.
Where history changes and persists.
Among its listed buildings, a large secluded Georgian estate overlooked the town from the hillside. Once upon a time, it had been far less impressive. The Norman skeletal structure that existed had long since given way to a large white Palladian design that looked like something out of ancient Greece. Large gateways surrounded it on both sides, guarded by two uniformed policemen. Locally it was known as Clarence House, but that wasn’t its real name. The real Clarence House was far different. This one was not like the house of the same name that adjoined St James’s Palace in either appearance or importance.
Yet nor was it unimportant. The locals knew the story and were happy to leave the family to themselves.
Just as they had done in the feudal days.
The Duchy of Clarence was one of the oldest titles in England. Originally given to the third-born son of Edward III, the title became defunct no fewer than five times before its revival by the previous monarch.
The current holder was George, son of the late James III. At fifty-two, he was the youngest of his three sons and easily the least famous. As a former soldier, he served through the Falklands, the Gulf and Kosovo before turning his priorities to domestic affairs.
The duke was up by 6am. By 6:30am he had started on breakfast, the usual boiled egg with soldiers, served in the morning room rather than the dining room.
He was used to eating alone, but today he had company.
He sat at the head of the table that had been famous among his relatives for over a century. The antique wood was both hard and permanent. Large portraits surrounded the table on every side, mostly of relatives and ancestors, including his famous brother, now King of England. Like some at the palace, the walls were painted cyan, reflecting the light like a calm ocean.
Another was present, sitting adjacent rather than opposite. He was the duke’s only son and child.
And the house’s only other occupant.
The Duke of Clarence removed his glasses and threw them down on the book that he had just been reading.
“I think I see what you mean.”
Sitting less than a metre away, Thom
as looked at his father. He had scanned everything the King had given him, but most of it was still to sink in. It was not until after midnight that he had returned home, and even then sleep had not come easily.
“What does it mean to you?” Thomas asked. “The R-Ravensfield Chronicle?”
The duke returned his attention to the book. “Nothing. If it had not been for this, I doubt I should ever have heard of it.”
Thomas said nothing. Twenty-eight years as his father’s son had given him an advantage over most in getting to know the real him. In the family circle, the man was a scholar – not that anyone from the outside world would necessarily agree. He wasn’t one to broadcast his activities, particularly in the wider circles.
It was a trait shared by his brothers.
Thoughts returned to the matter at hand. “What about the S-Sons of York?”
The duke smiled philosophically. “Your uncle first showed me these a week ago,” he said, referring to the two books. “Like your uncle, I was aware of the rumours that surround our family…sadly after a while you begin to lose track.”
He looked again at the older of the two books.
“From what I could gather from my grandfather, the story about the Glorious Rising is believed to be largely true. Apparently the Sons first came on the scene in 1684 and assisted Monmouth a year later.”
“What purpose?”
“In truth I don’t know; my attention span wasn’t the best back then. Fortunately for us, any knowledge our relatives had probably came from these two books.”
Thomas bit his lip. “So the Sons, th-they were just mercenaries?”
“I think it’s fair to say that at the very least they acted the part well.”
“What of now?”
“Sadly, your guess is as good as mine. To me, the damn rhyme makes no sense.”
“You’d never heard of them before? Aside from…”
“Personally, no. Unfortunately your grandfather was not always the most forthcoming of people.”
Thomas nodded. Silently he knew there were things he was still to be included on.
“You have no idea at all about Ravensfield?”
“Back in the Middle Ages, there was a small town on the coast of Yorkshire called Ravenspurn. At least two kings were known to have landed there, one being Edward IV when he reclaimed the throne from Henry VI. It was never a large place, but what had existed fell into the sea about two hundred years ago.”
“What was there?”
“I have absolutely no idea. Sadly history is plagued by this sort of thing – lost villages, lost libraries et cetera. You know apparently when the Romans invaded Alexandria, Caesar ordered the fleet to set fire to the ships. This one act of stupidity not only nearly annihilated his own attack, but it eventually destroyed the library. But it wasn’t the building as such that mattered, but the incalculable loss of ancient works. That is the true price of war. Back then, when a document was lost, so too was the knowledge.”
“You suggest there is a connection b-between Ravenspurn and Ravensfield?”
“It’s only a guess. Have you tried looking it up?”
“Yes. There was no trace.”
“How about the chronicle?”
“The same.”
The duke put his hand to his mouth. “In truth, the location of the priory itself is probably no longer relevant. After all, even if the priory was destroyed, that doesn’t mean that a copy of the chronicle didn’t survive. From what we can deduce from these,” he spoke of the two books, “at least one of the authors witnessed the chronicle first hand – he even goes as far to confirm it was owned by someone in Monmouth’s family. If the chronicle still exists, chances are it remains in the possession of the same family. The question is, which family?”
Thomas took a deep breath and exhaled. “There’s something else that’s bothering me. When I spoke to M-Morris yesterday, I eventually got out of him that he was under the orders of someone called T-Talbot.”
The duke raised his eyebrows. “Jack Talbot?”
“That was my first thought, too. He didn’t confirm or deny it. What do you know about him?”
“The man or the family?”
Thomas hesitated. “Both, I suppose.”
The duke smiled wryly. The question was where to start. “Very well. The man was a former colonel in the British Army, served initially in the ‘50s and continued in service till the Falklands. Was knighted in the early ’80s, and as far as I’m aware, lived a quiet, albeit not always trustworthy, life ever since.
“The family goes back further. Most of them were Catholic: one was even father-in-law to one of the gunpowder plotters. One of the Wintours, I think.”
Thomas listened but said nothing.
“One of the most intriguing was in the 1400s. According to the Croyland Chronicle, it was a member of the family who was supposedly married to Edward IV. The family have a history for not loving us, that’s for sure.”
The prince was familiar with the story. “What of him now?”
“The man is a widower, I think. Children could be anywhere.”
“How about Jack? Still the same place?”
“Of course.”
“I think I best be paying Sir Jack a visit.”
Thomas left the house through one of the side doors and headed straight for his car. No sooner had he reached it, his iPhone started to ring.
He looked at the caller ID and saw it was the Earl of Somerset. It was not yet 7am, and the man had already called twice today.
He rejected the call and set off for the north.
15
Jen was furious – not with the woman, but with herself. She knew that convincing the mother of Luke Rankin to cooperate was always going to be a challenge, but she could’ve kicked herself for her handling of the situation.
She hadn’t prepared, and it had shown.
She kept replaying the event in her mind. She guessed from the woman’s appearance and manner that Susan Rankin was something of a reluctant recluse – almost certainly driven to solitude by the events of a year earlier. The possibility was straightforward enough. The woman was attractive.
Far too attractive for a complete recluse.
Her confidence was also far from shattered. According to the barflies, the woman was a qualified accountant and still worked from time to time. From what Jen had gathered at the Hog, Rankin was more pitied than hated. Few, if any, blamed her for Debra Harrison’s disappearance – at least publicly – while others simply didn’t not blame her. She had lost some of her friends – Gillian Harrison being the most prominent – but there had been no witch-hunts, no angry mobs, no poison pen letters.
Silently that had surprised her. Surely somebody would find a way of attaching blame to the mother of the prime suspect.
Whether consciously or subconsciously, the majority of the villagers either did not believe Debra Harrison to be dead or they refused to accept that she was.
Jen hated herself for blowing the opportunity.
At least she’d never make that mistake again.
Jen re-emerged onto the high street, heading back toward the Hog. She knew that the best way to Lovell’s was to cross back over the bridge and take the footpath by the church, heading into the nearby countryside. From there on she would have to rely on guesswork. She knew from her map, and from what the locals had told her, that the houses belonging to Lovell, Ratcliffe, and Catesby were three of about fifteen in that part of the village – both the oldest and wealthiest. She assumed that most of them would be gated. That worried her.
Any slipups and she wouldn’t even reach the garden.
Jen crossed the high street at a zebra crossing in front of the post office, opposite the bank, and stopped in her tracks. About a hundred metres away on the other side of the street, the hairdresser’s was just opening. A young girl, probably in her late teens, was putting up the sign: a blackboard, opening up into a triangle shape, informing prospective clients that they wer
e open for business.
Jen watched the teenager from across the street. She knew from her visit to the church that Martha Brown owned the hairdresser’s, and that her daughter was on the payroll. Martha had said she was welcome to pop her head inside the door.
She checked her hair in the window of the post office.
Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone.
Jen waited for a passing car before returning to the other side of the high street. The hairdresser’s was located in between an art shop and a tearoom, and had an impressive white stone façade. The building, though old, was more recent than some – Georgian, based on the architecture.
The door opened easily, accompanied by the sound of a ringing bell, revealing a modern interior with a tiled floor, white walls, lots of mirrors, and what seemed to be hundreds if not thousands of bottles of cosmetics.
A woman in her late forties was washing her hands in one of the sinks. She turned on hearing the bell.
“Jennifer, how nice to see you again, pet.”
It took Jen a couple of seconds to realise that the woman was Martha Brown. Gone the apron, the rubber gloves and the polish: instead, the woman was abundant in make-up, and her hair done up with a clipper.
Jen smiled warmly. “Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
The comment went down well. “We’ve only recently redecorated.”
Jen held her smile while her eyes continued to take in the interior. Designer brands dominated: the posters ranging from that of cosmetics to models and celebrities. It was like looking at something from a fashionable city centre.
“Were you looking for me daughter?”
Jen was, but she decided against making it too obvious. “I was actually wondering if I could make an appointment.”
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